THE
STANDARD POPULAR
RECITER
THE STANDARD POPULAR RECITER
THE STANDARD
POPULAR RECITER
Including Selections from the Works of
RUDYARD KIPLING, SIR HENRY NEWBOLT,
E. NESBIT, GEORGE R. SIMS,
MARK TWAIN,
and many others.
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON AND MELBOURNE
Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd.. Frome and Londo.
CONTENTS
TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE
THE BALLAD OF THE CLAU-
PBSRDOWS Rudyard Kipling. . . 13
DRAKE'S DBUM Henry NewboU ... 16
HE FELL AMONG THIEVES . . Henry NewboU ... 17
THE SINGING OF THE MAGNIFICAT E. Neabit 19
MY KATE Mrs. Barrett Browning . 24
To FLUSH, MY DOG .... Mrs. Barrett Browning . 26
THE THREE FISHERS .... Charles Kingsley ... 30
THE LIFEBOAT George R. Sims . . .31
•• PRINCE " : A STORY op THE
AMERICAN WAR . . . . H. L. Childe-Pcmberton 37 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE
PORTS H. W. Longfellow . . 42
DOING NOTHING 44
THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD Clement Scott .... 45
SHAMUS O'BRIEN . . . . J. S. Le Fanu ... 49
THE ARAB'S RIDE TO CAIRO . O. J. Whyte-Melville . . 55
THE ELF-CHILD James Whitcomb Riley , 60
THE HIGH TIDE Jean Ingelow .... 62
THE BELLS Edgar A llan Poe ... 66
CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO- NIGHT Rose H. Thorpe ... 70
BETSY AND I ARE Our . . . Will Carleton .... 73
How BETSY AND I MADE UP . Will Carleton .... 76
s
2022139
6 CONTENTS
TITLE. AUTHOR. PAO»
To A MOUSE Robert Burns .... 80
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS H. W. Longfellov . . 82 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT . . Tom Hood .... 84 BISHOP HATTO AND THE RATS . Robert Southey ... 87
MAUD MULLEH «/• O- Whittier ... 89
TURN THE CARPET .... Hannah Moore ... 94
THE INVITATION Oliver Wendell Holmes . 96
I'M GROWING OLD . . . . J.O. Saxe .... 99
THE RAVEN Edgar Allan Poe . . .101
MODERN LOGIC 106
THE NATURAL BRIDGE ; OR, ONE
NICHE THE HIGHEST . , . Elihu Burritt . . . .108 GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN Will Carleton . . . .112 CARRYING THE BABY. . . . Ethel Turner. , . .116 THE CHILDREN'S HOUB . . . H. W. Longfellow . .120 THE INCHOATE ROCK . . . Robert Southey . . .122
THE CHANGELING J.R.Lowell . . . .124
THE SCHOOLMASTER AND His
APPLES 126
JOHNNY RICH Will Carleton . . . .130
WHAT is A WOMAN LIKE ? 134
JOHN BBOWN 135
BETTER IN THE MORNING . . Leander S. Coan . . .137 THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO His
STEED The Hon. Mrs. Norton . 140
THE WAY TO MEET ADVERSITY William Cowper . . .142 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS . . . Tom Hood . . . .144
CHEAP CLOTHING 147
MOSES AT THE FAIR .... Oliver Goldsmith . . .149 THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAEB . W. M. Thackeray . . 153 THU OLD ARM-CHAIR . . . Eliza Cook . 155
CONTENTS 7
TITLE. AUTHOR. PAOH
MY OWN FIBESIDE . . . . A. A. Watts . . . .156
THB BACHELOB'S SOLILOQUY 158
UNCLE SAMMY Will Carleton . . . . 159
A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT . . H. G. Bell 163
THB PAUPEB'S DBIVE . . . Thomas Noel . . . .164 THIS LEGEND 01 THE FOBGET-
ME-NOT . .. 166
THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND 170
THE TlNKEB AND THE MlLLEB'S
DAUQHTEB Dr. John Wolcot . . . 172
THE BOY N. P. Willis .... 174
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM . . Robert Southey . . .176 A Pious EDITOB'S CBEED . . J. R. Lowell . . . .178 THE NEW CHUBCH OBGAN . . Will Carleton . . . .181
How THE MONEY GOES . . J.O. Saxe 184
MY UNCLE John Taylor . . . .185
SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIB. O. Wither 187
THE FBETFUL MAN .... William Cowper . . .188 THE RAZOB-SELLEB .... Dr. John Wolcot . . .189
NEVEB SAY FAH, 190
WHEBB THERE'S A WILL THERE'S
A WAY J.O. Saxe . . . .192
THB WASHING-DAY 193
THE UNCOMMON OLD MAN 194
How TOM SAWYEB GOT His
FENCE WHITEWASHED . . Mark Twain . . . .195
GBACE DABLXNO William Wordsworth . .198
LUCY GBAY William Wordsworth . . 200
MISCHEEF-MAKEBS 202
A MOBNINQ CONVEBSATION . . Maria Edgeworth , . . 204 THE USE or FLOWEBS . . . Mary Howitt .... 206
8 CONTENTS
TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE
BULLUM ». BOATUM . . . . O. A. Stephens . . . 208 ARNOLD WINKELRIED . . . Jama Montgomery . .210
A CLOSE, HARD MAN 212
THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS . Leigh Hunt . . . .213
THE WIDOWEB The Hon. Mrs. Norton . 214
YAWCOB STRAUSS .... Charles P. Adams . .216
THE TOE 217
NOSE AND EYES William Cowper . . .219
DEB BABY Charles P. Adams . . 220
THE EDITOB'S GUESTS . . . Will Carleton . . . .221 THE YANKEE BOY .... John Pierpont . . . 228 THE ADMIBAL'S SON .... Mrs. Hemans .... 229 NOTHING* TO WEAB . . . . W. A. Butler . . . .231
THE CLEVER IDIOT 235
THE JUSTICE OP THE PEACE . Charles Dickens . . . 237 SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE —
ANTONY'S ORATION OVER
QKSAR'S BODY (Julius Caesar) 243
CARDINAL WOLSEY AND CROM- WELL (Henry VIII) 245
OTHELLO'S ACCOUNT OP His
COURTSHIP (Othello) 249
HENRY V BEFORE AGIXCOURT
(Henry V) , . 252
\ INDEX OF FIRST LINES
PAGB
A boy, as nursery records tell ..... 235
A fellow in a market town . . . . . .189
A hard, close man was Solomon Ray . . . .212
A miat was driving down the British Channel . . .42 A woman is like to — but stay . . . . .134
All night the storm had raged 198
An Eton stripling training for the law . . . .100 As at their work two weavers sat . . . . .94 Aa we were now to hold up our heads a little higher . 149
Been out in the lifeboat often ? i - ' . . , .31
Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose . .219
Between the dark and the daylight .' . . .120
Bring, novelists, your note-book . . . . .45
Brother John Bates, is not that the morning ? . . 252
Drake he'i in his hammock . . .> .^ . .16 Draw up the papers, lawyer . . ' * ••'•'• • •* . .73
England's sun was setting . . . . . .70
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness . . . 245 Farewell ! my true and loyal knight ! . . .166
Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears . . 243
Give us your hand, Mr. Lawyer . . . . .76 God might have bade the earth bring forth . . . 206
Hark ! 'tis the important day of washing ! . . .193 Hassan's brow is dark and troubled . . . .55
Hear the gledges with the bells 66
How goes the money T — Well 184
,0 INDEX OF FIRST LINES
J du believe in Freedom's cause J78
I had a little daughter »**
I haf von funny leedle poy 2'
I love it ! I love it ! And who shall dare T . . -155 In the midst of wide, green pasture lands . . .19 I saw the widower mournful stand . . « .214
I think you remember a man we knew . . . .37
I was sitting with my microscope 96
I wish I knew what was the matter .... 204 In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars . .153 It was a noble Roman . . . . • • • 1! It was a summer evening . . . . • .176 It was the schooner Hesperus . . . • .82 It was our war-ship Clampherdown . . . . .13 I've a guinea I can spend . . . . • .135 I've worked in the fields all day 112
Jist afther the war, in the year '98 . . . .49 King Francis was a hearty king 213
" Lads," said I, " why sitting still ? " . . . .44 Larrie had been carrying it for a long way . . .116
Law is law — law is law 208
Let others seek for empty joys . . . . .156 Little orphant Annie's come to our house to stay . . 60 Loving friend, the gift of one . . . . .26
" Make way for liberty ! " he cried . . . .210
Maud Miiller, on a summer's day . . . . .89
Mr. Ferdinand Plum was a grocer . . . .170
Mr. Pickwick and his friends were conducted . . 237
Most potent, grave, and reverend signiora . . . 249
My beautiful ! my beautiful ! that standest meekly by .140
My days pass pleasantly away 99
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea . . . . 122
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray 200
Oh ! oould there In this world be found .... 202 Once on a time — no matter when . .217
INDEX OF FIRST LINES n
PAOH
Once upon a midnight dreary . . . . .101
One Charlea Mackenzie 147
One more Unfortunate . . . . . .144
Press onward, 'tis wiser . • • * * ". .190
Raise the light a little, Jim 130
Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach . . . .142
Shall I, wasting in despair T ..... 187
She was not as pretty as women I know . . .24
So help me gracious, efery day ..... 220 Some fretful tempers wince at every touch . . .188 Some men were born for great things . . . .159
The boy stood on the burning deck • ••••• . . 229
The Editor sat in his sanctum 221
The meanest creature somewhat may contain . . .172
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower '.''» . . 62
The scene opens with a view « 108
The summer and autumn had been so wet . . .87
The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school . . . 228
There was an old man, and though 'tis not common . 194
There's a grim one-horse hearse . . . . .164
There's something in a noble boy . . . . .174
They're stepping off, the friends I kne\r . . .163
They've got a brand-new organ, Sue ." • . .181
Three fishers went sailing out into the West . . .30
Tom Sawyer, having offended his sole guardian . .195
To wed, or not to wed T 158
Wee, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie . . .80
Well, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsy . . .231
What is a schoolmaster T Why, can't you tell ? . .126
Who dwells at yonder three gold balls ? . . . .185
With fingers weary and worn . . . . .84
" Ye have robbed," said he 17
M You can't help the baby, parson " . . . .137
THE BALLAD OF THE "CLAMPHER- DOWN"
BY RUDYABD KlPUNO.
It was our war-ship Clampherdown
Would sweep the Channel clean, Wherefore she kept her hatches closed When the merry Channel chops arose,
To save the bleached marine.
She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton,
And a great stern-gun beside ; They dipped their noses deep in the sea, They racked their stays and stanchions fre^
In the wash of the wind-whipped tide.
It was our war-ship Clampherdoivn
Fell in with a cruiser light That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun And a pair o' heels wherewith to run
From the grip of a close-fought fight.
She opened fire at seven miles —
As ye shoot at a bobbing cork — And once she fired and twice she fired, Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired
That lolls upon the stalk.
" Captain, the bow-gun melts apace,
The deck-beams break below, 'Twere well to rest for an hour or twain. And botch the shattered plates again."
And he answered, " Make it so."
13
,4 THE BALLAD OF THE '" CLAMPHERDOWN «
She opened fire within the mile—
As ye shoot at the flying duck— And the great stern-gun shot fair and triie, With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue,
And the great stern-turret stuck.
«' Captain, the turret fills with steam,
The feed-pipes burst below — You can hear the hiss of the helpless ram, You can hear the twisted runners Jam."
And he answered, " Turn and go ! "
It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
And grimly did she roll ; Swung round to take the cruiser's fire As the White Whale faces the Thresher's ire
When they war by the frozen Pole.
"Captain, the shells are falling fast,
And faster still fall we ; And it is not meet for English stock To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock
The death they cannot see."
" Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B.,
We drift upon her beam ; We dare not ram, for she can run j And dare ye fire another gun,
And die in the peeling steam ? "
It was our war-ship Clampherdown
That carried an armour-belt ; But fifty feet at stern and bow Lay bare as the paunch of the purser's sow,
To the hail of the Nordenfelt.
" Captain, they hack us through and through j
The chilled steel bolts are swift ! We have emptied the bunkers in open sea, Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be."
And he answered, " Let her drift."
THE BALLAD OF THE " CLAMPHERDOWN " 15
It was our war-ship dampherdoum,
Swung round upon the tide, Her two dumb guns glared south and north, And the blood and the bubbling stream ran forth,
And she ground the cruiser's side.
" Captain, they cry, the fight is done,
They bid you send your sword." And he answered, " Grapple her stern and bow. They have asked for the steel. They shall have it now j
Out cutlasses and board ! **
It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
Spewed up four hundred men ; And the scalded stokers yelped delight, As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight,
Stamp o'er their steel-walled pen.
They cleared the cruiser end to end,
From conning-tower to hold. They fought as they fought in Nelson's fleet ; They stripped to the waist, they were bare to the feet,
As it was in the days of old.
It was the sinking Clampherdown
Heaved up her battered side — And carried a million pounds hi steel To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel,
And the scour of the Channel tide.
It was the crew of the Clampherdown
Stood out to sweep the sea, On a cruiser won from an ancient foe, As it was in the days of long ago,
And as it still shall be.
From " Barrack Room Ballads." By arrangement with Messr* Methuen <fe Co., Ltd.
16
DRAKE'S DRUM BY HENRY NEWBOLT.
Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?), Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a dancin' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night- tide dashin',
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.
Drake he was a Devon man, an' rilled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?), Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. " Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low ; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."
Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?),
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe ;
Where the old trade's plyin' an* the old flag flyin'
They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they founc him long ago !
From " The Island Race," published by Mr. Elkin Mathewt.
HE FELL AMONG THIEVES BY HENRY NEWBOLT.
" Ye have robbed," said he, " ye have slaughtered and
made an end,
Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead : What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend ? " " Blood for our blood," they said.
He laughed : " If one may settle the score for five, I am ready ; but let the reckoning stand till day :
I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive." " You shall die at dawn," said they.
He flung his empty revolver down the slope
He climbed alone to the Eastward edge of he trees ;
All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees.
He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills The ravine where the Yassin river sullenly flows ;
He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, Or the far Afghan snows.
He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wistaria trailing in at the window wide ;
He heard his father's voice from the terrace below Calling him down to ride.
He saw the gray little church across the park, The mounds that hide the loved and honoured dead ;
The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The brasses black and red.
B
i8 HE FELL AMONG THIEVES
He saw the School Close, sunny and green,
The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,
The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between His own name over all.
He saw the dark wainscot and timbered roof, The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;
The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, The Dons on the dais serene.
He watched the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw ;
He heard her passengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew.
And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruined camp below the wood ;
He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet ; His murderers round him stood.
Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,
The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a dazzling white :
He turned, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height.
" 0 glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,
I have lived, I praise and adore Thee."
A sword swept. Over the pass the voices one by one
Faded, and the hill slept.
from " The Island Race," published by Mr. EVcin Mathewi.
19
THE SINGING OF THE MAGNIFICAT BY E. NESBIT.
In the midst of wide, green pasture-lands, cut through By lines of alders bordering deep-banked streams,
Where bulrushes and yellow iris grew,
And rest and peace and all the flowers of dreams,
The Abbey stood — so still, it seemed a part
Of the marsh-country's almost pulseless heart.
Where grey-green willows fringed the stream and pool, The lazy, meek-faced cattle strayed to graze,
Sheep in the meadows cropped the grasses cool, And silver-fish shone through the watery ways,
And many a load of fruit and load of corn
Into the Abbey storehouses was borne.
Yet though so much they had of life's good things, The monks but held them as a sacred trust,
Lent from the storehouse of the King of kings Till they, His stewards, should return to dust.
" Not as our own," they said, " but as the Lord's,
All that the stream yields, or the land affords."
And all the villages and hamlets near
Knew the monks' wealth, and how their wealth was
spent. In tribulation, sickness, want, or fear,
First to the Abbey all the peasants went, Certain to find a welcome, and to be Helped in the hour of their extremity.
When plague or sickness smote the people sore, The Brothers prayed beside the dying bed,
And nursed the sick back into health once more, And through the horror and the danger said :
" How good is God, who has such love for us,
He lets us tend His suffering children thus ! '*
20 THE SINGING OF THE MAGNIFICAT
They in their simple ways and works were glad.
Yet all men must have sorrows of their own, And so a bitter grief the Brothers had,
Nor mourned for others' heaviness alone. This was the secret of their sorrowing, That not a monk in all the house could sing !
Was it the damp air from the lovely marsh, Or strain of scarcely intermitted prayer,
That made their voices, when they sang, as harsh As any frog's that croaks in evening air —
That made less music in their hymns to lie
Than in the hoarsest wild-fowl's hoarsest cry ?
If love could sweeten voice to sing a song, Theirs had been sweetest song was ever sung :
But their hearts' music reached their lips all wrong, The soul's intent foiled by the traitorous tongue
That marred the chapel's peace, and seemed to scare
The rapt devotion lingering in the air.
The birds that in the chapel built their nests,
And in the stone-work found their small lives fair,
Flew thence with hurried wings and fluttering breasta When rang the bell to call the monks to prayer.
" Why will they sing ? " they twittered, " why at all ?
In heaven their silence must be festival ! "
The Brothers prayed with penance and with tears That God would let them give some little part
Out of the solace of their own sad ears Of all the music crowded in their heart.
Their nature and the marsh-air had their way,
And still the Brothers sang more vilely every day.
And all their prayers and fasts availing not To give them voices sweet, their souls' desire,
The Abbot said, " Gifts He did not allot God at our hands will not again require ;
The love He gives us He will ask again
In love to Him and to our fellow-men.
THE SINGING OF THE MAGNIFICAT 21
" Praise Him we must, and since we cannot "praise As we would choose, we praise Him as we can.
In heaven we shall be taught the angels' ways Of singing — we afford to await a span.
In singing, as in toil, do ye your best ;
God will adjust the balance— -do the rest ! "
But one good Brother, anxious to remove This, the reproach now laid on them so long,
Rejected counsel, and for very love Besought a Brother, skilled in art of song,
To come to them — his cloister far to leave —
And sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve.
So when each brown monk duly sought his place, By two and two, slow pacing to the choir,
Shrined in his dark oak stall, the strange monk's face Shone with a light as of devotion's fire,
Good, young and fair, his seemed a form wherein
Pure beauty left no room at all for sin.
But when the time for singing it had come, Magnificat, face raised and voice, he sang :
Each in his stall the monks stood glad and dumb, As through the chancel's dusk his voice outrang,
Pure, clear, and perfect — as the thrushes sing
Their first impulsive welcome of the spring.
At the first notes the Abbot's heart spoke low : " Oh, God, accept this singing, seeing we,
Had we the power, would ever praise Thee so — Would ever, Lord, Thou know'st, sing thus for Thee ;
Thus in our heart Thy hymns are ever sung,
As he Thou blessest sings them with his tongue."
But as the voice rose higher and more sweet, The Abbot's heart said : " Thou hast heard us grieve,
And sent an angel from beside Thy feet, To sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve ;
To ease our ache of soul, and let us see
How we some day in heaven shall sing to Thee."
22 THE SINGING OF THE MAGNIFICAT
Through the cold Christmas night the hymn rang out, In perfect cadence, clear as sunlit rain —
Such heavenly music that the birds without Beat their warm wings against the window-pane,
Scattering the frosted crystal snow outspread
Upon the stone-lace and the window-lead.
The white moon through the window seemed to gaze On the pure face and eyes the singer raised ;
The storm-wind hushed the clamour of its ways, God seemed to stoop to hear Himself thus praised,
And breathless all the Brothers stood, and still
Reached longing souls out to the music's thrill.
Old years came back, and half-remembered hours, Dreams of delight that never was to be,
Mother's remembered kiss, the funeral flowers Laid on the grave of life's felicity ;
An infinite, dear passion of regret
Swept through their hearts, and left their eyelids wet.
The birds beat ever at the window, till They broke the pane, and so could entrance win ;
Their slender feet clung to the window-sill, And though with them the bitter air came in,
The monks were glad that the birds too should hear,
Since to God's creatures all His praise is dear.
The lovely music waxed and waned, and sank, And brought less conscious sadness in its train,
Unrecognized despair that thinks to thank God for a Joy renounced, a chosen pain —
And deems that peace which is but stifled life
Dulled by a too-prolonged unfruitful strife.
When, service done, the Brothers gathered round ^ To thank the singer — modest-eyed, said he : " Not mine the grace, if grace indeed abound ; God gave the power, if any power there be j If I in hymn or psalm clear voice can raise As His the gift, so His be all the praise ! "
THE SINGING OF THE MAGNIFICAT 23
That night — the Abbot lying on his bed A sudden flood of radiance on him fell,
Poured from the crucifix above his head, And cast a stream of light across his cell ;
And in the fullest fervour of the light
An Angel stood, glittering, and great, and white.
His wings of thousand rainbow clouds seemed made, A thousand lamps of love shone in his eyes,
The light of dawn upon his brows was laid, Odours of thousand flowers of Paradise
Filled all the cell, and through the heart there stirred
A sense of music that could not be heard.
The Angel spoke — his voice was low and sweet As the sea's murmur on low-lying shore,
Or whisper of the wind in ripened wheat : " Brother," he said, " the God we both adore
Has sent rne down to ask, is all not right ?
Why was Magnificat not sung to-night ? "
'Tranced in the joy the Angel's presence brought, The Abbot answered : " All these weary years
We have sung our best — but always have we thought Our voices were unworthy heavenly ears ;
And so to-night we found a clearer tongue,
And by it the Magnificat was sung ! "
The Angel answered, " All these happy years In heaven has your Magnificat been heard j
This night alone the angels' listening ears Of all its music caught no single word.
Say, who is he whose goodness is not strong
Enough to bear the burden of his song ? "
The Abbot named his name. " Ah, why," he cried, " Have angels heard not what we found so dear ? "
" Only pure hearts," the Angel's voice replied, " Can carry human songs up to God's ear ;
To-night in heaven was missed the sweetest praise
That ever rises from earth's mud-stained maze.
24 MY KATE
" The Monk who sang Magnificat is filled With lust of praise and with hypocrisy ;
He sings for earth— in heaven his notes are stilled By muffling weight of deadening vanity ;
His heart is chained to earth, and cannot bear
His singing higher than the listening air !
" From purest hearts most perfect music springs, And while you mourned your voices were not sweet,
Marred by the accident of earthly things —
In heaven, God listening, judged your song complete.
The sweetest of earth's music came from you,
The music of a noble life and true ! " From " Lays and Legends." By arrangement with the Author.
MY KATE
BY MRS. E. BAKRETT BROWNING.
i
She was not as pretty as women I know, And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways, While she's still remembered on warm and cold days —
My Kate.
Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace ; You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face : And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth, You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth —
My Kate.
m
Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke, You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke : When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone, Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone —
My Kate.
MY KATE 15
IV
I doubt if she said to you much that could act As a thought or suggestion • she did not attract In the sense of the brilliant or wise : I infer 'Twas her thinking of others made you think of her —
My Kate.
She never found fault with you, never implied Your wrong by her right ; and yet men at her side Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town The children were gladder that pulled at her gown —
My Kate.
VI
None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall ; They knelt more to God than they used, — that was all : If you praised her as charming, some asked what you
meant,
But the charm of her presence was felt when she went —
My Kate.
vn
The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, She took as she found them, and did them all good ; It always was so with her — see what you have ! She has made the grass greener even here . . with her grave —
My Kate.
vin
My dear one ! — when thou wast alive with the rest, I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best : And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart —
My Kate ?
26
TO FLUSH, MY DOG
BY MBS. E. BARRETT BROWNING.
Loving friend, the gift of one Who her own true faith hath run,
Through thy lower nature, Be my benediction said With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature !
Like a lady's ringlets brown, Flow thy silken ears adown
Either side demurely Of thy silver-suited breast, Shining out from all the rest
Of thy body purely.
Darkly brown thy body is, Till the sunshine striking this
Alchemise its dulness, When the sleek curls manifold Flash all over into gold,
With a burnished fulness.
IV
Underneath my stroking hand, Startled eyes of hazel bland
Kindling, growing larger, Up thou leapest with a spring, Full of prank and curveting,
Leaping like a charger.
TO FLUSH, MY DOG
Leap ! thy broad tail waves a light j Leap ! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes. Leap — those tasselled ears of thine Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
Down their golden inches.
VI
Yet, my pretty, sportive friend, Little is't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness ! Other dogs may be thy peers Haply in these drooping ears,
And this glossy fairness.
vn
But of thee it shall be said, This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night un weary, — Watched within a curtained room, Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.
Roses, gathered for a vase, In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning — This dog only, waited on, Knowing that when light is gone,
Love remains for shining.
IX
Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow — This dog only, crept and crept Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.
TO FLUSH, MY DOG
Other dogs of loyal cheer Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing — This dog only, watched in reach Of a faintly uttered speech,
Or a louder sighing.
And if one or two quick tears Dropped upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double, — Up he sprang in eager haste, Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
In a tender trouble.
xn
And this dog was satisfied
If a pale thin hand would glide
Down his dewlaps sloping, — Which he pushed his nose within, After, — platforming his chin
On the palm left open.
xra
This dog, if a friendly voice Call him now to blyther choice
Than such chamber-keeping, " Come out ! " praying from the door,- Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.
nv
Therefore to this dog will I, Tenderly not scornfully,
Render praise and favour : With my hand upon his head, Is my benediction said
Therefore, and for ever.
TO FLUSH, MY DOG 29
xv
And because he loves me so, Better than his kind will do
Often, man or woman, — Give I back more love again Than dogs often take of men,—
Leaning from my Human.
XVI
Blessings on thee, dog of mine, Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugared milk make fat thee I Pleasures wag on in thy tail — Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore, to pat thee 1
xvn
Downy pillow take thy head, Silken coverlid bestead,
Sunshine help thy sleeping ! No fly's buzzing wake thee up—- No man break thy purple cup,
Set for drinking deep in.
xvm
Whiskered cats arointed flee, Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations ; Nuts lie in thy path for stones, And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations !
Mock I thee, in wishing weal ? — Tears are in my eyes to feel
Thou art made so straightly, Blessing needs must straighten too,- Little canst thou Joy or do,
Thou who lovest greatly.
THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING
Yet be blessed to the height Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature, Only loved beyond that line, With a love that answers thine,
Loving fellow-creature 1
THE THREE FISHERS BY CHARLES KJNGSLEY.
Three fishers went sailing out into the West, Out into the West as the sun went down J
Each thought on the woman who loved him best, And the children stood watching them out of the town :
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbour-bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down ;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown ;
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour-bar be moaning.
Three corpses lie out in the shining sands,
In the morning gleam, as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town.
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
THE LIFEBOAT By GEORGE R. SIMS.
" Been out in the life boat often ? Ay, ay, sir, often
enough ! When it's rougher than this ? Lor' bless you ! this ain't
what we calls rough ! It's when there's a gale a-blowing, and the waves run in
and break On the shore with a roar like thunder and the white
cliffs seem to shake; When the sea is a hell of waters and the bravest holds his
breath As he hears the cry for the lifeboat — his summons may
be to death — That's when we call it rough, sir ; but, if we can't get
her afloat, There's always enough brave fellows ready to man the
boat.
"You've heard of the Royal Helen, the ship as was
wrecked last year ? Yon be the rock she struck on — the boat as went out be
here ; That night as she struck was reckoned the worst as ever
we had, And this is a coast in winter where the weather be awful
bad. The beach here was strewed with wreckage, and to tell
you the truth, sir, then
Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the men. The single chaps was willin', and six on 'em volunteered, But most on us here is married, and the wives that night
was skeered.
32 THE LIFEBOAT
" Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it comes to
savin* lives, But death that night looked certain — and our wives be
only wives ; Their lot ain't bright at the best, sir, but here, when a
man lies dead, 'Tain't only the husband missin', it's the children's daily
bread ; So our women began to whimper and beg o' the chaps to
stay—
I only heerd on it after, for that night I was kept away. I was up at my cottage, yonder, where the wife lay nigh
her end, She'd been ailin' all the winter, and nothin' 'ud make her
mend.
" The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by her
side and prayed, With my eyes as red as a babby's, that death's hand might
yet be stayed. I heerd the wild wind howlin' and I looked on the wasted
form, And thought of the awful shipwreck, as had come in the
ragin' storm ; The wreck of my little homestead — the wreck of my dear
old wife, Who sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the troublous
waves of life. And I looked at the eyes so sunken, as had been my
harbour lights, To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest, darkest
nights.
