WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 3)

The Craven. Once upon a midnight lately, might be seen a figure stately, In the Tuileries sedately poring over Roman lore; Annotating, scheming, mapping, Cæsar’s old positions sapping, When there came a something rapping, spirit-rapping at the door. “’Tis some minister,” he muttered, “come, as usual, me to bore.” So to Cæsar turned once more. Back to Caesar’s life returning, with a soul for ever yearning, Towards the steps his promise-spurning prototype had trod before. But the silence was soon broken; through the stillness came a token Life had moved again, or spoken on the other side the door. “Surely I’ve no trusty servant,” said he, “to deny my door Now De Morny is no more.” Rising, of some trespass certain, slow he draws the purple curtain, On whose folds the bees uncertain look like wasps, and nothing more: Open flings the chamber portal, with a chill which stamps him mortal. Can his senses be the sport all of his eyes! For there before He sees an eagle perching on a bust of Janus at the door: A bleeding bird, and nothing more. Deep into the darkness peering, not in fear, but only fearing Adrien’s vulgar indiscretions, Marx[2] of eaves-dropping in store: “Though thy wings are torn and bleeding,” said he, with a voice of pleading: “Thou’rt a bird of royal breeding: thou hast flown from foreign shore.” Quoth the Eagle, “Matamore.” Started with the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken, “Silence,” said he, “never utter memories of that field of gore, Where your poor Imperial master, whom imperious disaster Followed fast, was tortured faster, till his heart one burden bore: Till the dirges of his hope, this melancholy burden bore— Never see Carlotta more.” Then upon the velvet sinking, he betook himself to thinking How he’d forced the murdered Prince to leave his quiet home of yore; How he’d made him wield a sceptre, which no erudite preceptor Might have told would soon be wept or lost on that forbidding shore, Where earth cries for retribution, where for justice stones implore. Quoth the Eagle, “Matamore.” “Wretch!” he cried, “some fiend hath sent thee, by that mocking voice he lent thee Conscience-driven accusations rising up at every pore— Must my master-mind so vaunted, ever hence be spectre haunted— Must I see that form undaunted, dying still at Matamore?” Quoth the Eagle, “Evermore.” 34 “Prophet!” shrieked he, “thing of evil! Here we fear nor God nor Devil! Wing thee to the House of Hapsburg! Up to Austria’s heaven soar, Leave no bloody plume as token, of the lies my soul has spoken, Leave my iron will unbroken! Wipe the blood before my door! Dost thou think to gnaw my entrails with thy beak for evermore?” Quoth the Eagle, “Jusqu’à Mort.”

The Tailor. I. Once upon a morning dismal, as I smoked in blues abysmal, Gazing at the curious patterns on the dressing gown I wore, While my cat her milk was lapping, suddenly there came a tapping, Like a fellow’s knuckles rapping, rapping at my chamber door; “It’s that nuisance Smith,” I muttered, rapping at my chamber door— He may rap his fingers sore.” II. Ah! I do remember clearly small was then my income yearly, And to pay my lodging nearly did my slight finances floor; And my prospects, never sunny, fishy were as any tunny, And I sadly wanted money, money to pay Baize and Blore, Pay the fashionable tailors called in Oxford Baize and Blore, Who will dun me evermore. III. But my cat, prophetic pussy, now got ominously fussy, Clawed me, pawed me with her talons as she’d never done before; So that now to stay her terror and convince her of her error, “Tabby,” said I, “it is Smith entreating entrance at my door; It’s that feeble Smith demanding entrance at my chamber door, Only Smith and nothing more!” IV. Presently my chair removing, and most seriously reproving My grimalkin, for the dreadful way in which she spat and swore, From my writing-table’s kneehole stole I softly to the weehole Which the people call the keyhole—keyhole of my chamber door, Peeping through it saw another eye the other side the door, Looking at me—nothing more. V. Straight to stop that sly eye’s prying, to the key my lips applying, Blew I such a puff of smoke as no man ever puffed before; Then I heard him backward starting, rub his eye as if ’twere smarting, And he seemed to be departing, so I whispered, “Is it sore?” This I whispered through the keyhole; echo answered “It is sore.” Answered thus, and nothing more. VI. Back I went and felt elated, and my blues had now abated, When again I heard that rapping rather louder than before; “Surely,” said I, rising, “surely, if he thinks I’ll sit demurely While he makes that din securely, his mistake he shall deplore; If I only catch him at it, his misdeed he shall deplore— He shall not annoy me more.” VII. Open here I flung the portal, when there entered in a mortal, Crooked legged, with clothes too short all—seedy garments that he wore; Never once “good morning” bade me—not a bow or scrape he made me, But upon my table laid me down a bill from Baize and Blore, Took his stand upon the oilcloth just within my chamber door, Stood and hiccupped—nothing more. VIII. Then this festive creature winning all my sad soul into grinning, Such a visage idiotic I had never seen of yore; “Well, you have been drinking brandy,” said I, “and your legs are bandy, And you hardly look a dandy, though you come from Baize and Blore; Tell me what on earth your name is in the firm of Baize and Blore?” Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!” IX. Scarce I wondered this unsightly dun had answered unpolitely, And his answer little comfort, little consolation bore; For you cannot help confessing that it’s surely not a blessing When you find yourself addressing dun within your chamber door; Man or dun upon the oilcloth just within your chamber-door, With a name like Tick-no-more! X. But the tailor standing solus gave me like a bitter bolus That one word, as if his vacant soul in that he did outpour; Me with no fine words he buttered, this from time to time he stuttered, Till I very softly muttered, “other duns have been before; They will give me further credit as my tradesmen have before;” Then the dun said, “Tick-no-more!” XI. Startled that he spoke so flatly and replied so very patly, “Limited,” I said, “it seems is his linguistic stock and store; If of no more words he’s master, if he duns not harder, faster, Verily he’ll bring disaster on the house of Baize and Blore, And I shall remain indebted to the firm of Baize and Blore For ever, evermore.” 35 XII. Still his strange demeanour winning all my sad soul into grinning, Straight I wheeled a cushioned couch in front of oilcloth, dun, and door; Then upon the cushions sinking I betook myself to drinking Little sips of sherry, thinking what this plague from Baize and Blore, What this gloomy, greasy, groggy messenger from Baize and Blore Meant by stuttering “Tick-no-more.” XIII. But my cat I soothed by stroking, and small bits of bread kept soaking In the milk, and gave them to her, dropped them for her on the floor: Long I sat, strange things divining, with my head at ease reclining Near the sherry I was wining that the dun’s eye gloated o’er; But the liquor I was wining with his green eyes gloating o’er He shall taste, oh! nevermore. XIV. Cloud by cloud the air grew denser, perfumed from my meerschaum censer, I should think I must have smoked of pipes that morning half a score; “Man,” I said, “I have no treasure, or I’d pay the bill with pleasure, Only once more take my measure for a suit from Baize and Blore, Take your tape and take my measure for a suit from Baize and Blore.” Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!” XV. “Dun!” I cried, “inhuman creature, human still in form and feature, Much I’ve hoped you’d take my orders as you’ve always done before; Tell me—for although you’re fuddled, you’re not utterly bemuddled— Tell me if this hope I’ve cuddled is well-founded, I implore; Will they, will they give me credit? tell me clearly, I implore?” Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!” XVI. “Dun!” I cried, “inhuman creature, human still in form and feature, By the piper who performed for Moses in the days of yore, Tell me won’t, oh! brainless brute, your firm supply to me in future Raiment of unequalled suture—genuine make of Baize and Blore, Clothes of rare and radiant suture—splendid make of Baize and Blore?” Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!” XVII. “Then be off, you sour curmudgeon!” cried I, starting up in dudgeon, “Get you back to goose and scissors, get you back to Baize and Blore; Leave no long account suggestive of reflections most unfestive, Such as make me sleepless, restive—quit my chamber, quit my door; Take your bill from off my table, take yourself from out my door!” Quoth the tailor, “Tick-no-more!” XVIII. Thus the tailor dunned for payment for the raiment, for the raiment Mentioned in the bill he did not take from out my chamber door; Thus he left me grimly staring, and that long account up tearing, Part went up the chimney flaring, part lay scattered on the floor; But that bill whose shreds went flying, or lay scattered on the floor Now is settled ever more. Odd Echoes from Oxford, by A. Merion, B.A. (John Camden Hotten, London, 1872.)

The Shavin’. (A piece of ravin’ à la Edgar A. Poe.) One morning after sleeping I thought I heard a creeping, As if some one were approaching close to my bedroom door: Then a loud impatient tapping put an end unto my napping, And I wondered who was rapping, rapping at my bedroom door, So I timidly enquired who was at my bedroom door— Only that, and nothing more. When there came another knock, with, “Sir, ’tis eight o’clock,” And, only half awakened, I leaped out upon the floor; And by want of proper care hit my leg against a chair, Which improperly stood there, as ’twas left the night before, And I limped a very little as I crept towards the door— Just a little, nothing more. Then on asking, “What’s the matter?” said the servant, “Here’s your water,” And you’ve slept in rather later than you ever did before; So as I was rather press’d I got very quickly drest In my trousers and my vest; then I opened up the door, And I muttered as I took it and shut to my bedroom door— “Oh, that shavin’, what a bore!” While inwardly I cursed—thus my feelings I disbursed— I set about to rummage and to busily explore; But I couldn’t find the strop, and someone had nailed the soap, Which completely put a stop to my shavin’—horrid bore! And my razor, too, was blunter than it ever was before— Than it ever was before! As I rushed about half raving, I bethought me of this shaving, And I wondered that I hadn’t stopped the practice long before: So I made an inward vow, that from this moment now, My beard should, like my pow, grow at pleasure evermore, And my resolution echoed as I ope’d my bedroom door— “I shall shave, ah! nevermore!” John F. Mill.

