THOUGHTS ON " SOME SHORT STORIES AND A, SERMON."
[To THE EDITOR OF THE " SPECTATOZ."]
Sur,—As bearing on the communicated article "Some Short Stories and a Sermon," which appeared in your issue of July 15th, you may possibly find room in your paper for the
verses enclosed.—I am, Sir, &c., HENRY JOHNSTONE.
THE DURIAN.
The traveller who would make us jealous Of his advantages will tell us Of mountains, lakes, majestic falls, Of rock-hewn shrines, resounding hall; Of magic drums and mystic gongs, And—in conclusion—how he longs To taste once more, while taste he can, That fruit of fruits, the Durian.
The Durian excels, it seems,
Whatever in our wildest dreams We dwellers underneath the Bear Can fancy grown in open air, Or raised where glass and heat defy The rigours of our northern sky. On Eve compassion had been wasted, If this had been the fruit she tasted, And Adam had been well-advised For this to be disparadised.
Yet may our traveller, closely-pressed, Own that this Durian, this best Of fruits has—not a fault, but yet A something some might half-regret, Quite trivial and unessential; The smell, of course, is pestilential.
Poems and novels of to-day Excel, we know, in every way Poems and novels of the past. You seek the best? Then take the last.
It turns you sick? Why, so it should: A book that does not is no good.
But one poor pedant,• much belated, Musty, morose and antiquated, Cries, as he wags a weary head, " Where are the books that once I read?
Let Durians adorn their tree— Apples or strawberries for me! "
• " He lived in those days when (after Providence had permitted the invention of Printing as a scourge for the sins of the learned.) Paper also became so cheap, and Printers so numerous, that a deluge of Authors covered the land. . . ."
—Pops.
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