Two Mock Epics: Hanuman and Tantum Religio, or Sir Blasius

Front matter

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TWO MOCK EPICS | by Svatopluk Čech | and or, SIR BLASIUS | by W. W. STRICKLAND, B.A. (Trin : Coll : Camb.) | all rights reserved

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Preface

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In order to preserve as far as possible the original metres and system of double-rhyming in the translation of this Slav mock-heroic poem, much has been deliberately sacrificed. It is a poem of some two thousand lines in length; and, in comparison with the Slavonic, our language is poor in rhymes. And not only have the exact combinations of double-rhymes in general been exactly reproduced, but also in many passages the exact rhythm of individua lines. More than this. In by far the greater part of the poem, the translation is not only a phonetic but also a word-for-word reproduction of the text. With more latitude, far greater fluency of versification could have been easily attained. Add to this the difficulty of transferring that subtle essence—humour—from one language to another. Lastly, the classical perfection of form which renders Slav humour a thing sui generis is necessarily in great part lost. Literary form is seen in perfection only in highly inflexed languages. Czech is more highly inflexed than Greek or Latin. English is fast returning to the agglutinative stage. However, in spite of these drawbacks, it is hoped that the poem, if it does not find a large audience, may at least please those who know what good writing is, and that the striking humour and admirable working out of the origina conceit may to some extent counterbalance the inevitable defects of a translation.

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This preface could easily be extended to the length of the poem itself, or longer, if it were deemed desirable to cite a hundredth part of the barbarities practised, not in past times, but within the last fifty years, by Christians—both Papist and Protestant—upon one another or upon their opponents. To marshal the long and damning array of facts here would be itself a cruelty. They can always be held in reserve. Freethinkers have no desire unduly to wound the susceptibilities of Christians, but only to render the barbarities which hitherto have invariably accompanied every powerful Christian organisation, impossible for the future, or at any rate ridiculous.

Hanuman

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Sestri Levante, Feb. 1893.

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I.

Like a desert prophet sighed I For some fairy dreams elysian. Rarach came meanwhile, the tempter, Hopped into my cave, derision In his eyes, and fluttered round me; Straddlewise my nose bespanned, Like a Cupid his pagoda, With the lotus in his hand

Waved the wonder-working floweret, Lo! a thousand imps and nixies, Pucks and gnomes and winged goblins, Fairies, elfin wisps and pixies O’er the mussels swarmed in countless Hosts, and lusty carols sung In the crystal sea’s recesses, And their tinkling handbells rung.

All in vain I shouted “Hold! and Elsewhere play those skipping jingles On jest’s cymbal with the sistrum, That with sting of satire tingles; For I crave a song whose rhythm From the soul of beauty brims, And with purest ore poetic Choirs enthusiastic hymns.

Thine’s a troop of drolls fantastic, With their false and foreign spangles.” “Nay, but o’er our meadows only Such a charming flower wreath dangles For the poet and such heroes In our own domestic runes, And this fellow must to Bombay Trudge in search of his buffoons.”

All in vain still thrums the timbrel Ceaseless hand and foot as pliant, Moulds the fulsome dance responsive, And the sparkling eye defiant Dares me, and the papery pinions With sham iris colours pearled, Flirt and buzz round like a night-moth: “Let us out into the world.”

“Fly then! on thy gummy vans, in- augurate a furtive Aden, Leading souls poetic, slily To thy jungles, legend-laden. Then ensconced in thy liana- Swing, with thumb to nose deride him. Thou hast scandalized full other Brahmins not of Ind beside him.”

II.

“Somewhere in thy jungles Hindostani Relics of a giant city sadly Brood o’er memories of departed glory, Splendors now collapsing to the tomb, Dreaming of the throngs that filled its churches, Of the swarms of worship-loving people And the palaces of haughty Nabobs, Jewelled thrones and flashing presence-room.

