The Re-echo Club
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DIVERSIONS OF THE RE-ECHO CLUB
A recent discovery has brought to light the long-hidden papers of the Re-Echo Club. This is a great find, and all lovers of masterpieces of the world's best literature will rejoice with us that we are enabled to publish herewith a few of these gems of great minds. Little is known of the locale or clientèle of this club, but it was doubtless a successor of the famous Echo Club of Boston memory, for, like that erudite body, it takes pleasure in trying to better what is done. On the occasion of the meeting of which the following gems of poesy are the result, the several members of the club engaged to write up the well-known tradition of the Purple Cow in more elaborate form than the quatrain made famous by Mr. Gelett Burgess:
"I never saw a Purple Cow,I never hope to see one;But I can tell you, anyhow,I'd rather see than be one."The first attempt here cited is the production of Mr. John Milton:
Hence, vain, deluding cows.The herd of folly, without color bright,How little you delight,Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse!But, hail! thou goddess gay of feature!Hail! divinest purple creature!Oh, Cow, thy visage is too brightTo hit the sense of human sight.And though I'd like, just once, to see thee,I never, never, never'd be thee!MR. P. BYSSHE SHELLEY:
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Cow thou never wert;But in life to cheer itPlayest thy full partIn purple lines of unpremeditated art.The pale purple colorMelts around thy sightLike a star, but duller,In the broad daylight.I'd see thee, but I would not be thee if I might.We look before and afterAt cattle as they browse;Our most hearty laughterSomething sad must rouse.Our sweetest songs are those that tell of Purple Cows.MR. W. WORDSWORTH:
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dee;A Cow whom there were few to praiseAnd very few to see.A violet by a mossy stoneGreeting the smiling EastIs not so purple, I must own,As that erratic beast.She lived unknown, that Cow, and soI never chanced to see;But if I had to be one, oh,The difference to me!MR. T. GRAY:
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;I watched them slowly wend their weary way,But, ah, a Purple Cow I did not see.Full many a cow of purplest ray sereneIs haply grazing where I may not see;Full many a donkey writes of her, I ween,But neither of these creatures would I be.MR. J. W. RILEY:
There, little Cow, don't cry!You are brindle and brown, I know.And with wild, glad huesOf reds and blues,You never will gleam and glow.But though not pleasing to the eye,There, little Cow, don't cry, don't cry.LORD A. TENNYSON:
Ask me no more. A cow I fain would seeOf purple tint, like to a sun-soaked grape—Of purple tint, like royal velvet cape—But such a creature I would never be—Ask me no more.MR. R. BROWNING:
All that I knowOf a certain CowIs it can throw,Somewhere, somehow,Now a dart of red,Now a dart of blue(That makes purple, 'tis said).I would fain see, too,This Cow that darkles the red and the blue!MR. J. KEATS:
A cow of purple is a joy forever.Its loveliness increases. I have neverSeen this phenomenon. Yet ever keepA brave lookout; lest I should be asleepWhen she comes by. For, though I would not be one,I've oft imagined 'twould be joy to see one.MR. D.G. ROSSETTI:
The Purple Cow strayed in the glade;(Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)She strayed and strayed and strayed and strayed(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)I've never seen her—nay, not I;(Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)Yet were I that Cow I should want to die.(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)But in vain my tears I strew.MR. T.B. ALDRICH:
Somewhere in some faked nature place,In Wonderland, in Nonsense Land,Two darkling shapes met face to face,And bade each other stand."And who are you?" said each to each;"Tell me your title, anyhow."One said, "I am the Papal Bull,""And I the Purple Cow."MR. E. ALLAN POE:
Open then I flung a shutter,And, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a Purple Cow which gayly tripped around my floor.Not the least obeisance made she,Not a moment stopped or stayed she,But with mien of chorus lady perched herself above my door.On a dusty bust of Dante perched and sat above my door.And that Purple Cow unflittingStill is sitting—still is sittingOn that dusty bust of Dante just above my chamber door,And her horns have all the seemingOf a demon's that is screaming,And the arc-light o'er her streamingCasts her shadow on the floor.And my soul from out that pool of Purple Shadow on the floorShall be lifted Nevermore!MR. H. LONGFELLOW:
The day is done, and the darknessFalls from the wing of nightAs ballast is wafted downwardFrom an air-ship in its flight.I dream of a purple creatureWhich is not as kine are now;And resembles cattle onlyAs Cowper resembles a cow.Such cows have power to quietOur restless thoughts and rude;They come like the BenedictineThat follows after food.MR. A. SWINBURNE:
Oh, Cow of rare rapturous vision,Oh, purple, impalpable Cow,Do you browse in a Dream Field Elysian,Are you purpling pleasantly now?By the side of wan waves do you languish?Or in the lithe lush of the grove?While vainly I search in my anguish,O Bovine of mauve!Despair in my bosom is sighing,Hope's star has sunk sadly to rest;Though cows of rare sorts I am buying,Not one breathes a balm to my breast.Oh, rapturous rose-crowned occasion,When I such a glory might see!But a cow of a purple persuasionI never would be.MR. F.D. SHERMAN:
I'd love to seeA Purple Cow,Oh, Goodness me!I'd love to seeBut not to beOne. Anyhow,I'd love to seeA Purple Cow.MR. B. CARMAN:
Now the joys of the road are chiefly these,A Purple Cow that no one sees,A grove of green and a sky of blue,And never a hope that cow to view.But a firm conviction deep in meThat cow I would rather be than see.Though, alack-a-day, there be times enow,When I see pink snakes and a Purple Cow.MR. H.C. BUNNER:
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,Where all the cows are purple?Ah, woe is me! I never hopeOn such a sight my eyes to ope;But, as I sing in merry gleeAlong the road to Arcady,Perchance full soon I may espyA Purple Cow come dancing by.Heigho! I then shall see one.Her horns bedecked with ribbons gay,And garlanded with rosy may,—A tricksy sight. Still I must sayI'd rather see than be one.MR. R.L. STEVENSON:
In winter I get up at nightAnd hunt that cow by lantern light;In summer quite the other way,I seek a Purple Cow by day.And does it not seem strange to you,I can't find cows of purple hue?But I can tell you, anyhow,I'm glad I'm not a Purple Cow.MR. R. KIPLING:
In the old ten-acre pasture,Lookin' eastward toward a tree,There's a Purple Cow a-settin'And I know she thinks of me.For the wind is in the gum-tree,And the hay is in the mow,And the cow-bells are a-calling"Come and see a Purple Cow!"But I am not going now,Not at present, anyhow,For I am not fond of purple, andI can't abide a cow;No, I shall not go to-day,Where the Purple Cattle play,Though I think I'd rather see oneThan to be one, anyhow.MR. O. HERFORD:
Children, observe the Purple Cow,You cannot see her, anyhow;And, little ones, you need not hopeYour eyes will e'er attain such scope.But if you ever have a choiceTo be, or see, lift up your voiceAnd choose to see. For surely youDon't want to browse around and moo.MR. S. CRANE:
Once a man said,I never saw a Purple Cow;Again he spoke,I never hope to see one.Then all the people said,How noble his humble-mindedness!How glorious his meek resignation!Now this is the strange part—The man has seen hundreds of purple cows,Ay, thousands,But the man was color blind,And the cows seemed to him to be a reddish brown.MR. D.G. ROSSETTI:
(Second Attempt.)The blessed Purple Cow leaned outFrom a pasture lot at evenOne horn was sixteen inches long,The other just eleven.She had a ruminative face,And the teeth in her head were seven.She gazed and listened, then she said(Less sad of speech than queer),"Nobody seems to notice me,None knows that I am here.And no one wishes to be me!"She wept. (I heard a tear.)MR. A.C. SWINBURNE:
(Second Attempt.)Only in dim, drowsy depths of a dream do I dare to delight in deliciously dreamingCows there may be of a passionate purple,—cows of a violent violet-hue;Ne'er have I seen such a sight, I am certain it is but a demi- delirious dreaming—Ne'er may I happily harbor a hesitant hope in my heart that my dream may come true.Sad is my soul, and my senses are sobbing, so strong is my strenuous spirit to see one.Dolefully, drearily doomed to despair as warily, wearily watching I wait;Thoughts thickly thronging are thrilling and throbbing; to see is a glorious gain—but to be one!That were a darker and direfuller destiny, that were a fearfuller, frightfuller fate.At the second meeting of the Re-Echo Club, some of whose proceedings have already been chronicled in these pages, the question arose whether the poet was at his best who gave to the world the classic poem about The Little Girl:
"There was a little girlAnd she had a little curlRight in the middle of her forehead.And when she was good,She was very, very good,And when she was bad she was horrid!"Some members held that poets had at times risen to sublimer poetic flights than this, while others contended that the clear-cut decision of thought it expressed placed the poem above more elaborate works.