" She knew she was sinkin' quickly — she knew as her
end was nigh, But she never spoke o' the troubles as I knew on her heart
must lie,
THE LIFEBOAT 33
For we'd had one great big sorrow with Jack, our only
son — He'd got into trouble in London, as lots o' lads ha'
done ; Then he bolted, his masters told us — he was allus what
folk call wild, From the day as I told his mother, her dear face never
smiled. We heerd no more about him, we never knew where he
went, And his mother pined and sickened for the message he
never sent.
" I had my work to think of ; but she had her grief to
nurse, So it eat away at her heartstrings, and her health grew
worse and worse. And the night as the Royal Helen went down on yonder
sands,
I sat and watched her dyin', holdin' her wasted hands. She moved in her doze a little, when her eyes were opened
wide, And she seemed to be seekin' somethin', as she looked
from side to side, Then half to herself she whispered, " where's Jack, to say
good-bye ? It's hard not to see my darlin', and kiss him afore I die ! "
" I was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the tears ran
down my cheek, And my lips were shaped to whisper the words I couldn't
speak, When the door of the room burst open, and my mates
were there outside With the news that the boat was launchin'. " You're
wanted ! " their leader cried. " You've never refused to go, John ; you'll put these
cowards right, There's a dozen of lives may be, John, as lie in our hands
to-night ! "
S.P-R. O
34 THE LIFEBOAT
'Twas old Ben Brown, the Captain ; he'd laughed at the
women's doubt, We'd always been first on the beach, sir, when the boat
was goin' out.
'I didn't move, but I pointed to the white face on the
bed— ' I can't go, mate," I murmured, " in an hour she may
be dead,
I cannot go and leave her to die in the night alone." As I spoke Ben raised his lantern, and the light on my
wife was thrown ; And I saw her eyes fixed strangely with a pleading look
on me, While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door to the
ragin' sea, Phen she beckoned me near, and whispered, " Go, and
God's will be done ! For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor mother's
son."
" Her head was full of the boy, sir — she was thinkin' may
be, some day For lack of a hand to help him his life might be cast
away. " Go, John, and the Lord watch o'er you ! and spare me
to see the light, And bring you safe," she whispered, " out o' the storm
to-night." Then I turned and kissed her softly, and tried to hide
my tears, And my mates outside, when they saw me, set up three
hearty cheers; But I rubbed my eyes wi' my knuckles, and turned to
old Ben and said, " I'll see her again, may be, lads, when the sea gives up
its dead."
THE LIFEBOAT 35
" We launched the boat in the tempest, though death was
the goal in view, And never a one but doubted if the craft could live it
through ; But our boat she stood it bravely, and, weary and wet
and weak, We drew in hail of the vessel we had dared so much to
seek.
But just as we came upon her she gave a fearful roll, And went down in the seethin' whirlpool with every
livin' soul ! We rowed for the spot, and shouted, for all around was
dark — But only the wild wind answered the cries from our
plungin' bark.
" I was strainin' my eyes and watchin', when I thought
I heard a cry, And I saw past our bows a somethin' on the crest of a
wave dash by ; I stretched out my hand to seize it. I dragged it aboard,
and then I stumbled, and struck my forred, and fell like a log on
Ben.
I remember a hum of voices, and then I knowed no more Till I came to my senses here, sir — here in my home
ashore. My forehead was tightly bandaged, and I lay on my little
bed, I'd slipp'd.so they told me arter,and a rullock had struck
my head.
" Then my mates came in and whispered ; they'd heard I
was comin' round ; At first I could scarcely hear them, it seemed like a
buzzin' sound ; But as soon as my head got clearer, and accustomed to
hear 'em speak. I knew as I'd lain like that, sir, for many a long, long
week.
36 THE LIFEBOAT
"I guessed what the lads was hidin', for their poor old
shipmate's sake, I could see by their puzzled faces they'd got some news to
So I lifts my head from the pillow, and I says to old Ben,
•' Look here !
I'm able to bear it now, lad— tell me, and never fear. "Not one of 'em'ever answered, but presently Ben goes out, And the others slinks away like, and I says, " What's this
about ? Why can't they tell me plainly as my poor old wife is
dead ? " Then I fell again on the pillows, and I hid my achin
head; I lay like that for a minute till I heard a voice cry,
" John ! " And I thought it must be a vision as my weak eyes gazed
upon ; For there by the bedside standin' up and well was my
wife ; And who do ye think was with her ? Why, Jack, as
large as life. " It was him as I'd saved from drownin' the night as the
lifeboat went To the wreck of the Royal Helen ; 'twas that as the vision
meant. They'd brought us ashore together, he'd knelt by his
mother's bed, And the sudden joy had raised her like a miracle from
the dead ;
And mother and son together had nursed me back to life, And my old eyes woke from darkness to look on my son
and wife. Jack ? He's our right hand now, sir ; 'twas Providence
pulled him through — [crew.
He's allus the first aboard her when the lifeboat wants a From " The Dagonet Battida", by kind permission of tho Author, and of Messra. George Routkdge <S> Sons, Ltd.
'•PRINCE": A STORY OF THE AMERICAN WAR
BY HAEBIBT L. CHILDE-PEMBBBTON.
I think you remember a man we knew, who went by the
name of " Prince," With sinews of iron and nerves of steel that never were
known to wince ? How came he to win that nickname ? Well, that's more
than I now can say Because, perhaps, he was given to rule, and all of us
liked his sway ; Because he was free with his cash, perhaps, or maybe
because, like Saul, He looked a king, and stood, without boots, head and
shoulders out-topping us all. Oh yes, there were stories afloat, I know ; he was wicked
and wild, they said. Tis slander, I tell you ; and what so base as a slander
against the dead ?
I don't deny that he wasted time at billiards and cards
and dice, And " folly " is only a friendly name for a passion that
smacks of vice ; I know how he trifled with shot and steel, and deathi
have been laid at his door,
38 PRINCE: A STORY OF THE AMERICAN WAR
But he never was guilty of murderous deed to settle a private score.
He was quick to avenge a comrade's wrong, or a com- rade's right defend,
And never was known to break his word, nor ever to fail a friend.
I see him now as I saw him then — and yet 'tis a long while since —
A hero, if ever a hero lived, was he whom we nicknamed " Prince.'1
Well, " Prince " had a friend — his pal, his mate,
A little chap, curly and brown ; They both of them hailed from Virginia State,
And were born in the selfsame town ; And " Prince " would have died for Charley, I know
And Charley'd have died for him ; And if luck was high or if luck was low,
Together they'd sink or swim. But there came a time when their path was crossed
By a girl with an angel face, And the love of the friends was swamped and lost
In the passion that filled its place ; 'Twas a secret at first each kept from each,
And neither would dare disclose, Till they broke the ice with a heedless speech,
And fronted each other as foes.
It wasn't her fault, I will take my oath,
She didn't flirt even in fun ; She only tried to be kind to both
For the love that she bore to one. 'Twould have gone to her heart, I know, to offend
By speaking the truth pat down ; For she liked the " Prince," though she loved his friend,
The little chap, curly and brown.
PRINCE: A STORY OF THE AMERICAN WAR 39
It was strange, you say, she should care for him —
You think most women prefer The stalwart form and the lengthy limb — -
Well, it wasn't the case with her. Oh, " Prince " was the better man of the two
By far, I don't deny ; Yet her love for Charley was tender and true,
A.nd it's no good asking why.
But a letter was left at Charley's door
In a hand he knew, which said : " The days that are past can return no more,
And nothing can raise what's dead ; For Faith and Love they have lied to me,
While I was the dupe of each, And honour, in woman or man, I see,
Is only a figure of speech."
Hard words enough — .they might have been worse;
I am glad he stopped short there ; Thank God he didn't denounce a curse !
For he went, and we knew not where ; To the Southerners' camp he went, they said,
To the war that had just begun ; If he couldn't love he would fight instead,
For the joy of his life was done.
The war that ended in '65
Maybe if we could we wouldn't revive.
What matters it now to prate and rave
Of the rights and wrongs of the nigger slave!
The thing has been settled and long gone by,
Though you fought for it once, and so did I ;
We've all of us fought both once and again —
40 PRINCE: A STORY OF THE AMERICAN WAR
For the pick of the lot were Virginia men — And in twenty years one has ceased to fret ; But there's one day's fighting I can't forget ! Balls and bullets, and shot and shell, Musketry rattling, powder smell ; Clouds of smoke and rivers of blood- Life choked out on a field of mud ; Horses and riders dying— dead, And a scorching sun in the sky o'erhead ; And the van of our troops was led that day By one whom nothing could stop nor stay ; When last I saw him 'twas six months since— He had changed in the time, yet I knew the " Prince."
The Virginia men were all to the front,
To lead their comrades and bear the brunt J
But when the night fell, cold and damp,
There were twenty down in the enemy's camp
Ten to return in exchange for ten
The Southerners had of the Northerners' men,
Six for the prison, four to be shot —
And the fate of each to be drawn by lot !
And " Prince " was one of that fated row
Close guarded the long night through ; And Charley, who'd Joined but a week ago,
Was one of the prisoners too. 'Twas strange that they thus should meet again
Each waiting for death or life ; None knew what the one was thinking then,
But the other — he thought of his wife ! And never a word was spoke that night j But when the day broke fair and bright,
By the glare of the morning sky
PRINCE: A STORY OF THE AMERICAN WAR 41
The lots were drawn— and the " Prince " was free To go once more to his home by the sea, And Charley was doomed to die 1
Then " Prince," when he hears how the lots have gone,
goes straight where the General he sees. 14 A word with you, General," says he, like a king,
" apart from the rest, if you please. There's one of our lot who is drawn for death, a little
chap, curly and brown : Now 'tis nothing to you who goes or who stays, for your
soldiers to shoot him down, And whether / die or whether / live, don't matter a curse
to me ; But, General, it matters a deal to him, for the little
chap's married, you see. So if it's a death you needs must have, there's mine, you
can take my life; But tell him he's drawn for exchange, not death — -and let
him return to his wife."
I reckon the General did not demur ; from the soldier's
point of view The " Prince " was a nobler prize by far, as the better
man of the two. There were three led out in the sun that day and shot by
the men of the North, And a fourth was shot in the rank with them — but
Charley was not that fourth.
He never was told till the deed was done and " You're
free to go," they said : And they bade him look, as he weat his way, on his four
companions dead :
l» THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS
And he saw the corpse— they were strong in death, those
arms and that sinewy chest ! — • Of the man he had loved, who loved him too — and for—
and he knew the rest ! Oh, aye ! the story is true enough ; I'm likely to know,
Jou see, was the little chap, curly and brown—his friend— and he died for me.
THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS
BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.
A mist was driving down the British Channel,
The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
Streamed the red autumn sun.
It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
And the white sails of ships ; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
Hailed it with feverish lips.
Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover,
Were all alert that day To see the French war-steamers speeding over,
When the fog cleared away.
Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,
Their cannon through the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance
The sea-coast opposite.
THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS 43
And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations
On every citadel ; Each answering each, with morning salutations,
That all was well.
And down the coast, all taking up the burden,
Replied the distant forts, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden
And Lord of the Cinque Ports.
Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,
No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure,
Awaken with its call !
No more, surveying with an eye impartial
The long line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal
Be seen upon his post !
For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,
In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer,
The rampart wall had scaled.
He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper,
The silence and the gloom.
He did not pause to parley or dissemble,
But smote the Warden hoar ; Ah ! what a blow ! that made all England tremble
And groan from shore to shore.
Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o'erhead ; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead.
44
DOING NOTHING
" Lads," said I, " why sitting still,
Doing nothing 1 " M Oh," says John, " I'm helping Will,
Doing nothing." " Well, that seems a weary task ;
Doing nothing ; Don't it tire you, let me ask,
Doing nothing ?
"Tell me what you hope to learn,
Doing nothing ? Will it help your bread to earn,
Doing nothing ? Pray, to those who choose this trade,
Doing nothing, How much wages should be paid,
Doing nothing ?
" Shall I say what makes you fret !
Doing nothing. That which keeps some folks in debt —
Doing nothing! Would you prosper in estate,
Doing nothing 1 Then a long time you must wait,
Doing nothing !
"Idle bones, I've heard it said,
Doing nothing, Indicate an empty head,
Doing nothing. With no useful aim in view,
Doing nothing, Soon you'll find your friends for yoir
Doing nothing."
45
THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD
BY CLEMENT SCOTT.
Bring, novelists, your note-book; bring, dramatists,
your pen ;
And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. It's only a tale of a lifeboat, the dying and the dead, Of a terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off
Mumbles Head. Maybe you have travelled in Wales, sir, and know it
north and south ; Maybe you are friends with the " natives " that dwell at
Oystermouth. It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed
in a casual way, And have sailed your yacht in the summer, in the blue of
Swansea Bay.
Well, it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse
stands alone, In the teeth of Atlantic breakers, that foam on its face of
stone ; It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the
storm bell tolled, or when There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched,
and a desperate cry for men. When in the world did the coxswain shirk ? A brave old
salt was he ; Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted
the sea. Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about the coast
'twas said, Had saved some hundred lives apiece — at a shilling or so
a head !
46 THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD
So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the
tempest's roar, And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on
his boys at the oar. Out to the wreck went the father ; out to the wreck went
the sons ; Leaving the weeping of women, and the booming of
signal guns, Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that
the sailors love,
Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above ! Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cosy and
safe in bed, For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off
Mumbles Head ?
It didn't go well with the lifeboat ; 'twas a terrible
storm that blew, And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the
drowning crew : And then the anchor parted — 'twas a tussle to keep
afloat ! But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the
brave old boat. Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke
mountains high ! " God help us now," said the father. " It's over, my
lads ! Good-bye." Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered
But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.
Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, And saw in the boiling breakers a figure — a fighting
form, It might be a grey-haired father, then the women held
their breath,
THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD 47
It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a
round with death ; It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the
lips Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to
the sea in ships ; They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had heard
the worst, and more ; Then kissing each other, these women went down from
the lighthouse, straight to shore.
There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in
hand, Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to
reach the land.
'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, But what are a couple of women with only a man to save? What are a couple of women ? Well, more than three
craven men Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to
stir — and then Off went the women's shawls, sir ; in a second they're
torn and rent, Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the
sea they went !
" Come back," cried the lighthouse-keeper, " for God's
sake, girls, come back ! " As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting
the fierce attack. " Come back ! " moaned the grey-haired mother, as she
stood by the angry sea, " If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody
left to me." " Come back ! " said the three strong soldiers, who still
stood fain* and pale ; " You will drown if you face the breakers ; you will fall
if you brave the gale ! "
48 THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD
" Come back," said the girls, " we will not ! go, tell it to
all the town ; We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall
drown ! "
" Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess ; give one
strong clutch of your hand ; Just follow me brave to the shingle, and we'll drag him
safe to land.
Wait for the next wave, darling ; only a minute more, And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag
him safe to shore."
Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, They caught and saved a brother alive ! God bless us !
you know the rest — Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was
shed, And many a glass was tossed right off to " The Women
of Mumbles Head ! "
From " Lays and Lyrics" by kind permission of Mrs. Clement Scott.
49
SHAMUS O'BRIEN
BY J. S. LE FANU.
Jist afther the war, in the year '98, As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate, 'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got, To hang him by thrial — barrin' sich as was shot. There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight, And the martial-law hangin' the lavins by night. It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon : If he missed in the judges — he'd meet a dragoon ; An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sentence, The divil a much time they allowed for repentance. An' it's many's the fine boy was then on his keepin' Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin', An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned to sell it, A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet, — Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day, With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay ; An' the bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all Was Shamu*1 O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall. His limbs were well set, an' his body was light, An' the keen-f anged hound had not teeth half so white j But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, And his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red j An' for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye, For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye, So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright, Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night I An' he was the best mower that ever has been, An' the illigantest hurler that ever was seen. An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare, An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare ; An', by gorra, the whole world gev it into him there. An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught, An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought, An' it's many the one can remember right well S.P.R. D
5o SHAMUS O'BRIEN
The quare things he done : an' it's often I heerd tell How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin' four, An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore.
But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest, An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best ; Afther many a brave action of power and pride, An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side, An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast, In the darkness of night he was taken at last. Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon, For the door of the prison must close on you soon, An' take your last look at her dim lovely light, That falls on the mountain and valley this night ; One look at the village, one look at the flood, An' one at the shelthering, far-distant wood ; Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill, An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still ; Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake, And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake. An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail, An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail ; The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands wor
bound,
An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison ground, An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him there As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air ; An' happy remembrances crowding on ever, As fast as the foam flakes dhrift down on the river, Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by, Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart Would not suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start ; An' he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave, An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave, By the hopes of the good, an' the cause of the brave, That when he was mouldering in the cold grave His enemies never should have ifc to boast
SHAMUS O'BRIEN 51
His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost ; His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry, For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die.
Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone, The terrible day iv the thrial kem on ; There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand, An' sodgers on guard, an' dhragoons sword in hand ; An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered, An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered j An' counsellors almost gev over for dead, An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead ; An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big, With his gown on his back and an illegant new wig ; An' silence was called, an' the minute it was said The court was as still as the heart of the dead, An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock, An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock. For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng, An' he looked at the bars, so firm and so strong, An* he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, A chance to escape, nor a word to defend ; An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone, As calm and as cold as a statue of stone ; And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste, An' Jim didn't understand it, nor mind it a taste ; An* the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, " Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase 1 "
An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread,
An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said :
" My lord, if you ask me, if in my life- time
I thought any treason, or did any crime
That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,
Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow^
Before God and the world I would answer you, no 1
But if you would ask me, as I think it like,
If in the rebellion I carried a pike,
5« 8HAMUS O'BRIEN
An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close j An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, I answer you, yes ; and I tell you again, Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry, An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."
Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light ;
By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap 1
In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.
Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry :
" 0 judge ! darlin', don't, 0, don't say the word !
The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord ;
He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin* ;
You don't know him, my lord, — 0, don't give him to
ruin !
He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted ; Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted. Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord, An' God will forgive you — 0, don't say the word ! " That was the first minute that O'Brien was shaken, When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken ; An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother, The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other ; An* two or three times he endeavoured to spake, But the sthrong, manly voice used to falther and break ; But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride, He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide, An', says he, " mother, darlin', don't brea> your poor
heart
For, sooner or later, the dearest must part ; And God knows it's better than wandering in fear On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer, To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast, From thought, labour, and sorrow forever shall rest. Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour ;
SHAMUS O'BRIEN 53
For I wish, when my head's lyin* undher the raven, No thrue man can say that I died like a craven ! " Then towards the judge Shamus bent down his head, An' that minute the solemn death-sentince was said.
The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky ;
But why are the men standin' idle so late ?
An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street ?
What come they to talk of ? what come they to see ?
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree ?
O Shamus O'Brien ! pray fervent and fast,
May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last ;
Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,
When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die.
At last they threw open the big prison gate, An' out came the sheriffs and sodgers in state, An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it, Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute. An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, Wid prayin* and blessin', and all the girls cryin', A wild wailin* sound kem on by degrees, Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through
trees.
On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on ; An' at every side swellin' around of the cart, A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand ; An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round. Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill ; An' the rope bein* ready, hia neck was made bare, For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to prepare ;
54 SHAMUS O'BRIEN
An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last
prayer.
But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound, And with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground ; Bang ! bang ! goes the carbines, and clash goes the sabres ; He's not down ! he's alive still ! now stand to him, neigh- bours !
Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd, — By the heavens, he's free ! — than thunder more loud, By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken, — One shout that the dead of the world might awaken. The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat ; To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin, An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in. Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang.
He has mounted his horse, and soon he will be In America, darlint, the land of the free.
55
THE ARAB'S RIDE TO CAIRO
A LEGEND OF THE DESERT
BY G. J. WHYTB-MBLVILLB.
Hassan's brow is dark and troubled, Hassan's cheek is wan and pale,
For the father's heart is aching Sore beneath the warrior's maiL
In his Harem they are weeping, Hush'd and low the mourner's wail.
Fairest of the Moslem's daughters,
On her couch is Zillah lying, Sick and wasted : — through the lattice
Sad the evening breeze is sighing — Dews are on her forehead gathering,
Azrael beckons — she is dying.
Hush ! she speaks, that broken Lily, — Treasure well each accent dear —
In her fevered dream she murmurs Of a fountain fresh and clear,
And an orange-grove that mocks her, Thirsting for its golden cheer.
Calm and sad the Leech is listening, She is past the Leech's skill —
" Since her very soul is craving, If it should be Allah's will,
Give the maid the fruit she longs for, And she may recover still."
Thousands ten of mounted warriors
Wait the wave of Hassan's hand- Thousands ten of gleaming sabres Leap to light at his command — But a golden grove of Orange Hath not Hassan in the land.
56 THE ARAB'S RIDE TO CAIRO
Nearer than the spires of Cairo, Full two hundred miles away,
Not a leaf adorns the desert. Fever thirst brooks no delay,
Hassan's darling child may perish Pining through another day.
He — the man of blood — the spoiler,
Cursed by man, by woman feared- He, before whose march of terror
Wells are choked and orchards cleared Now for one poor simple orange Fain would give his very beard !
Who is this, that night and morning 'Neath the wall is seen to wait !
Who is this, that late and early, Tidings seeks of Zillah's fate ?
Braving dreaded Hassan's anger — Watching ever at the gate ?
Breathlessly the Leech he questions, Owns the sage his art is vain.
Ere the last red streak of sunset Sinks behind the dusky plain,
Nadir's foot is in the stirrup, Nadir's hand is on the rein.
Ere the moon the sand hath silvered^ Many a mile upon his way
Hath he sped — that hurrying horseman, Through the night till dawn of day.
O'er the trackless desert flying, Sore he plies the gallant bay.
Steed whose mettle never fails him, Pure of blood, of quenchless fire,
Steed whose long, unfalt'rmg gallop Not those desert sands can tire.
THE ARAB'S RIDE TO CAIRO 57
Worthy of his kingly breeding, Priceless dam, and matchless sire.
Through the lapse of countless ages, That enduring, generous race,
Unpolluted by the stranger, Boasts the Bedouin to trace,
Still within his tented dwelling Finds the colt a comrade's place.
Now, thou " Star that glads the Desert (Such the Bedouin named the steed)
Thou shalt prove thy lasting vigour, Thou shalt tax thine utmost speed.
Ere thou reach the distant city All thy mettle shalt thou need !
In bazaar of busy Cairo,
Merchants sleek their traffic ply; Much they marvel at the stranger,
Travel-worn, with haggard eye, Gazing on the ripened Orange,
Proffering gold the fruit to buy.
Stays he not ? that eager horseman, Scorns he rest, and food, and prayer ?
Mad the pious merchant deems him, " Allah keep him in his care ! "
See ! he homeward wheels his courser, Snorting to the desert air.
Like a phantom fleeting dimly,
O'er the trackless, boundless plain,
Man and horse are labouring onward, Man and horse to rest are fain —
THE ARAB'S RIDE TO CAIRO
Urge him not ! the steed is reeling— Haggard rider ! draw the rein !
Since he left his stall for Cairo Twice hath set the desert sun ;
Sparing food hath been his portion, Water hath he tasted none —
Blood and sinew are but mortal, Now his race is almost run.
Hadst thou rested in the city, Weary horseman, wan and pale !
He had borne thee home in triumph — Now his limbs begin to fail ;
Love and fear may goad the rider, Little shall his haste avail,
For the gallant steed is sickening, Still he strives to meet the rein,
Glazed his eye — his neck is stiffening E'en his master's voice is vain,
And the " Star that glads the Desert " Rolls upon the burning plain !
Woe to thee ! the ruthless rider !
Woe to thee ! the hapless steed ! Lonely pair, the waste is round ye,
Who shall help ye at your need ? Warning true the Sage hath spoken,
" Fiery haste makes failing speed."
Shrieks of women fill the harem, Hassan's tears fall thick and fast,
Weeps the warrior like a maiden Now that hope and fear are past,
And to anguish wakes the father, And the daughter sleeps her last.
THE ARAB'S RIDE TO CAIRO 59
To her virgin-grave bewailing,
Zillah's form shall virgins bear, O'er her tomb in fond remembrance
Train the spotless rose with care ; Night and morning flowers shall scatter
Mournful fragrance on the air.
Many a mile within the desert, Scorched and withering in the sun
Nadir and his steed are lying, Perished ere the task be done,
Through the sultry air the vultures Gather round them one by one.
Bones of man and horse are bleaching Heaped together where they fell —
In his shawl untouched the orange. Wandering Bedouins long shall tell
How the ruthless rider perished, How he loved his Zillah well !
From " Songs and Vertex", published by Meaart. Word, Lock < Co., Ltd.
6o
THE ELF CHILD; OR, LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE
BY JAMES WHTTCOMB RILEY.
Little orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, And wash the cups and saucers up, an* brush the crumbs
away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth,
an' sweep, An' make the fire, and bake the bread, an' earn her
board an' keep ;
An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire, an' has the mostest fun A-list'ning to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out!
Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs ; An' when he went to bed 'at night, away upstairs, His mammy heard him holler, and his daddy heard
him bawl, An' whin they turn'd the kivvers down he wasn't there
a tall! An' they seeked him in the rafter room, and cubby
hole and press, An' seeked him up the chimbly flue an' ever'wheres, I
But all they ever found was thist his pants an' round- about !
An' the gobble-uns '11 git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!
THE ELF CHILD 61
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh and grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood an' kin ; An' onc't when they was company an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't
care ! An1 thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn'fc to run an'
hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her
side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she
know'd what she's about, An' the gobble-uns '11 git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!
An' little orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo ! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is grey, An' the lightnin' bugs hi dew is all squelched away, You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an'
dear, An' cherish them *t loves you, and dry the orphant's
tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at cluster all about, Er the gobble-uns '11 git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!
From " Old-Fashioned Roses," by kind permission of Messrs. Longmans, Green & Go.
THE HIGH TIDE
ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, 1571. BY JEAN INQELOW.
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three ;
M Pull if ye never pulled before ;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he :
" Play uppe, play uppe, 0 Boston Bells !
Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe, * The Brides of Enderby.' M
Men say it was a stolen tyde —
The Lord that sent it, He knows all ;
But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall :
And there was nought of strange, beside
The flights of mews and peewits pied
By millions crouched on the old sea wall.
I sat and spun within the doore,
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies : And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's fair wife, Elizabeth.
" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. " Cusha ! Cusha ! " aU along ; Where the reedy Lindis floweth,
Floweth, floweth,
From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song —
THE HIGH TIDE
"Cusha I Cusha! Cusha ! " calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow ;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow, Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot ; Quit the stalls of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow ;
"Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow,
From the clovers lift your head ;
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot,
Come appe, Jetty, rise and follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed."
If it be long, ay, long ago,
When I beginne to think howe long,
Againe I hear the Lindis flow,
Swift as an arrow, sharpe and strong j
And all the aire, it seemeth mee
Bin full of floating bells (sayeth shee),
That ring the tune of Enderby.
Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be scene,
Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene j
And lo ! the great belle farre and wide
Was heard in all the country-side
That Saturday at eventide.
The swanherds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath,
The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth ;
Till floating o'er the grassy sea
Came downe that kyndly message free
The " Brides of Mavis Enderby."
THE HIGH TIDE
Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows
To where the goodly vessels lie,
And where the lordly steeple shows.
They sayde, " And why should this thing be ?
What danger lowers by land or sea 1
They ring the tune of Enderby !
" For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down ; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,
They have not spared to wake the towne : But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ? ' "
I looked without, and lo ! my sonne
Came riding downe with might and main : He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again. " Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! " (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)
" The olde sea wall," he cried, " is downe,
The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death : " God save you, mother ! " straight he saith ; " Where is my wife Elizabeth ? "
" Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, With her two bairns I marked her long ;
And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song."
He looked across the grassy lea,
To right, to left, " Ho Enderby ! "
They rang, " The Brides of Enderby ! "
THE HIGH TIDE i
With that he cried and beat his breast;
For lo ! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared bis crest,
And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud J Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ;
Then madly at the eygre' s breast
Flung uppe her weltering walls again.
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout —
Then beaten foam flew round about —
And all the mighty floods were out.
So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat,
Before a shallow seething wave
Sobbed in the grasses at cure feet !
The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,
And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by J
I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high—
A lurid mark, and dread to see ;
And awsome bells they were to mee,
That in the dark rang " Enderby."
They rang the sailor lads to guide
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed J
And I ? — my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed :
And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
" 0 come in life, or come in death !
O lost ! my love, Elizabeth."
B.P.B. E
66 THE BELLS
And didst thou visit him no more ?
Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; The waters laid thee at his doore,
Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe-drifted to thy dwelling-place.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebb swept out the flocks to sea ;
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas !
To manye more than myne and mee :
But each will mourne his own (she saith),
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath —
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. By kind permission of Messrs Longmans, Green Sc. Co,
THE BELLS BY EDGAR ALLAN POTO.