Chateaux D’Espagne. (A Reminiscence of “David Garrick” and “The Castle of Andalusia.”) Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord Dundreary With his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar, 36 With my shilling I stood rapping—only very gently tapping— For the man in charge was napping—at the money-taker’s door. It was Mr. Buckstone’s playhouse, where I linger’d at the door; Paid half-price and nothing more. Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September— Though it might have been in August, or it might have been before— Dreadfully I fear’d the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow; For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor, And the heart is heavy laden when one’s miserably poor; (I have been so once before.) I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain, If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I’d seen before; For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinking With their glasses on the table, I had witness’d o’er and o’er; Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o’er; Twenty years ago or more. Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no longer, “Miss,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore. Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the goodness To inform me if this drama is from Gaul’s enlighten’d shore?” For I know that plays are often brought us from the Gallic shore: Adaptations—nothing more! So I put the question lowly: and my neighbour answer’d slowly. “It’s a British drama, wholly, written quite in days of yore. ’Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary, And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor!” (And I could not help agreeing that the dialogue was poor; Very flat, and nothing more.) But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew center’d In her figure, and her features, and the costume that she wore. And the slightest sound she utter’d was like music; so I mutter’d To my neighbour, “Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore. Who’s that rare and radiant maiden? Tell, oh, tell me! I implore.” Quoth my neighbour, “Nelly Moore!” Then I ask’d in quite a tremble—it was useless to dissemble— “Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more; Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear’d so sorrow laden In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door?” (With a bust of Julius Cæsar up above the study door.) Quoth my neighbour, “Nelly Moore.” * * * * * I’ve her photograph from Lacy’s; that delicious little face is Smiling on me as I’m sitting (in a draught from yonder door), And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light falls From the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second-floor, (For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second floor,) Comes an echo, “Nelly Moore!” Carols of Cockayne, by Henry S. Leigh (John Camden Hotten, London, 1872.)

A Ravin’. Once upon a midnight dreary, as I slumbered cross and weary, Cross from several horrid boring books of theologic lore, While they haunted me in napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some confounded rapping, rapping at my bedroom door. “’Tis some rascal,” low I muttered, “who’s too screwed to find his door,— Only this and nothing more!” Ah! I vividly remember, it was in a cold December, And of fire I had no ember till the price of coals should low’r; Eagerly I wished the morrow; being broke, again I’ll borrow, Even although it end in sorrow, from an Uncle, loved of yore— From a useful, prosp’rous Uncle, who to me is worth a score. Surely this, if nothing more! (One verse omitted.) * * * * * Up I got, and ope’d the shutter, when without the slightest flutter, Sat a dissipated Tom-cat coolly down upon the floor; Though he looked exceeding shady, not a moment stopped or stayed he, But with impudence unheard of walked right to the bedroom door, Perched upon a corner cupboard just beside my bedroom door, Whisked his tail, and nothing more! (Three verses omitted.) * * * * * “Prophet,” said I, “Thing of evil! prophet still, if cat or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss’d thee here ashore; Battered thou, and all undaunted, in this room they say is haunted, If you are at all enchanted, tell me truly, I implore, Will the coals be ever cheaper? Tell me, tell me, I implore!” Quoth the Tom-Cat, “Never more!” The Figaro, August 27, 1873.

And Dunraven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting O’er that blessed Bill of Billy’s, puzzling at it o’er and o’er; And his eyes have all the seeming of a child’s that hath been screaming, And the gaslight o’er him streaming shows them heavy, red, and sore; And his voice from out its pages rises in a muffled roar:— “Hang the Bill! it is a bore!” Punch, August 13, 1881.

The Dove. A Sentimental Parody. I. Once upon a storm-night dreary, sat I pond’ring, restless, weary, Over many a text of Scripture, helped by ancient-sages’ lore, Anxious, nervous, far from napping; suddenly there came a tapping! As of some one gently rapping—rapping at my chamber-door. Night like this ’tis scarce a visitor, tapping at my chamber-door? This, I thought, and nothing more. II. Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember, glimmer’d ghostly on the floor: Earnestly I wished the morrow; vainly had I sought to borrow From my Bible ease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Annore— For a saintly, radiant matron, whom the angels name Annore Lately wife, now wife no more. III. She had passed the gloomy portals, which forever hide from mortals Spirit myst’ries, which the living are most eager to explore. Poring o’er the sacred pages, guides to all the good for ages, Sat I, helped by lore of sages, when the rapping at my door, Startled me as if a spirit had come to my chamber-door, Tapping thus, and meaning more. IV. And the plaintive, low, uncertain rustling of each window-curtain Thrill’d me—filled my quaking heart with terrors never felt before. Is there, then, a life of glory, as we’re taught in sacred story? Can this be some prophet hoary, standing at my chamber-door— Prophet from the dead arisen, standing at my chamber-door— Rapping thus, and meaning more? V. Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Truly, friend, I treat you badly, your forgiveness I implore; Surely I have not been napping, but so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping—tapping at my chamber-door, That I scarce knew what the sound meant”—here I opened wide the door: Darkness there, and nothing more. VI. Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Awe-struck, thinking thoughts few mortals ever happ’d to think before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken, was the whisper’d word, “Annore!” This I whisper’d, and an echo murmur’d back the word “Annore!” Merely this, and nothing more. VII. Back into my chamber hasting, anguish deeper still now tasting, Soon again I heard a rapping—something louder than before. Surely, thought I, that is something at my window-lattice; Let me see, then, what there at is, and this mystery explore;— Oh! my heart, be still a moment, till this mystery I explore;— Is’t the wind, and nothing more? VIII. Open here I flung the shutter, when with gentle nod and flutter, In there came a gracious white dove of the saintly days of yore. Then, as if obeisance made he, and no longer stopp’d or stay’d he, But in innocence array’d, he perch’d above my chamber-door,— Perch’d upon a bust of Paulus, just above my chamber-door— Perch’d and sat, and nothing more. IX. Then this snowy bird surprising my sad heart into surmising, Whether this was done at random, or some mystic meaning bore,— “Surely,” said I, “thou art fairer than of ill to be the bearer, Of such saintly guise the wearer, thou art from some heav’nly shore; Wilt thou help me on my journey toward that bright celestial shore?” Quoth the white dove, “Evermore!” X. Startled now as one from dreaming, suddenly awak’d and seeming To have heard a voice mysterious thrilling to his heart’s deep core,— Ev’ry thought and feeling reaching after light and further teaching. In attitude of one beseeching, gazed I at my chamber-door,— At the bird, which had so aptly—perch’d upon my chamber-door— Spoken out that “Evermore!” XI. But the white dove’s aspect childly, and his soft eyes beaming mildly, Loving looks, as if a full heart speedily he would outpour, Led me to expect revealing, unto which my soul appealing,— With a strange hope o’er me stealing, such as never came before,— “May I look for peace and comfort such as I’ve ne’er felt before?” And the bird said, “Evermore!” XII. So the bright bird thus beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel’d a cushion’d chair in front of bird and bust and door; Then upon the soft seat sinking, I betook myself to linking 38 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this holy bird of yore— What this lovely, sweet, angelic, quaint, prophetic bird of yore— Meant by saying, “Evermore?” XIII. Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing, Till the calm light from those mild eyes seem’d to illume my bosom’s core; Banishing all fear and sadness, bringing thither peace and gladness, Driving out surmise of madness—lately coming o’er and o’er— Madness casting dreadful shadow,—lately coming o’er and o’er— Shadow deep’ning evermore! XIV. Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer, Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Oh, my soul, thy God hath heard thee, by these angels and this bird He Hath to sweetest hopes now stirr’d thee—hopes of finding thy Annore In the far-off land of spirits—of reunion with Annore!” Quoth the dove, “For evermore!” XV. “Prophet,” said I, “thing of glory! prophet, as in ancient story, Whether sent from heaven directly, or by chance cast here ashore, Blessings many on thee rest now! yea, thou surely shalt be blest now! Come into my open’d breast now—tell me truly, I implore, Is there a heaven of rest and rapture? tell me, tell me, I implore!” Quoth the white bird, “Evermore!” XVI. “Prophet,” said I, “thing of glory! prophet, as in ancient story, By that Heav’n which bends above us—by the God the good adore, Tell this soul with hope upspringing—faith undying to it bringing— If that radiant matron singing midst the angels, named Annore, Shall be mine again to love—the sainted matron, named Annore?” And the dove said, “Evermore!” XVII. “Be that word thy sign of dwelling in my heart, of to it telling Messages of love and mercy from the far-off shining shore; Let thy white plumes be a token of the truth thy soul hath spoken; Keep my faith and hope unbroken; always perch above my door; Keep thy eyes’ light in my heart; and keep thy form above my door;” Quoth the sweet bird, “Evermore!” XVIII. And the white dove, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the polish’d bust of Paulus, just above my chamber-door; And his eyes with kindness beaming—holy spirit’s kindness seeming,— And a soft light from him streaming, sheds its radiance on the floor; And my glad soul in that radiance, that lies floating on the floor, Shall be basking—Evermore!

