Partingtonian patchwork Blifkins the martyr : the domestic trials of a model husband. The modern syntax : Dr. Spooner's experiences in search of the delectable. Partington papers : strippings of the warm milk of human kindness. New and old dips from an unambitious inkstand. Humorous, eccentric, rhythmical |
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177
NEW AND OLD DIPS FROM MY INKSTAND:
LES MISERABLES.
A LONG WAY AFTER VICTOR HUGO.
I.
JEAN VALJEAN.
Jean Valjean
A convict had been—
For nineteen years no freedom had known.
When from Toulon released,
He was feared as a beast,
And hooted and hounded from country to town.
The fourth day, near
To Pontarlier,
The place of his destination,
He was hungered and sore,
But men shut their door,
Nor pitied his desolation.
Even the dogs their kennels refused
To one so vile from bondage loosed,
Till, by men and dogs alike abused,
He grew savage with desperation.
He swore to himself a bitter prayer,
As he passed on through Cathedral Square,
And shook his fist at the temple there,
As though he thought the church might care;
But it frowned in the dark with a frigid air,
Nor heeded his demonstration.
With failing strength
He fell, at length,
By a very strange fatality,
At a printer's door,
The whole world o'er
The biding-place, on every shore,
Of wisdom and morality.
A convict had been—
For nineteen years no freedom had known.
When from Toulon released,
He was feared as a beast,
And hooted and hounded from country to town.
The fourth day, near
To Pontarlier,
The place of his destination,
He was hungered and sore,
But men shut their door,
Nor pitied his desolation.
Even the dogs their kennels refused
To one so vile from bondage loosed,
Till, by men and dogs alike abused,
He grew savage with desperation.
178
As he passed on through Cathedral Square,
And shook his fist at the temple there,
As though he thought the church might care;
But it frowned in the dark with a frigid air,
Nor heeded his demonstration.
With failing strength
He fell, at length,
By a very strange fatality,
At a printer's door,
The whole world o'er
The biding-place, on every shore,
Of wisdom and morality.
Not a single crumb had he to eat—
He couldn't buy of bread or meat,
For the shops were shut along the street,
And he fain would sleep,
In its silence deep,
Forgetting his stinted rations;
When a woman,—'tis always thus, I think,
That, just as we're going to take a wink,
And our eyelids peacefully 'gin to sink,
The woman makes our tempers kink
With sharp interrogations,—
A woman saw his sorry plight,
Asleep in the street on a stone by night,
A singular couch for one not tight;
So she spoke to him as a Christian might,
And then he surlily told her
That he was a soldier in distress—
A claim that always its way must press;
We every day its power confess,
And do our best to aid and bless,
And never turn cold shoulder.
She heard and pitied the worthless scamp.
He swore he hadn't a postage stamp,
Had sought each door on a bootless tramp.
She said he mustn't lie in the damp,
A victim of Fortune's malice,
But gave him two-pence, and bade him go
To a house a block along or so,
Next door to the Bishop's palace.
He couldn't buy of bread or meat,
For the shops were shut along the street,
And he fain would sleep,
In its silence deep,
Forgetting his stinted rations;
When a woman,—'tis always thus, I think,
That, just as we're going to take a wink,
And our eyelids peacefully 'gin to sink,
The woman makes our tempers kink
With sharp interrogations,—
A woman saw his sorry plight,
Asleep in the street on a stone by night,
A singular couch for one not tight;
So she spoke to him as a Christian might,
And then he surlily told her
That he was a soldier in distress—
A claim that always its way must press;
We every day its power confess,
And do our best to aid and bless,
And never turn cold shoulder.
179
He swore he hadn't a postage stamp,
Had sought each door on a bootless tramp.
She said he mustn't lie in the damp,
A victim of Fortune's malice,
But gave him two-pence, and bade him go
To a house a block along or so,
Next door to the Bishop's palace.
Now the Bishop was of men the best,
In whom the country round was blest;
A model man, whose every thought
With good of his fellow-men was fraught.
His soul reflected the beaming love
That streams direct from the throne above;
His constant wish to do for others,
And held the good and bad as brothers;
He acted without regard of self—
Gave up all thought of rank or pelf,
And did his Master's duty;
The poor and needy ones he fed,
The languid and the erring led,
The strong upon their way were sped,
The hearts were soothed that joy had fled,
And his tears upon the sorrowing shed
Sprang up in shapes of beauty.
In whom the country round was blest;
A model man, whose every thought
With good of his fellow-men was fraught.
His soul reflected the beaming love
That streams direct from the throne above;
His constant wish to do for others,
And held the good and bad as brothers;
He acted without regard of self—
Gave up all thought of rank or pelf,
And did his Master's duty;
The poor and needy ones he fed,
The languid and the erring led,
The strong upon their way were sped,
The hearts were soothed that joy had fled,
And his tears upon the sorrowing shed
Sprang up in shapes of beauty.
With the insolent airs of a surly boor,
The loafer opened the Bishop's door;
I dare say left his mud on the floor,
To the great disgust of Madame Magloire,
Leaned on his stick the priest before,
And told him all his story:
Jean Valjean was the name he gave,
For nineteen years a galley slave;
The while he'd managed a trifle to save,
Was able to pay for what he might crave,
Wherein he seemed to glory.
The Bishop turned to Madame Magloire,
Who had placed for three at table before,
And bade her provide for one guest more;
At which Jean was astonished.
He read to them his yellow pass,
A record of fearful crime, alas!
Of all he had done the world to harass—
A hopeless case for prayer or mass;
He asked for bread and a bed of grass,
Nor longer hoped with men to class;
But vain was the Bishop admonished.
Without opening to Jean his head
He bade Magloire put sheets on the bed
In the alcove—then to the convict said,
Sit down, sir, by the fire.
The man, surprised and wild to hear
A word of human love and cheer,
Felt, as might be supposed, quite queer,
And odd enough in his way did appear,
But complied with the Bishop's desire.
The loafer opened the Bishop's door;
I dare say left his mud on the floor,
To the great disgust of Madame Magloire,
Leaned on his stick the priest before,
And told him all his story:
Jean Valjean was the name he gave,
180
The while he'd managed a trifle to save,
Was able to pay for what he might crave,
Wherein he seemed to glory.
The Bishop turned to Madame Magloire,
Who had placed for three at table before,
And bade her provide for one guest more;
At which Jean was astonished.
He read to them his yellow pass,
A record of fearful crime, alas!
Of all he had done the world to harass—
A hopeless case for prayer or mass;
He asked for bread and a bed of grass,
Nor longer hoped with men to class;
But vain was the Bishop admonished.
Without opening to Jean his head
He bade Magloire put sheets on the bed
In the alcove—then to the convict said,
Sit down, sir, by the fire.
The man, surprised and wild to hear
A word of human love and cheer,
Felt, as might be supposed, quite queer,
And odd enough in his way did appear,
But complied with the Bishop's desire.
The table was set,
And round it all met,
Jean Valjean on the Bishop's right.
The silver forks and spoons of state
Were put in honor beside each plate,
When the Bishop complained of the light.
“The silver candlesticks!” he cried.
'Twas a matter with him of a little pride
To have them lit with a guest by his side;
And Madame Magloire,
As she'd done before,
Obeyed him she'd never in thought denied.
And round it all met,
Jean Valjean on the Bishop's right.
The silver forks and spoons of state
Were put in honor beside each plate,
When the Bishop complained of the light.
“The silver candlesticks!” he cried.
'Twas a matter with him of a little pride
To have them lit with a guest by his side;
181
As she'd done before,
Obeyed him she'd never in thought denied.
'Twas a goodly feast you may be bound;
Magloire a bottle of wine had found,
And care in a little while was drowned,
And the convict was in a bother.
Again he told the Bishop his name;
But the Bishop said it was all the same,
He felt his sorrow and his shame,
He knew his title ere he came,
And that he told him was “Brother.”
Magloire a bottle of wine had found,
And care in a little while was drowned,
And the convict was in a bother.
Again he told the Bishop his name;
But the Bishop said it was all the same,
He felt his sorrow and his shame,
He knew his title ere he came,
And that he told him was “Brother.”
Then Jean Valjean went to bed;
But wicked thoughts spun through his head,
The good, and pure, and holy instead.
At midnight he arose from sleep,
And round the house like a cat did creep,
Doing such perfidious works—
Stealing the spoons and stealing the forks,
Then leaped the window and garden gate,
And left the Bishop minus his plate!
A wicked wretch, but such must be
From taking felons and like to tea!
So thought Madame Magloire
And many more,
But the Bishop smiled more glad than before.
They had taken his forks, but he said 'twas as good
To use spoons and forks that were made of wood.
But wicked thoughts spun through his head,
The good, and pure, and holy instead.
At midnight he arose from sleep,
And round the house like a cat did creep,
Doing such perfidious works—
Stealing the spoons and stealing the forks,
Then leaped the window and garden gate,
And left the Bishop minus his plate!
A wicked wretch, but such must be
From taking felons and like to tea!
So thought Madame Magloire
And many more,
But the Bishop smiled more glad than before.
They had taken his forks, but he said 'twas as good
To use spoons and forks that were made of wood.
Jean Valjean was speedily caught
And into the Bishop's presence brought
By three gensdarmes—they had him, they thought;
But the Bishop pretended he'd given the plate,
And told him he needn't have leaped the gate,
And wondered by what strange absence of mind
He'd left his candlesticks behind.
Jean Valjean here opened his eyes
In a wild and undisguised surprise.
And into the Bishop's presence brought
By three gensdarmes—they had him, they thought;
182
And told him he needn't have leaped the gate,
And wondered by what strange absence of mind
He'd left his candlesticks behind.
Jean Valjean here opened his eyes
In a wild and undisguised surprise.
Then the Bishop spoke. “My brother,” said he,
“You're no more for evil, but good, you see.
I've bought your soul of you, and withdraw
It from the imp of perdition's claw,
To lift it from the ills of the sod,
And give it to the keeping of God.”
“You're no more for evil, but good, you see.
I've bought your soul of you, and withdraw
It from the imp of perdition's claw,
To lift it from the ills of the sod,
And give it to the keeping of God.”
A strange, strange trade,
As ever was made;
But, reader, if you'd find the key
To open up this mystery,
I'd say, do go
To Lee and Shepard's, or where you please,
And hire or borrow, and read at your ease,
The book by Victor Hugo.
As ever was made;
But, reader, if you'd find the key
To open up this mystery,
I'd say, do go
To Lee and Shepard's, or where you please,
And hire or borrow, and read at your ease,
The book by Victor Hugo.
II.
FANTINE.
Ne'er did monarch array his queen
Richer than Hugo did Fantine,
With pearls of gold
More manifold
Than she of Egypt wore of old—
More regal than those of the “Queen of the South,”
The gold on her head, the pearls in her mouth.
O, she was fair as nymph or fay,
And she was sweet as flowers in May,
And she was as lithe as a breeze at play,
And she was as mild as a summer day.
