VOLUME V. (continued 12)

Church or Stage; Or, the Cry of the Clergymen’s Children. Do you hear those children weeping, O my brothers? They’re poor parsons’ little dears! They want to go to theatres, like the others, And hence their trickling tears. All the ragged-schools have seen the clown’s hot poker— They have watched him steal the sausages with zest, They have seen his face all bismuth and red ochre, They have seen the fairies beautifully dressed. But the children of our clergymen, my brothers, Are “boo-hooing” bitterlee, They want to see a panto, like the others, And they want to go in free. Did you read that parson’s letter—full of sorrow— Which described these children’s woe? Did you see who tried publicity to borrow From that note—not long ago? ’Twas written by a well-known London preacher (For parsons Harris seems to have a craze), And that letter told of many a little creature Whose pa is much too poor to go to plays. That parson said his youngster—O my brothers!— Had complained in accents grim That, though he was as poor as lots of others, No lessee invited him. “We are worse off than the children from the alleys” (Thus the parson’s weeping boy); “They can go in free and see the ‘spills’ and ‘rallies,’ And the fairies—ah, what joy! They give these children buns, and even verses,” Said the parson’s child (or words to this effect), “But our pa’s have little money in their purses”— “Which, alas!” exclaims that parson, “is correct. ——Then have pity, Mr. Harris, on the children Of all parsons short of cash.” (Mrs. Browning for a rhyme here has “bewildering” But for me that’s much too rash.) Then lo! in striking “ads,” said Gus, “With pleasure! Those servants of the Church— Who have children thus lamenting beyond measure— I will not leave in the lurch! All ministers who’re not in a position To pay for seats my pantomime to see, Shall anon to Drury Lane have free admission, If they send in full particulars to me.” Such as (probably) their date of ordination, And what their “plates” collect; And if they have their bishop’s approbation; And if “chapel,” of what sect? Thus Harris, in a patronising fashion, And all by way of trade, On the offspring of the clergy takes compassion, And essays the Church to aid. Such a splendid chance was not to be rejected— It would make a grand advertisement, forsooth!— And probably young Harris recollected That to parsons he owed puffs for “Pluck” and “Youth.” But what about that clergyman’s suggestion To the Lessee of the Lane? Was it written (Gussy, please excuse the question) By friend Pennington again? Carados. The Referee. February 24, 1884.

“Down East.” Would you know the sin and crime, that your educated time Endures within your clime unchecked, unceased? Take an omnibus with me (’tis a shilling carries three), And the scenes you shall see “Down East,” “Down East.” Whitechapel has a road, where many a night has flowed The blood from knife or goad of a goodly beast, But down the alley’s gloom, in a miserable room, A woman’s met her doom—“Down East,” “Down East.” In a miserable shed, with an old rug for a bed, As the dreary days on sped, her want increased, And he who should have thought of the famine that he wrought, Had just another “quartern” bought “Down East,” “Down East.” He was of that wild drunken crew that prowl when the day is new, With whom we know not what to do from gaol released; One of a dogged sullen air, who beat his wife and tore her hair, And taught his children how to swear, “Down East,” “Down East.” One night—life’s longest needs but one—he struck his wife and all was done, From sorrow, ere the rise of sun she was released; Oh! you talk of distant lands, of savages on Afric’s sands, Stretch forth in Town your soothing hands “Down East,” “Down East.” Edmund H. Yates.

Gwendoline. An Imitation. ’Twas not the brown of chestnut boughs That shadowed her so finely; It was the hair that swept her brows, And framed her face divinely; Her tawny hair, her purple eyes, The spirit was ensphered in, That took you with such swift surprise, Provided you had peered in. Her velvet foot amid the moss And on the daisies patted, As, querulous with sense of loss, It tore the herbage matted; “And come he early, come he late,” She saith “it will undo me; The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate Already quivers through me. “When I beheld his red-roan steed, I knew what aim impelled it; And that dim scarf of silver brede, I guessed for whom he held it; I recked not, while he flaunted by, Of Love’s relentless vi’lence, Yet o’er me crashed the summer sky, In thunders of blue silence. “His hoof-prints crumbled down the vale, But left behind their lava; What should have been my woman’s mail, Grew jellied as guava: I looked him proud, but ’neath my pride I felt a boneless tremor; He was the Beër, I descried, And I was but the Seemer! “Ah, how to be what then I seemed, And bid him seem that is so! We always tangle threads we dreamed, And contravene our bliss so. I see the red-roan steed again! He looks, as something sought he: Why, hoity toity!—he is fain, So I’ll be cold and haughty!” From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

A Tool of Trade. (Imitated from Mrs. Browning’s “A Musical Instrument.”) An Allegory on the Banks of the—Pactolus, dedicated to the London Water Companies. What is he doing, the Middleman, Down by Trade’s Golden River? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Grubbing up grain with the greed of a goat, And swamping the tiny shallops afloat On the golden flood of the River. He tore up a reed, did the Middleman, A flourishing reed, from that River. The troubled water turbidly ran, And the broken reed all helpless lay In the cunning hand which tore it away From its root in the Golden River. High on the shore sate the Middleman, While turbidly flowed the River, And hacked and hewed, as your huckster can, With his cruel steel, at the severed reed, Till there was small sign of life indeed To prove it fresh from the River. He cut it short, did the Middleman, (How big he swelled by the River!) Then drew out the pith, on a patent plan Devised by his like of the cruel Trade Ring, And sucked through the poor dry empty thing Deep draughts from the Golden River. “This is the way,” laughed the Middleman (Laughed as he sate by the River!), “The only way, since Rings began To suck Trade’s blood, they could fully succeed.” Then popping his lips to the conduit-reed, He drew, drew, drew, from the River. Neat cheat, O Middleman! Vampire-ghoul of the River! Blind most neat, O Middleman! You idly sit as the stream flows by, And suck at ease whilst your victims die For want of a draught from the River. Yet a bloated brute is the Middleman To laugh as he sits by the River, Playing the leech on his patent plan, Trade’s heart depleting, sucking its brain, And bruising and breaking to plump his gain The myriad reeds of the River! Punch. April 23, 1887.

The Origin of Pan. A Musical Instrument. What is he doing, this crookshank’d Pan Down in the reeds by the river? You’re welcome the puzzle to solve—if you can. Just fancy him stroke in an Oxford boat, This mixture of athlete, and Pan-pipe, and goat, What a charm he’d lend to the river! He’s classic-contorted, this nondescript Pan, In the startled reeds by the river; And therefore he’s built on the neo-Greek plan. An artist who’s bent on the mystical lay Could hardly do better, at this time of day, To give one the neo-Greek shiver. “This is the way,” laughs the great god Pan (Laughs as he sits by the river), The only way, since renaissance began, To prevent a poor god being left on the shelf: How can one do better than “puffing one’s self?” And he puffs, as he squats by the river.

The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle. A Legend of Glasgow. There’s a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the West, Where its bravest and its best find their grave. Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep In the waters still and deep, Not a wave! And the old cathedral wall, so scathed and grey, and tall, Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond; And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well, Makes a kind of tidal swell On the pond! And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer’s day, With the odour of the hay floating by; And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring, Chime by chime, ting by ting, Droppingly. * * * * *

The Salacious Shelley Society O, shame upon you Shelleyites! Aye, shame on everyone Who helped to do the sorry deed which was last Friday done! And fired by heedless self-conceit, and covetous of fame, Has made known acts of fiendish lust too terrible to name. Yes, think of it! You bid them come, those English maids, that day, To hear the nameless horrors of a grossly brutal play! And, not content with doing this, a wicked act made worse, By giving them to read in prose the filth concealed in verse!

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still, and higher, From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever, singest. In the golden lightening Of the sunken sun, O’er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed. * * * * * Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. P. B. Shelley.

Hail to thee, blithe roadster!— Spurr’d thou never wert, But sans stripe, or goad-stir, Puttest on thy spurt, In profuse rains, or unpremeditated dirt. 234 Nigher still and nigher Down the hill thou springest; Like a flash of fire, O’er the ground thou wingest, And “ting”-ing still dost speed, and speeding ever “ting”-est. In the golden lightening Of the sunken sun, And when day is brightening Thou dost rush and run, Like a silk-bodied “jock” whose race is just begun. The hale “peeler” even Pelts from out thy flight, Like a star of heaven On a murky night, Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy bell’s delight. Swift as bow-sped arrow Spins thy silver sphere, Whose intense lamp, narrow, ’Twixt thy spokes hangs clear— So that we, doubly, see and hear that thou art there. All the earth and air With a voice is loud As, bebruised and bare, Circled by a crowd, A girl rains out her screams, and thou liest in the road. We ache before and after And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our deepest sighs are those that tell of some bruis’d spot. Yet if we could scorn Pain and pride and fear, If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy Bushby to us could be too dear. Better than all measures In the “Commons” found, Better than all treasures Here, or underground, Thy wheel to pilot ’twere, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half their sadness Who thy sore pains know— Such outrageous badness From my lips should flow Moonshine’d not print me then, as it is printing now. Moonshine. August 8, 1885.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night ’tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast, Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes, and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The spirit he loves, remains; And I all the while bask in heaven’s blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. * * * * * P. B. Shelley.

The Cloud. (Another Version of Shelley’s partial view of the Subject.) I bring cats and dogs, and November fogs, For the folks of Cockney land; And I brew the flood of slush and mud In Fleet Street and the Strand. From my watery bed spring colds in the head, And highly inflamed sore-throats; And I’m the Mama[125] of the bad Catarrh, And the mother of waterproof coats; I gave birth to goloshes and macintoshes, The clog, the corksole, and the patten, And I act as wet Nus’ to each omnibus, For ’tis on my moisture they fatten. I come down pretty thick at every picnic, And throw my cold water upon it, And delight at each fête that is called a Champêtre, To spoil every new silk bonnet; I’m more kind to each jarvey than was Wittle Harvey When he was Commiss’ner of Stamps, I’m the foe of Vauxhall’s Grand Fancy Dress Balls, Where I love to extinguish the lamps; And whenever a fellow leaves at home his umbrella, Oh Lord! how I chuckle and grin! For then you may warrant I’ll come down in a torrent, And soak the poor wretch to the skin. From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1847.

I’m as kind to each beau in his brand new chapeau, Who sports not his silk or his gamp, My delight is to fall at a fancy dress ball, And I love to extinguish a lamp. 235 And whenever a fellow leaves at home his umbrella Oh, my! how I chuckle and grin, For then you may warrant I’ll come down a torrent And soak the poor wretch to the skin.

The other Cloud. I bring the rain again and again, From the seas and rivers, And I pour it down on the deluged town Till it reeks and shivers. From my skirts are shaken the floods that waken Poor Cits with the morning light; I shower my best till they go to rest, And I keep up the game all night. By the bucket and pail, like a watery flail, I lash the wet world under With occasional spurts of hail (which hurts) And frequent claps of thunder. My pall of grey from day to day Hangs over the dripping lands, And from hour to hour of the night I pour Unceasing as Time’s own sands. The dreamer waking hears windows shaking. Whipped by my lashing flood, It splashes and sputters from spouts and gutters, And churns the poor earth into mud. When the morning breaks the world awakes To another day of drench. * * * * * The dainty maiden, with tennis-bat laden, In vain prepares for sport; For with heavy wet I have soaked the net, And utterly swamped the Court. Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof O’er the sodden cricket-ground, Keeping all things damp as a dripping lamp All the summer season round, Until most mankind goes half out of its mind, And the damp earth seems half drowned. I am the daughter of smoke and water, The child of a cheerless sky; All, save ducks and pumps, must be down in the dumps, In a world that is never dry! For after the rain, when my victims fain, Would believe in sign “set fair:” And ginghams are furled, and waterproofs hurled Into corners, anywhere. I silently laugh at my own cruel chaff; And deriding man’s hopes so vain, From a sky all gloom, to an earth like a tomb, I come down a drencher again! Punch. November 27, 1880, but equally appropriate in 1888.

Seaward. The bathers are splashing, The spaniels are dashing, The darlings are dancing, Their bright eyes are glancing— Away! The railways are rolling, The steamers are coaling, The inn bells are ringing, The Niggers are singing— Get away! The sea and the ocean Are both in commotion: Black, White, Green, and Brown Have all vanished from Town— Get away! Take a dip, take a sail, Never mind turning pale— A bold fellow, I trow, Who dare blot paper now We are free— Let him feather his oar, Let him flirt on the shore, Observe mollusks and shells, But not the blue belles In the sea; And from cliff, cove, and rock, At the sound of the clock, Hurry home fleet and fast, To that wholesome repast— Shrimps and tea. And crabs too, and prawns too, And croquet on lawns too, And drives on the sands, And those terrible Bands, Lovest thou? Thy fortnight at Dover Too soon will be over, At Bognor thy pleasure Shall be beyond measure, I vow, By that great saline lotion, The blue briny ocean, Which at rest, or uplifted, Is sketched by the gifted E’en now, At the “Crown” or the “Royal,” Where sojourn the loyal, Crowds of tourists are meeting, Hosts of tourists are eating At seven; While all down the tables, In white ties and sables, Pass the grave solemn waiters To hand the potaters In Devon; And with napkin in hand, In the coffee-room stand, To extinguish the gas, When to bed you shall pass At eleven! Punch. August 28, 1869.

Thrown Out. By a badly mounted 15 stoner. Horse’s bits clashing, Huntsmen’s whips lashing; Soft sunbeam glancing, The sight’s most entrancing To-day! 236 In numbers increasing, With murmur unceasing, There’s no need of saying The hounds are all baying Away. Smart scarlet and tops, Young and old fops Twisting and turning, Through the blue mist still yearning To stay. Off we start down the vale, Jumping over a rail, For a broken-down paling, Is fair easy sailing You know. But though not a coward, I always feel soured, When I hear the scent’s strong, And old Reynard not gone Long ago, It means quickish pace, A rush and a race; And, when heavily pressed You see, at my best I don’t show. They are now on his track, And hang it, the pack Stream up the hill side, And we’ve got to ride From below. Each taking his line, Up bank and incline, In the distance a lout Begins loudly to shout Tally-ho! As o’er ploughed fields we gallop, And our jaded steed wallop, The field is fast thinning, And my steed’s beginning To blow. With the hounds out of sight, The prospect ain’t bright, And, just like my fate, Locked or barred is each gate, What a shame. Nothing more to be done, But to give up the run; Then struck with a thought, Vote hunting a sport Rather tame. (A Friend’s Advice Afterwards.) “On the whole, better say You’d have had a good day, That is—if your nag Didn’t linger or lag, Or go lame!”

The Tale of the Sensitive “Freak.” (A Parody of Shelley’s “The Sensitive Plant.”) A sensitive “freak” in a museum stood, Where the hours were short and the salary good; He was tattooed red, white, and blue, He was the “Bearded Lady,” too, Likewise the skeleton tall and thin, And he boasted a most elastic skin: He’d grown his feet to abnormal size, And whitened his hair Albino wise, So he said in language plain and bold That when he was abandoned the day’d be cold! Yet he was unhappy exhibiting there, For down in his breast lurked a poignant care. He suffered deeply and oft because He wanted to be far more than he was; His sensitive nature could not brook That the public at anyone else should look. He wanted to be the “Leopard Boy,” And the “Phantom Lady” cold and coy, The wonderful “Glass-devouring Star” And the fair “Circassian,” from Mullingar! He hated the sinuous “Human Snakes,” Whose pictures sold like the hottest cakes, Though it was said that he practised lots Tying himself into awful knots. He punched the “What Is it?” in the head, And cut the “Capillary Sisters” dead; Placed the “Midget” under the ban And wouldn’t shake feet with the “Armless Man”; Kicked the “Cannibal” out of his road, And said to the “Glass-Blower,” “You be blowed!” Greater each day his importance grew, ’Till his head at length began swelling too. When others were noticed he screamed and cried, ’Till his head exploded, and so he died; And they said, as they washed off the gay tattoo, And hung up his beard where the wind blew through, That it was amazing he should be dead. Simply because he had lost his head; But that ’twas a warning, his awful fate, To people who think themselves so great. From The Umpire.

