QUINTILIAN
Quintilian orating.
Quintilian, years and years ago,
Was It on oratory;
Demosthenes and Cicero
He studied con amore;
He ran an elocution school
And taught the Roman lispers
The reason and the rote and rule
For requesting father, dear father, to come home with me now, in most pathetic whispers.
'Twas he who showed that thus and thus
One should appear when stating
The last remarks of Spartacus
On ceasing gladiating.
(Perchance the word we just have used
Escaped your dictionary.
We mean when Spartacus refused
To be butchered to make a Roman holiday exceedingly exciting and otherwise gladsome and merry.)
Quintilian's book on How to Speak
Is classic at this moment;
It tells the speaker when to shriek
And when his rage to foment.
The boy who on commencement day
Cites Patrick Henry's speeches
Must do so in Quintilian's way
When a single order of liberty, with a supplemental second choice of death, he beseeches.
The actor who would thrill the crowd
(A blood and marrow freezer)
By handing out in accents proud
"Mark Antony on Cæsar,"
Must heed the rules set down by Quint.,
And so must he who rises
To heights of glowing fame by dint
Of the justly famous to be or not to be, center of the stage, two spotlights sizzling, when he as Hamlet soliloquizes.
Quintilian, we are fain to say,
Was It on oratory,
And even in this later day
Receives his share of glory,
Except when elocutionists
Our peace and comfort mangle,
By showing how fair Bessie's wrists
Were strained and bruised while swinging around in the belfry the time she said the curfew should not jangle.
RALEIGH
Sir Walter and Elizabeth R.
Sir Walter Raleigh was a man
Of excellent deportment;
He could advise a King or Khan
What going into court meant;
When Spenser wrote his Faerie Queene
Sir Walter Raleigh said it
Betrayed a wit both sharp and clean
(We wonder if he read it).
Good Queen Elizabeth one day
Was out (perhaps for shopping),
And Raleigh chanced along the way
Where she in wrath was stopping.
"How can I get across that mud?"
She asked; and in the muddle
Sir Walter showed his gentle blood—
His cloak soon bridged the puddle.
A smile replaced the good queen's frown,
She paused there for a minute
To set more straight the royal crown
(It had no hat pin in it).
And then she murmured low to Walt.:
"Sir, you shall see my tailor."
He answered: "If I'm worth my salt,
Good queen, make me a sailor!"
And so good Queen Elizabeth
Gave him a high position—
He drew his pay like drawing breath
And led an expedition
That sailed across the raging seas
For gold and slaves and cocoa,
And battled with the biting breeze
Along the Orinoco.
Alas! It may have been the cloak
That was in mire imbedded,
Or possibly some words he spoke
That made him be beheaded.
But let us learn this lesson here
From poor Sir Walter Raleigh:
The favor of the great, 'tis queer,
Oft has a grim finale.
SHAKSPEARE
Hamlet addressing Yorick's Skull.
Shakspeare, as all of us have read,
Once asked: "What's in a name?"
An alias for the rose, he said,
Would make it smell the same.
But Shakspeare was so frivolous—
Excuse us if we say
That it has always seemed to us
His work was mostly play.
As "Shaxpere," "Shakspere," "Shaikspeare," too,
His signature is found;
His autographs are much too few
To be passed all around.
This shows the cumulative worth
Of honest, solid fame;
The bidders come from all the earth
To buy his misspelled name.
He dramatized the thrilling scene
Where Cæsar met his end,
Where Casca, hungry, lank and lean,
And Brutus, Cæsar's friend,
Stabbed swiftly with their daggers bright
When Julius came in reach—
Then Antony, thrilled at the sight,
Arose and made a speech.
No chorus girls were in his shows;
In them no "social queens"
Were given princely wage to pose
And dignify the scenes.
But there be those who say there are
Odd facts that can't be passed:
For instance, oft we see a star
With ciphers in the cast—
And this leads many to declare
That Bacon wrote the shows;
A cryptic secret hidden there
They say they will disclose.
It may be that each drama hoards
A Bacon cryptogram,
For often, proud upon the boards
There struts and strides a ham.
TELL
William Tell with his bow.
The tale of Tell is simply told;
He would not heed the tyrant,
But, big and brave and bluffly bold
He spurned the cold aspirant—
He simply came out plain and flat
And his own rights defended;
He would not bow to Gessler's hat
Upon the pole suspended.
Then Gessler came upon the scene
And ordered Tell to knuckle;
Tell fixed him with his glances keen
And gave a scornful chuckle.
Then Gessler frowned and knit his brows
(A most portentous omen);
"Risk your boy's life or make those bows!"
(We've lost the boy's cognomen.)