She was all alone—
No parents had known,
A waif on the world for charity thrown;
A sad, sad doom,
For beauty and bloom—
Immortal seed on a soil of stone;
The fruit of love's unhallowed chrism,
Denied the right of blest baptism,
Left to shame and human blame,
That follows the fallen like breath of flame,
Called Fantine
By herself—Fantine—
Simply because it was her name.
She knew none else; 'twas at her cast,
Like a bone to a dog, by a beggar who passed—
'Twas Fantine only, first and last.
Richer than Hugo did Fantine,
With pearls of gold
More manifold
Than she of Egypt wore of old—
183
The gold on her head, the pearls in her mouth.
O, she was fair as nymph or fay,
And she was sweet as flowers in May,
And she was as lithe as a breeze at play,
And she was as mild as a summer day.
She was all alone—
No parents had known,
A waif on the world for charity thrown;
A sad, sad doom,
For beauty and bloom—
Immortal seed on a soil of stone;
The fruit of love's unhallowed chrism,
Denied the right of blest baptism,
Left to shame and human blame,
That follows the fallen like breath of flame,
Called Fantine
By herself—Fantine—
Simply because it was her name.
She knew none else; 'twas at her cast,
Like a bone to a dog, by a beggar who passed—
'Twas Fantine only, first and last.
And Fantine loved;
Her heart was moved
With a love more ardent than approved;
But still it was a love as true,
As e'er in human bosom grew,
Fed by Hymen's sacred dew,
And blest in sacerdotal view;
For love is the same in poor and rich,
Working them up to the self-same pitch,
And don't distinguish “t'other from which.”
She loved, with all her little powers
—Hungry love that the heart devours—
A man of wit and ready tin,
But soiled by the world and touch of sin,
With carious teeth and a wrinkled skin,
And bad digestion—how could he win?
His eyes were watery, too, and dim,
But she saw no blemish at all in him:
So true to him
She flew to him,
And stuck like Hilton's glue to him!
But he, the churl, I'm sorry to say,
Didn't love her in that same way.
His was a passion—a baleful flame,
That kindles in fervor and ends in shame;
A blaze that burns with a lurid light,
Then leaves a darkness, as black as night,
Of broken heart and spirit blight;
And poor Fantine,
With anguish keen,
Felt cold desertion's direst harms:
Her first love flown—
Alone—alone—
Bearing her woe in heart—and arms.
Her heart was moved
With a love more ardent than approved;
But still it was a love as true,
As e'er in human bosom grew,
Fed by Hymen's sacred dew,
And blest in sacerdotal view;
For love is the same in poor and rich,
Working them up to the self-same pitch,
And don't distinguish “t'other from which.”
She loved, with all her little powers
184
A man of wit and ready tin,
But soiled by the world and touch of sin,
With carious teeth and a wrinkled skin,
And bad digestion—how could he win?
His eyes were watery, too, and dim,
But she saw no blemish at all in him:
So true to him
She flew to him,
And stuck like Hilton's glue to him!
But he, the churl, I'm sorry to say,
Didn't love her in that same way.
His was a passion—a baleful flame,
That kindles in fervor and ends in shame;
A blaze that burns with a lurid light,
Then leaves a darkness, as black as night,
Of broken heart and spirit blight;
And poor Fantine,
With anguish keen,
Felt cold desertion's direst harms:
Her first love flown—
Alone—alone—
Bearing her woe in heart—and arms.
In heaven above or earth below
A purer love none e'er may know,
Than in the mother's breast doth glow;
Irrespective of sin or shame,
Glorying still in the mother's name,
Nature asserting its holy claim,
In fortune's light,
In poverty's blight,
In sorrow's night,
It burns forever and burns the same;
And sweet Fantine
Loved her poor wean
As 'twere a child of loftier fame.
A purer love none e'er may know,
Than in the mother's breast doth glow;
Irrespective of sin or shame,
Glorying still in the mother's name,
Nature asserting its holy claim,
In fortune's light,
In poverty's blight,
In sorrow's night,
It burns forever and burns the same;
185
Loved her poor wean
As 'twere a child of loftier fame.
On a dusty day
O'er a public way
Was Fantine and her child astray,
Weary and sad, and most forlorn,
Bound for the town where she was born,
Hoping an honest living to win,
Outside the vortex of deadly sin,
When she arrived at a wayside inn.
'Twas a queer, old nook,
With forbidding look;
But there before it, in a swing,
Two children, bright as flowers in spring,
Rocked to and fro,
While, soft and low,
The mother a gentle air did sing;
And Fantine felt
Her motherly heart within her melt,
As she looked upon the beautiful thing.
The mothers, with a motherly pride,
Put their children side by side,
And poor Fantine,
As she viewed the scene,
Thought of her fatherless babe, and cried.
“What will Mrs. Grundy say?”
She said to herself, in a tearful way;
For she dreaded the folk of M. sur M.,
And dreaded the lies she must tell to them.
So she gave up all of her little hoard,
And a promise of more than she could afford,
In payment for the baby's board;
Then with a heart of grief and pain,
And falling tears, like summer rain,
With empty pocket and giddy brain,
She wandered forth on her walk again,
Leaving her babe, without a fear,
With Mr. and Mrs. Thernardier,
By prudent folk considered queer,
Because Fantine
Must surely have seen
They didn't respectable appear.
O'er a public way
Was Fantine and her child astray,
Weary and sad, and most forlorn,
Bound for the town where she was born,
Hoping an honest living to win,
Outside the vortex of deadly sin,
When she arrived at a wayside inn.
'Twas a queer, old nook,
With forbidding look;
But there before it, in a swing,
Two children, bright as flowers in spring,
Rocked to and fro,
While, soft and low,
The mother a gentle air did sing;
And Fantine felt
Her motherly heart within her melt,
As she looked upon the beautiful thing.
The mothers, with a motherly pride,
Put their children side by side,
And poor Fantine,
As she viewed the scene,
Thought of her fatherless babe, and cried.
“What will Mrs. Grundy say?”
She said to herself, in a tearful way;
For she dreaded the folk of M. sur M.,
And dreaded the lies she must tell to them.
So she gave up all of her little hoard,
And a promise of more than she could afford,
In payment for the baby's board;
186
And falling tears, like summer rain,
With empty pocket and giddy brain,
She wandered forth on her walk again,
Leaving her babe, without a fear,
With Mr. and Mrs. Thernardier,
By prudent folk considered queer,
Because Fantine
Must surely have seen
They didn't respectable appear.
M. Madeleine
Had made great gain
By a patent he had chanced obtain;
Godsend to those of M. sur M.,
An El Dorado 'twas to them.
The little place
Grew up apace,
Under his grave and watchful care,
And industry grew,
And virtue, too,
And Fantine found employment there.
Her toil beguiled
By thought of her child,
That there in the distance lived and smiled.
But she kept her story within her breast,
And none her weighty secret guessed.
But gossips were round,—
They always abound,
Like canker worms, to curse the ground,
As clearly, in a moral way,
As the worms the farmer's hope to-day,
Filling his heart with dire dismay,—
Gossips who saw her proper life,
Who knew not were she maid or wife,
And whispered this and whispered that,
In hours of sly, malicious chat,
Until, alas for poor Fantine!
One came among them—her child had seen!
And then the rout,
The virtuous shout,
To think that she had been found out!
Then were the arrows of hatred hurled,
And poor Fantine was thrown on the world.
Alas for her,
Sweet sufferer!
No friends to call on, far or near;
And how could she pay Thernardier?
He was pressing her for his pay,
Said the child was pining away,
Driving her crazed with fears each day;
Besides, her landlord wanted his rent,
But she had expended her last red cent;
Had even sold
The precious gold
That covered her head to raise the dimes,
And the bright pearls, too,
In her mouth that grew,
But not at premium of later times.
Had made great gain
By a patent he had chanced obtain;
Godsend to those of M. sur M.,
An El Dorado 'twas to them.
The little place
Grew up apace,
Under his grave and watchful care,
And industry grew,
And virtue, too,
And Fantine found employment there.
Her toil beguiled
By thought of her child,
That there in the distance lived and smiled.
But she kept her story within her breast,
And none her weighty secret guessed.
But gossips were round,—
They always abound,
Like canker worms, to curse the ground,
As clearly, in a moral way,
As the worms the farmer's hope to-day,
Filling his heart with dire dismay,—
Gossips who saw her proper life,
187
And whispered this and whispered that,
In hours of sly, malicious chat,
Until, alas for poor Fantine!
One came among them—her child had seen!
And then the rout,
The virtuous shout,
To think that she had been found out!
Then were the arrows of hatred hurled,
And poor Fantine was thrown on the world.
Alas for her,
Sweet sufferer!
No friends to call on, far or near;
And how could she pay Thernardier?
He was pressing her for his pay,
Said the child was pining away,
Driving her crazed with fears each day;
Besides, her landlord wanted his rent,
But she had expended her last red cent;
Had even sold
The precious gold
That covered her head to raise the dimes,
And the bright pearls, too,
In her mouth that grew,
But not at premium of later times.
Dante mentions the rapid pace,
And the easy trip to a certain place,
When mortals fall from a state of grace;
'Twas certainly thus in Fantine's case.
It makes the heart of the virtuous bleed
The record of her shame to read—
Till she fell in the hands of the hard Javert,
And was brought before his honor the mayor,
Whose face she spat in then and there!
But no angry glow
Did his honor show,
Who told Javert to let her go.
Then she, astounded, heard him tell
That he was one who wished her well;
Hadn't known she had left his mill;
That 'twas others who had dealt her ill;
Then had her conveyed,
For hospital aid,
Where the Sisters their heavenly mission fill,
Promising bliss in store for her yet
In union sweet with her little Cosette.
And the easy trip to a certain place,
When mortals fall from a state of grace;
'Twas certainly thus in Fantine's case.
It makes the heart of the virtuous bleed
The record of her shame to read—
Till she fell in the hands of the hard Javert,
And was brought before his honor the mayor,
188
But no angry glow
Did his honor show,
Who told Javert to let her go.
Then she, astounded, heard him tell
That he was one who wished her well;
Hadn't known she had left his mill;
That 'twas others who had dealt her ill;
Then had her conveyed,
For hospital aid,
Where the Sisters their heavenly mission fill,
Promising bliss in store for her yet
In union sweet with her little Cosette.
Sad, ah, sad was the closing scene
Of the little life of poor Fantine.
Crushed, and broken, and poor, and ill,
She saw her measure of sorrow fill;
Her hope deferred, till her wasted breath
Became as one with the airs of death,
Then sunk to rest, and never met
The fond embrace of her dear Cosette.
Her last shocked gaze, with her closing gasp,
Showing Jean Valjean,
Her Madeleine,
Held like a vise in Javert's grasp.
Of the little life of poor Fantine.
Crushed, and broken, and poor, and ill,
She saw her measure of sorrow fill;
Her hope deferred, till her wasted breath
Became as one with the airs of death,
Then sunk to rest, and never met
The fond embrace of her dear Cosette.
