Part 3 (1/2)
Let us cast away the out-of-date traditions, Which our poets and romanticists have sung!
Let us sacrifice the senseless superst.i.tions That illuminate the fancies of the young!
If we limit our instruction to the ”reals,”
We may prove to ev'ry baby from the start, The futility of cheris.h.i.+ng ideals In his golden little heart!
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”_He is yearning for the chance of reading Gibbon_”
_The Cry of the Elders_
[With steady but increasing pace the world is approaching a point at which the cleverness of the young will amount to a social problem. Already things are getting uncomfortable for persons of age and sobriety, whose notion of happiness is to ruminate a few solid and simple ideas in freedom from disturbance.--_Macmillan's Magazine._]
O my Children, do you hear your elders sighing?
Do you wonder that senility should find Your encyclopaedic knowledge somewhat trying To the ordinary mind?
In the heyday of a former generation, Some respect for our intelligence was shown; And it's hard for us to cotton To the fact that _you've_ forgotten More than _we_ have ever known!
O my Children, do you hear your elders snoring, When the ”cha.s.sis” of your motors you discuss?
Do you wonder that your ”shop” is rather boring To such simple souls as us?[1]
Do you marvel that your dreary conversation Should evoke the yawns that ”lie too deep for tears,”
When you lecture to your betters About ”tanks” and ”carburettors,”
About ”sparking-plugs” and ”gears”?
O my Children, in the season of your nonage, (Which delightful days no longer now exist!) We could join with other fogeys of our own age In a quiet game of whist.
_Now_, at bridge, our very experts are defeated By some beardless but impertinent young cub, Who converts our silent table To a very Tow'r of Babel, At the Knickerbocker Club!
O my Children, we no longer are respected!
'Tis a fact we older fellows must deplore, Whose opinions and whose judgments are neglected, As they never were before.
We may tender good advice to our descendants; We may offer them our money, if we will; Lo, the one shall be forsaken, And the other shall be taken (Like the women at the mill!).
O my Children, note the moral (like a kernel) I have hidden in the centre of my song!
Do not contradict a relative maternal, If she happens to be wrong!
Be indulgent to the author of your being; Never show him the contempt that you must feel; Treat him tolerantly, rather, Since a man who is _your_ father Can't be wholly imbecile!
O my Children, we, the older generation, At whose feet you ought (in theory) to sit, Are bewildered by your mental penetration, We are dazzled by your wit!
But we hopefully antic.i.p.ate a future When the airs.h.i.+p shall replace the motor-'bus, And _your_ children, when they meet you, Shall inevitably treat you Just as you are treating us!
[1] ”As us” is not grammar.--Publishers' Reader.
”As we” is not verse.--H. G.
_An Epithalamium_
LONGWORTH--ROOSEVELT, FEBRUARY 17TH, 1906