Minarets, pagodas, all in ruin And dismantled seats of mighty rajahs, Hide beneath the fans of wavy palm groves And the rank banana’s spacious leaves In a heavy pall of fronds and flowers, Pitiful the virgin woodland shrouds them And a veil of hundred-fold lianas O’er the face of perished glory weaves

All among that web of airy tendrils Like a saucy gang of agile sailors In their rigging, now of sportive apes a Family their giddy dances run, Sacred and descendants of the fabled Hanuman, with whom the great one Vishnu, Taking on himself the form of Rama, Lanek, isle of giants, proudly won.

Here, in former times, these sacred monkeys In a lordly church were fondly cherished By the tender care of pious Hindoos, ’Neath the goddess Durga’s patron hand: But when Church and city fell to ruin, By the guile of wicked foes deflowered, They remained above the ruined city Only dwellers in that lonely land.

Sated were they with the luscious fruitage Of the forest lords whose green recesses Rang from morn to eve enlivened by the Dance and chatter of their apish fold. These grotesque of body were, a long tail Smartly clasped the branches like a lasso; ’Neath a front of irrepressive bristles Peeped a mask of wholly human mould.

Much as other apes they lived and flourished, Save obedient to divine prescription, One of them was recognised their monarch And the royal dignity began And descended in unbroke succession By inheritance from sire to sire, Handed downward from the half-diving one, Apedom’s glorious hero—Hanuman.

Hanuman the last was now, in childhood, By his gracious mother fondly tended; his virtues kindled every ape-heart With the prescience of his future fame. But Parvati, with her dreadful sickle, Shore the leaf, the precious bud that shrouded And a flash of fate unkindly blasted All the proud spun dream of bliss and name.

In the shady leafage of a plane tree Once the queen was lulling him to slumber, Tenderly removing from the soft fur Aught that sucked audacious those blue veins; Sudden from the bamboo thicket issued, In a sailor’s garb, a human monster, Softened not that heart of flint the touching Sight of all that mother’s love and pains.

O’er the woods a musket shot; a piteous Cry; the smoke cleared off and down the princess Toppled headlong from her leafy fastness Overtaken by the fatal lead; From the mother’s dying arms the murderer Tore the child and to his vessel bore him: So to distant lands in galling fetters Apedom’s last surviving promise sped.

III.

Ah! what anguish smote within thee, luckless Hanuman, as far away Thine ancestral wood and forest fastness Muffled in the mist-wreath lay, And beyond the stern thine eye went ranging Tearful, under foreign skies and changing Stars that bent o’er endless seas of grey.

Thou, around whose brow primeval legend Wove a starry crown, whose fame Holy Ganges, snow-clad Himalaya Echoed, at whose sacred name Pious Ind low looted, rude born sailors Now art made the butt of: rabble railers Taunt and pelt thee with the words of shame.

Thee who wont’st to be the bright exemplar To all creatures of thy race, And who knewest naught but warm affection In a mother’s fond embrace, And the love her heart alone could offer: Now the stinging lash constrains to proffer Servile bows and tricks of little grace.

Thus the high-born captive sailed the ocean Many a night and many a day; Flashed around him like a spangled dream-land Foreign shores in bright array, Till, at length, the vessel reached the clouded Northworld and by Albion’s mists enshrouded, Moored within the echoing harbour lay.

There within the sailors’ reeking tavern, On a mat of plaited cane, Crouched the ape, disconsolate, when o’er him Those colossi once again Waved their spreading boughs—and lo! the lotus Through the serried gloom flashed out remote as Some wild eyeball from th’ enchanted main.

O’er his fevered brow the giant palm leaves’ Fringe of green their freshness shower, Like a winged gem the insect quivers In the gloom of branch and flower. Golden through its leaves the date—he graspeth For it—woe!—but empty air he claspeth. All is but a dream’s deceptive power!

In a smart ne suit next morn his master Dressed him: his two-cornered hat baude Cocked in rakish guise with gorgeous top-knot— Sure some gift of fairy that; Ruddy frock all filigree bedizened, Violet ducks, in huge top-boots imprisoned, Loose about his nether person sat.

Seated on a squeaking hurdy-gurdy Which his master’s shoulder bore, Off he set o’er Rhineland, France, Italia, On his artist’s wanderjahr, From the southern vine to Norway’s larches, Half of Europe, covered with his marches, Did that landless prince of apes explore.

