 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
SCENES FROM AN UNPUBLISHED PLAY
I
(BACK-ROOM AT PORTER'S—DICK, SOLUS.)I am not well to-night—methinks the fumes
Of overheated punch have something dimmed
The cerebellum or pineal gland,
Or where the soul sits regent. Strange that things
Born of the grosser elements of earth
Should cloud the mind's own heaven with fantasies!
I am no baby—look upon that leg
All laced with steely sinews—see that arm,
Embossed with swelling muscle—and this shape
Of nature's best expansion—were they made
But to be sneered at by the grinning imps
That leave the dotard's slumbers visionless,
To play their antics in the teeth of manhood?
(Fellow, another measure of your compound,
And be less liberal of your aqueous tincture.)
A man who hath been elbowed out of office,
A poet who hath sown some score of verses,
And reaped one sorry sentence of damnation,
Look down i' the mouth, and feel unutterably—
But one who is not plagued with corporal evils,
Who feels not hungry, save at dinner time,
And is not snarled at by the world about him,
Can do but little, save to fume and fret
At air-born hydras of imagination.
And yet, in these same most degenerate days,
There be some things that do much gall a man
(Looking at his boots.)
Methinks the polish of these nether casings
Is not so radiant as it was of old—
Perhaps the varlet who doth give them lustre
Hath ta'en to reading of philosophy,
For learning has of late put off her wings,
And creeps along with beggars in the dust.—
Why, I have seen a kitchen-nurtured wench,
With feet that seemed like mountain pedestals,
And fingers redder than the peony,
Who tripped so daintily upon the earth,
As she were stepping on Elysian flowers;
And did so dally with the household stuff,
As if a saucepan were an instrument
Fit for the music of angelic choirs.
She'd quote you loving ditties by the hour,
And scribble verses in your Sunday bible,
And talk to you of starlight, and of flowers,
And mind, and metaphysics. Out upon them—
I'd rather have a Patagonian savage,
One that can grapple with the mountain bear,
And eat him as a Christian eats a chicken,
Than such a mincing thing to wait upon me.
Fellow, here's money for thine aliments,
I must away.
(Exit.)
II
(DICK, SOLUS WITH A NEWSPAPER.—SMOKING PITCHER ON THE TABLE)No murders and no robberies,—speeches—speeches,
396
Now I had rather read your pirate-stories,
Of men minced up and shovelled overboard,
Your slitting throats, and knocking out of brains,
And such well-spiced misdoings—
(Enter TOM.)
Save you, Tom,
How goes your nothingship,—and gentle Julia,
How does she fare,—the lady of thy love.
Tom.
Her good old grandam's dead—
Dick.
Why then the devil
May sharpen up his claws to deal with her;
She was a potent vixen in her day.
Tom.
Be pleased to tread less rudely on the ashes
Of one that was a woman. You are wont
To speak unfitly of the fairest thing
That stepped on Eden's roses. Why should man
Scoff at the creatures he was made to love?
It is as if the iron-fibred oak
Should tear the clasping tendrils.—
Dick.
Save your nonsense
To feed your starving poetry withal;
I hate to see resuscitated thoughts
Come sneaking back to life in ladies's albums.
Pray talk to me as if I were a man,—
Look,—do I wear a petticoat or breeches?
Have I long locks? Is this a woman's foot?
Is aught of silver in these brazen tones?
Fill up your glass,—here's to thy sanity.
Tom.
O beast! You drink as if you were a Titan,
Just hot from Etna. What would Julia say,
If she could dream of such abominations!
Dick.
Would she might taste this punch! I much opine
She'd soon forswear her ghostly milk and water.
O thou art good! 't would vivify a statue,
Could statue but its marble lips unclose:
I would I were upon an ocean of thee—
A bowl my boat—a ladle for mine oar:
Green islands in the ever-blooming south
Should scatter flowers upon thee—and the fires
That roll and flash in earth's unfathomed bosom,
Should keep thee steaming hot. That's poetry.
Tom.
Insensate wretch; can nothing stir thy soul,
But tempests brewed from earthly elements?
No light break through thy darkness, save a gleam,
The offspring of corruption? Is there nought
Can cheat thee for a moment of thy grossness?
Dick.