Lines by Sarah J. Bolton, of Richmond, on the Death of Edgar A. Poe. (Written for the Memorial Committee; November, 1875.) They have laid thee down to slumber where the sorrows that encumber Such a wild and wayward heart as thine can never reach thee more; For the radiant light of gladness never alternates with sadness, Stinging gifted souls to madness, on that bright and blessed shore; Safely moored from sorrow’s tempest, on that distant Aidenn shore, Rest thee, lost one, evermore. Thou wert like a meteor glancing through a starry sky, entrancing, Thrilling, awing, wrapt beholders with the wondrous light it wore; But the meteor has descended, and the “nightly shadows blended,” For the fever-dream is ended, and the fearful crisis o’er— Yes, the wild unresting fever-dream of human life is o’er— Thou art sleeping evermore. Ocean, earth, and air could utter words that made thy spirit flutter— Words that stirred the hidden fountain swelling in the bosom’s core; Stirred it till its wavelets, sighing, wakened to a wild replying, And in numbers never dying sung the heart’s unwritten lore— Sung in wild, bewitching numbers, thy sad heart’s unwritten lore, Now unwritten nevermore. 39 There was something sad and lonely in thy mystic songs that only Could have trembled from a spirit weary of the life it bore; Something like the plaintive toning of a hidden streamlet moaning In its prismed darkness—moaning for the light it knew before. For the fragrance and the sunlight that had gladdened it before— Sighing, sighing, evermore. To thy soul, for ever dreaming, came a strange effulgence, beaming, Beaming, flashing from a region mortals never may explore; Spirits lead thee in thy trances through a realm of gloomy fancies, Giving spectres to thy glances man had never seen before— Wondrous spectres such as human eye had never seen before Were around thee evermore. Thou did’st see the sunlight quiver over many a fabled river, Thou did’st wander with the shadows of the mighty dead of yore, And thy songs to us came ringing, like the wild, unearthly singing Of the viewless spirits winging o’er the night’s Plutonian shore— Of the weary spirits wandering by the gloomy Stygian shore— Sighing dirges evermore. Thou did’st seem like one benighted—one whose hopes were crushed and blighted— Mourning for the lost and lovely that the world could not restore; But an endless rest is given to thy heart, so wrecked and riven— Thou hast met again in heaven with the lost and loved Lenore— With the “rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore;” She will leave thee nevermore. From the earth a star has faded, and the shrine of song has shaded, And the Muses veil their faces, weeping sorrowful and sore; But the harp, all rent and broken, left us many a thrilling token, We shall hear its numbers spoken, and repeated o’er and o’er, Till our hearts shall cease to tremble—we shall hear them sounding o’er, Sounding ever, evermore. We shall hear them, like a fountain tinkling down a rugged mountain, Like the wailing of the tempest mingling ’mid the ocean’s roar; Like the winds of autumn sighing when the summer flowers are dying; Like a spirit-voice replying from a dim and distant shore; Like a wild, mysterious echo from a distant, shadowy shore, We shall hear them evermore. Nevermore wilt thou, undaunted, wander through the palace haunted, Or the cypress vales Titanic, which thy spirit did explore; Never hear the ghoul king, dwelling in the ancient steeple tolling, With a slow and solemn knelling, losses human hearts deplore; Telling in a sort of Runic rhyme the losses we deplore; Tolling, tolling, evermore. If a living human being ever had the gift of seeing The grim and ghastly countenance its evil genius wore, It was thou unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till thy song one burden bore— Till the dirges of thy hope the melancholy burden bore— Of never, nevermore.

MY CHRISTMAS PUDDING; or The Schoolboy’s Dream. (With the Author’s apologies to Edgar Allan Poe.) (By special request.) Listen, all! I tell what happened on the night of Christmas Day, After I’d been eating pudding in a very reckless way. Just as Christmas Day was dying, as I on my bed was lying, When to slumber I was trying, when I’d just begun to snore, I became aware of something rolling on my chamber floor— Of a most mysterious rumbling, rolling on my chamber floor, Only this and nothing more! Partly waking, partly sleeping, all my flesh with horror creeping, I could hear it tumbling, leaping, rolling on my chamber floor; Underneath the bedclothes sinking, I betook myself to thinking If it might not be a kitten that had entered at the door; “Yes,” said I, “it is a kitten, entered at the open door, This it is and nothing more.” Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Cat,” said I, “or kitten, kindly stop that rolling on the floor.” But it was most irritating, for the sound was unabating, On my nerves for ever grating was the rolling on the floor; Till at last I cried in anguish, “Stop that rolling I implore;” And a voice said, “Nevermore.” This convinced me of my error, up I rose in greatest terror, Certain that ’twas not a kitten that had spoken just before; Then into the darkness peering, shivering, wondering, doubting, fearing, I could dimly see a pudding rolling on my chamber floor; I could see a big plum pudding rolling on my chamber floor; May I see it nevermore! 40 From its mouth a vapour steaming, while its fiery eyes were gleaming, Gleaming fiercely bright, and seeming fixedly to scan me o’er; Soon it rolled and rumbled nearer, and its aim becoming clearer, I could see that it intended jumping higher than the floor; Yes, it jumped upon my chest, and when in pain I gave a roar, All it said was, “Nevermore.” Though my back was nearly broken, this reply so strangely spoken, Seemed to me to be a token that it wished for something more; So my thoughts in words expressing, I began my sins confessing, Saying I had eaten pudding many a time in days of yore, But although I’d eaten pudding many a time in days of yore, I would eat it nevermore. Still in spite of my confessing, that plum pudding kept on pressing, Pressing with its weight tremendous ever on my bosom’s core, Till I cried, “O, monster mighty, in my work I’m often flighty, But, if you will now forgive me, I’ll work hard at classic lore!” At the end of this vacation I’ll work hard at classic lore, Quoth the pudding “Nevermore.” “Be that word our sign of parting, pudding!” then I shrieked, upstarting, “Get thee back—get off my stomach, roll again upon the floor!” Thus I struggled, loudly screaming, till I found I had been dreaming, Dreaming like a famous poet once had dreamt in days of yore; But although ’twas like the poet’s dream he dreamt in days of yore, May I dream it nevermore! Detroit Free Press Christmas Number, 1884.

“Vainly was I bending, crooking, and with both my eyes a-looking, Looking for my lost spondulic, like the Pleiad lost of yore; Looking for the well-chewn fragment which I lost the night before; Only this, and nothing more.” “Spuds,” quoth I, “for thee I pineth, Gone to where the woodbine twineth; Gone, departed, doomed, and fated, Gone to fragments dessicated; Gone, as I’ve already stated, Where thy worth no longer shineth, I follow—thou art gone before.”

Nothing More. The ass stood by the stable door, The sweepings of the stable floor— Some scantled, musty, broken straw— He munched, and munched, and—nothing more. Yon politician struts the floor, His speech is gemmed with pot-house lore, His goose essays the eagles soar: Words, only words, and—nothing more. The preacher, dear, good, pious bore, Proves all the prophets once foresaw, Knows what the future has in store, Knows what he—thinks, and—nothing more. The lawyer quotes you score on score Of great authorities in law To prove your case without a flaw; He gains his—fee, and nothing more. The doctor knows you to the core, Apt with each fibre, nerve and pore; Can catch you from Death’s greedy maw, He “bleeds” you well, and—nothing more. The ass still stands beside the door, And still is munching as before, Gown, book, and pill, are broken straw; He’s the same ass, and—nothing more. Anonymous.

Her “Pa’s” Dog. Memories of the past steal o’er me, and remind me of a story, That in all its doleful sadness I have never told before. Well, I loved a girl named Mary, whose old daddy owned a dairy, And a bull-dog, large and powerful, who a frightful visage wore, And one night I went to court her as I’d often done before, But I’ll court her nevermore. Quite distinctly I remember, ’twas one warm night in September, That I sat and held my Mary—held her till my arms were sore, And upon her lips I kissed her till I almost raised a blister. Since that night, oh, how I’ve missed her—missed the girl whom I adore; Oh, ye gods of Mount Olympus, lend your pity, I implore, I shall kiss her nevermore. “Seems to me the air grows hotter. How I love this old man’s daughter!” Were my musings as I held her—held the girl whom I adore. While my Mary Ann was napping, suddenly I heard a rapping Like a footfall softly tapping on the old man’s bedroom floor, And I muttered, as I listened through the slightly opened door, “I have heard that step before.” 41 I shook Mary Ann to wake her, and I said “May Old Nick take her!” (But I’m sure I didn’t mean it), then she woke with one loud snore. While she sat up widely gaping, barely wakened from her napping, I informed her of the tapping I have spoken of before; Then she laughed and said, “’twas nothing but the mice upon the floor, Little mice and nothing more.” Then once more like some huge boulder fell her head upon my shoulder, And I held her very tightly as she snored snore after snore; Soon again I heard the falling of more footsteps, and the calling Of her daddy, and I wished I was in Spain or Ecuador. “Mary Ann!” the old man uttered, as he strode across the floor, “Mary Ann,” and nothing more. Suddenly, as if like magic, with a face that looked quite tragic, Mary woke and saw her daddy standing in the parlour door, Then with eyeballs wildly gleaming, and her hair about her streaming, From the room the girl ran screaming as the clock was striking four, Ran more swiftly, screamed more loudly than she ever had before, Ran and screamed, and nothing more. At the barn the cock was crowing, and I thought I would be going, So I started very quickly to retreat across the floor, But the old man quick did foller, then he took me by the collar, And you oughter heard me holler as he pitched me through the door. “Seek ’em, Bull!” he loudly uttered, in a sort of fiendish roar. Merely that, and nothing more. Quickly to my feet I scrambled, and across the yard I ambled. As I heard that bull-dog coming, bent on tasting human gore. Soon he seized me by the breeches, and I gave some awful screeches, As the entire seat in fragments from my Sunday pants he tore. With my right hand lifted skyward, “I will kill that dog!” I swore. This I said, and nothing more. Soon the dog his grip releases, and from chasing me he ceases While he stopped to chew the pieces that he from my breeches tore. Once across my shoulder glancing, with the moonlight o’er him dancing, I espied the old man prancing like a madman in the door, And I muttered, “Men like you should be slaughtered by the score, And you’ll raise the count one more.” While the broadcloth Bull was chewing, I my way was still pursuing, And I soon, quite tired and panting, lay upon my cottage floor. Then I cursed my Mary’s daddy, and I called him an old paddy, And I swore I’d whip the laddy till my pardon he’d implore. But she’s lost to me for ever, the dear girl whom I adore, Ay, for ever—evermore. Anonymous.