And thou hast walked about, (how strange a story!) In Thebes’s street three thousand years ago; 237 When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous. Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy,— Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune; Thou’rt standing on thy legs, above ground, Mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. Tell us, for doubtless thou canst recollect, To whom should we assign the Sphinx’s fame; Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect, Of either pyramid that bears his name? Is Pompey’s Pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden, By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade: Then say what secret melody was hidden In Memnon’s statue which at sunrise played? Perhaps thou wert a priest, and hast been dealing In human blood, and horrors past revealing. Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass; Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer’s hat, Or dofted thine own to let Queen Dido pass, Or held, by Solomon’s own invitation, A torch at the great Temple’s dedication. I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled or knuckled, For thou wert dead and buried, and embalmed, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled! Antiquity appears to have begun, Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou could’st develop, if that withered tongue Might tell us, what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world looked when it was fresh and young, And the great Deluge still had left it green; Or was it then so old, that History’s pages Contained no record of its early ages? Still silent, incommunicative elf! Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; But prithee tell us something of thyself,— Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house! Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, What thou hast seen, what strange adventures numbered? Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended, New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o’er thy head, When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o’er thy tomb with thundering tread, O’erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? If the tomb’s secrets may not be confessed, The nature of thy private life unfold: A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled. Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face? What was thy name and station, age and race? Statue of flesh—Immortal of the dead! Imperishable type of evanescence! Posthumous man, who quitt’st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment-morning, When the great Trump shall thrill thee with its warning! Why should this worthless tegument endure, If its undying guests be lost for ever? Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue; that, when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, Th’ immortal spirit in the skies may bloom! Horace Smith. (One of the Authors of “Rejected Addresses.”)

The Answer of the Egyptian Mummy. Child of the latter days! thy words have broken A spell that long has bound these lungs of clay, For since this smoke-dried tongue of mine hath spoken, Three thousand tedious years have rolled away Unswathed at length, I ’stand at ease’ before ye,— List, then, oh! list, while I unfold my story. Thebes was my birthplace—an unrivalled city, With many gates; but here I might declare Some strange plain truths, except that it were pity To blow a poet’s fabric into air; Oh, I could read you quite a Theban lecture, And give a deadly finish to conjecture! But then you would not have me throw discredit On grave historians—or on him who sung The Iliad—true it is I never read it, But heard it read when I was very young; An old blind minstrel, for a trifling profit, Recited parts—I think the author of it. All that I know about the town of Homer, Is, that they scarce would own him in his day; Were glad, too, when he proudly turned a roamer, Because by this they saved their parish pay; His townsmen would have been ashamed to flout him, Had they foreseen the fuss since made about him. One blunder I can fairly set at rest, He says that men were once more big and bony Than now, which is a bouncer at the best,— I’ll just refer you to our friend Belzoni, Near seven feet high! in sooth a lofty figure! Now look at me, and tell me, am I bigger? Not half the size: but then I’m sadly dwindled; Three thousand years, with that embalming glue, Have made a serious difference, and have swindled My face of all its beauty—there were few Egyptian youths more gay,—behold the sequel; Nay, smile not—you and I may soon be equal! For this lean hand did one day hurl the lance With mortal aim—this light fantastic toe Threaded the mystic mazes of the dance: This heart hath throbbed at tales of love and woe, These shreds of raven hair once set the fashion, This withered form inspired the tender passion. 238 In vain! the skilful hand, and feelings warm, The foot that figured in the bright quadrille, The palm of genius and the manly form, All bowed at once to Death’s mysterious will, Who sealed me up where Mummies sound are sleeping, In cere-cloth, and in tolerable keeping. Where cows and monkeys squat in rich brocade, And well-dressed crocodiles in painted cases, Rats, bats, and owls, and cats in masquerade, With scarlet flounces and with varnished faces; Men, birds, brutes, reptiles, fish, all crammed together, With ladies that might pass for well-tanned leather. Where Rameses and Sabacon lie down, And splendid Psammis in his hide of crust; Princes and heroes, men of high renown, Who in their day kicked up a mighty dust,— Their swarthy Mummies kicked up dust in numbers, When huge Belzoni came to scare their slumbers! Who’d think these rusty hams of mine were seated At Dido’s table, when the wond’rous tale Of “Juno’s hatred” was so well repeated? And ever and anon the queen turned pale; Meanwhile the brilliant gas-lights, hung above her, Threw a wild glare upon her shipwrecked lover, Ay, gas-lights! mock me not; we men of yore Were versed in all the knowledge you can mention; Who hath not heard of Egypt’s peerless lore? Her patient toil? Acuteness of invention? Survey the proofs—our Pyramids are thriving,— Old Memnon still looks young, and I’m surviving. A land in arts and sciences prolific, On blocks gigantic building up her fame! Crowded with signs, and letters hieroglyphic, Temples and obelisks her skill proclaim! Yet though her art and toil unearthly seem, Those blocks were brought on RAIL-ROADS and by STEAM! How, when, and why, our people came to rear The Pyramid of Cheops, mighty pile! This, and the other secrets thou shalt hear; I will unfold if thou wilt stay awhile, The hist’ry of the Sphinx, and who began it, Onr mystic marks, and monsters made of granite. Well, then, in grievous times, when King Cephrenes— But, ha! what’s that?—the shades of bards and kings Press on my lips their fingers! What they mean is, I am not to reveal these hidden things. Mortal, farewell! Till Science ’self unbind them, Men must e’en take these secrets as they find them. Mummius. From The Saturday Magazine. Vol. IV.

Lines to the Western Mummy. O stranger, whose repose profound These latter ages dare to break, And call thee from beneath the ground Ere Nature did thy slumber shake,— What wonders of the secret earth Thy lips too silent, might reveal! Of tribes round whose mysterious birth A thousand envious ages wheel. Thy race, by savage war o’errun, Sunk down, their very name forgot; But ere those fearful times begun, Perhaps, in this sequestered spot By Friendship’s hand thine eyelid closed, By Friendship’s hand the turf was laid; And Friendships here, perhaps, reposed. With moonlight vigils in the shade. The stars have run their nightly round, The sun looked out and passed his way, And many a season o’er the ground Has trod where thou so softly lay. And wilt thou not one moment raise Thy weary head, awhile to see The later sports of earthly days, How like what once enchanted thee? Thy name, thy date, thy life declare— Perhaps a queen, whose feathery band A thousand maids have sighed to wear, The brightest in thy beauteous land— Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye Love kindled up the flame of war— Ah, me! do thus thy graces lie A faded phantom, and no more? Oh, not like thee would I remain, But o’er the earth my ashes strew, And in some rising bud regain The freshness that my childhood knew. But has thy soul, O maid, so long Around this mournful relic dwelt? Or burst away with pinion strong, And at the foot of Mercy knelt? Or has it in some distant clime, With curious eye, unsated, strayed, And down the winding stream of time, On every changeful current played? Or, lock’d in everlasting sleep. Must we thy heart extinct deplore, Thy fancy lost in darkness weep, And sigh for her who feels no more? Or, exiled to some humbler sphere, In yonder wood-dove dost thou dwell, And murmuring in the stranger’s ear, Thy tender melancholy tell? Whoe’er thou be, thy sad remains Shall from the Muse a tear demand, Who, wandering on these distant plains. Looks fondly to a distant land. Gallaudet.

Sir Moses Montefiore. And thou hast walked about, how strange a story, In Europe’s streets, a century nigh ago: Long time ere Nap the First had gained his glory, And longer still before his overthrow On that dread field, where hard he tried to burk us, Some who were there still linger (in the workus). I need not ask thee if that hand of thine Has scattered to the poor thy gold in plenty, For charity was ever in thy line. Before thy modest years had numbered twenty, The same kind spirit which has marked thee ever. Had shown itself in many a bright endeavour. 239 Did’st thou not hear the pother in the town On Monday last, when Ramsgate to the fore, Placed on thy brow its tributary crown, And hailed thy patriarchal years, five score? Here’s to thy long, long life, thou Hebrew hoary, God’s blessing on thy head, Montefiore! Botcher. November, 1884.

