Chapter X: Part II: The Reading-Club (4)

With a lowly bow, and the same meek air,
He has passed the door, and adown the stair;
While those he has left to their leader turn
With downcast eyes, and cheeks that burn.
Silent he stands as his glass he takes,
When the guest of the evening the silence breaks.
“Friends of my boyhood, the old man’s prayer
Shall meet a response in the heart I wear.
I come to-night from a mother’s side:
She watches my life with a parent’s pride;
And I know ’tis the dearest wish of her heart,
In camp and in battle to keep me apart
From sin and temptation; unceasing will pray
Heaven’s blessing to guard on my perilous way.
And this pledge will I leave her,—never again
The wine-cup’s deadly poison to drain.
So, friends, let’s drink to our meeting again:
My drink is the water, free from all stain.”
He stood with his upraised glass, and the light
Full on his fair young brow beamed bright,—
That brow which an anxious mother would kiss
With a pure, deep feeling of heartfelt bliss;
And along the line of his comrades young,
To honor his toast, each hand upsprung:
In not one glass did the red wine gleam;
But all were filled from the crystal stream.

On the morrow, adown the street,
With trumpet’s blast and war-drum’s beat,
Firm and erect, with martial tread,
The flag of their Country overhead,
With brave, stout hearts, and patriot-song,
The Nation’s heroes go marching along.
And our soldier is there, marching forth
To join the bands of the loyal North;
To strike a blow for his Country dear,
And her trailing flag to again uprear.
Light is his heart; his faith is strong;
Bright gleams his sword as he moves along:
But the armor he wears that shall serve him best
Is the pledge to his mother guarding his breast.
_George M. Baker._

THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.

A STORY OF HOLLAND.

The good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play,—
“Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,
While there is light to see,
To the hut of the blind old man who lives
Across the dike, for me;
And take these cakes I made for him—
They are hot and smoking yet:
You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set.”

Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,
And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;
And set the turf a-blazing,
And brought the coarse black bread,
That he might find a fire at night,
And find the table spread.

And Peter left the brother,
With whom all day he had played,
And the sister who had watched their sports
In the willow’s tender shade,
And told them they’d see him back before
They saw a star in sight,
Though he wouldn’t be afraid to go
In the very darkest night!

For he was a brave, bright fellow,
With eye and conscience clear;
He could do whatever a boy might do,
And he had not learned to fear.
Why, he wouldn’t have robbed a bird’s nest,
Nor brought a stork to harm,
Though never a law in Holland
Had stood to stay his arm!

And now, with his face all glowing,
And eyes as bright as the day
With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,
He trudged along the way;
And soon his joyous prattle
Made glad a lonesome place—
Alas! if only the blind old man
Could have seen that happy face!
Yet he somehow caught the brightness
Which his voice and presence lent,
And he felt the sunshine come and go
As Peter came and went.

And now, as the day was sinking,
And the winds began to rise,
The mother looked from her door again.
Shading her anxious eyes,
And saw the shadows deepen,
And birds to their homes come back,
But never a sign of Peter
Along the level track.
But she said, “He will come at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve;
Though it isn’t like my boy at all
To stay without my leave.”

But where was the child delaying?
On the homeward way was he,
And across the dike, while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.
He was stopping, now to gather flowers,
Now listening to the sound,
As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound.
“Ah! well for us,” said Peter;
“That the gates are good and strong,
And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!
You’re a wicked sea,” said Peter:
“I know why you fret and chafe;
You would like to spoil our lands and homes
But our sluices keep you safe!”

But hark! Through the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound;
And the child’s face pales with terror,
And his blossoms drop to the ground.
He is up the bank in a moment,
And, stealing through the sand,
He sees a stream not yet so large
As his slender, childish hand.
’Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy,
Unused to fearful scenes;
But, young as he is, he has learned to know
The dreadful thing that means.
A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,
And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.
For he knows the smallest leak may grow
To a flood in a single night,
And he knows the strength of the cruel sea
When loosed in its angry might.

And the boy! He has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,
He forces back the weight of the sea
With the strength of his single arm.
He listens for the joyful sound
Of a footstep passing nigh,
And lays his ear to the ground, to catch
The answer to his cry.
And he hears the rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,
But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.
He sees no hope, no succor;
His feeble voice is lost;
Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,
Though he perish at his post!

So, faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea,
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company,
He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,
Of himself as dying—and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last:
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.

The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all night.
And now she watches the pathway,
As yestereve she had done;
But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?
Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door:
Her child is coming home, but not
As he ever came before!

“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!”
And the startled father hears,
And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears:
Till a glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife—
“Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,
And God has saved his life!”
So, there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy;
And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.

’Tis many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.
They have many a valiant hero
Remembered through the years,
But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.
And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told the child on the knee,
So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea!
_Phœbe Cary._

THE “COURSE OF LOVE” TOO “SMOOTH.”

She came tripping from the church-door, her face flushed by emotions awakened by the just uttered discourse, and eyes bright with loving expectation. He shivered on the curbstone, where for an hour he had waited impatiently, with a burning heart fairly palpitating in his throat, and frozen fingers in his pockets. They linked arms, and started for the residence of her parents. After a few moments’ hesitating, silence, he said, “Jane, we have known each other long. You must know just how I feel. You must have seen that clear down at the bottom—O Moses!”

He had slipped down on the ice with so much force that his spine was driven up into his hat, and his hat was tipped over his nose; but she was a tender-hearted girl; she did not laugh, but she carefully helped him to his feet, and said,—

“You were saying, John, when you slipped, that the foundation—Oh, goodness!”

She slipped herself that time, and saw little stars come down to dance before her eyes; but he pulled her up in haste, and went on,—

“Yes; just as I said, clean down at the bottom of my heart is a fervent love, on which I build my hopes. That love has helped me stand and face—Thunder!”

He was down again, but scrambled up before she could stoop to help him; and she said, breathlessly,—

“Yes, yes, John. You remember you just said a love which helped you stand and face thunder. And that you founded your hopes on—This pesky ice!”

There she sat. John grasped the loose part of her sack, between the shoulders, with one hand, and raised her to her feet, as one would lift a kitten from a pail of water by the back of the neck. Then he said, with increased earnestness,—

“Of course, darling; and I have longed for a opportunity to tell my love, and to hear those sweet lips whisper—Whoop!”

Somehow John’s feet had slipped from under him, and he had come down like a capital V with his head and feet pointing skyward. She twined her taper fingers in his curling locks, and raised him to the stature of a man, set his hat firmly over his eyes with both hands, and cried, in breathless haste,—

“I understand! and let me assure you John, that if it is in my power to lighten your cares, and make lighter your journey through life to—Jerusalem!”

John stood alone, and said with breathless vehemence,—“O my precious! and thus shall it be my lifelong pleasure to lift you from the rude assaults of earth, and surround you with the loving atmosphere of—Texas!”

And there they both sat together. They had nearly reached the gate, and, hand in hand, and with hearts overflowing with the bliss of young love’s first confession, they crept along on their knees up to the front steps, and were soon forgetful of their bumps on the softest cushion of the parlor sofa.

DYIN’ VORDS OF ISAAC.

Vhen Shicago vas a leedle villages, dher lifed dherein py dot Clark Sdhreet out, a shentlemans who got some names like Isaacs; he geeb a cloting store, mit goots dot vit you yoost der same like dhey vas made. Isaacs vas a goot fellers, und makes goot pishness on his hause. Vell, thrade got besser as der time he vas come, und dose leetle shtore vas not so pig enuff like anudder shtore, und pooty gwick he locks out und leaves der pblace.

Now Yacob Schloffenheimer vas a shmard feller; und he dinks of he dook der olt shtore, he got good pishness, und dose olt coostomers von Isaac out. Von tay dhere comes a shentlemans on his store, und Yacob quick say of der mans, “How you vas, mein freund? you like to look of mine goots, aind it?”—“Nein,” der mans say. “Vell, mein freund, it makes me notting troubles to show dot goots.”—“Nein; I don’d vood buy sometings to-tay”—“Yoost come mit me vonce, mein freund, und I show you sometings, und so hellup me gracious, I don’d ask you to buy dot goods.”—“Vell, I told you vat it vas. I don’d vood look at some tings yoost now; I keebs a livery shtable; und I likes to see mein old freund Mister Isaacs, und I came von Kaintucky out to see him once.”—“Mister Isaacs? Vell, dot ish pad; I vas sorry von dot. I dells you, mein freund, Mister Isaacs he vas died. He vas mein brudder, und he vas not mit us eny more. Yoost vhen he vas on his deat-ped, und vas dyin’, he says of me, ‘Yacob,’ (dot ish mine names), und I goes me ofer mit his petside, und he poods his hands of mine, und he says of me, ‘Yacob’ ofer a man he shall come von Kaintucky out, mit ret hair, und mit plue eyes, Yacob, sell him dings cheab;’ und he lay ofer und died his last.”

_Anonymous._

NO!

No sun—no moon—
No morn—no noon—
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day—
No sky—no earthly view—
No distance looking blue—
No road—no street—no “t’other side the way”—
No end to any Row—
No indications where the crescents go—
No top to any steeple—
No recognition of familiar people—
No courtesies for showing ’em—
No knowing ’em—
No travelling at all—no locomotion—
No inkling of the way—no notion—
No go, by land or ocean!
No mail—no post—
No news from any foreign coast—
No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility—
No company—no nobility—
No warmth—no cheerfulness, no healthful ease—
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!
_Hood._

THE MENAGERIE.

Did you ever? No, I never!
Mercy on us, what a smell!
Don’t be frightened, Johnny dear!
Gracious! how the jackalls yell.
Mother, tell me what’s the man
Doing with that pole of his?
Bless your little precious heart,
He’s stirring up the beastesses!

Children, don’t you go so near!
Heving’s! there’s the Afric cowses
What’s the matter with the child?
Why, the monkey’s, tore his trousers!
Here’s the monstrous elephant—
I’m all a-tremble at the sight;
See his monstrous toothpick, boys!
Wonder if he’s fastened tight?

There’s the lion! see his tail!
How he drags it on the floor!
Sakes alive! I’m awful scared
To hear the horrid creatures roar!
Here’s the monkeys in their cage,
Wide awake you are to see ’em;
Funny, ain’t it? How would you
Like to have a tail and be ’em?

Johnny, darling, that’s the bear
That tore the naughty boys to pieces!
Horned cattle! only hear
How the dreadful camel wheezes!
That’s the tall giraffe, my boy,
Who stoops to hear the morning lark;
’Twas him who waded Noah’s flood,
And scorned the refuge of the ark.

Here’s the crane—the awkward bird!
Strong his neck is as a whaler’s;
And his bill is full as long
As ever met one from the tailor’s.
Look! just see the zebra there,
Standing safe behind the bars;
Goodness me! how like a flag,
All except the corner stars!

There’s the bell! the birds and beasts
Now are going to be fed;
So, my little darlings, come,
It’s time for you to be abed.
“Mother, ’tisn’t nine o’clock!
You said we needn’t go before;
Let us stay a little while—
Want to see the monkeys more!”

Cries the showman, “Turn ’em out!
Dim the lights! there, that will do;
Come again to-morrow, boys;
Bring your little sister, too.”
Exit mother, half distraught,
Exit father, muttering “Bore!”
Exit children blubbering still,
“Want to see the monkeys more!”
_J. Honeywell._

BIDDY’S PHILOSOPHY.

What would I do if you was dead?
And when do you think of dying?
I’d stand by your bed, and hold your head,
And cry, or pretind to be crying!
There’s many a worser man nor you—
If one knew where to find him—
And mebbe many a better, too,
With money to leave behind him!
But you, if I was dying to-day,
(I saw you now when you kissed her!)
I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at—
You’d marry your widdy’s sister!

You’d make an illigant corpse, indade,
Sleeping so sound and stiddy;
If you could see yourself as you laid,
You’d want to come back to Biddy!
You would be dressed in your Sunday best,
As tidy as I could make you,
With a sprig of something on your breast,
And the boys would come to wake you.
But you, if I was dead in your stead,
(Do you think I never missed her?)
I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at—
You’d marry your widdy’s sister!

The undertaker would drive the hearse
That has the big black feather;
If there was no money left in your purse,
Your friends would club together.
They’d look at your cold remains before
They followed you down to the ferry,
And the coaches standing at the door
Would go to the cemetery.
But you, if I was once in the box,
(I wonder her lips don’t blister!)
I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at—
You’d marry your widdy’s sister!

When you was under the sod I’d sigh,
And—if I could do without you—
Mebbe I’ve a strapping lad in my eye
Would come here and talk about you.
A little courtin’ would be divertin’,
A kind voice whispering “_Biddy_!”
And a kiss on the sly—for what’s the hurt in
A man consoling a widdy?
But you, before I was dead at all,
(Now don’t deny that you kissed her!)
I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at—
You’d marry your widdy’s sister!
_R. H. Stoddard._

ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.

“Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey,
In the sunshine bright and strong,
For this world is fading, Pompey—
Massa won’t be with you long;
And I fain would hear the south wind
Bring once more the sound to me,
Of the wavelets softly breaking
On the shores of Tennessee.

“Mournful though the ripples murmur,
As they still the story tell,
How no vessels float the banner
That I’ve loved so long and well,
I shall listen to their music,
Dreaming that again I see
Stars and strips on sloop and shallop
Sailing up the Tennessee;

“And, Pompey, while old Massa’s waiting
For Death’s last despatch to come,
If that exiled starry banner
Should come proudly sailing home,
You shall greet it, slave no longer—
Voice and hand shall both be free
That shout and point to Union colors
On the waves of Tennessee.”

“Massa’s berry kind to Pompey;
But old darkey’s happy here,
Where he’s tended corn and cotton
For dese many a long gone year.
Over yonder Missis’ sleeping—
No one tends her grave like me:
Mebbe she would miss the flowers
She used to love in Tennessee.”

“’Pears like, she was watching Massa—
If Pompey should beside him stay,
Mebbe she’d remember better
How for him she used to pray;
Telling him that way up yonder
White as snow his soul would be,
If he served the Lord of heaven
While he lived in Tennessee.”

Silently the tears were rolling
Down the poor old dusky face,
As he stepped behind his master,
In his long accustomed place.
Then a silence fell around them,
As they gazed on rock and tree
Pictured in the placid waters
Of the rolling Tennessee,—

Master, dreaming of the battle
Where he fought by Marion’s side,
When he bid the haughty Tarleton
Stoop his lordly crest of pride,—
Man, remembering how yon sleeper
Once he held upon his knee,
Ere she loved the gallant soldier,
Ralph Vervair of Tennessee.

Still the south wind fondly lingers
’Mid the veteran’s silver hair;
Still the bondman close beside him
Stands behind the old arm-chair,
With his dark-hued hand uplifted,
Shading eyes, he bends to see
Where the woodland, boldly jutting,
Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows
Glide from tree to mountain crest,
Softly creeping, aye and ever
To the river’s yielding breast.
Ha! above the foliage yonder
Something flutters wild and free!
“Massa! Massa! Hallelujah!
The flag’s come back to Tennessee!”

“Pompey, hold me on your shoulder;
Help me stand on foot once more,
That I may salute the colors
As they pass my cabin door.
Here’s the paper signed that frees you;
Give a freeman’s shout with me—
‘God and Union’ be our watchword
Evermore in Tennessee!”

Then the trembling voice grew fainter,
And the limbs refused to stand;
One prayer to Jesus—and the soldier
Glided to the better land.
When the flag went down the river,
Man and master both were free;
While the ring-dove’s note was mingled
With the rippling Tennessee.
_E. L. Beers._

PADDY’S DREAM.

I have often laughed at the way an Irish help we had at Barnstable once fished me for a glass of whiskey. One morning he says to me, “Oh, yer honor,” says he, “I had a great drame last night intirely! I dramed I was in Rome, tho’ how I got there is more than I can tell: but there I was, sure enough; and as in duty bound, what does I do but go and see the Pope. Well, it was a long journey, and it was late when I got there—too late for the likes of me; and when I got to the palace I saw priests and bishops and cardinals, and all the great dignitaries of the Church, a-coming out; and sais one of them to me, ‘How are ye, Pat Moloney?’ sais he; ‘and that spalpeen yer father, bad luck to him! how is he?’ It startled me to hear me own name so suddent, that it came mighty nigh waking me up, it did. Sais I, ‘Your riverence, how in the world did ye know that Pat Moloney was me name, let alone that of me father?’—‘Why, ye blackguard!’ sais he, ‘I knew ye since ye was knee-high to a goose, and I knew yer mother afore ye was born.’—‘It’s good right yer honor has then to know me,’ sais I.—‘Bad manners to ye!’ sais he; ‘what is it ye are afther doing here at this time o’night?’—‘To see his Holiness, the Pope,’ sais I. ‘That’s right,’ sais he; ‘pass on, but leave yer impudence with yer hat and shoes at the door.’ Well, I was shown into a mighty fine room where his Holiness was, and down I went on me knees. ‘Rise up, Pat Moloney,’ sais his Holiness; ‘ye’re a broth of a boy to come all the way from Ireland to do yer duty to me; and it’s dutiful children ye are, every mother’s son of ye. What will ye have to drink, Pat?’ (The greater a man is, the more of a rael gintleman he is, yer honor, and the more condescending.) ‘What will ye have to drink, Pat?’ sais he. ‘A glass of whiskey, yer Holiness,’ sais I, ‘if it’s all the same to ye.’—‘Shall it be hot, or cold?’ sais he. ‘Hot,’ sais I, ‘if it’s all the same, and gives ye no trouble.’—‘Hot it shall be,’ sais he; ‘but as I have dismissed all me servants for the night, I’ll just step down below for the tay-kettle;’ and wid that he left the room, and was gone for a long time; and jist as he came to the door again he knocked so loud the noise woke me up, and, be jabers! I missed me whiskey entirely! Bedad, if I had only had the sense to say ‘Nate, yer Holiness,’ I’d a had me whiskey sure enough, and never known it warn’t all true, instead of a drame.” I knew what he wanted, so I poured him out a glass. “Won’t it do as well now, Pat?” said I. “Indeed it will, yer honor,” says he, “and me drame will come true, after all. I thought it would; for it was mighty nateral at the time, all but the whiskey.”

_Anonymous._

LESSONS IN COOKERY.

Miss Cicely Jones is just home from boarding-school, and engaged to be married; and, as she knows nothing about cooking or housework, is going to take a few lessons in culinary art to fit her for the new station in life which she is expected to adorn with housewifely grace. She certainly makes a charming picture as she stands in the kitchen-door, draped in a chintz apron prettily trimmed with bows of ribbon, her bangs hidden under a Dolly-Varden cap, old kid gloves, while she sways to and fro on her dainty French-kid heels, like some graceful wind-blown flower.

“Mamma,” she lisped prettily, “please introduce me to your assistant.”

Whereupon, mamma says, “Bridget, this is your young lady, Miss Cicely, who wants to learn the name and use of every thing in the kitchen, and how to make cocoanut rusks and angels’ food, before she goes to housekeeping for herself.”

Bridget gives a snort of disfavor; but, as she looks at the young lady, relents, and says, “I’ll throy.”

“And now, Bridget dear,” says Miss Cicely, when they were alone, “tell me every thing. You see, I don’t know any thing, except what they did at school; and isn’t this old kitchen lovely? What makes this ceiling such a beautiful bronze color, Bridget?”

“Shmoke,” answers Bridget shortly; “and me ould eyes are put out with that same.”

“Shmoke—I must remember that; and, Bridget, what are those shiny things on the wall?”

“Kivers?—tin kivers for pots and kittles.”

“Kivers?—oh, yes; I must look for the derivation of that word. Bridget, what are those round things in the basket?”

“Praties! (For the Lord’s sake where hez ye lived niver to hear of praties?) Why, them’s the principal mate of Ireland, where I kim from.”

“Oh! but we have corrupted the name into potatoes; such a shame not to keep the idiom of a language! Bridget—do you mind if I call you Biddie? It is more euphonious, and modernizes the old classic appellation. What is this liquid in the pan here?”

“Och, murder! Where wuz ye raised? That’s millick, fresh from the cow.”

“Millick? That is the vernacular, I suppose, of milk; and that thick, yellow coating?”

“Is crame. (Lord, such ignorance!)”

“Crame! Now, Biddie, dear, I must get to work. I’m going to make a cake all out of my own head for Henry—he’s my lover, Biddie—to eat when he comes to-night.”

Bridget [_aside_]: “It’s dead he is, sure, if he ates it!”

“I’ve got it all down here, Biddie, on my tablet: A pound of butter, twenty eggs, two pounds of sugar, salt to your taste. No, that’s a mistake. Oh, here it is! Now, Biddie, the eggs first. It says to beat them well; but won’t that break the shells?”

“Well, I’d break thim this time if I were you, Miss Cicely; they might not set well on Mister Henry’s stummack if ye didn’t,” said Bridget pleasantly.

“Oh! I suppose the shells are used separately. There! I’ve broken all the eggs into the flour. I don’t think I’ll use the shells, Biddie; give them to some poor people. Now, what next? Oh, I’m so tired! Isn’t housework dreadful hard? But I’m glad I’ve learned to make cake. Now, what shall I do next, Biddie?”

“Excuse me, Miss Cicely, but you might give it to the pigs. It’s meself can’t see any other use for it,” said Bridget, very crustily.

“Pigs! O Biddie! you don’t mean to say that you have some dear, cunning little white pigs! Oh, do bring the little darlings in and let me feed them! I’m just dying to have one for a pet! I saw some canton-flannel ones once at a fair, and they were too awfully sweet for any thing.”

Just then the bell rang, and Bridget returned to announce Mr. Henry; and Cicely told Bridget she would take another lesson the next day: and then she went up-stairs in her chintz apron and mob-cap, with a little dab of flour on her tip-lifted nose, and told Henry she was learning to cook; and he told her she must not be overheated, or worried out, for he didn’t care whether she could cook or not: he should never want to eat when he could talk to her, and it was only sordid souls that cared for cooking.

And, meanwhile, poor Bridget was just slamming things in the kitchen, and talking to herself in her own sweet idiom about “idgits turning things upside down for her inconvaniencing.”

_Detroit Free Press._

PAT’S REASON.

One day, in a crowded Market-street car,
A lady was standing. She had ridden quite far,
And seemed much disposed to indulge in a frown,
As nobody offered to let her sit down.
And many there sat, who, to judge by their dress,
Might a gentleman’s natural instincts possess;
But who, judged by their acts, make as firmly believe
That appearances often will sadly deceive.
There were some most intently devouring the news,
And some, through the windows, enjoying the views;
And others indulged in a make-believe nap,
While the lady stood holding on by the strap.
At last a young Irishman, fresh from the “sod,”
Arose with a smile and most comical nod,
Which said quite as plain as in words could be stated,
That the lady should sit in the place he’d vacated.
“Excuse me,” said Pat, “that I caused you to wait
So long before offerin’ to give you a sate;
But in truth I was only just waitin’ to see
If there wasn’t more gintlemin here beside me.”

AN ORIGINAL IDEA.

A DUOLOGUE FOR A LADY AND GENTLEMAN IN TWO PARTS.

CHARACTERS.

FESTUS, a rejected suitor.
STELLA, the cruel rejecter.

SCENE.—_A handsomely furnished apartment in the house of_ STELLA.
_Table,_ C., _with rich cover, books, flowers, etc.
Tête-à-tête,_ R. C., _arm-chairs_, R. _and_ L. _of
table,_ C. _Entrances,_ R., L., _and_ C.

_Enter_ FESTUS, L., _in evening costume._

_Festus._ “Thus far into the bowels of the land have we marched on without impediment.” Here am I once more in the place from which, but one short week ago, I made an unceremonious exit as the rejected suitor of a young, lovely, and talented lady. Rejected suitor!—those words slip very smoothly from the lips, as pleasantly as though they were associated with some high-sounding title of nobility. There is nothing in the sound of them to conjure up the miserable, mean, contemptible, kicked-out feeling which a man experiences who has received at the hands of lovely woman that specimen of feminine handicraft—the mitten. All my own fault, too! I’m a bashful man. Modesty, the virtue which is said to have been “the ruination of Ireland,” is the rock against which my soaring ambition has dashed itself. I have sat in this room, evening after evening, upon the edge of a chair, twirling my thumbs, and saying—nothing. I couldn’t help it. I have brought scores of compliments to the door, and left them in the hall with my hat. I wanted to speak; I kept up “a deuce of a thinking;” but somehow, when I had an agreeable speech ready to pop out of my mouth, it seemed to be frightened at the sight of the fair object against whom it was to be launched, and tumbled back again. It’s no use: when a man is in love, the more he loves, the more silent he becomes; at least it was so in my case. And when I did manage, after much stammering and blushing, to “pop the question,” the first word from the lady set me shivering; and the conclusion of her remarks set me running from the house utterly demoralized,—“I shall always be happy to see you as a _friend_, your conversation is so agreeable.” Here was a damper, after six weeks of unremitting though _silent_ attention. But she likes me, I’m sure of that. It is my silence which has frightened her. I only need a little more variety in my style of conversation to make myself agreeable to her. I have an original idea; and I advise all bashful men to take warning from my past experience, and profit by my future. I will _borrow_ language in which to speak my passion. There’s nothing very original in borrowing, financially speaking; but to borrow another man’s ideas by which to make love, I call original. And, as luck would have it, I have an excellent opportunity to test my new idea. Lounging in the sanctum of my friend Quill, the editor of “The Postscript,” a few days ago, he called my attention to an advertisement which had just been presented for insertion. It ran thus: “Wanted, a reader,—a gentleman who has studied poetic and dramatic compositions with a view to delivery, who has a good voice, and who would be willing to give one evening a week to the entertaining of an invalid. Address, with references, ‘Stella,’ Postscript Office.” I recognized the handwriting as that of the lady to whom I had been paying attentions, the signature as the _nom de plume_ under which she had written several poetic contributions for the press; and I had no trouble in guessing the meaning of the advertisement, knowing she has an invalid uncle. “There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.” I felt that it was high tide with me, and boldly launched my canoe; answered the advertisement under the assumed name of “Festus,” and waited for a reply. It came: “Stella is satisfied with the references of Festus, and will give him an opportunity to test his ability as a reader Tuesday evening next,”[2] etc. You will naturally conclude that my heart bounded with rapture on receiving this favorable answer. It did nothing of the sort: on the contrary, the rebound almost took away my breath. I began to shiver and shake, and felt inclined to retreat. But “love conquers all things.” I determined to persevere; and here I am, by appointment, to test the practicability of my original idea. The lady is a fine reader. I am well acquainted with her favorite authors; and, if I can but interest her in this novel suit, may at least pass a pleasant evening if I am _not_ unspeakably happy. I was told to wait for Stella. (_Takes a book from table, and sits_ L. _of table, with his back to_ R.) Shakspeare, ah! Let me draw a little courage from the perusal of this. (_Enter_ STELLA, R., _in evening costume, with flowers in her hair._)

_Stella._ My maid said Festus was in this room. Ah! there he is, deep in a book: that’s so like these literary gentry! No sooner are their roving eyes fastened on a book than it is seized with the avidity with which a starving man grasps a loaf of bread. He seems happy: I will not disturb him. (_Sits on tête-à-tête._) What a strange idea! Here am I to pass the evening listening to the voice of one whom I never saw before. This is one of my uncle’s whims: he fears I am working too hard to entertain him with readings from his favorite authors, and so determines to employ a reader to relieve me. Dear uncle, with all his pain and suffering he has a sharp eye: he notices my want of spirit, and thinks it is caused by weariness. He little knows that the true cause is that stupid lover of mine, who sat here evening after evening as dumb as an oyster, until, out of spite, I started him off. What could have ailed the man? Nothing could he say but “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am,” “Fine evening,” “Good-night.” I never was so plagued in all my life, for I should have liked the fellow if he had only tried to make himself agreeable; but he was as silent and stupid as—Festus here. (FESTUS _rises, gesticulating with his hand, his eyes fastened on the book_.) What can the man be about?

_Festus._ (_Reading._) “Is this a dagger which I see before me? the handle towards my hand? Come, let me clutch thee! I have thee not, and yet I see”—(_Turns and sees_ STELLA. _Drops book, and runs behind chair very confused._)

_Stella._ Good gracious! you here again?

_Festus._ I beg your pardon. You are—I am—

Stella. I thought, sir, I was to have no more of your _agreeable_ society.

_Festus._ I beg your pardon, madam: you seem to be in error. I am Festus,—Festus.

_Stella._ You Festus?

_Festus._ Oh, yes: I’m Festus! I came here by appointment.

_Stella._ What do you mean, sir? I expected a gentleman here to read.

_Festus._ Exactly! Pray, are you the invalid?

_Stella._ Sir, you are insulting! You will be kind enough to leave this room at once. I thought the last time you were here—

_Festus._ Excuse me for interrupting; but you evidently mistake me for some other person. I never was in this house before.

_Stella._ Is the man crazy? Do you mean to say you did not make a proposal of marriage to me in this very room a week ago?

_Festus._ Madam, you surprise me. To the best of my knowledge and belief, I never saw you before.

_Stella._ Was there ever such assurance? Is not your name—

_Festus._ Festus; and yours Stella. Am I not right?

_Stella._ Sir, this is very provoking; but, if you are Festus, what is your object in calling here?

_Festus._ To entertain you.

_Stella._ To entertain me! With what, pray? Sitting on the edge of a chair, and twirling your thumbs?

_Festus._ (_Aside._) That’s a hard hit. (_Aloud._) With readings, if you please.

_Stella._ Readings! Pray, what do you read? Ovid’s “Art of Love”?

_Festus._ Madam, I answered your advertisement, being desirous of securing the situation of reader to an invalid.

_Stella._ You won’t suit.

_Festus._ You haven’t heard me.

_Stella._ No, but I’ve seen you; and your silence cannot be excelled by your reading.

_Festus._ Will you hear me read?

_Stella._ No: you will not suit.

_Festus._ Very well: then I _claim_ the trial. Remember your promise,—“Stella is satisfied with the references of ‘Festus,’ and will give him an opportunity to test his ability as a reader Tuesday evening,” etc.

_Stella._ Oh, very well! If you insist upon making yourself ridiculous, proceed. (_Sits in chair,_ R. _of table, and turns her back on_ FESTUS.)

_Festus._ But will you not listen to me? I cannot read to you while you sit in that position.

_Stella._ I told you I did not wish to hear you read: you insist. Proceed: I am not interested.

_Festus._ Oh, very well! My first selection shall be from the writings of one well known to fame,—a lady whose compositions have electrified the world; whose poetic effusions have lulled to sleep the cross and peevish infant, stilled the noisy nursery, and exerted an influence upon mankind of great and lasting power; one whose works are memorable for their antiquity,—the gift of genius to the budding greatness of the nineteenth century. (_Producing a book from his pocket._) I will read from Mother Goose.

_Stella._ (_Starting up._) Mother Goose!

_Festus._ Yes: are you acquainted with the lady?

_Stella._ (_Sarcastically._) I have heard of her.

_Festus._ (_Reads in very melodramatic style._)

“‘We are three brethren out of Spain,
Come to court your daughter Jane.’
‘My daughter Jane she is too young:
She is not skilled in flattering tongue.’
‘Be she young, or be she old,
’Tis for her gold she must be sold.
So fare you well, my lady gay;
We will return another day.’”

How do you like that?

_Stella._ (_Fiercely._) I don’t like it.

_Festus._ No? Perhaps you prefer some other style of delivery.

(_Reads with a drawl._)

“‘We awe thwe bwethwen-aw out of Spain,
Come to court-aw your dawtaw Jane-aw.’”

_Stella._ Oh, do read something else!

_Festus._ Certainly.

“Hi diddle diddle! the cat and the fiddle!
The cow jumped over the moon”—

_Stella._ (_Jumps up._) Pray, sir, do you intend to read that nonsense the whole evening?

_Festus._ Oh, no! I think I can get through the book in about an hour.

_Stella._ Sir, you have forced yourself here, an unwelcome visitor: you insist upon my hearing such nonsense as Mother-Goose melodies for an hour. Do you call that gentlemanly?

_Festus._ Madam, you advertised for a reader. I have applied, with your permission, for the situation. Under the circumstances, I naturally expected to have your attention during the reading of such selections as I should offer; instead of which, you turn your back upon me, and very coolly bid me proceed. Do _you_ call that ladylike?

_Stella._ Frankly, no. You have asked the trial: you shall have it. For an hour I will hear you; and, though I strongly suspect the situation of reader is not the object of your visit, you shall have no reason to complain of my inattention. Is that satisfactory?

_Festus._ Pray go a step farther. You are said to have fine elocutionary powers. May I not hope to have the pleasure of hearing your voice? Grant me your assistance, and my hour’s trial may perhaps be made agreeable to both.

_Stella._ Oh! not quite certain of your ability, Mr. Festus?

_Festus._ Not in the presence of so fine a reader.

_Stella._ A compliment! Well, I agree.

_Festus._ Let me hear you read: that will give me courage to make the attempt myself.

_Stella._ Oh, very well! Remembering your partiality for juvenile literature, you will pardon me if I read a very short but sweet poem. (_Produces a printed handkerchief from her pocket._)

_Festus._ Ah, a pocket edition!

_Stella._ (_Reads from the handkerchief._)

“Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle-bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sang sweet lullaby,
And rocked me that I should not cry?
My mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My mother.”

There, sir! what do you say to that?

_Festus._ It’s very sweet. But that child had too many mothers. Now, I prefer Tom Hood’s parody. (_Reads “A Lay of Real Life” by Thomas Hood._)

A LAY OF REAL LIFE.

Who ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass or corn,
And left the next heir all forlorn?
My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse,
And physicked me, and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year,
A comfort to my mother dear,
And Mr. Pope the overseer?
My Father.

Who let me starve to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me “ugly little sin”?
My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home, and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?
My Aunt.

Who “of all earthly things” would boast,
“He hated others’ brats the most,”
And therefore made me feel my post?
My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore?
My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?
My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
And, when I played, cried “What a noise!”—
Girls always hector over boys?—
My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
’Cause I was eight, and he was nine?
My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said, “Good lad,”
And gave me sixpence, “all he had;”
But at the stall the coin was bad?
My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But, when misfortune came to pass,
Referred me to the pump? Alas!
My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathized with grief,
Or shared my joy, my sole relief?
Myself.

_Stella._ That is very amusing; but, Mr. Festus, if this is the extent of your elocutionary acquirements—

_Festus._ Oh, I beg your pardon! By no means! With your permission, I will read something a little more sombre,—Edgar Poe’s “Raven.”

_Stella._ That is certainly more sombre. Proceed.

_Reading. “The Raven,” by Edgar A. Poe._ FESTUS.

_Stella._ Excellent! Mr. Festus, you are certainly a good reader. But this seems to affect you.

_Festus._ It does, it does; for I, too, have lost one—

_Stella._ A raven?

_Festus._ Pshaw! Come, madam, I believe you are to read now, and I to listen.

_Stella._ Certainly. I will read, with your permission, Whittier’s “Maud Muller.”

_Festus._ I should be delighted to hear it.

_Reading. “Maud Muller.”_ STELLA.

_Festus._ Beautiful, beautiful! Madam, this, too, affects me.

_Stella._ How?

_Festus._ When I think “it might have been.”

_Stella._ Then I wouldn’t think of it, if I were you. What shall we have now?

_Festus._ Suppose we read together.

_Stella._ Together?

_Festus._ Yes, a scene from some play. There’s “The Marble Heart.”

_Stella._ Oh, there’s nothing in that but love-scenes!

_Festus._ It’s a favorite play with me; and I have been thinking, while you were reading, that the character of “Marco” is one in which you might excel.

_Stella._ Indeed! I have studied the character.

_Festus._ (_Aside._) I should think so. (_Aloud._) Let us attempt a scene. Come, you shall have your choice.

_Stella._ Thank you. Then I will choose “the rejection scene.”

_Festus._ (_Aside._) Of course you would! (_Aloud._) Very well.

_Stella._ Do you know, Mr. Festus, I think there is something very odd in your attempting a love-scene?

_Festus._ Do you? I have attempted them, and with success too.

_Stella._ Ah! I remember there was one attempted here.

_Festus._ Indeed!

_Stella._ Yes; but the gentleman’s name was not Festus.

_Festus._ Shall we try the scene?

_Stella._ You must prompt me if I fail.

_Festus._ Fail! “In the bright lexicon of youth, there’s no such word as fail.”

_Stella._ Ah! but, in attempts at acting, there are many failures.

_Festus._ True; but yours will not be one of them.

_Stella._ (_Aside._) Another compliment! I begin to like the fellow.

_Festus._ Now, then, the scene! (STELLA _takes a bouquet from the table, sits on tête-à-tête_, R.)

_Scene from “The Marble Heart.” Arranged for this piece. Published in No. 15 Reading-Club._