Hear the sledges with the bells —
Silver bells !
What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night ! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight.
Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, beUs, bells,
Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
THE BELLS 67
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells !
What a world of happiness their harmony toretells ; Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight ! From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon !
Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! How it dwells
On the Future ! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing
Of the beUs, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells
/
Hear the loud alarum bells —
Brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright ! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavour, Now — now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, beUs, bells !
68 THE BELLS
What a tale their terror tells Of Despair !
How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air. Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows ; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells ;
Of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, bells, In the clamour and the clangour of the bells.
Hear the tolling of the bells —
Iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone ! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people — ah, the people — They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone, And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone — They are neither man nor woman — They are neither brute nor human —
THE BELLS 69
They are Ghouls And their king it is who tolls ; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls
A psean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells
With the psean of the bells J And he dances and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time, la a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells —
Of the beUs : Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells — Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells—
Bells, bells, bells— To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
70 CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT
BY ROSE H. THORPE. England's sun was setting
O'er the hills so far away, Filled the land with misty beauty
At the close of one sad day : And the last rays kissed the forehead
Of a man and maiden fair ; He with step so slow and weary,
She with sunny, floating hair ; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful,
She with lips so cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur,
" Curfew shall not ring to-night." " Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered,
Pointing to the prison old, With its walls so tall and gloomy,
Walls so dark, and damp, and cold,— " I've a lover in that prison,
Doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the Curfew,
And no earthly help is nigh : Cromwell will not come till sunset,"
And her face grew strangely white, As she spoke in husky whispers, —
" Curfew shall not ring to-night." " Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton, —
Every word pierced her young heart Like a thousand gleaming arrows,
Like a deadly poisoned dart, — " Long, long years I've rung the Curfew
From that gloomy shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset,
It has told the twilight hour. I have done my duty ever,
Tried to do it just and right ; Now I'm old, I will not miss it,
Girl, the Curfew rings to-night."
CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT 71
Wild her eyes, and pale her features,
Stern and white her thoughtful brow, And within her heart's deep centre
Bessie made a solemn vow ; She had listened while the judges
Read, without a tear or sigh : " At the ringing of the Curfew —
Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster,
And her eyes grew large and bright- One low murmur, scarcely spoken,
" Curfew must not ring to-night ! "
She with light step bounded forward,
Sprung within the old church-door, Left the old man coming slowly
Paths he'd trod so oft before ; Not one moment paused the maiden,
But, with cheek and brow aglow, Staggered up the gloomy tower,
Where the bell swung to and fro; Then she climbed the slimy ladder,
Dark, without one ray of light, Upward still, her pale lips saying,
" Curfew shall not ring to-night.'1
She has reached the topmost ladder,
O'er her hangs the great dark bell, And the awful gloom beneath her,
Like the pathway down to hell ! See, the ponderous tongue is swinging,
'Tis the hour of Curfew now — And the sight has chilled her bosom,
Stopped her breath and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring ? No, never.
Her eyes flash with sudden light, And she springs and grasps it firmly-
" Curfew shall not ring to-night ! "
72 CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT
Out she swung, far out ; — the city
Seemed a tiny speck below, There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended,
As the bell swung to and fro ; And the half-deaf sexton ringing,
(Years he had not heard the bell,) And he thought the twilight Curfew
Rung young Basil's funeral knell ; Still the maiden, clinging firmly,
Cheek and brow so pale and white, Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating—
" Curfew shall not ring to-night ! "
It was o'er — the bell ceased swaying,
And the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the damp old ladder,
Where for hundred years before Human foot had not been planted :
And what she this night had done Should be told long ages after —
As the rays of setting sun Light the sky with mellow beauty,
Aged sires with heads of white Tell the children why the Curfew
Did not ring that one sad night.
O'er the distant hills came Cromwell ;
Bessie saw him, and her brow, Lately white with sickening horror,
Glows with sudden beauty now. At his feet she told the story,
Showed her hands all bruised and torn j And her sweet young face so haggard,
With a look so sad and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity,
Lit his eyes with misty light. " Go, your lover lives," cried Cromwell j
" Curfew shall not ring to-night ! "
73
BETSY AND I ARE OUT
BY WILL CABLETON.
Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and
stout, For things at home are crossways, and Betsy and I are
out.
We, who have worked together so long as man and wife, Must pull in single harness for the rest of our nat'ral life.
" What is the matter ? " say you. I guess it's hard to
tell!
Most of the years behind us we've passed by very well ! I have no other woman, she has no other man — Only we've lived together as long as we ever can.
So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with
me,
And so we've agreed together that we can't never agree ; Not that we've catched each other in any terrible crime, We've been a-gathering this for years, a little at a time.
There was a stock of temper we both had for a start, Although we never suspected 'twould take us two apart ; I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone ; And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own.
The first thing I remember whereon we disagreed Was something concerning heaven — a difference in our
creed ; We arg'ed the thing at breakfast, we arg'ed the thing at
tea, And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we didn't
agree.
74 BETSY AND I ARE OUT
And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow ; She had kicked the bucket for certain, the question was
only — How ?
I held my own opinion, and Betsy another had ; And when we were done a-talkin', we both of us was mad.
And the next that I remember, it started in a joke : But full for a week it lasted, and neither of us spoke ; And the next was when I scolded because she broke
a bowl ; And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any soul.
And so that bowl kept pourin' dissensions in our cup ; And so that blamed cow creature was always a-comin'
up;
And so that heaven we arg'ed no nearer to us got, But it gave us a taste of something a thousand times as
hot.
And so the thing kept workin', and all the self -same way ; Always somethin' to arg'e, and somethin' sharp to say : And down on us came the neighbours, a couple dozen
strong, And lent their kindest service for to help the thing along.
And there has been days together — and many a weary
week — We was both of us cross and touchy, and both too proud
to speak ; And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the
winter and fall, If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then, I won't at
all.
And so I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked
with me,
And we have agreed together that we can't never agree ; And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be
mine ; And I'll put it in the agreement, and take it to her to sign.
BETSY AND I ARE OUT 75
Write on the paper, lawyer — the very first paragraph — Of all the farm and life-stock that she shall have her half ; For she has helped to earn it, through many a weary day, And it's nothing more than justice that Betsy has her
pay- Give her the house and homestead — a man can thrive and
roam,
But women are skerry critters unless they have a home ; And I have always determined, and never failed to say, That Betsy should never want a home if I was taken
away.
There is a little hard money that's drawin' tol'rable pay : A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day ; Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at ; Put in another clause there, and give her hah* of that.
Yes, I see you smile, sir, at my givin' her so much ; Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such ! True and fair I married her, when she was blithe and
young ; And Betsy was al'ays good to me, exceptin' with her
tongue.
Once, when I was young as you, and not so smart,
perhaps,
For me she turn'd up a lawyer, and several other chaps ; And of all them was flustered, and fairly taken down, And I for a time was counted the luckiest man in town.
Once when I had a fever — I won't forget it soon — I was hot as a basted turkey, and crazy as a loon : Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight — She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night.
76 HOW BETSY AND I MADE UP
And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean, Her house and kitchen was as tidy as any I ever seen ; And I don't complain of Betsy, or any of her acts, Excepting when we've quarrelled and told each other facts.
So draw up the paper, lawyer, and I'll go home to-night, And read the agreement to her, and see if it's all right ; And then, in the mornin', I'll sell to a tradin' man I know, And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I'll go.
And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn't
occur,
That when I am dead at last she'D bring me back to her : And lay me under the maples I planted years ago, When she and I was happy before we quarrelled so.
And when she dies I wish that she would be laid by
me,
And, lyin' together in silence, perhaps we will agree ; And if ever we meet in heaven I wouldn't think it
queer If we loved each other the better because we quarrelled
here.
HOW BETSY AND I MADE UP BY WILL CARLETON.
Give us your hand, Mr. Lawyer : how do you do to-day ? You drew up that paper — I s'pose you want your pay ; Don't cut down your figures ; make it an X or a V ; For that 'ere written agreement was just the makin' of me.
Goin' home that evenin' I tell you I was blue, Thinkin' of all my troubles, and what I was goin' to do : And if my horses hadn't been the steadiest team alive, They'd 've tipped me over, certain, for I couldn't see where to drive.
HOW BETSY AND I MADE UP 77
No — for I was labourin' under a heavy load ; No — for I was travellin' an entirely different road ; For I was a-tracin' over the path of our lives ag'in, And seein' where we missed the way, and where we might have been.
And many a corner we'd turned that just to a quarrel led, When I ought to 've held my temper, and driven straight
ahead ; And the more I thought it over the more these memories
came, And the more I struck the opinion that I was the most
to blame.
And things I had long forgotten kept risin' in my mind, Of little matters betwixt us, where Betsy was good and
kind ; And these things flashed all through me, as you know
things sometimes will When a feller's alone in the darkness, and everything is
still.
" But," says I, " we're too far along to take another
track, And when I put my hand to the plough, I do not oft turn
back ; And 'tain't an uncommon thing now for couples to
smash in two ; " And so I set my teeth together, and vowed I'd see it
through.
WTien I come in sight o' the house, 'twas some'at in the
night,
And just as I turned a hill-top I see the kitchen light ; Which often a han'some pictur' to a hungry person
makes, But it don't interest a feller much that's goin' to pull up
stakes.
78 HOW BETSY AND I MADE UP
And when I went in the house, the table was set for
me —
As good a supper's I ever saw, or ever want to see ; And I crammed the agreement down my pocket as well
as I could, And fell to eatin' my victuals, which somehow didn't
taste good.
And Betsy, she pretended to look about the house, But she watched my side coat-pocket like a cat would
watch a mouse ;
And then she went to foolin' a little with her cup, And intently readin' a newspaper, a-holdin' it wrong side
up.
And when I'd done my supper, I drawed the agreement
out, And gave it to her without a word, for she knowed
what 'twas about ;
And then I hummed a little tune, but now and then a note Was busted by some animal that hopped up in my throat.
Then Betsy she got her specs from off the mantel-shelf, And read the article over quite softly to herself ; Read it by little and little, for her eyes is gettin' old, And lawyers' writin' ain't no print, especially when it's cold.
And after she'd read a little she give my arm a touch, And kindly said she was afraid I was ' lowin' her too
much ; But when she was through, she went for me, her face
a-streamin' with tears, And kissed me for the first time in over twenty years !
I don't know what you'll think, sir — I didn't come to
inquire — But I picked up that agreement and stuffed it in the
fire;
HOW BETSY AND I MADE UP 79
And I told her we'd bury the hatchet alongside of the
cow ; And we struck an agreement never to have another row.
And I told her in the future I wouldn't speak cross or
rash If half the crockery in the house was broken all to
smash ; And she said, in regards to heaven, we'd try and learn
its worth By startin' a branch establishment and runnin' it here
on earth.
And so we sat a-talkin' three-quarters of the night, And opened our hearts to each other until they both grew
light; And the days when I waa winnin' her away from so
many men Was nothin' to that evenin' I courted her over again.
Next mornin' an ancient virgin took pains to call on us, Her lamp all trimmed and a-burnin' to kindle another
fuss ;
But when she went to pryin' and openin' of old sores, My Betsy rose politely and showed her out of doors.
Since then I don't deny but there's been a word or two ; But we've got our eyes wide open, and know just what
to do : When one speaks cross the other just meets it with a
laugh, And the first one's ready to give up considerable more
than half.
Maybe you'll think me soft, sir, a-talkin' in this style, But somehow it does me lots of good to tell it once in a
while ;
And I do it for a compliment — 'tis so that you can see That that there written agreement of yours was just the
makin' of me.
8o
TO A MOUSE
ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785
BY ROBERT BURNS.
Wee, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie, Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou needna start awa' sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle !
I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion
Which maks thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
And fellow-mortal !
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live 1 A daimen icker in a thrave
*S a sma' request : I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,
And never miss't I
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' I And naething now to big a new ane
O' foggage green ! And bleak December's winds ensuin*,
Bath snell and keen !
TO A MOUSE 81
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past
Out through thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hauld, To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch cauld !
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain : The best-laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley, And lea'e us nought but grief and pain
For promised joy.
Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! The present only toucheth thee : But, och ! I backward cast my ee
On prospects drear I And forward, though I canna see,
I guess and fear.
S.P.B.
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS BY IL W. LONGFELLOW.
It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea ; And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That op© in the month of May.
* * * * *
Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength ; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.
" Corne hither ! come hither ! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast ; He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.
" O father ! I hear the church-bells ring,
Oh say, what may it be ? " " 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " —
And he steered for the open sea.
" 0 father ! I hear the sound of guns ;
Oh say, what may it be ? " " Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea ! "
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 83
" 0 father ! I see a gleaming light,
Oh say, what may it be ? " But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes ; And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow ! Christ save us from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe !
84
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT BY TOM HOOD.
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the " Song of the Shirt."
" Work ! work ! work ! While the cock is crowing aloof !
And work — work — work, Till the stars shine through the roof ! It's Oh ! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work !
" Work — work— work Till the brain begins to swim J
Work — work — work Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam. Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream !
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT :
" Oh, Men, with Sisters dear !
Oh, men, with Mothers and Wives ! It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives ! Stitch — stitch — stitch,
In poverty, hunger and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
" But why do I talk of Death I
That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own —
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep ; Oh, God ! that bread should' be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap !
" Work— work— work !
My labour never flags ; And what are its wages ? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags. That shatter'd roof — and this naked floor —
A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there I
" Work — work — work ! From weary chime to chime,
Work — work — work — As prisoners work for crime !
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
As well as the weary hand.
" Work— work— work, In the dull December light,
86 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT
And work — work — work, When the weather is warm and bright — While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring.
" Oh ! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—
With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal I
" Oh ! but for one short hour !
A respite however brief ! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief ! A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread ! "
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread- Stitch ! stitch ! stitch !
In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — Would that its tone could reach the Rich !-
She sang this " Song of the Shirt t "
BISHOP HATTO AND THE RATS
BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.
The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet, 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The corn lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poor They crowded around Bishop Hatto's door, For he had a plentiful last year's store, And all the neighbourhood could tell His granaries were furnished well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay,
He bade them to his great barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced the tidings good to hear, The poor folks flocked from far and near, The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old.
Then when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door, And whilst for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn and burnt them alL
I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire ! quoth he, And the country is greatly obliged to me, For ridding it in these times forlorn Of rats that only consume the com.
So then to his palace returned he,
And he sate down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man J
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
88 BISHOP HATTO AND THE RATS
In the morning as he entered the hall, Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he look'd, there came a man from his farm, He had a countenance white with alarm. My lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn.
Another came running presently, And he was as pale as pale could be, Fly ! my lord bishop, fly ! quoth he, Ten thousand rats are coming this way — The Lord forgive you for yesterday !
I'll go to my tower on the Rhine, replied he, 'Tis the safest place in Germany ; The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the tide is strong, and the water deep.
Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, And he cross'd the Rhine without delay, And reach'd his tower in the island, and barr'd All the gates secure and hard.
He laid him down and closed his eyes —
But soon a scream made him arise.
He started, and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.
He listen'd and look'd ; — it was only the cat ; But the bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sate screaming, mad with fear, At the army of rats that were drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climb'd the shores so steep, And now by thousands up they crawl To the holes and windows in the wall.
MAUD MULLER 89
'Down on his knees the bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder drawing near
The saw of their teeth without he could hear.
And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls, by thousands they pour, And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below, And all at once to the bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the bishop's bones, They gnawed the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him !
MAUD MULLER BY J. G. WHITTIEB.
Maud Miiller, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast, —
90 MAUD MULLER
A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
" Thanks ! " said the Judge, " a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed."
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees ;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown J
And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Miiller looked and sighed : "Ah me ! That I the Judge's bride might be !
" He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine.
MAUD MULLER
" My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; My brother should sail a painted boat.
" I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door."
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Miiller standing still.
" A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
" And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair.
" Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay :
" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, And weary lawyers with endless tongues,
" But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words."
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune j
And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
» MAUD MULLER
He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go :
And sweet Maud Miiller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead ;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, " Ah, that I were free again !
" Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door.
But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain.
And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little springbrook fall Over the roadside, through the wall,
In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein,
And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
MAUD MULLER 93
Sometimea her narrow kitchen walla Stretched away into stately halls ;
The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned,
And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
A manly form by her side she saw, And joy was duty, and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, " It might have been."
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge !
God pity them both ! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these : "It might have been ! "
Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes ;
And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away !
94
TURN THE CARPET BY HANNAH MOORE.
As at their work two weavers sat, Beguiling time with friendly chat, They pick'd upon the price of meat, So high a weaver scarce could eat.
" What with my brats and sickly wife," Quoth Dick, " I'm almost tired of life ; So hard my work, so poor my fare, 'Tis more than mortal man can bear.
"How glorious is * the rich man's state! His house so fine, his wealth so great ! Heaven is unjust, you must agree ; Why all to him, and none to me ?
" In spite of what the Scripture teaches, In spite of all the parson preaches, This world (indeed, I've thought so long) Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong.
" Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange ) The good are troubled and oppress'd, And all the wicked are the bless'd."
Quoth John, " Our ignorance is the cause, Why thus we blame our Maker's laws ; Parts of His way alone we know ; 'Tis all that man can see below.
" Seest thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun t Behold the wild confusion there, So rude the mass it makes one stare.
TURN THE CARPET 95
*' A stranger ignorant of the trade, Would say no meaning's there conveyed ; For where's the middle, where's the border Thy carpet now is all disorder."
Quoth Dick, "My work is yet in bits, But still in every part it fits. Besides, you reason like a lout : Why, man, that carpet's inside out."
Says John, " Thou say'st the thing I mean, And now I hope to cure thy spleen : This world that clouds thy soul with doubt, Is but a carpet inside out.
" As when we view these shreds and ends, We know not what the whole intends ; So when on earth tilings look but odd, They're working still some scheme of God.
" No plan, no pattern, can we trace, All wants proportion, truth, and grace J The motley mixture we deride, Nor see the beauteous upper side.
" But when we reach the world of light, And view these works of God aright, Then shall we see the whole design, And own the workman is Divine.
" What now seem random strokes will there All order and design appear ; Then shall we praise what here we spurn' d, For then the carpet shall be turn'd."
" Thou're right," quoth Dick ; " no more I'll grumble, That this sad world's so strange a jumble ; My impious thoughts are put to flight, For my own carpet sets me right."
96
THE INVITATION
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
I was sitting with my microscope, upon my parlour
rug,
With a very heavy quarto and a very lively bug ; The true bug had been organised with only two antennae, But the humbug in the copper-plate would have them
twice as many.
And I thought, like Dr. Faustus, of the emptiness of art, How we take a fragment for the whole, and call the
whole a part ; When I heard a heavy footstep that was loud enough for
two, And a man of forty entered, exclaiming — " How d'ye
do?"
He was not a ghost, my visitor, but solid flesh and
bone:
He wore a Palo Alto hat, his weight was twenty stone. (It's odd how hats expand their brims as riper years
invade, As if when life had reached its noon it wanted them for
shade !)
I lost my focus, dropped my book, the bug, who was a
flea,
At once exploded, and commenced experiments on me. They have a certain heartiness that frequently appals — Those mediaeval gentlemen in semiulnar smalls !
"My boy," he said — (colloquial ways — the vast,
broad-hatted man) — " Come dine with us on Thursday next — you must, you
know you can ; We're going to have a roaring time, with lots of fun and
noise, Distinguished gents, et cetera, the Judge, and all the
boys."
THE INVITATION 97
" Not so," I said, " my temporal bones are showing
pretty clear It's time to stop — just look and see that hair above this
ear ; My golden days are more than spent, and, what is very
strange, If these are real silver hairs I'm getting lots of change.
" Besides — my prospects — don't you know that people
won't employ
A man that wrongs his manliness by laughing like a boy ? And suspect the azure blossom that unfolds upon a shoot, As if wisdom's old potato could not nourish at its root !
" It's a very fine reflection, when you're etching out a
smile On a copper-plate of faces that would stretch at least a
mile, That, what with sneers from enemies, and cheapening
shrugs of friends, It will cost you all the earnings that a month of labour
lends!
" It's a vastly pleasing prospect, when you're screwing
out a laugh, That your very next year's income is diminished by a
half,
And a little boy trips barefoot that Pegasus may go, And the baby's milk is watered that your Helicon may
flow!
" No ; the joke has been a good one, but I'm getting fond
of quiet,
And I don't like deviations from my customary diet ; So I think I will not go with you to hear the toasts and
speeches, But stick to old Montgomery Place, and have some pig
and peaches." S.P.R. G
98 THE INVITATION
The fat man answered : — " Shut your mouth and hear the genuine creed ;
The true essentials of a feast are only fun and feed;
The force that wheels the planets round delights in spin- ning tops,
And that young earthquake t'other day was great at shaking props.
" I tell you what, philosopher, if all the longest heads That ever knocked their sinciputs in stretching on their
beds Were round one great mahogany, I'd beat those fine old
folks With twenty dishes, twenty fools, and twenty clever
jokes !
" Why, if Columbus should be there, the company would
beg
He'd show that little trick of his of balancing the egg ; Milton to Stilton would give in, and Solomon to Salmon, And Roger Bacon be a bore, and Francis Bacon gammon !
" And as for all the ! patronage ' of all the clowns and
boors,
That squint their little narrow eyes at any freak of yours, Do leave them to your prosier friends, such fellows ought
to die, When rhubarb is so very scarce and ipecac so high ! "
And so I come, like Lochinvar, to tread a single measure, To purchase with a loaf of bread a sugar-plum of pleasure, To enter for the cup of glass that's run for after dinner, Which yields a single sparkling draught, then breaks and cuts the winner.
Ah, that's the way delusion comes ; a glass of old Madeira, A pair of visual diaphragms revolved by Jane or Sarah, And down go vows and promises without the slightest question,
I'M GROWING OLD 99
If eating words won't compromise the organs of diges- tion !
And yet, among my native shades, beside my nursing
mother, Where every stranger seems a friend, and every friend a
brother,
I feel the old convivial glow (unaided) o'er me stealing, The warm, champagny, old particular, brandy-punchy
feeling.
We're all alike : Vesuvius flings the scoriae from his foun- tain,
But down they come in volleying rain back to the burning mountain ;
We leave, like those volcanic stones, our precious Alma Mater,
But will keep dropping in again to see the dear old crater.
I'M GROWING OLD
BY J. G. SAXE. My days pass pleasantly away ;
My nights are blest with sweetest sleep I feel no symptoms of decay ;
I have no cause to mourn or weep ; My foes are impotent and shy ;
My friends are neither false nor cold, And yet, of late, I often sigh,
I'm growing old !
My growing talk of olden times, My growing thirst for early news,
My growing apathy to rhymes, My growing love of easy shoes,
My growing hate of crowds and noise, My growing fear of taking cold,
All whisper in the plainest voice,
I'm growing old !
100
I'M GROWING OLD
I'm growing fonder of my staff ;
I'm growing dimmer in the eyes ; I'm growing fainter in my laugh ;
I'm growing deeper in my sighs ; I'm growing careless of my dress ;
I'm growing frugal of my gold ; I'm growing wise ; I'm growing — yes — • I'm growing old !
I see it in my changing taste ;
I see it in my changing hair ; I see it in my growing waist ;
I see it in my growing heir ; A thousand signs proclaim the truth,
As plain as truth was ever told, That, even in my vaunted youth,
I'm growing old !
Ah me ! my very laurels breathe The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the hours bequeath But makes me debtor to the years !
E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare The secret she would fain withhold,
And tells me in " How young you are ! w I'm growing old !
Thanks for the years, whose rapid flight My sombre Muse too sadly sings ;
Thanks for the gleams of golden light That tint the darkness of their wings ;
The light that beams from out the sky Those heavenly mansions to unfold,
Where all are blest, and none may sigh, " I'm growing old ! "
THE RAVEN
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak
and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten
lore — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a
tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber
door ; " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber
door —
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah ! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon
the floor ; Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to
borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost
Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name
Lenore —
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple
curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt
before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood
repeating " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber
door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber
door ; —
This it is, and nothing more."
102 THE RAVEN
Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no
longer, " Sir," said I, " or madam, truly your forgiveness I
implore ; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came
rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber
door, That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened wide
the door; —
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there,
wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to
dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no
token, And the only word there spoken, was the whispered word
" Lenore ! " — Thus I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word
" Lenore ! "
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me
burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than
before ; " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window
lattice ; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery
explore ; — Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery
explore ; —
"Tis the wind, and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven, of the saintly days of
yore :
THE RAVEN 103
Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or
stayed he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my
chamber door — Perched above a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber
door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then, this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it
wore ; " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said,
" art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the
nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is, on the night's Plutonian
shore ! "—
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so
plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber
door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber
door,
With such name as " Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out- pour ;
Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered — " Other friends have flown before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
io4 THE RAVEN
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one bur- den bore —
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, Of " Never — nevermore."
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a^cushioned seat in front of bird and
bust and door ;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of
yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous
bird of yore,
Meant in croaking " Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining, that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloat- ing o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore !
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an
unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted
floor. " Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee— by these
angels he hath sent thee, Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of
Lenore !
THE RAVEN 105
Quaff, oh, quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore ! "
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."
" Prophet," said I ; " thing of evil !— prophet still, if
bird or devil ! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee
here ashore, Desolate, yet all . undaunted, on this desert land
enchanted — On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I
implore — Is this — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me ! tell me, I
implore ! "
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."
" Prophet," said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if
bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we
both adore — Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant
Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name
Lenore ! "—
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, up-starting —
** Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plu- tonian shore ;
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken,
Leave my loneliness unbroken — quit the bust above my door ;
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door ! "
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
106 MODERN LOGIC
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is
sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber
door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is
dreaming, And the lamp-light, o'er him streaming, throws his
shadow on the floor ; And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on
the floor,
Shall be lifted — nevermore.
MODERN LOGIC
An Eton stripling training for the law,
A dunce at syntax but a dab at taw,
One happy Christmas laid upon the shelf
His cap, his gown, and store of learned pelf,
With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.
Arrived, and past the usual " How d'ye do's ? "
Inquiries of old friends, and College news,
*' Well, Tom — the road, what saw you worth discerning,
And how goes study, boy — what is't your learning ? "
"Oh, logic, Sir — but not the worn-out rules
Of Locke and Bacon — antiquated fools !
'Tis wit and wrangler's logic — thus d'ye see,
I'll prove to you as clear as A, B, C,
That an eel-pie's a pigeon ; — to deny it,
Were to swear black's white."—" Indeed ! "— " Let's
try it.
An eel-pie is a pie of fish." — "Well — agreed." " A fish-pie may be a Jack-pie." — " Proceed." " A Jack-pie must be a John-pie — Thus, 'tis done, For every John-pie is a pi-ge-on ! "
MODERN LOGIC 107
" Bravo ! " Sir Peter cries, " Logic for ever !
It beats my grandmother — and she was clever.
But zounds, my boy — it surely would be hard
That wit and learning should have no reward ;
To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we'll cross,
And then I'll give you "— " What ? "— " My chestnut
horse."
" A horse ! " cries Tom, " blood, pedigree, and paces ! Oh ! what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races ! " He went to bed and wept for downright sorrow To think the night must pass before the morrow ; Drearn'd of his boots, his cap, his spurs, and leather
breeches,
Of leaping five-barr'd gates and crossing ditches : Left his warm bed an hour before the lark, Dragg'd his old uncle fasting through the park : — Each craggy hill and dale in vain they cross, To find out something like a chestnut horse. But no such animal the meadows cropp'd ; At length, beneath a tree Sir Peter stopp'd, Took a bough — shook it— and down fell A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell. " There, Tom— take that."—" Well, Sir, and what be- side ? "
" Why, since you're booted, saddle it and ride ! " " Ride what ? — a chestnut ? " " Ay, come get across, I tell you, Tom, the chestnut is a horse, And all the horse you'll get — for I can show As clear as sunshine that 'tis really so — Not by the musty, fusty, worn-out rules Of Locke and Bacon, addle-headed fools ! All logic but the wranglers' I disown, And stick to one sound argument — your own. Since you have proved to me, I don't deny, That a pie-John is the same as a John-pie ; What follows, then, but as a thing of course, That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut-horse 1 "
io8
THE NATURAL BRIDGE ; OR, ONE
NICHE THE HIGHEST
BY ELIHU BURRITT.