When those who criticised it were invited themselves to treat the same theme in more worthy fashion, they willingly enough agreed, and the results here subjoined were spread upon the minutes of the club.
With a lady-like air of reserve tempered by self-respect, Mrs. Felicia Hemans presented her version:
The Marcel waves dash'd highWhere the puffs and frizzes crossed;And just above a roguish eyeA little curl was tossed.And that little curl hung downO'er a brow like a holy saint;Her goodness was beyond renown,And yet—there was a taint.Ay, call it deadly sin,The temper that she had;But that Little Girl just gloried inFreedom to be real bad!Robert Browning gave the subject much thought and responded at length:
Who will may hear the poet's story told.His story? Who believes me shall beholdThe Little Girl, tricked out with ringolet,Or fringe, or pompadour, or what you will,Switch, bang, rat, puff—odzooks, man! I know notWhat women call the hanks o' hair they wear!But that same curl, beau-catcher, love-lock, frizz.(Perchance hot-ironed—perchance 'twas bandolined;Mayhap those rubber squirmers gave it shape—I wot not.) But that corkscrew of a curlHung plumb, true, straight, accurate, at mid-brow,Nor swerved a hair's breadth to the right or left.Aught of her other tresses none may know.Now go we straitly on. And undertakeTo sound the humor of the Little Girl.Ha! what's the note? Hark here. When she was good,She was seraphic; hypersuperfine.So good she made the saints seem scalawags;An angel child; a paramaragon.Halt! Turn! When she elected to be bad,Black fails to paint the depths of ignomin,The fearsome sins, the crimes unspeakable,The deep abysses of her evilment.Hist! Tell 't wi' bated breath! One day she letA rosy tongue-tip from red lips peep forth!Can viciousness cap that? Horrid's the word.Yet there she is. There is that Little Girl,Her goodness and her badness, side by side,Like bacon, streak o' fat and streak o' lean.Ah, Fatalist, she must be ever so.Mr. E.A. Poe declared that he wrote his lines without any trouble at all, as he used to know the Little Girl personally:
'Twas not very many years ago,At Seahurst-By-The-Sea,A little girl had a little curl—Her name was Annabel Lee.And right in the middle of Annabel's browThat curl would always be.She was so good, oh, she was so goodAt Seahurst-By-The-Sea!She was good with a goodness more than good,Was beautiful Annabel Lee,With such goodness the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her of me.But her badness was stronger by far than the good,Like many far older than she,Like many far wiser than she;And neither the angels in heaven aboveNor the demons down under the seaCan ever dissever the good from the badIn the soul of Annabel Lee,The beautiful Annabel Lee.Then Mr. Stevenson went out into his own garden and plucked this:
In winter, I go up at nightAnd curl that curl by candle-light;In summer, quite the other way,I have to curl it twice a day.When I am good, I seem to beAs good as peaches on the tree;But when I'm bad I've awful ways,I'm horrid, everybody says.And does it not seem hard to you,I have to choose between the two?When I'm not happy, good and glad,I have to be so awful bad!Mr. Kipling took a real interest in the work and produced the following:
"What is the gas-stove going for?"Asked Files-On-Parade."To curl my hair, to curl my hair?"His Little Sister said."What makes you curl so tight, so tight?"Asked Files-On-Parade."I'm thinkin' 'twill be damp to-night,"His Little Sister said."For you know that when I'm good, I'm just as good as I can be.And when I'm bad, there's nobody can be as bad as me.So I'm thinkin' I'll be very good to-night, because, you see,I'm thinkin' I'll be horrid in the morning."Mr. Hood was in a reminiscent mood, so he looked backward:
I remember, I remember,That curl I used to wear;It cost a dollar ninety-eight(It was the best of hair).It always stayed right in its place,It never went astray;But now, I sometimes wish the windHad blown that curl away.I remember, I remember,How good I used to be;Why, St. Cecelia at her bestWas not as good as me.I never tore my pinafore,Or got my slippers wet;I let my brother steal my cake—That boy is living yet!I remember, I remember,How bad I've sometimes been;How all my little childish tricksWere counted fearful sin.I'm glad I cut up, anyway,But still 'tis little joyTo know I could have played worse pranksIf I had been a boy.Mr. Wordsworth took it quietly:
I met a gentle Little Girl,She was sixteen years, she said;Her hair was thick; that same old curlWas hanging from her head."You're very, very good, you say;And you look good to me,Yet you are bad. Tell me, I pray,Sweet maid, how that may be?"Then did the Little Girl reply(The curl bobbed on her forehead),"When I am good, I'm good as pie,And when I'm bad, I'm horrid."At the next meeting of the Re-Echo Club there was achieved a vindication of the limerick. "It has been said," remarked the President of the Re-Echo Club, "by ignorant and undiscerning would-be critics that the Limerick is not among the classic and best forms of poetry, and, indeed, some have gone so far as to say that it is not poetry at all.
"A brief consideration of its claims to preëminence among recognized forms of verse will soon convince any intelligent reader of its superlative worth and beauty.
"As a proof of this, let us consider the following Limerick, which in the opinion of connoisseurs is the best one ever written:
There was a young lady of Niger,Who smiled as she rode on a tiger;They came back from the rideWith the lady inside,And the smile on the face of the tiger.Now let us compare this exquisite bit of real poesy with what Chaucer has written on the same theme:
A mayde ther ben, in Niger born and bredde;Hire merye smyle went neere aboute hire hedde.Uponne a beeste shee rood, a tyger gaye,And sikerly shee laughen on hire waye.Anon, as it bifel, bak from the rydeTher came, his sadel hangen doone bisyde,The tyger. On his countenaunce the whyleTher ben behelde a gladnesse and a smyle.Again, Austin Dobson chose to throw off the thing in triolet form:
She went for a ride,That young lady of Niger;Her smile was quite wideAs she went for a ride;But she came back inside,With the smile on the tiger!She went for a ride,That young lady of Niger.Rossetti, with his inability to refrain from refrains, turned out this:
In Niger dwelt a lady fair,(Bacon and eggs and a bar o' soap!)Who smiled 'neath tangles of her hair,As her steed began his steady lope.(You like this style, I hope!)On and on they sped and on,(Bacon and eggs and a bar o' soap!)On and on and on and on;(You see I've not much scope.)E'en ere they loped the second mile,The tiger 'gan his mouth to ope;Anon he halted for a while;Then went on with a pleasant smile,(Bacon and eggs and a bar o' soap!)Omar looked at the situation philosophically, and summed up his views in such characteristic lines as these.