Hailed with wild acclaim and children’s laughter, He must show his wit, the slum Of the town amuse, divert the village Tavern bumpkins rude and glum, Take his cap off, courtier-wise on one knee Drop, play cards or smoke the sailors’ honey- Dew, walk on his head and tipple rum,

Neatly bind the napkin’s snow-white corners Round his neck and eat his food Nicely, bit by bit, with fork impaling And, magnanimous of mood, To the waiter hand a frank and duly Ply his toothpick—crowning wonder truly! Wipe his small moustache with wine imbued,

In his chequered hat collect the pennies; From some generous little hand Sometimes fell some sweet fruit from some orchard For him of that northern land. In his master’s arms he slept: nor more he Moaned his forest home, it seemed the glory Of his heavenly home from thought was banned.

But at last that nomad life the outcast Wearied of, and now once more Yearned to coil the cable and the ocean’s Boundless plain to voyage o’er; And so once he stepped into the haven There the ship stood with the tall masts shaven And the sails set for some foreign shore.

Thus it chanced: a green-room Alexander Caught by a sublime idea, Would, this genius of an impressario, Forth to Himalaya steer; Indus, Ganges, and Nerbudda’s sluices Tap, a virgin soil for thirsty muses, Those to whom the Thespian art is dear,

What a host of needy mimes flock round him From the east-end and the west, Goddesses of fame and money avid, Ballerine light of vest— With an air or pirouette who ponder All thy diamond shoals to net Golconda, All thy wealth Benares to enchest.

Prima donnas’ golden heads are running On a rain of golden posies In their laps, of topaz, sapphires, rubies, While the ballet sylph in hose is Panting for some spark in pearl-sewn turban, Or with supple thumb prepares suburban Pinches for proud Brahmins’ august noses.

Scarce the ship, that ark of art, suffices In its cells to stow away All that world of lath and plaster fashioned, Which to India now would stray: All that medley—boxes, trunks, portmanteaus, Wardrobes, cases lined with unsold cantos, Rouge pots, hair dyes, wigs red, black and grey.

Ship of Argonauts—with song resounding, Boldly plough the furrowy blue! Hanuman’s new master is thy captain: At his side, a comrade true, Bides the ape, oh! how the small eye sparkles As unfolding free around it darkles nine Ocean’s boundless zones of azure hue.

Oh! how throbbed his heart as thro’ the grating Criss-cross yard and rigging made him, Through warm nights again the Southern Cross’s Gleam of welcome calm surveyed him As the ship, on Heaven’s blue vault designing, Once again the slender palm-stems twining, Nearer, nearer to his home conveyed him.

And the nearer, ofter sank in pensive Dreams and reveries the ape. Once he started—sure, there, in the distance ’Twas his homeland’s wooded cape! But swift tempest’s fury long impending Sudden burst with thunder music blending Earth and sea and sky in one wild shape.

Oh! then on that ill-starred bark heartrending, Were the tragedies achieved By those wan-eyed singers, actors—ghastly Fair the opera they weaved, To which into drum and trumpet storming Tempest played the ouverture performing; Feats of art e’en Wagner ne’er conceived.

Hanuman from that wild tumult clambered To the main mast—terrors blight— Thunder deafens—stoops the groaning top-mast, It the surge-foams drift and bite; And with that small ape, firm hold maintaining, Wrathful ocean’s deep, as if disdaining, Spat it forth on India’s shores of light.

IV.

