Punch (86.1884)

,36

PUNCH., OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[January 19, 1884'..

THE MODERN ARS AMANDI.

[By Punchius Naso.)

CANTO Till.—Conclusion.

What more, 0 Muse ? To exhaust the eternal theme
Of every songster’s lay and schoolgirl’s dream,

Studied beneath Chaldea’s starry skies,

And sung in Cheyne Walk or Clapham Rise,

Were hopeless as on crutches to pursue

The sweeping comet through the boundless blue.

Punch lays down principles that cannot fail,

All else is iteration and detail.

PirnA;-ridden Pegasus has earned a rest.

Does gentle Psyche blame the frequent jest P
Psyche the lambent-eyed, whose pure-lined lip,
Shell-curved and sensitive, seems shaped to sip
Arcadian honey-dew ? What said the Sage ?

That Love and Laughter shared the motley page
Of the New Ars Amandi. Not the mirth
Of goat-foot Faunus, savouring of gross earth
And revel rude ; not Rabelais’ loud “ gros rire,”

The satyr-roar chaste Una well may fear,

Wood-wandering, sole and saintly ; but the light
Soul-pregnant merriment, which makes more bright
Sweet Will’s sun-dappled Arden, in whose glades
Cupid with Momus madly masquerades.

“ Love ”—so sang sparkling Praed—-“is like a play.”
Just so. With interludes of frolic gay
And fiery passion, scenes of high-strung joy
And bits of broad burlesque, in which the boy
Plays Puck or Tartuffe or Polichinelle.

Under which king ? The merry marriage bell
Rings many sorts of music in our ears,

Besides the choric chimings of the sjjheres.

Here sounds the chink of guineas ; young Lisette
For bullion’d age has spread the skilful net:

There clansrs the muffled clank of splendid chains,
Lilian hath bought blue blood and sapless brains
With dainty charm and dowry. Both may hold
That Punch should teach them how to hit the gold,

And own ’twere something foolish to suppose Eros
Wastes his best darts upon the rude rhinoceros.

Art hath so various aims, the Art of Love
Not less.than others. Will Apelles move
To inspiration only ? From the chink
Of ducats base will dainty Phidias shrink ?

Enough ! But, Psyche, if the sex’s choice
Be guileless Eros of the fluty voice
And. radiant front, who dowers the dull cold earth
With honest passion, and with happy mirth,—

Eros the ever young though old of days,

Whom Protean Fashion with its modish maze
Of monstrous mutability may not snare,

Whom Mammon moves not, whom the motley wear
Of age, or rank, or race may not disguise
Why, then, Love’s surest hooks are honest eyes.

Like yours, my Psyche, which uplifted so
Make the old heart of Punchius throb and glow.

Old heart ? Nay, hearts, while hearts, are ever youug.
The callous muscle dry as a neat’s tongue,

At seventeen or seventy, hath no claim
More than a shrivelled pump-valve to that name.

The heart hath its own art. The blameless guile
Of cunning glance and calculated smile,—

Cunning most simple, calculation sweet
As counting kisses !—strategy complete
Of ambushed charms and Parthian attacks,

These only prudes reprove, and only quacks
Pretend to teach. The overstudied look
Becomes an ogle, blushes learned by book
And mirror-studied dimples witch not long,

Grow mechanised like eighteenth century song,

And ghastly as a mask whose set grimace
Apes hideously quick Beauty’s mobile face.

And yet Youth knows not all its wealth of charm,

And Maidenhood may not essay each arm
That Nature furnishes. Reserves as large
As hers who glowed upon the Nile-borne barge
All may not hold. Her “ infinite variety,”

In scope as well as strength might shock, “ Society,”

Whose very whimsies are conventional.

Its vices cut to pattern. But the thrall
Of Loveliness were strengthened fifty-fold
Did the large heart and iiving fancy hold
Far higher honour in her glittering court.

The power of soul, the play of frolic sport,

Are Love-auxiliaries that never fail,

Afield Love-delights that “ custom cannot stale.”

Would you, my pure-eyed Psyche, learn to be
A blameless Cleopatra ? Antony
Lurks yonder ; yes, I see him through the leaves,

In tennis flannels, not the Roman greaves.

Let the youth wait! He lives upon your smiles.

Sweet diet truly ! Not with serpent wiles
Need you your sway to strengthen. But in love
One may be a sagacious little dove,

And shun the mere monotony of cooing,

Remembering that life is not all wooing.

This “ infinite variety ” above

All lesser craft, is the true Art of Love,

Best outcome of its nature, fine result
Not of cold artifice, hut careful cult.

Man’s heart hath many moods, and loving wit
Will work those moods to vary and to fit.

Two arms of Love, the phantasy that, shifts,

The sympathy that tracks, are dual gifts
Of the eternal Eros, which too oft
Are disregarded for the silken-soft
And honey-sweet alone. Hence many a check
In happy wooing, many a piteous wreck
In Matrimony’s sea.

There, Psyche ! Now

The troubled wrinkles leave that tender brow,

And fades the wistful shade from radiant eyes.

Sweet girl, ’tis not so easy to be wise,

With weary life-lore, as a burden borne,
fifit keep all shafts of mockery and of scorn
Close in Wit’s quiver, as yon genial God,

Who midst the myrtles waits his
laureate’s nod,

Keeps his best dartlets from un-
worthy heart,

Cold, wicked, or world-hardened.
Ah! you start!

The genuine Eros ? Yes. And.
as of old

fibur classic namesake felt his
pure arms fold

Gently about her gracious soul,
may you,

Fair English Psyche, know the
tender, true

Clasp of true love. Aou do ?'

Well, verhuni sap.

Antony waits, ana Punchius
needs a nap!

Finis.

Mrs. Ramsbotham wants to know in what musical work is to be
found the well-known line,

“ Like kidneys blithe and merry.”

She thinks the title of the Opera had something to do with cards.
“ Was it,” she asks, “ Aces and Galatia” ? But she is not certain.
Only it occurred to her at breakfast the other morning.