Their learned Fellows have deduc'd
The Salvage Home to be that Garden
Wherein three Sisters play'd at Warden
Over Heras Golden Grove,
Whose Apples were a Treasure-Trove:
That Orchard robb'd by Hercules,
The Garden of Hesperides;
While other Scholards, no less wise,
Uphold the Earthly Paradise —
Old Adams Home, and Eves to boot,
Wherein they gorg'd forbidden Fruit —
To be the Source and Fountainhead
Of Salvag'ry. Some, better read
In Arthurs Tales, have settl'd on
The Blessed Isles of Avalon,
And others say the fundamental
Flavoring is Oriental,
Or that mayhap ancient Viking,
Finding MARYLAND to his liking,
Stay'd, and father'd red-skinn'd Horsemen:
One Part Salvage, One Part Norsemen.
Others say the grand Ambitions
Of the restless old Phoenicians
Led that hardy Sailor Band
To the Shores of MARYLAND,
In Ships so cramm'd with Man and Beast
No Room remain'd for Judge or Priest:
There, with Lasses and Supplies,
The Men commenc'd to colonize
This foreign Shore in Manner dastard,
All their Offspring being Bastard.
Finally, if any Persons
Unpersuaded by these Versions
Of the Salvages Descent
Should ask still for the Truth anent
Their Origins — why, such as these,
That are so damned hard to please,
I send to Mephistopheles,
Who engender'd in the Fires of Hell
The Indians, and them as well!"
"Now, that is all damned clever!" Burlingame exclaimed. "Whether 'twas the hardships of your crossing or a half year's added age, I swear thou'rt twice the poet you were in Plymouth. The lines on Cain I thought especially well-wrought."
" 'Tis kind of you to praise the piece," Ebenezer said. "Haply 'twill be a part of the Marylandiad."
"I would I could turn a verse so well. But say, while 'tis fresh in my mind, doth persons really rhyme with versions, and folk with soak'd?"
"Indeed yes," the poet replied.
"But would it not be better," Burlingame persisted cordially, "to rhyme versions with dispersions, say, and folk with soak? Of course, I am no poet."
"One need not be a hen to judge an egg," Ebenezer allowed. "The fact of't is, the rhymes you name are at once better and worse than mine: better, because they sound more nearly like the words they rhyme with; and worse, because such closeness is not the present fashion. Dispersion and version: 'tis wanting in character, is't not? But person and version — there is surprise, there is color, there is wit! In fine, there is a perfect Hudibrastic."
"Hudibrastic, is it? I have heard the folk in Locket's speak well of Hudibras, but I always thought it tedious myself. What is't you mean by Hudibrastic?"
Ebenezer could scarcely believe that Burlingame was really ignorant of Hudibrastic rhyme or anything else, but so pleasant was the reversal of their unusual roles that he found it easy to put by his skepticism.
"A Hudibrastic rhyme," he explained, "is a rhyme that is close, but not just harmonious. Take the noun wagon: what would you rhyme with it?"
"Why, now, let's see," Burlingame mused. "Methinks flagon would serve, or dragon, wouldn't you say?"
"Not at all," smiled Ebenezer. " 'Tis too expected; 'tis what any poetaster might suggest — no offense, you understand."
"None whatever."
"Nay, to wagon you must rhyme bag in, or sagging: almost, you see, but not quite.
The Indians call their wat'ry Wagon
Canoe, a Vessel none can brag on.
Wagon, brag on- do you follow me?"
"I grasp the principle," Burlingame declared, "and I recall such rhymes as that in Hudibras; but I doubt me I could e'er apply it."
"Why, of course you can! It wants but courage, Henry. Take quarrel, now: The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel. What shall we rhyme with it?"
Burlingame pondered the problem for a while. "What would you say to snarl?" he ventured at last.
"The Man and I commenc'd to quarreclass="underline"
I to grumble, he to snarl."
"The line is good," replied the Laureate, "and bespeaks some wit. But the rhyme is humorless. Quarrel, snarl- nay, 'tis too close."
"Sorrel, then?" asked Burlingame, apparently warming to the sport.
"The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel
Who'd ride the Roan, and who the Sorrel."
"E'en wittier!" the poet applauded. " 'Tis better than Tom Trent could pen, with Dick Merriweather to help him! But you've still no Hudibrastic. Quarrel, snarl; quarrel, sorrel."
"I yield," said Burlingame.
"Consider this, then:
The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel
Anent the Style of our Apparel.
Quarrel, appareclass="underline" That is Hudibrastic."
Burlingame made a wry face. "They clash and jingle!"
"Precisely. The more the clash, the better the couplet."
"Aha, then!" cried the tutor. "What says my Laureate to this?
The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel
Who'd ride the Roan and who the Dapple."
"Quarrel and dapple?" Ebenezer exclaimed.
"Doth it not jangle like the brassy bells of Hades?"
"Nay, 'twill never do!" Ebenezer shook his head firmly. "I had thought you'd caught the essence of't, but the words must needs have some proximity if they're to jangle. Quarrel and dapple are ships in different oceans: they cannot possibly collide, and a collision is what we seek."
"Then try this," Burlingame suggested:
"The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel
Whose turn it was to woo the Barrel."
"Barrel! Barrel, you say?" Ebenezer's face grew red. "What is this barrel? How would you use it?"