Why if the Soul can fling the Dust asideAnd, smiling, on a Tiger blithely ride,Were't not a Shame—were't not a Shame for himIn stupid Niger tamely to abide?Strange, is it not? that, of the Myriads whoBefore us rode the Sandy Desert through,Not one returns to tell us of the RoadWhich to discover we ride smiling, too.We are no other than a moving RowOf Magic Niger-shapes that come and goRound with the Smile-illumined Tiger heldIn Midnight by the Master of the Show.Tennyson saw a dramatic opportunity, and gloried in his chance, thus:
Half a league, half a league,On the big tiger,Rode with a smiling faceThe lady of Niger.Mad rushed the noble steed,Smiled she and took no heed;Smiled at the breakneck speedOf the big tiger.Boldly they plunged and swayed,Fearlessly and unafraid,—Tiger and lovely maid,Fair and beguiling;Flash'd she her sunny smiles,Flash'd o'er the sunlit miles;Then they rode back, but not—Not the same smiling!When can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made,Riding from Niger!Honor the ride they made!Honor the smiles displayed,Lady and Tiger!Kipling, of course, seized the theme for a fine and stirring Barrack-Room Ballad:
"What is the lady smiling for?"Said Files-On-Parade."She's going for a tiger ride,"The Color-Sergeant said;"What makes her smile so gay, so gay?"Said Files-On-Parade;"She likes to go for tiger rides,"The Color-Sergeant said."For she's riding on the tiger, you can see his stately stride;When they're returning home again, she'll take a place inside;And on the tiger's face will be the smile so bland and wide,But she's riding on the tiger in the morning."Browning was pleased with the subject and did the best he could with it, along these lines:
THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER:
(The Tiger speaks.)I said, "Then, Dearest, since 'tis so,Since now at length your fate you know,Since nothing all your smile avails,Since all your life seems meant for fails,Henceforth you ride inside."Who knows what's best? Ah, who can tell?I loved the lady. Therefore,—well,—I shuddered. Yet it had to be.And so together, I and sheRide, ride, forever ride.Swinburne spread himself thusly:
O marvellous, mystical maiden,With the way of the wind on the wing;Low laughter thy lithe lips hath laden,Thy smile is a Song of the Spring.O typical, tropical tiger,With wicked and wheedlesome wiles;O lovely lost lady of Niger,Our Lady of Smiles.Edgar Allan Poe put it this way:
See the lady with a smile,Sunny smile!Hear her gaysome, gleesome giggle as she rides around in style!How the merry laughter tripsFrom her red and rosy lips,As she smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles,While she rides along the dusty, desert miles.See the tiger with a smile,Happy smile!If such a smile means happiness, he's happy quite a pile;How contentedly he chuckles as he trots along the miles.Oh, he doesn't growl or groanAs he ambles on alone,But he smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles,As he homeward goes along the desert miles.And Longfellow gave it his beautiful and clever "Hiawatha" setting:
Oh, the fair and lovely lady;Oh, the sweet and winsome lady;With a smile of gentle goodnessLike the lovely Laughing Water.Oh, the day the lovely ladyWent to ride upon a tiger.Came the tiger, back returning,Homeward through the dusky twilight;Ever slower, slower, slower,Walked the tiger o'er the landscape;Ever wider, wider, wider,Spread the smile o'er all his features."And so," said the President, "after numerous examples and careful consideration of this matter, we are led to the conclusion that for certain propositions the Limerick is the best and indeed the only proper vehicle of expression."
