University of Virginia Library

Carry-Lina—Louisa, Miss Tallant, my dear—
Or whatever pet name softly falls on your ear,
I meant to come round to look after your weal,
To ask your poor head how it happens to feel,
To see that your heart has a regular beat,
To “figet” your “oscula dulcia” sweet,
To know what the light of your eyes may betray,
And your dear piquant nose—is it not, by the way,
Just the least little bit in the world retroussé?
But, my dear, when the usual deafening shout
Announced to the city that school was out,
So brimful of tired I was that my skin
Seemed only a bag to hold weariness in,
And further than this, as if only to show,
That every terrestrial cup of woe
(Here you'll twist up your lips in a sweet little pucker)
Is never so “chuck full” it can't be made chucker,
I found to my sorrow as soon as I rose,
And walked to the closet to put on my clo'es,
There must be some blisters right under my toes—
And when you remember, as surely you will,
That I've lived for a year away out on “the Hill,”
You'll at once understand why direct I should come
In such a condition the nearest way home;
But then I'm consoled since I know you'll receive
The very best care the good Dimmocks can give—
Though the whole world desert you—it certainly won't—
You may always be certain of our Miss Hunt—
And not a cloud her heaven can fleck
Who dwells in the sunshine of Mary Peck—
And besides all this, I'm consoled, my dear,
That however bad my verses appear,
I appeal to the eye much worse than the ear.
Should you like to know of our goings-on
In Asylum Street since you have been gone?
Miss Hunt will have told you the lamentation
About to go up from the Association,
Because we don't go down
To the goodly town
When it holds its annual Convocation.
I suppose, don't you, that they'll rend their hair—
And their garments too (if the worse for wear)—
And iterate, “Ichabod! Glory departed!”
(Which won't be quite true since it never started!)

As for the rest we roll, my dear,
In much the same rut as when you were here;
The brook still flows on its course unseen.
Only the grass is a fresher green,
Where the trill of the musical ripple hath been,
And men as ever admire the sight
And gaze on its greenness with great delight.
Mr. Capron is calm—Mr. Wilcox is clever—
And Bertha Olmstead as good as ever—
And we all plod on in our various courses
Much like overworked, bony dray horses.
I sit now and then in the curule chair
And gaze about with a mingled air,
A cross between crossness and despair,
And hurl the ciphers and failures about
To the multitudinous rabble rout.
(A poet's license—they're wondrous good—
I couldn't cipher them if I would)
And wildly scream to the ultimate corner
Where some metaphysical young Jack Horner
Has put in his thumb
To pick out a plum
From Alfred, the noble, or Cædmon the dumb;
You may rightly judge hence
As a consequence
My throat is full of little rents,
And split all across like a five-rail fence.

I've had several adventures out of school;
Would you like to hear them?—then pray keep cool—
I saw a man come near being killed,
Because like all men he was horrid self-willed.
His name, I believe, was Mason Weld
(Here throw in a word that will rhyme—say telled);
The cars were going—were almost gone—
He had bag and shawl, but he would get on—
And so he did—'twas a sight to appal—
For if he had fallen—he didn't fall—
They'd have gone straight over him, bag and all!
Indeed, I myself was not very far
From being run over, though not by a car,
But a cart dragged along by a broken-down Dobbin,
Whose scraggy old head kept a bob-bob-bobbin!
A very ignoble kind of way
To depart from this life you will justly say—
Because if you must for original sin
Have your senses knocked out by your skull knocked in,
'Tis a mitigation—it is indeed—
To have it done by a decent steed—
Bestrode, perhaps, at least, in our plan,
By a very uncommonly nice young man,
With a black mustache, and the “handsomest eyes”
Who shall pick you up with remorseful sighs,
And beg all the doctors to use their art,
To bring back the pulse to your pulseless heart,
And then—and then—O 'tis pretty, very,
And I leave out the best—the corollary—
But, dear me—where's the romance to brag on
Killed outright by a one-horse wagon?

The Light Horse Guards have been out to-day,
At least so I heard the pupils say,
And Ellen and I as we went up the street,
Mobilia turba Quiritium did meet—
Women with babies, and children with toys,
And men with their aprons, and swarms of small boys—
And scores of lean horses with very fat riders,
All very imposing to youthful outsiders;
And a man in the middle with iron lung
And a brazen throat and a leather tongue,
Kept up a continual steady “screech,”
To play, I suppose, they were storming a breach—
And they brandished their swords (that could hardly slay)
In a rather desperate kind of way—
And were somewhat stupid and shockingly dusty,
And altogether decidedly rusty;
No doubt “the Guards” are very effective,
But they didn't look in the least protective.

Ah, well, my dear, it would tire you out
If I should tell you all about
The various things I have suffered and done—
How I bought a fan—it is not my own—
And how notwithstanding my conscience frowning—
I looked and longed for a Mrs. Browning;
How I wanted a picture worthy that name,
And then for the picture a worthy frame,
One forever to grace my home—I
Had bought—but—the res angusta domi!
Shall I tell you, my love, how I had the good manners
To save for you some delicious bananas
I had from a girl?—but I didn't come—
And so of course I conveyed them home—
Intending to keep them—I did—for you,
But when I saw them spread out to my view,
I began to think they wouldn't keep,
Or perhaps they would hurt you—drive away sleep—
And so at once—contradict me you won't—
I became unselfish—like Ellen Hunt—
Disinterestedly broke my oath,
And to save you from suffering, swallowed them both!
Good night, good night, my dear, the hours increase,
And this my idle strain, perforce, must cease—
With laughter I can lonely vigil keep,
But rather praying choose to “fall on sleep.”
With those I love, your name is writ, my dear,
With those that love me well shall yours appear?
It matters not; you are the same to me,
And this my prayer for you shall always be:
Not that no cloud forevermore may dim
Your spirit's shining,
But that the cloud in time may turn to you
A silver lining;
Not that no bitter evermore may mar
Your joy's completeness,
But that from every bitter you may pluck
Its heart of sweetness;
Not that no sword may ever pierce your soul,
But that your sorrows
May be but swift-winged pioneers to lead
To brighter morrows;
Not that unfaltering you may tread your path
Whate'er its length,
But that from every weakness you may learn
To gather strength;
Not that no work may henceforth ever burden
Your spirit's wings,
But that your life-long work may always be
In holy things;
Not that your eyes may never fail to see
Triumph complete,
But that a glorious victory you may wrest
From each defeat—
Till fought is the last fierce fight—
Ended the strife—
And you rise from the deep dishonor of death
To freer and fuller life.

P.S. preceding the letter.
I'm afraid you will think there is something amiss
Or I'm an uncommonly stupid dunce—
To be sending you—ill—such a letter as this—
But you need not read it all at once.