Three by Austin Dobson (De Libris, 1909)

an epistle to an editor

“Jamais les arbres verts n’ont essayé d’être bleus.” — THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.

“A new Review!” You make me tremble
(Though as to that, I can dissemble
Till I hear more). But is it “new”?
And will it be a real Review? —
I mean, a Court wherein the scales
Weigh equally both him that fails,
And him that hits the mark? — a place
Where the accus’d can plead his case,
If wrong’d? All this I need to know
Before I (arrogant!) say “Go.”

“We, that are very old” (the phrase
Is STEELE’S, not mine!), in former days,
Have seen so many “new Reviews”
Arise, arraign, absolve, abuse; —
Proclaim their mission to the top
(Where there’s still room!), then slowly drop,
Shrink down, fade out, and sans preferment,
Depart to their obscure interment; —
We should be pardon’d if we doubt
That a new venture can hold out.

It will, you say. Then don’t be “new”;
Be “old.” The Old is still the True.
Nature (said GAUTIER) never tries
To alter her accustom’d dyes;
And all your novelties at best
Are ancient puppets, newly drest.
What you must do, is not to shrink
From speaking out the thing you think;
And blaming where ’tis right to blame,
Despite tradition and a Name.
Yet don’t expand a trifling blot,
Or ban the book for what it’s not
(That is the poor device of those
Who cavil where they can’t oppose!);
Moreover (this is very old!),
Be courteous — even when you scold!

Blame I put first, but not at heart.
You must give Praise the foremost part; —
Praise that to those who write is breath
Of Life, if just; if unjust, Death.
Praise then the things that men revere;
Praise what they love, not what they fear;
Praise too the young; praise those who try;
Praise those who fail, but by and by
May do good work. Those who succeed,
You’ll praise perforce, — so there’s no need
To speak of that. And as to each,
See you keep measure in your speech; —
See that your praise be so exprest
That the best man shall get the best;
Nor fail of the fit word you meant
Because your epithets are spent.
Remember that our language gives
No limitless superlatives;
And SHAKESPEARE, HOMER, should have more
Than the last knocker at the door!

“We, that are very old!” — May this
Excuse the hint you find amiss.
My thoughts, I feel, are what to-day
Men call vieux jeu. Well! — “let them say.”
The Old, at least, we know: the New
(A changing Shape that all pursue!)
Has been, — may be, a fraud.
— But there!
Wind to your sail! Vogue la galère!

a pleasant invective against printing

“Flee fro the PREES, and dwelle with sothfastnesse.” — CHAUCER, Balade de Bon Conseil.

The Press is too much with us, small and great:
We are undone of chatter and on dit,
Report, retort, rejoinder, repartee,
Mole-hill and mare’s nest, fiction up-to-date,
Babble of booklets, bicker of debate,
Aspect of A., and attitude of B. —
A waste of words that drive us like a sea,
Mere derelict of Ourselves, and helpless freight!

“O for a lodge in some vast wilderness!”
Some region unapproachable of Print,
Where never cablegram could gain access,
And telephones were not, nor any hint
Of tidings new or old, but Man might pipe
His soul to Nature, — careless of the Type!

the happy printer

“Hoc est vivere.” — MARTIAL.

The Printer’s is a happy lot:
 Alone of all professions,
No fateful smudges ever blot
His earliest “impressions.”

The outgrowth of his youthful ken
No cold obstruction fetters;
He quickly learns the “types” of men,
And all the world of “letters.”

With “forms” he scorns to compromise;
 For him no “rule” has terrors;
The “slips” he makes he can “revise” —
 They are but “printers’ errors.”

From doubtful questions of the “Press”
 He wisely holds aloof;
In all polemics, more or less,
 His argument is “proof.”

Save in their “case,” with High and Low,
 Small need has he to grapple!
Without dissent he still can go
 To his accustomed “Chapel,”

From ills that others scape or shirk,
 He rarely fails to rally;
For him, his most “composing” work
 Is labour of the “galley.”

Though ways be foul, and days are dim,
 He makes no lamentation;
The primal “fount” of woe to him
 Is — want of occupation:

And when, at last, Time finds him grey
 With over-close attention,
He solves the problem of the day,
 And gets an Old Age pension.