Oh! forest world, thou gorgeous affluence Of beauty, grandeur, magic, horror, wonder, Infinite treasures of form and sense, Light, color, shadow, scent and sound, as under Day’s glowing kiss awoke to consciousness How passing fair! how clothe them in its sheen, Haughty, the veterans of thy wilderness, Waving their tropic wealth of glowing green, Flashing in emerald waves, a sea of splendour. But to the lower cycles of the grove Day from its crowned monarchs deigns to rove Down to where yet a second forest tenders (Being but itself those giants’ undergrowth,) Shelter to thickets lower yet and blending Leaves great and small in wealth of forms unending, Fantastic groups you here may see of both Plumes and enormous fans which all around Spread from the palms’ slim crowns a feather frond Massed into stately vault or ribbed network, Here emerald blades, here fringe of fairy fretwork; And amid all those feather-forms unending Sportively night here battles with the daylight, ’Mid a myriad shadows, exquisitely blending, Till, lower chased, she walks the dusky grey light, Free and unchallenged, in perpetual shades Where through her poisoned weeds entangled waste Slime and morass and serpent root enlaced No glance of curious day her gloom invades. But up above light strings a hundred bows And iris sparks. There, spreading in a rose Yon targe of fronds, whose drooping tips around it, Like ornamental lace their fringes roll Flames lonely through the leafy shades that bound it, Some great Mogul’s emblazoned parasol. Here the liana garland-wise festooning Platane and mango in its plaited maze, Swings the light blooms, their spotted bells attuning Into an arabesque of colour; blaze Ruby with sapphire, topaz, agate, banded: Here in full pomp the spacious dawn expanded.

Now freshly through the woods a spirit heaves As from dawn’s bosom, bearing, pleasure-laden, A hundred odours, murmurs in all leaves, And wakes to myriad life the forest Aden. Here hails the sun the parrot’s shrill acclaiming, As o’er his fluttering wing, with purple flaming, Light’s tracery glints, he preens his emerald side, The woodland peacock flashing through the gloom, A glowing meteor, irridescent-eyed: The butterfly there poises on the bloom, A winged fire aloft the apes in guise Of demons scare repose, in bough and trailer Entanglement ensconced, with dismal cries: Lower head-downward fly, hang by the tail or Swarm, lightning-like, o’er tree trunks, swarm or scatter: Daring upon festooned lianas swing In attitudes grotesque: while all sides ring, Above, below, with endless buzz and chatter.

To-day, a strange report in fits has flung ’em, Their Hanuman’s alive, nay, he’s among ’em, Sudden returned from distant lands in might And such a strange costume—their god of light,— He they so long bewailed in orphan station. Now, at his bidding troop from every side In mighty conclave all the apish nation; With gibbering goblins all the jungles chide As all rush off where stands ’mid ruins hoary all Their Parliament House from times immemorial.

’Mid most the ruined cities’ crumbling eaves O’er which the wood a second roofage weaves A grey pagoda stands, all weather battered, Girdled with hosts of countless images, Cupids and animals and turrets scattered Concentric, mosses hide a ruined frieze, And on four trunks of elephants converging, Is seen a little spike-crowned dome emerging.

On this small cupola, as on a throne, is Already seated Hanuman, in clusters On statuettes and turrets lower down is All that of birth and breeding apedom musters; Already, too, through all its precincts bustle, From tree and ruin, members here assembling, And o’er it all the waving branches rustle Forming a vault, some palace choir resembling. But now the cupola seems all alive, And by the little satans wondrous dances, Buzzing and swarming like a monkey hive, Changed to a waving world of mango plants is, Bread trees, bananas, banyans and filling Fast with live fruits that dangle from the ceiling. Lo! all the branches round are swaying, spinning With swarms grotesque of bodies frizzed and furry, And with a hundred monkey masks are grinning: Down by the pendent, spreading creepers hurry Groups thicker yet, and from its trellis dangling, Down swings another heavy vintage wrangling.

How fix in words that hubbub and those japes, Buzz, chatter, shrieks, the Parliament of apes Rent all the wood with proffering its delight At the lost king’s return: and, heavenly sight! There calmly sat the king on the pagoda: That vaulted forest opening o’er his head, A quivering stream of light upon him shed, That like a glory round his person glowed—ah! But what rare sight amidst it all was that? A scarlet frock with golden frippery rigid And violet breeks it wore, a costume pat For kings designed: its head erect and frigid, A hat of mighty mould and wondrous build, hid In form and style like that so felted, wadded, Thy brows, famed son of Corsica, once shielded, Save that o’er this a plume stupendous nodded, Of gilded wire, beads, feathers dyed and spangled, While from each horn a golden tassel dangled, ’Faith, ’twas a costume worthy of a godhead!

The Parliament of apes, at all astounded, Gazed, and full many a raptured cry resounded, Though ’mid the tendrils, too, may be some blockhead A stupid smile at that quaint little frock hid. Until at length from all sides thundering ran: “Be welcome home, prince, mighty Hanuman.” Then Apedom’s chief took off the hat and, bowing, Opened the Session with a speech as glowing.

“To Vishnu praise! and hearty thanks to thee, Great ancestor, for sure thine interceding With him who rules yon cloud-wrought canopy (Past services to Rama tendered pleading With Vishnu) ’twas through rolling seas upbore me To where the star of destiny shone o’er me; Now mine uncurtained gaze the truth descrieth, And opened wide before me, like a scroll, The book of apish fates and human lieth, I read each secret sign and judge the whole.

Ape, of creation diadem and pride, Issued from hands divine, dowered in full measure, And multiplied, his seats expanding wide; But one part of that mighty brotherhood In unprogressive state stagnated, having Its dwelling in the trees—their fruits for food, The gift of nature—without labour craving, Neglecting its rare talents’ cultivation, So that some atrophied, some wholly perished, And evermore approaching the base station Of those brute beasts, whose comradeship it cherished. Not so the other part; this higher still Its gifts developed accent with each fresh endeavour, Earth, beings’ empire, subjected to its will, Keeping along the road of progress ever. Of countless ages thus he reaped the promise So far excelled, his reason schooled so soundly, In grace of life and outward polish from his Arboreal brethren differed so profoundly, That now, if face and body’s conformations Had not announced it, hard ’twere to believe in The common origin of those two nations: But our poor language fails to paint, O! Heaven! My raptures when I think of thee, Europa; Thou loveliest land of full-formed apedom proper! To paint those cities, full of glittering treasure, Those fine turns-out, that swarm of smart costumes, That joy of life, its comfort, grace and leisure, Those polished manners and assembly rooms. Oh! I confess with shame, alas! we hairy ’uns, Compared with them, are little but barbarians. Like the brute beasts, who with us haunt the woods, We’re only skilled to skip and climb and gobble. On us, no ray of Progress e’er intrudes, Nor poetry nor music us ennoble. To us, the theatre’s scarce e’en a name; And as for politics, saloons—O! Brahm! What wonder if those apes of progress—or rest E’en the mere name ape’s now tabooed as shocking. The cultured race of man, then, looks down mocking Upon his uncouth brethren of the forest: Nay, ’tis but yesterday Cam’s glorious son dared, After long ages, scornful, had denied it, To own the kinship, by his great heart guided, And what a storm of protest ’gainst him thundered! But better I than he intend to show ’em Our birth is one, and that the present chasm That scorned, degraded brother now below ’em Can span with ease and reach or perhaps surpass ’em. When first, out yonder, pain and shame at heart, I Compared our wretched lot with that of man, A sudden flash within my temples ran, And, in an instant, warmed my every part: ay, That flash the germ was of a great idea Which with the breath of blessed hope grew clear; And now my guiding star before me burneth, To which my glance enthusiastic turneth; My race neglected, from its degradation, I’d raise by culture and civilization; I’d till the glebe for spiritual sowing My ancestors, in secular neglect, had Let fallow: by my glorious deed bestowing On mine, the self-same rights the race elect had.

To-day, upon that glorious task I enter; But ere to spheres of higher thought I venture, I’ll touch on three things where the outward shape Differs most strikingly in man and ape. First, there’s our tails, which only in derision Stream out behind us. This is my decision: Dock the superfluous adjunct with a chopper At once; ’tis not nice, not to say improper. And then our foot, which long disuse degrading To be the hands’ mere helpmate, blindly stumbles, Nor knows the art of orderly parading, But for its bough, with thumb inconstant fumbles Shall reach at last its natural destination And real top boots, its toes compressing tightly, Conform it promptly to the latest fashion. And then—woe’s me! that matters so unsightly In open Parliament should e’er be treated With unflushed cheeks-things scarce to be repeated. Woe’s me! your feelings have been so neglected— So dreadfully—my nation most respected, You’ll hear, perhaps unflinching, what half-speechless I—nay, my modest tongue—words fail—you’re breechless. Nay, never point for your more deep discredit On that coarse fur—that brute-beasts’ vesture tedded That only muffles—shame if man now caught us! Enough about this object. Brief, I vow, sirs, We’ll into pourpoints, petticoats and trowsers; Ay, promptly, too, and humanwise comport us. Our faith firm pinned on human dress, reliance On that shall soon conduct us to the van, O’er stepping-stones of morals, art and science— The glorious Church of brotherhood and man!”