The Phantom Cat. On the ocean swiftly sailing, with the western daylight failing, And a fair south-wester with us, scudding o’er the waters blue, O’er the bulwarks I was leaning, and my eyes my hand was screening; For I wish’d to learn the meaning of a strange sail now in view, Of a vessel in the offing, coming slowly into view. I had little else to do. * * * * * And all thought, with expectation, what the country, what the nation, Might the stranger vessel hail from, sailing slowly through the night; For a landsman has no notion of the sailor’s heart’s emotion When he hears upon the ocean that a vessel heaves in sight, Like an old friend coming to him, is a ship that heaves in sight, With her sails so broad and white. * * * * * Scarcely had the sailor spoken, when the evening air was broken By a blast from speaking-trumpet: “Ship ahoy! what cheer, what cheer? We’ve been sailing, three years sailing, round about the Horn a-whaling. Food is scarce and water failing—stranger, spare a trifle here— Biscuit, grog, and cask of water; just a trifle, stranger, here; You’ll be paid back never fear.” Skipper says, “We can afford, man, if you only come on board, man, Two or three good casks of water, one of biscuit, one of ale. Shove the boat off; I’m delighted, such a vessel to have sighted, From the mighty States United; come and taste a glass of ale; Come and chat for half an hour o’er the friendly glass of ale I take nightly without fail.” And our ladder was made ready by two seamen strong and steady, And up came the whaler captain; on his shoulders stood a cat, With her eyes both brightly gleaming, with her tail outstretched, outstreaming. Surely, thought I, I am dreaming, to see visitor like that, See a captain come to see us in a way so strange as that! What on earth can he be at? Then the cabin did we enter, and before we could prevent her, Came the cat with tail uplifted, straightway down the cuddy stair; 42 And the lamps were not yet lighted, and we sat down, half benighted, We three; and the uninvited—the intruder, she was there, On the shoulders of the captain, the intruder standing there, With green eyes and ebon hair. Still upon the captain’s shoulder, strange it seemed to the beholder, In the twilight of the cabin, among strangers standing so; And I fancied it would fright her when the cuddy lamps grew lighter. And I mused upon the writer of “The Raven,” Edgar Poe, On that weird and wondrous genius, wilful, wayward Edgar Poe, Dead now eighteen years ago! There she stood, with green eyes gleaming; there she stood, with tail outstreaming, A black line athwart the cuddy, rising somewhat high in air. And the captain look’d behind him, as though puss in spell did bind him, And, without a sound, inclined him to keep looking o’er his chair, To keep turning to the black cat, on his shoulder o’er the chair, With a look that held despair!

“Deaf was I to all compassion; brutally I laid the lash on His defenceless naked shoulders; yet I tortured him in vain And my anger growing bigger, out with pistol, pull’d the trigger; With a cry, dropp’d down the nigger, with a startling cry of pain, With the spasm of the death-pang shooting o’er his face of pain, Never more to move again!” “Sitting in my parlour lonely, thinking on my day’s work only, This black cat you see before you, sat herself upon the chair; And in vain I tried to please her, all in vain I sought to tease her, Oh, if I could but release her from her hold upon me there! On my chair, or on my shoulder, ever will that cat be there, With her eyes of constant glare!” “Smile you may, and disbelieve me; that black cat can ne’er deceive me; She is sent me from the darkie, come to haunt me for my crime, And will leave me never, never, and on earth will haunt me ever. Oh, that I the tie could sever! Oh, the dismal, dismal time! All the horrors of the past, and all the dreary present time, Far too sad for prose or rhyme!” * * * * * “Why should I detain you longer? Every day the tie grows stronger, Binding me to my familiar, who will never say farewell. I am here to ask your aid, sir, and have somewhat you delay’d, sir, With my story, I’m afraid, sir, with the sorry tale I tell; Of this cursed weird grimalkin, this strange history to tell, Of this visitor from hell.” * * * * * Soon the ship away was steering, and the whaler’s crew were cheering Loudly the brave British vessel that had help’d them when afloat; On the poop two eyes were beaming, green eyes through the darkness gleaming, And a tail outstretch’d, outstreaming, as it stream’d when in the boat, When the captain bade farewell, and sadly left us in the boat, Fear in eye and husky throat. * * * * *

The Croaker. Once in a dress-circle, weary with discussing many a query Of the palmy days of acting, and of quaint dramatic lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at a chamber-door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “outside the dress-circle door, Wants a seat, and nothing more.” Then the flapping—sad, uncertain, rustling of the painted curtain— Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic visions never felt before Of the coming Macbeth’s greeting, wondering if his repeating Would delight me; while the visitor kept tapping at the door, And I said “Where is the box-keeper, to open yonder door? For the tapping is a bore.” And myself the door unlocking, just to end the tiresome knocking, In there stepped a solemn Croaker of the palmy days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he, Passed each fashionable lady with long skirts upon the floor, Scanned his voucher through gold-mounted and green spectacles he wore, Took his seat, and nothing more. Then this Croaker grave, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling By the grave and stem decorum of the countenance he wore. Though his aspect was unnerving, I began to speak of Irving— For I’ doubted not that he had seen of Macbeths many a score— And I blandly then suggested a Shakespearian treat in store, When he answered, “Nevermore.” Much I marvelled this ungainly swell to hear discourse so plainly In the midst of Irving advocates, who voted him a bore— In an audience all agreeing that no living being Ever yet was blest with seeing acting such as that in store, Quoting Hamlet, Richelieu, and The Bells, and many pieces more, For the laurels Irving wore. 43 But the Croaker, sitting lonely, in his cushioned chair spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; I was net a little fluttered, And at last I feebly muttered, “Other Macbeths played before—” “Kemble, Kean, Macready, Young,” he cried, “I saw them all of yore— Won’t be equalled any more!” Startled at the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken— “Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his sole dramatic lore, Caught from some Shakespearian master, when unmerciful disaster Followed faster still and faster, as the crowd his parts ignore, Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore— “Tragedian, play no more!” Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from a Rimmel censer, Swung by pretty girls, whose footfall tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch!” I cried; “pray who-hath sent thee? Hath some rival Macbeth lent thee His spare ticket to content thee with fond memories a store, Of the Macbeths seen of yore?” “Croaker,” said I, “pray be civil, and of Irving speak no evil. Whether rivalry hath brought thee or stage memories of yore, Are you really not enchanted by this new Macbeth undaunted In this house by Hamlet haunted? Tell me truly, I implore, Is there, is there hope of Macbeth? Tell me, tell me, I implore!” Quoth the Croaker, “Say no more!” “Croaker,” said I, “cease to level those stern glances at the revel. By the bust of Shakespeare o’er us—by the bard we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within thy distant Aidenn Ever widow, wife, or maiden Lady Macbeth’s mantle wore With a grace beyond Miss Bateman?” Still this croaking man of yore Answered grimly, “Yes, a score.” “Be that word our sign of parting, Croaker,” then I said, upstarting; For the curtain now is rising, and I hear a deafening roar. Not a word hath Macbeth spoken; he can only bow in token Of the homage all unbroken. Then the Croaker spoke once more: “Truly this Macbeth reminds me of a figure seen before Over many a snuff-shop-door.” And the Croaker, never flitting, still was sitting, his brows knitting, Growling oft at Irving’s action, voice, and costume that he wore, And his eyes had all the seeming of a croaker who was dreaming Of Macready, Kemble, Kean, and Young, in palmy days of yore; And the last words that he muttered, as he passed the circle-door, Were—“I’m very glad ’tis o’er.” Funny Folks, October 9, 1875.

The Stoker. Once in February dreary, while the Commons, weak and weary, Pondered many a quaint and curious Tory measure then in store, While they nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the chamber-door; “Some new member ’tis,” they muttered, “tapping at our chamber-door; ’Tis Kenealy—nothing more!” But the house was in a flutter when, without a “Hem” or stutter, In there walked a stately Counsel some of them had seen before; Not the least obeisance made he—not a minute stopped or stayed he, But with mien of ancient member took his place upon the floor, Hitched his “gamp” upon the mace, and hung his hat behind the door— Hitched and stood, and nothing more! Stood the Counsel grim, beguiling their “gay wisdom” into smiling By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore— “None come here without proposer,” said the Speaker, as a poser; “’Tis the Parliamentary custom for two hundred years and more;” But outspoke the doughty Premier, “Truly all know how he came here;” He’s Kenealy—nothing more! Mr. Whalley, sitting lonely on his placid bench, spoke only But one word, as if his soul on that one word he did outpour; Nothing further then he uttered. He was just a little fluttered. While a host of members muttered, “Other bores have flown before; Some fine morning he will leave us as our bores have left before.” Whalley whispered, “Nevermore!” Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said they, “what he utters is his only stock and store, Caught from Liberal disaster when that party had no master, When mistakes came fast and faster, and their songs one burden bore, When the dirges of their hopes that melancholy burden bore Of never, nevermore.” Members willing to be civil said, “Oh, quit the Tichborne drivel! By the roof that bends above us—by the Commons we adore. Tell our souls with sorrow laden that our Parliamentary Aidenn Shall not echo with the name of “Arthur Orton” any more; That the mystery unriddled who the name Sir Roger bore Shall not vex us any more!” But Kenealy, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting With his gingham hitched upon the mace, his hat behind the door, And his eyes have all the seeming of a Counsel who is dreaming, 44 And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor, And the Commons, in that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Have a pretty treat in store!