The scene opens with a view of the great Natural Bridge in Virginia. There are three or four lads standing in the channel below, looking up with awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks which the Almighty bridged over those everlasting butments, " when the morning stars sang together." The little piece of sky spanning those measureless piers is full of stars, although it is mid-day. It is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up those perpendicular bulwarks of limestone to the key of that vast arch, which appears to them only the size of a man's hand. The silence of death is rendered more impressive by the little stream that falls from rock to rock down the channel. The sun is darkened, and the boys have uncovered their heads, as if standing in the presence-chamber of the majesty of the whole earth. At last this feeling begins to wear away ; they look around them, and find that others have been there before them. They see the names of hundreds cut in the limestone butments. A new feeling comes over their yonng hearts, and their knives are in their hands in an instant. ' ' What man has done, man can do," is their watchword, while they draw themselves up, and carve their names a foot above those of a hundred full- grown men who have been there before them.
They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exer- tion, except one, whose example illustrates perfectly the forgotten truth that there is "no royal road to learning." This ambitious youth sees a name just above his reach — a name which will be green in the memory of the world when those of Alexander, Caesar, and Bonaparte shall rot in oblivion. It was the name of Washington. Before he marched with Braddock to that fatal field, he had been there and left his name, a foot above any of his predecessors. It was a glorious
THE NATURAL BRIDGE 109
thought to write his name side by side with that great father of his country. He grasps his knife with a firmer hand, and, clinging to a little jutting crag, he cuts again into the limestone, about a foot above where he stands ; he then reaches up and cuts another for his hands. 'Tis a dangerous adventure ; but as he puts his feet and hands into those gains, and draws himself up care- fully to his full length, he finds himself a foot above every name chronicled in that mighty wall. While his companions are regarding him with concern and admiration, he cuts his name in wide capitals, large and deep, in that flinty album. His knife is still in his hand and strength in his sinews, and a new created aspiration in his heart. Again he cuts another niche, and again he carves his name in larger capitals. This is not enough ; heedless of the entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs again. The gradations of his as- cending scale grow wider apart. He measures his length 'at every gain he cuts. The voices of his friends wax weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on his ear. He now for the first time casts a look be- neath him. Had that glance lasted a moment, that moment would have been his last. He clings with a convulsive shudder to his little niche in the rock. An awful abyss awaits his almost certain fan. He is faint with severe exertion, and trembling from the sudden view of the dreadful destruction to which he is exposed. His knife is worn half-way to the haft. He can hear the voices, but not the words of his terror-stricken com- panions below. What a moment ! what a meagre chance to escape destruction ! There is no retracing his steps. It is impossible to put his hands into the same niche with his feet and retain his slender hold a moment. His companions instantly perceive this new and fearful dilemma, and await his fall with emotions that " freeze their young blood." He is too high to ask for his father and mother, his brothers and sisters, to come and wit- ness or avert his destruction. But one of his com- panions anticipates his desire. Swift as the wind, ha
no THE NATURAL BRIDGE
bounds down the channel, and the situation of the fated boy is told upon his father's hearthstone.
Minutes of almost eternal length roll on, and there are hundreds standing in that rocky channel, and hun- dreds on the bridge above, all holding their breath, and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The poor boy hears the hum of new and numerous voices both above and below. He can just distinguish the tones of his father, who is shouting with all the energy of despair — " William ! William ! Don't look down ! Your mother, and Henry and Harriet, are all here, praying for you ! Don't look down ! Keep your eyes towards the top ! " The boy didn't look down. His eye is fixed like a flint towards Heaven, and his young heart on Him who reigns there. He grasps again his knife. He cuts another niche, and another foot is added to the hundreds that remove him from the reach of human help below. How carefully he uses his wasting blade ! How anxi- ously he selects the softest places in that vast pier ! How he avoids every flinty grain ! How he economizes his physical powers, resting a moment at each gain he cuts. How every motion is watched from below ! There stand his father, mother, brother and sister, on the very spot where, if he falls, he will not fall alone.
The sun is half-way down in the west. The lad has made fifty additional niches in that mighty wall, and now finds himself directly under the middle of that vast arch of rock, earth, and trees. He must cut his way in a new direction, to get from this overhanging moun- tain. The inspiration of hope is in his bosom ; its vital heat is fed by the increasing shout of hundreds perched up on cliffs and trees, and others who stand with ropes in then* hands upon the bridge above, or with ladders below. Fifty more gains must be cut before the longest rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes against the limestone. The boy is emerging painfully foot by foot from under that lofty arch. Spliced ropes are in the hands of those who are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge. Two minutes more, and all will be
THE NATURAL BRIDGE in
over. That blade is worn to the last half-inch. The boy's head reels ; his eyes are starting from their sockets. His last hope is dying in his heart, his life must hang upon the next gain he cuts. That niche is his last. At the last flint gash he makes, his knife — his faithful knife — falls irom his little nerveless hand, and ringing along the precipice falls at his mother's feet. An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death-knell through the channel below, and all is still as the grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet, the devoted boy lifts his devoted heart and closing eyes to commend his soul to God. 'Tis but a moment — there ! one foot swings off ! — he is reeling — trembling — toppling over into eternity ! — Hark ! — a shout falls on his ears from above ! The man who is lying with half his length over the bridge has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick as thought, the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking youth. No one breathes. With a faint convulsive effort, the swooning boy drops his arm into the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the words " God ! " and " mother ! " whispered on his lips just loud enough to be heard in Heaven — the tightening rope lif ts him out of his last shallow niche. Not a lip moves while he is dangling over that fearful abyss ; but when a sturdy Virginian reaches down and draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms before the tearful, breathless multitude — such shouting and such leaping and weeping for joy never greeted a human being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity 1
112
GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN BY WILL CARLETON.
John. I've worked in the fields all day, a ploughin1
the " stony streak " ; I've scolded my team till I'm hoarse ; I've tramped till
my legs are weak ;
I've choked a dozen swears (so's not to tell Jane fibs) When the plough-pint struck a stone, and the handles
punched my ribs.
I've put my team in the bam and rubbed their sweaty
coats ;
I've fed 'em a heap of hay, and half a bushel of oats ; And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin' feel, And Jane won't say to-night that I don't make out a meal.
Well said ! the door is locked ! but here she's lef fc the key, Under the step, in a place known only to her and me. I wonder who's dyin' or dead, that she's hustled off pell- mell : But here on the table's a note, and probably this will tell.
Good God ! my wife is gone ! my wife is gone astray ! The letter it says, " Good-bye, for I'm a-going away ; I've lived with you six months, John, and so far I've
been true ; But I'm going away to-day with a handsomer man than
you."
A han'somer man than me ! Why, that ain't much to say;
There's han'somer men than me go past here every day.
There's han'somer men than me — I ain't of the hand- some kind,
But a lovin'er man than I was I guess she'll never find.
GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN 113
Curse her ! curse her ! I say, and give my curses wings 1 May the words of love I've spoke be changed to scorpion
stings ! Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart
of doubt, And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart's-
blood out 1
Curse her ! curse her ! say I ; she'll some time rue this
day, She'll some time learn that hate is a game that two can
play;
And long before he dies she'll grieve she ever was born ; And I'll plough her grave with hate, and seed it down
to scorn !
As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a time when
she Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer man than
me ;
And there'll be a time when he will find, as others do, That she who is false to one can be the same with two.
And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow
dim,
And when he's tired of her and she is tired of him, She'll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count
the cost ; And then she'll see things clear, and know what she has
lost.
And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her
mind,
And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind ; And maybe she'll sometimes long for me — for me — but
no ! I've blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so.
8.P.B. H
ii4 GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN
And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin' or other
she had
That fastened a man to her, and wasn't entirely bad ; And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn't last ; But I mustn't think of these things — I've buried 'em in
the past.
I'll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter
She'll have trouble enough — she shall not have my curse : But I'll live a life so square — and I well know that I can — That she always will sorry be that she went with that han'somer man.
Ah, here is her kitchen dress ! it makes my poor eyes blur;
It seems, when I look at that, as if 'twas holding her.
And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week- day hat,
And yonder's her weddin' gown : I wonder she didn't take that.
'Twas only this mornin' she came and called me her
" dearest dear," And said I was makin' for her a regular paradise here ;
0 God ! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell, Before you pitch him in just keep Mm in heaven a spell I
Good-bye ! I wish that death had severed us two apart. You've lost a worshipper here — you've crushed a loving
heart. I'll worship no woman again ; but I'll guess I'll learn
to pray, And kneel as you used to kneel before you ran away.
And if I thought I could bring my words on heaven to
bear, And if I thought I had some little influence there,
1 would pray that I might be, if it only could be so, As happy and gay as I was a half an hour ago.
GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN 115
Jane (entering). Why, John, what a litter here ! you've
thrown things all around ! Come, what's the matter now ? and what've you lost or
found ?
And here's my father here, a-waitin' for supper, too, I'v been a-riding with him — he's that " handsomer man
than you."
Ha ! ha ! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on, And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John. Why, John, you look so strange ! Come, what has crossed
your track ? I was only a- joking, you know ; I'm willing to take it
back.
John (aside). Well, now, if this ain't a joke, with
rather a bitter cream '
It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish dream ; And I think she " smells a rat," for she smiles at me so
queer ; I hope she don't ; good Lord ! I hope that they didn't
hear!
'Twas one of her practical drives — she thought I'd under- stand ;
But I'll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.
But one thing's settled with me — to appreciate heaven well,
'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell
1 10
CARRYING THE BABY
BY ETHEL TUBNER.
Larrie had been carrying it for a long way, and said it was quite time Dot took her turn.
Dot was arguing the point.
She reminded him of all athletic sports he had taken part in, and of all the prizes he had won ; she asked him what was the use of being six-foot-two and an impossible number of inches round the chest if he could not carry a baby.
Larrie gave her an unexpected glance and moved the baby to his other arm ; he was heated and unhappy, there seemed absolutely no end to the red, red road they were traversing, and Dot, as well as refusing to help to carry the burden, laughed aggravatingly at him when he said it was heavy.
" He is exactly twenty-one pounds," she said, " I weighed him on the kitchen scales yesterday. I should think a man of your size ought to be able to carry twenty- one pounds without grumbling so."
" But he's on springs, Dot," he said ; " just look at him, he's never still for a minute ; you carry him to the beginning of Lee's orchard, and then I'll take him again."
Dot shook her head.
" I'm very sorry, Larrie," she said, " but I really can't. You know I didn't want to bring the child, and when you insisted, I said to myself you should carry him every inch of the way, just for your obstinacy."
" But you're his mother," objected Larrie.
He was getting seriously angry, his arms ached un- utterably, his clothes were sticking to his back, and twice the baby had poked a little fat thumb in his eye and made it water. . " But you're its father," Dot said sweetly.
" It's easier for a woman to carry a child than a man " —poor Larrie was mopping his hot brow with his disen-
CARRYING THE BABY 117
hand — " every one says so ; don't be a little sneak, Dot ; my arm's getting awfully cramped ; here, for pity's sake take him."
Dot shook her head again.
" Would you have me break my vow, St. Lawrence ? " she said.
She looked provokingly cool and unruffled as she walked along by his side ; her gown was white, with transparent puffy sleeves, her hat was white and very large, she had little white canvas shoes, long white Suede gloves, and she carried a white parasol.
" I'm hanged," said Larrie, and he stopped short in the middle of the road ; " look here, my good woman, are you going to take your baby, or are you not ? "
Dot revolved her sunshade round her little sweet face.
" No, my good man," she said ; " I don't propose to carry your baby one step."
" Then I shall drop it," said Larrie. He held it up in a threatening position by the back of its crumpled coat, but Dot had gone sailing on.
" Find a soft place," she called, looking back over her shoulder once and seeing him still standing in the road.
" Little minx," he said under his breath.
Then his mouth squared itself ; ordinarily it was a pleasant mouth, much given to laughter and merry words ; but when it took that obstinate look, one could see capabilities for all manner of things.
He looked carefully around. By the roadside there was a patch of soft green grass, and a wattle bush, yellow- crowned, beautiful. He laid the child down in the shade of it, he looked to see there were no ants or other insects near ; he put on the bootee that was hanging by a string from the little rosy foot, and he stuck the india-rubber comforter in its mouth. Then he walked quietly away and caught up to Dot.
" Well ? " she said, but she looked a little startled at his empty arms ; she dropped the sunshade over the shoulder nearest to him, and gave a hasty, surreptitious glance backward. Larrie strode along.
ii8 CARRYING THE BABY
" You look fearfully ugly when you screw up your mouth like that," she said, looking up at his set side face.
" You're an unnatural mother, Dot, that's what you are," he returned hotly. " By Jove, if I was a woman, I'd be ashamed to act as you do. You get worse every day you live. I've kept excusing you to myself, and saying you would get wiser as you grew older, and instead, you seem more childish every day."
She looked childish. She was very, very small in stature, very slightly and delicately built. Her hair was in soft gold-brown curls, as short as a boy's ; her eyes were soft, and wide, and tender, and beautiful as a child's. She was not particularly beautiful, only very fresh, and sweet, and lovable. Larrie once said she always looked like a baby that has been freshly bathed and dressed, and puffed with sweet violet powder and sent out into the world to refresh tired eyes.
That was one of his courtship sayings, more than a year ago, when she was barely seventeen. She was eighteen now, and he was telling her she was an unnatural mother.
" Why, the child wouldn't have had its bib on, only I saw to it," he said, in a voice that increased in excite- ment as he dwelt on the enormity.
" Dear me," said Dot, " that was very careless of Peggie ; I must really speak to her about it."
" I shall shake you some day, Dot," Larrie said, " shake you till your teeth rattle. Sometimes I can hardly keep my hands off you."
His brow was gloomy, his boyish face troubled, vexed.
And Dot laughed. Leaned against the fence skirting the road that seemed to run to eternity, and laughed outrageously.
Larrie stopped too. His face was very white and square-looking, his dark eyes held fire. He put his hands on the white exaggerated shoulders of her muslin dresa and turned her round.
" Go back to the bottom of the hill this instant, and pick up the child and carry it up here," he said.
CARRYING THE BABY 119
" Go and insert your foolish old head in a receptacle for pommes-de-terre," was Dot's flippant retort.
Larrie's hands pressed harder, his chin grew squarer.
" I'm in earnest, Dot, deadly earnest. I order you to fetch the child, and I intend you to obey me," he gave her a little shake to enforce the command. " I am your master, and I intend you to know it from this day."
Dot experienced a vague feeling of surprise at the fire in the eyes that were nearly always clear, and smiling, and loving, then she twisted herself away.
" Pooh," she said, "you're only a stupid over-grown, passionate boy, Larrie. You my master ! You're nothing in the world but my husband."
" Are you going ? " he said in a tone he had never used before to her. " Say Yes or No, Dot, instantly."
" No," said Dot, stormily.
Then they both gave a sob of terror, their faces blanched, and they began to run madly down the hill.
Oh the long, long way they had come, the endless stretch of red, red road that wound back to the gold- tipped wattles, the velvet grass, and their baby !
Larrie was a fleet, wonderful runner. In the little cottage where they lived, manifold silver cups and mugs bore witness to it, and he was running for life now, but Dot nearly outstripped him.
She flew over the ground, hardly touching it, her arms were outstretched, her lips moving. They fell down together on their knees by their baby, just as three furious, hard-driven bullocks thundered by, filling the air Math dust and bellowing.
The baby was blinking happily up at a great fat golden beetle that was making a lazy way up the wattle. It had lost its " comforter " and was sucking its thumb thoughtfully. It had kicked off its white knitted boots, and was curling its pink toes up in the sunshine with great enjoyment.
" Baby ! " Larrie said. The big fellow was trembling in every limb.
" Baby I " said Dot. She gathered it up in her little
lao THE CHILDREN'S HOUR
shaking arms, she put her poor white face down upon it, and broke into such pitiful tears and sobs that it wept too. Larrie took them both into his arms, and sat down on a fallen tree. He soothed them, he called them a thousand tender, beautiful names ; he took off Dot's hat and stroked her little curls, he kissed his baby again and again ; he kissed his wife. When they were all quite calm and the bullocks ten miles away, they started again.
" I'll carry him," said Larrie.
"Ah, no, let me," Dot said.
" Darling, you're too tired — see, you can hold his hand across my shoulder."
" No, no, give him to me — my arms ache without him."
" But the hill — my big baby ! "
" Oh, I must have him — Larrie, let me — see, he is so light — why, he is nothing to carry."
From " The Story of a Baby," published by Messrs. [Ward, Lock <k Co., Ltd.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.
Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR i»i
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence :
Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall ! By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall !
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair ;
If I try to escape they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine I
Do you think, 0 blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all !
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart. '• £
And there will I keep you for ever
Yes, for ever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away 1
122
THE INCHCAPE ROCK
BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was as still as she could be, Her sails from heaven received no motion, Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sigh or sound of their shock The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock ; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape bell.
The worthy Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock ; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung.
When the rock was hid by the surge's swell, The mariners heard the warning bell ; And then they knew the perilous rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day ;
The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,
And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen A dark speck on the ocean green ; Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the rover's mirth was wickedness.
THE INCHCAPE ROCK 123
His eye was on the Inchcape float ; Quoth he, " My men put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And tc the Inchcape rock they go ;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut che bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound, The bubbles rose and burst around ; Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away, He scour'd the seas for many a day ; And now grown rich with plunder'd store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky They cannot see the sun on high ; The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the rover takes his stand, So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon."
" Canst hear," said one, " the breakers' roar ? For me thinks we should be near the shore." " Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape bell."
They hear no sound, the swell is strong ; Though the wind hath fallen they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — " Oh ! heavens ! it is the Inchcape rock ! "
zf THE CHANGELING
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair j He curst himself in his despair ; The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But even now, in his dying fear
One dreadful sound could the rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcape bell
The devils in triumph were ringing his knell.
THE CHANGELING BY J. R. LOWELL.
I had a little daughter,
And she was given to me To lead me gently backward
To the Heavenly Father's knee, That I, by the force of nature,
Might in some dim wise divine The depth of His infinite patience
To this wayward soul of mine.
I know not how others saw her,
But to me she was wholly fair, And the light of the heaven she came from
Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ; For it was as wavy and golden,
And as many changes took, As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples
On the yellow bed of a brook.
To what can I liken her smiling,
Upon me, her kneeling lover, How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids,
And dimpled her wholly over,
THE CHANGELING its
Till her outstretched hands smiled also,
And I almost seemed to see The very heart of her mother
Sending sun through her veins to me !
She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth,
And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels
Stole my little daughter away ; Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari
But loosed the hampering strings, And when they had opened her cage-door
My little bird used her wings.
But they left in her stead a changeling,
A little angel child, That seems like her bud in full blossom,
And smiles as she never smiled : When I wake in the morning, I see it
Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet
Alone 'neath the awful sky.
As weak, yet as trustful also ;
For the whole year long I see All the wonders of faithful Nature
Still worked for the love of me ; Winds wander, and dews drip earthward,
Rain falls, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper
A poor little violet.
This child is not mine as the first was,
I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly,
And bless it upon my breast ; Yet it lies in my little one's cradle
And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she's gone to
Transfigures its golden hair.
126
THE SCHOOLMASTER AND HIS APPLES
What is a schoolmaster ? Why, can't you tell ? A quizzical old man Armed with a rattan ; Wears a huge wig,
And struts about ; Strives to look big,
With spectacles on snout, And most important pout, Who teaches little boys to read and spelL
Such my description is of a man, If not a clergyman, a layman. So much by way of definition, And, to prevent dull disquisition. We'll shortly take a new position.
A schoolmaster (it mostly follows)
Who keeps a school must have some scholars j
Unless, indeed (which said at once is),
Instead of scholars they are all dunces ;
Or, if this fancy more should tickle,
Suppose them mixed — like Indian pickle.
One Dr. Larrup, as depicted here, Who little boys had flogged for many a year—- Not that they wouldn't learn their A, B, 0, Their hie, hcec, hoc — Syntax, or Prosody, But that despite Of all his might And oft-enforced rules of right, They would contrive, by day or night, To steal — oh ! flinty-hearted sparks, Worse than to little fish are sharks —
THE SCHOOLMASTER AND HIS APPLES 1*7
(Alas ! to tell it my muse winces) To steal his apples, pears, and quinces. Put them where'er he would, alike their dooms, His efforts proved as fruitless as his rooms. As a pert dunghill cock, inflamed with ire, Erects his feathers and his comb of fire, When of some grains, his own by right, He's robb'd by foes that take to flight, So stood the Doctor — With face as red As coral bed,
His wig cock'd forward in his eye, As if it there the cause would spy. Had his wife been there, I do declare, It would have shocked her.
After long buffeting in mental storm,
His brain's thermometer fell from hot to warm.
At many plans by turns he grapples,
To save his quinces, pears, and apples ;
When luckily, into his noddle
His recollection chanced to toddle.
This sage informant told poor Larrup,
If he'd convey his fruit so far up,
That on his house's top there stood
A room, well floored, I think with wood—
'Twas what some folks a loft would call — •
The entrance through a trap-door small,
Fix'd in the ceiling of his chamber,
To which he up a rope must clamber ;
Unless a ladder was prepared,
And then the rope's-end might be spared ]
But he'd a long, well-practised knack,
Of sparing neither rope nor back.
Ye who in proper titles glory,
Will think, I hope, as I have oft, That as this story's of a loft,
It should be called a " lofty story."
128 THE SCHOOLMASTER AND HIS APPLES
Well, Larrup, without more disputing, Fixed on this loft to put his fruit in, And quickly had it thither moved, How far securely must be proved.
From one apartment, so erected That with the very trifling risk
Of dislocating neck or shoulder, Which boys ne'er think of in a frisk
(Nay, oft it makes the urchins bolder), Advent'rous spirits might contrive To reach the Doctor's apple-hive. In this room rested four or five
Of these young pilferers, undetected.
Whilst laden sleep sat on the Doctor's shutters, (By shutters I would here imply The lids that shut light from the eye) These daring rogues explored the tiles and gutteri In search of trap or casement — but alack ! They found not e'en a small, a gracious crack. When one, 'gainst ev'ry disappointment proof, Proposed that they should just — untile the roof : At least, sufficient space t' admit A basket, in which one might sit ; And thus, by rope to handle tied, Be lower'd down with gentle ride. This being approved of, 'twas decided That next night should be provided
A basket and a rope ; Which being in due time effected, A supercargo was selected, Who, raised by hope, Was gradually lower'd through the hole, From whence he sent up apples by the shoaL This plan they often put in force (Not oft'ner than they could — of course), And when their pilfering job was ended, The untiled roof they always mended.
THE SCHOOLMASTER AND HIS APPLES 129
The Doctor frequent visits made, And soon perceived his apples stray'd ; And oft upon the school-room floor Lay many a pear and apple core : With grief he viewed these sad remains, Of what to keep he took such pains. Despair now made his heart its prey, When, entering the loft one day, His ears had pretty ample proof The rogues were breaking thro' the roof. He wisely then conceal'd himself, When lo ! down came one little elf ; But he no sooner reach the ground did Then at him out the Doctor bounded, And threaten' d, if he said a sentence, He'd give him cause for years' repentance. The boy stood mute as pewter pot, While Larrup in the basket got ; When, being seated snug and steady, He made his pris'ner cry, " All's ready." The boys above began to pull — " Bless me ! the basket's very full." " He's got a swingeing lot this time, And I'll be bound he's pick'd the prime.'* "To it again With might and main,
Another haul will do the job ; " " Yo ! yo ho ! Up we go ! "
When lo ! up popp'd the Doctor's nob. How they all look'd I can't express, So leave that part for you to guess ; But you, perhaps, may think it right To know the end of Larrup's flight. Well, when they'd drawn him to the top, Where he, most likely, wish'd to stop, The wicked rascals — let the Doctor drop t
130
JOHNNY RICH
BY WILL CARLETON.
Raise the light a little, Jim, For it's getting rather dim,
And with such a storm a-howlin', 'twill not do to douse the glim.
Hustle down the curtains, Lu ; Poke the fire a little, Su ;
This is somethin' of a flurry, mother, somethin' of a — whew !
Goodness gracious, how it pours ! How it beats ag'in the doors !
You will have a hard one, Jimmy, when you go to do the chores !
Do not overfeed the gray ; Give a plenty to the bay ;
And be careful with your lantern when you go among the hay.
See the horses have a bed When you've got 'em fairly fed ;
Feed the cows that's in the stable, and the sheep that'a in the shed;
Give the spotted cow some meal, Where the brindle cannot steal ;
For she's greedy as a porker and as slipp'ry as an eeL
Hang your lantern by the ring, On a nail, or on a string ;
For the Durham calf'll bunt it, if there's any such a thing:
He's a handsome one to see, And a knowin' one is he :
I stooped over t'other morning, and he up and went for me !
JOHNNY RICH 131
Rover thinks he hears a noise !
Just keep still a minute, boys ;
Nellie, hold your tongue a second, and be silent with your toys.
Stop that barkin', now, you whelp,
Or I'll kick you till you yelp ! Yes, I hear it ; 'tis somebody that's calling out for help.
Get the lantern, Jim and Tom, Mother, keep the babies calm,
And we'll follow up that halloa, and we'll see where it is from.
'Tis a hairy sort of night For a man to face and fight ;
And the wind is blowin' — Hang it, Jimmy, bring another light!
*****
Ah ! 'twas you, then, Johnny Rich, Yelling out at such a pitch,
For a decent man to help you, while you fell into the ditch:
'Tisn't quite the thing to say, But we ought to've let you lay,
While your drunken carcass died a-drinkin' water any- way.
And to see you on my floor, And to hear the way you snore,
Now we've lugged you under shelter, and the danger is all o'er ;
And you lie there, quite resigned, Whisky deaf, and whisky blind,
And it will not hurt your feelin's, so I guess I'll free my mind.
Do you mind, you thievin' dunce, How you robbed my orchard once, Takin' all the biggest apples, leavin' all the littlest runts ? Do you mind my melon-patch —
1 32 JOHNNY RICH
How you gobbled the whole batch, Stacked the vines, and sliced the greenest melons, just to raise the scratch ?
Do you think, you drunken wag,
It was anything to brag, To be cornered in my hen-roost with two pullets in a bag ?
You are used to dirty dens ;
You have often slept in pens ;
I've a mind to take you out there now and roost you with the hens !
Do you call to mind with me How, one night, you and your three
Took my waggon all to pieces for to hang it on a tree ? How you hung it up, you eels, Straight and steady, by the wheels ?
I've a mind to take you out there now and hang you by your heels !
How the fourth of last July, When you got a little high,
You went back to Wilson's counter when you thought he wasn't nigh ?
How he heard some specie chink, And was on you in a wink,
And you promised if he'd hush it that you never more would drink ?
Do you mind our temperance hall ? How you're always sure to call,
And recount your reformation with the biggest speech of all ?
How you talk, and how you sing That the pledge is just the thing — How you sign it every winter and then smash it every spring 1
JOHNNY RICH 133
Do you mind how Jennie Green
Was as happy as a queen
When you walked with her on Sunday, looking sober, straight, and clean ?
How she cried out half her sight,
When you staggered by, next night, Twice as dirty as a serpent and a hundred times as tight ?
How our hearts with pleasure warmed When your mother, though it stormed, Ran up here one day to tell us that you truly had reformed ?
How that very self-same day, When upon her homeward way,
She ran on you, where you'd hidden, full three-quarters o'er the bay ?
Oh, you little whisky-keg ! Oh, you horrid little egg !
You're goin' to destruction with your swiftest foot and leg!
I've a mind to take you out Underneath the water-spout,
Just to rinse you up a little, so you'll know what you're about !
But you've got a handsome eye, And, although I can't tell why,
Somethin' somewhere in you always lets you get another try:
So, for all that I have said,
I'll not douse you ; but, instead,
I will strip you, I will rub you, I will put you into bed !
134
WHAT IS A WOMAN LIKE ?
A woman is like to — but stay—
What a woman is like, who can say ?
There is no living with or without one. Love bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye,
Buzz, buzz, always buzzing about one. When she is tender and kind She is like, to my mind
(And Fanny was so, I remember),
She's like to 0 dear !
She's as good, very near,
As a ripe melting peach in September. If she laugh and she chat, Play, joke, and all that,
And with smiles and good humour she meet me. She is like a rich dish Of venison or fish,
That cries from the table, Come eat me !
But she'll plague you and vex you,
Distract and perplex you ;
False-hearted and ranging,
Unsettled and changing,
What then do you think she is like ? Like a sand, like a rock ? Like a wheel, like a clock ?
Ay, a clock that is always at strike.
Her head's like the island folks tell on,
Which nothing but monkeys can dwell on.
Her heart's like a lemon — so nice,
She carves for each lover a slice ; In truth she's to me Like the wind, like the sea,
Whose rage will hearken to no man ; lake a mill, like a pill, Like a flail, like a whale, Like an ass, like a glass,
JOHN BROWN 135
Whose image is constant to no man ;
Like a shower, like a flower,
Like a fly, like a pie,
Like a pea, like a flea,
Like a thief, like — in brief, She's like nothing on earth — but a woman.