Tell smiled, and got his trusty bow,
Likewise his trusty arrow
(Now, William Tell, as you should know,
Could wing the fleeting sparrow
Or he could truly shoot the chutes)—
So Gessler said: "Now grapple
With this one fact—for you the boots
Unless you cleave the apple."
Did Tell succeed? In your school books
The tale is very well told,
And Gessler looked some haughty looks
When he heard what Bill Tell told.
"What did you hide this arrow for?"
Asked Gessler of the wizard.
"I meant to split that apple, or
I'd have to harm your gizzard!"
That's all, except it shall endure
As acted by Salvini.
(But was it?) And the overture
Composed by one Rossini
Shall prove that Tell is not a myth
Concocted to deceive us.
We've seen the bow he did it with;
We hope you will believe us.
ULYSSES
Ulysses and Circe with his crew as hogs.
Unusually popular with mythologic misses,
And rather wont to wander when he should have stayed at home,
We find is why our hero, the redoubtable Ulysses,
Went rambling into trouble when he thought that he would roam.
Penelope, good lady, left behind in their apartment,
Had trouble in her efforts to get cash to pay the rent —
Telemachus, their scion, knew not then what being smart meant;
He should have helped his mamma, but he never earned a cent.
Ulysses, in the meantime, found the land of the Cyclopes,
And came within an ace of being made into a stew.
He drugged old Polyphemus, then skedaddled with: "I hope 'e's
Laid up with indigestion," and went onward with his crew.
From there he ambled farther till he reached the realm of Circé;
We translate rather freely from the Odyssean log:
"She proved to be a lady with no tenderness or mercy,
Each comrade of Ulysses, for her sport, was made a hog."
He got away, however, and he steered his trusty ship so
That it would take him quickly where more trouble might be found—
He grounded on the island of the nymph they called Calypso,
And dallied in her presence till eight years had rolled around.
Homesickness must have struck him not so many years therafter;
He sighed: "I think the time has come for me to pull my freight."
The listeners had trouble when they tried to hold their laughter
At thinking of how long it was before he knew 'twas late.
Penelope, fond woman, had been wooed by many suitors;
To each and every one of them she firmly whispered "No."
Ulysses, on appearing, changed the suitors into scooters—
He strode into the parlor and said: "Take your hats and go!"
Old Homer tells us fully how Penelope received him,
And how, to give her pleasure, all these stories he would weave:
He also tells us solemnly Penelope believed him!
(That portion of the Odyssey we never can believe.)
VILLON
Villon reading a ballad.
Villon—bard of the early times,
Familiarly called Francois—
'Twas he who juggled so with rhymes
That we regard him now with awe;
His Pegasus knew "Gee" from "Haw".
He drove with all a jockey's art
And ran each race without a flaw—
Villon gave these ballades their start.
Must he flee to some safer climes?
Did hunger at his vitals gnaw?
Or was he jailed for varied crimes?
In that he inspiration saw
And, pen held in a grimy paw
Would let his flashing fancy dart
Ofttimes in measures rather raw—
Villon gave these ballades their start.
His purse was ever bare of dimes;
He often felt the grip of law;
Yet he, the jolliest of mimes,
Who slept most nights upon the straw
And wakened to the raucous caw
Of ravens, never shirked his part;
He never stopped at fate to jaw—
Villon gave these ballades their start.
L'ENVOI
Princess, the moral's here to draw:
When poets go into the mart
The editors say coldly: "Pshaw!
Villon gave these ballades their start."
WATT
James Watt and his steam kettle.
When Watt was but a little boy—
His papa's pride, his mama's joy—
He sat beside the kitchen fire
The bubbling teapot to admire;
And as he watched the hissing steam
He straightway then began to dream
Of what the vapor hot could do
If how to use it he but knew.
Eventually he devised
A neat invention which surprised
The people of that early day—
He made an engine, anyway.
This poor contrivance he improved
Until by it great loads were moved
And horses were displaced by rails,
While sidewheels took the place of sails.
Observe, my child, how one small thing
A wondrous lot of change will bring:
Because wise little Jimmy Watt
Could turn to some account his thought,
Today the trains go whizzing through
The land, and o'er the ocean blue
The mighty ships scoot night and day
From here to countries far away.
Great thanks are due to this James Watt,
Also to his mama's teapot,
By porters who on every trip
Hold up the tourist for a tip,
And also by that mighty mass
Of folks who travel on a pass,
And by the ones who rake in rocks
Through squeezes that they work in stocks.
But that it would like punning seem
We'd say Watt has the world's esteem
(But since we've said it that way now
We'll let the pun go, anyhow).
But, somehow, when we chanced to stop
Beside some busy boiler shop,
We cannot say that peace was brought
To all of us by Jimmy Watt.
XANTIPPE
Xantippe and Socrates.
