University of Virginia Library

Nice! by gough! aw, nice enough!
It was Nelly he was thinkin' of.
Aye, aye! it had got a name,
It was there, he was spoke to, it wasn' a dhrame—
Spoke to! spoke to! Yes, and, beside,
I believe the chap had a surt of a pride
The way he was lifted altogether
Above Shuperintandin's, or Locals e'ther,
Lek on wings of the mornin', and these craythurs to run
With their farlin' candle to see the sun
Just when it was goin' to rise—that's it!
To rise, to rise—that's the thing that lit
His face till it shined like polish just—
Heaven or Hell, love or lust—
Take your chise! but, as Gellin' 'd say,
It must have come from somewhere—eh?
“The exposition,” he says, “is grand;
But now let's come to the point in hand,
To the point,” says Cain; “I'm not deny'n'
A word that was said about Ellen Quine.
I think you'll allow it's only natur',
The way she came to us, we'd trate her
Special lek, bein' in a sense
Entrusted to us by Providence—
Trusted,” he says, “I think you'll agree,
Trusted to Mrs. Cain and me.
She come to us a poor lost sinner,
But we seen the seeds of grace that was in her,
And—the beauty, yes, the carnal beauty—
No doubt, no doubt; but what was our duty?
That's the thing. Our duty was plain
Before us—me and Mrs. Cain.
Seeds—now ought we to leave them there,
To be picked and pecked by the birds of the air?
To be choked with the thorns, to be burnt with the heat—
Is that our duty? I beg to state
It's not. No matter the time or the place,
Seeds of grace is seeds of grace.
To raise the fallen, to seek the lost,
That's our duty, whatever the cost.
But the gel is good-lookin'? that's admitted—
Is she any the less fitted
For a vessel of grace? Good-looks is fac's—
What is there in good-looks, I ax?
Must she be ugly? Is there anything carnal
In good-looks? Is the life etarnal
For ugly women and ugly men
Only? No, no! my brethren.
That's carryin' Election out of all raison:
The works of Nature, in their saison,
Might teach ye that. The very flowers
Of the field, God's work, you know, not ours—
Has the blossoms of Spring a lovely breath,
Or are they a savour of death unto death?
They're beautiful—aye! There ye gorrit!
Beautiful, and ye like them for it.
And then in the Bible everywhere
The beautiful the women are!
Not one neither, but every one of them,
Aye, bless ye! every mother's son of them.
They're all beautiful! Look at the way
They're in the picthars—as you might say—
Puffeck beauty, not a stain nor a spot,
Not an ugly one in all the lot.
Yes, and holy women, too.
Of coorse! of coorse! we've nothin' to do
With Jezebel and Herodias,
And hapes of the like, as bould as brass:
But Queen Bersheba that wouldn' be done
But she'd hear the wisdom of Solomon;
And the Shunamite, that we're taught to consider
A type of the Church; and—altogether—
What do ye say to the likes of them?
And ‘the daughter of Jerusalem.’—
See the Prophets, see the Psalms;
See that Hagar of Abraham's,
And Ruth, and Rahab, that hid the spies,
And Leah—only the blinky eyes—
And dozens more, if they were wanted—
See the way they're represented!
Beautiful? Of coorse they were—
Beautiful—and I'll tell ye the for.
It's a gift is beauty, a gift it is,
And used for improper pupposes
At the Divil—no doubt a snare to catch
Unwary souls: but God's his match.
This gift is His gift after all,
Not the Divil's, in spite of his gall;
And God is usin' it to bend
Our hearts, that so we may befriend
Poor things that has been led astray,
That so His banished may find a way
To return to Him; the effeck of whuch,
My beloved brethren, is such
That this beauty, this snare of the ould Dragon's,
Is the banner of love: ‘stay me with flagons
In the banqueting house; yea, comfort me
With apples from the apple tree—
I am sick of love,’ the bride is say'n';
And so with me and Mrs. Cain.
We love this young pesson; the Lord has guv her
Unto us that we might love her,
That we might lead her unto Him;
And if she was like a cherubim
For beauty, or just the vice versies,
We 'umbly thank Him for His mercies.”