JOHN BROWN
I've a guinea I can spend, I've a wife and I've a friend, And a troop of little children at my knee,
John Brown.
I've a cottage of my own, With the ivy overgrown, And a garden, with a view of the sea,
John Brown.
I love the song of birds, And the children's early words, And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet,
John Brown.
And I hate a false pretence, And the want of common sense, And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit,
John Brown.
I love the meadow flowers, And the briar in the bowers, And I love an open face without guile,
John Brown.
And I hate a selfish knave, And a proud contented slave, And a lout who'd rather borrow than he'd toil,
John Brown.
136 JOHN BROWN
I love a simple song, That makes emotions strong,
And the word of hope that raises him who faints,
John Brown.
And I hate the constant whine, Of the foolish who repine, And turn their good to evil by complaints,
John Brown.
But even when I hate, If I seek my garden gate, And survey the world around and above,
John Brown,
The hatred flies my mind, And I sigh for human kind, And excuse the faults of those I cannot love,
John Brown.
So if you like my ways, And the comfort of my days, I can tell you how I live so unvexed,
John Brown.
I never scorn my health, Nor sell my soul for wealth, Nor destroy one day the pleasure of the next,
John Brown.
I've parted with my pride, And I take the sunny side, For I've found it worse than folly to be sad,
John Brown.
I keep my conscience clear, I've a hundred pounds a year, And I manage to exist and to be glad,
John Brown.
»37
BETTER IN THE MORNING
BY REV. LEANDER S. COAN.
" You can't help the baby, parson ;
But still I want ye to go Down an' look in upon her,
An' read an' pray, you know. Only last week she was skippin' round,
A-pullin' my whiskers 'n' hair, A-climbin' up to the table
Into her little high-chair.
"The first night that she took it,
When her little cheeks grew red, When she kissed good-night to papa
And went away to bed, Sez she : ' 'Tis headache, papa,
Be better in mornin' — bye ! ' An' somethin' in how she said it
Jest made me want to cry.
" But the mornin' brought the fever,
And her little hands were hot, An' the pretty red uv her little cheeks
Grew into a crimson spot. But she laid there jest ez patient
Ez ever a woman could, Takin' whatever we give her
Better'n a grown woman would.
" The days are terrible long an' slow,
An' she's growin' wus in each ; An' now she's just a-slippin'
Clear away out uv our reach. Every night when I kiss her,
Tryin' hard not to cry, She says, in a way that kills me :
' Be better in mornin' — bye ! '
i38 BETTER IN THE MORNING
" She can't get thro' the night, parson,
So I want ye to come an' pray, An' talk with mother a little —
You'll know just what to say. Not that the baby needs it,
Nor that we make any complaint That God seems to think He's needin"
The smile uv the little saint."
I walked along with the corporal
To the door of his humble home, To which the silent messenger
Before me had also come. And if he had been a titled prince,
I would not have been honoured more Than I was with his heartfelt welcome
To his lowly cottage-door.
Night falls again in the cottage ;
They move in silence and dread Around the room where the baby
Lies panting upon her bed. " Does baby know papa, darling ? "
And she moves her little face With answer that shows she knows him ;
But scarce a visible trace
Of her wonderful infantile beauty
Remains as it was before The unseen, silent messenger
Had waited at their door. •' Papa — kiss — baby — I's — so — tired-
The man bows low his face, And two swollen hands are lifted
In baby's last embrace.
BETTER IN THE MORNING 139
And into her father's grizzled beard
The little red fingers cling, While her husky whispered tenderness
Tears from a rock would wring : " Baby — is — so — sick — papa —
But — don't — want — you — to — cry." The little hands fall on the coverlet ;
" Be — better in mornin' — bye ! "
And night around baby is falling,
Settling down dark and dense ; Does God need their darling in heaven,
That He must carry her hence ? I prayed, with tears in my voice,
As the corporal solemnly knelt, With grief such as never before
His great, warm heart had felfc.
Oh ! frivolous men and women !
Do you know that round you, and nigh, Alike from the humble and haughty
Goeth up evermore the cry : "My child, my precious, my darling,
How can I let you die ? " Oh ! hear ye the white lips whisper :
"Be better in mornin' — bye"?
140
THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS
STEED BY THE HON. MBS. NORTON.
My beautiful ! my beautiful ! that standest meekly by. With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and
fiery eye, Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged
speed, I may not mount on thee again, thou art sold, my Arab
steed, Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy
wind —
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind. The stranger hath thy bridle rein — thy master hath his
gold — Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell, thou'rt sold, my
steed, thou'rt sold. Farewell ! these free untired limbs full many a mile must
roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the
stranger's home. Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed
prepare —
The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with
thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were
wont to be. Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy
plain Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home
again. Yes, thou must go, the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun
and sky, Thy master's home, from all of these my exiled one must
fly.
THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED 141
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step
become less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand
to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light ; And when I raise my dreaming arm, to check and cheer
thy speed, Then must I startling wake, to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab
steed. Ah ! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may
chide,
Till foam wreaths he, like crested waves, along thy pant- ing side, And the rich blood that is in thee swells in thy indignant
pain ; Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each
started vein. Will they ill use thee ? If I thought — but no it cannot
be—
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free. And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart
should yearn, Can the hand which casts thee from it, now command
thee to return.
Return, alas ! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do, When thou who wert his all of joy hath vanished from his
view ; When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the
gathering tears Thy bright form for a moment like the false Mirage
appears, » .
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft has
borne me on. And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly
think, It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw
him drink.
i42 THE WAY TO MEET ADVERSITY
When last I saw thee drink ? Away ! the fevered dream
is o'er, I could not live a dav, and know that we should meet
no more. They tempted me, my beautiful ! for hunger's power is
strong, They tempted me, my beautiful ! but I have loved too
long, Who said that I'd giv'n thee up, who said that thou wert
sold? 'Tis false, 'tis false, my Arab steed, I fling them back
their gold ; Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant
plains, Away, who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for bis
pains.
THE WAY TO MEET ADVERSITY
Horace, Book II, Ode X. BY WILLIAM COWPER.
Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach, So shalt thou Mve beyond the reach
Of adverse fortune's power ; Not always tempt the distant deep, Nor always timorously creep
Along the treacherous shore.
He that holds fast the golden mean, And lives contentedly between
The little and the great, Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Imbittering all his state.
THE WAY TO MEET ADVERSITY 143
The tallest pines feel most the power Of winter's blast, the loftiest tower
Comes heaviest to the ground ; The bolts that spare the mountain's side, His cloud-capt eminence divide
And spread the ruin round.
The well-informed philosopher Rejoices with a wholesome fear,
And hopes in spite of pain ; If winter bellow from the north, Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again.
What if thy heaven be overcast, The dark appearance will not last,
Expect a brighter sky ; The God that strings the silver bow Awakes sometimes the muses too,
And lays his arrows by.
If hindrances obstruct thy way, Thy magnanimity display,
And let thy strength be seen ; But oh ! if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvas in I
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS
BY TOM HOOD.
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath, Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death !
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care ; Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair !
Look at her garments Clinging like cerements ; Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing ; Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing. —
Touch her not scornfully ; Think of her mournfully :
Gently and humanly ; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful ; Past all dishonour, Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 145
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family — Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses ; Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home ?
Who was her father ?
Who was her mother ! Had she a sister ?
Had she a brother ? Or was there a dearer one Still, or a nearer one
Yet, than all other I
Alas ! for the rarity Of Christian charity
Under the sun ! Oh ! it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full,
Home had she none.
Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver So far in the river,
With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement,
146 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS
She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver j But nob the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river : Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurl'd— Any where ! any where
Out of the world !
In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly
The rough river ran, — • Over the brink of it, Picture it — think of it,
Dissolute Man ! Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can !
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair !
Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, — kindly, — Smoothe, and compose them And her eyes, close them
Staring so blindly !
Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix'd on futurity,
CHEAP CLOTHING 147
Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity, Into her rest. —
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly, Over her breast !
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour !
CHEAP CLOTHING
One Charles Mackenzie, who with bra' Scotch face
Like sunshine frying on a raw beef-steak, Held in the House of Somerset a place,
By which some annual moneys he did make. Now, Charles Mackenzie's was a saving plan — 'Tis the concomitant of clerkly man — And rather than bestow a sixpence right
Would do a good deal wrong,
So says the song,
Perhaps more truly than is deemed polite. This Charley had a tailor of his own, Some human five feet two of skin and bone ; Who made cheap clothes, — so cheap I grieve to utter He scarce could buy his bread, much less his butter ; Forsooth the Scotchman was the greatest cutter ;
Who never let the Snip obtain Much profit on his stuff,
Seeming, as paying was against his grain,
To think his order was enough. Well, 'twas but like the dandies of his age, But saints preserve us from such patronage!
148 CHEAP CLOTHING
Now, one day Charley to his Schneider said,
" I want some trousers — not exactly stout — Not in-door wearing, light as thine own head,
For walking while the summer is about." But Snip, not liking jokes upon his sconce, Vowed to be quits at least for once ;
And made such natty brogues, None could imagine, when they saw, Within the glossy cloth a flaw,
Unless themselves were of the tailor rogues.
Pleased at their elegance, now Charley walked Some three yards bigger than he talked ; But, oh ! I grieve, Mackenzie
Scarce had a fortnight's wearing
Ere the new trousers tearing With old age, put him in a perfect frenzy! He found, oh, direful fate ! he found ! What ? that the gay cloth wasn't sound.
All in a towering passion forth he went, To row the knavish man's ninth part intent ; And fit to choke, Thus silence broke : — " You tailor lout, our dealings hence shall cease ; "
And then an adjective his lip releases. " Never expect another moment's peace, You've made my trousers, and they've gone to pieces.*'
"Sir," said the tailor, and he bow'd his head, " I follow'd full your orders — make no rout —
Not in-door wearing, as you plainly said, Of course I thought you meant them to WEAR
OUT."
I49
MOSES AT THE FAIR BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
As we were now to hold up our heads a little higher in the world, my wife proposed that it was proper to sell our colt, which was grown old, at a neighbouring fair, and buy us a horse that would carry single or double upon occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church, or upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly, but it was as stoutly defended. However, as I weakened my an- tagonists gained strength, till at length it was resolved to part with him. As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions of going there myself ; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me from home. " No, my dear," said she ; " our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and sell to very good advantage ; you know all our great bargains are of his purchasing. He always stands out and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a bargain."
As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing enough to entrust him with this commission ; and the next morning I perceived his sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair ; trimming his hair, brush- ing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins. The business of the toilet being over, we had, at last, the satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before him to bring home groceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth called thunder and lightning, which, though grown too short, was much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling green, and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad black ribbon We all followed him several paces from the door, bawling after him, " Good luck ! good luck ! " till we could see him no longer.
He was scarce gone when Mr. ThornhilTs butler came to congratulate us upon our good fortune, saying that he overheard his young master mention our names with great commendation. Good fortune seemed resolved
1 50 MOSES AT THE FAIR
not to come alone. Another footman from the same family followed, with a card for my daughters, importing that the two ladies had received such pleasing accounts from Mr. Thomhill of us all, that, after a few previous inquiries, they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. " Ay," cried my wife, " I now see it is no easy matter to get into the families of the great ; but when one once gets in, then as Moses says, one may go to sleep." To this piece of humour, for she intended it for wit, my daughters assented with a loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her satisfaction at this message that she actually put her hand in her pocket and gave the messenger seven- pence-halfpenny.
This was to be our visiting day. The next that came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought my little ones a pennyworth of gingerbread each, which my wife undertook to keep for them, and give them by letters at a time. He brought my daughters also a couple of boxes, in which they might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money when they got it. My wife was usually fond of a weasel-skin purse, as being the most lucky ; but this by the by. We had still a regard for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude behaviour was hi some measure displeasing ; nor could we now avoid communi- cating our happiness, and asking his advice ; although we seldom followed advice, we were all ready enough to ask it. When he read the note from the two ladies he shook his head, and observed that an affair of this sort de- manded the utmost circumspection. This air of diffi- dence highly displeased my wife. " I never doubted, sir," cried she, " your readiness to be against my daughters and me. You have more circumspection than is wanted. However, I fancy when we come to ask advice, we shall apply to persons who seem to have made use of it them- selves." " Whatever my own conduct may have been, madam," replied he, "is not the present question; though, as I have made no use of advice myself, I should, in conscience, give it to those that will." As I was apprehensive this answer might draw on a repartee,
MOSES AT THE FAIR 151
making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I changed the subject by seeming to wonder what could keep our son so long at the fair, as it was now almost nightfall. " Never mind our son," cried my wife ; " depend upon it he knows what he is about. I'll warrant we'll never see him sell his hen on a rainy day. I have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze one. I'll tell you a good story about that, that will make your sides split with laughing, t But, as I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the box at his back." As she spoke Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under the deal box, which he had strapped round his shoulders like a pedlar. " Welcome ! welcome, Moses ! Well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair ? " "I have brought you myself," cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on the dresser. " Ah, Moses," cried my wife, " that we know, but where is the horse ? " "I have sold him," cried Moses, " for three pounds five shillings and twopence." " Well done, my good boy," return- ed she ; I knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, three pounds five shillings and twopence is no bad day's work. Come, let us have it then." " I have brought back no money," cried Moses again ; " I have laid it all out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling out a bundle from his breast ; " here they are — a gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases." " A gross of green spectacles ! " repeated my wife, in a faint voice. " And you have parted with the colt, and brought us back nothing but a gross of green paltry spectacles ! " " Dear mother," cried the boy, " why won't you listen to reason ? I had them a dead bargain, or I should not have bought them. The silver rims alone will sell for double the money." " A fig for the silver rims," cried my wife, in a passion ; " I dare swear they won't sell for above hah* the money at the rate of broken silver, five shillings an ounce." " You need be under no uneasiness," cried I, " about selling the rims, for they are not worth sixpence, for I perceive they are only copper varnished over." " What ' "
1 52 MOSES AT THE FAIR
cried my wife, " not silver ; the rims not silver ? " " No,'* cried I ; "no more silver than your saucepan." " And so," returned she, " we have parted with the colt, and have only got a gross of green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen cases ! A murrain take such trumpery. The blockhead has been imposed upon, and should have known his company better ! " " There, my dear," cried I, " you are wrong ; he should not have known them at all." " Marry, hang the idiot ! " returned she, " to bring me such stuff ; if I had them I would throw them in the fire." " There, again, you are wrong, my dear," cried I ; " for though they be copper, we will keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than nothing." By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he had indeed been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked him the circum- stances of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in search of another. A reverend- looking man brought him to a tent, under pretence of having one to sell. " Here," continued Moses, " we met another man very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying that he wanted money, and would dispose of them for the third of their value. The first gentleman, who pretended to be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they did me ; and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two gross between us."
153
THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR BY W. M. THACKERAY.
In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pairs of stairs.
To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure ; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.
This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks With worthless old knick-knacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.
Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd),
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed ;
A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see ;
What matter 1 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.
No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa, that basks by the fire ; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.
That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.
Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the
chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old
times;
154 THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.
But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best : For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.
'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.
If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old
arms !
I look'd and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair ; I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.
It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she eat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.
And so I have valued my chair ever since,
Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince ;
Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.
When the candles burn low, and the company's gone In the silence of night as I sit here alone — I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair — My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.
She comes from the past and revisits my room ; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom, So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.
'55
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR BY ELIZA COOK.
I love it ! I love it ! And who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat there ;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame never would betide
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey ;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on ; but the last one sped —
My idol was shattered ; my earth-star fled.
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.
'Tis past ! 'tis past ! But I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 'Twas there she nursed me ; 'twas there she died : And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it ! I love it ' and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
I56
MY OWN FIRESIDE BY A. A. WATTS.
Let others seek for empty joys,
At ball or concert, rout or play ; Whilst far from fashion's idle noise,
Her gilded domes and trappings gay, I while the wintry eve away,
'Twixt book and lute the hours divide, And marvel how I e'er could stray
From thee — my own Fireside !
My own Fireside ! Those simple words
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise, Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,
And fill with tears of joy mine eyes. What is there my wild heart can prize
That doth not in thy sphere abide, Haunt of my home-bred sympathies,
My own, my own Fireside ?
A gentle form is near me now —
A small white hand is clasped in mine ; I gaze upon her placid brow,
And ask what joys can equal thine ? A babe whose beauty's hah* divine,
In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide : Where may love seek a fitter shrine
Than thou, my own Fireside ?
What care I for the sullen roar
Of winds without that ravage earth ? It doth but bid me prize the more
The shelter of thy hallowed hearth ; To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth.
Then let the churlish tempest chide, It cannot check the blameless mirth
That glads my own Fireside !
MY OWN FIRESIDE 157
My refuge ever from the storm
Of this world's passion, strife, and care ; Though thunder-clouds the sky deform,
Their fury cannot reach me there. There all is cheerful, calm, and fair ;
Wrath, Malice, Envy, Strife, or Pride Hath never made its hated lair
By thee, my own Fireside !
Thy precincts are a charmed ring,
Where no harsh feeling dares intrude ; Where life's vexations lose their sting,
Where even grief is half subdued, And peace, the halcyon, loves to brood.
Then let the pamper'd fool deride ; I'll pay my debt of gratitude
To thee, my own Fireside !
Shrine of my household deities,
Fair scene of home's unsullied joys, To thee my burden'd spirit flies,
When fortune frowns or care annoys ; Thine is the bliss that never cloys,
The smile whose truth has oft been tried : What, then, are this world's tinsel toys
To thee, my own Fireside ?
Oh, may thy yearnings, fond and sweet,
That bid my thoughts be all of thee, Thus ever guide my wandering feet
To thy heart-soothing sanctuary ! Whate'er my future years may be,
Let joy or grief my fate betide, Be still an Eden bright to me,
My own, my own Fireside !
158
THE BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY
To wed, or not to wed ? — that is the question : Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The stings and arrows of outrageous love, Or to take arms against the pow'rful flame, And by opposing, quench it. To wed — to marry- No more — and by a marriage say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand painful shocks Love makes us heir to — 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd ! — to wed — to marry — To marry — perchance a scold — ay, there's the rub. For in that wedded life what ills may come, When we have shuffled off our single state, Must give us serious pause — there's the respect That makes the Bachelors a num'rous race — For who would bear the dull, unsocial hours Spent by unmarried men — cheer'd by no smile, To sit like hermit at a lonely board In silence ? — who would bear the cruel gibes With which the Bachelor is daily teased, When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs By wedding some fair maid ? Oh ! who would live Yawning and staring sadly in the fire, Till celibacy becomes a weary life, But that the dread of something after wedlock (That undiscover'd state from whose strong chains No captive can get free) puzzles the will, And makes us rather choose those ills we have Than fly to others which a wife may bring ? Thus caution does make Bachelors of us all, And thus our natural wish for matrimony Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought— And love-adventures of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And miss the name of wedlock.
159
UNCLE SAMMY BY WILL CAKLETON.
Some men were born for great things,
Some were born for small ; Some — it is not recorded
Why they were born at all ; But Uncle Sammy was certain he had a legitimate call.
Some were born with a talent,
Some with scrip and land; Some with a spoon of silver,
And some with a different brand ; But Uncle Sammy came holding an argument in each hand.
Arguments sprouted within him,
And twinkled in his eye ;
He lay and calmly debated
When average babies cry,
And seemed to be pondering gravely whether to live or to die.
But prejudiced on that question
He grew from day to day, And finally he concluded
'Twas better for him to stay ;
And so into life's discussion he reasoned and reasoned his way.
Through childhood, through youth, into manhood,
Argued and argued he ; And he married a simple maiden,
Though scarcely in love was she ; But he reasoned the matter so clearly she hardly could help but agree.
160 UNCLE SAMMY
And though at first she was blooming,
And the new firm started strong, And though Uncle Sammy loved her,
And tried to help her along,
She faded away in silence, and 'twas evident something was wrong.
Now Uncle Sammy was faithful,
And various remedies tried ; He gave her the doctor's prescriptions,
And plenty of logic beside ;
But logic and medicine failed him, and so one day she died.
He laid her away in the churchyard, So haggard and crushed and wan ; And reared her a costly tombstone
With all of her virtues on ;
And ought to have added, " A victim to arguments pro and con."
For many a year Uncle Sammy
Fired away at his logical forte : Discussion was his occupation,
And altercation his sport ;
He argued himself out of churches, he argued himself into court.
But alas for his peace and quiet,
One day, when he went it blind, And followed his singular fancy, And slighted his logical mind,
And married a ponderous widow that wasn't of the arguing kind !
Her sentiments all were settled,
Her habits were planted and grown.
UNCLE SAMMY 161
Her heart was a starved little creature
That followed a will of her own ;
And she raised a high hand with Sammy, and proceeded to play it alone.
Then Sammy he charged down upon her
With all of his strength and his wit, And many a dext'rous encounter, And many a fair shoulder-hit ;
But vain were his blows and his blowing : he never could budge her a bit.
He laid down his premises round her,
He scraped at her with his saws ; He rained great facts upon her,
And read her the marriage laws ; But the harder he tried to convince her, the harder and harder she was.
She brought home all her preachers,
As many as ever she could — With sentiments terribly settled, And appetites horribly good —
Who sat with him long at his table, and explained to him where he stood.
And Sammy was not long in learning
To follow the swing of her gown, And came to be faithful in watching
The phase of her smile and her frown ; And she, with the heel of assertion, soon tramped all his arguments down.
And so with his life-aspirations
Thus suddenly brought to a check— And so, with the foot of his victor
Unceasingly pressing his neck, He wrote on his face, " I'm a victim," and drifted a
logical wreck. S.P.R. t,
162 UNCLE SAMMY
And farmers, whom he had argued
To corners tight and fast, Would wink at each other and chuckle,
And grin at him as he passed,
As to say, " My ambitious old fellow, your whiffletree'a straightened at last."
Old Uncle Sammy one morning
Lay down on his comfortless bed, And Death and he had a discussion,
And Death came out a-head ;
And the fact that she failed to start him was only because he was dead.
The neighbours laid out their old neighbour,
With homely but tenderest art, And some of the oldest ones faltered,
And tearfully stood apart ;
For the crusty old man had often unguardedly shown them his heart.
But on his face an expression
Of quizzical study lay, As if he were sounding the angel
Who travelled with him that day, And laying the pipes down slyly for an argument on the way.
And one new-fashioned old lady
Felt called upon to suggest That the angel might take Uncle Sammy,
And give him a good night's rest, And then introduce him to Solomon, and tell him to do his best.
i63
A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT BY H. G. BELL.
They're stepping off, the friends I knew,
They're going one by one : They're taking wives to tame their lives,
Their jovial days are done. I can't get one old crony now
To join me in a spree ; They've all grown grave domestic men ;
They look askance on me.
I hate to see them sobered down —
The merry boys and true ; I hate to hear them sneering now
At pictures fancy drew ; I care not for their married cheer
Their puddings and their soups, And middle-aged relations round
In formidable groups.
And though their wife perchance may have
A comely sort of face, And at the table's upper end
Conduct herself with grace — I hate the prim reserve that reigns,
The caution and the state ; I hate to see my friend grow vain
Of furniture and plate.
How strange ! they go to bed at ten,
And rise at half-past nine ; And seldom do they now exceed
A pint or so of wine : They play at whist for sixpences,
They very rarely dance, They never read a word of rhyme,
Nor open a romance.
THE PAUPER'S DRIVE
They talk, indeed, of politics,
Of taxes, and of crops, And very quietly, with their wives,
They go about to shops. They get quite skilled in groceries,
And learned in butcher-meat, And know exactly what they pay
For everything they eat.
And then they all have children, too,
To squall through thick and thin, And seem quite proud to multiply
Small images of sin. And yet you may depend upon't,
Ere half their days are told, Their sons are taller than themselves,
And they are counted old.
Alas ! alas ! for years gone by,
And for the friends I've lost, When no warm feeling of the heart
Was chilled by early frost. If these be Hymen's vaunted joys,
I'd have him shun my door, Unless he'll quench his torch, and live
Henceforth a bachelor.
THE PAUPER'S DRIVE BY THOMAS NOEL.
There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot J To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot ; The road it is rough and the hearse has no springs, And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings : —
" Rattle his bones over the stones ;
He's only a pauper, that nobody owns I "
THE PAUPER'S DRIVE 165
Oh, where are the mourners ? alas ! there are none ; He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone ; Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; To the grave with his carcase as fast as you can :
" Rattle his bones over the stones ;
He's only a pauper, that nobody owns I "
What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din ! The whip, how it cracks ! and the wheels how they spin J How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurl'd ! The pauper at length makes a noise in the world !
" Rattle his bones over the stones ;
He's only a pauper, that nobody owns I "
Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach To gentility, now that he's stretch'd in a coach ; He's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast !
" Rattle his bones over the stones ;
He's only a pauper, that nobody owns \ "
You bumpkin ! who stare at your brother convey'd, Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid, And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go.
" Rattle his bones over the stones ;
He's only a pauper, that nobody owns I "
But a truce to this strain, for my soul it is sad, To think that a heart in humanity clad Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, And depart from the light without leaving a friend !
Bear softly his bones over the stones ;
Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns I
i66
THE LEGEND OF THE FORGET- ME-NOT
Farewell ! my true and loyal knight ! on yonder battle- field
Many a pearl and gem of price will gleam on helm and shield :
But bear thou on thy silver crest this pure and simple wreath,
A token of thy lady's love — unchanging to the death.
They seem, I know, these fragrant flowers, those fairy
stars of blue, As maiden's eyes had smiled on them, and given them
that bright hue,
As only fitting but to bind a lady's hair or lute, And not with war or warrior's crest in armed field to suit.
But there's a charm in every leaf, a deep and mystic spell ; Then take the wreath, my loyal knight — our Lady shield
thee well ; And though still prouder favours deck the gallant knights
of France, Oh, be the first in every field la fteur de souvenance !
How bland, how still this summer eve — sure, never gentler hour
For lay of love, or sigh of lute, to breathe in lady's bower ;
Then listen with a lover's faith, as spellbound to the spot,
To the legend of my token flower, the charmed forget-me- not.
THE LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT 167
Young Albert led his Ida forth when the departing sun
Still lingered in the golden west, and shone like treasures won
From some far land of old romance — some genii's diamond throne —
As wreck of bright, enchanted gems, in triumph over- thrown.
" Love, look towards those radiant clouds, so like to fairy bowers :
How proudly o'er a sea of gold are raised their ruby towers ;
And now, as if by magic spell, a bright pavilion seems,
With its folds of sapphire light, where the parting sun- ray gleams."
To that bright heaven with smiles she looked ; one
gleam of her blue eyes, And Albert's heart forgot the clouds and all their radiant
dyes; All, all, but that young smiling one, whose beauty well
might seem A fairy form of loveliness imagined in a dream.
She took a chaplet from her brow, which, gleaming soft
and fair, Like orient veil of amber light streamed down her silken
hair, Shedding fragrance and emitting brightness from its
glittering rings, As if halo'd by Love's breath and the glancing of his
wings.
" These maiden roses, love, appear like pearls kissed by
the sun With last rich gleam of crimson, ere his western throne
be won ;
168 THE LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT
But should there not be some bright flower to deck our
bridal wreath, Whose hue might speak of constancy, unchanging to the
death ? "
*' My Ida ! from a thousand wreaths thy own sweet
fancy chose,
For pure unfading loveliness, this garland of the rose ; And what can speak of truer faith, my own beloved
one, Than the flower whose fragrance lasts even when its life
is gone ?
*' Look to yon lone enchanted isle, which 'mid the silvery
foam Of the blue water seems to float, the wild swan's elfin
home ;
A very cloud of azure flowers in rich profusion bloom : Winds of the lake ! your passing sighs breathe of their
rich perfume.
" In nameless beauty all unmasked, in solitude they
smile, As if they bloomed but for the stars, or birds of that lone
isle: For never yet hath mortal foot touched that enchanted
shore, Long hallowed by the wildly imagined tales of yore."
" Full well I love those distant flowers, whose pure and
tender blue Seems fitting emblem of a faith unchanging as their
hue ; And would'st thou venture for my love as thou would'st
for renown, To win for me those azure flowers, to deck my bridal
crown ? "
THE LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT 169
One parting kiss of his fair bride, and swiftly far away, Like the wild swan whose home he sought, young Albert
met the spray Of rising waves, which foamed in wrath, as if some
spirit's hand Awoke the genii of the lake to guard their mystic land.
The flowers were won, but devious his course lay back
again ; To stem the waters in their tow'ring rage he strove in
vain ; Fondly he glanced to the yet distant shore, where in
despair His Ida stood with outstretched hands, 'mid shrieks and
tears and pray'r.
