Chapter III: Canto XII

Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross,
To see an old woman ride on a white horse.
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
She shall have music wherever she goes.

The above verse commemorates an epoch in the Poet's lifetime. He went to the Circus. A noteworthy event, when it is considered how few Circuses there were in those days, and how seldom those few came near enough to disturb the calm of an out-of-the-way country village. Such a thing had never occurred before in his lifetime, nor within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. All were therefore properly impressed with the importance of the occurrence, and none more so than the excitable, impressible, enthusiastic Poet. For days before the one appointed to make the journey to the Market Town, he was in a great state of excitement and hilarious pleasure, and with difficulty controlled his inclinations to laugh, dance, and sing, and otherwise gayly disport himself. The exuberance of his spirits caused no little alarm to his family, who feared he was going mad with delight, and endeavored in every possible way to quiet down the dangerous symptoms.

"In vain did his mother command him to stop:
He only laughed louder and higher did hop;"

till at last, fearing the torrent could never be stemmed, she thought to direct it in a less dangerous channel.

So, putting on her most insinuating expression she asked, "Why don't you write a piece about the Circus? It might be real nice. Tell all about the beautiful young lady on horseback, and the music, and the ride over to Banbury, and everything you can think about. Come now, that's a good boy; go and do that for your mother."

The deceived youth stared in amazement at the request. Such a thing had never been heard before under that humble roof-tree. His own mother actually telling him to write some poetry. Incredible! Instead of laughing, and snubbing him as she usually did, positively telling him to do the very thing she had so often forbidden,--the very thing he had always been obliged to do under so many discouragements. The thought took away his breath. That his talent was at length recognized by his family was a matter of rejoicing, and springing up with a cheerful cry, "I'll do it," he bounded up the back-kitchen stairs, and was soon lost to sight amid the cobwebs of time.

The provident old lady, with a knowing look and sagacious shake of the head, said, "He's safe for awhile, thank Heaven; now let us have peace."

Let us follow the poet up-stairs and peep into that attic chamber. The sanctum sanctorum of the writer. The visiting-place of the Muses. The stable of Pegasus. There, in one corner, is a little cot bed, with a single pillow, showing at once a privileged member of the family; near its head an ancient wash-stand and a tin wash-basin, and by its side a pail of water, with a tin dipper reposing quietly on its surface. Nothing unnecessary, everything useful. By the window stands a square pine table, spotted and streaked with ink, to match the floor, which resembles in a homely way MARK TWAIN'S map of Paris on an enlarged scale. Before that table, his head resting on his hands, his eyes glaring on the paper, sits the immortal Bard whose lightest words were to be remembered long after his name was forgotten.

The first in order of events in the journey to the Market Town. The arrangements have all been made. He and TOM are to ride the horse, while his mother and DICK ride the mare. There is no use telling the world all the particulars, so he simply writes:--

"Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross."

He doesn't care to mention that two intend to ride the cock horse. If the world chooses to think only one rides him, let them think so. He will write ambiguously if he wants to; there is no law to prevent him from doing so.

"Now what is to be seen after getting there? His mother said a beautiful lady on horseback, and splendid music. But that cannot be. What! a beautiful young lady ride in public on horseback? She wouldn't do such a thing. He knows too much for that. It must be some old woman; and he writes accordingly:--

"To see an old woman ride on a white horse."

She is to be gayly dressed, he has heard, and loaded with diamond rings; but how about the music? Probably she has bells on her toes; at least he will put it so, and then adds;--

"Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes."

He thinks awhile longer. He sees in imagination the venerable old dame riding around on the white horse, gayly dressed and bespangled, the rings glistening, the bells ringing, and his sensitive soul fancies it hears the wonderful music, and he knows that ever and ever, so long as she rides,

"She will have music wherever she goes."

He has become enraptured with the glowing vision, and now, as he lays down his pen his eyes flash and his cheeks burn with poetic fire. How happy his mother will be to hear the result of his afternoon's labor! Rejoicing he descends, taking with him the precious verse, and proudly begins to read it to his appreciative audience. Falteringly he commences, but, warming with the subject, his spirits rise, till at the last line he triumphantly waves the paper over his head, looks around for applause, and sees----his mother lying on the floor in a dead faint.

* * * * *

Pen and Sword.

"War to the knife!" is the cry of the Paris _Siècle_. This is merely a cry from a Pen-knife, of course; but then it is sure to be heard by the Butcher-knife.

* * * * *

Nurse Wanted.

We understand that there will shortly be a "Birth" at WALLACK'S.

* * * * *

_Paterfamilias (reading)._ "IT APPEARS FROM THIS PAPER THAT TURKEY IS LIKELY TO BE ENTIRELY GOBBLED UP BY RUSSIA."

_Alitmentive Youth._ "THEN WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT THANKSGIVING DAY?"]

* * * * *

ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A MAN.

A THRILLING TALE.

WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES.