Chapter XXXIII: Part I (13)

But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good, broad highway leading down;
And there, through the flash of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight;
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with the utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell――but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan _fifteen_ miles away!

Still spring from these swift hoof? thundering south.
The dust, like the smoke from the cannon’s mouth,
Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster;
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster:
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master,
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls:
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only _ten_ miles away!

Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed;
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire:
But, lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire――
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only _five_ miles away!

The first that the General saw, were the groups
Of stragglers, and then, the retreating troops!
What was done――what to do――a glance told him both,
And striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
He dashed down the line ’mid a storm of huzzahs,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there,
Because the sight of the master compelled it to pause,
With foam and with dust the black charger was grey:
By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril’s play,
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
“I have brought you Sheridan, all the way
From Winchester down to save the day!”

Hurrah! Hurrah! for Sheridan!
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldier’s Temple of Fame,――
There with the glorious general’s name,
Be it said in letters both gold and bright:
“Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester――twenty miles away!”

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

――――

SCHLOSSER’S RIDE.

Righd from der front one putiful day,
Bringin’ der rear some fresh dismay,
A frightened sendinel broughd der news
(He looked as if he vas scared like der doose,
Der vay he kigged his legs so loose).
Delling der rebels were coming aheadt,
“Und shooding like hell,” dot’s vot he said.
De gallant soldiers, I haf no doubd,
Ad dis schweed news mid joy should shoud,
Bud as der news vas spread aboud,
Do dell der druth, dey looked down in der moud;
Exbecially von boor Dutchman dere,
Who, when he heard der guns in der air,
Almost did durn himself gray hair.
Pore Schlosser didn’t like id ad all,
Do gid himself gud mit a cannon-ball.
Und dalk as you may, dot Dutchman vas righd――
In a baddle its petter do bin oud of sighd;
Do been shod und exploded dot ain’t much fun,
So long as you hafe any chance for do run,
Und as dose shells did bust around,
Und knocked der soldiers on der ground,
Exbloding mit a gentle sound,
Dot Schlosser quick made ub his mind,
De first goot horse dot he should find,
He’d ride avay as quick as der vind,
Und leaf de baddle far behint.
Und soon he finds him a schblendid horse,
Und climbs on him midoud some pause;
Den shburs his side mid his big heel,
Und gallobs from der battle-field.
Dere is a road righd near dot schbot,
A first-rate road for a horse do drot,
Und dere dot frightened Schlosser rides,
Und kigs der poor horse in der sides,
Und shcreams so much at him besides;
Der drees, der road dey bass like a schot.
Fadigue and exposure dot cubble feel not,
Dey vish do get only avay from dot schbot.
Doo-forty dot hot horse he goes flyin’ avay;
Der hills rise and fall, und Schlosser is gay,
’Cause he is more as fife miles avay.
Shdill der hoofs of dot old nag
For efen a minute did never lag;
He shtrained him efery sdhrength he got,
Und Schlosser, as he on him sot,
Vas heard to laugh in a cholly vay,
’Cause now he vas ten miles avay.
Und sdhill old Schlosser pushed him aheadt,
“I feel quite bedder now,” he said,
Und his face god back ids natural red;
But nod a minute did he stay,
Und soon he was dwenty miles avay.
So goot dot horse his duty done,
Dot pefore der setting of der sun,
He carried his rider――dat son of a gun――
Away from der sount of any gun.
Und ven dot baddle vos at ids dop,
Und de swords mit awful noise did pop,
Und de ground mit heldy blood did sop,
Dot Schlosser as he rode along,
He singed himself a funny song.
He vasn’d dinkin’ ’boud der fray――
He vas more as a hundred miles avay,
Dree cheers! dree cheers! for Schlosser, bold.
Four cheers! four cheers! for dot horse so old.

There is another parody, also in the Dutch _patois_, entitled _Schneider’s Ride_, it relates how Schneider saved his contraband whiskey from the revenue officers. It does not follow the original very closely, and is not of sufficient interest to be inserted here.

――――:o:――――

Read, an artist as well as a poet, first came into notice as the author of several sweet and graceful lyrics. His best poems are those which have a pastoral character, of which the following, taken from _The Diversions of the Echo Club_, is an imitation:――

A SYLVAN SCENE.

The moon, a reaper of the ripened stars,
Held out her silver sickle in the west;
I leaned against the shadowy pasture-bars,
A hermit, with a burden in my breast.

The lilies leaned beside me as I stood;
The lilied heifers gleamed beneath the shed;
And spirits from the high ancestral wood
Cast their articulate benisons on my head.

The twilight oriole sang her valentine
From pendulous nests above the stable-sill,
And, like a beggar, asking alms and wine,
Came the importunate murmur of the mill.

Love threw his flying shuttle through my woof,
And made the web a pattern I abhorred;
Wherefore alone I sang, and far aloof,
My melting melodies, mightier than the sword.

The white-sleeved mowers, coming slowly home,
With scythes like rainbows on their shoulders hung,
Sniffed not, in passing me, the scent of Rome,
Nor heard the music trickling from my tongue.

The milkmaid following, delayed her step,
Still singing as she left the stable-yard:
’Twas “Sheridan’s Ride,” she sang; I turned and wept,
For woman’s homage soothes the suffering bard.

SONG.

Trust not man for he’ll deceive you,
Treach’ry is his sole intent;
For he’ll _court_ you, then he’ll _leave_ you
Poor, deluded, to lament.

Formed by nature to undo us,
They escape our utmost heed,
Oh! how _humble_ when they woo us,
But how _proud_ when they _succeed_.

So the _Bird_ when once deluded
By the fowler’s artful snare,
Pines out life, in cage secluded,
Fair ones, while you’re young, beware!

――――

A PARODY.

Trust not _woman_, she’ll beguile you,
All her smiles are form’d by Art,
First she’ll _flatter_, then _exile_ you,
Sighing with a broken heart!

Form’d by nature to pursue us,
They outstrip the fleetest men;
Ah! how sweet they bill and coo us,
But how proud they triumph then!

So the _fish_ the bait admiring,
On the _angler’s_ fatal snare,
Gasps out life, in pangs expiring!
Lovers, of the hook beware!

From _The American Songster_. About 1770.

――――:o:――――

TEMPTATION AND EXPLANATION.

I just buttoned her glove
And her dress had no sleeve
You will blame me my Love;
But I beg you believe――
That――(just what I can’t prove),
But her dress had no sleeve,
And she made some slight move
And then――prithee sweet dove
Do not let yourself grieve.
For my heart did not rove
Though my wits all took leave,
By this mark of her glove
On my cheek you perceive
That――her dress had no sleeve.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

――――

A NEWSPAPER PARODY.

I just buckled the tug
And the whiffle tree fixed,
You will blame me, my love,
But I’m still somewhat mixed,
And (next week I can move).
The blamed whiffle tree’s fixed,
The mule made a slight move
And then――prithee sweet dove
Bring the arnica here,
I went sailing above
Through the ether so clear.
By this mark of his hoof
On my cheek you will know
That――the bay mule must go.

――――

YOU KISSED ME.

You kissed me! My forehead drooped low on your breast
With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest,
While the holy emotion my tongue dared not speak
Flushed up like a flame from my heart to my cheek;
Your arms held me fast, oh! your arms were so bold;
Heart beat against heart in their passionate fold.
Your glances seemed drawing my soul through my eyes,
As the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies;
And your lips clung to mine till I prayed in my bliss
They might never unclasp from that rapturous kiss.

You kissed me! My heart and my breath and my will
In delirious joy for the moment stood still;
Life had for me then no temptations, no charms,
No visions of pleasure, outside of your arms.
And were I this instant an angel possessed
Of the joy and the peace that are given the blest,
I would fling my white robes unrepiningly down,
And tear from my forehead the beautiful crown,
To nestle once more in that haven of rest,
With your lips upon mine, and my head on your breast.

You kissed me! My soul in a bliss so divine
Reeled and swooned like a drunken man foolish with wine;
And I thought ’twere delicious to die there, if death
Would come while my lips were yet moist with your breath;
’Twere delicious to die, if my heart might grow cold
While your arms wrapped me round in that passionate fold,
And these are the questions I ask day and night:
Must my lips taste but once such exquisite delight?
Would you care if your breast was my shelter as then,
And if you were here would you kiss me again?

JOSEPHINE HUNT (_Chicago Tribune_.)

In publishing this a few years ago, the _New York Tribune_ said, “The above exquisite poem was written in 1857, when the young lady, the author, was under 20. It was addressed to a certain young gentleman, the hero of the occasion portrayed. James Redpath thought so well of the poem that he published quite an edition on white satin ribbon. Whittier, the poet, wrote of it and its young author, that she had ‘mastered the secret of English rhythm.’”

Thereupon the “bad man” of the _Chicago Tribune_ broke out as follows:――

You kicked me! my head dropped low on my vest
With a feeling as if I would like to go west,
While the cock-and-bull story about my rich love
For your daughter――my Mabel, had flown like a dove.
Your fist held me fast――oh, my back was so cold;
Boot beat against pants, and each hearty kick told.
Your boot toe seemed knocking my spine through my eyes,
As the White Stocking boys knock the sky scraping flies.
Your foot clung to me till I prayed you might miss
Me just once, and your corn ’gainst the table leg kiss.

You missed me! my heart and my breath and my will
In delirious joy for a moment stood still,
Life had for me then no temptations, no charms,
No visions of happiness, outside of your arms,
And were I this instant an angel possessed
Of the peace and the joy that are given the blest,
I would fling my white robes unrepiningly down,
I would tear from my forehead its beautiful crown,
To listen once more to that old man’s wild whoop,
As he basted his bunion out on the front stoop.

“The above exquisite poem was written in 1881, when the author was a young man under 30. It was addressed to a certain old gentleman, the hero of the occasion portrayed. A Chicago editor thought so well of the poem that he once published quite an edition on wood pulp paper. Whittier the poet wrote of it, and its young author, that ‘he had evidently been there.’”

The same “bad man” quotes, on another occasion, without giving the author’s name, the following lines:――

Falling leaf and fading tree
Lines of white in a sullen sea,
Shadows rising o’er you and me,
The swallows are making them ready to fly
Wheeling out on a windy sky;
Good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye.

“Hush,” a voice from the far away,
“Listen and learn,” it seemed to say
“All the to-morrows shall be as to-day,
The cord is frayed, the cruse is dry,
The link must break and the lamp must die,
Then good-bye to hope, good-bye, good-bye.”

“What are we waiting for, oh my heart?
Kiss me straight on the brows and part
Again! Again! My heart! My heart!
What are we waiting for you and I?
A pleading look, a stifled cry,
Then good-bye, friend, good-bye, good-bye.”

_After which followed this parody._

Easy chair and soft young man,
Lovely girl on his kneepan.
Let him hold her while he can.
Her father is taking the chain off the pup,
On Tommy’s pants he will shortly sup;
Get up Myrtle! get up, get up.

“Biff,” a voice from the far away,
“Over the gate,” it seemed to say;
“Come round to-morrow the bill to pay.”
The dog is hungry, the moon is pale,
God help the boy if the trousers fail,
Set sail, Tommy, set sail, set sail.

“What is he waiting for, O, my heart?
Why don’t he get another start?
Again! Again! My heart! My heart!
What are you waiting for Tommy dear?
Get up and hustle, the coast is clear;
Some day that front gate will be his bier.”

――――:o:――――

“THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.”

_Harper’s Cyclopædia of Poetry_ says Clement C. Moore (1779-1863) was the son of a bishop, and a native of New York City. In 1844 he published a volume of poems dedicated to his children. One of them, founded on an old Dutch tradition, is generally known as “The Night before Christmas,” although the author christened it “A Visit from St. Nicholas.”

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar plums danced through their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes did appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nic.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer! and Vixen!
On Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too,
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof,
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack.
His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry,
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly,
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to the team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

――――

THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.

’Twas the night _after_ Christmas when all through the house,
Every soul was abed and as still as a mouse,
Those stockings so lately St. Nicholas’ care
We emptied of all that was eatable there,
The darlings had lately been tucked in their beds
With very full stomachs, and pain in their heads.

I was dozing away in my new cotton cap,
And Nancy was rather far gone in a nap,
When out in the nuss’ry arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my sleep, crying, “What is the matter?”
I flew to each bedside――still half in a doze――
Tore open the curtains and threw off the clothes,
While the light of the taper served clearly to show
The piteous plight of those objects below.
For what to the fond father’s eyes should appear
But the little pale face of each sick little dear,
For each pet that had crammed itself full as a tick
I knew in a moment now felt like Old Nick.

I turned from the sight, to my bedroom stepped back,
And brought out a vial marked “Pulv. Ipecac,”
When my Nancy exclaimed――for their sufferings shocked her――
“Don’t you think you had better, love, run for the doctor!”
I ran, and was scarcely back under my roof,
When I heard the sharp clatter of old Jalop’s hoof.
I might say that I hardly had turned myself round,
When the doctor came into the room with a bound;
He was covered with mud from his head to his foot,
And the suit he had on was his very worst suit,
He had hardly had time to put this on his back,
And he looked like a Falstaff half fuddled with sack.
His eyes how they twinkled! Had the doctor got merry?
His cheeks looked like Port, and his breath smelt of Sherry.
He had’nt been shaved for a fortnight or so,
And the beard on his chin wasn’t white as the snow.

But inspecting their tongues in despite of their teeth,
And drawing his watch from his waistcoat beneath,
He felt of each pulse,――saying――“Each little belly
Must get rid”――here he laughed――“of the rest of that jelly.”
I gazed on each chubby plump sick little elf,
And groaned when he said so――in spite of myself,
But a wink of his eye when he physicked our Fred,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He didn’t prescribe, but went straightway to work,
He dosed all the rest; gave his trousers a jerk,
And adding directions while blowing his nose,
He buttoned his coat; from his chair he arose,
Then jumped in his gig, gave old Jalop a whistle,
And Jalop dashed off as if pricked by a thistle;
The doctor exclaimed e’er he drove out of sight,
“They’ll be better to-morrow――good night, Jones――good night!”

――――:o:――――

“THE PICKET GUARD.”

An American gentleman writes, that “one of the finest of the war productions was Thad Oliver’s, ‘The Picket Guard.’ I send the enclosed copy of it, as it may not be at hand for you, and the parody takes hold of all of us who have ever had experience in broken banks, and know how convenient Canada is.”

“All quiet along the Potomac,” they say,
“Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
’Tis nothing: a private or two now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost――only one of the men,
Moaning out all alone the death rattle.”

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear Autumn moon,
Or the light of the watchfires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle light wind
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above with their glittering eyes
Keep guard,――for the army is sleeping.

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,――
For their mother,――may Heaven defend her.

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night when the love yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips,――when low murmured vows,
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree――
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle: “Ha! Mary good-bye!”
And the life blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
The picket’s off duty for ever.

THAD OLIVER.

――――

ALONG THE ST. LAWRENCE.

All quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night,
Except now and then a cashier
Is seen as he crosses with gripsack in hand
And imagines a cop in the rear.

All quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night,
No sound save the rush of the water,
While amateur warriors curled up in bed,
Are dreaming of horrible slaughter.

“All hail to this snow-covered alien shore,”
Quoth the boodler, disporting a plug;
“Far better the sweep of the boreal blast
Than a bed in the circumscribed jug.

“But, alas! for the fellows who lingered too late;
We think of them ever with pain,
For they lost the rich spoils of municipal war
By waiting too late for the train.”

Was it the moonbeam so suddenly bright?
The starlight so wondrously flashing?
Ah, no: ’twas the glint of the glimmering glass,
And the cocktail is ebbing and splashing.

All quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night,
Though the cashier is crossing for ever;
While depositors rush on the bank which he left,
He draws on the bank of the river.

From _The New York World_.

――――:o:――――

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.

I hafe got a leedle boy
Vot gomes schust to my knee;
Der queerest schap, der greatest rogue
As efer you dit see;
He runs and jumps, und smashes dings
In all parts of der house――
But what of dot? he vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dots out;
He spills mine glass of lager beer,
Puts schnuff into mine kraut;
He fills mine pipe mit Limberg cheese――
Dot vas der roughest chouse;
I’d dake dot vrom no oder boy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk pan for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo,
To make der sthicks to beat it mit――
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine head vas schplit apart,
He kicks up such a touse――
But never mind, der boys vas few
Like dot leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints my nose so red?
Who vas it cuts dot schmoot blace out
Vrom der hair upon mine head?
Und vere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene’er der glim I douse――
How gan I all dese dings eggsblain
To dot shmall Yawcob Strauss?

I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,
Und beaceful dimes enshoy;
But ven he vas aschleep in ped
So quiet as a mouse,
I brays der Lord, “Dake anydings,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.”

CHARLES F. ADAMS.

――――

LEEDLE EDUARD STRAUSS.

They haf von very clever man
At der Inventorees.
To see him schust conduct der band,
Dats sometings if you please.

He hops und schumps und marks der time,
Und shows such taste and nous,
Dat dere’s to equal him no vun,
Mine clever Eduard Strauss!

He fills our ears mit lofely sounds,
Applause “brings down der house,”
Dat happens to feu uder poys,
But leedle Eduard Strauss.

He dakes der viddle in his hands,
Und he schust blay it, too!
He dake der schtick to beat der time
Mine gracious, dot vos drue.

His band blays not too loud nor zoft,
It kicks not up a touse,
Oh, peutiful! der schaps are few
Like leedle Eduard Strauss.

Und ven der beeble hear dot band
Dey at each oder glance,
Den vag deir heads, den move deir veet,
Und vish dot dey might dance.

Und ven dey blay der “_Danube Blue_,”
Vich vos vor an encore,
Dey velcome it as zomtings new,
Und call vor it vunce more.

Der beeble listen as dey blay
As guiet as a mouse,
Dere’s none vor dance tunes any day
Like leedle Eduard Strauss.

_Punch._ June 13, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE LESSONS OF THE BIRDS.

What is that, mother? The lark my child!
The morn has but just looked out and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his maker’s ear.
Ever my child, be thy morn’s first lays
Tuned, like the larks, to thy maker’s praise.

* * * * *

What is that, mother? The Swan, my love!
He is floating down from his native grove:
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,――
He is floating down, by himself, to die!
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings,
Live so, my son, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

G. W. DOANE.

――――

WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?

“What is that, mother, that comes from the urn,
Fragrant and strong as we get it in turn?”
“An infusion of leaves from far Cathay,
Leaves of the alder, and leaves of the bay,
With a twang, and full flavoured, just as it should be,
And I think that there may be some leaves of the tea.”

“What is that, mother, so coldly blue,
Like a wintry sky of azure hue?”
“That is milk of the city, that mixture, my dear,
The milk of the chalk-pit and pump that is near,
That would not be owned by a sensible cow,
For she never could make it, she wouldn’t know how.”

“What is that, mother, yellow as gold?”
“Butter, my boy; not the butter of old.
In the hey-day of youth we said tit for tat,
’Twas a prophecy when we said butter for fat;
That is butter, to those whom the scoffer calls green,
To the elect it is oleomargarine.”

“What is that, mother? ’Tis the pepper of trade,
But the Lord only knows of what it is made;
Of roasted meal, of dust, and peas
With a dash of cayenne, to make one sneeze
It is hot and strong, but it’s rather queer,
Of the ground pepper-corn, there is none of it here.

E. LAWSON FINERTY.

――――:o:――――

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

In the early part of the American civil war, one dark morning in the dead of winter, there died at the Commercial Hospital, Cincinnati, a young woman over whose head only two-and-twenty summers had passed. Once the pride of respectable parentage, her first wrong step was the small beginning of the “same old story over again,” which has been the only life-history of thousands. Highly educated and accomplished in manners, she might have shone in the best of Society. But the evil hour that proved her ruin was but the door from childhood; and having spent a young life in disgrace and shame, the poor friendless one died the melancholy death of a broken-hearted outcast.

Among her personal effects was found in manuscript, the “Beautiful Snow,” which was seen by Enos B. Reed, a gentleman of culture and literary tastes, who was at that time editor of the _National Union_. In the columns of that paper, on the morning following the girl’s death, the poem appeared in print for the first time. When the paper containing the poem came out on Sunday morning, the body of the victim had not yet received burial. The attention of Thomas Buchanan Read, one of the first American poets, was soon directed to the newly-published lines, who was so taken with their stirring pathos that he followed the corpse to its final resting-place.

The above account of the origin of the poem is that given by Mr. James Hogg, as far back as 1874, and repeated by him in the columns of “Notes and Queries” on July 3, 1875, but it is open to considerable doubt.

Some American writers ascribe it to Mr. James M. Watson, whilst others assert that it was written as far back as December, 1852, by Major W. A. Sigourney, and that his erring young wife was the miserable outcast described in the poem. It is also stated that on the night of April 22, 1871, Major Sigourney was found dead in the outskirts of New York, under circumstances leading to the belief that he had shot himself.

It is possible that Mr. Watson amplified and improved the poem from the original draft of Major Sigourney, which as usually printed, is shorter and far less pathetic.

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!
Filling the sky and the earth below;
Over the house-tops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet:
Dancing――Flirting――Skimming along.
Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong;
Flying to kiss a fair lady’s cheek,
Clinging to lips in frolicsome freak;
Beautiful snow from the heavens above――
Pure as an angel, gentle as love!

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go,
Whirling about in their maddening fun;
It plays in its glee with everyone――
Chasing――Laughing――Hurrying by.
It lights on the face, and sparkles the eye.
And the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
Snap at the crystals as they eddy around;
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow,
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

How wildly the crowd goes swaying along,
Hailing each other with humour and song!
How the gay sledges, like meteors, flash by,
Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye!
Ringing――Swinging――Dashing they go,
Over the crust of the beautiful snow――
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky
As to make one regret to see it lie,
To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet,
Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street.

Once I was pure as the snow, but I fell――
Fell like the snow-flakes from heaven to hell
Fell to be trampled as filth in the street――
Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat――
Pleading――Cursing――Dreading to die,
Selling my soul to whoever would buy;
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,
Hating the living and fearing the dead,
Merciful God, have I fallen so low?
And yet I was once like the beautiful snow.

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,
With an eye like its crystal, and heart like its glow:
Once I was loved for my innocent grace――
Flattered and sought for the charms of my face!
Father――Mother――Sisters, and all,
God and myself I have lost by my fall;
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by,
Will make a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh;
For all that is on or above me I know,
There is nothing so pure as the beautiful snow.

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow,
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it should be when the night comes again,
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!
Fainting――Freezing――-Dying alone.
Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan,
To be heard in the streets of the crazy town.
Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down
To lie and to die in my terrible woe,
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow.

Helpless and foul as the trampled snow,
Sinner, despair not! Christ stoopeth low
To rescue the soul that is lost in its sin,
And raise it to life and enjoyment again.
Groaning――Bleeding――Dying for thee.
The Crucified hung on the accursed tree.
His accents of mercy fell soft on thine ear――
“Is there mercy for me? Will He heed my prayer?”
O God, in the stream that for sinners doth flow,
Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

――――

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

The following is the version ascribed to Major Sigourney:――

Beautiful Snow! Beautiful snow!
Falling so lightly,
Daily and nightly,
Alike round the dwellings of lofty and low.
Horses are prancing,
Cherrily dancing,
Stirred by the spirit that comes from the snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow!
Up at the dawning,
In the cold morning,
Children exult, though the winds fiercely blow;
Hailing the snow-flakes
Falling as day breaks――
Joyful they welcome the beautiful snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow!
Childhood’s quick glances
See the bright fancies
Decking the window-panes softly and slow;
Forest and city,
Figure so pretty,
Left by the magical fingers of snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow!
Atmosphere chilling,
Carriage-wheels stilling,
Warming the cold earth, and kindling the glow
Of Christian pity
For the great city
Of wretched creatures who starve ’mid the snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow!
Fierce winds blowing,
Thickly ’tis snowing;
Night gathers round us――how warm then the glow
Of the fire so bright,
On the cold winter night,
As we draw in the curtains to shut out the snow.

Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow!
Round the bright fireside,
In the long eventide,
Closely we gather though keen the winds blow;
Safely defended,
Kindly befriended,
Pity the homeless exposed to the cold, icy snow.

_December_, 1852.
――――

LONDON SNOW.

O, the snow! the beautiful snow!
Feathering down to the ground below.
Snow on the pavement, and snow on the street,
Snow on the boots of the people you meet.
Train, cab, or omnibus? O, no!――no!
Nothing to-day but the beautiful snow;
Nothing to go by and nowhere to go,
All through the fall of the beautiful snow.

O, the slush! the ineffable slush!
Snow, mud, and fog churned to maddening mush,
Slush that slips in through the boots on your feet,
Slush that slops up to your chimney-pot neat.
Into town――into country――wherever you rush
Nothing to-day but ineffable slush:
Bedraggled merino, and velvet, and plush,
Trail through the swamps of ineffable slush.

_The Globe._ January, 28, 1886.

――――

THAT BEAUTIFUL KISS.

When Madame Patti was in St. Louis, U.S., in 1884, the then Governor, Mr. T. T. Crittenden, called upon her, and during some playful badinage, he kissed her. The newspapers got hold of the story and humourously enlarged upon it, one of them published the following parody, wickedly ascribing it to the Governor:――

Oh, that kiss! that beautiful kiss!
Filling and thrilling my lips with its bliss;
Reaching ’way down to the depths of my soul,
Voting early and often at joys inmost poll,
O, transport ecstatic! O rapture I hail
More pleasant than pardoning crooks out of jail,
Throbbing,
Sense robbing,
Oh bountiful bliss,
I’d yield my political hopes for that kiss!

Once I was pure as that beautiful kiss,
But that was several years before this――
In the years ere executive honors o’er snowed
The spot whereon ringlets of raven once growed,
Ere I sainted that Bourbon, the good Jesse James,
And saved brother Frank from the high scaffolds claims.
Jobbery,
Snobbery,
All I’d eschew,
For the ravishing moment I snatched kiss from you.

O that kiss! that staccato-like thud!
Sound as when cow pulls her hoof from the mud.
Nicolini stood by, but I cared not a whit
For him, or the fury of bold Mrs. Crit,
I let all ambitions bright hopes float in wrack,
Away on the wings of that one luscious smack,
That old houri,
Missouri,
For me holds no bliss
One half so entrancing as that Patti kiss.

It could scarcely have been the same newspaper writer who wrote the following unfavourable criticism upon Madame Patti’s singing: “Her technique is bad, besides being too small. When a bran-new technique can now be had for three dollars, and a good second-hand one, holding over two quarts, for $1.75, there is no excuse for this. Of course we all know――all we critics――that there are no tears in Mrs. A. Patti’s voice, which is the reason for her having to wet her whistle so early and often. There is a marked deficiency in breadth, and depth, and thickness in the upper register, which does not admit the air freely in consequence, and a far-off nearness, a sort of inanimate after-taste, so to speak, in the diminuendo of her flats, particularly her French flat. Her singular mannerism of holding her chin lopsided during her G ups is in bad form, and the first thing she knows, one of her sharps will come out edgeways and cut her throat. Then she opens her mouth too much and too often when she sings, which makes her chest-notes mouthy, and her mouth-notes chesty. It would be much better, to say nothing of more artistic, if she were to open only one side of her mouth at a time. This would save wear and tear of her teeth, and at the same time give the other corner time to rest and brace up. She exerts herself too much in her trills, and it would save her both breath and expense if she had them hereafter done behind the scenes, by a boy with a dog-whistle or something.”

――――:o:――――

HANS BREITMANN’S BARTY.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Dey had biano-blayin;
I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau,
Her name was Madilda Yane.
She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel,
Her eyes vas himmel-plue,
Und vhen day looket indo mine,
Dey shplit mine heart in dwo.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
I vent dere you’ll pe pound;
I valizet mit Madilda Yane,
Und vent shpinnen’ round and round.
De pootiest Fraulein in de house,
She vayed ’pout dwo hoondred pound,
Und efery dime she gife a shoomp
She make de vindows sound.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
I dells you it cost him dear;
Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks
Of foost-rate lager beer.
Und vhenefer dey knocks de shpicket in
De Deutschers gifes a cheer;
I dinks dat so vine a barty
Never coom to a het dis year.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Dere all was Souse and Brouse,
Vhen de sooper corned in, de gompany
Did make demselfs to house;
Dey ate das Brot and Gensybroost,
De Bratwurst and Braten vine,
Und vash der Abendessen down
Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Ve all cot troonk ash bigs;
I put mine mout’ to a parrel of beer,
Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs;
Und den I gissed Madilda Yane,
Und she shlog me on the kop,
Und de gompany vighted mit daple-lecks
Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty――
Where ish dat barty now?
Vhere ish de lofely golden cloud
Dat float on de moundain’s prow?
Vhere ish de himmelstrahlende stern――
De shtar of de shpirit’s light?
All goned afay mit de lager beer――
Afay in de ewigkeit!

CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.

――――

THE FATE OF THE FOUR.

Lord Woodcock[136] had a Party,
Of high heroic strain;
They held that the Liberal lot were naught,
And Gladstone’s vauntings vain.
They had principles of the patriot type,
True Neo-Tory Blue,
And when in muster full they met,
They numbered――just twice two!

Lord Woodcock had a Party;
Those Four were ever found
In the deadly breach with vote and speech,
When the word for fight went round;
The cockiest four in all the House,
There was Balfour, Wolff, and Gorst,
When Woodcock led those three to war,
Their foes might dread the worst.

* * * * *

Lord Woodcock _had_ a Party,――
Where is that Party now?
Where is the hyacynthin crop
That decked young Dizzy’s brow?
Where is Adullam? Where Bob Lowe,
That star of free-lance fight?
All gone with the flash of yesterday’s “fizz,”
Away “_in the ewigkeit_.”

_Punch._ March 5, 1881.

――――:o:――――

THE FATE OF THE FRONTIERSMAN.

After Joaquin Miller, an exaggeration of an exaggeration, for indeed much of Miller’s verse is a travesty of poetry.

That whiskey-jug! For dry or wet,
My tale will need its help, you bet!

We made for the desert, she and I,
Though life was loathsome, and love a lie,
And she gazed on me with her glorious eye,
But all the same,――I let her die!
For why?――there was barely water for one
In the small canteen, and of provender, none!
A splendid snake, with an emerald scale,
Slid before us along the trail,
With a famished parrot pecking its head;
And, seizing a huge and dark brown rock
In her dark brown hands, as you crush a crock,
With the dark brown rock she crushed it dead.
But ere her teeth in its flesh could meet,
I laid her as dead as the snake at my feet,
And grabbed the snake for myself to eat.

The plain stretched wide from side to side,
As bare and blistered and cracked and dried
As a moccasin sole of buffalo hide,
And my throat grew hot, as I walked the trail,
My blood in a sizzle, my muscles dry,
A crimson glare in my glorious eye,
And I felt my sinews wither and fail,
Like one who has lavished, for fifty nights,
His pile in a hell of gambling delights,
And is kicked at dawn, from bottle and bed,
And sent to the gulches without a red.
There was no penguin to pick or pluck,
No armadillo’s throat to be stuck,
Not even a bilberry’s ball of blue
To slush my tongue with its indigo dew,
And the dry brown palm-trees rattled and roared
Like the swish and swizzle of Walker’s sword.
I was nigh rubbed out; when, far away,
A shanty baked in the furnace of day,
And I petered on, for an hour or more,
Till I dropped, like a mangy hound, at the door.

No soul to be seen; but a basin stood
On the bench, with a mess of dubious food,
Stringy and doughy and lumpy and thick,
As the clay ere flame has turned it to brick.
I gobbled it up with a furious fire,
A prairie squall of hungry desire,
And strength came back; when, lo! a scream
Closed my stomach and burst my dream.
She stood before me, as lithe and tall
As a mosqueet-bush on the Pimos wall,
Fierce as the Zuni panther’s leap,
Fair as the slim Apache sheep.
A lariat draped her broad brown hips,
As she stood and glared with parted lips,
While piercing stitches and maddening shoots
Ran through my body, from brain to boots.
I would have clasped her, but ere I could,
She flung back her hair’s tempestuous hood,
And screamed, in a voice like a tiger-cat’s:
“You’ve gone and ett up my pizen for rats!”
My blood grew limp and my hair grew hard
As the steely tail of the desert pard:
I sank at her feet, convulsed and pale,
And kissed in anguish her brown toe-nail.

You may rip the cloud from the frescoed sky,
Or tear the man from his place in the moon,
Fur from the buzzard, and plumes from the coon,
But you can’t tear me from the truth I cry,
That life is loathsome and love a lie.
She lifted me up to her bare brown face,
She cracked my ribs in her brown embrace,
And there in the shanty, side by side,
Each on the other’s bosom died.

She’s now the mistress of Buffalo Bill,
And pure as the heart of a lily still;
While I’ve killed all who have cared for me,
And I’m just as lonely as I can be,
So, pass the whiskey,――we’ll have a spree!

From _Diversions of the Echo Club_, by Bayard Taylor.

Several other parodies of American poets have already been quoted from _The Diversions of the Echo Club_, and it is only now necessary to say of the others that they are written in imitation of E. C. Stedman, Mrs. Sigourney, W. C. Bryant, T. B. Oldrich, Mrs. Stoddard, N. P. Willis, R. H. Stoddard, Henry T. Tuckerman, Jean Ingelow, George H. Baker, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, and William Winter.

――――:o:――――

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!

This favourite old song was written by an American, General G. P. Morris, and several parodies of it were inserted in Volume IV., the following has since been received from the United States:――

THE WOODMAN’S REPLY.

No, mum, this ’ere old tree
Can’t be no longer spared;
It ain’t no odds to me,
If Muster Brown was squared;
But Muster Brown says, “Green,
You drop that there tree down,”
And what _he say he mean_,
Sure-ly, do Muster Brown.

I don’t possess the ’ed
To hargify with you,
A lady born and bred
Is safe to speak what’s true.
But, put a case, I takes
A job from Mr. B.
(And little ’tis I makes
Out of the likes of he).

Your heart-strings, and all that,
Round this ’ere tree may cling――
To contradict you flat,
Would not be quite the thing;
But if you talk of shade,
There’s other boughs than these,
And other folks have played,
Mayhap, round other trees.

It’s very good to feel
A mystning of the eyes,
For chairs of oak or deal,
And old straw-hats likewise,
To keep, if you’ve a mind,
The things as makes you weep;
I’ve got no fault to find,
If they’re your own to keep.

But this ’ere old oak tree,
As you don’t want cut down,
Excuse me, mum, you see,
Belongs to Muster Brown.
To him you should apply,
Though ’taint no use I think,
And if you please, mum, I
Should like your health to drink.

GODFREY TURNER.

――――:o:――――

Although, as has been seen, American writers have abundance of humour, it does not make them proud, and they will appropriate the comic writings of our authors, without acknowledgment, in the most condescending manner. A volume of amusing verse entitled “Songs of Singularity” was brought out by Mr. Walter Parke in 1874, it contained a ballad on the mother-in-law, a theme of never-failing fruitfulness to the satirist. That same ballad afterwards appeared in the _San Francisco News Letter_, duly appropriated and altered to suit the local market, without one word of acknowledgment to the original author.

BY THE SAD SEA WAVES.
AN IDYLL.

“O gai!”――_French exclamation of delight._

He stood on his head on the wild sea shore,
And joy was the cause of the act,
For he felt as he never had felt before,
Insanely glad in fact.
And why? In that vessel that left the bay
His mother-in-law had sail’d
To a tropical country far away,
Where tigers and snakes prevailed.
And more than one of his creditors too――
Those objects of constant dread――
Had taken berths in that ship “Curlew,”
Whose sails were so blithely spread.
Ah! _now_ he might hope for a quiet life,
Which he never had known as yet,
’Tis true that he _still_ possessed a wife,
And was not _quite_ out of debt,
But he watch’d the vessel, this singular chap,
O’er the waves as she up’d and down’d,
And he felt exactly like Louis Nap.
When “the edifice was crown’d.”
Till over the blue horizon’s edge
She disappeared from view,
Then up he leapt on a chalky ledge
And danced like a kangaroo.
And many and many a joysome lay
He pealed o’er the sunset sea;
’Till down with a “fizz” went the orb of day,
And then he went home to tea.

WALTER PARKE.

――――

HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW.

He stood on his head by the wild sea shore,
And danced on his hands a jig;
In all his emotions, as never before,
A wildly hilarious grig.
And why? In that ship just crossing the bay
His mother-in-law had sail’d
For a tropical country far away,
Where tigers and fever prevailed.
Oh! now he might hope for a peaceful life
And even be happy yet,
Though owning no end of neuralgic wife,
And up to his collar in debt.
He had borne the old lady through thick and thin;
And she lectured him out of breath;
And now as he looked at the ship she was in,
He howled for her violent death.
He watched as the good ship cut the sea,
And bumpishly up-and-downed,
And thought if already she qualmish might be,
He’d consider his happiness crowned.
He watched till beneath the horizon’s edge
The ship was passing from view;
And he sprang to the top of a rocky ledge,
And pranced like a kangaroo.
He watched till the vessel became a speck
That was lost in the wandering sea,
And then, at the risk of breaking his neck,
Turned somersaults home to tea.

From _The San Francisco News Letter_.

Mr. Parke, being a good natured man, might not, perhaps, have objected to the theft of his poem, but the mutilations must have been galling to his feelings.

He has since republished the poem, with some alterations to fit it for music, in “Patter Poems, humourous and serious.” London, Vizetelly and Co.

――――:o:――――

ON THE PIER.
_An American Idyll._

Our friend, Dapper English, on a Mississippi Pier, awaits the advent by river boat, of an Americaness whom he adores. A hunter, who will voyage by the same boat, drinks freely until its arrival, and thus urbanely accosts Dapper:――

Look ye hyar, young feller! Not you, ye wizen’d old stoat!
Him! that smarty chap. What flower’s that in your coat?
It looks so bright an’ red ’longside ’o that sprig o’ green,
I like the look of it rayther. Don’t you know what I mean?

Don’t yer know who I am? Look hyar! Y’ see that knife?
It’s dug out o’ human an’ grizzly the red and ragin’ life.
I’m Grizzly Jim o’ Nebraska! Hain’t ye heerd o’ him?
An’ the human dies an’ the grizzly that crosses Grizzly Jim.

Now, I like yer flower, young feller. Confound yer Britisher look:
Don’t yer know what I mean? What I’ve liked I’ve allus took.
Jest you hand over that flower as humble as humble can be,
Or this’ll make winders and doors where yer won’t like sich to be.

Laughin’. By thunder! Dog done it, ye’re grit, an’ I love yer spunk.
Come, tip us yer flipper, stranger; I reckon yer not such a skunk.
Why that _was_ the grip of a man, yer a fellow the reds ’ud fear,
Let’s have a drink. _Don’t?_ Moses! _Don’t!_ Why ain’t that queer,

_Not!_ an’ a feller like you! Nor smoke? Eh? Well, that’s rum!
What’s the name o’ yer flower, I say! _Gee-ray-nee-um._
That’s a comical name; and _fern’s_ that bit o’ green,
Never know’d it before, though acres of ’em I’ve seen.

Where’d you get ’em? Grew ’em? Come, sell me one, I say!
Here’s half-a-dozen o’ dollars: I want to throw ’em away,
Hain’t got yer flowers clus by? Besides, you wouldn’t trade.
You’d gi’ me ’em if you had em. Well, yer a generous blade.

Too tarnal proper a chap by half for a Britisher.
But why wouldn’t you gi’ me _that_ flower, you lyin’ sneak of a cur?
Well, beg parding. You were’nt ask’d, that is, in a proper way;
Besides, goin’ courtin’ I s’pose. Ay, an’ likely, too, I say.