Darker and fiercer gathered on the tempest in its wrath, The eddying waves with vengeful ire beset the fatal path : With the wild energy of death he well-nigh reached the
spot,
The azure flowers fell at her feet — " Ida, forget me not ! " The words yet borne upon his lips, the prize seem'd
almost won, When 'mid the rush of angry waves he sank — for ever
gone!
Within a proud cathedral aisle was raised a costly tomb, Whose pure white marble like ethereal light amid the
gloom
Shone — and no other trace it bore of [lineage or of lot, But Ida's name, with star-like flowers ensculped forget- me-not.
There Ida slept, the desolate, the last of all her name, Parted from him who perished for her love 'mid dawn of
fame ; But when shall their fond legend die ? or when shall be
forgot The flower that won its name in death, Love's theme —
forget-me-not ?
170
THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND
Mr. Ferdinand Plum was a grocer by trade ; By attention and tact he a fortune had made ; No tattler, nor maker of mischief, was he, But as honest a man as you'd e'er wish to see. Of a chapel, close by, he was deacon, they say, And his minister lived just over the way.
Mr. Plum was retiring to rest one night,
He had just undressed and put out the light,
And pulled back the bund
As he peeped from behind ('Tis a custom with many to do so you'll find),
When, glancing his eye,
He happened to spy
On the blinds on the opposite side — 0, fie ! Two shadows ; each movement of course he could see, And the people were quarrelling evidently. " Well, I never ! " said Plum, as he witnessed the strife, " I declare, 'tis the minister beating his wife ! " The minister held a thick stick in his hand, And his wife ran away as he shook the brand, While her shrieks and cries were quite shocking to hear, And the sounds came across most remarkably clear.
" Well, things are deceiving,
But — ' seeing's believing,' " Said Plum to himself, as he turned into bed ;
" Now, who would have thought
That man would have fought And beaten his wife on her shoulders and head
With a great big stick,
At least three inches thick ? I am sure her shrieks quite filled me with dread.
I've a great mind to bring
The whole of the thing
Before the church members ; but, no, I have read A proverb, which says, ' Least said soonest mended.' " And thus Mr. Plum's mild soliloquy ended.
THE SHADOW ON THE BLIND 171
But, alas ! Mr. Plum's eldest daughter, Miss Jane, Saw the whole of the scene, and could not refrain From telling Miss Spot, and Miss Spot told again (Though of course in strict confidence) every one Whom she happened to know, what the parson had done. So the news spread abroad, and soon reached the ear Of the parson himself, and he traced it, I hear, To the author, Miss Jane. Jane could not deny, But at the same time she begged leave to defy The parson to prove she had uttered a lie. A church meeting was called : Mr. Plum made a speech. He said, "Friends, pray listen a while, I beseech. What my daughter has said is most certainly true, For I saw the whole scene on the same evening, too ; But, not wishing to make an unpleasantness rife, I did not tell either my daughter or wife. But, of course, as Miss Jane saw the whole of the act, I think it but right to attest to the fact." " 'Tis remarkably strange ! " the parson replied : "It is plain Mr. Plum must something have spied ; Though the wife-beating story, of course, is denied : And in that I can say I am grossly belied." While he ransacks his brain, and ponders, and tries To recall any scene that could ever give rise To so monstrous a charge, just then his wife cries. " I have it, my love ; you remember that night When I had such a horrible, terrible fright. We both were retiring that evening to rest — I was seated, my dear, and but partly undressed — When a horrid old rat jumped close to my feet ; My shrieking was heard, I suppose, in the street ; You caught up the poker, and ran round the room, And at last knocked the rat, and so sealed its doom. Our shadows, my love, must have played on the blind ; And this is the mystery solved you will find."
MORAL.
Don't believe every tale that is handed about ; We have all enough faults and real failings, without Being burdened with those of which there's a doubt.
172
THE TINKER AND THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER
BY DR. JOHN WOLCOT.
The meanest creature somewhat may contain, As Providence ne'er makes a thing in vain.
Upon a day, a poor and traveling tinker,
In Fortune's various tricks a constant thinker,
Pass'd in some village near a miller's door, Where lo ! his eye did most astonish'd catch The miller's daughter peeping o'er the hatch, Deform'd and monstrous ugly to be sure. Struck with the uncommon form, the tinker started Just like a frighten'd horse, or murd'rer carted,
Up-gazing at the gibbet and the rope ; Turning his brain about, in a brown study (For, as I have said, his brain was not so muddy), " Zounds ! " quoth the tinker, " I have now some hope Fortune, the jade, is not far off, perchance," And then began to rub his hands and dance.
Now, all so full of love, o'erjoyed he ran,
Embraced and squeezed Miss Grist, and thus began :
" My dear, my soul, my angel, sweet Miss Grist, Now may I never mend a kettle more, If ever I saw one like you before ! "
Then nothing loth, like Eve, the nymph he kiss'd.
Now, very sensibly indeed, Miss Grist Thought opportunity should not be miss'd ; Knowing that prudery oft let slip a joy ; Thus was Miss Grist too prudent to be coy.
For really 'tis with girls a dangerous farce To flout a swain when offers are but scarce. She did not scream and cry, " I'll not be woo'd : Keep off, you dingy fellow — don't be rude ;
THE TINKER AND THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 173
I'm fit for your superiors, tinker." — No, Indeed, she treated not the tinker so. But lo ! the damsel, with her usual squint, Suffered her tinker-lover to imprint
Sweet kisses on her lips, and squeeze her hand, Hug her, and say the softest things unto her, And in love's plain and pretty language woo her,
Without a frown, or even a reprimand.
Soon won, the nymph agreed to be his wife, And, when the tinker chose, to be tied for life.
Now to the father the brisk lover hied, Who at his noisy mill so busy plied, Grinding and taking handsome toll of corn, Sometimes, indeed, too handsome to be borne. " Ho ! Master Miller ! " did the tinker say ;
Forth from his cloud of flour the miller came ; " Nice weather, Master Miller — charming day —
Heaven's very kind." — The miller said the same. " Now, miller, possibly you may not guess
At this same business I am come about : Tis this, then — know I love your daughter Bess : —
There, Master Miller ! — now the riddle's out. I'm not for mincing matters, sir ! d'ye see — I like your daughter Bess, and she likes me.*'
" Pooh ! " quoth the miller, grinning at the tinker,
" Thou dost not mean to marriage to persuade her ? Ugly as is old Nick I needs must think her,
Though, to be sure, she is as heav'n has made her. No, no, though she's my daughter, I'm not blind ; But, tinker, what hath now possessed thy mind ? Thou'rt the first offer she has met, by dad— But tell me, tinker, art thou drunk or mad ? '* " No — I'm not drunk nor mad," the tinker cried, " But Bet's the maid I wish to make my bride ;
Xo girl in these two eyes doth Bet excel." " Why, fool ! " the miller said, " Bet hath a hump !
'74
THE BOY
And then her nose ! — the nose of my old pump." " I know it," quoth the tinker, " know it well."
" Her face," quoth Grist, " is freckled, wrinkled, flat
Her mouth as wide as that of my torn cat ; And then she squints a thousand ways at once.
Her waist a corkscrew ; and her hair how red !
A downright bunch of carrots on her head — Why, what the deuce has got into thy sconce ? '*
" No deuce is in my sconce," rejoined the tinker ; " But, sir, what's that to you, if fine I think her ? " " Why, man," quoth Grist " she's fit to make a show,
And therefore sure I am that thou must banter." " Miller," replied the tinker, " right, for know
'Tis for that very thing, a show, I want her."
THE BOY
BY N. P. WILLIS.
There's something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one, With his uncheck'd, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun, And in his clear and ready smile Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepress'd by sadness, Which brings me to my childhood back, As if I trod its very track,
And felt its very gladness.
And yet, it is not in his play,
When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay, That his bright presence thrills me most
THE BOY 175
Hia shout may ring upon the hill,
His voice be echo'd in the hall, His merry laugh like music trill,
And I in sadness hear it all : For, like the wrinkles on my brow, I scarcely notice such things now.
But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard, And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol of a bird, Stands gazing on the empty air, As if some dream were passing there ;
'Tis then that on his face I look — His beautiful but thoughtful face—
And, like a long-forgotten book, Its sweet familiar meanings trace.
Remembering a thousand things
Which passed me on those golden wings.
Which time has fetter'd now ; Things that came o'er me with a thrill, And left me silent, sad, and still,
And threw upon my brow A holier and a gentler cast, That was too innocent to last.
'Tis strange how thoughts upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press, And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess — When foot and hand, and ear and eye, Are all with ardour straining high —
How in his heart will spring A feeling whose mysterious thrall Is stronger, sweeter far than all !
And on its silent wing, How, with the clouds, he'll float away, As wandering and as lost as they !
I*
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.
It was a summer evening,
Old Rasper's work was done, And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun ; And by him sported on the green, His little grandchild, Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet In playing there had found ;
She ran to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kasper took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by ; And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh — " 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.
" I find them in my garden, for
There's many hereabout ; And often when I go to plough
The ploughshare turns them out ; For many thousand men," said he, " Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries, And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder- waiting eyes ; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for ! "
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM 177
'* It was the English," Kasper cried,
" Who put the French to rout ; But what they kill'd each other for
I could not well make out. But everybody said," quoth he, " That 'twas a famous victory !
" My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ; They burn'd his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly : So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head !
*' With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide ; And many a childing mother then
And new-born baby died ! But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.
*' They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won ; For many thousand bodies there
Lay rotting in the sun ! But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.
" Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,
And our good Prince Eugene." " Why, 'twas a very wicked thing ! *'
Said little Wilhelmine. " Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, " It was a famous victory !
"And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win." " But what good came of it at last ? "
Quoth little Peterkin. " Why, that I cannot tell," said he, " But 'twas a famous victory." S.P.B. M
A PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED BY J. R. LOWELL.
I du believe in Freedom's cause,
Ez fur away ez Payris is ; I love to see her stick her claws
In them infanial Phayrisees ; It's wal enough agin a king
To dror resolves an' triggers,— But libbaty's a kind o' thing
That don't agree with niggers.
I du believe the people want
A tax on teas an' coffees, Thet nuthin' ain't extra vygunt, —
Purvidin' I'm in office ; Fer I hev loved my country sence
My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence,
Partic'larly his pockets.
I du believe in any plan
0' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman,
I git jest wut I axes : I go free-trade thru thick an' thin,
Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote,— an' keeps us in
Our quiet custom-houses.
I du believe it's wise and good
To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood
An* orthydox conditions ; — I mean nine thousan' dols. per arm.,
Nine thousan' more fer outfit, An' me to recommend a man
The place 'ould jest about fit.
A PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED 179
I du believe in special ways
O' prayin' an' convartin' ; The bread comes back in many days,
An' buttered, tu, fer sartin ; I mean in preyin' till one busts
On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts
To very privit uses.
I du believe hard coin the stuff
Fer 'lectioneers to spout on ; The people's oilers soft enough
To make hard money out on ; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,
An' gives a good-sized junk to all, I don't care how hard money is,
Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.
I du believe with all my soul
In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal
An' in the traces lead 'em ; Palsied the arm thet forges yokes
At my fat contract's squintin', An' withered be the nose that pokes
Inter the gov'ment printin' !
I du believe that I should give
Wut's his'n unto Caesar, Fer it's by him I move an' live,
Frum him my bread an' cheese air ; I du believe that all o' me
Doth bear his superscription, — Will, conscience, honour, honesty,
An' things o' thet description.
I du believe in prayer an' praise
To him thet hez the grantin' O' jobs, — in every thin' thet pays,
But mos* of all in can tin'.
i8o A PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED
This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o' sin to rest,— •
I don't believe in princerple, But O, I du in interest.
I du believe in bein' this
Or thet, ez it may happen One way or t'other hendiest is
To ketch the people nappin' ; It aint by princerples nor men
My preudunt course is steadied, — I scent wich pays the best, an' then
Go into it baldheaded.
I du believe thet holdin' slaves
Comes nat'ral to a Presidunt, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves
To hev a wal-broke precedunt ; Fer any office, small or gret,
I couldn't ax with no face, Without I'd bin, thru dry an' wet,
Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface.
I du believe wutever trash
'11 keep the people in blindness, — Thet we the Mexicans can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness, Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder'n' ball
Air good-will's strongest magnets, Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets.
In short, I firmly du believe
In Humbug generally, Fer it's a thing thet I perceive
To hev a solid vally ; This heth my faithful shepherd ben.
In pasture sweet heth led me. An' this'll keep the people green
To feed ez they hev fed me
It]
THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN
BY WILL CARLETON.
They've got a brand-new organ, Sue,
For all their fuss and search ; They've done just as they said they'd do,
And fetched it into church. They're bound the critter shall be seen,
And on the preacher's right They've hoisted up their new machine,
In everybody's sight. They've got a chorister and choir,
Ag'in my voice and vote ; For it was never my desire,
To praise the Lord by note !
I've been a sister good an' true
For five-an'-thirty year ; I've done what seemed my part to do,
An' prayed my duty clear ; I've sung the hymns both slow and quick,
Just as the preacher read, And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick,
I took the fork an' led ! And now, their bold, new-fangled ways
Is comin' all about ; And I, right in my latter days,
Am fairly crowded out !
To-day, the preacher, good old dear,
With tears all in his eyes, Read, " I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies." I al'ays liked that blessed hymn—
I s'pose I al'ays will; It somehow gratifies my whim,
In good old Ortonville ;
1 82 THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN
But when that choir got up to sing,
I couldn't catch a word ; They sung the most dog-gondest thing
A body ever heard !
Some worldly chaps was standin' near ;
An' when I see them grin, I bid farewell to every fear,
And boldly waded in. I thought I'd chase their tune along,
An' tried with all my might ; But though my voice is good and strong,
I couldn't steer it right ; When they was high, then I was low,
An' also contrawise ; An' I too fast, or they too slow,
To " mansions in the skies."
An' after every verse, you know,
They play a little tune ; I didn't understand, an' so
I started in too soon. I pitched it pretty middlin' high,
I fetched a lusty tone, But oh, alas ! I found that I
Was singing there alone ! They laughed a little, I am told ;
But I had done my best ; And not a wave of trouble rolled
Across my peaceful breast.
And Sister Brown— I could but look-- She sits right front of me ;
She never was no singin' book, An' never went to be ;
But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said ;
She understood the time right through, An' kep' it with her head ;
THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN 183
But when she tried this mornin', oh,
I had to laugh, or cough ! It kep' her head a-bobbin' so,
It e'en a'most came off !
An' Deacon Tubbs — he all broke down.
As one might well suppose ; He took one look at Sister Brown,
And meekly scratched his nose. He looked his hymn-book through and through,
And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew,
And looked completely beat. An' when they took another bout,
He didn't even rise ; But drawed his red bandanner out,
An' wiped his weeping eyes.
I've been a sister, good an' true,
For five-an'-thirty year : I've done what seemed my part to do,
An' prayed my duty clear ; But Death will stop my voice, I know,
For he is on my track ; And some day I to church will go,
And never more come back. And when the folks gets up to sing—
Whene'er that time shall be- I do not want no patent thing
A-squealin' over me 1
I84
HOW THE MONEY GOES BY J. G. SAXB.
How goes the money ? — Well,
I'm sure it isn't hard to tell ;
It goes for rent, and water-rates,
For bread and butter, coal and grates,
Hats, caps, and carpets, hoops and hose,
And that's the way the money goes I
How goes the money ? — Nay, Don't everybody know the way ? It goes for bonnets, coats, and capes, Silks, satins, muslins, velvets, crapes, Shawls, ribbons, furs, and furbelows, And that's the way the money goes 1
How goes the money ? — Sure,
I wish the ways were something fewer ;
It goes for wages, taxes, debts ;
It goes for presents, goes for bets,
For paint, pommade, and eau-de-rose,
And that's the way the money goes !
How goes the money ? — Now
I've scarce begun to mention how ;
It goes for laces, feathers, rings,
Toys, dolls, and other baby-things,
Whips, whistles, candies, bells, and bows,
And that's the way the money goes 1
MY UNCLE 185
How goes the money ? — Come,
I know it doesn't go for rum;
It goes for schools and Sabbath chimes,
It goes for charity — sometimes ;
For missions and such things as those,
And that's the way the money goes !
How goes the money ? — There ! I'm out of patience, I declare ; It goes for plays and diamond-pins For public alms and private sins, For hollow shams and silly shows, — And that's the way the money goes !
MY UNCLE
BY JOHN TAYLOR.
Who dwells at yonder three gold balls, Where Poverty so often calls, To place her relics in his walls ? My uncle.
Who cheers the heart with " money lent ' When friends are cold, and all is spent, Receiving only cent, per cent. ? My uncle.
Who cares not what distress may bring, If stolen from beggar or from king, And, like the sea, takes everything 1 My uncle.
i86 MY UNCLE
Who, wiser than each sage of yore, Who alchemy would fain explore, Can make whate'er he touches ore t
My uncle.
Who, when the wretch is sunk in grief, And none besides will yield relief, Will aid the honest or the thief ? My uncle.
Who, when detection threatens law, His secret stores will open draw, That future rogues may stand in awe ! My uncle.
Bought wisdom is the best, 'tis clear, And since 'tis better as more dear, We, for high usance, should revere My uncle.
And though to make the heedless wise, He cheats in all he sells or buys, To work a moral purpose tries My uncle.
Who, when our friends are quite withdrawn, And hypocrites no longer fawn, Takes all but honour into pawn ? My uncle.
187
SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR
BY G. WITHEB.
Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are ?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be ?
Should my heart be griev'd or pin'd
'Cause I see a woman kind ?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be ?
Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love ? Or her well-deservings, known, Make me quite forget my own ? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of best, If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be ?
'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die ? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo ; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be !
!88 THE FRETFUL MAN
Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair ; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve ; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be ?
THE FRETFUL MAN BY WILLIAM COWPEB.
Some fretful tempers wince at every touch ; You always do too little or too much ; You speak with life, in hopes to entertain ; Your elevated voice goes through the brain. You fall, at once, into a lower key ; That's worse, the drone-pipe of a bumble-bee.
The southern sash admits too strong a light ; You rise and drop the curtain — now 'tis night. He shakes with cold ; you stir the fire, and strive To make a blaze ; that's roasting him alive. Serve him with venison, and he chooses fish ; With sole — that's just the sort he would not wish.
He takes what he, at first, professed to loathe, And, in due time, feeds heartily on both ; Yet still o'erclouded with a constant frown, He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. Your hope to please him vain on every plan, Himself should work that wonder, if he can.
Alas ! his efforts double his distress, He likes yours little, and his own still less ; Phus, always teasing others, always teased, His only pleasure is — to be displeased.
i89
THE RAZOR-SELLER BY Dr. JOHN WOLCOT.
A fellow in a market town
Most musical cried " Razors " up and down,
And offered twelve for eighteenpence ; Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap,
As every man should buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard ;
Poor Hodge ! who suffer'd by a thick black beard,
That seem'd a shoebrush stuck beneath his nose ; With cheerfulness the eighteenpence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
" The rascal stole the razors, I suppose I
" No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave :
It sartinly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown with his good fortune went, Smiling, in heart and soul content,
And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze ; 'Twas a vile razor ! — then the rest he tried — All were impostors — " Ah ! " Hodge sigh'd,
" I wish my eighteenpence were in my purse."
In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamp'd, and swore,
Brought blood, and danced, reviled, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er !
190 NEVER SAY FAIL
His muzzle fonn'd of opposition stuff, Finn as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff ;
So kept it — laughing at the steel and suds : Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods. " Razors ! a base confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog ! "
Hodge sought the fellow — found him, and begun — " Perhaps, Master Razor -rogue, to you 'tis fun
That people flay themselves out of their lives ; You rascal ! for an hour I've been grubbing, Giving my whiskers here a scrubbing
With razors just like oyster-knives. Sirrah, I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't shave."
" Friend," quoth the razor-man, " I'm no knave ;
As for the razors you have bought,
Upon my word I never thought That they would shave."
" Not think they'd shave ! " quoth Hodge, with wonder- ing eyes,
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell, " What were they made for, then, you dog ? " he cries. " Made ! " quoth the fellow, with a smile, " to selL''
NEVER SAY FAIL
Press onward, 'tis wiser
Than sitting aside, And dreaming and sighing,
And waiting the tide : In life's earnest battle
They only prevail Who daily march onward,
And never say fail.
NEVER SAY FAIL 191
With eye ever open,
A tongue that's not dumb, And heart that will never
To sorrow succumb, We'll battle and conquer,
Though thousands assail : How strong and how mighty
Who never say fail.
The spirit of angels
Is active, I know, As higher and higher
In glory they go. Methinks on bright pinions
From heaven they sail, To cheer and encourage
Who never say fail.
Then onward keep pushing,
And press on your way, Unheeding the envious
Who would you betray. All obstacles vanish,
All enemies quail, In fear of their wisdom
Who never say fail.
In life's rosy morning,
In manhood's firm pride, Let this be the motto
Our footsteps to guide : In storm and in sunshine,
Whatever assail, We'll onward and conquer,
And never say fail.
»9*
WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY
BY J. G. SAXB.
It was a noble Roman,
In Rome's imperial day, Who heard a coward croaker,
Before the Castle, say : '* They're safe in such a fortress ;
There is no way to shake it t w «« On — on ! " exclaimed the hero,
" I'll find a way, or make it ! "
Is Fame your aspiration ?
Her path is steep and high ; In vain he seeks her temple,
Content to gaze and sigh ! The shining throne is waiting,
But he alone can take it Who says, with Roman firmness,
" I'll find a way, or make it ! "
Is Learning your ambition !
There is no royal road ; Alike the peer and peasant
Must climb to her abode. Who feels the thirst of knowledge
In Helicon may slake it, If he has still the Roman will
To " find a way, or make it ! "
Are Riches worth the getting ?
They must be bravely sought ; With wishing and with fretting
The boon cannot be bought. To all the prize is open,
But only he can take it Who says, with Roman courage,
" I'll find a way, or make it ! "
THE WASHING-DAY 193
In Love's impassioned warfare
The tale has ever been, That victory crowns the valiant —
The brave are they who win. Though strong is Beauty's castle,
A lover still may take it, Who says, with Roman daring,
" I'll find a way, or make it ! "
THE WASHING-DAY
Hark ! 'tis the important day of washing ! Discord, clack, incessant splashing, Soap-suds all around are dashing — Unceasing.
The rooms all tumbling inside out, Linen in heaps is thrown about, And all is racket, noise, and rout — Displeasing.
See close around the fireside Wet garments hanging to be dried, Hose, and a hundred things beside— Wet dropping.
Oh ! wretched day beyond expressing, To me a day the most distressing, Though 'tis our women's greatest blessing— This slopping.
In vain we seek for comfort round ; Comfort is nowhere to be found ; On these days 'tis forbidden ground — To any.
And when one washing-day is o'er, Our pleasure damped by dread of more, Oh ! joy to some, but sorrow sore — To many.
8.P.B. N
i94
THE UNCOMMON OLD MAN
There was an old man, and though 'tis not common, Yet if he said true, he was born of a woman ; And though 'tis incredible, yet I've been told He was once a mere infant, but age made him old.
Whene'er he was hungry he long'd for some meat, And if he could get it, 'twas said he would eat ; When thirsty he'd drink, if you gave him a pot, And his liquor most commonly ran down his throat.
He seldom or never could see without light, And yet I've been told he could hear in the night : He has oft been awake in the daytime, 'tis said, And has fallen fast asleep as he lay in his bed.
Tis reported his tongue always mov'd when he talk'd, And he stirr'd both his arms and his legs when he walk'd ; And his gait was so odd, had you seen him you'd burst, For one leg or t'other would always be first.
His face was the saddest that ever was seen, For if 'twere not wash'd it was seldom quite clean ; He show'd most his teeth when he happened to grin, And his mouth stood across 'twixt his nose and his chin.
At last he fell sick, as old chronicles tell, And then, as folks said, he was not very well ; But what is more strange, in so weak a condition, As he could not give fees he could get no physician.
What pity he died ! yet 'tis said that his death Was occasioned at last by the want of his breath ; But peace to his bones, which in ashes now moulder, Had he liv'd a day longer he'd been a day older.
'95
HOW TOM SAWYER GOT HIS FENCE WHITEWASHED
BY MAKK TWAIN.
Tom Sawyer, having offended his sole guardian, Aunt Polly, is by that sternly affectionate dame pun- ished by being set to whitewash the fence in front of the garden. The world seemed a hollow mockery to Tom, who had planned fun for that day, and he knew that he would be the laughing-stock of all the boys as they came past and saw him set to work like a " nigger." But a great inspiration burst upon him, and he went tranquilly to work. What that inspiration was will appear from what follows.
One of the boys, Ben Rogers, comes by and pauses, eating a particularly fine apple. Tom does not see him. Ben stared a moment, and then said, —
" Hi-yi ! you're a stump, ain't you 1 "
No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he gave another gentle sweep, and surveyed the result as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said, —
" Hello, old chap ; you got to work, hey ! "
" Why, it's you, Ben ; I wasn't noticing."
" Say, I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could ? But, of course, you'd rather work, wouldn't you ? Course you would ! "
Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said, —
" What do you call work ? "
" Why, ain't that work ? "
Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered care- lessly,—
" Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know is, it suits Tom Sawyer."
196 TOM SAWYER'S FENCE
" 0, come now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?"
The brush continued to move.
" Like it ? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day ? "
That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth— stepped back to note the effect — added a touch here and there — criticised the effect again. Ben watching every move, and getting more and more inter- ested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said, —
" Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."
Tom considered ; was about to consent, but he altered his mind. " No, no ; I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence — right here on the street, you know — but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind, and she wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence ; it's got to be done very careful ; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it in the way it's got to be done."
" No — is that so ? 0, come now ; lemme just try, only just a little. I'd let you, if you was me, Tom."
" Ben, I'd like to ; honest Injun ; but Aunt Polly- well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let Sid. Now, don't you see how I am fixed ? If you was to tackle this fence, and anything was to happen to it "
" 0, shucks ! I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say — I'll give you the core of my apple."
" Well, here. No, Ben ; now don't ; I'm afeard "
" I'll give you all of it ! "
Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while Ben worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangling his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of material ; boys happened along every
TOM SAWYER'S FENCE 197
little while ; they came to jeer, but remained to white- wash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite in good repair ; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought it for a dead rat and a string to swing it with ; and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty- stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had, besides the things I have mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle- glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door- knob, a dog collar — but no dog — the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange peel, and a dilapidated old window sash. He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while — plenty of company — and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it ! If he hadn't run out of whitewash, he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.
Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world after all. He had discovered a great law of human action without knowing it, namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make it difficult to attain.
I98
GRACE DARLING
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
All night the storm had raged, nor ceased, nor paused,
When, as day broke, the Maid, through misty air,
Espies far off a Wreck, amid the surf,
Beating on one of those disastrous isles —
Half of a Vessel, half — no more ; the rest
Had vanished, swallowed up with all that there
Had for the common safety striven in vain,
Or thither thronged for refuge. With quick glance
Daughter and sire through optic-glass discern,
Clinging about the remnant of this Ship,
Creatures — how precious in the Maiden's sight !
For whom, belike, the old man grieves still more
Than for their fellow-sufferers engulfed
Where every parting agony is hushed,
And hope and fear mix not in further strife.
" But courage, Father ! \et us out to sea —
A few may yet be saved." The Daughter's words,
Her earnest tone, and look beaming with faith,
Dispel the Father's doubts : nor do they lack
The noble-minded Mother's helping hand
To launch the boat ; and, with her blessing cheered,
And inwardly sustained by silent prayer,
Together they put forth, Father and Child !
Each grasps an oar, and struggling on they go —
Rivals in effort ; and, alike intent
Here to elude and there surmount, they watch
The billows lengthening, mutually crossed
And shattered, and re-gathering their might;
As if the tumult, by the Almighty's will,
Were, in the conscious sea, roused and prolonged
GRACE DARLING 199
That woman's fortitude — so tried, so proved— May brighten more and more !
