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A MODERN CASSANDRA.
Baggage-man.
Yes; I can recollect a time, when, if I had suggested
That things like cars would ever be, I'd almost been arrested.
Before they'd let a fellow make a prophecy much hazier,
They'd put him in asylum walls, and maybe make him crazier.
There's toleration for a man behind the times, some distance;
But any one that's far ahead—he won't enjoy existence.
That things like cars would ever be, I'd almost been arrested.
Before they'd let a fellow make a prophecy much hazier,
They'd put him in asylum walls, and maybe make him crazier.
There's toleration for a man behind the times, some distance;
But any one that's far ahead—he won't enjoy existence.
Now there was Ruby Willoughby: as fine a girl as often
Kept twenty fellows cooing round, her heart toward them to soften.
She 'tended the debating-schools, much sage instruction gaining,
And heard all subjects there discussed, to earth and heaven pertaining;
But as for making speeches, then—girls never used to do it,
Being not supposed to say a thing, however well they knew it.
(They're more like men are, nowadays, my observation teaches;
The less they know about a thing, the longer are their speeches.)
Kept twenty fellows cooing round, her heart toward them to soften.
She 'tended the debating-schools, much sage instruction gaining,
And heard all subjects there discussed, to earth and heaven pertaining;
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Being not supposed to say a thing, however well they knew it.
(They're more like men are, nowadays, my observation teaches;
The less they know about a thing, the longer are their speeches.)
One evening, when the theme picked out to steer the disagreeings,
Was whether iron or gold was most of use to human beings,
Each speaker was assigned his views on this important matter,
And not a single first-class speech had cut through the clatter,
A young chap raised his safety-valve—a handsome, wholesome fellow
As ever made a maiden's heart love-ripen till 'twas mellow;
A regular Patrick Henry speech he made as Iron's attorney,
And scraped the sky, and all the crowd went with him on the journey;
My very hair stood up to hear the chap's sublime oration.
(Insurance agency became his ultimate vocation.)
Was whether iron or gold was most of use to human beings,
Each speaker was assigned his views on this important matter,
And not a single first-class speech had cut through the clatter,
A young chap raised his safety-valve—a handsome, wholesome fellow
As ever made a maiden's heart love-ripen till 'twas mellow;
A regular Patrick Henry speech he made as Iron's attorney,
And scraped the sky, and all the crowd went with him on the journey;
My very hair stood up to hear the chap's sublime oration.
(Insurance agency became his ultimate vocation.)
And Ruby sat and looked at him, her head by little raising,
And her blue eyes grew dark like night, and then burst out a-blazing
(She oft had traded looks with him, as if she meant to mean them,
And something more and less than space was thought to be between them);
And when he'd finished, she arose, wrapped in a frenzied flurry,
And, shouting “I will prophesy!” went at it in a hurry.
And her blue eyes grew dark like night, and then burst out a-blazing
(She oft had traded looks with him, as if she meant to mean them,
And something more and less than space was thought to be between them);
And when he'd finished, she arose, wrapped in a frenzied flurry,
And, shouting “I will prophesy!” went at it in a hurry.
“I see,” she said, “in yonder vale a horse of iron go speeding,
And bushels oft of blazing coals are measured for his feeding!
His head is iron, his body iron, his feet—the earth while scorning—
His breath is like the chimney-smoke upon a winter morning!
He's harnessed up in brass and steel, the buckles wide and gleaming;
His neigh is like the autumn gales when through the forest screaming!
And bushels oft of blazing coals are measured for his feeding!
His head is iron, his body iron, his feet—the earth while scorning—
His breath is like the chimney-smoke upon a winter morning!
He's harnessed up in brass and steel, the buckles wide and gleaming;
His neigh is like the autumn gales when through the forest screaming!
“I see a dozen carriages behind him swiftly running,
All full of comfort and of light, and trimmed with dexterous cunning;
Like flying cottages they look, with palace-splendors gliding;
But travellers walk about in them, as if at home residing!
All things seem for their comfort made, quick met are all their wishes.
I see the flutter of their beds, the gleaming of their dishes.
They read, they write, they stitch, they laugh—all in the flying carriage;
They even spin the tender threads that weave the strands of marriage!
“I talk with one whose sable hue proclaims a bondsman lowly,
Yet with a haughty-humble air he answers questions slowly.
I ask him if the horse is his; his ample lip grows shorter;
He answers, ‘Not exactly, miss, but I'm the Pullman porter.’
What this may mean I do not know; but people who'd live gayly,
Submit to him with deference, and pay him tribute daily.
All full of comfort and of light, and trimmed with dexterous cunning;
Like flying cottages they look, with palace-splendors gliding;
But travellers walk about in them, as if at home residing!
All things seem for their comfort made, quick met are all their wishes.
I see the flutter of their beds, the gleaming of their dishes.
They read, they write, they stitch, they laugh—all in the flying carriage;
They even spin the tender threads that weave the strands of marriage!
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Yet with a haughty-humble air he answers questions slowly.
I ask him if the horse is his; his ample lip grows shorter;
He answers, ‘Not exactly, miss, but I'm the Pullman porter.’
What this may mean I do not know; but people who'd live gayly,
Submit to him with deference, and pay him tribute daily.
“He tells me that some travellers there, are sad of heart and feature,
Because they are not ‘up on time,’ or something of that nature;
Five hundred miles they've journeyed since the sun's last previous setting;
They'll come to Boston ‘three hours late,’ and that is why they're fretting.
They sit and sulk while drawn by hoofs that well might drown the thunder,
And murmur and repine, instead of being dazed with wonder!
Because they are not ‘up on time,’ or something of that nature;
Five hundred miles they've journeyed since the sun's last previous setting;
They'll come to Boston ‘three hours late,’ and that is why they're fretting.
They sit and sulk while drawn by hoofs that well might drown the thunder,
And murmur and repine, instead of being dazed with wonder!
“They still complain—heavens, what is that! the horse is reeling—stumbling!
Beneath his clattering steel-shod feet, the iron road is crumbling!
A crash—a blaze like burning clouds in thunder-beaten weather—
Horse, rider, travellers, carriages—all crush and crash together!
Pain! Blood! Death! Help!”—the prophetess with consciousness grew weaker,
And fell into the willing arms of the preceding speaker.
Beneath his clattering steel-shod feet, the iron road is crumbling!
A crash—a blaze like burning clouds in thunder-beaten weather—
Horse, rider, travellers, carriages—all crush and crash together!
Pain! Blood! Death! Help!”—the prophetess with consciousness grew weaker,
And fell into the willing arms of the preceding speaker.
So it became a legend-joke—the fact of Ruby's vision—
Until at last a fact appeared with terrible precision:
A railroad through that valley runs, in just the same direction
She pointed at, the night she made her strange tour of inspection;
Also a railroad accident, with Horror's hand to mould it,
Occurred, one night, not half a mile from where the girl foretold it.
Until at last a fact appeared with terrible precision:
A railroad through that valley runs, in just the same direction
She pointed at, the night she made her strange tour of inspection;
Also a railroad accident, with Horror's hand to mould it,
Occurred, one night, not half a mile from where the girl foretold it.
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