Her last shocked gaze, with her closing gasp,
Showing Jean Valjean,
Her Madeleine,
Held like a vise in Javert's grasp.
Note.—The writer leaves the pronunciation of certain names to the reader's option; “he pays his money and he takes his choice.”
194
A NEW RAPE OF THE LOCK.
1. PART I.
Sweet Madaline's hair was very fair,
Of ashen-gold hue, by which bards swear,
Whose glorious curls
Were the envy of girls—
Of kink divine and profusion rare;
And Madaline's power,
Evinced each hour,
Rested, like Samson's, in her hair.
Of ashen-gold hue, by which bards swear,
Whose glorious curls
Were the envy of girls—
Of kink divine and profusion rare;
And Madaline's power,
Evinced each hour,
Rested, like Samson's, in her hair.
In such a glory it round her lay!
Crinkled in Style's adroitest way,
Burnt with irons to make it stay,
—With amount of effort best not to say—
Its every curl, in the light astray,
Seeming a streak from the source of day,
Leading the rapt beholder,
Who saw it about her neck at play,
To deem it some amorous sunbeam's ray,
Lit on her snow-white shoulder.
Crinkled in Style's adroitest way,
Burnt with irons to make it stay,
—With amount of effort best not to say—
Its every curl, in the light astray,
Seeming a streak from the source of day,
Leading the rapt beholder,
Who saw it about her neck at play,
To deem it some amorous sunbeam's ray,
Lit on her snow-white shoulder.
Not like the curls we sometimes meet
Out there upon the public street,
To good taste oft offences,
That glisten and twist admiration to gain,
And excite the susceptible masculine train,
Till they find at last, to their shame and pain,
That they're fraud, and the whole of their object, plain—
Getting goods under false pretences.
At every feast, or dance, or fair,
In the burning blaze of the gas-light's glare,
Were seen those locks flash here and there,
Like fireflies in the summer air,
Enchanting by their glitter;
Sought for by eligible beaux,
Subject for rivalry with those
Who ached to tweak each other's nose
In the eager race to get her.
Out there upon the public street,
To good taste oft offences,
That glisten and twist admiration to gain,
And excite the susceptible masculine train,
Till they find at last, to their shame and pain,
That they're fraud, and the whole of their object, plain—
Getting goods under false pretences.
195
In the burning blaze of the gas-light's glare,
Were seen those locks flash here and there,
Like fireflies in the summer air,
Enchanting by their glitter;
Sought for by eligible beaux,
Subject for rivalry with those
Who ached to tweak each other's nose
In the eager race to get her.
And her smile was bright as the curls she wore,
And equal kindness on all she'd pour,
And each fond swain
Perplexed his brain
So far as that organ might obtain,
As he watched the smile her features o'er,
If for him it any promise bore;
But all his watch was vain.
And equal kindness on all she'd pour,
And each fond swain
Perplexed his brain
So far as that organ might obtain,
As he watched the smile her features o'er,
If for him it any promise bore;
But all his watch was vain.
2. PART II.
'Twas in the glow of a festal night,
The social fires all burning bright,
The gas turned on to its utmost height,
Bathing the scene in its fullest light;
Sweet Madaline,
The pride of the scene,
The cynosure of enraptured sight
To many a would-be lover,
Sat at the board with her golden hair
In affluent ringlets about her chair,
Catching the whole of the gas-light's glare
That streamed from the jet above her.
Toasted, and flattered, and praised, and pressed,
She caught each word with a fluttering breast;
And many a youthful, manly vest
Swelled at her beauty manifest,
And pulsing hearts, 'neath the glowing test,
The potency of her charms confessed,
With rapturous feeling overblessed
If her eyes in kindness wandered;
And her golden hair a wealth possessed
That bosoms filled with as keen unrest
As any awaked by the golden west,
In auriferous dreams long pondered.
The social fires all burning bright,
The gas turned on to its utmost height,
Bathing the scene in its fullest light;
Sweet Madaline,
The pride of the scene,
The cynosure of enraptured sight
To many a would-be lover,
Sat at the board with her golden hair
In affluent ringlets about her chair,
Catching the whole of the gas-light's glare
That streamed from the jet above her.
196
She caught each word with a fluttering breast;
And many a youthful, manly vest
Swelled at her beauty manifest,
And pulsing hearts, 'neath the glowing test,
The potency of her charms confessed,
With rapturous feeling overblessed
If her eyes in kindness wandered;
And her golden hair a wealth possessed
That bosoms filled with as keen unrest
As any awaked by the golden west,
In auriferous dreams long pondered.
Around her chair
Her votaries there
Hung entranced her joy to share
In each luxurious minute;
Already had passed the season of cream,
And trifles sweet as a maiden's dream,
And small talk ran like a babbling stream,
When, a moment's hush,
A push and a rush,
And then there came a mellifluous scream,
Like the angry note of a linnet!
No one could tell the reason why,
But 'twas Madaline's cry, and Madaline's eye
That looked around on the standers-by
With the fiercest temper in it!
Her votaries there
Hung entranced her joy to share
In each luxurious minute;
Already had passed the season of cream,
And trifles sweet as a maiden's dream,
And small talk ran like a babbling stream,
When, a moment's hush,
A push and a rush,
And then there came a mellifluous scream,
Like the angry note of a linnet!
No one could tell the reason why,
But 'twas Madaline's cry, and Madaline's eye
That looked around on the standers-by
With the fiercest temper in it!
3. PART III.
“On with the dance!” and with agile feet,
The music breathing its cadence sweet,
The dancers flitted with measure meet,
The gay hours moving on pinions fleet,
With saltatory joy replete,
And Madaline,
Again serene,
Moved in the throng the regnant queen,
The blissful scene enhancing;
There were polks and waltzes, galops and reels,
And those rare movements the dancer feels,
Thrilling all through from head to heels,
That make the acme of dancing.
The music breathing its cadence sweet,
The dancers flitted with measure meet,
197
With saltatory joy replete,
And Madaline,
Again serene,
Moved in the throng the regnant queen,
The blissful scene enhancing;
There were polks and waltzes, galops and reels,
And those rare movements the dancer feels,
Thrilling all through from head to heels,
That make the acme of dancing.
Again, “Choose partners!” every set
In just accordancy has met
For the gracefulest, grandest trial yet;
There are twists and twirls,
And swirls and whirls,
And glowing bright are Madaline's curls
On the happy shoulder of George Manett!
(Perhaps that wasn't the very name,
But the truth of the tale is just the same.)
About they go in the mazy dance—
Chassez! Balancez! Back! Advance!
When, just at the critical turning,
Fair Madaline seemed struck with a trance;
Her feet stood still, and with look askance,
Astonishment in her countenance,
Her eyes in their sockets burning!
In just accordancy has met
For the gracefulest, grandest trial yet;
There are twists and twirls,
And swirls and whirls,
And glowing bright are Madaline's curls
On the happy shoulder of George Manett!
(Perhaps that wasn't the very name,
But the truth of the tale is just the same.)
About they go in the mazy dance—
Chassez! Balancez! Back! Advance!
When, just at the critical turning,
Fair Madaline seemed struck with a trance;
Her feet stood still, and with look askance,
Astonishment in her countenance,
Her eyes in their sockets burning!
The dancers stopped in sore dismay;
The caller's call none would obey;
And there they stood in the light's full ray,
Looking with vacant stare,
Till Madaline her finger put on
Her wondering partner's third vest-button,
Where, gleaming like gold,
On his waistcoat's fold
Was a lock of golden hair!
The caller's call none would obey;
And there they stood in the light's full ray,
Looking with vacant stare,
Till Madaline her finger put on
Her wondering partner's third vest-button,
198
On his waistcoat's fold
Was a lock of golden hair!
Like the fierce wild red man of the west,
Swinging a scalp as his valor's test,
So Manett wore on his sturdy breast
A lock of hers he loved the best,
And he vowed a vow that none of the rest
Should lift a hand to pick it;
Though how it came there he didn't know,
But Madaline the spot could show,
Where late the golden curl did grow,
That was torn by its roots from its soil of snow,
In the midst of the golden thicket.
Swinging a scalp as his valor's test,
So Manett wore on his sturdy breast
A lock of hers he loved the best,
And he vowed a vow that none of the rest
Should lift a hand to pick it;
Though how it came there he didn't know,
But Madaline the spot could show,
Where late the golden curl did grow,
That was torn by its roots from its soil of snow,
In the midst of the golden thicket.
And that was the secret of Madaline's scream,
Mingled with noise of spoons in the cream,
And waking the “spoons” from their little dream,
Coupled with glance of her eyes' fierce gleam,
That carried such a start with it;
And Manett clings to his beautiful scalp
As firm as the foot of an amorous Alp,
Determined never to part with it;
And Madaline she
Don't disagree,
Seeing he has his heart with it.
Mingled with noise of spoons in the cream,
And waking the “spoons” from their little dream,
Coupled with glance of her eyes' fierce gleam,
That carried such a start with it;
And Manett clings to his beautiful scalp
As firm as the foot of an amorous Alp,
Determined never to part with it;
And Madaline she
Don't disagree,
Seeing he has his heart with it.
208
BUILDING THE BRIDGE.
A TRUTHFUL STORY OF OLD PEMIGEWASSET.
Out spake the Plymouth landlord:
“A bridge we'll straightway throw
Across Pemigewasset's tide
To where the wild flowers blow.”
Then out spake stout Seth Brownleaf,
Conductor on the road:
“'Twere worth a deal to all that here
Mayhap shall find abode;
And how can one do better
Than herein show his skill,
For the credit of his genius
And the power of his will?
“A bridge we'll straightway throw
Across Pemigewasset's tide
To where the wild flowers blow.”
Then out spake stout Seth Brownleaf,
Conductor on the road:
“'Twere worth a deal to all that here
Mayhap shall find abode;
And how can one do better
Than herein show his skill,
For the credit of his genius
And the power of his will?
“So down the bridge goes, landlord,
With all the speed it may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will build it in a day.
O'er that bright stream a pathway
May well be built by three;
Now who will stand on either hand
And build the bridge with me?”
With all the speed it may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will build it in a day.
O'er that bright stream a pathway
May well be built by three;
Now who will stand on either hand
And build the bridge with me?”
Then out spake Jotham Hornbeam—
A rum'un rough was he:
“Lo, I will stand with axe in hand,
And build the bridge with thee.”
And out spake strong Jo Chesman—
A granite boy was he:
“I will abide with boards supplied,
And build the bridge with thee.”
A rum'un rough was he:
“Lo, I will stand with axe in hand,
And build the bridge with thee.”
209
A granite boy was he:
“I will abide with boards supplied,
And build the bridge with thee.”
“Seth Brownleaf,” said the landlord,
“As thou sayest so let it be.”
And straightway went on their intent
Those sturdy builders three;
For such men in such spirit
Were bound a bridge to throw,
That son, and wife, in limb and life,
Might safely over go.
“As thou sayest so let it be.”