True to the mark,
They stem the current of that perilous gorge, Their arms still strengthening with the strengthening
heart,
Though danger, as the Wreck is neared, becomes More imminent. Not unseen do they approach ; And rapture, with varieties of fear Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames Of those who, in that dauntless energy, Foretaste deliverance ; but the least perturbed Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives That of the pair — tossed on the waves to bring Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life — One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister, Or be she Visitant other than she seems, A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven, In woman's shape. But why prolong the tale, Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts Armed to repel them ? Every hazard faced And difficulty mastered, with resolve That no one breathing should be left to perish, This last remainder of the crew are all Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep Are safely borne, landed upon the beach, And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged Within the sheltering Lighthouse.— Shout, ye waves ! Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and Winds, Exult in this deliverance wrought through faith In Him whose Providence your rage hath served ! Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert join ! And would that some immortal Voice — a Voice Fitly attuned to all that gratitude Breathes out from floor or couch, through pallid lips Of the survivors — to the clouds might bear- Blended with praise of that parental love, Beneath whose watchful eye the Maiden grew Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave,
too LUCY GRAY
Though young so wise, though meek so resolute —
Might carry to the clouds and to the stars,
Yes, to celestial Choirs, GRACE DARLING'S name t
LUCY OKAY BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : And, when I cross'd the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ;
She dwelt on a wide moor, — The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door !
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green ; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
" To-night will be a stormy night — •
You to the town must go ; And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon — The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon ! "
LUCY GRAY 201
At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band ; He plied his work ; — and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe :
With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time :
She wandered up and down ; And many a hill did Lucy climb :
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide ; But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor ; And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.
They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, " In heaven we all shall meet ; "
— When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall ;
And then an open field they crossed : The marks were still the same ;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.
MISCHIEF-MAKERS
They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank ; And further there were none!
— Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child ; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
MISCHIEF-MAKERS
Oh ! could there in this world be found Some little spot of happy ground, Where village pleasures might go round
Without the village tattling ! How doubly blest that place would be Where all might dwell in liberty, Free from the bitter misery
Of gossips' endless prattling.
If such a spot were really known, Dame Peace might claim it as her own ; And in it she might fix her throne,
For ever and for ever : There, like a queen, might reign and live, While everyone would soon forgive The little slights they might receive,
And be offended never.
MISCHIEF-MAKERS 103
'Tis mischief-makers that remove
Far from our hearts the warmth of love,
And lead us all to disapprove
What gives another pleasure ; They seem to take one's part — but when They've heard our cares, unkindly then They soon retail them all again,
Mix'd with their poisonous measure.
And then they've such a cunning way
Of telling ill-meant tales : they say,
" Don't mention what I've said, I pray ;
I would not tell another." Straight to your neighbour's house they go, Narrating every thing they know ; And break the peace of high and low,
Wife, husband, friend, and brother.
Oh ! that the mischief-making crew Were all reduced 'to one or two, And they were painted red or blue,
That everyone might know them ! Then would our villagers forget To rage and quarrel, fume and fret, And fall into an angry pet,
With things so much below them.
For 'tis a sad, degrading part To make another's bosom smart, And plant a dagger in the heart
We ought to love and cherish ! Then, let us evermore be found In quietness with all around, While friendship, joy, and peace abound,
And angry feelings perish !
A MORNING CONVERSATION
BY MAKIA EDOEWORTH.
Mrs. Bolingbroke. I wish I knew what was the matter with me this morning. Why do you keep the newspaper all to yourself, my dear ?
Mr. B. Here it is for you, my dear ; I have finished it.
Mrs. B. I humbly thank you for giving it to me when you have done with it — I hate stale news. Is there any- thing in the paper ? for I cannot be at the trouble of hunting it.
Mr. B. Yes, my dear, there are the marriages of two of our friends.
Mrs. B. Who ? who ?
Mr. B. Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her cousin, John Nettleby.
Mrs. B. Mrs. Nettleby ! But why did you tell me ?
Mr. B. Because you asked me, my dear.
Mrs. B. But it is a hundred times pleasanter to read the paragraph one's self. One loses all the pleasure of the surprise by being told. Well, whose was the other marriage ?
Mr. B. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you. I will leave you the pleasure of the surprise.
Mrs. B. But you see I cannot find it. How provok- ing you are, my dear ! Do pray tell it me.
Mr. B. Our friend Mr. Granby.
Mrs. B. Mr. Granby ! Dear ! Why did you not make me guess ! I should have guessed him directly. But why do you call him our friend ? I am sure he is no friend of mine, nor ever was. I took an aversion to him, as you may remember, the very first day I saw him. I am sure he is no friend of mine.
Mr. B. I am sorry for it, my dear, bub I hope you will go and see Mrs. Granby.
Mrs. B. Not I, indeed, my dear ! Who was she 1
Mr. B. Miss Cooke.
Mrs. B. But there are so many Cookes — can't yon distinguish her in any way ? Has she no Christian name 1
A MORNING CONVERSATION 205
Mr. B. Emma, I think. Yes, Emma.
Mrs. B. Emma Cooke ! No ; it cannot be my friend Emma Cooke ; for I am sure she was cut out for an old maid.
Mr. B. This lady seems to me to be cut out for a good wife.
Mrs. B. May be so — I am sure I shall never go to see her. Pray, my dear, how came you to see so much of her?
Mr. B. I have seen very little of her, my dear. I only saw her two or three times before she was married.
Mrs. B. Then, my dear, how could you decide that she was cut out for a good wife ? I am sure you could not judge of her by seeing her only two or three times, and before she was married.
Mr. B. Indeed, my love, that is a very just obser- vation.
Mrs. B. I understand that compliment perfectly, and thank you for it, my dear. I must own I can bear any- thing better than irony.
Mr. B. Irony ! My dear, I was perfectly in earnest.
Mrs. B. Yes, yes ; in earnest — so I perceive ; I may naturally be dull of apprehension, but my feelings are quick enough. I comprehend you too well. Yes ; ife is impossible to judge of a woman before marriage, or guess what sort of a wife she will make. I presume you speak from experience ; you have been disappointed yourself, and repent your choice.
Mr. B. My dear, what did I say that was like this t Upon my word, I meant no such thing. I really was not thinking of you in the least.
Mrs. B. No ; you never think of me now. I can easily believe that you were not thinking of me in the least.
Mr. B. But I said that only to prove to you that I could not be thinking ill of you, my dear.
Mrs. B. But I would rather that you thought ill of me than that you did not think of me at all.
206 THE USE OF FLOWERS
Mr. B. Well, my dear, I will even think ill of you, if that will please you.
Mrs. B. Do you laugh at me ? When it comes to this I am wretched indeed. Never man laughed at the woman he loved. As long as you had the slightest re- mains of love for me, you could not make me an object of derision. Ridicule and love are incompatible — abso- lutely incompatible. Well, I have done my best, my very best, to make you happy, but in vain. I see I am not cut out to be a good wife. Happy, happy Mrs. Granby !
Mr. B. Happy I hope sincerely that she will be with my friend ; but my happiness must depend on you, my love ; so, for my sake, if not for your own, be composed, and do not torment yourself with such fancies.
Mrs. B. I do wonder whether this Mrs. Granby is really that Miss Emma Cooke ? I'll go and see her directly ; see her I must.
Mr. B. I am heartily glad of it, my dear ; for I am sure a visit to his wife will give my friend Granby real pleasure.
Mrs. B. I promise you, my dear, I do not go to give him pleasure, or you either ; but to satisfy my own — curiosity.
THE USE OF FLOWERS BY MARY HOWITT.
God might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small, The oak-tree, and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.
He might have made enough — enough
For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine, and toil,
And yet have made no flowers.
THE USE OF FLOWERS 207
The ore within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow ; Nor doth it need the lotus-flower
To make the river flow.
The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man,
Might yet have drunk them all.
Then wherefore, wherefore, were they made,
All dyed with rainbow light, All fashioned with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night ;
Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness,
Where no man passeth by ?
Our outward life requires them not, Then, wherefore had they birth ?—
To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth ;
To whisper hope — to comfort man
Whene'er his faith is dim ; For whoso careth for the flowers,
Will care much more for him I
208
BULLUM v. BOATUM BY G. A. STEPHENS.
Law is law — law is law ; and as such and so forth and hereby, and aforesaid, provided always, nevertheless, notwithstanding. Law is like a country dance — people are led up and down in it till they are tired. Law is like a book of surgery — there are a great many desperate cases in it. It is also like physic — they that take the least of it are best off. Law is like a homely gentle- woman— very well to follow. Law is also like a scolding wife — Very bad when it follows us. Law is like a new fashion — people are bewitched to get into it. It is also like bad weather — most people are glad when they get out of it.
We shall now mention a cause, " Bullum versus Boat- urn " : it was a cause that came before me. The cause was as follows : —
There were two farmers : Farmer A. and Fanner B. Farmer A. was seized or possessed of a bull ; farmer B. was seized or possessed of a ferry-boat. Now, the owner of the ferry-boat, having made his boat fast to a post on shore with a piece of hay twisted rope-fashion (or, as we say vulgo vocato, a hay-band) — after he had made his boat fast to a post on shore, as it was very natural for a hungry man to do, he went up to town to dinner ; farmer A. 's bull, as it was very natural for a hungry bull to do, came down town to look for a dinner ; and, observ- ing, discovering, seeing, and spying out some turnips in the bottom of the ferry-boat, the bull scrambled into the ferry-boat ; he ate up the turnips, and, to make an end of his meal, fell to work on the hay-band. The boat, being eaten from its moorings, floated down the river, with the bull in it ; it struck against a rock, beat a hole in the bottom of the boat, and tossed the bull overboard : whereupon the owner of the bull brought his action against
BULLUM v. BOATUM 209
the boat, for running away with the bull ; the owner of the boat brought his action against the bull, for running away with the boat ; and thus notice of trial was given, Bullum versus Boatum — -Boatum versus Bullum.
Now, the counsel for the bull began with saying, " My lord, and you, gentlemen of the jury, we are counsel in this cause for the bull. We are indicted for running away with the boat. Now, my lord, we have heard of running horses, but never of running bulls before. Now, my lord, the bull could no more run away with the boat than a man in a coach may be said to run away with the horses; therefore, my lord, how can we punish what is not pun- ishable ? How can we eat what is not eatable ? Or how can we drink what is not drinkable ? Therefore, my lord, as we are counsel in this cause for the bull, if the jury should bring the bull in guilty, the jury would be guilty of a bull."
Now, the counsel for the boat observed that the bull should be nonsuited ; because, in his declaration, he had not specified what colour he was of ; for thus wisely, and thus learnedly, spoke the counsel — " My lord, if the bull was of no colour, he must be of some colour ; and if he was not of any colour, what colour could the bull be of ? "
I overruled this motion myself by observing that the bull was a white bull, and that white is no colour ; be- sides, as I told my brethren, they should not trouble their heads to talk of colour in the law, for the law can colour anything.
This cause being afterwards left to a reference, upon the award both bull and boat were acquitted, it being proved that the tide of the river carried them both away ; upon which I gave it a-s my opinion that, as the tide of the river carried both bull and boat away, both bull and boat had a good action against the water-bailiff.
My opinion being taken, an action was issued ; and upon the traverse, this point of law arose : — " How, wherefore, and whether, why, when, and what, whatso- ever, whereas, and whereby, as the boat was not a compos mentis evidence, how can an oath be administered ?
210 ARNOLD WINKELRIED
That point was soon settled by Boatum's attorney de- claring that, for his client, he would swear anything.
The water-bailiff's charter was then read, taken out of the original record, in true law Latin ; which set forth, in their declaration, that they were carried away either by the tide of the flood, or the tide of the ebb. The charter of the water-bailiff was as follows : — Aquas, bailiffi &s£ magistrates in choisi super omnibus fishibus qui habuer- unt finnos et scalos, claws, shetts, et talos qui sicimmare in freshibus, vel saltibus riveris, lakis, pondis, canalebus, et wett boats ; sive oysteri, prawni, whitini, shrimpi, turbu- tus, solus ; that is, not turbots alone, but turbots and soles both together.
But now comes the nicety of the law ; the law is as nice as a new-laid egg, and not to be understood by addle- headed people. Bullum and Boatum mentioned both ebb and flood, to avoid quibbling ; but it being proved that they were carried away neither by the tide of flood nor by the tide of ebb, nor exactly upon the top of high water, they were nonsuited ! but such was the lenity of the court, upon their paying all costs they were allowed to begin again de novo.
ARNOLD WINKELRIED
BY JAMBS MONTGOMERY.
" Make way for liberty ! " he cried ; Made way for liberty, and died ! It must not be : this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power ! All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yield — She must not fall : her better fate Here gives her an immortal date.
ARNOLD WINKELRIED an
Few were the numbers she could boast, But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he On whose sole arm hung victory. It did depend on one, indeed : Behold him— Arnold Winkelried ! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face ;
And by the motion of his form
Anticipate the rising storm ;
And, by the uplifting of his brow,
Tell where the bolt would strike and how.
But 'twas no sooner thought than done i The field was in a moment won : — " Make way for liberty ! " he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp. Ten spears he swept within his grasp : " Make way for liberty ! " he cried, — Their keen points met from side to side ; He bowed among them like a tree, And thus made way for liberty.
Swift to the breach his comrades fly — •
" Make way for liberty ! " they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart j
While instantaneous at his fall,
Bout, ruin, panic, scattered all ;
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.
Thus Switzerland again was free ;
Thus death made way for liberty !
2ia
A CLOSE, HARD MAN
A hard, close man was Solomon Ray, Nothing of value he gave away ;
He hoarded and saved ;
He pinched and shaved ; And the more he had the more he craved.
The hard-earned gold he toiled to gain Brought him little but care and pain ;
For little he spent ;
And all he lent He made it bring him twenty per cent.
Such was the life of Solomon Ray ;
The years went by and his hair grew gray ;
His cheeks grew thin,
And his soul within Grew hard as the gold he worked to win.
But he died one day, as all men must, For life is fleeting, and man's but dust.
The heirs were gay
That laid him away, And that was the end of Solomon Ray.
They quarrelled now who had little cared For Solomon Ray while his life was spared ;
His lands were sold,
And his hard-earned gold All went to the lawyers, I am told.
Yet men will cheat, and pinch, and save, Nor carry their treasures beyond the grave j
All their gold some day
Will melt away Like the selfish savings of Solomon Ray.
213
THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS
BY LEIGH HUNT.
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court. The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their
side, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for
whom he sighed ;
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal hearts
below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind
went with their paws ; With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd on one
another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous
smother ; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing thro' the
air : Said Francis then, " Faith ! gentlemen, we're better here
than there ! "
De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous lively
dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes which always
seem'd the same ; She thought, — The Count my lover is brave as brave can
be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of
me :
Kings, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the occasion is divine ! I'll drop my glove to prove his love ; great glory will be
mine !
n4 THE WIDOWER
She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked ab
him and smiled ;
He bow'd, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild. The leap was quick, return was quick — he has regained
the place — Then threw the glove — but not with love — right in the
lady's face. " By heaven ! " cried Francis, " rightly done ! " and he
rose from where he sat : " No love," quoth he, " but vanity sets love a task like
that ! "
THE WIDOWER
BY THE HON. MBS. NORTON.
I saw the widower mournful stand,
Gazing out on the sea and land ;
O'er the yellow corn and the waving trees,
And the blue stream rippling in the breeze !
Oh ! beautiful seems the earth and sky ;
Why doth he heave that bitter sigh ?
Vain are the sunshine and brightness to him,
His heart is heavy, his eyes are dim ;
His thoughts are not with the moaning sea,
Though his gaze be fixed on it vacantly.
His thoughts are far, where the dark boughs wave
O'er the silent rest of his dear wife's grave ;
He starts, and brushes away a tear,
For the still small voices are in his ear
Of the bright-haired angels his dear wife left,
To comfort her lonely and long- bereft.
With a gush of sorrow he turns to press
Her little ones close with a fond caress ;
And they sigh — oh, not because mother sleeps,
For she is forgotten, but that he weeps ;
Yes, she is forgotten ! the patient love,
The tenderness of that meek-eyed dove,
THE WIDOWER 215
The voice that rose on the evening air
To bid them kneel to the God of Prayer :
The joyous tones that greeted them when,
After a while, she came again ;
The pressure soft of her rose-leaved cheek,
The touch of her hand as, white and weak,
She laid it on each shining head,
And blessed the sons of the early dead ;
All is forgotten — all pass'd away,
Like the fading close of a hot summer's day ;
Or the sound of her voice (though they scarce can tell
Whose voice it was they loved so well),
Comes with their laughter, a short, sweet dream,
As the breeze blows over the gentle stream,
Rippling a moment its quiet breast,
And leaving it then to its sunny rest.
But he — oh, deep in his inmost soul,
Which has drunk to the dregs of sorrow's bowl,
Her look, and her smile, and the lightest word
Of the musical voice he so often heard,
And never will hear on earth again
(Though he love it more than he loved it then),
Are buried to rise at times unbid,
And force hot tears to the burning lid.
The mother that bare her may learn to forget,
But he will remember and weep for her yet :
Oh, while the heart where her head hath lain
In its hours of joy, in its sighs of pain,
While the hand which so oft hath been clasped in hers,
In the twilight hour, when nothing stirs,
Beat with the deep, full pulse of life,
Can he forget his gentle wife ?
Many may love him, and he in truth
May love, but not with the love of his youth ;
Ever around his joy will come
A stealing sigh for that long-loved home,
And her step and her voice will go glidingly by,
In the desolate halls of his memory.
xi6
YAWCOB STRAUSS BY CHABLES F. ADAMS.
I haf von funny leedle poy,
Vot gomes schust to mine knee ;
Der queerest schap, der Greatest rogue, As efer you dit see.
He runs, und schumps, und schmashea dings
In all barts of der house ; But vot off dot ? he vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He get der measles und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot's oudt ; He sbills mine glass of lager bier
Foots schnuff indo mine kraut.
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese, —
Dot vas der roughest chouse : I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo, To make der schticks to beat it mit,—
Mine gracious, dot vos drue !
I dinks mine bed was schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse : But never mind ; der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.
He asks me questions, sooch as dese j
Who baints mine nose so red ? Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt
Vrom der hair ubon mine bed ?
THE TOE 217
Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene'er der glim I douse. How gon I all dose dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ?
I somedimes dink I schall go vild
]\Iit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I could haf rest,
Und beaceful dimes enshoy :
But ven he vash asleep in ped,
So guiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, " Dake anyding,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."
THE TOE
Once on a time — no matter when,
Whether of recent date or long ago— A potentate, the pride of British men,
Felt direful twinges in his royal toe ; And quick consulted his physicians
Upon the cause of the complaint,
Which certainly was bad enough to vex a saint,
Or make a lady faint. Ay, or a parson swear, if giv'n to wrathful ebullitions.
Not that I mean to say this truly great
And all accomplish'd potentate Did ever swear — far be it from my tongue
To do such mildness and such virtue wrong j Oh, no ! he merely said, in accents mild (Nay, some assert that, while he spoke, he smiled,
So very patiently he bore the pain),
" Dear Doctor, I am very ill,
ai8 THE TOE
None ever suffer' d so, I do believe ; My toe ! my toe ! — exert your utmost skill, And find out something that will quick relieve, For, oh ! the gout has seized my toe again." The doctor, as in duty bound, look'd sad, And stooping low, Peep'd at the toe,
Then felt the pulse of his right royal master. " Indeed," said he, " your majesty is bad, And pain, we know, will drive a wise man mad. But your complaint is not the gout."
" Indeed ! " " Oh ! no ; I've found it out, And speedily I will apply a plaster. Meanwhile, with your permission, I'll show the cause of all your pain, And trust it never can occur again, If you'll be guided by your old physician. Your shoes have been too tight — too tight by half, So that you've quite compress'd your royal toes, And giv'n a wrong direction To the corneous substance call'd the naiL Now, as your toes support so large a calf,
'Tis evident upon reflection That the corneous substance inward grows, And must be rooted out, or else we fail.
The fact is, sire, That men of goodly size and certain ages
Must not aspire
To pass for youths in ladies' eyes ; It ne'er will do. Therefore, be wise, And leave such dandy tricks to boys and pages."
219
NOSE AND EYES
BY WILLIAM COWPBR.
Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ;
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong.
So the tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning ;
While Chief Baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.
" In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear, And your lordship," said Tongue, " will undoubtedly find
That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, Which amounts to possession, time out of mind."
Then holding the spectacles up to the court —
" Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle,
As wide as the ridge of the nose is ; in short, Designed to sit so, just like a saddle.
" On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, With a reasoning the Court will never condemn,
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them."
Then shifting his side, as the lawyer knows how, He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes ;
But what were his arguments few people know, For the world did not think they were equally wise.
So his lordship decreed, with grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or but,
That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By day-light or candle-light, Eyes should be shub f
DER BABY BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.
So help me gracious, efery day I laugh me wild to see der vay My schmall young baby drie to play- Dot funny leetle baby.
Vhen I look on dhem leetle toes, Und saw dot funny leetle nose, Und heard der vay dot rooster crows, I schmile like I was grazy.
Und vhen I heard der real nice vay Dhem beoples to my wife dhey say, " More like his fater every day," I vas so proud like blazes.
Sometimes dhere oomes a leetle schquall, Dot's vhen der vindy vind vill crawl Righd in its leetle schtomach schmall, — Dot's too bad for der baby.
Dot makes him sing at night so schveet, Und gorrybarric he must eat, Und I must chump shpry on my feet, To help dot leetle baby.
He bulls my nose, and kicks my hair, Und grawls me ofer everywhere, Und schlobbers me — but vat I care ? Dot vas my schmall young baby.
Around my head dot leetle arm Vas schqueezin' me so nice and varm — O ! may dhere never coom some harm To dot schmall leetle baby.
211
THE EDITOR'S GUESTS BY WILL CARLBTON.
The Editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care,
His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair,
His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand up- holding his head,
His eyes on his dusty old table, with different documents spread.
There were thirty long pages from Howler, with under- lined capitals topped,
And a short disquisition from Growler, requesting his newspaper stopped ;
There were lyrics from Gusher, the poet, concerning sweet flow'rets and zephyrs,
And a stray gem from Plodder, the farmer, describing a couple of heifers ;
There were billets from beautiful maidens, and bills from a grocer or two,
And his best leader hitched to a letter which inquired if he wrote it, or who ?
There were raptures of praises from writers of the weekly
mellifluous school, And one of his rival's last papers, informing him he was
a fool ; There were several long resolutions, with names telling
whom they were by, Canonising some harmless old brother who had done
nothing worse than to die ; There were traps on that table to catch him, and serpents
to sting and to smite him ;
There were gift enterprises to sell him, and biters attempt- ing to bite him ; There were long staring " ads " from the city, and money
with never a one,
222 THE EDITOR'S GUESTS
Which added, " Please give this insertion, and send in your bill when you're done ; "
There were letters from organizations — their meetings, their wants, and their laws —
Which said, " Can you print this announcement for the good of our glorious cause ? "
There were tickets inviting his presence to festivals, parties, and shows,
Wrapped in notes with " Please give us a notice " de- murely slipped in at the close.
In short, as his eye took the table, and ran o'er its ink- spattered trash,
There was nothing it did not encounter, excepting, per- haps, it was cash.
The Editor dreamily pondered on several ponderous
things, On different lines of action, and the pulh'ng of different
strings ; Upon some equivocal doings, and some unequivocal
duns ;
On how few of his numerous patrons were quietly prompt- paying ones ; On friends who subscribed " just to help him," and
wordy encouragement lent, And had given him plenty of counsel, but never had paid
him a cent ; On vinegar, kind-hearted people were feeding him every
hour, Who saw not the work they were doing, but wondered
that " printers are sour " ; On several intelligent townsmen, whose kindness was so
without stint That they kept an eye on his business, and told him just
what he should print ; On men who had rendered him favours, and never pushed
forward their claims,
THE EDITOR'S GUESTS 123
So long as the paper was crowded with " locals " con- taining their names ; On various other small matters, sufficient his temper to
roil, And finely contrived to be making the blood of an editor
boil; And so one may see that his feelings could hardly be said
to be smooth, And he needed some pleasant occurrence his ruffled
emotions to soothe. He had it ; for lo ! on the threshold, a slow and reliable
tread, And a farmer invaded the sanctum, and these are the
words that he said :
" Good mornin', sir, Mr. Printer ; how is your body to- day ? I'm glad you're to home, for you fellers is al'ays a runnin'
away. Your paper last week wa'n't so spicy nor sharp as the one
week before : But I s'pose when the campaign is opened, you'll be
whoopin' it up to 'em more. That feller that's printin' The Smasher is goin' for you
pretty smart ; And our folks said this mornin' at breakfast, they
thought he was gettin' the start. But I hushed 'em right up in a minute, and said a, good
word for you ; I told 'em I b'lieved you was tryin' to do just as well as
you knew ; And I told 'em that someone was sayin', and whoever
'twas it is so, That you can't expect much of no one man, nor blame
him for what he don't know. But, layin' aside pleasure for business, I've brought you
my little boy Jim ; And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor
outen of him.
a*4 THE EDITOR'S GUESTS
" My family stock is increasing while other folks' seems
to run short ;
I've got a right smart of a family — it's one of the old- fashioned sort : There's Ichabod, Isaac and Israel, a-workin' away on the
farm — They do 'bout as much as one good boy, and make things
go off like a charm. There's Moses and Aaron are sly ones, and slip like a
couple of eels ; But they're tol'able steady in one thing — they al'ays
git round to their meals. There's Peter is busy inventin' (though what he invents I
can't see), And Joseph is studyin' medicine — and both of 'em
boardin' with me. There's Abram and Albert is married, each workin' my
farm for myself, And Sam smashed his nose at a shootin', and so he is laid
on the shelf. The rest of the boys are all growin', 'cept this little runt,
which is Jim, And I thought that perhaps I'd be makin' an editor
outen o' him.
44 He ain't no great shakes for to labour, though I've
laboured with him a good deal, And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he
couldn't help but to feel : But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin'
about him is big Exceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a
Pig- 44 1 keep him a-carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin*
the jugs, And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin*
the bugs; And then there is things to be doin' a-helpin' the women
indoors;
THE EDITOR'S GUESTS 225
There's churnin' and washin' of dishes, and other descrip- tions of chores ;
But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be much, I'm afraid,
So I thought it would be a good notion to larn him the editors' trade.
His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too slim,
But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outen o' him !
" It ain't much to get up a paper — it wouldn't take him
long for to learn ; He could feed the machine, I'm thinkin', with a good
strappin' fellow to turn. And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough
now to do ; Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your
arrangements right through. I used for to wonder at readin' and where it was got up,
and how ; But 'tis most of it made by machinery — I can see it all
plain enough now. And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different
designs, Each one with a gauge and a chopper to see to the length
of the lines ; And I hear a New York clairvoyant is runnin' one sleeker
than grease, And a-rentin' her heaven-born productions at a couple of
dollars a-piece ; An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be
easy enough, I've a whim, If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen of Jim ! "
The Editor sat in his sanctum, and looked the old man
in the eye, Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and
mournfully made his reply : S.P.R. P
226 THE EDITOR'S GUESTS
" Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and
Solomon both ? Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a
natural oath ? Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his
heart in his cheek ?
Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a six- pence a week ? Can he courteously talk to an equal, and brow-beat an
impudent dunce ? Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half a dozen
at once ? Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and
reliable touch, And be sure that he knows how much to know, and knows
how to not know too much ?
" Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a
check-rein on his pride ? Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros'
hide? Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness,
courage, and vim ? If so, we perhaps can be makin' an editor ' outen of
him.' " The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his
visage o'erspread ; And he said, " Jim, I guess we'll be goin' ; he's probably
out of his head."
But lo ! on the rickety staircase, another reliable tread, And entered another old farmer, and these are the words
that he said :
"»Good morning, sir, Mr. Editor, how is the folks to-day ? I owe you for next year's paper ; I thought I'd come in
and pay.
And Jones is a-goin' to take it, and this is his money here ; I shut down on lendin' it to him, and coaxed him to try
it a year.
THE EDITOR'S GUESTS 227
And here is a few little items that happened last week in
our town : I thought they'd look good for the paper, and so I just
jotted 'em down. And here is a basket of cherries my wife picked expressly
for you ; And a small bunch of flowers from Jennie — she thought
she must send somethin' too.
" You're doin' the politics bully, as all of our family
agree ; Just keep your old goose-quill a-floppin', and give 'em a
good one for me. And now you are chock full of business, and I won't be
takin' your time ; I've things of my own I must 'tend to — good-day, sir, I
b'lieve I will climb."
The Editor sat in his sanctum and brought down his fist
with a thump : " God bless that old farmer," he muttered, " he's a regular
Editor's trump." And 'tis thus with our noble profession, and thus it ever
will be ; still There are some who appreciate its labours, and some who
perhaps never will. But in the great time that is coming, when loudly the
trumpet shall sound, And they who have laboured and rested shall come from
the quivering ground ; When they who have striven and suffered to teach and
ennoble the race, Shall march at the front of the column, each one in his
God-given place ; As they pass through the gates of The City with proud
and victorious tread, The editor, printer and " devil " will travel not far from
the head.
223
THE YANKEE BOY BY JOHN PIERPONT.
