Laurels
A mordern sage, who, versed in the lore of the wanton,
tells the long tale of such in a long and comprehensive treatise — —
the tale beginning with Tamar and ending only with our own Madame — —
thus offers proof of his omniscience:
" It is a well known circumstance
that at certain periods
large numbers of courtesans from New York, Boston, and other cities,
emigrate southward. "
I sit at the feet of the sage. I dream. I thrill.
For who would not thrill to the thought of a people moving toward a chosen land — —
or even wandering about in freedom?
Even now,
I see innumerable faces firmly set toward various horizons — —
the eyes alight with thoughts of change, of escape.
I hear innumerable voices resounding, all at once — —
commanding, admonishing, exhorting, renouncing, cursing, muttering, murmuring, wailing, singing — —
and together with the voices, and all at once, trumpets blaring, drums mustering, weapons clanking, feet scuffing, hoofs clattering, wheels rattling, capstans creaking.
I see innumerable horses in caparison, innumerable camels laden with big bales, innumerable ships with mainsails bulging.
I see innumerable people moving all together — —
marching, jostling, stalking, cowering, lagging, plodding, leaning one on another, bending their backs to burdens, or riding, erect in saddles, erect in chariots.
A timorous host approach the Red Sea, and now enter the sea through a cleft in its waters — —
now emerge at the other shore, in a wilderness, there to wander about for years.
A silent horde appear before the gates of ancient Prague — —
a swarthy horde, obsequious, mysterious, bejeweled — —
now to knock at the gates, to bow low, to flatter, to lie,
to be admitted with caution, or contempt, or wonderment, or secret fear.
A group in gray, with gray concepts, embark at Southampton, sail across the cold Atlantic — —
disembark at Plymouth, only to smear a new green land with gray.
I should thrill to making the songs of a mighty exodus, like one of these.
But not of such peoples would I ever sing.
For now,
I hear the clinking of innumerable stoppers to perfumery bottles — —
the popping of innumerable corks and caps, an incessant sizzling;
and, together with odors of Chypre, Cashmere Bouquet, Narcisse de Chine,
there come to me wavering whiffs of Cognac, Wilson, Sterling, mountain dew, and of course hot gin,
all blending with whiffs of Helmar, Melachrino, Fatima.
There is now an April shower of Hogarth lines, a blizzard of Chantilly, a sandstorm of Hudnut.
I hear innumerable voices resounding, all at once — —
chattering, cooing, tittering, shrilling, sighing, murmuring, pleading, sobbing, singing love songs, humming jazz.
I hear the pattering of innumerable satined feet,
and of little hands that smooth out linen to be packed away for future use.
I see innumerable porcelain faces beaming out from depths of sable, fox, ermine, seal, beaver.
I hear a thunder of thuds, echoing about the North, at the closing of innumerable lids of trunks.
I hear another thunder of thuds, echoing likewise, at the closing of innumerable doors of limousines.
And now,
I am going to Madame. I am going to ask Madame to take me with her,
that I may make the songs of this movement of lovely beings — —
ladies of passage,
southward bound.
tells the long tale of such in a long and comprehensive treatise — —
the tale beginning with Tamar and ending only with our own Madame — —
thus offers proof of his omniscience:
" It is a well known circumstance
that at certain periods
large numbers of courtesans from New York, Boston, and other cities,
emigrate southward. "
I sit at the feet of the sage. I dream. I thrill.
For who would not thrill to the thought of a people moving toward a chosen land — —
or even wandering about in freedom?
Even now,
I see innumerable faces firmly set toward various horizons — —
the eyes alight with thoughts of change, of escape.
I hear innumerable voices resounding, all at once — —
commanding, admonishing, exhorting, renouncing, cursing, muttering, murmuring, wailing, singing — —
and together with the voices, and all at once, trumpets blaring, drums mustering, weapons clanking, feet scuffing, hoofs clattering, wheels rattling, capstans creaking.
I see innumerable horses in caparison, innumerable camels laden with big bales, innumerable ships with mainsails bulging.
I see innumerable people moving all together — —
marching, jostling, stalking, cowering, lagging, plodding, leaning one on another, bending their backs to burdens, or riding, erect in saddles, erect in chariots.
A timorous host approach the Red Sea, and now enter the sea through a cleft in its waters — —
now emerge at the other shore, in a wilderness, there to wander about for years.
A silent horde appear before the gates of ancient Prague — —
a swarthy horde, obsequious, mysterious, bejeweled — —
now to knock at the gates, to bow low, to flatter, to lie,
to be admitted with caution, or contempt, or wonderment, or secret fear.
A group in gray, with gray concepts, embark at Southampton, sail across the cold Atlantic — —
disembark at Plymouth, only to smear a new green land with gray.
I should thrill to making the songs of a mighty exodus, like one of these.
But not of such peoples would I ever sing.
For now,
I hear the clinking of innumerable stoppers to perfumery bottles — —
the popping of innumerable corks and caps, an incessant sizzling;
and, together with odors of Chypre, Cashmere Bouquet, Narcisse de Chine,
there come to me wavering whiffs of Cognac, Wilson, Sterling, mountain dew, and of course hot gin,
all blending with whiffs of Helmar, Melachrino, Fatima.
There is now an April shower of Hogarth lines, a blizzard of Chantilly, a sandstorm of Hudnut.
I hear innumerable voices resounding, all at once — —
chattering, cooing, tittering, shrilling, sighing, murmuring, pleading, sobbing, singing love songs, humming jazz.
I hear the pattering of innumerable satined feet,
and of little hands that smooth out linen to be packed away for future use.
I see innumerable porcelain faces beaming out from depths of sable, fox, ermine, seal, beaver.
I hear a thunder of thuds, echoing about the North, at the closing of innumerable lids of trunks.
I hear another thunder of thuds, echoing likewise, at the closing of innumerable doors of limousines.
And now,
I am going to Madame. I am going to ask Madame to take me with her,
that I may make the songs of this movement of lovely beings — —
ladies of passage,
southward bound.
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