Xantippe was the lady who was wed to Socrates—
And their life was not a grand, sweet song;
'Twas a study—just a study—done in all the minor keys
With the gloomy measures turned on strong.
When old Socrates was busy at the office, she would wait
Till he ambled in at 3 a.m.
And she met him in the moonlight 'twixt the doorway and the gate—
Then the neighbors heard a lot from them.
But Socrates—he didn't mind when she pulled out his hair,
When she would box his ears for him he didn't seem to care—
In a manner bland and wise
He would then philosophize
On the Whyness of the Whichness of the Neither Here nor There.
Xantippe did the cooking, and (we have to tell the truth)—
Indigestion quickly seized on him,
And in one of her biscuits on a time he broke a tooth,
Yet he smiled across at wifey grim.
When she tried her hand at pastry was the only time he spoke,
And of course he had to make a break—
'Twas perhaps the first appearance of the ever-lasting joke
On the pies that mother used to make.
Poor Socrates! He never even ducked his head or dodged
But merely rubbed the spot whereon the flying platter lodged,
Then he murmured: "Xanty, dear,
You have made a problem clear"—
Then he went to get the swelling on his cranium massaged.
Xantippe wouldn't let him smoke at all about the place,
And she wouldn't let him take a drink.
He never learned the value of a two-spot or an ace—
For 'most all that he could do was think.
Thus you see that though Xantippe has been fiercly criticized,
Yet she really made her husband's fame,
For 'twas while she bossed him sorely that the great man analyzed
All the subjects that have made his name.
Xantippe made him famous; but for her the man had been
Forgotten like the others of the time that he lived in.
"Oh, my darling, such a help!"
He most gratefully would yelp
When she gave him an impression with a busy rolling-pin.
YVETOT
The merry old king of Yvetot.
There was a king of Yvetot,
And easy was his head,
Serene his rest—naught would suggest
The words so often said,
That crowned heads are not peaceful;
He never wore a frown—
He laughed away the night and day.
With gayly tilted crown.
The jester of his palace
Was never forced to work,
He never had to make things glad
With oily smile and smirk.
This jolly king of Yvetot
Had no need of his fool—
He made his own jests from the throne
And pleasure was his rule.
He never had a quarrel
With any other king;
"Why should we fight?" he asked. "Delight
Is such an easy thing."
He told no one his troubles—
In truth, he reigned so well
No one could know, in fair Yvetot,
Of troubles fit to tell.
The little realm of Yvetot—
A wee spot on the map—
Has made a name secure in fame
Because of this rare chap
Who put his crown on sidewise
And lolled upon his throne
With scepter set so that it met
His active funny bone.
He was to war a stranger;
His kingdom had no debt;
Each of his laws possessed a clause
That barred out care and fret—
'Tis told that when expiring
He wasted his last breath
In one long laugh in life's behalf,
And thus went to his death.
There was a king of Yvetot—
There are such kings today;
They never sigh for things gone by
But laugh along the way.
So, crown yourself with laughter,
Put pleasure on the throne,
And you'll possess in happiness
An Yvetot of your own.
ZENOBIA
Zenobia in her jeweled fetters.
Zenobia was empress of the people of Palmyra;
She tried to boss the army when she should have stayed at home.
Aurelian, the soldier, led a sort of a hegira
Of armies up to fight her—they came all the way from Rome.
Full soon he was pursuing them, with spears and daggers "shooing" them,
At last he sent them to defeat and caught the doughty queen.
He captured her regretfully, he said, but she said fretfully
That she considered him a spiteful thing, and very, very "mean."
He led her back a captive with her hands in jeweled fetters,
Though she cast on Aurelian a look of proud disdain;
Her manacles were carved and chased and decked by jewel setters,
And to securely hold her he had made a golden chain.
There is a lot of mystery connected with all history—
Zenobia, they tell us, didn't want to go to jail,
But, think of such a fate as that! Why, such a jeweled weight as that
Was better than to pawn your clothes and be released on bail!
Zenobia was taken to the royal Roman palace
And there the charming prisoner, we read, was quite the rage—
Had she lived in this time of ours (we say this without malice),
She might have made a lasting hit by going on the stage.
Aurelian was nice to her—he hinted more than twice to her
That he was getting pretty tired of kinging it alone.
You see, she might have captured him—already she enraptured him—
And had that handcuff jewelry to wear upon the throne.
But, no! Zenobia was like 'most any other lady—
They've been the same since mother Eve; they have the same way still:
No matter if it's Princess May, or Susie, Sal or Sadie,
No lady will consent to be convinced against her will.
At last they told her civilly, "You'll have to live in Tivoli"
(Which may or may not be the way to speak that city's name).
She answered very prettily: "I'll love to live in Italy"—
And there she stayed until she was an old, forgotten dame.