“The Raven.” (After Edgar Allan Poe.) Late at midnight I was seated, and my brain was overheated With reflections quaint and curious as I thought my subject o’er; While I pondered, almost napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of someone softly rapping, rapping at the parlour door, And my heart it fairly fluttered, hearing at the parlour-door, Just a tap, and nothing more. Yes! distinctly I remember how I trembled in each member, Thought I saw in every ember ghastly forms of one or more; Goblins came before my vision, grinning wildly with derision, There I sat as though in prison, prison closed by parlour-door, Icy chill came creeping o’er me whilst I gazed upon the door, Getting frightened more and more. And the windy gusts uncertain through the window shook the curtain, Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before. Then methought perhaps the rapping might be but the servant tapping That awoke me from my napping, she might then be at the door, Bringing me the nightly candle, candlestick with broken handle, As she’d often done before. Then my soul grew strong in valour, and my cheeks lost all their pallor, “Maid,” said I, “or Mary, just you place the candle at the door, Pond’ring was I, almost napping, when you came so gently tapping, And you came so softly rapping, rapping at the parlour-door; Mary, scarcely could I hear you,” then I went unto the door— Darkness there, and nothing more! Scarcely had I got me seated, feeling still all over-heated, When again I heard the rapping louder than it was before, “Bless me!” said I, “This again, something’s at the window-pane, Now some knowledge I’ll obtain of this strange mysterious bore; Courage, heart! a single moment, while this mystery I explore. ’Tis the wind, and nothing more!” Scarce the words my tongue had spoken, scarce the silence I had broken, Thro’ the window stepped a raven like to Ingoldsby’s of yore, Notice took he of me never, off he hopped and looked so clever, Flight he took with bold endeavour, perching o’er my parlour door, From his perch he eyed me closely, watched me from the parlour-door, Sat and looked—did nothing more! Cunning looked he, as though chaffing—funny bird! he set me laughing, Perched aloft, and looking grave, with both his eyes upon the floor:— “Ebony friend, with head all shaven, surely thou canst be no craven, Out so late, you funny raven, tell me what misfortune bore Thee unto my humble roof, and to sit above my door.” Quoth the raven, “Say no more!” “Tell me, raven, what has brought you, how it is that you’ve bethought you Here to fly in midnight darkness, coming hither to explore. Hast thou good or evil omen to pronounce to men or women, Which thou wilt reveal to no men—speak the message, I implore.” Then he ruffled all his feathers, speaking from the parlour-door, Said he, “Think the matter o’er.” There he was with mien so stately, looking solemn and sedately. Like a monk he was “complately,” thinking something deeply o’er, All at once his wings he fluttered, and in tone sepulchral muttered Something indistinctly uttered, as it came from o’er the door; Most intently did I listen, listened as I ne’er before To a raven o’er a door. —At the Prince’s Pierhead, said he, there you’ll find a policeman steady, Strutting proudly ever ready to annoy the cabmen there, With the Jehus roughly dealing, causing them a bitter feeling, Vain it is the men appealing, one and all they now declare Pierhead rank they’ll never stand in, never ply for landing “fare” Whilst that “bobby’s” stationed there! At the Town Hall banquet lately, was a Colonel bold and stately, Full of pomp he was “complately,” sitting rigid in his chair. When the Army’s health was toasted, up he rose and proudly boasted, Whilst with with’ring tongue he “roasted” Captain Douglas sitting there, That the Naval forces never, whilst he sat upon that chair With the Army must compare! 45 When the Colonel Yates, conceited, had his fulsome speech completed, And upon his chair was seated,—Colonel Steble, gallant “Maire,” Said with gracious tone and manly, how the noble House of Stanley Oft in former times like him had sat upon the civic chair; Then the noble Earl, replying, said with truth he might declare “Such an honour now was rare!” Chinamen out there in “Peeking,” Treaty obligations breaking, Our Ambassador is seeking wily stubborn men to awe, Telling them the British nation anger’d cannot brook evasion; Better listen to persuasion, or he threatens he’ll withdraw; So they wisely yield submission. Frightened of the Lion’s paw, China says she’ll keep the law. Sea is rough and weather breezy, still “Serapis,” steaming easy, Slowly sails from out Brindisi, bearing son of Britain’s Queen, Foaming billows nobly riding, Eastern seas her prow dividing, Soon in sunny waters gliding Royal Standard will be seen; Prince will have a royal welcome, Rajahs proud, of royal mien, Greeting son of India’s Queen— Thus he spake what he intended, and his croaking speech was ended, Flapping wings he soon descended from his perch above the door. Not another word was spoken, nor again the silence broken, He had given me the token, and he hopp’d along the floor, Thro’ the window into darkness—glancing at my parlour door, Raven saw I nevermore! The Porcupine (Liverpool), October 30, 1875.

A Black Bird that Could Sing but Wouldn’t Sing. (A Lyric of the American Southern States.) Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, O’er the War of the Rebellion and the things that were before; While I sat absorbed in thinking, brandy cocktails slowly drinking, Suddenly I saw a blinking, one-eyed figure at my door— Saw a nasty, stinking, blinking, one-eyed figure at my door, Standing up as stiff as steel-yards, just across my chamber floor, Peeping in, and—nothing more. Ah! I never shall forget it, how in glancing round I met it, And I ever shall regret it that I looked towards that door, For I saw a monstrous figure—like a giant, only bigger, And there stood a big buck nigger, with his back against the door, Darting, with a hideous snigger, glances right across my floor, A reeking, lantern-jaw’d buck nigger bolt upright against my door, Glancing in, and—nothing more. Quick instinctively espying where my ham and eggs were frying, There I saw a poker lying near the hearth upon the floor, And with most determined vigour seized and hurled it at the nigger, But so quick was he on the trigger, as he jump’d it struck the door, Struck beneath him, as he bounded just like lightning from the floor, As like a tarr’d and feather’d Mercury, up he bounded from the floor, Grazed his heel, and—nothing more. Back toward my hearth-stone looking, where my ham and eggs were cooking, Shaking, quaking as no mortal ever shaked or quaked before, Soon I heard the ugly sinner mutter forth these words, “Some dinner,” Looking still more gaunt and thinner, even than he looked before, These the words the heathen mutter’d—the sole and only sound then uttered, As down from his high jump he flutter’d ’lighting on his major toe, “Dinner,” said he, nothing more. Then his impudence beginning, he displayed his gums in grinning, And with eyes aught else but winning, leer’d upon me from the door, Speaking thusly: “’Tis your treat, man, I’ll never go into the street, man, Till I get some grub to eat, man, I shall never leave your door, Never quit them aigs and bacon, now just done, I’m very sure, Never till I’ve cleaned the platter, though you beat me till I roar, Treat me, or I’ll charge ’em sure.” Then toward the fireplace marching, where my coffee too was parching, Boldly stalked this sassy nigger right across my chamber-floor, Never stopped to bend or bow, sir, then I knew there’d be a row, sir, For I made a solemn vow, sir, he should soon recross that floor, And I kicked him through the room, sir, back again toward the door, Kick’d and cuffed him, in my anger, back against my chamber-door, Then I kicked him yet once more. But this midnight bird beguiling my stirr’d spirit into smiling, By the wretched, rabid, ravenous look his hungry visage wore, “Tho’,” I said, “thou art a freedman, thou hast gone so much to seed, man, So I’ll give you one good feed, man, as you seem to be so poor— One good feed in your sore need, man, as you seem so very poor; The eggs and meat shall be my treat, if with light work you’ll pay the score.” Quoth the nigger—“Work no more.” 46 Much I marvelled this ungainly nigger should refuse so plainly Just to do a little work, for food he craved and needed sore, For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Should decline to labour seeing that he was so deuced poor; Should refuse to earn a dinner, which he hungered for I’m sure, And would have damned his soul by stealing had he hoped to make the door; Escaping thence to—work no more. Awhile I sat absorbed in musing, what meant he by this refusing, Till, mad, I turned into abusing the odious, odorous blackamoor. “Sure,” said I, “you must be crazy, to be so infernal lazy, So cussedly, outrageous lazy, as to want to work no more; You ugly, grim, ungainly, ghastly, heathen, savage blackamoor, Will you even work for wages—food and clothes and payment sure?” Quoth the nigger—“Work no more.” “Nigger,” said I, “horrid demon! Nigger still if slave or freeman, Pause and ponder ere you answer this one question, I implore: Have you got no sense of feeling? do you mean to live by stealing? Or by working and fair dealing; tell me truly, I implore, On your honour as a nigger, will you ever labour more? Plough in corn or hoe in cotton, as you did in days of yore?” Quoth the Nigger—“Nevermore!” Startled by the stillness broken by reply so flatly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “this big nigger once could eat enough for four, When on some grand rice plantation, he could out-eat all creation, Until his corporal situation warned him he could eat no more; Scorning any calculation of how much cash it cost I’m sure, For the master paid the piper in the good old days of yore, Days he’ll revel in no more!” “Nigger,” said I, “thing of evil! quit my sight! go to the devil! Or even yet, pause, reconsider terms I’ll offer you no more, Tell me truly, I implore you, for the last time I conjure you, If good wages I ensure you, and clothes the best you ever wore, Will you work three days in seven, at tasks far lighter than of yore? Only three short days in seven—labour light and payment sure?” Quoth the nigger—“Work no more.” “Be that word our sign of parting, nigger man,” I said upstarting, “Get you gone to where you came from, let me see your face no more. Quick, vamose, cut dirt—skedaddle—seek some far-off, distant shore, Haste, relieve me of that visage—darken not again my door, Join the army—go to Texas! Never come back here to vex us, Take your gaze from off my victuals—take your carcase from my door”— Quoth the nigger—“Nevermore.” And the nigger, never working, still is shirking—still is shirking Every kind of honest labour, in the house or out of door, And his eye has all the seeming of a vulture’s starved and dreaming, And my bacon, gently steaming tempts him still to cross my floor. But I’ll gamble with that poker that I hurled at him before, That I’ll maul his very lights out, if he dares to pass that door, He shall work or—eat no more! The Figaro, February 16, 1876.