And straightway went on their intent
Those sturdy builders three;
For such men in such spirit
Were bound a bridge to throw,
That son, and wife, in limb and life,
Might safely over go.
The three stood calm and silent,
And looked upon the tide,
Then planted first a joiner's bench
That lay the stream beside;
And soon the boarders, looking on,
Felt their hearts thrill to see
The joiner's bench and an old board fence
A path for the dauntless three.
And looked upon the tide,
Then planted first a joiner's bench
That lay the stream beside;
And soon the boarders, looking on,
Felt their hearts thrill to see
The joiner's bench and an old board fence
A path for the dauntless three.
The axe and hammer sounded,
As manfully they plied,
And the bridge stretched out behind them
In its majesty and pride.
“Come back! come back! bold Brownleaf,”
Cried the boarders with a burst;
“On, Hornbeam! on, Jo Chesman!
And we will quench your thirst.”
As manfully they plied,
And the bridge stretched out behind them
In its majesty and pride.
“Come back! come back! bold Brownleaf,”
Cried the boarders with a burst;
“On, Hornbeam! on, Jo Chesman!
And we will quench your thirst.”
On labored Jotham Hornbeam,
Jo Chesman pushed ahead;
The hammers rattled merrily,
The work triumphant sped;
And when they turned their faces
Towards the thither land,
They saw brave Brownleaf coming back
With a stone jug in his hand.
Jo Chesman pushed ahead;
210
The work triumphant sped;
And when they turned their faces
Towards the thither land,
They saw brave Brownleaf coming back
With a stone jug in his hand.
Then, with a shout like thunder,
They laid the last cross-beam,
And their voices echoed merrily
O'er Pemigewasset's stream;
And a loud shout of triumph
Rose from the other side,
As finished was the mighty bridge
Across the rushing tide.
They laid the last cross-beam,
And their voices echoed merrily
O'er Pemigewasset's stream;
And a loud shout of triumph
Rose from the other side,
As finished was the mighty bridge
Across the rushing tide.
Alone stood brave Seth Brownleaf,
For the others had gone in,
And the way they bagged those fluids
Was what men term “a sin.”
“He's done it!” cried Si. Winkley,
As he took another chaw;
“'Twill squash!” said old Lishe Porcina,
Bringing down his dexter paw.
For the others had gone in,
And the way they bagged those fluids
Was what men term “a sin.”
“He's done it!” cried Si. Winkley,
As he took another chaw;
“'Twill squash!” said old Lishe Porcina,
Bringing down his dexter paw.
Round turned his broad face glowing;
His mates were overcome;
Nor spoke a word did he to them,
But looked towards his home;
He saw the hotel beaming fair—
The boarders in a row—
And he spoke to the noble river
That at his feet did flow:—
His mates were overcome;
Nor spoke a word did he to them,
But looked towards his home;
He saw the hotel beaming fair—
The boarders in a row—
And he spoke to the noble river
That at his feet did flow:—
211
“Father Pemigewasset!
Look at this bridge, I pray.
Its joiner's bench, its boards and nails,
Take them in charge this day.”
So he spoke, and gathered up the tools,
His handsaw by his side,
And then upon the bridge he'd made
He crossed the humbled tide.
Look at this bridge, I pray.
Its joiner's bench, its boards and nails,
Take them in charge this day.”
So he spoke, and gathered up the tools,
His handsaw by his side,
And then upon the bridge he'd made
He crossed the humbled tide.
And now the shore he reaches,
Now on the bank he stands,
Now round him throng the boarders,
Who shake his muddy hands;
But when, three weeks thereafter,
The fresh came down apace,
Away went the bridge like a cobweb chain,
And left not a single trace.
Now on the bank he stands,
Now round him throng the boarders,
Who shake his muddy hands;
But when, three weeks thereafter,
The fresh came down apace,
Away went the bridge like a cobweb chain,
And left not a single trace.
Yet Hornbeam and Jo Chesman
Both swear, by main and might,
That they were sober as a judge,
And only Seth was tight;
And say the bridge would e'er have stood
Through all the tides and gales,
If the whiskey hadn't somehow got
Spilt over 'mongst the nails.
Both swear, by main and might,
That they were sober as a judge,
And only Seth was tight;
And say the bridge would e'er have stood
Through all the tides and gales,
If the whiskey hadn't somehow got
Spilt over 'mongst the nails.
Note.—The foregoing incident in Roman history will be remembered by some of the older sojourners at the Pemigewasset House, in Plymouth, New Hampshire. Seth's bridge was regarded a fine specimen of engineering, though he was not an engineer; simply a conductor. It is supposed that it was from this incident that Macaulay, conceived his idea of the “Keeping of the Bridge” by Horatius and others, which he subsequently put in feeble verse.
223
GRAPE-SKINS.
I saw a man of portly estate
Walking the street with regal gait;
Just the man that the eye well suits,
Proper and nice from hat to boots.
So perfect his coat, so neat his vest,
An exquisite taste was manifest,
And every one who chose to scan
Could only say, “What a tasteful man!”
Walking the street with regal gait;
Just the man that the eye well suits,
Proper and nice from hat to boots.
So perfect his coat, so neat his vest,
An exquisite taste was manifest,
And every one who chose to scan
Could only say, “What a tasteful man!”
Alas for the glory of human pride,
As frail and fickle as the tide!
For the polish of blacking and brush and oil
One little spatter of mud may spoil.
E'en as he walked the pave along,
With head exalted and footstep strong,
He trod on a grape-skin in his way,
And a man disgraced in the dirt he lay!
As frail and fickle as the tide!
For the polish of blacking and brush and oil
One little spatter of mud may spoil.
224
With head exalted and footstep strong,
He trod on a grape-skin in his way,
And a man disgraced in the dirt he lay!
This moral I drew from what I saw:
There are men in the world without a flaw,
Who are in such robes of sanctity found,
And such rare virtues engirt them round,
That we humble ourselves, as we pass them by,
With reverent and admiring eye,
Saying, while viewing such merits rare,
“Bless us, what good men they are!”
There are men in the world without a flaw,
Who are in such robes of sanctity found,
And such rare virtues engirt them round,
That we humble ourselves, as we pass them by,
With reverent and admiring eye,
Saying, while viewing such merits rare,
“Bless us, what good men they are!”
But alas for the glory of human pride,
As frail and fickle as the tide!
In the world of men they exalt their horn,
As though of a better clay they were born.
But there in their path the grape-skins wait,
—Temptations hidden perhaps till late—
One step of the foot—one curvetting lurch,
And down they come from their eminent perch.
As frail and fickle as the tide!
In the world of men they exalt their horn,
As though of a better clay they were born.
But there in their path the grape-skins wait,
—Temptations hidden perhaps till late—
One step of the foot—one curvetting lurch,
And down they come from their eminent perch.
In dress or morals 'tis much the same;
And happy is he who wins his fame,
If he die at its zenith, nor has to wait
Till he slip and fall through invidious fate.
He may dodge the rock and shy the cloud
That threat his step and bearing proud,
But let him not crow till danger's past—
He may by a grape-skin be overcast.
And happy is he who wins his fame,
If he die at its zenith, nor has to wait
Till he slip and fall through invidious fate.
He may dodge the rock and shy the cloud
That threat his step and bearing proud,
But let him not crow till danger's past—
He may by a grape-skin be overcast.
235
MY FRIEND'S SECRET.
I found my friend in his easy chair,
With his heart and his head undisturbed by a care;
The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from his lips,
His face like the moon in a semi-eclipse;
His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose,
And his chair tilted back to a classical pose.
With his heart and his head undisturbed by a care;
The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from his lips,
His face like the moon in a semi-eclipse;
His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose,
And his chair tilted back to a classical pose.
I marvelled much such contentment to see—
The secret whereof I begged he'd give me.
He puffed away with reanimate zest,
As though with an added jollity blest.
“I'll tell you, my friend,” said he, in a pause,
“What is the very ‘dientical’ cause.
The secret whereof I begged he'd give me.
He puffed away with reanimate zest,
As though with an added jollity blest.
“I'll tell you, my friend,” said he, in a pause,
“What is the very ‘dientical’ cause.
“Don't fret!—Let this be the first rule of your life;—
Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife;
Let everything happen as happen it may,
Be cool as a cucumber every day;
If favorite of fortune or a thing of its spite,
Keep calm, and believe that all is just right.
Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife;
Let everything happen as happen it may,
Be cool as a cucumber every day;
If favorite of fortune or a thing of its spite,
Keep calm, and believe that all is just right.
236
“If you're blown up abroad or scolded at home,
Just make up your mind to let it all come;
If people revile you or pile on offence,
'T will not make any odds a century hence.
For all the reviling that malice can fling,
A little philosophy softens the sting.
Just make up your mind to let it all come;
If people revile you or pile on offence,
'T will not make any odds a century hence.
For all the reviling that malice can fling,
A little philosophy softens the sting.
“Run never in debt, but pay as you go;
A man free from debt feels a heaven below;
He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun,
And ranks 'mid the favored as A No. 1.
It needs a great effort the spirit to brace
'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face.
A man free from debt feels a heaven below;
He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun,
And ranks 'mid the favored as A No. 1.
It needs a great effort the spirit to brace
'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face.
“And this one resolve you should cherish like gold,
—It has ever my life and endeavor controlled,—
If fortune assail, and worst comes to worst,
And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst,
Be resolved, if disaster your plans circumvent,
That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent.”
—It has ever my life and endeavor controlled,—
If fortune assail, and worst comes to worst,
And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst,
Be resolved, if disaster your plans circumvent,
That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent.”
There was Bunsby's deep wisdom revealed in his tone,
Though its depth was hard to fathom I own;
“For how can I fail,” I said to myself,
“If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?”
Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light,
But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right;
And herein give out, as my earnest intent,
Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent.
Though its depth was hard to fathom I own;
“For how can I fail,” I said to myself,
“If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?”
Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light,
But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right;
And herein give out, as my earnest intent,
Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent.
247
GOUT:
A SUBDUED CASE.
Dear Nannie, place my easy chair,
And give my foot the proper square—
Be careful how you touch it!—THERE!—
That pang, just past,
Might cause an anchorite to swear,
Nor risk his caste.
And give my foot the proper square—
Be careful how you touch it!—THERE!—
That pang, just past,
Might cause an anchorite to swear,
Nor risk his caste.
And now my pen with acrid-sting
And ink of verjuice hither bring,
That I may Gout's demerits sing
In limpéd strains;
A theme ignored—a baleful thing—
It prompts my pains.
And ink of verjuice hither bring,
That I may Gout's demerits sing
In limpéd strains;
A theme ignored—a baleful thing—
It prompts my pains.
My muse is no ecstatic sprite,
To lead me, wildered, out of sight,
And breathe ineffable delight
In bird-like lays;
Than this I try no higher flight
To win my baize.
To lead me, wildered, out of sight,
And breathe ineffable delight
In bird-like lays;
Than this I try no higher flight
To win my baize.
But how describe the pain and ache—
The surging, burning, shooting shake;
The wrench, the rend, the twist, the break,
The anguish deep,
The while dire demons hold a wake
To murder sleep!