The king has ceased; around, the apish clusters Also hang motionless. Like meteor showers, Those grand conceptions blind their puny powers, Those glittering vistas—unimagined lustres. Then, by degrees, the rustling storm prevails, And wonder thrills those clumps of heads and tails. A hundred brandished hands through mid air flutter, A hundred polls go swagging up and down, A hundred figures dance and clutch and splutter, A hundred faces gibber, grin and frown; But as to what they think, a dismal hum is The only oral clue—all mute and mum is; And many a puzzled Chatham keeps his seat, And scratches both his ears with both his feet.

At length an aged ape of aspect sour, Grey eld with silver threads his scarce fur raying, His face a map of wrinkles, stubborn, dour, A mango fruit in one fist, th’ other playing With the blue honors of his beard, and tightly An aery tendril with the third embracing Among the tropic creeper’s interlacing, Wherein, as on a swing, he dangled lightly, Now stretched his fourth hand to the monarch breeched, And thus for rhetoric’s crown of laurels reached: “I say out plain; I can’t assent, great sire, That men than we—nay, we than men stand higher, As stood our ancestors from earliest ages. Here’s a clear proof from old world History’s pages: When gracious Sita once was borne away By Ravanas to Lanek, to retrieve her, His bride, the god, then wearing human clay, Turned not for aid to men but us—Sugriva He summoned, and on Hanuman relied: And how those glorious apish chiefs achieved True miracles of valour; how the bride Of Rama from the ogre was retrieved By Hanuman; how one bold archway bended Across the sea to Ceylon’s isle, suspended By hands of apes:—of this the lustrous story Is graved on History’s slabs in deathless glory. And once e’en man our prior claim confessed: That half-divine Ind deems our race, the shrines Scattered from Simla to the sea attest, Where choirs of apes religious life refines. Oh! just let us live on as lived our sires. The mango fruit—what sweeter in the wide world? And life on boughs with scented blooms, this pied world Of woods—what nearer to the heart’s desires? ’Tis just sheer folly and not worth a tittle, This progress, science, culture and the rest of it— For me this mango stone outweighs the best of it. I, too, have looked into the world a little, Have been as far as Bombay and Calcutta And watched the life of this mad western species How starched it sits in circles—not a flutter! But like a puppet carved in boxwood each is, How anxiously its every movement weighed is! What gestures, vapid phrases, formal, flat, Chewed and rechewed; what stiff bows to the ladies! My humble thanks for such a life as that! No, no, these mountebanks had reason greater To fly to us, here rocked in freedom’s arms From empty care and self-inflicted fetter To mother Nature’s breast and life’s pure charms.

To think of us going mimicking these flunkeys! Rather should they conform to us,—to monkeys! We’ve stayed as Nature’s soul—as wisest essence Has fashioned us; why fash ourselves because Man’s farcicalities in effervescence Have marred the jollier scheme of heavenly laws. Disdain your tail, my lord, if you think fit, I wear mine with delight—I’m proud of it: Look at its tapering form so gently sportive, The grace and softness of each supple motion, In every one it wakens warm devotion Whose natural sense of beauty’s not abortive. Its use for life on trees can’t be denied, ’Tis sanctioned, too, by countless generations. Sires, grandsires, gloried in this train’s gyrations: ’Twas Hanuman the Mighty’s joy and pride E’en fairest stars through night’s autumnal trail In lines of glittering light a sparkling tail: And this choice decoration—we’re to flout it Merely because mankind is now without it? And feet, whose fingers free and unimpeded Are capable of touch, and work if needed, Why must their poor maimed thumbs, all knobs and sores Be cramped in Spanish pumps, to slip and fumble Through mire and dust, with many an awkward tumble; Nay, rather we, intrepid on all fours, Above the clods of earth, where man sticks bestial, Will climb to higher heights and realms celestial; And quite content let’s wear these furs delicious Wherewith, where need is, Nature kindly wraps us. This cant ’gainst nakedness is all fictitious— Man’s prudishness—a mere eccentric lapsus; Our members’ forms,—’twas Nature’s hand applied ’em, They’re known;—why hypocritically hide ’em? You’ll ne’er drill me into these chequered tatters; I have grown grey untrowsered—by all hatters! I won’t rig my old age in rags and motley!”

