PAGE TO PACE; OR, THE TWO PORCES. No Force ? Hypocritical Anarchy’s plea!
The plaint of the bludgeon-armed, burglar at hay ; The cry of brute strength against strength sworn to free ; The protest of plague ’gainst the power that would stay!
No Force ? When frank Violence fronteth the light,
And sinister cruelty slinks in the dark ; When against the black terror that haunteth the night, The weak iind no bulwark, the honest no ark.
No Force ? When ’tis only brute force that is free,
When the will of the lawless seems stronger than law; When Justice stands swordless and hinging her knee,
And Freedom struck nerveless seems palsied with awe! Mad rant, maudlin sophistry. Force, at stern need,
Is the right arm of flight against violent Wrong ; To ’stablish the just against pitiless greed,
And compass the weak with the arm of the strong. Two Forces, sworn foes; and they stand face to face,
One calm, unvindictive, not hurried by hate Or made ruthless by wrath, with a touch of stern grace In those iron-set lips, to which duty is fate.
Protective and passionless, setting straight blade
At the breast of its foe, yet uneager to strike. That foe, blind and brutal, takes hate as a trade.
Loth I orces, ’tis true, but how strangely unlike. And “Force is no remedy! ” Granted, but force
Must protect patient healing when passion at Hood
Would whirl helpful Light from its steadfast set course,
And drown Love’s best hope in brute blindness and blood.
OUTWARD BOUND.
Smythe, Forbes, and Parkinson, fearing lest they should succumb to the charms of Maud, Marian, and Margaret Wilmot (and the wiles of those young Ladies’ clever Mamma), secure Berths on board the Trans-Oceanio Steam Yachting Company s Vessel Colombo for a Trip round the World. Just as they have paid their Fares (£800 each), whom should they meet coming into the Company’s Office but Mrs. Wilmot herself, with her three lovely Daughters at her heels —all Four evidently bent on the same errand !
0 Erin, much maddened, take heart, face the light!
There is safety, not scathe, in that straight-levelled steel. If our voice is for Force, ’tis the Force of the Light,
Not to crush, not to wound, but to guard and to heal.
IRISH NOTES.
Justice to Ireland.—Injustice to Landlords.
Land-League Policy.—Not honesty — generally considered the best. (?) Aavoeaoy of swindling.
Irish Rebellion.—Smashing windows.
Irish Martyrs.—Well-fed gentlemen in a Government boardinghouse.
Irish Want.—To see a tax-spender as well as a tax-collector. (?) The Prince of Wales or the Duke of Connaught.
Police Patchwork.
[At the Industrial Exhibition at the Alexandra Palace, a police-sergeant won the prize for a patchwork quilt.]
He must have had little to do—lived in peace, To indulge in such patchwork that sergeant of p’lice. And we ’re rather afraid that the work of the rest
Of the Foroe is but patchwork when ta’en at its best!
Educational Progress.
French is very thoroughly taught at our Public Schools nowadays. Paterfamilias asked his son what was the English for “ etonner.” After a glance at the spelling, the ready answer was,
“Oh, I know,—to go to Eton.” Should the World require a new French-Puzzle Editor, here’s the very boy for the place.
The plaint of the bludgeon-armed, burglar at hay ; The cry of brute strength against strength sworn to free ; The protest of plague ’gainst the power that would stay!
No Force ? When frank Violence fronteth the light,
And sinister cruelty slinks in the dark ; When against the black terror that haunteth the night, The weak iind no bulwark, the honest no ark.
No Force ? When ’tis only brute force that is free,
When the will of the lawless seems stronger than law; When Justice stands swordless and hinging her knee,
And Freedom struck nerveless seems palsied with awe! Mad rant, maudlin sophistry. Force, at stern need,
Is the right arm of flight against violent Wrong ; To ’stablish the just against pitiless greed,
And compass the weak with the arm of the strong. Two Forces, sworn foes; and they stand face to face,
One calm, unvindictive, not hurried by hate Or made ruthless by wrath, with a touch of stern grace In those iron-set lips, to which duty is fate.
Protective and passionless, setting straight blade
At the breast of its foe, yet uneager to strike. That foe, blind and brutal, takes hate as a trade.
Loth I orces, ’tis true, but how strangely unlike. And “Force is no remedy! ” Granted, but force
Must protect patient healing when passion at Hood
Would whirl helpful Light from its steadfast set course,
And drown Love’s best hope in brute blindness and blood.
OUTWARD BOUND.
Smythe, Forbes, and Parkinson, fearing lest they should succumb to the charms of Maud, Marian, and Margaret Wilmot (and the wiles of those young Ladies’ clever Mamma), secure Berths on board the Trans-Oceanio Steam Yachting Company s Vessel Colombo for a Trip round the World. Just as they have paid their Fares (£800 each), whom should they meet coming into the Company’s Office but Mrs. Wilmot herself, with her three lovely Daughters at her heels —all Four evidently bent on the same errand !
0 Erin, much maddened, take heart, face the light!
There is safety, not scathe, in that straight-levelled steel. If our voice is for Force, ’tis the Force of the Light,
Not to crush, not to wound, but to guard and to heal.
IRISH NOTES.
Justice to Ireland.—Injustice to Landlords.
Land-League Policy.—Not honesty — generally considered the best. (?) Aavoeaoy of swindling.
Irish Rebellion.—Smashing windows.
Irish Martyrs.—Well-fed gentlemen in a Government boardinghouse.
Irish Want.—To see a tax-spender as well as a tax-collector. (?) The Prince of Wales or the Duke of Connaught.
Police Patchwork.
[At the Industrial Exhibition at the Alexandra Palace, a police-sergeant won the prize for a patchwork quilt.]
He must have had little to do—lived in peace, To indulge in such patchwork that sergeant of p’lice. And we ’re rather afraid that the work of the rest
Of the Foroe is but patchwork when ta’en at its best!
Educational Progress.
French is very thoroughly taught at our Public Schools nowadays. Paterfamilias asked his son what was the English for “ etonner.” After a glance at the spelling, the ready answer was,
“Oh, I know,—to go to Eton.” Should the World require a new French-Puzzle Editor, here’s the very boy for the place.