Volume 1 — JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
Reading edition
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS
Guvener B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; But John P. Robinson he Sez he wun't vote fer Guvener B. My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we du? We can't never choose him o' course—thet's flat; Guess we shall hev to come round (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wun't vote for Guvener B. Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan—— He's ben true to one party—an' thet is himself; So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote for Gineral C. Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; He don't vally principle more'n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an pillage, An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. The side of our country must ollers be took, An' President Polk, you know, he is our country. An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry; An' John P. Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the things to a T. Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum: An' thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ign'ance an' t'other half rum; But John P. Robinson he Sez it ain't no sech thing; an', of course, so must we. Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, and some on 'em votes; But John P. Robinson he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee. Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow—— God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To start the world's team w'en it gits in a slough; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!
Old Gentleman (to driver of street-car): "My friend, what do you do with your wages every week—put part of it in the savings bank?"
Driver: "No, sir. After payin' the butcher an' grocer an' rent, I pack away what's left in barrels. I'm 'fraid of them savin's banks."
MUSIC BY THE CHOIR
After the church organist had played a voluntary, introducing airs from "1492" and "The Black Crook"—which, of course, were not recognized by the congregation—the choir arose for its first anthem of the morning.
The choir was made up of two parts, a quartette and a chorus. The former occupied seats in the front row—because the members were paid. The chorus was grouped about, and made a somewhat striking as well as startling picture. There were some who could sing; some who thought they could; and there were others.
The leader of this aggregation was the tenor of the quartette. He was tall, but his neck was responsible for considerable of his extreme height. Because he was paid to lead that choir he gave the impression to those who saw him that he was cutting some ice. A greater part of his contortions were lost because the audience did not face the choir.
The organist struck a few chords, and without any preliminary wood-sawing the choir squared itself for action. Of course, there were a few who did not find the place till after rising—this is so in all choirs—but finally all appeared to be ready. The leader let out another link in his neck, and while his head was taking a motion similar to a hen's when walking, the choir broke loose. This is what it sang:
"Abide-e-e—bide—ab—abide—with abide with—bide—a-a-a-a-bide—me—with me-e-e—abide with—with me—fast—f-a-a-s-t falls—abide fast the even—fast fa-a-a-lls the—abide with me—eventide—falls the e-e-eventide—fast—the—the dark—the darkness abide—the darkness deepens—Lor-r-d with me-e-e—Lord with me—deepens—Lord—Lord—darkness deepens—wi-i-th me—Lord with me—me a-a-a-a-abide."
That was the first verse.
There were three others.
Every one is familiar with the hymn, hence it is not necessary to line the verses.
During the performance, some who had not attended the choir rehearsal the Thursday evening previous were a little slow in spots. During the passage of these spots some would move their lips and not utter a sound, while others—particularly the ladies—found it convenient to feel of their back hair or straighten their hats. Each one who did this had a look as if she could honestly say, "I could sing that if I saw fit"—and the choir sang on.
But when there came a note, a measure or a bar with which all were familiar, what a grand volume of music burst forth. It didn't happen this way many times, because the paid singers were supposed to do the greater part of the work. And the others were willing.
At one point, after a breathing spell—or a rest, as musicians say—the tenor started alone. He didn't mean to. But by this break the deacons discovered that he was in the game and earning his salary. The others caught him at the first quarter, however, and away they went again, neck and neck. Before they finished, several had changed places. Sometimes "Abide" was ahead, and sometimes "Lord," but on the whole it was a pretty even thing.
Then the minister—he drew a salary, also—read something out of the Bible, after which—as they say in the newspapers—"there was another well-rendered selection by the choir."
This spasm was a tenor solo with chorus accompaniment. This was when he of the long neck got in his deadly work. The audience faced the choir and the salaried soloist was happy.
When the huddling had ceased, the soloist stepped a trifle to the front and, with the confidence born of a man who stands pat on four aces, gave a majestic sweep of his head toward the organist. He said nothing, but the movement implied, "Let 'er go, Gallagher."
Gallagher was on deck and after getting his patent leather shoes well braced on the sub-bass pedals, he knotted together a few chords, and the soloist was off. His selection was—that is, verbatim,
"Ge-yide me, ge-yide me, ge-yide me, O-, Thor-or gra-ut Jaw-aw-hars-vah, Pi-il-grum thraw-aw this baw-aw-raw-en larnd."
And he sang other things.
He was away up in G. He diminuendoed, struck a cantable movement, slid up over a crescendo, tackled a second ending by mistake—but it went—caught his second wind on a moderato, signified his desire for a raise in salary on a trill, did some brilliant work on a maestoso, reached high C with ease, went down into the bass clef and climbed out again, quavered and held, did sixteen notes by the handful—payable on demand—waltzed along a minor passage, gracefully turned the dal segno, skipped a chromatic run, did the con expressione act worthy of a De Reszke, poured forth volumes on a measure bold, broke the centre of an andante passage for three yards, retarded to beat the band, came near getting applause on a cadenza, took a six-barred triplet without turning a hair—then sat down.
Between whiles the chorus had been singing something else. The notes bumped against the oiled natural-wood rafters—it was a modern church—ricochetted over the memorial windows, clung lovingly to the new $200 chandelier, floated along the ridgepole, patted the bald-headed deacons fondly, and finally died away in a bunch of contribution boxes in the corner.
Then the minister preached.
A Chicago man who has recently returned from Europe was asked by a friend what he thought of Rome.
"Well," he replied, "Rome is a fair-sized town, but I couldn't help but think when I was there that she had seen her best days."