Rosemary and Pansies/A Poet's Grievance
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A POET'S GRIEVANCE
Yes, sir! my name is Milton—Spenser Milton.
Am I descended from the famous John?
I knew you'd ask that—everybody puts
That question to me, making me sometimes
Fit to blaspheme the poet's memory,
By which I've all my life been handicapped.
"Paradise Lost" I've often wished had been
Lost literally and never more Regained.
John Milton was John Milton, I'm myself:
He had his special talent, I have mine:
'Tis true indeed a family tradition
(I care not for its authenticity)
Asserts we are descended from the poet:
But can you give me any reason why
One family should not produce two poets?
I couldn't write a "Paradise" I'll own,
And if I could I would not: but could John
With all his genius have composed that song,
So full of patriotic inspiration,
Of foreign foes so scornfully defiant,
So trumpet-like in its triumphant measure,
Which the great MacMungo sang with such success
At almost every Music Hall in England,
And which so roused the spirit of the nation,
And I—yes! I, your humble servant, wrote?
I trow he could not: wherefore I contend
'Tis most unjust my corn to measure by
John Milton's bushel. Do you think that he,
Were he to come to life again, would choose
To write another "Paradise"? Not he!
He was a man (considering the times
He lived in) of advanced opinions; not
By any means a man to take unquestioned
His principles from masters and from pastors.
His Epic owes far more to his invention
Than to the Book which he professed to follow:
His Jesus and Jehovah were but Miltons
"Writ large," through whom the bard ventriloquised.
Did he live now and know the proved results
Of Biblical research in modern times,
He would be counted in the foremost ranks
Of those who have cast off the chains of dogma:
But that is scarcely what I meant to urge:
I dare say folks have no design to hurt
My feelings when they ask if I'm descended
From the great Milton. It's a natural question—
That is it's natural inconsiderate folk
(Most folk are inconsiderate) should ask it;
But don't you see (and here's the sting of it,)
Most people ask as though within their minds
There lurked the thought "A long descent indeed."
Now this is aggravating you must own:
I don't by choice bear so renowned a name;
Could I have chosen my own patronymic
I'd have preferred Smith, Brown, Jones, Robinson,
Or any other undistinguished surname,
Which I perchance by merits of my own,
O'ershadowed by no famous ancestor,
Might then have made renowned and glorious.
Let me confide a secret to your ear:
Three tragedies I've written in a style
Never attempted by another poet,
Original in matter as in form,
And full of great sensational effects,
Which, were they once produced upon the stage,
Would rank me even with the Bard of Avon.
You smile, sir! but I mean just what I say,
In fact I know not if I'm not too modest,
And should not claim a higher place than Shakespeare:
For what says Bernard Shaw?—"Excepting Homer,
There is no famous writer I despise
So much as I despise the vaunted Shakespeare,
When I compare my intellect with his:"
(And that is just what I should say of Shaw,
Were I—but modesty restrains my speech.)
Buchanan too (I mean the famous Robert,
The author of—hang it! I've clean forgotten
Their names—of countless poems, plays, and novels,)
He also thinks that Shakespeare's overrated,—
See! here's his "Open Letter," where he shows
That the absurd idolatry of Shakespeare
Is but a superstition of the mob,
Who worship him for his faults and not his merits;
(Robert, you see, is candid and allows
That Shakespeare has some merits): Listen now—
"Shakespeare, of course, writing in barbarous times,
Wrote like a savage: he could do naught else!
But what is most amazing in his most
Amazing genius is the thorough-going
Consistency with which he ever seizes
The brutal and the barbarous side of things,
Be it the Trojan War or Jack Cade's rising,
His horrid caricature of hunchbacked Richard,
Or his bestial libel on heroic Joan."
Now, sir, I don't endorse all Robert says,
(His pen, I fancy, masters him at times,
And writes down things which no one is astonished
More than their author is to see in print:)
But I do think that if you take away
His six or seven masterpieces, Shakespeare
Falls to a level which may well be reached,
Or overleaped even by your humble servant.
But let that pass; comparisons are odious,
And I'm content posterity should judge
Between me and the Elizabethan bard:
That is, I should be well content could I
But get my plays produced upon the stage,
Or could I even find a publisher
With enterprise enough to make them known
To the great British public. Genius, sir,
Both manager and publisher are blind to,
And so my plays remain unknown, unacted,
And I make but a poor precarious living
By writing songs (at half a crown a time)
For music-hall professionals. Dame Fortune
Has never yet your humble servant favoured,
And at the present moment worse than usual
She's treating me. Behold! my purse contains
Not even a copper coin. I know not
How to replenish it. I should be in luck
If some kind soul would lend me half a crown.
