WHEN the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold, Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold; And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It’s pretty, but is it Art?“
–Rudyard Kipling, from “The Conundrum of the Workshops”
“The Recessional”, a book of poems by Rudyard Kipling, published by the Saalfield Publishing Co. It’s just over 3 inches tall, and it’s bound in so-called “ooze” leather, but I can’t figure out what year it’s from. It’s very neat and dainty, and apparently once belonged to Jeane E. Armstrong, whoever that was.
…..Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say, For the Woman that God gave him isn’t his to give away; But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other’s tale— The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,— Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise. Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.
Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low, To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe. Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!
But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same; And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.
She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest. These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells— She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.
She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate. And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.
She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties; Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!— He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild, Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.
Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights, Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites, Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!
So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.
And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him. And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail, That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.
The poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling, from his book, Rewards and Fairies 1910. Read aloud by Dennis Hopper on the Johnny Cash Show in 1970. One of my favorites.
“Introduction:
Once upon a time, Dan and Una, brother and sister, living in the English country, had the good fortune to meet with Puck, alias Robin Goodfellow, alias Nick o’ Lincoln, alias Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, the last survivor in England of those whom mortals call Fairies. Their proper name, of course, is ‘The People of the Hills’. This Puck, by means of the magic of Oak, Ash, and Thorn, gave the children power
To see what they should see and hear what they should hear, Though it should have happened three thousand year.
The result was that from time to time, and in different places on the farm and in the fields and in the country about, they saw and talked to some rather interesting people. One of these, for instance, was a Knight of the Norman Conquest, another a young Centurion of a Roman Legion stationed in England, another a builder and decorator of King Henry VII’s time; and so on and so forth; as I have tried to explain in a book called PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.
A year or so later, the children met Puck once more, and though they were then older and wiser, and wore boots regularly instead of going barefooted when they got the chance, Puck was as kind to them as ever, and introduced them to more people of the old days.
He was careful, of course, to take away their memory of their walks and conversations afterwards, but otherwise he did not interfere; and Dan and Una would find the strangest sort of persons in their gardens or woods.
In the stories that follow I am trying to tell something about those people.”
The eldest son bestrides him, And the pretty daughter rides him, And I meet him oft o’ mornings on the Course; And there kindles in my bosom An emotion chill and gruesome As I canter past the Undertaker’s Horse.
Neither shies he nor is restive, But a hideously suggestive Trot, professional and placid, he affects; And the cadence of his hoof-beats To my mind this grim reproof beats: – “Mend your pace, my friend, I’m coming. Who’s the next?”
Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen, I have watched the strongest go – men Of pith and might and muscle – at your heels, Down the plantain-bordered highway, (Heaven send it ne'er be my way!) In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels.
Answer, sombre beast and dreary, Where is Brown, the young, the cheery, Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force? You were at that last dread dak We must cover at a walk, Bring them back to me, O Undertaker’s Horse!
With your mane unhogged and flowing, And your curious way of going, And that businesslike black crimping of your tail, E'en with Beauty on your back, Sir, Pacing as a lady’s hack, Sir, What wonder when I meet you I turn pale?
It may be you wait your time, Beast, Till I write my last bad rhyme, Beast – Quit the sunlight, cut the rhyming, drop the glass – Follow after with the others, Where some dusky heathen smothers Us with marigolds in lieu of English grass.
Or, perchance, in years to follow, I shall watch your plump sides hollow, See Carnifex (gone lame) become a corse – See old age at last o'erpower you, And the Station Pack devour you, I shall chuckle then, O Undertaker’s Horse!
But to insult, jibe, and quest, I’ve Still the hideously suggestive Trot that hammers out the unrelenting text, And I hear it hard behind me In what place soe'er I find me: – “‘Sure to catch you sooner or later. Who’s the next?”
