Then a lively little charmer, noted as a dress reformer,
Because that mystic garment, chemiloon, she wore,
Said she had no "views" of Jesus, and therefore would not tease us,
But that she thought 'twould please us to look her figure o'er,
For she wore no bustles anywhere, and corsets, she felt sure,
Should squeeze her nevermore.
This pretty little pigeon said of course the true religion
Demanded ease of body before the mind could soar;
But that no emancipation could come unto our nation
Until the aggregation of the clothes that women wore
Were suspended from the shoulders, and smooth with many a gore,
Plain behind and plain before!
Her remarks were full of reason, but a little out of season,
And the proper tone of talking Mr. Fairman did restore,
When he sneered at priests and preaching, and indorsed the Index teaching,
And with philanthropic screeching, said he sought for evermore
The light of sense and freedom into darkened minds to pour;
Truly this, but something more!
Then with eyes as bright as Phœbus, and hair dark as Erebus,
A maid with stunning eye-glass next appeared upon the floor;
In her aspect she looked regal, though her words were few and feeble,
But she vowed his logic legal and as pure as golden ore,
And indorsed the Index editor in every word he swore,
And then—said nothing more.
Then a tall and red-faced member, large and loose and somewhat limber
(And though his creed was shaky, he the name of Bishop bore),
Said that if he lived forever, he should forget, ah! never,
The Radicals so clever, in Boston by the shore;
But a bad gold in his 'ead bust stop his saying bore,
And we all cried encore.
Then a rarely gifted mortal, to whom the triple portal
Of Music, Art, and Poesy had opened years before,
With a look of sombre feeling, depths within his soul revealing,
Leaving room for no appealing, he decided o'er and o'er
The old, old vexing questions of the why and the wherefore,
And taught us—nothing more.
There are others I could mention who took part in this contention,
And at first 'twas my intention, but at present I forbear;
There's young Look-sharp, and Wriggle, who would make an angel giggle,
And a young conceited Zeigel, who was seated near the door;
If you could only see them, you'd laugh till you were sore,
And then you'd laugh some more.
But, dear friends, I now must close, of these Radicals dispose,
For I am sad and weary as I view their folly o'er;
In their wild Utopian dreaming, and impracticable scheming
For a sinful world's redeeming, common sense flies out the door,
And the long-drawn dissertations come to—words and nothing more;
Only words, and nothing more.