The surging, burning, shooting shake;
The wrench, the rend, the twist, the break,
The anguish deep,
The while dire demons hold a wake
To murder sleep!
248
Milton has writ of Purgatory,
And Pollok a more lurid story,
And Dante raised h---eat con amore,
But mine the worse,
Compared with which their highest glory
'S not worth a curse.
And Pollok a more lurid story,
And Dante raised h---eat con amore,
But mine the worse,
Compared with which their highest glory
'S not worth a curse.
But hold! my pet canary there
Sings from his perch a gentle air,
Regarding me with tender care—
In fear, 'twould seem,
His looks might fall on me somewhere,
To make me scream.
Sings from his perch a gentle air,
Regarding me with tender care—
In fear, 'twould seem,
His looks might fall on me somewhere,
To make me scream.
Entranced I listen—pen suspent—
To him strange fascination lent,
And his sweet song, the air besprent,
Thus seems to say—
The while from me his eye intent
Turns not away:—
To him strange fascination lent,
And his sweet song, the air besprent,
Thus seems to say—
The while from me his eye intent
Turns not away:—
“You surely make a great to-do
About this thing that troubles you,
All selfishly forgetting, too,
The pain you make;
Be just a bit to reason true,
For manhood's sake.
About this thing that troubles you,
All selfishly forgetting, too,
The pain you make;
Be just a bit to reason true,
For manhood's sake.
“And don't you see, my muddled friend,
Great good from great ill may descend?
And anguish, that the heart doth rend,
May give a birth,
Of grandest offices the end,
And priceless worth?
Great good from great ill may descend?
And anguish, that the heart doth rend,
May give a birth,
Of grandest offices the end,
And priceless worth?
249
“So this same gout that you revile,
Though painful, doubtless, for a while,
May prove at last the creaming oil
—The thought is valid—
That makes antagonisms smile
In life's great salad.
Though painful, doubtless, for a while,
May prove at last the creaming oil
—The thought is valid—
That makes antagonisms smile
In life's great salad.
“But for this gout would you have known
The myriad favors to you shown—
The kindly hearts to you have flown,
Attentions dear,
The atmosphere of love outthrown
To give you cheer?
The myriad favors to you shown—
The kindly hearts to you have flown,
Attentions dear,
The atmosphere of love outthrown
To give you cheer?
“How friends have pressed, with smiling lips,
Freighted with fruits, like orient ships,
To lighten up your joy's eclipse,
While here you groan;
And, from electric finger-tips,
Hope's seeds have sown!
Freighted with fruits, like orient ships,
To lighten up your joy's eclipse,
While here you groan;
And, from electric finger-tips,
Hope's seeds have sown!
“What gives that crutch its magic power
To call more spirits than Glendower?
You'd hammer like a thunder shower,
I greatly fear,
Did sympathy not ope a door
Through which to hear.
To call more spirits than Glendower?
You'd hammer like a thunder shower,
I greatly fear,
Did sympathy not ope a door
Through which to hear.
“A most ungrateful churl, at best,
You will nor reason manifest;
Inside's a demon more a pest
Than this without;
Disturbance of the spirit's rest
Is worse than gout.
You will nor reason manifest;
Inside's a demon more a pest
Than this without;
Disturbance of the spirit's rest
Is worse than gout.
250
“Then stop complaint, and be a man;
Be true, and your tormentor scan,
And ask, May it not be a plan
Your faults to snub?
Perhaps in them it all began,
And there's the rub.”
Be true, and your tormentor scan,
And ask, May it not be a plan
Your faults to snub?
Perhaps in them it all began,
And there's the rub.”
The song here ceased. I dipped my pen,
But all the spite had left me then,
And simply shouting out, “Amen!”
I gave it o'er;
Sure ne'er a bird to mortal ken
Sang so before.
But all the spite had left me then,
And simply shouting out, “Amen!”
I gave it o'er;
Sure ne'er a bird to mortal ken
Sang so before.
260
THE OLD RED EAR.
Thou 'mind'st me of the festal night
When, though the stars were shut from sight,
The fleet hours winged with footsteps light,
To pleasure's note,
And mirth and song put care to flight
To realms remote.
When, though the stars were shut from sight,
The fleet hours winged with footsteps light,
To pleasure's note,
And mirth and song put care to flight
To realms remote.
Ah, sweet the picture thou dost bring!
Reseated in that magic ring,
We round the circle deftly swing,
As then we swung;
While every way the husks we fling
The crowd among.
Reseated in that magic ring,
We round the circle deftly swing,
As then we swung;
While every way the husks we fling
The crowd among.
And merry joke and repartee
Dart to and fro with noisy glee,
And speech unloosed finds accent free
From mirthful lips,
As sweet as roses that the bee
Delighted sips.
Dart to and fro with noisy glee,
And speech unloosed finds accent free
From mirthful lips,
As sweet as roses that the bee
Delighted sips.
Dim is the lantern's dusky glow
Upon the cereal heaps below,
But bright the wit in ceaseless flow,
And bright the gleam
Of eyes, above the gloom that throw
A brighter beam.
Upon the cereal heaps below,
But bright the wit in ceaseless flow,
And bright the gleam
Of eyes, above the gloom that throw
A brighter beam.
261
The old grow young again to mark
The sounds that shatter in the dark,
Where boys and girls in playful lark
Their bent attain,
And fun, like an electric spark,
Smacks out amain.
The sounds that shatter in the dark,
Where boys and girls in playful lark
Their bent attain,
And fun, like an electric spark,
Smacks out amain.
Ah, crimson ear! thou ledd'st me through
A scene I'd fain again renew,
That e'en to ponder in review,
By memory's beam,
Enchants me till I sadden to
Dispel the dream.
A scene I'd fain again renew,
That e'en to ponder in review,
By memory's beam,
Enchants me till I sadden to
Dispel the dream.
What precious rights didst thou impart!
How soon I learned them all by heart!
How did my pulse in tumult start,
As thou, revealed,
Didst prove a key, whose dexterous art
Rare sweets unsealed!
How soon I learned them all by heart!
How did my pulse in tumult start,
As thou, revealed,
Didst prove a key, whose dexterous art
Rare sweets unsealed!
Ah, every kernel is a tongue
That speaks me back those scenes among;
Through Time's back door, wide open swung,
A sight I see,
Of flowers of joy, at random flung,
No more for me.
That speaks me back those scenes among;
Through Time's back door, wide open swung,
A sight I see,
Of flowers of joy, at random flung,
No more for me.
But such is doom, and such is best;
And older hearts should seek for rest,
Nor in such fancy stocks invest
As husking bouts;
They are for youth, 'tis manifest—
The elders “outs.”
And older hearts should seek for rest,
Nor in such fancy stocks invest
As husking bouts;
They are for youth, 'tis manifest—
The elders “outs.”
266
BLESS YOU!
There is a prayer of simple art,
That from the tongue the readiest slips,
That springs spontaneous from the heart,
And breaks in blessing on the lips:
Bless you!
That from the tongue the readiest slips,
That springs spontaneous from the heart,
And breaks in blessing on the lips:
Bless you!
When joy's bright beam about us rests,
As some dear hand our cup o'erfills,
In this our gladness manifests,
And with love's fondest cadence thrills:
Bless you!
As some dear hand our cup o'erfills,
In this our gladness manifests,
And with love's fondest cadence thrills:
Bless you!
267
The sympathy with others' woe
That melts the heart to loving tears,
No sweeter form of speech may know
Than this the sorrowing spirit hears:
Bless you!
That melts the heart to loving tears,
No sweeter form of speech may know
Than this the sorrowing spirit hears:
Bless you!
When weary limb and aching brain
Attest the weight of busy care,
How lifts the dulling cloud of pain
To catch the accent of that prayer:
Bless you!
Attest the weight of busy care,
How lifts the dulling cloud of pain
To catch the accent of that prayer:
Bless you!
In love's pure sacrament of bliss,
When lip meets lip in fond embrace,
Rises with blest approval this
To give the chrism a holier grace:
Bless you!
When lip meets lip in fond embrace,
Rises with blest approval this
To give the chrism a holier grace:
Bless you!
As failing pulse and dimming eye
Proclaim some loved one's exit near,
How like a whisper from on high
Comes the faint murmur to our ear:
Bless you!
Proclaim some loved one's exit near,
How like a whisper from on high
Comes the faint murmur to our ear:
Bless you!
But yet no language it may need;
A glance, as well as words, may pray;
All speech kind action may exceed,
A smile a deeper sense convey:
Bless you!
A glance, as well as words, may pray;
All speech kind action may exceed,
A smile a deeper sense convey:
Bless you!
O, may our hearts be tuned aright,
Unselfishly this prayer to feel,
And fill our measure of delight
By supplicating others' weal:
Bless you!
Unselfishly this prayer to feel,
And fill our measure of delight
By supplicating others' weal:
Bless you!
271
THE POOR BLIND MAN.
A poor blind man besought my aid,
Feeling his way with a crooked stick,
Stepping as if of the earth afraid,
And touching the pave with pensive lick.
Feeling his way with a crooked stick,
Stepping as if of the earth afraid,
And touching the pave with pensive lick.
I held a penny before his eyes;
He could see no more than a dead man can,
And I felt my pity within me rise,
For such a very unfortunate man.
He could see no more than a dead man can,
And I felt my pity within me rise,
For such a very unfortunate man.
I took his hand and led him o'er
The crossing where the mud was deep,
And guided his steps where a bit before
An Irishman had tried to sweep.
The crossing where the mud was deep,
And guided his steps where a bit before
An Irishman had tried to sweep.
He thanked me kindly, with rayless eye,
And a tearful tone of cadence sweet;
Just then a dog, that was going by,
Smelt him to know were he good to eat.
And a tearful tone of cadence sweet;
Just then a dog, that was going by,
Smelt him to know were he good to eat.
I could but mark the blind man's look
As the canine smelt his brogans thick;
And I marked the capital aim he took
As he gave that canine a damaging kick.
As the canine smelt his brogans thick;
And I marked the capital aim he took
As he gave that canine a damaging kick.
Then the blind man chuckled in merry mood,
As the dog yelped out his agony;
But how he knew where the canine stood
Was more than I, with both eyes, could see.
As the dog yelped out his agony;
But how he knew where the canine stood
Was more than I, with both eyes, could see.
Just then came along a street horse-ear,
And the blind man hailed it, and off he rolled,
And I felt it on my consciousness jar,
That I had been infernally sold.
And the blind man hailed it, and off he rolled,
And I felt it on my consciousness jar,
That I had been infernally sold.
278
HOME IN VACATION.
How still the house is! All the noise and riot,
That late our ears with fearful din distracted,
Are now submerged in overwhelming quiet,
And order reigns where chaos was enacted.
That late our ears with fearful din distracted,
Are now submerged in overwhelming quiet,
And order reigns where chaos was enacted.
Ah, blessed order! we thy peace enjoying,
Forget the recent source of our vexation,
And while the tranquil time we are employing,
We bless the happy season of vacation.