It was at the very next meeting that the President of the club gave the members another Limerick for their consideration. The Limerick was anonymous, but the Re-Echoes were not. Here they are:
THE LIMERICK:
A scholarly person named FinckWent mad in the effort to thinkWhich were graver misplaced,To dip pen in his paste,Or dip his paste-brush in the ink.OMAR KHAYYAM'S VERSION:
Stay, fellow traveller, let us stop and think,Pause and reflect on the abysmal brink;Say would you rather thrust your pen in paste,Or dip your paste-brush carelessly in ink?RUDYARD KIPLING'S VERSION:
Here is a theme that is worthy of our cognizance,A theme of great importance and a question for your ken;Would you rather—stop and think well—Dip your paste-brush in your ink-well,Or in your pesky pasting-pot immerse your inky pen?WALT WHITMAN'S VERSION:
Hail, Camerados!I salute you,Also I salute the sewing-machine, and the flour-barrel, and the feather duster.What is an aborigine, anyhow?I see a paste-pot.Ay, and a well of ink.Well, well!Which shall I do?Ah, the immortal fog!What am I myselfBut a meteorIn a fog?CHAUCER'S VERSION:
A mayde ther ben, a wordy one and wyse,Who wore a paire of gogles on her eyes.O'er theemes of depest thogt her braine she werked,Nor ever any knoty problemme sherked.Yette when they askt her if she'd rather sinkeHer penne in payste, or eke her brushe in inke,"Ah," quo' the canny mayde, "now wit ye wel,I'm wyse enow to know—too wyse to tel."HENRY JAMES'S VERSION:
She luminously wavered, and I tentatively inferred that she would soon perfectly reconsider her not altogether unobvious course. Furiously, tho' with a tender, ebbing similitude, across her mental consciousness stole a reculmination of all the truths she had ever known concerning, or even remotely relating to, the not easily fathomed qualities of paste and ink. So she stood, focused in an intensity of soul-quivers, and I, all unrelenting, waited, though of a dim uncertainty whether, after all, it might not be only a dubitant problem.
SWINBURNE'S VERSION:
Shall I dip, shall I dip it, Dolores,This luminous paste-brush of thine?Shall I sully its white-breasted glories,Its fair, foam-flecked figure divine?O shall I—abstracted, unheeding—Swish swirling this pen in my haste,And, deaf to thy pitiful pleading,Just jab it in paste?STEPHEN CRANE'S VERSION:
I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire,And I sawRanged in solemn row before me,A paste-pot and an ink-pot.I held in my either handA pen and a brush.Ay, a pen and a brush.Now this is the strange part;I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire,Glad, exultant,BecauseThe choice was mine!Ay, mine!As I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire.Perhaps one of the most enjoyable occasions was the night when the members of the Re-Echo Club discussed the merits of the classic poem:
Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater,Had a wife and couldn't keep her;Put her in a pumpkin shell,And there he kept her very well.In many ways this historic narrative called forth admiration. One must admit Peter's great strength of character, his power of quick decision, and immediate achievement. Some held that his inability to retain the lady's affection in the first place argued a defect in his nature; but remembering the lady's youth and beauty (implied by the spirit of the whole poem), they could only reiterate their appreciation of the way he conquered circumstances, and proved himself master of his fate, and captain of his soul! Truly, the Pumpkin-Eaters must have been a forceful race, able to defend their rights and rule their people.
The Poets at their symposium unanimously felt that the style of the poem, though hardly to be called crude, was a little bare, and they took up with pleasure the somewhat arduous task of rewriting it.
Mr. Ed Poe opined that there was lack of atmosphere, and that the facts of the narrative called for a more impressive setting. He therefore offered:
The skies, they were ashen and sober,The lady was shivering with fear;Her shoulders were shud'ring with fear,On a dark night in dismal October,Of his most Matrimonial Year.It was hard by the cornfield of Auber,In the musty Mud Meadows of Weir,Down by the dank frog-pond of Auber,In the ghoul-haunted cornfield of Weir.Now, his wife had a temper Satanic,And when Peter roamed here with his Soul,Through the corn with his conjugal Soul,He spied a huge pumpkin Titanic,And he popped her right in through a hole.Then solemnly sealed up the hole.And thus Peter Peter has kept herImmured in Mausoleum gloom,A moist, humid, damp sort of gloom.And, though there's no doubt he bewept her,She is still in her yellow-hued tomb,Her unhallowed, Hallowe'en tombAnd ever since Peter side-stepped her,He calls her his lost Lulalume,His Pumpkin-entombed Lulalume.This was received with acclaim, but many objected to the mortuary theory.