Maud Müller, on a summer’s day Raked the meadows sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree, But, when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast— A wish, that she had hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known. The judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple trees to greet the maid, And asked a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadows across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup; And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. “Thanks! said the judge, a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed.” He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees, Of the singing birds, and the humming bees; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her briar torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown; And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. Maud Müller looked and sighed—“Ah me! That I the judge’s bride might be! “He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. “My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat. “I’d dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. “And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door. The judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Müller standing still. “A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet. “And her modest answer and graceful air, Show her wise and good as she is fair. “Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay. “No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, And weary lawyers with endless tongues, “But low of cattle and song of birds, And health of quiet and loving words.” But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the judge rode on, And Maude was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love tune; And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow, He watched a picture come and go; And sweet Maud Müller’s hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. 240 Oft when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead; And closed his eyes on the garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover blooms. And the proud man sighed with a secret pain; “Ah, that I were free again! “Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.” She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, And she heard the little spring-brook fall Over the roadside through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein; And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls; The weary wheel to a spinnit turned, The tallow candle an astral burned; And for him who sat by the chimney lug. Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty, and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again Saying only “It might have been!” Alas! for maiden, alas! for judge, For rich repiner and household drudge! God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall, For of all sad words of tongue or pen The saddest are these “It might have been!” Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes; And in the hereafter angels may Roll the stone from its grave away! John Greenleaf Whittier.

Mrs. Judge Jenkins. [Being the only genuine sequel to “Maud Müller.”] Maud Müller, all that summer day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay; Yet, looking down the distant lane, She hoped the judge would come again. But when he came, with smile and bow, Maud only blushed, and stammered, “Ha-ow?” And spoke of her “pa,” and wondered whether He’d give consent they should wed together. Old Müller burst in tears, and then Begged that the judge would lend him “ten;” For trade was dull and wages low, And the “craps,” this year, were somewhat slow. And ere the languid summer died, Sweet Maud became the Judge’s bride. But, on the day that they were mated, Maud’s brother Bob was intoxicated; And Maud’s relations, twelve in all, Were very drunk at the judge’s hall. And when the summer came again, The young bride bore him babies twain. And the judge was blest, but thought it strange That bearing children made such a change: For Maud grew broad and red and stout: And the waist that his arm once clasped about Was more than he now could span. And he Sighed as he pondered, ruefully, How that which in Maud was native grace In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place; And thought of the twins, and wished that they Looked less like the man who raked the hay On Müller’s farm, and dreamed with pain Of the day he wandered down the lane. And, looking down that dreary track, He half regretted that he came back. For, had he waited, he might have wed Some maiden fair and thoroughbred; For there be women fair as she, Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. Alas for maiden! alas for judge! And the sentimental,—that’s one-half “fudge;” For Maud soon thought the judge a bore, With all his learning and all his lore. And the judge would have bartered Maud’s fair face For more refinement and social grace. If, of all words of tongue and pen, The saddest are, “It might have been,” More sad are these we daily see: “It is, but hadn’t ought to be.” Bret Harte.

Kate Ketchem. Kate Ketchem on a winter’s night Went to a party dressed in white. Her chignon in a net of gold Was about as large as they ever sold. Gayly she went because her “pap” Was supposed to be a rich old chap. But when by chance her glances fell On a friend who had lately married well, Her spirits sunk and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast. 241 A wish she would’nt have made known To have an establishment of her own. Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng With chestnut hair worn pretty long. He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd And knowing her slightly stopped, and bowed. Then asked her to give him a single flower Saying he’d think it a priceless dower. Out from those with which she was decked She took the poorest she could select. And, blushed as she gave it, looking down To call attention to her gown. “Thanks,” said Fudge, and he thought how dear Flowers must be at that time of year. Then several charming remarks he made Asked if she sang, or danced, or played. And being exhausted, inquired whether She thought it was going to be pleasant weather. And Kate displayed her “jewelry” And dropped her lashes becomingly. And listened with no attempt to disguise The admiration in her eyes. At last like one who has nothing to say He turned around, and walked away. Kate Ketchem smiled, and said “you bet I’ll catch that Fudge, and his money yet. “He’s rich enough to keep me in clothes And I think I could manage him as I chose. “He could aid my father as well as not, And buy my brother a splendid yacht. “My mother for money should never fret And all it cried for the baby should get. “And after that with what he could spare I’d make a show at a charity fair.” Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill And saw Kate Ketchem standing still. “A girl more suited to my mind It isn’t an easy thing to find; “And everything she has to wear Proves her as rich as she is fair. “Would she were mine, and I to day Had the old man’s cash my debts to pay. “No creditors with a long account No tradesmen wanting ‘that little amount.’ “But all my scores paid up when due By a father-in-law as rich as a Jew.” But he thought of her brother not worth a straw And her mother, that would be his, in law. So undecided he walked along And Kate was left alone in the throng. But a lawyer smiled when he sought by stealth To ascertain old Ketchem’s wealth. And as for Kate she schemed and planned Till one of the dancers claimed her hand. He married her for her father’s cash, She married him to cut a dash. But as to paying his debts do you know The father couldn’t see it so; And at hints for help Kate’s hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. And when Tom thought of the way he had wed He longed for a single life instead. And closed his eyes in a sulky mood Regretting the days of his bachelorhood. And said in a sort of reckless vein, “I’d like to see her catch me again. “If I were free as on that night When I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white.” She wedded him to be rich and gay But husband and children did’nt pay. He wasn’t the prize she hoped to draw And would’nt live with his mother-in-law. And oft when she had to coax and pout In order to get him to take her out, She thought how very attentive and bright He seemed at the party that winter’s night. Of his laugh as soft as a breeze of the south (’Twas now on the other side of his mouth); How he praised her dress, and gems, in his talk As he took a careful account of stock. Sometimes she hated the very walls— Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls. Till her weak affection to hatred turned Like a dying tallow candle burned. And for him who sat there her peace to mar, Smoking his everlasting cigar. He wasn’nt the man she thought she saw And grief was duty, and hate was law. So she took up her burden with a groan Saying only “I might have known.” Alas for Kate, and alas for Fudge, Though I do not owe them any grudge. And, alas, for any who find to their shame That two can play at their little game. For of all hard things to bear and grin The hardest is knowing you’re taken in. Ah! well as a general thing we fret About the one we didn’t get. But I think we need’nt make a fuss If the one we don’t want did’nt get us. Phœbe Carey.

Maud Müller in Dutch. Maud Müller, von summer afternoon Vas dending bar in her fadder’s saloon, She solt dot bier, and singed “Shoo Fly,” Und vinked at der men mit her lefd eye. Bud ven she looked oud on der shdreed. Und saw dem gals all dressed so shweed, Her song gifed out on a ubber note, Cause she had such a hoss in her troat; Und she vished she had shdamps to shbend, So she might git such a Grecian Bend. Hans Brinker valked shlowly down her shdreed, Shmilin at all der gals he’d meed; Old Hans vas rich—as I’ve been dold,— Had houses und lots, and a barrel of gold. He shdopped by der door, und pooty soon 242 He valked righd indo dot bier saloon. Und he vinked at Maud, und said, “My dear, Gif me, of you pblease, a glass of bier.” She vend to der pblace vere der bier keg shtood, Und pringed him a glass dot vas fresh und goot, “Dot’s goot,” said Hans, “dot’s a better drink As effer I had in mine life, I dink.” He dalked for a vhile, den said, “Goot day,” Und up der shdreet he dook his vay. Maud hofed a sigh, and said, “Oh, how I’d likd to been dot olt man’s frow, Such shplendid close I den vood vear, Dot all the gals around vood shdare. In dot Union Park I’d drive all tay, Und efery evenin go to der blay. Hans Brinker, doo, felt almighty gweer, (But dat mit peen von trinkin beer.) Und he says to himself, as he valked along, Hummin der tune of a olt lofe song, “Dot’s der finest gal I efer did see, Und I vish dot she my wife cood be.” But here his solillogwy came to an end, As he dinked of der gold dot she might shbend; Und he maked up his mind dot as for him, He’d marry a girl mit lots of “din.” So he vent righd off dot fery day, Und married a vooman olt und gray. He vishes now, but all in vain, Dot he vas free to marry again; Free as he vas dot afternoon, Ven he med Maud Müller in der bier saloon. Maud married a man without some “soap”— He vas lazy doo—but she did hope Dot he’d get bedder when shildren came; But vhen dey had, he vas yoost der same. Und ofden now dem dears vill come As she sits alone ven her day’s vork’s done, Und dinks of der day Hans called her “my dear,” Und asked her for a glass of bier; But she don’d comblain, nor efer has, Und only says, “Dot coodn’t vas.” Anonymous.