Cowgate Philanthropy. Once, while in the Cowgate dirty, on an evening damp and murky, Mournfully I gazed at objects swarming there from door to door, From a whisky palace, swearing, a poor woman issued, bearing A child upon her bosom bare, and that bosom stained with gore, And she uttered dreadful threats against the man that kept the store— Idle threats, and nothing more. To myself I said, in terror, “Surely here there is some error; This woman seems in deep distress—distress which pierces to the core;” So I stepped into the palace, with the view of getting solace, For that creature whose deep sorrow my soft heart with anguish tore, That shadow of an angel bright, for her countenance yet bore Trace of beauty, now no more. But the jingling of the glasses, and the glare of many gases, Made me feel so very squeamish that I was almost forced to roar, When my tongue its wonted action ceased, as if by some attraction, So I stood a perfect dummy at this dreadful gin-house door, Pointing to that weeping woman, whom no one would now adore; This I did, and nothing more. To my speech at last succeeding, I asked gravely why the bleeding, Helpless, ill-clad, ill-fed woman had been out-cast from the store? And the answer from the monster who had been this woman’s wrongster Was, she had not filthy lucre to pay off her whisky score; He’d be blowed, or something stronger, if he’d give her any more; And he thought her quite a bore. Then I felt my fingers itching, and my muscles all a twitching, To seize the rascal by the throat, and stretch him straight upon the floor; But he gave a loud hoarse chuckle, let me see his mighty knuckle, And advised me for my safety that I’d better seek the door— If I didn’t vanish quickly I might go upon all four: So I vanished—nothing more. The Modern Athenian (Edinburgh), March 11, 1876.

LINES Respectfully dedicated to the Right Honourable Henry Bouverie William Brand, M.P., Speaker of the House of Commons. “Once upon a Wednesday dreary, while I listened somewhat weary, To the dull and dismal business going on upon the floor, On me, in my melancholy, broke the voice of Mr. Whalley, Pouring forth of words a volley, and this, too, I meekly bore; ‘’Tis near five o’clock,’ I muttered, and my lot I meekly bore, Hoping there was little more. “For since noon I had been sitting, and the daylight now was flitting, As M.P.’s, their places quitting, noiselessly pass’d through the door, Motions, though, in such a number did the notice-book encumber, That I’d vainly sought to slumber, though my eyes were tired and sore, Dared not nap like those around me, though my eyes were red and sore; But a watchful look I wore. “Tired of talking, Whalley finished, and my list was thus diminished By the Bill on ‘Open Spaces’—this it was his name that bore— Next, I saw with heartfelt pleasure, came an agricultural measure; For methought no member surely over this dry Bill will pore— They will not discuss its details, they will never o’er it pore; Merely pass it—nothing more. “So I thought, until up-glancing, I beheld a form advancing From the seats below the gangway, boldly out upon the floor, ‘Stay,’ mused I; ‘I know that figure. Yes, it is—it must be Biggar!’ Through the House there passed a snigger, but my heart was very sore; For he caught my eye, confound him! and my heart was very sore; Hope was left in it no more. “Not the least obeisance made he, nor where he had risen stay’d he; But he strode across the gangway, nearer to me than before. All the time that he was walking, he was hoarsely at me talking, Nothing stopping him nor baulking, not a moment he forebore, Caring not for sneers nor laughter, not a moment he forebore,— But talked on for evermore. “Much it grieved me this ungainly man to hear discourse so plainly, Though his phrases little meaning, little relevancy bore, For I knew his stubborn nature, knew, too, in the Legislature, That so obstinate a member it had never known before; That a member so pig-headed never had been known before, Never would be evermore. ‘‘Far too “narrer” is this measure,’ quoth he, slowly, at his leisure; ‘Yes, it’s very much too “narrer!”’ then he went its clauses o’er; Turn’d it inside out, and twisted its provisions, as he listed; While his friend Parnell assisted—helped this most portentous bore; Backed him up, and often prompted this unmitigated bore; Who kept speaking evermore! “Presently my wrath grew stronger, hesitating then no longer, ‘Sir!’ I said, ‘you’re not in order; keep in order, I implore! This is but the second reading, yet you are in sooth proceeding As though in Committee pleading; cease from this or leave the floor! Mean you long to go on speaking, mean you long to keep the floor?’ Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Evermore!’ “Then methought his voice grew hoarser, and his manner rather coarser; Till that he my eye had ever caught, I did at heart deplore; Why, I thought, has Cavan sent thee? can no earthly power prevent thee? None bring respite and nepenthe, from thy rudeness and thy roar? Am I doomed to always listen to thy inharmonious roar?’ Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Evermore.’ “‘Biggar,’ said I, ‘Joseph Biggar, why thy most undoubted vigour, Didst thou not devote to business on thy own Ulsterian shore? Why not give to lard and bacon, all the energies mistaken, Thou from night to night art wasting on this House of Commons floor? Stick to lard! Drop legislating! This of thee I would implore!’ Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Nevermore.’ “‘Biggar,’ said I, ‘tell me truly, wilt thou always be unruly? Is there nothing thy lost senses can to thee at last restore? Wilt this chamber long be haunted by thy presence so undaunted? Or would’st thou at home be wanted if pigs fetched much less per score— If lard fell a lot per bladder? Tell me—tell me, I implore?” Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Nevermore!’ “‘Joseph,’ said I, ‘have a care, sir, lest thou shouldst me too much dare, sir, For I give thee warning, fair sir, that if thou art much a bore, I will henceforth always try, sir, that thou mayst not catch my eye, sir, When in future thou mayst rise, sir, and stand out upon this floor!— Stand in all thy blatant boldness on this desecrated floor; Thou shalt catch it nevermore! “But J. Biggar never stirring, went on stating and averring, Naught him staying or deterring, still his speech did he outpour, And back on my cushion sinking, I was filled with dread at thinking That this grim and greasy member might for ever harshly roar— That this grim, ungainly, lardy man might never cease to bore,— But talk on for evermore!” Truth, March 8, 1877.

The Baby. Once upon a midnight dreary, whilst I waited, faint and weary, On the landing till the doctor the expected tidings bore; Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, dreaming of what then was happing— Dreaming of what then was happing t’other side yon chamber door, Stood the doctor there, and whispered, opening the chamber door, “’Tis a boy!” and nothing more. Ah, distinctly I remember, by my chilblains, ’twas December, And I stamped each smarting member, stamped it smartly on the floor. Eagerly I wished for slumber, as my feet and hands grew number; Oh, could I some bed encumber, oh, how quickly I would snore! Oh, how I would wake the echoes with my deep sonorous snore! But my vigil was not o’er. For as I thus thought of snoring, came a sound of liquid pouring— ’Twas a sound that oft, when thirsty, I had heard with joy before; And when it I heard repeating, thro’ the darkness sent I greeting, Saying, “Who is that that’s drinking something in behind my door?”— For the sound came from a chamber, mine erstwhile, now mine no more— “Who are you and what d’you pour?” But no answer came, so rising with a rashness most surprising, “Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, when I heard some liquid lapping, Lapping, lapping, softly lapping, in behind this chamber-door. Who are you in there, I pray you?”—here I opened wide the door— Smell of spirits, nothing more! Deeply that strong odour sniffing stood I “butting” there and “if-ing;” Guessing, wondering, surmising who it was that I’d heard pour. Still the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token; But a bottle brandy-soaken I remarked upon the floor. This I noticed, black and empty, lying there upon the floor— Merely that, and nothing more! From the chamber I was turning, all my soul within me yearning For a little cup of cognac: since my chilblains were so sore— When I heard a sound of rustling, as of some stout woman bustling— “Ah,” said I, “this chamber’s mystery I will linger and explore— Stay will I another minute and its mystery explore— Why I heard that brandy pour?” Opened here a folding-door was; and in a few seconds more was A full stout and snuffy matron coming towards me o’er the floor; Not the least obeisance made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she, But upon a chair down sitting, beckoned me to what she bore: ’Twas a tiny roll of flannel in her portly arms she bore— Only that, and nothing more! Then this flannel roll beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the strange and utter contrast that it to the matron bore, Sought my thoughts another channel, and I spoke unto the flannel, Saying, “What art thou and wherefore art thou brought here, I implore?— Tell me why thou art thus carried, why so gently, I implore?” But it sobbed, and nothing more! Much I marvelled at its sobbing, and my heart was quickly throbbing As unto the ponderous matron said I, ‘Turn that flannel o’er!’ For you cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet beheld a bundle that could sob, and nothing more— Ever yet a roll of flannel saw that sobbed and nothing more!” Quoth the matron, “Shut the door.” Then the flannel pink unfolding, soon was I with awe beholding Something like to which my eyes had never gazed upon before. Nothing further then it uttered—but I mouthed awhile and stuttered Till I positively muttered, “Tell me all, I would implore!” Said the matron, “There is little to inform you on that score: ’Tis your son, and nothing more!” “Ah,” said I, no longer dreaming, with a sudden knowledge gleaming, “You’ve a monthly nurse’s seeming, and ’twas you that I heard pour; Tell me, then, when I may slumber, when this room you’ll cease to cumber, Since of chilblains such a number in the passage I deplore; Tell me when I may turn in and cease their smarting to deplore.” Quoth that woman, “Never more!” “Woman!” said I, “nurse, how dare you? If you do not have a care, you Soon will find that I can spare you, for I’ll show to you the door!” But that woman, calmly sitting, and her brows engaged in knitting, In a way most unbefitting took the bottle from the floor, Took it up, although ’twas empty, took it up from off the floor; Waved it and said, “Never more!” “Nurse,” I shouted, “I won’t stand it; put it down, at once, unhand it! As your master, I demand it, and this room to me restore; Take yon saucepan from my table; clear my bed, for you are able, Of your wardrobe, and the baby take where it was heretofore; For I long to sink in slumber: nurse, I’m dying for a snore!” Quoth that woman, “Never more!” “Be that word our sign of parting, monthly nurse,” said I, upstarting, “Get thee gone, thou Gamp outrageous, to where’er thou wast before; Leave that bottle as a token of the rest that thou hast broken— 49 Now be off—have I not spoken? Get thee gone, Gamp, there’s the door— Take thy wardrobe from my bed, and take thyself out through that door!” Quoth that woman, “Never more!” And that monthly nurse is sitting, drinking in a way unfitting, In an easy-chair luxurious just behind my chamber-door; There for weeks she has been sleeping, me from my own chamber keeping; Degradations on me heaping, till my heart of hearts is sore; Fearing that her shadow never will be lifted from my floor, And that, smelling strong of spirits, she through yonder open door Shall be lifted—Never more! Finis (Beeton’s Christmas Annual, 1877.)