The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school,
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,
The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye
Turns while he hears his mother's lullaby ;
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,
Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it ;
And, in the education of the lad,
No little part that implement hath had.
His pocket knife to the young whittler brings A growing knowledge of material things. Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, His chestnut whistle, and his shingle dart, His elder pop-gun, with his hickory rod, Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad, His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone That murmurs from his pumpkin-leaf trombone, Conspire to teach the boy.
To these succeed
His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed, His wind-mill, raised the passing breeze to win, His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin : Or, if his father lives upon the shore, You'll see his ship, beam ends upon the floor, Full rigged, with raking masts and timbers staunch, And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.
Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven, Ere long he'll solve you any problem given; Make any gim-crack, musical or mute, A plough, a coach, an organ, or a flute; Make you a locomotive, or a clock, Cut a canal, or build a floating dock.
THE ADMIRAL'S SON 129
Or lead forth beauty from a marble block ; Make anything, in short, for sea or shore, From a child's rattle to a seventy-four. Make it, said I ? Ay, when he undertakes it, He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes il
And, when the thing is made, whether it be To move on earth, in air, or on the sea, Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide, Or upon land, to roll, revolve, or slide ; Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring, Whether it be a piston or a spring, Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass, The thing designed shall surely come to pass j For, when his hand's upon it, you may know That there's " go " in it, and he'll make it go.
THE ADMIRAL'S SON BY MRS. HEMANS.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled ; The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames roll'd on — he would not go Without his father's word ;
That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.
THE ADMIRAL'S SON
He called aloud :— " Say, father ! say If yet my task is done ? "
He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.
" Speak, father ! " once again he cried,
" If I may yet be gone ! And " — but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on. Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair, And look'd from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair !
And shouted but once more aloud,
" My father, must I stay ? " While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way ; They wrapt the ship in splendour wild.
They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
Then came a burst of thunder sound—
The boy — oh ! where was he ? Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strew'd the sea — With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part ; But the noblest thing which perish'd there
Was that young faitliful heart 1
231
NOTHING TO WEAR By W. A. BUTLER.
Well, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsy and gained her, With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder At least in the property, and the best right To appear as its escort by day and by night ; And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball—
Their cards had been out a fortnight or so,
And set all the Avenue on the tip-toe — I considered it only my duty to caU
And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her, as ladies are apt to be found, When the time intervening between the first sound Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter Than usual — I found — I won't say I caught her — Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning To see if, perhaps, it didn't want cleaning. She turned as I entered — " Why, Harry, you sinner, I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner ! " " So I did," I replied, " but the dinner is swallowed,
And digested, I trust, for 'tis nine now and more ; So, being relieved from that day duty, I followed
Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. And now, will your ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your beauty, and grace, and presence to lend (All which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) To the Stuckups', whose party, you know,is to-morrow ? M
The poor Flora looked up with a pitiful air, And answered quite promptly, " Why, Harry, man cher, I should like, above all things, to go with you there, But really and truly I've nothing to wear."
*3* NOTHING TO WEAR
" Nothing to wear ! Go just as you are ; Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, I engage, the most bright and particular star On the Stuckup horizon." I stopped, for her eye, Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, Opened on me, at once, a most terrible battery Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose
(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, " How absurd that any sane man should suppose That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes,
No matter how fine, that she wears every day ! "
So I ventured again : " Wear your crimson brocade." (Second turn up of nose) " That's too dark by a shade." ' Your blue silk." " That's too heavy." ' Your pink." " That's too light." ' Wear tulle over satin." " I can't endure white." 4 Your rose-coloured, then, the best of the batch." ' I haven't a thread of point-lace to match." ' Your brown moire antique." " Yes, and look like a
Quaker." " The pearl-coloured." " I would, but that plaguy
dressmaker
Has had it a week." " Then, that exquisite lilac, In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock." (Here the nose took again the same elevation) — " I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." " Why not ? It's my fancy ; there's nothing could
strike it As more comme il favi." " Yes, but dear me, that lean
Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it. And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen." " Then, that splendid purple, that sweet mazarine, That superb point d'aiguille, that imperial green. That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine." " Not one of all is fit to be seen," Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed.
NOTHING TO WEAR 233
" Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite
crushed Opposition, " that gorgeous toilette which you sported
In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation,
When you quite turned the head of the head of the
nation ; And by all the grand court were so very much courted."
The end of the nose was portentiously tipped up, And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation : ** I have worn it three times, at the least calcula- tion,
And that and the most of my dresses are ripped up ! " Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash,
Quite innocent though ; but to use an expression More striking than classic, it " settled my hash,"
And proved very soon the last act of our session. " Fiddlesticks, is it, sir ? I wonder the ceiling Doesn't fall down and crush you. O, you men have no
feeling ;
You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers. Your silly pretence — why a mere guess it is ! Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities ? I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear, And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care, But you do not believe me " (here the nose went still
higher).
" I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar. Our engagement is ended, sir, — yes, on the spot : You're a brute, and a monster, and I don't know what." I mildly suggested the words, " Hottentot, Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief," As gentle expletives, which might give relief ; But this only proved as spark to the powder, And the storm I had raised came faster and louder : It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed To express the abusive, and then its arrears Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears,
234 NOTHING TO WEAR
And my last, faint, despairing attempt at an obs- Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.
Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too : Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say Then, without going through the form of a bow,
Found myself in the entry — I hardly knew how — On doorstep, and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square At home and upstairs in my own easy chair ;
Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, And said to myself, as I lit my cigar, Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar
Of the Russians to boot, for the rest of his days, On the whole, do you think he would have much to spare, If he married a woman with nothing to wear ?
Since that night, taking pains that it should not be
bruited
Abroad in society, I've instituted A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, On this vital subject, and find, to my horror, That the fair Flora's cause is by no means surprising
But that there exists the greatest distress In our female community, solely arising
From this unsupplied destitution of dress, Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air With the pitiful wail of " Nothing to wear." * * * * *
Oh ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, And the Temples of Trade which tower on each side, To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt Their children have gathered, their city have built ; Where hunger and vice, like twin beasts of prey, Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair ; Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirl, Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirfe,
THE CLEVER IDIOT 235
Grope through the dark dens — climb the rickety stair To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, Half-starved and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold. See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet, All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street ; Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell
From the poor dying creature who writhes on the.
floor ; Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of hell,
As you sicken and shudder, and fly from the door ; Then home to your wardrobes and say, if you dare, Spoiled children of Fashion — you've nothing to wear. And oh ! if perchance there should be a sphere Where all is made right that so puzzles us here, Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of Time Fade and die in the light of that region sublime ; Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence, Must be clothed for the life and the service above With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love ; Oh, daughters of earth, foolish virgins, beware, Lest in that upper realm you've nothing to wear.
THE CLEVER IDIOT
A boy, as nursery records tell, Had dropp'd his drumstick in a well : He had good sense enough to know He would be beaten for't, and so Sh'ly (tho* silly from his cradle) Took from the shelf a silver ladle, And in the water down it goes, After the drumstick, I suppose.
THE CLEVER IDIOT
The thing was miss'd, the servants blamed, But in a week no longer named. Now this not suiting his designs, A silver cup he next purloins (To aid his plan, he never stopp'd), And in the water down it dropped.
This caused some words and much inquiry, And made his parents rather iry ; Both for a week were vex'd and cross, And then — submitted to the loss. At length, to follow up his plan, OUT little clever idiot man His father's favourite silver waiter Next cast into the wat'ry crater.
Now this, indeed, was what the cook And butler could not overlook ! And all the servants of the place Were searched, and held in much disgrace. The boy now called out, "Cook, here — Nell, What's this so shining in the well ? "
This was enough to give a hint That the lost treasures might be in't ; So for a man with speed they sent, Who down the well directly went. They listened with expectant ear ; At last these joyful words they hear : " Oh, here's the ladle, and the cup, And waiter too — so draw me up."
" Hold," quoth the boy, " a moment stay, Bring something else that's in your way ; '* Adding (with self -approving grin), " My drumstick, now your hand is in."
THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE
BY CHAKLBS DICKBNS.
Mr. Pickwick and his friends were conducted into the hall, whence, having been previously announced by Muzzle, and ordered in by Mr. Nupkins, they were ushered into the worshipful presence of that public- spirited officer.
The scene was an impressive one, well calculated to strike terror to the hearts of culprits, and to impress them with an adequate idea of the stern majesty of the law. In front of a big book-case, in a big chair, behind a big table, and before a big volume, sat Mr. Nupkins, looking a full size larger than any one of them, big as they were. The table was adorned with piles of papers ; and above the further end of it appeared the head and shoulders of Mr. Jinks, who was busily engaged in looking as busy as possible. The party having all entered, Muzzle carefully closed the door, and placed himself behind his master's chair to await his orders. Mr. Nupkins threw himself back, with thrilling solemnity, and scrutinised the faces of his unwilling visitors.
" Now, Grummer, who is that person ? " said Mr. Nupkins, pointing to Mr. Pickwick, who, as the spokes- man of his friends, stood hat in hand, bowing with the utmost politeness and respect.
" This here's Pickvick, your wash-up," said Grummer.
" Come, none o' that 'ere, old Strike- a-light," inter- posed Mr. Weller, elbowing himself into the front rank. " Beg your pardon, sir, but this here officer o' yourn in the gamboge tops 'ull never earn a decent livin' as a master o' the ceremonies any vere. This here, sir," continued Mr. Weller, thrusting Grummer aside, and addressing the magistrate with pleasant familiarity, " this here is S. Pickvick, Esquire ; this here's Mr. Tup- man ; that ere's Mr. Snodgrass ; and furder on, next him on the t'other side, Mr. Winkle — all wery nice gen'l'm'n, sir, as you'll be wery happy to have the acquaintance on ; so the sooner you commits these here
*38 THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE
officers o' yourn to the tread-mill for a month or two, the sooner we shall begin to be on a pleasant under- standing. Business first, pleasure arterwards, as King Richard the Third said wen he stabbed the t'other king in the Tower, afore he smothered the babbies."
At the conclusion of this address, Mr. Weller brushed his hat with his right elbow, and nodded benignly to Jinks, who had heard him throughout with unspeakable awe.
" Who is this man, Grummer ? " said the magistrate.
" Wery desp'rate ch'racter, your wash-up," replied Grummer. " He attempted to rescue the prisoners, and assaulted the officers ; so we took him into custody, and brought him here.'*
** You did quite right," replied the magistrate. " He is evidently a desperate ruffian."
" He is my servant, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, angrily.
" Oh ! he is your servant, is he ? " said Mr. Nupkins. " A conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice, and murder its officers. Pickwick's servant. Put that down, Mr. Jinks."
Mr. Jinks did so.
" What's your name, fellow ? " thundered Mr. Nupkins.
" Veller," replied Sam.
" A very good name for the Newgate Calendar," said Mr. Nupkins.
This was a joke ; so Jinks, Grummer, Dubbley, all the specials, and Muzzle, went into fits of laughter of five minutes' duration.
" Put down his name, Mr. Jinks," said the magistrate.
" Two L's, old feller," said Sam.
Here an unfortunate special laughed again, whereupon the magistrate threatened to commit him instantly. It is a dangerous thing to laugh at the wrong man in these
" Where do you live ? " said the magistrate. " Vare-ever I can," replied Sam. "Put that down, Mr. Jinks," said the magistrate, rho was fast rising into a rage.
THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE 239
" Score it under," said Sam.
" He is a vagabond, Mr. Jinks," said the magistrate. " He is a vagabond on his own statement ; is he not, Mr. Jinks ? "
" Certainly, sir."
" Then I'll commit him. I'll commit him as such," said Mr. Nupkins.
" This is a wery impartial country for justice," said Sam. " There ain't a magistrate goin' as don't commit himself twice as often as he commits other people."
At this sally another special laughed, and then tried to look so supernaturally solemn, that the magistrate detected him immediately.
" Grummer," said Mr. Nupkins, reddening with pas- sion, " how dare you select such an inefficient and disre- putable person for a special constable as that man ? How dare you do it, sir ? "
" I am very sorry, your wash-up," stammered Grum- mer.
" Very sorry ! " said the furious magistrate. " You shall repent of this neglect of duty, Mr. Grummer ; you shall be made an example of. Take that fellow's staff away. He's drunk. You're drunk, fellow."
" I am not drunk, your worship," said the man.
" You are drunk," returned the magistrate. " How dare you say you are not drunk, sir, when I say you are ? Doesn't he smell of spirits, Grummer ? "
" Horrid, your wash-up," replied Grummer, who had a vague impression that there was a smell of rum some- where.
" I knew he did," said Mr. Nupkins. " I saw he was drunk when he first came into the room, by his excited eye. Did you observe his excited eye, Mr. Jinks ? "
" Certainly, sir."
" I haven't touched a drop of spirits this morning," said the man, who was as sober a fellow as need be.
" How dare you tell me a falsehood ? " said Mr. Nupkins. " Isn't he drunk at this moment, Mr. Jinks ? "
" Certainly, sir," replied Jinks.
240 THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE
" Mr. Jinks," said the magistrate, " I shall commit that man for contempt. Make out his committal, Mr. Jinks."
And committed the special would have been, only Jinks, who was the magistrate's adviser (having had a legal education of three years in a country attorney's office) whispered the magistrate that he thought it wouldn't do ; so the magistrate made a speech, and said, that in consideration of the special's family he would merely reprimand and discharge him. Accord- ingly, the special was abused, vehemently, for a quarter of an hour, and sent about his business ; and Grummer, Dubbley, Muzzle, and all the other specials, murmured their admiration of the magnanimity of Mr. Nupkins.
" Now, Mr. Jinks," said the magistrate, " swear Grummer."
Grummer was sworn directly ; but as Grummer wandered, and Mr. Nupkins' dinner was nearly ready, Mr. Nupkin's cut the matter short by putting leading questions to Grummer, which Grummer answered as nearly in the affirmative as he could. So the examina- tion went off, all very smooth and comfortable, and two assaults were proved against Mr. Weller, and a threat against Mr. Winkle, and a push against Mr. Snodgrass. When all this was done to the magistrate's satisfaction, the magistrate and Mr. Jinks consulted in whispers.
The consultation having lasted about ten minutes, Mr. Jinks retired to his end of the table ; and the magis- trate, with a preparatory cough, drew himself up in his chair, and was proceeding to commence his address, when Mr. Pickwick interposed.
" I beg your pardon, sir, for interrupting you," said Mr. Pickwick : " but before you proceed to express, and act upon, any opinion you may have formed on the statements which have been made here, I must claim my right to be heard, so far as I am personally con- cerned."
" Hold your tongue, sir," said the magistrate, peremp- torily.
THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE 241
" I must submit to you, sir," said Mr. Pickwick. " Hold your tongue, sir," interposed the magistrate, " or I shall order an officer to remove you."
" You may order your officer to do whatever you please, sir," said Mr. Pickwick ; " and I have no doubt, from the specimen I have had of the subordination preserved amongst them, that whatever you order they will execute, sir ; but I shall take the liberty, sir, of claiming my right to be heard, until I am removed by force."
" Pickvick and principle ! " exclaimed Mr. Weller, in a very audible voice.
" Sam, be quiet," said Mr. Pickwick.
" Dumb as a drum vith a hole in it, sir," replied Sam.
Mr. Nupkins looked at Mr. Pickwick with a gaze of intense astonishment at his displaying such unwonted temerity ; and was apparently about to return a very angry reply, when Mr. Jinks pulled him by the sleeve, and whispered something in his ear. To this the magis- trate returned a half audible answer, and then the whis- pering was renewed. Jinks was evidently remonstrating.
At length the magistrate, gulping down, with a very bad grace, his disinclination to hear anything more, turned to Mr. Pickwick, and said sharply, " What do you want to say ? "
" First," said Mr. Pickwick, sending a look through his spectacles, under which even Nupkins quailed, " first, I wish to know what I and my friend have been brought here for ? "
" Must I tell him ? " whispered the magistrate to Jinks.
" I think you had better, sir," whispered Jinks to the magistrate.
" An information has been sworn before me" said the magistrate, " that it is apprehended you are going to fight a duel, and that the other man, Tupman, is your aider and abettor in it. Therefore — eh, Mr. Jinks ? "
"Certainly, sir."
" Therefore, I call upon you both, to — I think that's the course, Mr. Jinks ? "
" Certainly, sir."
8.F.R. Q
242 THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE
" To— to — what, Mr. Jinks ? " said the magistrate* pettishly.
" To find bail, sir."
" Yes. Therefore, I call upon you both — as I was about to say, when I was interrupted by my clerk — to find bail."
" Fifty pounds each," whispered Jinks, " and house- holders, of course."
" I shall require two sureties of fifty pounds each,'* said the magistrate aloud, with great dignity, " and they must be householders, of course."
" But, bless my heart, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, who, together with Mr. Tupman, was all amazement and indignation ; "we are perfect strangers in this town. I have as little knowledge of any householders here as I have intention of fighting a duel with anybody."
" I dare say," replied the magistrate, " I dare say — don't you, Mr. Jinks ? "
" Certainly, sir.
" Have you anything more to say ? " inquired the magistrate.
Mr. Pickwick had a great deal more to say, which he would no doubt have said, very little to his own advan- tage or the magistrate's satisfaction, if he had not, the moment he ceased speaking, been pulled by the sleeve by Mr. Weller, with whom he was immediately engaged in so earnest a conversation that he suffered the magis- strate's inquiry to pass wholly unnoticed. Mr. Nupkins was not the man to ask a question of the kind twice over ; and so, with another preparatory cough, he pro- ceeded, amidst the reverential and admiring silence of the constables, to pronounce his decision.
He should fine Weller two pounds for the first assault, and three pounds for the second. He should fine Winkle two pounds, and Snodgrass one pound, besides requiring them to enter into their own recognisances to keep the peace towards all his Majesty's subjects, and especially towards his liege servant, Daniel Grummer.
243
Selections from Shakespeare
ANTONY'S FUNERAL ORATION OVER CESAR'S BODY
(Julius Ccesar, Act III, Scene II.)
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them ; The good is oft interred with their bones ; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious : If it were so, it was a grievous fault ; And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, (For Brutus is an honourable man ; So are they all, all honourable men,) Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me : But Brutus says he was ambitious ; And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept : Ambition should be made of sterner stuff : Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see, that on the Lupercal, I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition 1 Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; And, sure, he is an honourable man.
*44 SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause ; What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him ? 0 judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason ! — Bear with me ; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me.
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle : I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent : That day he overcame the Nervii : — Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through } See, what a rent the envious Casca made : Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd; And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it ; As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no ; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel : Judge, 0 you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him ! This was the most unkindest cut of all : For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquish'd him : then burst his mighty heart ; And in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar felL O, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. O, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel The dint of pity/ these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here ! Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors.
SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE 245
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honourable ; What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do 't ; they are wise and honourable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ; I am no orator, as Brutus is : But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, That love my friend ; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood : I only speak right on ; I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; Show you sweet Caesar's wounds (poor, poor dumb
mouths !)
And bid them speak for me : But were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Coesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
CARDINAL WOLSEY AND CROMWELL
(Henry VIII, Act III, Scene II) [Dialogue for two.]
Wol. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man : To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost ; And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd. Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
246 SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE
This many summers in a sea of glory ; But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ; I feel my heart new open'd : O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer Never to hope again. —
Enter CROMWELL, amazedly,
Why, how now, Cromwell ?
Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.
Wol What, arnaz'd
At my misfortunes ? can thy spirit wonder, A great man should decline ? Nay, an you weep, I am fallen indeed.
Crom. How does your grace ?
Wol. Why, well;
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now ; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me, I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoulders, These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy, too much honour : O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden, Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.
Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it.
Wol. I hope I have : I am able now, metliinks, (Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,) To endure more miseries, and greater far, Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad ?
SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE 247
Crom. The heaviest, and the worst,
Is your displeasure with the king.
W ol God bless him !
Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place.
Wol. That's somewhat sudden :
But he's a learned man. May he continue Long in his highness' favour, and do justice For truth's sake, and his conscience ; that his bones, When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em ! What more ?
Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome, Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.
Wol. That's news indeed.
Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, This day was view'd in open, as his queen, Going to chapel ; and the voice is now Only about her coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down. O
Cromwell,
The king has gone beyond me : all my glories In that one woman I have lost for ever : No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell; I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master : Seek the king ; That sun, I pray, may never set ! I have told him What, and how true thou art : he will advance thee ; Some little memory of me will stir him, (I know his noble nature,) not to let Thy hopeful service perish too : Good Cromwell, Neglect him not ; make use now, and provide For thine own future safety.
Crom. 0 my lord,
Must I then leave you ? must I needs forego So good, so noble, and so true a master ?
148 SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. — The king shall have my service ; but my prayers For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.
Wol< Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries ; but thou hast forc'd me Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be; And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say I taught thee, Say, Wolsey, — that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,— Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't ? Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee ; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, 0 Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ; And, — Prythee, lead me in : There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell t Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.
249
OTHELLO'S ACCOUNT OF HIS COURTSHIP
Dialogue, or can be given as one address by omitting part* marked [ ].
(Othello, Act /, Scene HI.) Oth. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble, and approved good masters, — That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true ; true, I have married her ; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace ; For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd Their dearest action in the tented field ; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle ; And therefore little shall I grace my cause, In speaking for myself : Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic, (For such proceeding I am charg'd withal,) I won his daughter with.
[Bra. A maiden never bold ; Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion Blush'd at herself. And she, — in spite of nature, Of years, of country, credit, every thing, — To fall in love with what she feared to look on ! It is a judgment maim'd, and most imperfect, That will confess — perfection so could err Against all rules of nature ; and must be driven To find out practices of cunning hell, Why this should be. I therefore vouch again, That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood, Or with some dram conjur'd to this effect, He wrought upon her.
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Duke. To vouch this, is no proof; Without more certain and more overt test, Than these thin habits, and poor likelihoods Of modern seeming, do prefer against him.
1st. Sen. But, Othello, speak ; — Did you by indirect and forced courses Subdue and poison this young maid's affections t Or came it by request, and such fair question As soul to soul aflordeth ?]
Oth. I do beseech you, Send for the lady to the Sagittary, And let her speak of me before her father: If you do find me foul in her report, The trust, the office, I do hold of you, Not only take away, but let your sentence Even fall upon my life.
[Duke. Fetch Desdemona hither.
Oth. Ancient, conduct them : you best know the place. [Exeunt IAGO and ATTENDANTS.]
And, till she come, as truly as to heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I'll present How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, And she in mine.
[Duke. Say it, Othello.]
Oth. Her father lov'd me ; oft invited me ; Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes That I have pass'd.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it. Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field ; Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach ; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And portance in my travel's history : Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, [heaven,
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch
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It was my hint to speak, such was the process;
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline :
But still the house affairs would draw her thence ;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse ; Which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour ; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
Tli at I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively ; I did consent ;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs :
She swore — In faith, 'twas strange,'twas passing strange;
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:
She wish'd she had not heard it ; yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man : she thank'd me ;
And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake :
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd ;
And I lov'd her, that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have us'd ;
Here comes the lady, let her witness it.
[Duke. I think this tale would win my daughter too. — Good Brabantio,
Take up this mangled matter at the best : Men do their broken weapons rather use, Than their bare hands.
Bra. I pray you, hear her speak ; If she confess that she was half the wooer, Destruction on my head, if my bad blame Light on the man.]
HENRY V. BEFORE AGINCOURT
(Henry V, Act IV, Scene I.)
Enter three soldiers, BATES, COURT, and WILLIAMS.
Court. Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder ?
Bates. I think it be : but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day.
Witt. We see yonder the beginning of the day, but, I think, we shall never see the end of it. — Who goes there ?
King Henry. A friend.
Will. Under what captain serve you ?
K. Hen. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.
Will. A good old commander, and a most kind gentle- man : I pray you, what thinks he of our estate ?
K. Hen. Even aa men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be washed off the next tide.
Bates. He hath not told his thought to the king ?
K. Hen. No ; nor is it not meet he should. For, though I speak it to you, I think the king is but a man, as I am : the violet smells to him as it doth to me ; the ele- ment shows to him aa it doth to me ; all his senses have but human conditions ; his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man ; and though his affec- tions are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing ; therefore, when he sees reason of fears, as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are. Yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by show- ing it, should dishearten his army.
Bates. He may show what outward courage he will : but, I believe, as cold a night as 'tis, he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck ; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.
K. Hen. By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king ; I think he would not wish himself anywher* but where he is.
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Bates. Then 'would he were here alone ; so should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men's li ves saved.
K. Hen. I dare say you love him not so ill to wish him here alone ; howsoever you speak of this to feel other men's minds : Methinks I could not die anywhere so contented as in the king's company ; his cause being just, and his quarrel honourable.
Will. That's more than we know.
Bates. Ay, or more than we should seek after ; for we know enough, if we know we are the king's subjects ; if his cause be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes the crime of it out of us.
Witt. But, if the cause be not good, the king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make ; when all those legs, and arms, and heads, chopped off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day and cry all — We died at such a place ; some swearing ; some crying for a surgeon ; some upon their wives left poor behind them ; some upon the debts they owe ; some upon their children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle ; for how can they charitably dispose of any thing, when blood is their argument ? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it ; whom to disobey, were against all pro- portion of subjection.
K. Hen. So, if a son, that is by his father sent about merchandise, do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the im- putation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be im- posed upon his father that sent him : or if a servant, under his master's command, transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers, and die in many irrecon- ciled iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the servant's damnation : — But this is not so : the king is not bound to answer the particular end- ings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant ; for they purpose not their death when they purpose their services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement
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of swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers. Some, peradventure, have on them the guilt of premedi- tated and contrived murder ; some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury ; some making the wars their bulwark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of peace with pillage and robbery. Now, if these men have defeated the law, and outrun native punishment ; though they can outstrip men, they have no wings to fly from God: war is his beadle, war is bis vengeance ; so that here men are punished for before-breach of the king's laws, in now the king's quarrel : where they feared the death they have borne life away ; and where they would be safe they perish ; Then if they die unprovided, no more is the king guilty of their damnation, than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited. Every subject's duty is the king's ; but every subject's soul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience : and dying so, death is to him advantage ; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained : and, in him that escapes, it were not sin to think, that making God so free an offer, he let him outlive that day to see his greatness, and to teach others how they should prepare.
Will. 'Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill is upon his own head ; the king is not to answer for it.
Bates. I do not desire he should answer for me ; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him.
K. Hen. I myself heard the king say he would not be ransomed.
Will. Ay, said he so, to make us fight cheerfully : but when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we ne'er the wiser.
K. Hen. If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after.
Will. 'Mass, you'll pay him then ! That's a perilous shot out of an elder gun, that a poor and private dis- pleasure can do against a monarch I You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice, with fanning in his face
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with a peacock's feather. You'll never trust his word after ! come, 'tis a foolish saying.
K. Hen. Your reproof is something too round ; I should be angry with you if the time were convenient.
Will. Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live.
K. Hen. I embrace it.
Will. How shall I know thee again ?
K. Hen. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet : then, if ever thou darest acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.
Will. Here's my glove ; give me another of thine.
K. Hen. There.
Will. This will I also wear in my cap : if ever thou come to me and say, after to-morrow, " This is my glove," by this hand, I will take thee a box on the ear.
K. Hen. If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.
Will. Thou darest as well be hanged.
K. Hen. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the king's company.
Will. Keep thy word, fare thee well.
[Exeunt SOLDIERS.]
Upon the king ! let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, our children, and Our sins, lay on the king ; — we must bear all. 0 hard condition ! twin-born with greatness, Subjected to the breath of every fool, Whose sense no more can feel but his own wringing ! What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect, That private men enjoy !
And what have kings, that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony ? And what art thou, thou idol ceremony ? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers ? What are thy rents ? what are thy comings-in t O ceremony, show me but thy worth ! What is the soul of adoration ? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men ?
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Wherein them art less happy being fear'd
Than they in fearing.
What drink'st them oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison'd flattery ? O be sick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure !
Think'st thou the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation ?
Will it give place to flexure and low bending ?
Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's kne
Command the health of it ? No, thou proud dream,
That play'st so subtly with a king's repose ;
I am a king that find thee ; and I know
"Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The inter-tissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farced title running 'fore the king,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world,
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,
Not all these, laid hi bed majestical,
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave ;
Who, with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread ;
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell,
But, like' a lackey, from the rise to set
Sweats in the eyes of Phoebus, and all night
Sleeps in Elysium ; next day, after dawn,
Doth rise, and help Hyperion to his horse J
And follows so the ever-running year,
With profitable labour, to his grave :
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep,
Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king.
The slave, a member of the country's peace,
Enjoys it ; but, in gross brain, little wots
What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace,
Whose hours the peasant best advantages.
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