The Maud Muller. (Improved.) Maud Muller, on a summer’s day, Raked the meadow, sweet with hay— But when she glanced to Huntsville town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died—and Fleming’s Improved With a nameless longing her breast moved. A wish that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known. “Uncle Pete” rode slowly for her sake, Showing his “Improved Riding Rake.” He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple trees, to greet the maid. And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, And her graceful ankles, bare and brown. And merrily sparkled her hazel eyes As “Uncle Pete” described his prize. Maud Muller looked, and sighed “Law sake! That’s MY idea of a perfect Rake.” American Advertisement.

Miss Müller in Urbe. Miss Müller so the gossips say, Flirted in quite a shameless way, But Maud with a laugh pronounced it fudge— Yet we caught her wink at the ratty judge, And the judge—but we mention this sub rose— Blushed up to the roots of his bulbous nose; Still he crained his neck, and in passing by, Gave a sinister wink with his dexter eye. Quoth Maud to herself as on she passed, “I’ve his royal nibs in tow at last; My mother shall wear a seal skin sack— My pa swing on his broadcloth black; My brother shall sip his whiskey-skins, And my sister revel in gay breast pins!” Quoth the judge as he sauntered listless on, “She’s a rattling girl! you bet I’m gone! No doubt my last wife’s ma will kick And my heirs cut up the very nick; And though I’ve known her a short short spell, You bet I’ll have her in spite of”—well No matter his word it was short and stout And the name of a place that’s now played out According to Bucher. Alack for all The maid and judge ne’er wedded at all; For he passed in his checks from too much gin And the maid grew long, and lank, and thin. And she as her charms glimmered away She ceased for to flirt, and began for to pray. God pity the maid, and pity the judge, And these days of twaddle, and bosh, and fudge, For of all sad words from a heart bereft The saddest are these, “You bet I’m left.” Anonymous.

The Modern Maud Müller. Maud Müller worked at making hay And cleared her forty cents a day. Her clothes were coarse, but her health was fine, And so she worked in the sweet sunshine— Singing as glad as a bird in May “Barbary Allen” the livelong day. She often glanced at the far off town And wondered if eggs were up, or down. And the sweet song died of a strange disease Leaving a phantom-taste of cheese, And an appetite and a nameless ache For soda-water, and ginger cake. The Judge rode slowly into view— Stopped his horse in the shade, and threw His fine cut out, while the blushing Maud Marvelled much at the kind he “chawed.” He was “dry as a fish” he said with a wink And kind o’ thought that a good square drink Would brace him up. So the cup was filled With the crystal wine that the old spring spilled; And she gave it him with a sun browned hand, “Thanks” said the Judge, in accents bland; 243 “A thousand thanks for a sweeter draught From a fairer hand—” but there he laughed, And the sweet girl stood in the sun that day And raked the Judge instead of the hay. Cincinnati Commercial.

Maud Müller, and the Judge. Maud Müller on an August day Took the Fever of the Hay, Sneezing she went and her shrill Ah-chee The mock-bird echoed from the tree. The Judge rode slowly down the lane Smoothing his chestnut horse’s mane, And drew his bridle in the shade With a stimulation to greet the maid. He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees, The pollen from which makes sufferers sneeze, And Maudie forgot her swollen nose And even her graceful bare brown toes, And listened while a pleased surprise Looked from her watering hazel eyes. At last with a wild “Ah-chee! Ah-cha! Ah-choo! Ah-choo!” he rode away. Maud Müller looked and sneezed “Ah-chee! That I the Judge’s bride might be! He would dress me with silks and diamond rings And take me up to the ‘White Mountings,’ And I’d use the finest cambric mouchoir And never have the Hay Fever more.” The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill And heard her sternutations shrill. “Would she were mide, and I to-day Rid of this dab Fever of the Hay.” But he thought of her sisters and clearly saw Her mother would be his mother-in-law. The baby would smear his broadcloth coat And her brother borrow a five dollar note; So closing his heart the Judge rode on And Maudie was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon When they heard him lustily a-choo-in. And the young girl sneezed beside the well Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower With an aquiline beak of ten Roman power, And oft when the wine in his nose was red And he knew the old woman was safe in bed, The proud man sighed with a furnace force “Ah could I only get a divorce And marry the girl I saw that day When I had the Fever of the Hay.” She wedded a man unlearned and poor And they had twins every twelve month—sure; And oft when the summer sun shone hot She wished she could drown the pesky lot. Again in the shade of the apple trees She saw a rider draw rein, and sneeze, As she looked down because she knew Her nose was big enough for two. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls And for him with a pipe in his ugly mug— Oh, if she had him by the lug! A manly form at her side she saw And there was no estival catarrh. Then she took up her burden of life anew Sighing only “Ah-chee! Ah-choo!” Alas! for maiden; for Judge alas! For household drudger, and gray haired ass. Of all sad words of tongue or pen The saddest are “Hay fever time again.” Ah! well for us that a region lies Where the infusoria never rise; And in the hereafter Angels may Find a cure for the Fever of the Hay. New York World.

Maud Müller on the Ice. Maud Müller on a winter’s day Went out upon the ice to play. Beneath her Derby gleamed her locks Of her red banged hair, and her crimson socks. She straddled about from ten to two And then a hole in the ice fell through. On the bottom of the pond she sat As wet and mad as a half drowned rat. A man with a hicking pole went there And fished her out by her auburn hair. And her mother is said to have thumped her well— Though just how hard Miss Maud can’t tell— And hung her over the stove to dry With a thumb in her mouth, and a fist in her eye. Alas for the maiden! alas for the hole! And ’rah for the man with the hicking pole! For the truest words of tongue or pen Are “A skating girl’s like a headless hen.” Brooklyn Eagle.

Miss Muller, on a summer day, Refused her taxes just to pay. “I won’t stump up at all,” quoth she, “Until to vote they make me free.” So sordid man began his tricks, And seized the dauntless maiden’s “sticks.” He seized her table, and her chair, While she stood by with martyr air. She saw her dear belongings go, And spoke of giving “blow for blow.” 244 About her thronged a female clan, Who’d sworn to trounce despotic man. And these, to cause the tyrant pain, Bought back their leader’s “sticks” again. That table and that chair so dear They wrested from the auctioneer. They brought them home, they set them down, Then shrieked their triumph through the town. Miss Muller smiled, and said, “You bet I haven’t paid my taxes yet.” If, of all words of tongue or pen, The saddest are, “It might have been.” Well-nigh as sad are man’s when he Wails, “Muller, you have worsted me.” Funny Folks. July 19, 1884.

