Tales of the Wonder Club Volume I Part 43

Wast thy hand steeped in blood Achaean, Whilst fighting for thy purple land, Wert thou patrician or plebeian, Or fell thou by th' a.s.sa.s.sin's hand, Did'st thou in arms thy foes outshine, Or did thy foe's arm conquer thine?

Or in the crowded Colosseum, Did'st fall to glut the beasts of prey?

Wert thou reared in the athenaeum, Or were thy haunts among the gay?

Now from thy skull on the Palatine, I drink to thee and the muses nine.

On the banks of the Tiber's yellow tide, In the mighty days of ancient Rome, Perchance thou ruled'st in all thy pride, O'erlooking thy seven-hilled home.

Thus I muse as at noonday I recline, Quaffing the juice of the Roman vine.

Now, peace to thy Manes and farewell, This toast to the quiet of thy remains, I quaff from out thy hollow sh.e.l.l, That once was filled with Roman brains.

In the land of the cypress and the pine, Some future bard may drink from mine.

At the end of our artist's song he was unanimously cheered by the members of the club, and highly complimented upon his poetical skill, especially by Mr. Parna.s.sus, who voted that he should be crowned with laurel. Mr. Oldstone eagerly seconded the proposal, but McGuilp modestly declined the honour. However, our worthy host, Jack Hearty, was sent out once more in the snow to gather laurel for the brow of the new poet laureate, in spite of our artist's modest protestations. He returned shortly afterwards with a branch of laurel, off which he first shook the snow, and then deposited upon the table. Mr. Oldstone quickly converted it into a wreath, and decreed it should be placed upon the songster's head by the fair hands of the pretty Helen. The decree was greeted with cheers, and Helen, blushing deeply and smiling, placed it on the head of the newly-discovered poet, our artist receiving it on bended knee amid the cheering of the club. McGuilp having risen from his knees, took his seat again at the table by the side of our host's pretty daughter, then rising to his feet and raising the skull aloft, he proposed the following toast in these words:--

"Gentlemen, I propose the health of the 'Wonder Club,' and that of our worthy host and his fair daughter, our guest, to be drunk by every member present solemnly and devoutly from this goblet."

More cheering, during which McGuilp took a sip at the funereal chalice, and then pa.s.sed it on to his neighbour, who did the same, each member in his turn sipping and nodding round to the rest.

When the skull had been the round of the table, it was then pa.s.sed on to our host, who hoped that the company would excuse him, but that his lips had never yet been contaminated by dead men's bones, and he hoped they never would be.

Persuasions and remonstrances from the members were alike vain, for neither our host nor his daughter could be persuaded to touch the sacrilegious relic.

In order not to give offence to the company, our host proclaimed his willingness to drink the toast out of a clean gla.s.s. This was at length agreed to, and the worthy man rose, and in a short bluff speech, thanked the company present for having drunk his health and that of his daughter. A clapping of hands followed our host's speech, and then Mr.

Crucible, being the eldest member, returned thanks on the part of the club.

At that moment the hooting of an owl was heard outside. Helen turned pale, and instinctively drew nearer to our artist.

"Why, Helen my girl!" cried the doctor, "how pale you are. What are you frightened at?"

"Do you not hear?" said the girl. "It is the cry of the owl; they say it is a sign of death in the house."

"Come, Helen," said Hardcase, "you must not be superst.i.tious; those things are all nonsense."

"Oh, no, I can a.s.sure you----" began the girl, when Mr. Oldstone broke in.

"I say, Mr. Poet Laureate, look how your fair companion trembles at your side. Cannot you think of some lay that might cheer her spirits and dispel her fears? Just try."

"Well," answered he of the laurel crown, "talking about owls, I once kept a pet owl myself, that I captured one night in a nook under the arches of the Colosseum. He was a great favourite of mine, and used to perch on the top of my easel when I was at work, and watch every movement I made. I composed an ode to him. If you would like to hear it----"

"Oh, by all means," promptly answered Oldstone.

"In that case, Jack," said McGuilp, addressing our host, "you will oblige me by getting my mandoline. I mean that musical instrument that you will find in the corner of my room upstairs, just by way of accompaniment."

Jack Hearty left the room, and returned soon with the instrument.

"Ah, now we shall hear some music," said Oldstone rubbing his hands, and by this time Helen seemed to have forgotten her fears, and her eyes glistened in antic.i.p.ation.

Our artist then ran his fingers lightly over the instrument by way of prelude and began the following ditty.

ODE TO AN OWL.

Grim bird of Pallas old, For what purpose yet untold Wert thou cast in such a mould?

Speak, declare!

Though thou utterest not a word As thou gazest on the herd, I scarce can deem thee bird, Such thy air.

There thou stand'st, a ghastly sight, Sworn enemy of light, Thou ill-omened bird of night, 'Neath the moon.

The charnel's dusky hue Is lovelier to thy view Than the clear cerulean blue Of the noon.

As my task I daily ply, Every movement thou dost spy, From my easel perched on high Gazing down.

Thou look'st so wondrous wise, With those round mysterious eyes.

What unearthly glitter lies In thy frown.

Once with thy friends so gay Thou did'st turn night into day, And while seeking for thy prey Round would'st prowl.

Now from out thy ruined hall In the Colosseum's wall They nightly miss thy call, Oh, my owl!

A captive now, alas!

Thou for aye art doomed to pa.s.s Thy life far from the ma.s.s Of thy race.

Like Stoic thou dost stand, Exiled from his native land, With that look so sage and grand In thy face.

Were Pythagorean lore, Current now as once before, In the cla.s.sic days of yore, I could swear,

That the spirit of some sage, From some dark and mythic age, In thy body found a cage Or a lair.

And once more on Earth was sent, To retrieve a life misspent, Till his crimes he should repent.

In that form.

But hereafter might arise, After penance to the skies, Where bliss awaiting lies His reform.

My lamp burns low. Farewell.

Thus ends my verse's spell.

And now thy mournful yell-- Fearful din--

May commence, my eyeb.a.l.l.s ache, For my couch I now must make, I to sleep and thou to wake, May'st begin.

Immense applause greeted this last ode of our artist's, and the health of the new poet laureate was proposed by Mr. Oldstone and drunk all round, after which our artist returned thanks in a humorous speech which called forth much laughter from the other members, and much clapping of hands and rattling of gla.s.ses ensued. Gla.s.ses were then refilled, and after a little more pleasant conversation the party broke up for the night and each retired to his solitary bed-chamber.