Forget the recent source of our vexation,
And while the tranquil time we are employing,
We bless the happy season of vacation.
No voices by the chamber stairs are calling;
No lawless hands on the piano drumming;
No teasing Ike his sisterhood is hauling;
No screams for “Father!” to his ear are coming;
No lawless hands on the piano drumming;
No teasing Ike his sisterhood is hauling;
No screams for “Father!” to his ear are coming;
No boisterous lungs in disputatious fretting;
No tart remark, no sharp recrimination;
No little rebel duty's claim forgetting;
No broken rules for stern examination.
No tart remark, no sharp recrimination;
No little rebel duty's claim forgetting;
No broken rules for stern examination.
The books are on the shelves in nice condition,
The music piled up in the proper places,
The table-cloths are in exact position,
And just the angle are the shells and vases.
The music piled up in the proper places,
The table-cloths are in exact position,
And just the angle are the shells and vases.
It is so quite! Not an echo hearing
In all the rooms, from basement to the attic.
We smile to realize the comfort cheering
Of stillness so profound—bliss so ecstatic.
In all the rooms, from basement to the attic.
We smile to realize the comfort cheering
Of stillness so profound—bliss so ecstatic.
279
But yet, amid the turbulence and clatter,
There mingled strains that filled the heart with pleasure,
Kernels of love mixed with the idle chatter,
Bright grains among the dross we loved to treasure.
There mingled strains that filled the heart with pleasure,
Kernels of love mixed with the idle chatter,
Bright grains among the dross we loved to treasure.
Glad glances met our own each day returning,
And faces with the soul's young sunlight glowing,
And hearts with warm, impulsive fervor burning,
Spoke out from lips with youth's own language flowing.
And faces with the soul's young sunlight glowing,
And hearts with warm, impulsive fervor burning,
Spoke out from lips with youth's own language flowing.
Sweet melodies upon the air of even
Woke the heart's tenderness to fondest dreaming,
And lost in notes that seemed like those of heaven,
Forgot were cares with which the earth is teeming.
Woke the heart's tenderness to fondest dreaming,
And lost in notes that seemed like those of heaven,
Forgot were cares with which the earth is teeming.
Although we prize the luxury of order,
And think ourselves enriched the boon possessing,
The ripless calm that overhangs our border,
Purchased with loss of these is not a blessing.
And think ourselves enriched the boon possessing,
The ripless calm that overhangs our border,
Purchased with loss of these is not a blessing.
We sigh regretfully the past recalling,
And crave disorder with the joys attending,
For quiet wears to us a garb appalling,
And peace thus gained is not worth the defending.
And crave disorder with the joys attending,
For quiet wears to us a garb appalling,
And peace thus gained is not worth the defending.
Then welcome once again the wild commotion,
The song, the shout, the dance, the roguish actions,
Breaking to life the dull domestic ocean,
By order's oft allowable infractions.
The song, the shout, the dance, the roguish actions,
Breaking to life the dull domestic ocean,
By order's oft allowable infractions.
282
VAIN REGRETS.
A seedy old beggar asked alms of me
As he sat 'neath the shade of a wayside tree.
He was beggared in purse and beggared in soul,
And his voice betrayed a pitiful dole,
As he sang a song, to a dismal pitch,
With the burden, “If THINGS WAS ONLY SICH!”
As he sat 'neath the shade of a wayside tree.
He was beggared in purse and beggared in soul,
And his voice betrayed a pitiful dole,
As he sang a song, to a dismal pitch,
With the burden, “If THINGS WAS ONLY SICH!”
“If things was only sich,” said he,
“You should see what a wonderful man I'd be;
No beggar I, by the wayside thrown,
But I'd live in a palace and millions own,
And men would court me if I were rich—
As I'd be if things was only sich.”
“You should see what a wonderful man I'd be;
No beggar I, by the wayside thrown,
But I'd live in a palace and millions own,
And men would court me if I were rich—
As I'd be if things was only sich.”
283
“If things was only sich,” said he,
“I'd be lord of the land and lord of the sea;
I would have a throne and be a king,
And rule the roast with a mighty swing—
I'd make a place in Fame's bright niche;
I'd do it if things was only sich.”
“I'd be lord of the land and lord of the sea;
I would have a throne and be a king,
And rule the roast with a mighty swing—
I'd make a place in Fame's bright niche;
I'd do it if things was only sich.”
“If things was only sich,” said he,
“Rare wines I'd quaff from the far countree,
I'd clothe myself in dazzling garb,
I'd mount the back of the costly barb,
And none should ask me wherefore or which—
Did it chance that things was only sich.”
“Rare wines I'd quaff from the far countree,
I'd clothe myself in dazzling garb,
I'd mount the back of the costly barb,
And none should ask me wherefore or which—
Did it chance that things was only sich.”
“If things was only sich,” said he,
“I'd love the fairest and they'd love me;
Yon dame, with a smile that warms my heart,
Might have borne with me life's better part,
But lost to me, here in poverty's ditch,
What were mine if things was only sich.”
“I'd love the fairest and they'd love me;
Yon dame, with a smile that warms my heart,
Might have borne with me life's better part,
But lost to me, here in poverty's ditch,
What were mine if things was only sich.”
Thus the old beggar moodily sung,
And his eyes dropped tears as his hands he wrung.
I could but pity to hear him berate,
In dolorous tones, the decrees of Fate,
That laid on his back its iron switch,
While he cried, “If things was only sich.”
And his eyes dropped tears as his hands he wrung.
I could but pity to hear him berate,
In dolorous tones, the decrees of Fate,
That laid on his back its iron switch,
While he cried, “If things was only sich.”
“If things was only sich!”—e'en all
Might the past in sad review recall;
But little the use and little the gain,
Exhuming the bones of buried pain,
And whether we're poor or whether we're rich,
We'll say not, “If things was only sich.”
Might the past in sad review recall;
But little the use and little the gain,
Exhuming the bones of buried pain,
And whether we're poor or whether we're rich,
We'll say not, “If things was only sich.”
286
TRUE FAITH.
Old Reuben Fisher, who lived in the lane,
Was never in life disposed to complain;
If the weather proved fair, he'd thank God for the sun,
And if it were rainy, with him 'twas all one;—
“I have just the weather I fancy,” said he,
“For what pleases God always satisfies me.”
Was never in life disposed to complain;
If the weather proved fair, he'd thank God for the sun,
And if it were rainy, with him 'twas all one;—
“I have just the weather I fancy,” said he,
“For what pleases God always satisfies me.”
If trouble assailed, his brow was ne'er dark,
And his eye never lost its happiest spark.
“'Twill not better fix it to gloom or to sigh;
To make the best of it I always shall try!
So, Care, do your worst,” said Reuben with glee,
“And which of us conquers, we shall see, we shall see.”
And his eye never lost its happiest spark.
“'Twill not better fix it to gloom or to sigh;
To make the best of it I always shall try!
So, Care, do your worst,” said Reuben with glee,
“And which of us conquers, we shall see, we shall see.”
If his children were wild, as children will prove,
His temper ne'er lost its warm aspect of love;
“My dear wife,” he'd say, “don't worry nor fret;
'Twill all be right with the wayward ones yet;
'Tis the folly of youth, that must have its way;
They'll penitent turn from their evil some day.”
His temper ne'er lost its warm aspect of love;
“My dear wife,” he'd say, “don't worry nor fret;
'Twill all be right with the wayward ones yet;
'Tis the folly of youth, that must have its way;
They'll penitent turn from their evil some day.”
287
If a name were assailed, he would cheerily say,
“Well, well; we'll not join in the cry, any way;
There are always two sides to every tale—
And the true one at last is sure to prevail.
There is an old rule that I learned when a lad,—
‘Deem every one good till he's proved to be bad.’”
“Well, well; we'll not join in the cry, any way;
There are always two sides to every tale—
And the true one at last is sure to prevail.
There is an old rule that I learned when a lad,—
‘Deem every one good till he's proved to be bad.’”
And when in the meshes of sin tightly bound,
The reckless and luckless mortal was found,
Proscribed by every woman and man,
And put under rigid and merciless ban,
Old Reuben would say, with sympathy fraught,
“We none of us do half as well as we ought.”
The reckless and luckless mortal was found,
Proscribed by every woman and man,
And put under rigid and merciless ban,
Old Reuben would say, with sympathy fraught,
“We none of us do half as well as we ought.”
If friends waxed cold, he'd say with a smile—
“Well, if they must go, Heaven bless them the while;
We walked a sweet path till the crossing ways met,
And though we have parted, I'll cherish them yet;
They'll go by their way and I'll go by mine—
Perhaps in the city ahead we shall join.”
“Well, if they must go, Heaven bless them the while;
We walked a sweet path till the crossing ways met,
And though we have parted, I'll cherish them yet;
They'll go by their way and I'll go by mine—
Perhaps in the city ahead we shall join.”
There were sickness and death at last in his cot,
But still Reuben Fisher in sorrow blenched not:
“'Tis the Father afflicts; let Him do what He will;
What comes from His hand can mean us no ill;
I cheerfully give back the blessing He lent,
And through faith in the future find present content.”
But still Reuben Fisher in sorrow blenched not:
“'Tis the Father afflicts; let Him do what He will;
What comes from His hand can mean us no ill;
I cheerfully give back the blessing He lent,
And through faith in the future find present content.”
Then he lay on his death-bed at last undismayed;
No terror had death at which he was afraid;
“Living or dying, 'tis all well with me,
For God's will is my will,” submissive said he.
And so Reuben died, with his breast full of grace,
That beamed in a smile on his time-furrowed face.
No terror had death at which he was afraid;
“Living or dying, 'tis all well with me,
For God's will is my will,” submissive said he.
And so Reuben died, with his breast full of grace,
That beamed in a smile on his time-furrowed face.
290
A COUNTRY RAINY DAY.
Up from the river
sweeps the rain,
Over the field and over the wood,
And the fretful wind, with a note of pain,
Sobs and murmurs a sad refrain,
Responsive to the angry flood.
Over the field and over the wood,
And the fretful wind, with a note of pain,
Sobs and murmurs a sad refrain,
Responsive to the angry flood.
O, the sight for impatient eyes,
Scanning the desolate, dreary day,
With its drenchéd earth and leaden skies,
To see the misty clouds arise
That shroud the hills there far away.
Scanning the desolate, dreary day,
With its drenchéd earth and leaden skies,
To see the misty clouds arise
That shroud the hills there far away.
I hear the plashing torrent pour,
And listen with a sense of dread;
There's bodily misery in the roar,
That wakens mental torture sore,
Till all of sweet content has fled.
And listen with a sense of dread;
There's bodily misery in the roar,
That wakens mental torture sore,
Till all of sweet content has fled.
291
Drip and drip from yonder eaves—
The whole day long 'tis dripping there!
There's a shivering sound in all the leaves,
And the feeling the wakeful soul receives
Is one akin to deep despair.
The whole day long 'tis dripping there!