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand, Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach-tree fruited deep, Fair as a garden of the Lord, To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. On that pleasant morn of the early fall, When Lee marched over the mountain-wall, Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot into Frederick town. Forty flags with their crimson bars, Forty flags with their silver stars Flapped in the morning wind, the sun Of noon looked down and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Fritchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town; She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead; Under his slouched hat, left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight. “Halt!” The dust brown ranks stood fast. “Fire!” out blazed the rifle blast. It shivered the window pane and sash, It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; She leaned far out of the window sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. “Shoot if you must, this old grey head. But spare your country’s flag,” she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life, at that woman’s deed and word. “Who touches a hair on yon grey head, Dies like a dog. March on!” he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet; All day long the free flag tossed Over the heads of the rebel host; Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds, that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Fritchie’s work is o’er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more. Honour to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier! Over Barbara Fritchie’s grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! Peace, and order, and beauty, draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below, in Frederick town! J. G. Whittier.

A Parody. Drough der streets of Frederickdown, Wid der red hot sun shining down, Past der saloons filled mit beer, Dem repel fellers valked on der ear. All day drough Frederickdown so fasd, Hosses foot and sodgers past, Und der repel flag skimming ond so pright, You vould dink py jiminy id had a ridght. Off der mony flags dot flapped in der morning vind Nary a vone could enybody find, Ub shumbed old Miss Frietchie den, Who vos pent down py nine score years und den. She took der flag der men hauled down, Und stuck id fasd on her nighd-gown, Un pud id in der vindow vere all could see Dot dere vas vone who did lofe dot goot old flag so free. Yust den ub come Stonewall Jack, Riden on his hosses’ pack, Under his prows he squinted his eyes, By golly de olt flag make him much surprise. “Halt!” vell efery man stood him sdill, “Fire!” vas echoed from hill to hill; Id broke her strings of dot nighd-gown, Put olt Babra she vas round. She freezed on dot olt flag right quick, Und oud of der vindow her head did stick: “Scoot, of you must, dis old cray head, Put spare dot country’s flag!” she said. A look of shameness soon came o’er Der face of Jack, und der tears did pour; “Who pulls ond a hair of dot pald head, Dies like a monkey!—skip along,” he said. All dot day und all dot night, Undil efery repel vas knocked oud of sight, 245 Und vay pehind from Frederickdown, Dot flag stuck fasd to dot olt nighd-gown. Babra Frietchie’s vork vas done, She don’d eny more kin hafe some fun; Pully for her! und drop a dear For dot olt gal midoud some fear. Anonymous.

Hiram Hover. (A Ballad of New England life.) Where the Moosatockmaguntic Pours its waters in the Skuntic, Met, along the forest-side, Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde. She, a maiden fair and dapper, He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper, Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk, In the woodlands of Squeedunk. She, Pentucket’s pensive daughter, Walked beside the Skuntic water, Gathering, in her apron wet, Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet. “Why,” he murmured, loth to leave her, “Gather yarbs for chills and fever, When a lovyer, bold and true, Only waits to gather you?” “Go,” she answered, “I’m not hasty; I prefer a man more tasty: Leastways, one to please me well Should not have a beasty smell.” “Haughty Huldah!” Hiram answered; “Mind and heart alike are cancered: Jest look here! these peltries give Cash, wherefrom a pair may live. “I, you think, am but a vagrant, Trapping beasts by no means fragrant: Yet—I’m sure it’s worth a thank— I’ve a handsome sum in bank.” Turned and vanished Hiram Hover; And, before the year was over, Huldah, with the yarbs she sold, Bought a cape, against the cold. Black and thick the furry cape was; Of a stylish cut the shape was; And the girls, in all the town, Envied Huldah up and down. Then, at last, one winter morning, Hiram came, without a warning: “Either,” said he, “you are blind, Huldah, or you’ve changed your mind. “Me you snub for trapping varmints, Yet you take the skins for garments: Since you wear the skunk and mink, There’s no harm in me, I think.” “Well,” said she, “we will not quarrel, “Hiram: I accept the moral. Now the fashion’s so, I guess I can’t hardly do no less.” Thus the trouble all was over Of the love of Hiram Hover; Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde Huldah Hover as his bride. Love employs, with equal favour, Things of good and evil savour; That, which first appeared to part, Warmed, at last, the maiden’s heart. Under one impartial banner, Life, the hunter, Love, the tanner, Draw, from every beast they snare, Comfort for a wedded pair!

All or Nothing. Whoso answers my questions Knoweth more than me; Hunger is but knowledge In a less degree: Prophet, priest and poet Oft prevaricate, And the surest sentence Hath the greatest weight. When upon my gaiters Drops the morning dew, Somewhat of Life’s riddle Soaks my spirit through. I am buskined by the goddess Of Monadnock’s crest, And my wings extended Touch the East and West. Or ever coal was hardened In the cells of earth, Or flowed the founts of Bourbon, Lo! I had my birth. I am crowned coeval With the Saurian eggs, And my fancy firmly Stands on its own legs. Wouldst thou know the secret Of the barberry-bush, Catch the slippery whistle Of the moulting thrush, Dance upon the mushrooms, Dive beneath the sea, Or anything else remarkable, Thou must follow me!

If the red slayer thinks he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain. They know well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me is near; Shadow and sunlight are the same; The vanquished gods to me appear; And one to me are shame and fame. They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. The strong gods pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred seven; But thou, meek lover of the good! Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. Ralph Waldo Emerson.

If the grey tom cat think he sing Or if the song think it be sung, They know not who would boot-jacks fling,— How many bricks at him I’ve flung! When comes the night, to me he’s near, Rainy or shiny, all the same, He on the roof will still appear And caterwaul his tom-cat flame. They reckon ill who bolt him out, For like a bird with mighty wings He’ll perch upon the water-spout, And twice as loud the tom-cat sings. His voice will oft attract a brood Of female felines, six or seven, To chaunt their hymns round my abode, As though it were the tom-cat’s heaven.

Mutton. If the fat butcher thinks he slays, Or he—the mutton—thinks he’s slain, Why, “troth is truth,” the eater says— “I’ll come, and ‘cut and come again.’” To hungry wolves that on him leer Mutton is sheep, and sheep the same, No famished god would at him sneer— To famine, chops are more than fame. Who hiss at him, him but assures That they are geese, but wanting wings— Your coat is his whose life is yours, And baa! the hymn the mutton sings. Ye curs, and gods of grander blood, And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork, Come taste, ye lovers of the good— Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork. Anonymous.

Wal, no! I can’t tell whar he lives, Because he don’t live, you see; Leastways, he’s got out of the habit Of livin’ like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years That you haven’t heard folks tell How Jemmy Bludso passed-in his checks, The night of the Prairie Belle? He weren’t no saint—them engineers Is all pretty much alike— One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here in Pike. A keerless man in his talk was Jim. And an awkward man in a row— But he never flunked, and he never lied; I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had— To treat his engines well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot’s bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, A thousand times he swore, He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats have their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last. The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed; And so come tearin’ along that night,— The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. The fire burst out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made To that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin’ and cursin,’ but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, “I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot’s ashore.” Through the hot black breath of the burnin’ boat Jim Bludso’s voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure’s you’re born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,— And Bludso’s ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. He weren’t no saint—but at jedgment I’d run my chance with Jim, ’Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn’t shook hands with him. He’d seen his duty, a dead-sure thing— And went for it thar and then: And Christ ain’t a going to be too hard On a man that died for men. John Hay.