“Enough, enough,” broke in the prince here hotly, “So untrimmed a discourse, one so provocative, No Senate’s annals sure have e’er confessed. All’s Greek to him-the Parliament’s prerogative, And how ’tis meet that kings should be addressed! Forth from our Senate! Off! and be right glad We’ve not yet called our Law Courts—if we had The wheel those caitiff limbs had seen disjointed For gross offence against high heaven’s anointed.”

The aged ape, aghast, perused him storming, Then turned its back upon his Senate, slowly Hand over hand o’er high lianas swarming, Sought the thick foliage of a pipal holy, And sucked its mango there, snarled wrathful, shifted, And flung the kernels down from palm uplifted.

And now the king had quite a host of reasons With which to quench the opposition treasons. “My mighty grandsire from yon starry height Looks down, methinks, with no contented eye On such an advocate, and small delight To be the ancestor of such a guy. ’Tis well to reverence our great departed; But when our comic side is thus paraded In sire’s cast suits of fame, by sons degraded Who clash their swords, themselves being chicken-hearted, Like windbags puff themselves with those sires’ fame: Methinks that fleas can boast themselves the same, A lion tolerates in his royal mane, That lion’s blood is circling in their vein!

This bungler has to journey many a rood To fetch his proofs, to times before the flood; For charlatans are more at home and able Where all clear outlines ’neath a dappled haze Subtract themselves from critics’ serious gaze. But let us soberly review this fable: I honour Hanuman, his fame assert, Truth, though, will ne’er diminish his desert; In Rama, in man’s form, god being embodied, And not in ape, to man the preference gave. This man a warrior was, with whom a brave But mere ally, the apish hero plodded. Apes’ prior claims! ’tis a mere craze that haunts him, And in the magic bridge he vainly vaunts him; ’Twas, true enough, by apish hands erected But Samudra, the sea god, first projected The whole design; we ape folk, to complete it, Brought nought but sturdy thews, which I’ve admitted, Nor wit nor mind—i’faith, a feeble nimbus— E’en trunks of elephants bear joists and timbers.

’Tis ludicrous to boast the modest share is Ours in the Hindoos’ Pantheistic ritual When every loon can claim a place in it. You all Have heard how bulls are sacred in Benares.

And vulgar taste it is to eulogise—h’m! This good-for-naught posterior appendage— This obvious lapse of nature—this loose endage That flaps slap in thy face, Æstheticism! Man’s foot, I’m told, constrains him to the mire, While ours, instead, to heaven exalts us higher. Yon foolish parrots reach yet higher regions; Are we, for that, below those spottled pigeons? The fashion of our feet—say, ’tis degenerate— For climbing’s now adapted best, at any rate? Yes; but we’ve no desire with squirrels, thrushes, Henceforth to skip and hop o’er trees and bushes; Nor scurry down lianas’ high festoons, But nicely sit in orderly saloons. Last, as concerns our nudity—oh! let Us thank our stars that to these woodland quarters, From Europe have not penetrated yet The Argus-eyes of newspaper reporters; (That Europe where, in these days, in some places, Of fair maid’s bosoms ’tis a crime to warble, And whose police scarce suffer naked graces In goddesses, though they’re antiques and marble;) For if he overheard our so immoral Debate and to his paper gave it entry, And added comic cuts, as well as oral,— As is the way with journalistic gentry— Our Senate’s session would become the sport Of the whole world of cultivated thought.