There's a shivering sound in all the leaves,
And the feeling the wakeful soul receives
Is one akin to deep despair.
The poultry in the barn-yard stand,
Damp and cheerless, with drooping quills;
They see no promise in all the land,
Or joy that they can understand
Through this grand culminate of ills.
Damp and cheerless, with drooping quills;
They see no promise in all the land,
Or joy that they can understand
Through this grand culminate of ills.
That crower never will crow again,
That hen never exalt her lay;
Their ardor is damped by the falling rain,
And they seem to feel, it is very plain,
Disgusted with the sloppy day.
That hen never exalt her lay;
Their ardor is damped by the falling rain,
And they seem to feel, it is very plain,
Disgusted with the sloppy day.
The swallows seek the sheltered place,
High up there on the beams of the barn
And “touch and go” they flit their race,
Showing their young, with tender grace,
The useful lesson they must “larn.”
High up there on the beams of the barn
And “touch and go” they flit their race,
Showing their young, with tender grace,
The useful lesson they must “larn.”
The cattle on the barn-floor smoke,
—A practice they are here allowed—
While all the boys, unhindered, joke,
And “Uncle George” puts in his spoke,
The jolliest among the crowd.
—A practice they are here allowed—
While all the boys, unhindered, joke,
And “Uncle George” puts in his spoke,
The jolliest among the crowd.
He cares not though the day be wet;
“What is the use,” he says, “to cry?
'Twill be fair weather, some time, yet—
'Tis not a bit of use to fret,
Let the weather be wet or dry.”
“What is the use,” he says, “to cry?
292
'Tis not a bit of use to fret,
Let the weather be wet or dry.”
The croakers indoors sadly growl
At hopes thus gloomily overeast;
The answering wind sets up a howl,
And the rain comes down like a water-fowl,
Struck by the north-east chilling blast.
At hopes thus gloomily overeast;
The answering wind sets up a howl,
And the rain comes down like a water-fowl,
Struck by the north-east chilling blast.
I hear the struggling of the spout,
As it outpours its yeasty flood;
I hear the hay-press workers shout,
And see Hodge driving the cattle out
Through pools of liquefying mud.
As it outpours its yeasty flood;
I hear the hay-press workers shout,
And see Hodge driving the cattle out
Through pools of liquefying mud.
O Patience! what a virtue thou!
I feel thy need in all my bones;
John Bunyan yonder in the slough
Was no worse off than I am now,
Hearing these angry tempest tones.
I feel thy need in all my bones;
John Bunyan yonder in the slough
Was no worse off than I am now,
Hearing these angry tempest tones.
Roar out, ye children on the stair,
And let your voices do their best;
We'll make believe the day is fair,
And try to mitigate despair,
Though all our trying prove a jest.
And let your voices do their best;
We'll make believe the day is fair,
And try to mitigate despair,
Though all our trying prove a jest.
Alas! alas! 'tis even so;
We cannot banish this one pain;
The frisky winds must have their blow,
And all the racks must overflow,
That hold the bottles of the rain.
We cannot banish this one pain;
The frisky winds must have their blow,
And all the racks must overflow,
That hold the bottles of the rain.
A true country philosopher, who, when the skies are the blackest, always predicts that it is “coming off.”
293
SIDEWALK OPERA.
It is wonderful how infectious opera is. Whole neighborhoods will be bewitched by it; and men and women, in pursuing the quiet avocations of life, will become operatic in spite of themselves. Men ask the price of a beefsteak with a bravura, which is replied to by a cavatina; the morning salutation becomes a duet, and arias and romanzas are common things. Thus an opera of householders, compelled to shovel off in front after a snow-storm, was quite amusing.
Scene, Sidewalk. Snow mountains high.Smith, Brown, Jones, and Robinson
(queerly costumed, armed with shovels, prepared to level the drift). Quartette.
Here we are to stand the brunt:
We must shovel off in front.
Now with blades to cleave the snow,
In we go, and in we go,
Throwing the invading drift
Far as human nerve can lift.
In, boys, in, and do not stay;
It will be as good as play.
[They pitch in.
Smith
(resting on his shovel).
Whew! 'tis rough and tough enough:
I'm not made of seasoned stuff.
I can't stand this fierce employ:
I'll knock off, and find a boy.
294
(resting on their shovels). Trio.
Ah! peccavi do you cry?
So soon from the toil to fly?
Can you thus the joy forego
Of this fresh and healthy glow?
Stay: think better of it, Smith,
Be a man of nerve and pith.
Smith
(shouldering his shovel, and beckoning to a boy about forty years old). Bass.
My hope to feel the glow is dim;
Therefore I resign to him.
[Exit.
[Brown, Jones, and Robinson resume shovelling.]
Brown
(resting on his shovel, and wiping his face).
By George! this'll try the back:
I thought I felt a muscle crack;
And, though I feel all right and brisk,
I don't dare too much to risk.
Therefore I conceive it best
To call a boy to do the rest.
Jones and Robinson
(resting on their shovels). Duet.
Ha, ha! thus the toil you shirk,
While we stick and do the work.
Men of pluck, we'll trophies show
Of our struggle with the snow.
Brown
(shouldering his shovel, and calling another boy of some fifty summers and forty-nine winters). 2d Bass.
I will leave you all the fun
Of hope achieved and victory won.
[Exit.
295
Jones
(resting on his shovel, and putting his hand wildly to his head).
Ah! that horrid vertigo!
I was fearful 'twould be so.
Round and round things seem to spin:
I declare I must cave in.
Robinson
(resting on his shovel). Solo.
Thus they drop from out the ring,
Tender as the buds of spring;
Leaving me here all alone
To shovel on, while they have flown.
Jones
(shouldering his shovel, and calling a boy of about thirty-five years). Tenor.
'Tis rather “going back,” I know;
But vertigo now makes me go.
[Exit.
[Robinson resumes shovelling.]
Robinson
(resting on his shovel, and looking at about twenty feet of drift he has got to work through).
Faith, I think I'd best give o'er:
My dexter hand is very sore,
My hair and eyes are full of snow,—
I guess I'll have the verti-go.
Robinson
(shouldering his shovel, and calling a boy about twenty-five). 2d Tenor.
Here, my lad: just put this through;
I'll leave the glory all to you.
[Exit.
296
Ah, begorra! but this is a good job for us, onnyhow:
Blessings on the shnow-storrum that kicked up sich a lovely row!
With the worruk half done by the gintlefolk, who broke down 'fore they did it,
Laving us to charge what we're a mind to, by the same token; and we'll do that, you'd better belave, before we've done wid it.
[They shovel.
302
SAN GAREE'S RIDE.
I'll tell you a tale, if you'll list to me,
Of the ride that was rid by San Garee,
On a night in the K. N. Fifty-Five:
There are many witnesses alive
Who were on the spot the thing to see.
Of the ride that was rid by San Garee,
On a night in the K. N. Fifty-Five:
There are many witnesses alive
Who were on the spot the thing to see.
He said to his friend, “The constable's come,
But, as you'll see, I'm up to trap;
They think they've wholly stopped our rum
By cutting off the tavern's tap.
I'll show 'em a trick worth two of that,
For I'll away to the opposite flat,
Ready to ride to Medford town
And bring the real ‘critter’ down,
In spite of the tyrannous Maine law's frown!”
But, as you'll see, I'm up to trap;
They think they've wholly stopped our rum
By cutting off the tavern's tap.
I'll show 'em a trick worth two of that,
For I'll away to the opposite flat,
Ready to ride to Medford town
And bring the real ‘critter’ down,
In spite of the tyrannous Maine law's frown!”
Then he said good night, and a jug he took,
And crossed the bridge that spanned the brook,
Just as the moon, half over the bay,
Shed its beam where a hay-cart waiting lay—
A phantom cart, with slats upright,
Through which the moon shone still and bright,
And a huge black hulk of a shadow was cast
On the fence, as San Garee hurried past.
[OMITTED]
A clatter of hoofs rang through the town,
Lickity-cut, at a terrible pace,
And the oldest stagers in the place
Vowed that such riding they'd never known:
That was all! and yet from his mission that night,
A dozen men ere morning were tight!
[OMITTED]
It was ten by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He smelt the fragrance of the dock,
And heard the hum of the 'stillery dam,
And the sound of a distant front door slam,
As folks to their naps were settling down;
And he was fast asleep in his bed,
The one on whom San Garee did call,
Who filled his jug with the fluid red,
And didn't mind the law at all.
And crossed the bridge that spanned the brook,
Just as the moon, half over the bay,
Shed its beam where a hay-cart waiting lay—
A phantom cart, with slats upright,
Through which the moon shone still and bright,
And a huge black hulk of a shadow was cast
On the fence, as San Garee hurried past.
[OMITTED]
A clatter of hoofs rang through the town,
Lickity-cut, at a terrible pace,
And the oldest stagers in the place
Vowed that such riding they'd never known:
That was all! and yet from his mission that night,
A dozen men ere morning were tight!
[OMITTED]
303
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He smelt the fragrance of the dock,
And heard the hum of the 'stillery dam,
And the sound of a distant front door slam,
As folks to their naps were settling down;
And he was fast asleep in his bed,
The one on whom San Garee did call,
Who filled his jug with the fluid red,
And didn't mind the law at all.
The rest is soon told. He came as he went,
With no policeman on the scent,
His prize securely lashed to his side,
That ere he started he twice had tried,
Dashing along through road and lane
With eager heart and urgent rein;
And under the trees, by the river's brink,
Stopping only to take a drink!
With no policeman on the scent,
His prize securely lashed to his side,
That ere he started he twice had tried,
Dashing along through road and lane
With eager heart and urgent rein;
And under the trees, by the river's brink,
Stopping only to take a drink!
So on that night rode San Garee,
And so through the night his horses' heels
To wakeful ears made noisy appeals,—
Appeals that mocked curiosity;—
A clatter in darkness that passed by the door,
As homeward his trophy the night rider bore!
Now, 'mong the rummest things that are past,
Recounted often in circles fast,
In hours of sport, and mirth, and fun,
They tell the story with shouts of glee,
How the Maine-law people were done
By the midnight ride of San Garee.
And so through the night his horses' heels
To wakeful ears made noisy appeals,—
Appeals that mocked curiosity;—
A clatter in darkness that passed by the door,
As homeward his trophy the night rider bore!
Now, 'mong the rummest things that are past,
Recounted often in circles fast,
In hours of sport, and mirth, and fun,
They tell the story with shouts of glee,
How the Maine-law people were done
By the midnight ride of San Garee.
308
THE GREEN GOOSE.
Mr. Bogardus “gin a treat,”
And a green goose, best of birds to eat,
Delicious, savory, fat, and sweet,
Formed the dish the guests to greet;
But such, we know,
Is small for a “blow,”
And many times around won't go;
So Mr. Bogardus chanced to reflect,
And with a wisdom circumspect,
He sent round cards to parties select,
Some six or so the goose to dissect,
The day and hour defining;
And then he laid in lots of things,
That might have served as food for kings,
Liquors drawn from their primal springs,
And all that grateful comfort brings
To epicures in dining.
And a green goose, best of birds to eat,
Delicious, savory, fat, and sweet,
Formed the dish the guests to greet;
But such, we know,
Is small for a “blow,”
And many times around won't go;
So Mr. Bogardus chanced to reflect,
And with a wisdom circumspect,
He sent round cards to parties select,
Some six or so the goose to dissect,
The day and hour defining;
And then he laid in lots of things,
That might have served as food for kings,
309
And all that grateful comfort brings
To epicures in dining.
But Mr. Bogardus's brother Sim,
With moral qualities rather dim,
Copied the message sent to him,
In his most clerkly writing,
And sent it round to Tom, and Dick,
And Harry, and Jack, and Frank, and Nick,
And many more, to the green goose “pick”
Most earnestly inviting;
He laid it on the green goose thick,
Their appetites exciting.
With moral qualities rather dim,
Copied the message sent to him,
In his most clerkly writing,
And sent it round to Tom, and Dick,
And Harry, and Jack, and Frank, and Nick,
And many more, to the green goose “pick”
Most earnestly inviting;
He laid it on the green goose thick,
Their appetites exciting.
'Twas dinner time by the Old South clock;
Bogardus waited the sounding knock
Of friends to come at the moment, “chock,”
To try his goose, his game, his hock,
And hoped they would not dally;
When one, and two, and three, and four,
And running up the scale to a score,
And adding to it many more,
Who all their Sunday fixings wore,
Came in procession to the door,
And crowded in on his parlor floor,
Filling him with confusion sore,
Like an after-election rally!
Bogardus waited the sounding knock
Of friends to come at the moment, “chock,”
To try his goose, his game, his hock,
And hoped they would not dally;
When one, and two, and three, and four,
And running up the scale to a score,
And adding to it many more,
Who all their Sunday fixings wore,
Came in procession to the door,
And crowded in on his parlor floor,
Filling him with confusion sore,
Like an after-election rally!
“Gentlemen,” then murmured he,
“To what unhoped contingency
Am I owing for this felicity,
A visit thus unexpected?“
Then they held their cards before his eyes,
And he saw, to his infinite surprise,
That some sad dog had taken a rise
On him, and his hungry friends likewise,
And whom he half suspected;
But there was Sim,
Of morals dim,
With a face as long, and dull, and grim,
As though he the ire reflected.
“To what unhoped contingency
Am I owing for this felicity,
A visit thus unexpected?“
310
And he saw, to his infinite surprise,
That some sad dog had taken a rise
On him, and his hungry friends likewise,
And whom he half suspected;
But there was Sim,
Of morals dim,
With a face as long, and dull, and grim,
As though he the ire reflected.
Then forth the big procession went,
With mirth and anger equally blent;
To think they didn't get the scent
Of what the cursed missive meant
Annoyed some of 'em deeply;
They felt they'd been caught by a green goose bait,
And plucked and skinned, and then, light weight,
Had been sold very cheaply.
With mirth and anger equally blent;
To think they didn't get the scent
Of what the cursed missive meant
Annoyed some of 'em deeply;
They felt they'd been caught by a green goose bait,
And plucked and skinned, and then, light weight,
Had been sold very cheaply.
MORAL.
Keep your weather eye peeled for trap,
For we never know just what may hap,
Nor if we shall be winners;
Remembering that one green goose
Will be of very little use
'Mongst twenty hungry sinners.
For we never know just what may hap,
Nor if we shall be winners;
Remembering that one green goose
Will be of very little use
'Mongst twenty hungry sinners.
327
MIGRATORY BONES,
SHOWING THE VAGABONDISH TENDENCY OF BONES THAT ARE LOOSE.
We all have heard of Dr. Redman,
The man in New York who deals with dead men,
Who sits at a table,
And straighway is able
To talk with the spirits of those who have fled, man!
And gentles and ladies
Located in Hades,
Through his miraculous mediation,
Declare how they feel,
And such things reveal
As suits their genius for impartation.
'Tis not with any irreverent spirit
I give the tale, or flout it, or jeer it;
For many good folk
Not subject to joke
Declare for the fact that they both see and hear it.
It comes from New York, though,
And it might be hard work, though,
To bring belief to any point near it.
The man in New York who deals with dead men,
Who sits at a table,
And straighway is able
To talk with the spirits of those who have fled, man!
And gentles and ladies
Located in Hades,
Through his miraculous mediation,
Declare how they feel,
And such things reveal
As suits their genius for impartation.
'Tis not with any irreverent spirit
I give the tale, or flout it, or jeer it;
328
Not subject to joke
Declare for the fact that they both see and hear it.
It comes from New York, though,
And it might be hard work, though,
To bring belief to any point near it.
Now this Dr. Redman,
Who deals with the dead men,
Once cut up a fellow whose spirit had fled, man,
Who (the fellow) perchance
Had indulged in that dance
Performed at the end of a hempen thread, man;
And the cut-up one,
(A son of a gun!)
Like Banquo, though he was dead, wasn't done,
Insisted in very positive tones
That he'd be ground to calcined manure,
Or any other evil endure,
Before he'd give up his right to his bones!
And then, through knocks, the resolute dead man
Gave his bones a bequest to Redman.
In Hartford, Conn.,
This matter was done,
And Redman the bones highly thought on,
When, changed to New York
Was the scene of his work,
In conjunction with Dr. Orton.
Who deals with the dead men,
Once cut up a fellow whose spirit had fled, man,
Who (the fellow) perchance
Had indulged in that dance
Performed at the end of a hempen thread, man;
And the cut-up one,
(A son of a gun!)
Like Banquo, though he was dead, wasn't done,
Insisted in very positive tones
That he'd be ground to calcined manure,
Or any other evil endure,
Before he'd give up his right to his bones!
And then, through knocks, the resolute dead man
Gave his bones a bequest to Redman.
In Hartford, Conn.,
This matter was done,
And Redman the bones highly thought on,
When, changed to New York
Was the scene of his work,
In conjunction with Dr. Orton.
Now, mark the wonder that here appears:
After a season of months and years,
Comes up again the dead man,
Who, in a very practical way,
Says he'll bring his bones some day,
And give them again to Redman.
When, sure enough
(Though some that are rough
Might call the narrative “devilish tough”),
One charming day
In the month of May,
As Orton and Redman walked the street,
Through the severing air,
From they knew not where,
Came a positive bone, all bleached and bare,
That dropped at the doctor's wondering feet!
After a season of months and years,
Comes up again the dead man,
Who, in a very practical way,
Says he'll bring his bones some day,
329
When, sure enough
(Though some that are rough
Might call the narrative “devilish tough”),
One charming day
In the month of May,
As Orton and Redman walked the street,
Through the severing air,
From they knew not where,
Came a positive bone, all bleached and bare,
That dropped at the doctor's wondering feet!
Then the sprightly dead man
Knocked out to Redman
The plan that lay in his ghostly head, man:
He'd carry the freight,
Unheeding its weight;
They needn't question how, or about it;
But they might be sure
The bones he'd procure,
And not make any great bones about it.
From that he made it a special point
Each day for their larder to furnish a joint!
Knocked out to Redman
The plan that lay in his ghostly head, man:
He'd carry the freight,
Unheeding its weight;
They needn't question how, or about it;
But they might be sure
The bones he'd procure,
And not make any great bones about it.
From that he made it a special point
Each day for their larder to furnish a joint!
From overhead, and from all around,
Upon the floor, and upon the ground,
Pell-mell,
Down fell
Low bones, and high bones,
Jaw bones, and thigh bones,
Until the doctors, beneath their power,
Ducked like ducks in a thunder-shower!
Armfuls of bones,
Bagfuls of bones,
Cartloads of bones,
No end to the multitudinous bones,
Until, forsooth, this thought gained head, man,
That this invisible friend, the dead man,
Had chartered a band
From the shadowy land,
Who had turned to work with a busy hand,
And boned all their bones for Dr. Redman!
Upon the floor, and upon the ground,
Pell-mell,
Down fell
Low bones, and high bones,
Jaw bones, and thigh bones,
Until the doctors, beneath their power,
Ducked like ducks in a thunder-shower!
Armfuls of bones,
Bagfuls of bones,
330
No end to the multitudinous bones,
Until, forsooth, this thought gained head, man,
That this invisible friend, the dead man,
Had chartered a band
From the shadowy land,
Who had turned to work with a busy hand,
And boned all their bones for Dr. Redman!
Now, how to account for all the mystery
Of this same weird and fantastical history?
That is the question
For people's digestion,
And calls aloud for instant untwistery!
Of this we are certain,
By this lift of the curtain,
That still they're alive for work or enjoyment,
Though I must confess
That I scarcely can guess
Why they don't choose some useful employment.
Of this same weird and fantastical history?
That is the question
For people's digestion,
And calls aloud for instant untwistery!
Of this we are certain,
By this lift of the curtain,
That still they're alive for work or enjoyment,
Though I must confess
That I scarcely can guess
Why they don't choose some useful employment.
Dr. Redman, of New York, was a noted medium, and it was said that, for a while, wherever he might be, bones would be dropped all about him, to the confusion and wonder of everybody. These bones, he said, were brought him by a spirit, whose bones were of no further use to him.
358
PREACHING TO THE POOR.
Father Taylor once said, “'Tis of no use to preach to empty stomachs.”
The parson preached in solemn way,
—A well-clad man on ample pay,—
And told the poor they were sinners all,
Depraved and lost by Adam's fall;
That they must repent, and save their souls.
A hollow-eyed wretch cried, “Give us coals!”
—A well-clad man on ample pay,—
And told the poor they were sinners all,
Depraved and lost by Adam's fall;
That they must repent, and save their souls.
A hollow-eyed wretch cried, “Give us coals!”
Then he told of virtue's pleasant path,
And that of ruin and of wrath;
How the slipping feet of sinners fell
Quick on the downward road to h---,
To suffer for sins when they are dead;
And the hollow voice answered, “Give us bread!”
And that of ruin and of wrath;
How the slipping feet of sinners fell
Quick on the downward road to h---,
To suffer for sins when they are dead;
And the hollow voice answered, “Give us bread!”
Then he spoke of a land of love and peace,
Where all of pain and woe shall cease,
Where celestial flowers bloom by the way,
Where the light is brighter than solar day,
And there's no cold nor hunger there.
“O,” says the voice, “Give us clothes to wear!”
Where all of pain and woe shall cease,
Where celestial flowers bloom by the way,
Where the light is brighter than solar day,
And there's no cold nor hunger there.
“O,” says the voice, “Give us clothes to wear!”
Then the good man sighed, and turned away,
For such depravity to pray,
That had cast aside the heavenly worth
For the transient and fleeting things of earth!
And his church that night, to his content,
Raised his salary fifty per cent.
For such depravity to pray,
That had cast aside the heavenly worth
For the transient and fleeting things of earth!
And his church that night, to his content,
Raised his salary fifty per cent.
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