The Bloomin’ Flower of Rorty Gulch. It war Bob war the Bloomin Flower, They know’d him on Poker Flat; He’d gouged a few down Gilgal way, But no one complained o’ that. He scored his stiffs[126] on the heft of his knife— Forty I’ve heern ’em say; It might have been more—Bob kept his accounts In a loosish sorter way. Bob warn’t a angel ter look at, And the Bible it warn’t his book; He swore the most oaths that war swor’d in the camp, Or blarmedly I am mistook; But he warn’t a outen-out bad ’un, And he’d got a heart you could touch; And he never draw’d iron[127] on boy, or man, As didn’t pervoke him much. And you can’t say fair as drinking War counted among his sins; For at nary a sittin’ would he put down More nor fifteen whisky skins. But one day we was drinkin’ and jawin’, Round Haggarty’s bar, and I fear That Haggarty riled him, bein’ so slow, So he jist sliced off Haggarty’s ear. Then Haggarty went for him savage, Instead of a-holding his jor; And Bob went for his ’leven-inch knife, And scatter’d Hag’s scraps on the floor. One of Hag’s friends then drew upon Bob, And shot Joe Harris instead; And I take it the bar floor got at last ’Bout knee-deep in red. But when the fun was over in there. Bob ran a-muck in the street; And he speared and potted each derned cuss As he chanced to meet. And quiet folks shut up their doors— They thought it safer, you see— All but a man with his wife and child, That was settin’ down to tea. Into their parlour rushed Bloomin’ Bob, To that father and mother’s surprise; Jobb’d his bowie through one, and took The tother between the eyes. Then he clutched the innocent slumb’rin’ babe, Jist meanin’ to knock out its brains; But at that moment there reach’d his ear Some long-forgotten strains. * * * * * Some soft and touching music this, Music solemn and sweet, Played by a common organ-man Down at the end of the street. And it went straight home to the digger’s heart, And he did not squelch the child, But lay it down in its little cot, And rocked the same—and smiled! Talk soft! They say the angels That night smole down on Bob; And a sorter radiant halo Gleamed brightly round his nob. I can’t swear to all this for certain, And it do seem a queerish start; But I won’t set by and hear none o’ you say Bob hadn’t a tender heart!

The darkest, strangest mystery I ever read, or heern, or see, Is ’long of a drink at Taggart’s Hall— Tom Taggart’s, of Gilgal. I’ve heern the tale a thousand ways, But never could git through the maze That hangs around that queer day’s doin’s: But I’ll tell the yarn to you-uns. Tom Taggart stood behind his bar; The time was fall, the skies was far; The neighbours round the counter drawed, And ca’mly drinked and jawed. At last come Colonel Blood, of Pike, And old Jedge Phinn, permiscus—like; And each, as he meandered in, Remarked “A whiskey-skin.” Tom mixed the beverage full and far, And slammed it, smoking on the bar, Some says three fingers, some says two,— I’ll leave the choice to you. Phinn to the drink put forth his hand; Blood drawed his knife, with accent bland, “I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn— Jest drap that whiskey skin.” No man hlgh-toneder could be found Than old Jedge Phinn the country round. Says he, “Young man, the tribe of Phinns Knows their own whisky-skins!” He went for his ’leven-inch bowie knife:— “I tries to foller a Christian life; But I’ll drap a slice of liver or two My bloomin’ shrub with you.” They carved in a way that all admired,— Tell Blood drawed iron at last, and fired. It took Seth Bludso ’twixt the eyes, Which caused him great surprise. Then coats went off, and all went in; Shots and bad language swelled the din; The short, sharp bark of Derringers, Like bull-pups, cheered the furse. They piled the stiffs outside the door, They made, I reckon, a cord or more. Girls went that winter, as a rule, Alone to spellin’ school. I’ve sarched in vain, from Dan to Beer- Sheba, to make this mystery clear; But I end with hit as I did begin,— Who got the Whisky-skin? John Hay.

Big Bill. There’s them that eats till they’re bustin’, And them that drinks till they’re blind, And them that snuffin’ and spooney, But the best of all to my mind, (And I’ve been around in my time, boys, And cavorted with any you like), Was Big Bill, that lived in the slashes, We called him Big Bill o’ Pike. If he put his hand to his bowie Or scratched the scruff of his neck, You could only tell by waitin’ To see if you bled a peck: And the way he fired ’twas lovely! Nobody knowed which was dead, Till Big Bill grinned, and the stiff’un Tumbled over onto his head! At school he killed his master; Courtin’, he killed seven more: And the hearse was alway a-waitin’ A little ways from his door. There wasn’t much growth in the country, As the census returns will show, But we had Big Bill we was proud of, And that was enough to grow. And now Big Bill is an angel,— Damn me, it makes me cry! Jist when he was rampin’ the roughest, The poor fellow had to die. A thievin’ and sneakin’ Yankee Got the start on our blessed Bill, And there’s no one to do our killin’ And nobody left to kill! From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

I du believe in Freedom’s cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees, It’s wal enough agin a king To dror resolves an’ triggers,— But libbaty’s a kind o’ thing That don’t agree with niggers. I du believe the people want A tax on teas an’ coffees, Thet nothin’ aint extravygunt— Purvidin’ I’m in office; Fer I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets An’ Uncle Sam[128] I reverence, Partic’larly his pockets. I du believe in any plan O’ levyin’ the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest what I axes; I go free-trade thru thick an’ thin, Because it kind o’ rouses The folks to vote—an’ keeps us in Our quiet custom-houses, I du believe it’s wise an’ good To sen’ out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An’ orthydox conditions;— I mean nine thousan’ dolls. per ann. Nine thousan’ more fer outfit, An’ me to recommend a man The place ’ould jest about fit. I du believe in special ways O’ prayin’ an’ convartin’; The bread comes back in many days An’ buttered, tu, fer sartin;— I mean in preyin’ till one busts On wut the party chooses, An’ in convartin’ public trusts To very privit uses. I du believe hard coin the stuff For ’lectioneers to spout on; The people’s ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An gives a good-sized junk to all— I don’t care how hard money is, Ez long ez mine’s paid punctooal. I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press’s Freedom, To pint the people to the goal An’ in the traces lead ’em; Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin’, An’ withered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov’ment printin’! I du believe thet I should give Wut’s his’n unto Cæsar, For its by him I move an’ live, Frum him my bread an’ cheese air; I du believe thet all o’ me Doth bear his souperscription— Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An’ things o’ thet description. I du believe in prayer an’ praise To him thet hez the grantin’ O’ jobs—in every thin’ thet pays. But most of all in Cantin’; 249 This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o’ sin to rest— I don’t believe in princerple, But, O, I du in interest. I du believe in bein’ this Or thet, ez it may happen One way or t’other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin’; It aint by princerples nor men My preudunt course is steadied— I scent wich pays the best, an’ then Go into it baldheaded. I du believe thet holdin’ slaves Comes nat’ral tu a Presidunt, Let ’lone the rowdedow it saves To hev a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret, I could’t ax with no face, Without I’d ben, thru dry an’ wet, Th’ unrizzest kind o’ doughface. I du believe wutever trash ’ll keep the people in blindness— Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness, Thet bombshells, grape, an’ powder ’n’ ball Air good-will’s strongest magnets Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets. In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it’s a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pasturs sweet heth led me, An’ this’ll keep the people green To feed ez they hev fed me. From The Biglow Papers.

The Pious Chancellor’s Creed. (Formulated by Prince Von Bismarck.) I do believe in Providence, On grounds most firm and valid; Its rulings have shown strength and sense, And with my views have tallied. ’Tis ever on the stronger side, And while my side’s the stronger, I shall acknowledge it with pride (But not a moment longer). I hold to faith robust and stout, And, Heaven and I agreeing, All duffers who presume to doubt, Deserve eternal d—ing. I’m sole exponent of the truth, Of genuine Christianity, Cleared from all cant of love and ruth, And humbug of humanity. I do believe in days and dates, As I’m a (sort of) sinner; I hold those fools defy the fates Who sit thirteen at dinner, That Friday ventures badly fare, For reasons past explaining; That he’s an ass who has his hair Cut when the moon is waning. I do believe most men are fools, And need despotic ruling By one past-master in the schools Of force and clever fooling; That dangers which beset the State, And risk that Kings environ, Demand a will as stern as fate, A rule of blood and iron. * * * * * I do believe free Parliament Means dawdling, drivelling, doting, Save only when it is content With silent money-voting. I hold, of all pretenders crass Who ever claimed dominion, The worst is that gregarious ass Nicknamed “Public opinion.” In fine, I do believe in Force (Of fight, or faith, or feeding) Uncramped by conscience, ruth, remorse, Good-nature, or good-breeding, That strength should sway in council, fray, Love, piety, or potting, Is Providence’s special way And Heaven’s own allotting. Punch. December 7, 1878.