The Maiden. Once upon a summer morning, whilst I watched the sun adorning All the hilltops lying round me with an ever-golden hue, Suddenly I saw a maiden with a basket heavy laden, Yes, a basket heavy laden with some clothes which looked like new, And I cried, “My pretty maiden, these look just as good as new; Have they, pray, been washed by you?” Ah! distinctly I remember how my soul burned like an ember, As the maiden’s eyes grew brighter—eyes of such a lovely blue; How her auburn tresses glistened in the sunlight while I listened, Wondering how she had been christened; but her answering words were few, And somehow they didn’t please me, these her answering words so few— “Truly, sir, what’s that to you?” Then I said, “O, lovely maiden, with this basket heavy laden, Tell me truly, I implore thee, from what parent-stock you grew? If your father is a humble, honest, labourer like the Bumble- Bee that works, but does not grumble at the work he has to do? Maiden did you ever grumble at the work you had to do?” Quoth the maid, “What’s that to you?” Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer, For I felt a little angry, and thus said what wasn’t true: “Hark you, maid, my friend, Joe Simmen, says that all you washerwomen Are as sour as any lemon, cross as any ole clo’ Jew; Tell me maiden, is it not so, that you’re like some ole clo’ Jew?” Quoth the maid “What’s that to you?” Deep into that countenance peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Lest the girl should prove a vixen, and begin to hit me too; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only words there spoken were the whispered words, “Pooh! pooh!” These I whispered, for I feared her, whispered just the words, “Pooh! pooh!” And I knew not what to do. Round about myself then turning, all my soul within me burning, For I did not dare to face her, as she was I knew not who; I began at once to wonder how on earth I could thus blunder, And why I thus should cower under these her answering words so few, And I could not find a reason why her words should be so few; Still I knew not what to do. Then I glanced across my shoulder, as it were some sheltering boulder, And I saw the maiden laughing, laughing till her face was blue. Then I thought “’Tis now or never,” so I said (and thought it clever), “Pretty maiden, did you ever have a nice young sweetheart, who Was, as I am, tall and handsome? If so, prithee tell me who?” Quoth the maid “What’s that to you?” And the maiden, thus beguiling all my angry soul to smiling, Made me say, “Ah! lovely maiden, fairly I’m in love with you.” Then began my heart to flutter, and began my tongue to stutter, And began my lips to mutter, while around me objects flew. Thus I muttered, while the objects round about me swiftly flew, “Maiden, I’m in love with you.” But the maiden, sitting lonely on the velvet sod, spoke only These four words when I made of her some interrogation new; So upon the green grass sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what on earth I now should do, And I asked the washer maiden, what on earth I now should do? Quoth the maid “What pleases you.” “Torment!” said I, “thing of evil! you, at least, might have been civil, And not given such answers to the questions I have put to you. When I told you that I loved you, surely then I think I moved you, And I think it had behoved you to make answers straight and true, ’Stead of which you gave me answers which were anything but true.” Quoth the maid, “What’s that to you.” “Be these words our sign of parting, saucy maid!” I shrieked, upstarting. “Get you back into the village, take these clothes along with you! Leave no thread even as a token of these horrid words you’ve spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! Take these clothes which look like new, And return to where you came from, with these clothes as clean as new!” Quoth the maiden, “Not for you.” 50 So I left the washer maiden and her basket heavy laden, And I hope that I may never, never more behold the two; Yet my sleep is oft enchanted, and my dreams are often haunted By her form when just not wanted, and the basket seems there too, And she asks in tones of mockery, pointing at the basket, too, “What is this, now, sir, to you?” D. J. M. Edinburgh Paper, November, 8, 1879.

The Promissory Note. Zoïlus reads: In the lonesome latter years, (Fatal years!) To the dropping of my tears Danced the mad and mystic spheres In a rounded, reeling rune, ’Neath the moon, To the dripping and the dropping of my tears. Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom, (Ulalume!) In a dim Titanic tomb, For my gaunt and gloomy soul Ponders o’er the penal scroll, O’er the parchment (not a rhyme), Out of place,—out of time,— I am shredded, shorn, unshifty, (O, the fifty!) And the days have passed, the three, Over me! And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me! ’Twas the random runes I wrote At the bottom of the note (Wrote, and freely Gave to Greeley), In the middle of the night, In the mellow, moonless night, When the stars were out of sight, When my pulses, like a knell, (Israfel!) Danced with dim and dying fays O’er the ruins of my days, O’er the dimeless, timeless days, When the fifty, drawn at thirty, Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise! Fiends controlled it, (Let him hold it!) Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen; Now the days of grace are o’er, (Ah, Lenore!) I am but as other men: What is time, time, time, To my rare and runic rhyme, To my random, reeling rhyme, By the sands along the shore, Where the tempest whispers, “Pay him!” and I answer “Nevermore!”

Once upon an evening bleary, While I sat me dreamy, dreary, In the sunshine, thinking over Things that passed in days of yore; While I nodded, nearly sleeping, Gently came a something creeping Up my back, like water seeping— Seeping upward from the floor. “’Tis a cooling breeze,” I muttered, From the regions ’neath the floor— Only this, and nothing more.” Ah! distinctly I remember It was in that wet September, When the earth and every member Of creation that it bore Had for days and weeks been soaking In the meanest, most provoking Foggy rains that, without joking, We had ever seen before; So I knew it must be very Cold and damp beneath the floor— Very cold beneath the floor. So I sat me nearly napping, In the sunshine, stretching, gaping, Craving water, but delighted With the breeze from ’neath the floor, Till I found me waxing colder, And the stretching growing bolder, And myself a feeling older— Older than I’d felt before; Feeling that my joints were stiffer Than they were in days of yore— Stiffer than they’d been before. 51 All along my back the creeping Soon gave place to rushing, leaping, As if countless frozen demons Had concluded to explore All the cavities—the “varmints”— ’Twixt me and my nether garments, Up into my hair and downward Through my boots into the floor; Then I found myself a shaking, Gently first, but more and more— Every moment more and more. ’Twas the “ager,” and it shook me Into many clothes, and took me Shaking to the kitchen—every Place where there was warmth in store; Shaking till the dishes clattered, Shaking till the tea was spattered, Shaking, and with all my warming Feeling colder than before; Shaking till it had exhausted All its powers to shake me more— Till it could not shake me more. Then it rested till the morrow, Then resumed with all the horror That it had the face to borrow, Shaking, shaking as before; And from that day in September— Day that I shall long remember— It has made diurnal visits, Shaking, shaking, oh so sore! Shaking off my boots, and shaking Me to bed, if nothing more— Fully this, if nothing more. And to-day the swallows flitting Round my cottage see me sitting Moodily within the sunshine Just inside my silent door, Waiting for the ages, seeming Like a man forever dreaming, And the sunlight on me streaming Throws no shadows on the floor; For I am too thin and sallow To make shadows on the floor; ’Nary shadow—any more!

The Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Surplus. Lately on a midnight dreary, whilst I studied, though so weary, Several sheets of close-writ figures I had gone through times before; Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the Treasury door. “Is that Kempe?” I slowly mutter’d. “If it is, pray leave the door— I shall want you here no more!” Oh! distinctly I remember, for it happen’d this December And each separate, dying ember seem’d a figure on the floor. Nervously I wish’d the morrow; for so far I’d failed to borrow— From the Bank of England borrow—at the same rate as before— At the same low rate of interest I had borrow’d at before— They would lend at Two no more. And I had a sort of notion that this fact was known to Goschen, Whilst the dread of Childers fill’d me with a fear not felt before, So that now to still the beating of my heart I’d been repeating: “P’rhaps some luck may yet befall you ere you stand upon the floor— Stand next April with your Budget at the table on the floor— And a Surplus yet restore!” Presently the rap was stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Kempe!” said I, “or Law, or Lingen, is that you outside my door? If it be, pray cease your tapping; if you have no cause for rapping, Cease, and let me strike my balance ere I sleep, I you implore. Do come in if you are out there!” Here I open’d wide the door— Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Seeing ghosts of former Budgets—Gladstone’s Budgets—o’er me soar; But the silence was unbroken, and of Kempe I saw no token; He had gone with Law and Lingen shortly after half-past four. So I “H-s-s-h’d”—perchance assuming there were cats about the floor— Merely cats, and nothing more. Back into my room returning, where two composites were burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. “’Tis too soon for chimney-sweeper; can it be the office-keeper?” This I said, and once more rising, tried the mystery to explore. “I will go and try the window, for there’s no one at the door”— This I said, and nothing more. Open then I flung the shutter, when with quite a fussy flutter, In there stalk’d a handsome Surplus of the Liberal years of yore; Not the least obeisance made it, not a minute stopp’d or stay’d it, But—nor tried I to dissuade it—hopp’d on something on the floor; Hopp’d upon my rough-drawn Budget, which I’d thrown upon the floor— Hopp’d, then sat; and nothing more! Then this welcome guest beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the cheery and contented cast of countenance it wore; “Welcome,” said I, “Surplus comely! though you have arrived so ‘rumly,’ For ’tis some years since a Budget drawn by me a Surplus bore; Let this be a happy omen—that they’ll come as heretofore!” Quoth the Surplus—“Nevermore!” Much I marvell’d that so plainly it should answer, and so sanely; Though in sooth I hoped its answer little relevancy bore. For ’t had fill’d my heart with pleasure, and with ecstacy past measure 52 Once again to see a Surplus come within the Treasury door, To observe a real Surplus on my Budget on the floor, Like the one in ’Seventy-four. But the Surplus, sitting lonely on my Budget draft, spake only That one word already mention’d—I refer to “Nevermore.” And not for its answer caring, and by no means yet despairing, I took heart and said: “Six millions was there left in ’Seventy-four; When shall I next get a Surplus large as that in ’Seventy-four?” Quoth my guest: “Why, nevermore!” But this time ’twas not contented with the word I so resented, But went on and said: “Oh, Northcote, ruin is for you in store! Thanks to your mysterious master, dearth will follow on disaster, Ills will follow fast and faster, trade will wholly leave your shore; And the people, so impoverish’d, will your taxes pay no more. Debt will haunt you more and more! “Now your revenue is sinking—it’s no use the matter blinking, Every day, you know, Sir Stafford, your big deficit grows more, And you have to borrow, borrow (three more millions, eh, to-morrow?) You have now a floating debt that’s ten times what it was of yore; Think upon the splendid Budget Gladstone left in ’Seventy-four, And your muddle now deplore!” As the Surplus thus declaiming, me to blushes deep was shaming, Straight I wheel’d my cushion’d seat in front the Budget on the floor, Sat on the morocco padding, and betook myself to adding Figure unto figure, madding though the look the total bore; Whilst that grim, ungainly, ghastly Surplus still upon the floor Went on croaking: “Nevermore!” “Surplus!” said I, “by thy figure, which methinks I see grow bigger, Whether Gladstone sent, or whether Fate has toss’d thee here to bore, Tell me, desperate and daunted, by a score of failures haunted, Soon by Childers to be taunted, tell me, tell me, I implore, Is there—can I—shall I—ever get things straight—say, I implore?” Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!” “Surplus!” said I, “much I question, if I don’t to indigestion Owe the vision of thy presence; still I’d ask thee this once more: In the name of Ewart Gladstone, whose finance I did adore, Tell me, here with debt so laden, if, before I go to Aidenn, I shall ever make a Budget with a Surplus, as of yore? Shall I e’er announce a Surplus from my place upon the floor?” Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!” “Be that word our sign of parting, cruel thing!” I cried, upstarting; “Get thee back to Mr. Gladstone, who created thee of yore; Go, and leave behind no token of the words that thou hast spoken; Leave my vigil here unbroken, quit my Budget on the floor! Take thy figure off my Budget, lying there upon the floor.” Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!” “No, I will not think of flitting, but still sitting, ever sitting, On thy wretched, feeble Budgets, on the table or the floor, Will remind thee of the figure, sometimes less and sometimes bigger, Of the noble Gladstone’s Surplus, always left in years of yore Yes, I’ll always stay and haunt you—always stay and ever taunt you— As you draw up hopeless Budgets, and then throw them on the floor; And my figure you shall ever see upon your study floor— I will leave you nevermore!” And it doubtless had been sitting still, nor shown a sign of flitting— Had I not with sudden impulse started, falling by the door, And discover’d, slowly rising—what is not at all surprising— That my composites were out, whilst daylight stream’d across the floor, Then I knew I had been dreaming, but my brain continued teeming With the vision, and the Surplus that had come from years of yore, And my thoughts on what that Surplus said whilst there upon my floor Will be fixèd evermore! Truth. Christmas Number, 1879.

The Raven. (A Version, respectfully dedicated to the Duke of Somerset.) Late, upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, chill but cheery, Over certain prosy volumes of Contemporary lore— ’Midst prophetic pages prowling, suddenly I heard a growling, As of something faintly howling, howling at my chamber-door. “’Tis some poor stray tyke,” I muttered, “howling at my chamber-door; Only that, and nothing more.” Eugh! distinctly I remember it was in the cold December, And my fire to its last ember burned, while outer blasts did roar. Fearfully I funked the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow From my friends, or, to my sorrow, add to my coal-merchant’s score— To that swollen, heavy-laden thing poor devils call a “score”— To be settled—nevermore. And the windy, wild, uncertain flapping of my window curtain Filled me, thrilled me with fantastic fancies never known before; So that, now, to check the cheating of my mind I stood repeating, “’Tis that Jones’s dog entreating entrance at my chamber-door— Bibulous Jones’s pug entreating entrance at my chamber-door,— Only that, and nothing more.” 53 Presently the sound grew stronger. Hesitating then no longer, “Tyke,” said I, “low mongrel, truly this intrusion is a bore; Where the deuce have you been prowling, that so late you come a howling, Keeping up this nasty growling, growling at my chamber-door? I was hardly sure I heard you.” Here I open flung the door,— Darkness there, and nothing more! Back into my chamber turning, where my lamp was dimly burning, Soon again I heard a growling, something louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely, that is something stirring at my lattice, Let me see if ghost or cat ’tis, and this mystery explore. Pooh! I have it, what a duffer, what a booby, to be sure! ’Tis the wind, and nothing more!” Open here I flung the casement, when, to my extreme amazement, In there stepped a rusty Raven of the “glorious days of yore.” Not the least obeisance dropped he, not an instant stayed or stopped he, But, like ghoul who hopped and flopped, he perched above my chamber door— On a plaster bust of Dizzy standing o’er my chamber-door— Perched and sat, and—nothing more! Then this seedy bird beguiling my chilled features into smiling, By the grave lugubrious grimness of the solemn phiz he wore, “Thou art welcome to this haven,” said I, “foul, bedraggled, shaven, Hopeless-looking ancient Raven, croaking as of days of yore. Tell me what thy lordly name is, is or was, in days of yore.” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!” Much I marvelled this most sickly fowl to hear respond so quickly, Though the nomen was a rum one, it a certain aptness bore, As to those dull dupes of folly and foreboding melancholy, Hopeful seldom, never jolly, doting on those days of yore,— Who esteem the present hopeless, utter failure or next door— To be mended nevermore! But the Raven, squatting lonely on the plaster bust spoke only That one word, as though his soul in doldrums he would thus outpour. Nothing further then he uttered, though his spirit seemed sore fluttered. “Come!” I said, or rather muttered, “you’re dyspeptic—’tis a bore, But to-morrow you’ll be better, sleep will your lost tone restore.” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!” Struck to find the silence broken by reply so patly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “this one word, now, is his only stock and store, Caught from pessimistic master, who in progress saw disaster, Coming fast and coming faster, till his wails one burden bore,— Till his sad vaticinations one unvarying burden bore, This same Raven’s “Nevermore!” But the Raven still beguiling my amused soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled my easy-chair in front of bird, and bust, and door; Then, upon the cushion sinking, thought to thought by fancy linking, I employed my brains in thinking what this black and feathered bore, Like all gaunt funereal vaunters of those precious days of yore, Meant by croaking “Nevermore!” Then methought the air grew denser, darkened as by cynic censor, Some Cassandra whose forecastings are of evil days in store. “Croak no more!” I cried. “Content thee with the gifts the gods have sent thee; Give us respite and nepenthe from sad dreams of days of yore! Let us quaff hope’s sweet nepenthe, and forget those days of yore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!” “Prophet,” said I, “of things evil! ‘Things are going to the devil,’ Is the formula of fogies, I have heard that bosh before; Times look dark, but hearts undaunted find the future still enchanted, With fair visions such as haunted valiant souls in days of yore. Can’t you, can’t you look less glum? Keep up your pecker, I implore.” Quoth the Raven—“Nevermore!” “Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, I don’t wish to be uncivil, But the heavens still bend above us, happy days are still in store; All are not with megrims laden, still the future holds its Aidenn, For brave youth and beauteous maiden; prophets have been wrong before, Generally are, in fact; why can’t they learn, and cease to bore?” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!” “Then, look here! we’d best be parting, croaking fowl!” I cried, upstarting, “You had better find your way to some Fools’ Paradise’s shore! Leave no feather as a token of the rubbish you have spoken, Leave my lonely rest unbroken, quit that bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my sight, and take thy blackness from my door!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!” And the Raven still is squatting, my æsthetic paper blotting, On the plaster bust of Dizzy, just above my chamber-door, With his wall-eyes dully gleaming ’neath the nightmare of his dreaming, And the gaslight o’er him streaming, casts his shadow on the floor; But my soul in that black shadow that lies heavy on the floor, Shall be shrouded—Nevermore! Punch, January 10, 1880.