He's talking big,—I'll wake the imp within him. (Aside.)
I cannot blame thee—nay, I pity thee
For such unseemly license of thy tongue;
Touched in the brain,—I feared it might be so;
'T was wrong—it was most cruel in the girl,
To play so false a game. Who would have thought it,—
A coach, a parson, and a man in whiskers.
Tom.
Oh devil! what! speak, let me hear it all—
Not Julia! Parson! whiskers! tell me all,
And I will love thee.
Dick.
Who has spoke of Julia?
Are there no women in the world but Julia?
I was but thinking of an ancient spinster,
Miss Sally or Miss Celia Somebody,
That ran away from Time to play with Cupid.
Tom.
Lend me your kerchief—I am much exhausted:
What if I'd drawn that razor—
Dick.
There'd have been
Another tombstone, and a lie upon it.
I would have dressed you an obituary,
That should be really decent, and have written
With mine own hands a fancy epitaph.
Tom.
Come, you are caustic,—but you know my nature.
I'll show thee something for thine age to dream of,
A token of her beauty and her love;
Look at that auburn ringlet, boy, and think
On what a peerless brow it must have floated!
Her own white fingers did unweave the ray
From the soft coronal of light and beauty.
Dick.
Call you that auburn? it is hardly crimson.
There is a something of Aurora red—
A something like to filaments of flame,—
And yet they are not cobwebs in their texture,
Right thick and rosy.
Tom.
Ha! what is't you say?
Take that to help you in your rhetoric.
(Striking DICK.)
Dick.
Infant! I will not beat thee. Here's a chair.
And here's a neckcloth—yes, and here's a towel,
And I will truss thee like a callow goose.
(Trying him to the chair.)
So, thou art fixed, thou paralytic tiger—
I'm sorry to have been so rough with thee,
How is it, do you call it auburn still?
Tom.
Were every muscle beaten to a pulp,
And my bones powdered, I would call it auburn.
Dick.
There's tragedy! It shall be auburn, then.
Hark, there's a step with something leaden in it,
As one that is not full of merriment,—
I'll fling my cloak upon you—there, keep still.
Tom.
I'm d---dly battered, an' it please the Tutor.
(Enter TUTOR.)
Tutor.
Men ye are troublous,—there has been a noise,
As of exceeding vehement discussion.
397
Wait till your beards do give you gravity.
(Exit.)
III
(DICK, solus.)Ay—if a viper coiled upon her doorstep—
If the broad river were a stream of fire
And I must cross it on a raft of tinder—
If Cerberus stood keeper of the toll,
And I were penniless—I'd see the girl.
A vixen and a jilt—but still I love her.
An arrant baggage, who would tear my letters
To paper up her hair—but still I love her.
Not that the rose is fairer on her cheek,
Not that the light is brighter in her eye,
Than half the seraph sisterhood can boast.
Where lurks the influence that thus can steal,
Like the sweet music of a prisoned lyre,
Through all the marble barriers of the heart?
So are we tempered, that we know not why
We love or hate, we follow or we shun.
Is it in outward seeming? do we stoop
To meet the bending statute? do we press
The lips that glow unbreathing on the canvas?
Nay, are there not a thousand living shapes
That are like shadows to the listless soul,
Lifeless and pulseless? yet we turn from them
To one less fair, and think her born of heaven.
Who sees the bow when Love lets loose the shaft?
A plague upon the nice anatomy
That cuts up feeling into curves and angles.
Her eye is blue—and so too is her bonnet—
Her forehead white—so is a sheet of paper—
Her hair is golden—I can buy enough
Of just such hair to fill a bushel basket—
Her voice is smooth—why so is milk and water;
And this is what you get for analyzing.
But take her in the whole, form, voice, and motion,
I love the compound.—If she loves not me,
Why, she has lost a—might pretty fellow;
A six-foot man, with most effulgent whiskers,
And two good hands to put in empty pockets.
I wonder how my grandam stood the frost.
How the old spider hangs upon her cobweb!
They say her will is made, and when she tumbles,
Perhaps a pension to her gray-beard tom-cat,
Some small post mortem acts of piety,
To crutch her poor rheumatic soul upon,
And I shall dust the dear old lady's guineas.