Thanks, friend; my lucky star must rise some day,
I shan't be always penniless, unknown,
And down at heel; depend on't I'll repay you.
Am I descended from the famous John?
I knew you'd ask that—everybody puts
That question to me, making me sometimes
Fit to blaspheme the poet's memory,
By which I've all my life been handicapped.
"Paradise Lost" I've often wished had been
Lost literally and never more Regained.
John Milton was John Milton, I'm myself:
He had his special talent, I have mine:
'Tis true indeed a family tradition
(I care not for its authenticity)
Asserts we are descended from the poet:
But can you give me any reason why
One family should not produce two poets?
I couldn't write a "Paradise" I'll own,
And if I could I would not: but could John
With all his genius have composed that song,
So full of patriotic inspiration,
Of foreign foes so scornfully defiant,
So trumpet-like in its triumphant measure,
Which the great MacMungo sang with such success
At almost every Music Hall in England,
And which so roused the spirit of the nation,
And I—yes! I, your humble servant, wrote?
I trow he could not: wherefore I contend
'Tis most unjust my corn to measure by
John Milton's bushel. Do you think that he,
Were he to come to life again, would choose
To write another "Paradise"? Not he!
He was a man (considering the times
He lived in) of advanced opinions; not
By any means a man to take unquestioned
His principles from masters and from pastors.
His Epic owes far more to his invention
Than to the Book which he professed to follow:
His Jesus and Jehovah were but Miltons
"Writ large," through whom the bard ventriloquised.
Did he live now and know the proved results
Of Biblical research in modern times,
He would be counted in the foremost ranks
Of those who have cast off the chains of dogma:
But that is scarcely what I meant to urge:
I dare say folks have no design to hurt
My feelings when they ask if I'm descended
From the great Milton. It's a natural question—
That is it's natural inconsiderate folk
(Most folk are inconsiderate) should ask it;
But don't you see (and here's the sting of it,)
Most people ask as though within their minds
There lurked the thought "A long descent indeed."
Now this is aggravating you must own:
I don't by choice bear so renowned a name;
Could I have chosen my own patronymic
I'd have preferred Smith, Brown, Jones, Robinson,
Or any other undistinguished surname,
Which I perchance by merits of my own,
O'ershadowed by no famous ancestor,
Might then have made renowned and glorious.
Let me confide a secret to your ear:
Three tragedies I've written in a style
Never attempted by another poet,
Original in matter as in form,
And full of great sensational effects,
Which, were they once produced upon the stage,
Would rank me even with the Bard of Avon.
You smile, sir! but I mean just what I say,
In fact I know not if I'm not too modest,
And should not claim a higher place than Shakespeare:
For what says Bernard Shaw?—"Excepting Homer,
There is no famous writer I despise
So much as I despise the vaunted Shakespeare,
When I compare my intellect with his:"
(And that is just what I should say of Shaw,
Were I—but modesty restrains my speech.)
Buchanan too (I mean the famous Robert,
The author of—hang it! I've clean forgotten
Their names—of countless poems, plays, and novels,)
He also thinks that Shakespeare's overrated,—
See! here's his "Open Letter," where he shows
That the absurd idolatry of Shakespeare
Is but a superstition of the mob,
Who worship him for his faults and not his merits;
(Robert, you see, is candid and allows
That Shakespeare has some merits): Listen now—
"Shakespeare, of course, writing in barbarous times,
Wrote like a savage: he could do naught else!
But what is most amazing in his most
Amazing genius is the thorough-going
Consistency with which he ever seizes
The brutal and the barbarous side of things,
Be it the Trojan War or Jack Cade's rising,
His horrid caricature of hunchbacked Richard,
Or his bestial libel on heroic Joan."
Now, sir, I don't endorse all Robert says,
(His pen, I fancy, masters him at times,
And writes down things which no one is astonished
More than their author is to see in print:)
But I do think that if you take away
His six or seven masterpieces, Shakespeare
Falls to a level which may well be reached,
Or overleaped even by your humble servant.
But let that pass; comparisons are odious,
And I'm content posterity should judge
Between me and the Elizabethan bard:
That is, I should be well content could I
But get my plays produced upon the stage,
Or could I even find a publisher
With enterprise enough to make them known
To the great British public. Genius, sir,
Both manager and publisher are blind to,
And so my plays remain unknown, unacted,
And I make but a poor precarious living
By writing songs (at half a crown a time)
For music-hall professionals. Dame Fortune
Has never yet your humble servant favoured,
And at the present moment worse than usual
She's treating me. Behold! my purse contains
Not even a copper coin. I know not
How to replenish it. I should be in luck
If some kind soul would lend me half a crown.
Thanks, friend; my lucky star must rise some day,
I shan't be always penniless, unknown,
And down at heel; depend on't I'll repay you.
1886-1899