“Consolations of a Faddist.” By Henry S. Salt. London: A. C. Fifield, 44, Fleet Street, E.C. 6d. net.
“Humanity” and “Justice” are not comic papers, but their columns have from time to time been enlivened by the versified humours of Mr. Henry S. Salt, anti-vivisectionist, anti-vaccinationist, anti-flesheatingist, and anti-everything else that is useless, dangerous, and ought to be abolished. Hence he has a wonderful store both of logic and of fun. He finds his scientific opponents not only illogical but amusing, and he kills them with good-natured ridicule. Mr. Salt walks through the world with the firm step of a man who is convinced that the “fads” of the present age will be the formulas of the next. He has reason to be thus confident because largely through his influence vegetarianism is becoming fashionable, and we are gradually emerging from brutalitarianism. As he tells us in this preface, the particular fooleries which some of his verses satirise have become obsolete since they were written. “The followers of the Royal buckhounds, for instance, no longer ride ‘to save the deer for another day’; the Naval Lords have abandoned their defence of flogging; the Lord Mayor’s secretary and coachman have been graciously pleased to permit the discontinuance of the ‘so-called’ bearing rein; and even the voice of the Sage of Bray is less resonant than of yore. But as the fount of sophistry is perennial, and when dried up in one spot is apt to well forth in another, the references to these past controversies will perhaps not be deemed out of place.” Certainly not. All now listen to his
LAY OF THE TENDER.
When Edwin sat down to dine one night,
With piteous grief his heart was newly stricken:
In vain did Angelina him invite—
Grace said—to carve the chicken.
“A thousand songsters slaughtered in one day!
Oh. Angelina, meditate upon it:
And henceforth never, never wear, I pray,
Such plumage in thy bonnet.”
Calm Angelina did no scold nor scowl,
No word she spake—she better know her lover—
But from the ample dish of roasted fowl
She gently raised the cover.
And, lo! The savour of that tender bird
The tender Edwin’s appetite did quicken:
He started—by a new emotion stirred—
Said grace, and carved the chicken.
Instead of having his verses printed in the form of a sixpenny pamphlet, Mr. Salt should have followed the example of the minor poets, who allow their verse to meander in big type through wide margins of thick paper, and charge 10s. 6d. for a less output than Mr. Salt gives us for the humble tanner. In book form Mr. Salt’s “Consolations” would have a better chance of attracting the public attention they deserve. Here is a tit-bit suitable for a Christmas card:
Christmas comes but once a year—
Let this our anguish soften;
For who could bide that season drear
Of bogus mirth and gory cheer,
If it came more often?
Occasionally Mr. Salt drops into parody. Here is one of his imitations of Longfellow:
THE VILLAGE BUTCHER.
Under a spreading chestnut tree,
The village shambles stand;
The butcher—busy man is he,
With poleaxe in his hand,
And meaning look about his eye,
That cattle understand.
He coat is loose, and blue, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with more than sweat,
He kills whate’er he can;
And looks the whole world in the face,
Like an honest slaughterman.
And children coming home from school,
Peep eager through the door;
They love to see the slaughtered sheep,
And hear the bullocks roar,
And watch the dying pigs that lie
A-kicking on the floor.
Hacking, whacking, slaughtering,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morn living beasts come in,
Each night they hang in rows;
Murder attempted, murder done,
Has earned him sweet repose.
Thanks, thanks, to thee, my gory friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught;
Thus from the reeking slaughterhouse
Our English beef is brought;
“Old England’s beef!” No more for me:
I relish not the thought.
Mr. Salt, however, does not confine himself to satirising the flesh-eaters. He goes for the politicians and economists, and scientists, as well, and amongst the best of his effusions are his scathing lines on the Boer War, and his epitaph on the death of Laissez Faire.
The Clarion, November 30, 1906, p. 4
Book Reviewed: Consolations of a Faddist