The Jingo’s Creed. I do believe that Gladstone likes The triumph of our enemies. Look how his tongue at “Interests” strikes It simply full of venom is. Now this belief, I’ll freely own, Is what some folks would term “hot;” But when has Gladstone ever shown The spirit of Macdermott? I do believe the Russian Czar’s A tyrant scarcely human; I do believe that each Pasha’s A gentle and a true man. I shouldn’t really like to try And have one as a neighbour; But, cutting Russian windpipes—why They’ve saved us lots of labour. I do believe, as Elcho says, Ketchwayo’s a gorilla— A brute who in his wars displays The fury of a Scylla. So just for peace, it’s evident (The thing is gospel per se) Our missionary troops are sent To slay him without mercy. I do believe in Beaconsfield, In Bartle Frere, and Lytton; I do believe all men should yield T’ the half-almighty Briton. 250 We’re born to rule the human race, And futurity shall see, oh, ’Mid the world’s heroes take their place That half-immortal Trio. Funny Folks. September 27, 1879.

The Unionist Editor’s Creed. We du believe in freedom’s cause, Except when it in Dublin is; We do detest Coercion laws, But not when Erin troublin’ is. It’s wal enough for men to spout Of justice—in elections— But when you’re snuffin’ Home Rule out— You’re bound to make corrections! We du believe the Irish want To do away with juries— And, for our methods, now we can’t See what on airth more pure is. When we bring men to common sense We coax ’em—yes—with fetters. But other things we reverence— Partic’larly forged letters. We du believe with all our hearts In the great Press’s freedom; We hit out straight—but poisoned darts Reserve for such as need’ em. Palsied the arm that forges lies! Cussed be calumniators! [N.B.—This rule nohow applies When you fight agitators.] We du believe whatever trash ’ll keep the people in blindness; Thet we the Irishmen can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness; Thet Balfour’s bill, an’ powder an’ ball, Air goodwill’s strongest magnets; Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets! G. W. Pall Mall Gazette. April 28, 1887.

“J. C.” to Himself. From his favourite Poet. “I du believe it’s wise an’ good To sen’ out furrin missions; Thet is, on sartin understood An’ orthydox conditions; I mean ‘£3,900’ per ann., ‘Two thousan’’ more for outfit, An’ me to recommend the man The place ’ould jest about fit.”

When Doctors Disagree, &c. A number of doctors, with zeal hyperbolic, Have gravely consulted, and grandly decreed— The improper prescription of things alcoholic Is really very improper indeed:— But Mr. F. C. Skey says, says he, This pompous announcement is fiddledee! For you cannot prescribe—here he deals in ironics— To skilful practitioners what they should give; And the question must frequently turn upon topics Of whether the patient’s to die, or to live. And Mr. F. C. Skey says, says he, An empiric’s a quack though you write him M.D. Let the Saturday shriek about drawing-room topers, And tell us our wives ne’er go sober to bed; I’ll laugh at such medical fumblers and gropers, And list to what skill and experience have said. And Mr. F. C. Skey says, says he, With that manifesto he cannot agree. Anonymous.

Thrash away, you’ll hev to rattle On them kittle drums o’ yourn— ’Taint a knowin’ kind o’ cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be— Guess you’ll toot till you are yeller ’Fore you git ahold o’ me! Thet air flag’s a leetle rotten, Hope it aint your Sunday’s best;— Fact! it takes a sight o’ cotton To stuff out a soger’s chest: Since we farmers hev to pay fer’t, Ef you must wear humps like these Sposin’ you should try salt hay fer’t, It would du ez slick ez grease. Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thunderin’ swarth, (Helped by Yankee renegaders[129]) Thru the vartu o’ the North! We begin to think it’s nater To take sarse an’ not be riled;— 251 Who’d expect to see a tater All on eend at bein’ biled? Ez fer war, I call it murder— There you hev it plain an’ flat; I don’t want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer thet; God hez sed so plump an’ fairly, It’s ez long ez it is broad, An’ you’ve gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God. Wut’s the use o’ meetin’-goin’ Every Sabbath, wet or dry, Ef it’s right to go amowin’ Feller-men like oats an’ rye? I dunno but wut it’s pooty Trainin’ round in bobtail coats— But it’s curus Christian dooty This ere cuttin’ folks’s throats. * * * * * From The Biglow Papers.

Renegaders. Thrash away, you’ll have to rattle On that “Union” drum o’ “yourn”; “’Tain’t” a knowin’ kind o’ cattle That gets ketched with mouldy corn. Put it stiff you turn-coat fellows, You’re a darned nice liberal (?) set,— Gone to blow the tory bellows Now they want their irons “het,” While their trusty chief’s been trying To keep “the old state ship” afloat, These backsliders ’ave been hieing Into Joseph’s scuttled boat, “Aint” they a prime set o’ fellows, When they think on’t won’t they sprout, Like a peach that’s got the “yellows” With the meanness “bustin” out. Tell you just the end I’ve come to After ciphering pretty smart,— And it makes a handy sum too, Any “gump” may learn by heart. Labouring man and labouring woman Have one glory and one shame, Every thing that’s done inhuman Injures all of them the same, “’Tain’t” by letting landlords loot folks,— Nor the people being brained,— Nor police being set to shoot folks, That your own rights are maintained. Those who Ireland hold in fetters, Sure as one and one make two, When they’ve used you (their abettors), They’ll try hard to fetter you. “The People’s Tribune,” God forgive him!— He’s a kneeling with the rest, He that ought to ha’ clung while livin’ In his grand old eagle-nest, He that ought to stand so fearless While the wrecks around are hurled,— Holding up a beacon peerless To the oppressed of all the world— Gone, to help the stealer stealing Bigger pens to cram with slaves,— Help the men who’re always dealing Insults on their father’s graves,— Help the strong to grind the feeble,— Wrong the many for the few,— Helping those who’d not be able, Renegaders, but for you! Let our staunch old leader proudly Still plead on with trumpet tongue, And proclaim for justice loudly For the weak against the strong. Clang the bells in every steeple, Call all true men to disown The traducers of the people,— The deserters of their own. Wm. Guise. The Liberal and Radical. January 14, 1888.

One night aside the fire at hum, Ez I wus settin’ nappin’, Deown from the lower hall there come The seound of some one rappin’. The son uv old Nat Hawthorne he— Julian, I think his name wuz— Uv course he feound a friend in me, Not knowin’ what his game wuz. And ez we visited a spell. Our talk ranged wide an’ wider. And ef we struck dry subjects—well, We washed ’em deown with cider. Neow, with that cider coursin’ thru My system an’ a playin’ Upon my tongue, I hardly knew Just what I was a sayin’. I kin remember that I spun A hifalutin’ story Abeout the Prince of Wales, an’ one About old Queen Victory. But sakes alive! I never dreamed The cuss would get it printed— (By that old gal I’m much esteemed, Ez she hez often hinted). Oh, if I had that critter neow, You bet your boots I’d larn him In mighty lively fashion heow To walk the chalk, gol darn him! Meanwhile, between his folks an’ mine The breach grows wide an’ wider, And, by the way, it’s my design To give up drinkin’ cider.

Tennyson’s Latest. (After Mr. Russell Lowell’s “The Rose.”) In his chamber sat the poet, Striving to make verses free. 252 “I’ve a poem,” said he; “I’ll show it— They’ll stand anything from me! Public praise I know is hollow, But to publish I’m opprest; Cash will publication follow, And I’ve had too long a rest.” Hies a reader on the morrow Through the busy street called “Strand”; Sees the notice—hastes to borrow From a friend the verses grand. Gets them—reads them; thinks he, “Surely, Tennyson, not this your own? ‘Hands all Round’—’tis nonsense, purely, Worthy Salisbury alone!” In his chamber sits the poet— Pale his face, his eye is dim; See the table—gold o’erflows it— Publishers have sent it him. For a time no word he utters— Fullest hearts the slowest speak— But at length he feebly mutters, “I’m astonished at my cheek!” J. T. G. The Weekly Dispatch. June 25, 1882.