Foreword
The Press may pass my Verses by With sentiments of indignation, And say, like Greeks of old, that I Corrupt the Youthful Generation; I am unmoved by taunts like these— (And so, I think, was Socrates).
Howe'er the Critics may revile, I pick no journalistic quarrels, Quite realizing that my Style Makes up for any lack of Morals; For which I feel no shred of shame— (And Byron would have felt the same).
I don't intend a Child to read These lines, which are not for the Young; For, if I did, I should indeed Feel fully worthy to be hung. (Is "hanged" the perfect tense of "hang"? Correct me, Mr. Andrew Lang!)
O Young of Heart, tho' in your prime, By you these Verses may be seen! Accept the Moral with the Rhyme, And try to gather what I mean. But, if you can't, it won't hurt me! (And Browning would, I know, agree.)
Be reassured, I have not got The style of Stephen Phillips' heroes, Nor Henry Jones's pow'r of Plot, Nor wit like Arthur Wing Pinero's! (If so, I should not waste my time In writing you this sort of rhyme.)
I strive to paint things as they Are, Of Realism the true Apostle; All flow'ry metaphors I bar, Nor call the homely thrush a "throstle." Such synonyms would make me smile. (And so they would have made Carlyle.)
My Style may be at times, I own, A trifle cryptic or abstruse; In this I do not stand alone, And need but mention, in excuse, A thousand world-familiar names, From Meredith to Henry James.
From these my fruitless fancy roams To seek the Ade of Modern Fable, From Doyle's or Hemans' "Stately Ho(l)mes," To t'other of The Breakfast Table; Like Galahad, I wish (in vain) "My wit were as the wit of Twain!"
Had I but Whitman's rugged skill, (And managed to escape the Censor), The Accuracy of a Mill, The Reason of a Herbert Spencer, The literary talents even Of Sidney Lee or Leslie Stephen.