Ha! when we rattle in our own good tandem,
And crack the ivory-handled whip we paid for,
There'll be a stir among the plumes and ribbons!
Lightly he treads who steps on golden slippers—
Sweetly he speaks whose purse has music in it.
Pray die, dear grandam; we will have you buried
All nice and decent, and we'll have a sermon
To call you pretty names, and buy some kerchiefs
To soak up bitter tears, and feed your tomcat,
As if he never scratched us—curse upon him.
(Enter six BORES.)
All.
A pleasant evening—
Dick.
Yes a pleasant evening,
A devilish pleasant evening out of doors.
1st Bore.
What have you here to eat? I am not hungry,
But I might taste a pie; I am not thirsty,
But I might drink to please these honest fellows;
Or, as I mean to sit, I'll smoke a little.
Dick.
We're out of victual and we're out of wine,
There's water in the pail—smoke and be d---d.
2d Bore.
Lend me a book, I mean to sit a little,
And I am not in mood for conversation.
Dick.
Here's Worcester's Walker's Johnson's Dictionary;
Open at Ass—a very fitting subject.
3d Bore.
I saw your very worthy grandmother
A short time since; she seemed extremely hearty.
O what a blessing such a woman is!
In all the circle of domestic love
There is no greater—
Dick.
No, there is no greater—
Just as you say—a most eternal blessing.
4th Bore.
I'll take a nap—you'll wake me in an hour,
Or two at farthest—so I'll shut the door.
(Goes into the bedroom.)
Dick.
And I will lock it. Sleep till bedbugs wake you.
(Locks the door.)
5th Bore.
Come boy, let's have a game or two of chequers
Before we try the chess, and then backgammon,
Or else a little whist—just run along
And order up some claret and some oysters.
Dick.
My board is broken and my foot is lame.
6th Bore.
I think of making something of a call,
And so I'll take my coat and waistcoat off,
Wait a few hours until the rest are gone
And I will read you something I have written.
(Cry of fire.)
Five Bores.
O, there's a row—good night—we'll call again.
(Exeunt five BORES.)
Dick,
solus.
Go, blessed boobies, and the devil singe you—
398
Another step before the door is bolted!
(Enter TOM.)
Ah, soft Lothario, with thy lady cheek,
Didst thou exhale upon us from a dew-drop?
Or wast thou wafted on an evening zephyr?
Tom.
I hang myself to-morrow—Julia's bolted!
Off in a tangent with that ugly captain!
I did not care for Julia—I was tired
Of all her tricks and fancies—but to think
Of such a rocket tied to such a stick
Would make one hang himself for human folly.
So once again, for universal woman!
Does the new coat sit close about the waist?
Dick.
Ay, put a pismire's girdle on a porpoise,
It will sit closer than a sailor's jacket.
Now diet for a while on water-gruel,
And take a dose or two of bleaching salts,
And run a razor round the barren course,
And when you're hanged for stealing, men will say
He was a pale, thin pigmy, with a beard.
Tom.
Why, man you're biting as a seedling radish.
Did Clara pout? nay, do not look so rosy,
Her mother told me all about your love,
And asked me of your prospects and your standing;
I told her—but no matter what I told her.
Dick.
The wrinkled hag—and thou, infernal imp,
What didst thou say?
Tom.
I only now remember
Some general hints about your evil habits,
Your sad propensity to gin and water,
Your singular asperity of temper—
I did not call you absolutely dirty,
But only rather slovenly and careless—
For rank, that you was like a serpent's rattle,
That makes some noise, though very near the tail—
That as to money, save the bills you owed,
You had but little to remind you of it.
I did not like it, but it was my duty,
And I am honest, so I tell you all.
Dick.
Now, fellow, I will mash you to a pumice,
Or beat thee to a tumor—
Tom.
Hold a moment
It was all stuff—I never saw the woman;
But since you seemed in such a frosty mood,
I fired a squib at your philosophy
And laughed to see it catch—so keep your beating
To make your children grow.—Now come along
And drown your anger in a good potation.
Dick.
And you curry people down with lies,
And smooth it with a julep. But I'll go,
And leave that sleeping carrion in the bedroom,
Among his brother vermin,—peace be with him.
(Exeunt.)
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |