Chapter L: A Y S O F T H E L a N D (2)

“_Truly it was well blown over all to splinders in the night,_
_And the winds of heaven are blowing o’er the ruins as I write._”
Gentlemen, the story’s over. It would last for many a day
If it told of every buildin’ built upon the swindlin’ lay.

THAT INTERESTIN’ BOY

HE sat upon the window-sill and jingled ninety cents. There came along another boy, who said, “How are you, Pence? You’re goin’ out a-Christmassin’, I guess, among the Dutch, to buy some gifts.” The other spoke: “No—not exactly much. I am in luck, this year, I am. I haven’t any bills. My sister’s sick, and can’t expect no presents but her pills. My brother Ben’s in Canada, away upon the wing. Of course, you know he can’t suppose I’ll buy him anything. My mother pulled my hair, last night, until she made me squall. Of course she knows that she’s gone up for anything at all.” “But there’s your father,” said his friend. “Well,—yes—I really thought that I was stuck on the old man, and that he had me caught, and I was kinder looking round to hunt him up a pipe; but then, this very mornin’ he hit me such a wipe! That fixed his Christmas goose for him, and took away his joy. Now all this money’s goin’ to a good and clever boy, to buy him lots of pea-nuts and candy, I’ll engage—with caramels; and that good boy is just my size and age.”

MISS MILES, THE TELEGRAPH GIRL

Thy heart is like some icy lake,
On whose cold brink I stand;
Oh, buckle on my spirit’s skate,
And take me by the hand!

And lead, thou living saint, the way
To where the ice is thin,
That it may break beneath my feet,
And let a lover in.

_Spiritualistic Poetry._

Since Soul first basked in Passion’s sun,
I always ran to seed
In seeking One who’d gone and done
Some great heroic deed;
And deemed I’d find Life’s Earnest Truth
In Gloriana Clarke,
Whose eyes were like two carriage lamps
Advancing through the dark.

But as the rose of morning fades
Before the fire of noon,
Or sparrows yield in sylvan glades
To mocking-birds in June,
My Gloriana’s stock went down—
Its wheat all turned to chaff—
When I got in with Mary Miles,
Who ran the telegraph.

Her brow betokened serious life;
I knew my final queen;
A soul divine in gaiter-boots,
A Dream in crinoline.
Her parasol a glory seemed
Around a vivid saint,
The whole one spirit-photograph
Illumed with heavenly paint.

And thus she lifted up her voice,
That mission-mantled maid;
And thus she spoke with golden grace,
And sacredly she said—
A-pointing at me all the time
With that same parasol,
The light which gleams from silent lands
Around her seemed to fall—

“You’ve told of great and holy deeds—
I s’pose they all are true—
But in our telegraphic line
We’ve some adventures, too;
And though I do not like to boast
Of what I ever done,
_One_ thing my Moral Consciousness
Declares was Number One.

“Last Fall I was in Tennessee
A-travelling might and main,
When all at once the engine broke—
They couldn’t run the train;
And if another train should come
’Twould rather make us scream.”
List to the glorious deed she did,
This angel of my dream.

“I saw a telegraphic line
Was running by our _rout_,
Though not a house or a machine
Was anywhere about.
And the conductor said, said he,
With his wild eyes of light:
‘Miss Miles, if we’d a battery,
I’d fix this scrape all right.

“‘I’d send ’em down a telegram
Some twenty miles below,
And ask for help.’ I looked at him—
‘I’ll fix the business, Joe.
Is there a pair of nippers here?
If so, those nippers bring;
And if you can’t, a sharp-edged file
Would be a heaven-sent thing.’”

“Unshadowed girl! I see the dodge,”
I cried in rapturous joy;
“And didst thou climb the post thyself?”
Said she, “I did, my boy.
A higher law of moral truth
Gave courage to my soul;
I did not show my garters once
In going up the pole.

“No poet ever felt such thrills
In touching of his lyre
As I did when I found there came
A message through the wire.
That wire I cut, and ’tween my teeth
I held it—ay, with pride—
And with my tongue the current clicked
To the wire on t’other side.

“On one side came the message in
From some man in New York:
‘_Buy if you can, at ninety-five,_
_Five thousand sides of pork._’
And this same electricity
I changed as in a flash:
‘_Send down an engine right away,_
_Or we shall go to smash._’

“The engine came, and all were saved—
Yet life is but a Dream.
I live—thou livest in a cloud:
We are not what we seem.
Still craving for the Infinite
In Time’s ideal lodge,
I grasped a truth—yet after all
’Twas but an earthly dodge.”

I gazed upon that spirit grand,
Upon my knees I sank,
And from mine eyes the burning sand
The scalding tear-drops drank.
Then soft she smiled: “If deeds like this
Can yield such victory,
And I am in your line, my love,
Then, love, I yield to thee.”

Ho, maidens of Vienna’s show!
Ho, matrons of Lucerne!
Look out for us next summer, when
We give your shop a turn.
I have won my soul’s ideal,
I have booked her for a wife;
And the Fancy and the Real
Are united in my life.

AN AMERICAN COCK-TALE

PROFESSOR LUTHER CRANMER BANGS
Has travelled in Europe more than a year,
And no one need ever be troubled with pangs
At telling him aught which he thought was severe;
For there’s ne’er a Yankee of any size,
No matter how sharply he chaffs or slangs,
That can boast he ever has taken a rise
On Professor Luther Cranmer Bangs.

_He_ was the man whom Dr. Snayle
Read a lecture to on a morning call—
Read it clear through from bill to tail;
And Bangs like Old Piety bore it all.
Said Snayle, when the sheets were all up-read,
“I’m a-going with this to Boston, you know”—
“I’m glad to hear it,” his listener said:
“I always _did_ hate those Bostonians so!”

Well, last week on a City Atlas ’bus
The Professor and I went riding down,
While the driver politely gave to us
Opinions on things about the town.
And finding my friend was “prone to receive,”
And came from the Western land afar,
He told him just what one _ought_ to believe
In politics, piety, love, and war.

Then glancing at Bangs, who sat to leeward,
Looking as mild as cambric tea,
He said: “I once ’ad—but I soon got cured
Of—a wish to go to Amerikee.
I was tired of always a-drivin’ these cusses,
And so I thought I would like to range”——
“You were right,” said Bangs. “In our Yankee ’busses
It’s the _driver_ who takes (and keeps) the change!”

Sharp glanced the driver at Bangs; then said,
“What scared me of goin’ was this, d’ye see,—
I’d a friend in New York, whose letters I read;
And he wrote: In the whole of your country,
He ’ad looked the biggest graveyards through,
Looked ’em through with uncommon keer,
But never ’ad come to a single view
Of a cove[10] as wos aged fifty year.

“And as this is the case in hevery State,
I think there’s nothink on hearth for cure’n
A chap hof a fancy to hemigrate
Like readin’ of them graveyards of yourn.
So I thought I’d rather perlong my breath,
Tho’ sometimes here a fellow they hangs”——
“You are right, my friend. Choose your own way of death,
_I_ go in for that,” said Professor Bangs.

“But I see you have not understood
Why no aged person is ever found
Among us. We only want _young_ blood
On our driving, thriving, Yankee ground.
Youth alone has the power to go it;
Old men are a drag on putting it through,
So we kill them off—and our tombstones show it—
Before they arrive at forty-two.”

Here the driver gave a long _cher_—_rup_!
And gazed at the Yankee, dark and wan,
As if he had woke the wrong passenger up
While calmly Professor Bangs went on:
“In walking up and down Broadway,
Large mourning sign-boards at times appear
With this inscription in letters grey—
‘_Elderly persons extinguished here_.’

“And they put in your hand a pamphlet small,
Adapted to people of different stations,
Which cites the law, and exhorts them all
_To dismiss in peace_ their old relations.
‘Why let them linger in a vale,’
It states, ‘where often colds they catch?
Send them to _us_, and we’ll end the tale
With politeness, humanity, and dispatch.’

“‘N.B.—For those who would die by the trigger
We’ve a merciful man who’s a practised shot,
With an elegant room, and a careful nigger
To lay them genteelly out on the spot.
Our principal has a chemist of fame,
Whom he exclusively employs on
Those who set their checks on a different game
And like to pass to heaven by poison.’

“’Tis thus the ladies generally choose it;
They love to die without pain or pangs
By a nice little globule—who could refuse it?
None but a man,” said Professor Bangs.
“A _saw buck_ extra they always charge
For the stylish mode of extinguishing breath.
A saw buck’s ten dollars. It’s rather large,
But then it ensures you a _cocktail_ death.”

“Vot may that be?” said the driver, meekly,
In the tone of a greatly altered man.
I observed that he seemed to be growing weakly
Since the Professor his story began.
“A cocktail’s a tipple—America vaunts of it—
So flavoured, so foamy, so spiced, and whirled,
That he who can get as much as he wants of it
Very soon drinks himself out of the world.

“’Tis said in the sky—right over Paris,
Where the American heaven is found,
Where everything brick-like and fast and rare is—
The cocks with tumblers for tails run round.
They cut to the bar for all things thinkable,—
All that is nice is a gratis boon,—
Then they come back with your favourite drinkable
And their sickle-feather’s a silver spoon!

“But he who invented the cocktail brew is
The man before you. Thus came the hint:
I had once been kissing a pretty Jewess,
Who just before had been nibbling mint;
And in order to recall the taste
Which I found in pressing her luscious two lips,
I mingled brandy and mint, in haste,
With sugar and ice—and thus made Juleps.

“The first step was, therefore, the julep perfected,
Which gives us a _menthal_ spirit of wine;
And finding myself thereby respected,
I sought to make bitter and sweet combine.
So I took of bitters aromatic
(I prefer the tincture of bark myself,
With orange flavoured, but if you lack it,
Try any kind on the bar-room shelf).

“And I fixed them with sugar, and ice, and spirits,
In a silver tumbler, lightning-quick, sir,
Which I shook till all their several merits
Were combined in one subtle and strange elixir.
Then I passed it through a silver sieve
Kept carefully free from spot or rust;
And the final jimglorious touch to give,
I threw in a sprinkle of nutmeg-dust.

“And I am told by the spirit-rappers
That in the American Paris-heaven,
Though they’ve fancy drinks which are total snappers,
There’s nothing better than mine are given.
So they die in New York without any pangs,
For they know in the next world, to requite ’em,
They’ll sit over Paris,” said Mr. Bangs,
“A-drinking cocktails _ad infinitum_.”

Here we got down, and the driver said,
“Vell, _you_’re of the kind that will allers bang ’em!”
And turning our mocassins homeward, we sped
To that great American wigwam, the Langham.
Said Bangs, “O’er _my_ eyes there is drawn no wool.
That man has no heart who would tell you a mock tale;
But story for story I told to the Bull,
What I call a real American cocktail.”

-----

[10] _Cove_, a word erroneously supposed to be slang. It is derived from the Gypsy _covo_ or _covi_, meaning _that_—that fellow, that thing.

JUDGE WYMAN
A RURAL YANKEE LEGEND

Long ago, in the State of Maine,
There lived a Judge—a good old soul,
Rather well up in “genial vein,”
And not by any means “down on” the bowl.
N.B.—By “bowl” I mean the “cup,”
And by “cup”—N.B.—I mean a _glass_,
Since neither bowls nor cups go up
At present when we our liquor pass.
(Although I recall—
’Tis three years this Fall—
When travelling in the wilderness,
And things were all in an awful mess,
And our crockery, with a horrible crash,
Had gone its way to eternal smash)
(It came, as the driver allowed, from racin’),
We drank champagne from a tin wash-basin.
Excuse the digression—_non est crimen_—
And return to our Judge, whose name was Wyman.
The Judge oft drank in a hostelrie
Kept by a man whose name was Sterret,
Where he met with jolly company,
But where the whisky was void of merit.
The real Minié rifle brand,
That at forty rods kills out of hand.

Well, it came to pass that one night the Judge
At Sterret’s, after a long, hot day,
Got so tight that he couldn’t budge,
And found himself “well over the bay,”
With a “snake in his boot” and one in his hat,
Like a biled owl, or a monkey horned,
Tangle-legged, hawk-eyed, on a bat,
Peepy, skewered, and slewed, and corned.
Couldn’t tell a skunk from a pint of Cologne,
Couldn’t see the difference ’tween _fips_ and cents;
And when he attempted to walk alone,
Simply made a Virginia fence;
Till liquor yielded at last to sleep,
And he sank into Dream River—four miles deep.

_Sanctus Ivus fuit Brito, advocatus sed non latro._
“Saint Ives the Briton first took a brief,
For though a lawyer he wasn’t a thief.”
This is what the story declares,
Which says he listens to lawyers’ prayers.
Likely enough! perhaps he may—
Whenever a lawyer tries to pray!
But another legend, old and quaint,
Assigns them a different kind of saint,
With a singular foot and peculiar hue,
Whose breath is tinged with a beautiful blue;

And this was _rather_ the saint, I think,
Who inspired the young lawyers, twenty-four,
Who helped Judge Wyman to stow his drink,
And made them rejoice to hear him snore.
Who, save the devil, would not have wept
To see these graceless legal loons
Tricking the good old Judge as he slept,
And filling his pockets with Sterret’s spoons?
With silver spoons; likewise for butter
A handsome ten-dollar silver knife;
Then put Judge Wyman on a shutter,
And carried him home to his loving wife.

If any ladies read these rhymes,
Which in Edgar A. Poetry are called “runes,”
They may just imagine what sort of times
Mrs. Wyman had when she found the spoons!
The Judge’s grief was full of merit,
And his lady wasn’t inclined to flout it;
But she quietly took the spoons to Sterret,
And nothing more was said about it.
A month went by, and _Fama_, the wench!
Had not spread a whisper to urge remorse,
And Judge Wyman sat on the legal bench,
Trying a fellow for stealing a horse.
The evidence was all due north.
It froze the prisoner every minute,
Till Judge Wyman called the culprit forth,
And asked what “he had to say _agin_ it?”

The prisoner looked at the planks of pine
Of the little rural court-house ceiling,
At all the jury in a line,
Then answered, his only small card dealing,
“Judge, I hev lots of honesty,
But when I’m drunk I can’t control it;
And as for this ’ere hoss—d’ye see?—
I was drunk as blazes when I stole it.”
Answered the Judge, “If this Court were a dunce,
She would say, in law that is no excuse;
For the Court held that opinion _once_,
But of late her connection’s been gettin’ loose.
One may be certain on law to-day,
And find himself to-morrow dumb.—

“But answer me one thing truly, and say
Where’bouts it was you got your rum?”
“I drank because I was invited,
And got my rum at Sterret’s, d’ye see?”
“Mr. Sheriff,” cried the Judge, excited,
“This instant set that poor man free!
The liquor that Sterret sells, by thunder!
Would make a man do anything,
And some time or other, I shouldn’t wonder
If it made a saint on the gallows swing;
It will run a man to perdition quicker
Than it takes a fiddler to reel off tunes;
_Why, this Court herself once got drunk on that liquor,_
_And stole the whole of old Sterret’s spoons_!”

IN NEVADA

Like an awful alligator
Breathing fire and screeching hell-some,
With a pack of hounds behind him,
As if hunted by the devil,
Came the smoking locomotive,
Followed by the cars and tender,
Down among the mountain gorges,
Till it stopped before a village
As the starry night came on.

Just before a mountain village,
Where there was a howling shindy
Just around a bran-new gallows,
With a roaring blazing bonfire
Casting a red light upon it,
While a crowd of roughest rowdies
Shouted, “Cuss him! darn his vitals!
Bust him! sink him! burn him! skin him!”
Evidently much excited
As the starry night came on.

On the gallows stood a culprit
Shrieking painfully for mercy.
As the train and engine halted,
Louder yelled the gasping victim.
Then out cried the grim conductor,
“What in thunder is the matter?
What’s ye doin’ with that feller?
Why’ve ye got both fire and gallows?”
And unto him some one answered,
As the starry night came on:—

“This all-fired, skunk-eyed villain,
Whom you see upon the gallows,
Lately stole the loveliest mewel[11]
That you ever sot your peeps on,
For a hundred shiny dollars,
Went and sold it to the Greasers;
But, as you perceive, we’ve nailed him,
And at present we’re debatin’
Whether we had better hang him,
Or else roast him like an Injun,
Ere the starry night comes on.

“And I think ez ther ar’ ladies
Here to grace this gay occasion,
In the train, and quite convenient,
We had better take and burn him.
’Twould be kinder interestin’,
Or, as folks might say, romantic,
To behold an execution,
As we do ’em here in Hell Town,
In the real frontier fashion,
Ere the starry night comes on.”

Up from all the assembled ladies,
And from all the passageros,
Went a scream of protestation,—
“What! for nothing but a mewel!
Only for a hundred dollars
Roast alive a fine young fellow!
Never, never, never, ne—ver!”
Falling on her knees, a damsel
Begged the maddened crowd to spare him,
And to her replied the spokesman,
As the starry night came on:—

“Since the lady begs it of us,
And as we ar’ galiant fellers,
We will smash the tail of Jestis,
And will spare this orful miscrint,
Ef you’ll raise a hundred dollars
To replace the vanished mewel.
Then this fiend, unwhipped, undamaged,
May go wanderin’ to thunder,
Soon as he darnation pleases,
Ere the starry night comes on.”

Straight among the pitying ladies,
And the other passageros,
Went the hat around in circle.
Dollars, quarters, halves, and greenbacks
Rained into it till the hundred
Was accomplished, and the ransom
Paid unto Judge Lynch in person,
Who received it very gracious,
And at once released the prisoner,
Sternly bidding him to squaddle,
Just as fast as he could make it,
Ere the starry night came on.
And the lady who by kneeling
Had destroyed the path of justice,
Seized upon the fine young fellow,
He who had the mulomania,
Or who was a kleptomuliac;
And she led him by the halter,
While the reckless population
Made atrocious puns upon it;
And she stowed him in the Pullman
As the safest sanctuary,
As the starry night came on.

It was over. Loud the whistle
Blew a signal of departure;
Still the dying bonfire flickering
Showed on high the ghastly gallows,
Seeming like some hungry monster
Disappointed of a victim,
Gasping as in fitful anger,
Pouring out unto the gallows
Or the sympathetic scaffold
All the story of its sorrow,
As the clouds passed o’er the moon-face,
And the starry night came on.

Soon the train and those within it
Reached and passed a second station,
And was speeding ever onward,
When at once a shriek came ringing—
’Twas an utterance from the lady
Who by tears had baffled justice;
Loud she cried, “Where is my hero?
Where, oh, where’s the handsome prisoner?”
And the affable conductor
Searched the train from clue to ear-ring,
But they could not find the captive.
He had clearly just evaded
At the station just behind them,
As the starry night came on.
Then outspoke a man unnoted
Hitherto: “I heard the fellow
Say just now to the conductor,
Ere we reached the second teapot,
That he reckoned he must hook it
This here time a little sooner,
If he hoped to get his portion
Of the hundred, since the last time
He came awful nigh to lose it;
For it might be anted off all
’Fore he got a chance to strike it,
Ere the starry night came on.”

And the Unknown thus continued:
“They hev hed that gallows standin’
All the summer, and the people
Mostly git ther livin’ from it,
For they take ther turns in bein’
Mournful victims who hev stolen
Every one a lovely mewel;
And they always every evenin’
Hev the awful death-fire kindled,
And the ghastly captive ready.
It’s the fourth time I hev seen it,
Comin’ through and never missed it;
Only for a variation
Now and then they hire a nigger
For the people from New England,
As the starry night comes on.

“And they find that fire and gallows
Just as good as a bonanza,
For they got the Legislater
Lately to incopperate it;
And I hear the stock is risin’
Up like prairie smoke in autumn.
Yes, in this world men diskiver
Cur’ous ways to make a livin’,
Ez you’ll find when you hev tried it
For a year or so about here.”
And the passengers in silence
Mused upon this new experience,
Most of all the fine young lady,
As the dragon darted onward,
And the starry night came on.

-----

[11] Mule.

THE PHILANTHROPIC CLUB

I am the member of a club of reg’lar noble seeds,
Whose object is to give rewards for philanthropic deeds.
We root for magnanimity as spiders hunt for flies,
So we lately held a meeting to award our annual prize.

Then our President reported with great solemnity
The case of Dayball Carter, a man in Tennessee,
Who plunged into a burning store as if his doom had come,
But emergéd with an infant—and a gallon jug of rum.

But the club could nowise settle, admitting all the fact,
If the baby or the liquor had inspired the noble act,
For ’twas proved he kept the liquor while he let the infant go,
So the case of Mr. Carter was adjourned _in dubio_.

Then the Secretary read us, in very moving tones,
The wondrous case of courage of General Pompey Jones,
Who found a hydrophobic dog upon a neighbour’s farm,
And roped his neck and led him off where he could do no harm.

Then Brother Chunk, of Pewterville, declared that it was sad
To have to state that Jones had no idea the dog was mad,
And that in circles where he moved ’twas very freely said
He’d picked it up intending to come out one dog ahead.

Then the next case reported in the doings of the day
Was that of Huckleberry Pod, a man in Iowa,
Who slopped into a raging flood to save a drowning maid,
And did it like a beaver, as admiring neighbours said.

Then Brother Chunk again let down his fist with startling bump,
And said he’d found that Mr. Pod refused to make the jump
Till offered fifty dollars by the people of the town,
And that then he wouldn’t do it till he got the money down.

Last of all we heard the instance of Golias Purple Fife,
Who went into an awful well to save a fellow’s life,
A man who always spoke of Fife as of a blooming fool,
And who recently had done him blind in trading for a mule;

And on top of this, moreover, in addition, ’twas a fact,
He refused a quarter-dollar for this noble manly act,
And when they asked him what he’d drink, or if he’d take a bite,
He jumped in silence on his mule and rode into the night.

This case, in the opinion of the members of the club,
Was much the most deserving, and the nearest to the hub;
And each allowed he’d never heard the like in all his life,
So, by general acclamation, they bestowed the prize on Fife:—

A silver-plated snuff-box, with a compass in the lid,
With the words, “_If sold at auction always do as you are bid_,”
Which we sent him in a hurry ere it might be understood
That this, too, was not an instance of the pure unmingled good.

And these are the proceedings of these noble-minded seeds,
Who make it their profession to discover virtuous deeds;
And every day turns out a lot, but still ’tis on our mind
That a case without a speck in it is very hard to find.

THE COLOURED FORTUNE-HUNTER

Pete Jonsing went to see the County Clerk
About a marriage license, and the man
Said unto him for fun, but seriously:
“I hope the bride possesses fifty cents,
Because the Legislature’s passed a law
That any girl with less must not be wed.”
“Jis’ go ahead wid dat ’ar paper, Boss,”
Peter replied; then whispered, bending down:
“Dar’s rumers—and dey is reliable—
Dat de young woman dat I’m goin’ fur
Has got two dollars and a quarter—_shoa_.
And dat’s de reason wy I marries her.”

PENN
ON A TEXT BY ROBERT BURDETTE

When William Penn appeared before King Charles
To get the charter of his Promised Land
In Pennsylvaniá,
’Twas in his usual free-and-easy style,
With hands in pockets and his hat on side—
Singing _Lard-dardy day_!
_Let us drink and be merry, laugh, sing, and rejoice,_
_With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice,_
_Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!_

King Charles at once removed his feathered tile.
“Keep on your hat, young man!” said William Penn,
“It is our Quaker way;
And people will not know that you are bald;
Be quite at home to make your guests at home—
Singing _Lard-dardy day_!
_This changeable world to our joys is unjust,_
_All treasure’s uncertain, so down with your dust,_
_Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!_”

“It is the custom here,” the King replied,
“For only one to cover at a time;
This is the courtly way.”
“Then you should have more covers,” warbled Penn.
“Warm people’s heads to make them merry men—
Singing _Lard-dardy day_!
_And in frolics dispose of your shillings and pence,_
_Since we all shall be past it a hundred years hence,_
_Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay_!

“’Tis a queer world, and faith! I do not lay
My hat around, loose, in a domicile
Where I don’t know the way,
Unless some party gives a check for it;
I’ve travelled some—I have—and can’t be bit—
Singing _Lard-dardy day_!
Since, despite your invention, and learning, and sense,
You’ll be _non est inventus_ a hundred years hence,
_Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!_”

“Odds-fish!” exclaimed his Royal Majesty,
“He talks full well, but as it seems to me,
According to our way,
There’s a tremendous pig in this same Penn.”
“Bravo, young man!” said William; “try again—
Singing _Lard-dardy day_!
You have brought me a terrible one on the nob,
But I bear you no malice, not being a snob,
_Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!_”

And thus it is that history is writ,
And thus it is good men are slandered sore
From ever till to-day.
Some writer pastes a joke; it may remain
Safe in a corner from Time’s wind and rain
Till Time has rolled away.
_So, hurrah for King Charles! and hurrah, too, for Penn!_
_And all such and similar excellent men!_
_Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!_

BALLAD OF THE FOXES

There is a golden glory in my song
As of a picture by Carpaccio,
For it is of the early morning-time
When every man believed with tender faith
That animals could talk—oh, lovely lore!
So, lady, listen as the lay runs on.

There was a goose, and she was travelling
Across the land for her dyspepsia,
And at the noontide sat to rest herself
In a small thicket, when there came along
Two starving foxes, perishing to find
Something which was not too-too-utter-ish
To serve for dinner. And as they were wild
For want of food, it was but natural
That they should likewise be confounded cross;
Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!

And as they halted near the thicket, one
Of them observed, “If you were half as sharp
As books make out, you would not now, I’ll bet,
Be ravenous enough to gnaw the grass.”
“And if you were as big, or half as big,
As you believe you are,” snarled Number Two,
“You’d be a lion of the largest size
_Minus_ his roar, and pluck, and dignity.”
Oh, listen, lady, as the lay runs on!

“Please to observe I want no impudence
From any fifteen-nickel quadruped
Of your peculiar shape,” snapped Number One.
“And if you give me but another note
Of your chin-music,” snarled out Number Two,
“I’ll make a wreck of you, you wretched beast,
Beyond insurance—bet your tail on that!”
Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!

“You are the champion snob of all the beasts!”
“And you the upper scum of all the frauds.”
“You are the weathercock of infamy.”
“And you the lightning-rod of falsehood’s spire.”
“You are a thief!” “Ditto.” “You lie.” “I ain’t.”
“Shut up, you goy!” And hearing this, the goose
Could bear no more, but walking from the bush,
Put on expression most benevolent,
And said, “Oh, gentlemen, for shame! for shame!
I’ll settle this dispute: in the first place
Let me remark, as an impartial friend——”
Oh, listen, lady, as the lay runs on!

But she did not remark, because they made
A rush at her and caught her by the throat,
And ate her up; and as they picked their teeth
With toothpicks made of her last pin-feathers,
The first observed, and that quite affably,
“Only a goose would ever make attempt
To settle a dispute when foxes fight”—
Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!

“And while I have a very great respect
For any peacemaker,” said Number Two,
“I would suggest that I invariably
Have found, if they be really honest folk
Who interfere with reprobates like us,
They’re always eaten up; there is, I think,
More clanship between devils any day
Than among all the angels. Interest
Binds us together, and howe’er we fight
Among ourselves to ease our bitter blood,
We do not hate each other half as much
As we do hate the good. Neighbours who fight
Can generally take most perfect care,
Not only of themselves, but of the goose
Who sticks her bill into the fuss they make.
This banquet now adjourns until it meets
Another wingéd angel of the sort
Which it has just discussed—may it be soon!”
Lady, this lyric runs no further on.

EST MODUS IN REBUS
A NARRATIVE OF NEW YORK

I would not say to man, “Don’t spread yourself
To win the admiration of mankind,”
Since he who never spreads can never shine,
And he who never shines is never seen,
And he who’s never seen is counted out
In the great game of life; yet what is spread
Too thin entirely, when the sun shines out
Must soon dry up and be a fly-away.

There was a man who took his daily dine
At a delightful _table d’hôte_, where he
Was waited on by an obedient youth,
Who, as a waiter, was a paragon
Of quick politeness. He’d apologise
If the sun shone too much, or if it rained,
And say in simple faith that he would speak
To the proprietor and have it changed,
Then vanish like an elfin fly-away.

The vulgar boarder at this _table d’hôte_
Was one who greatly loved to spread himself
And play the imperial before the rest;
And finding that the waiter cushioned it,
Sat down on him severely. Every time
He spoke he called him names, and said that he
Forthwith would punish him in cruel wise
Unless he tortled faster, or unless
The steak was better cooked. And then he’d swear—
Oh, death and dandelions! how he would swear!
Till all the blood of all the boarders round
Was almost turned to cherry-water ice,
And each and all wished they could fly away.

And yet this waiter had a fund reserved
Of pretty stout pugnacity and pride,
And every time the boarder called him “fool,”
Or “low-born rooster,” he would add it up
To the preceding pile of expletives,
And think it over. He did not forget
A single word. Of all the abusatives
There was not one which proved a fly-away.

At last the crisis came, when one fine day,
For some imagined fault, the boarder said
Unto the waiter, that unless he stirred
A little quicker he would bung his eye,
And take him by the legs _instanter_-ly
And wipe the floor with him. But with that word
He overdrew the account. That was the fly
Which overset the camel, and the drop
Which made the pail slop over. For the youth
On that let out his Injun. All at once
He turned both red and white, as fat and lean
Are seen in a beefsteak before ’tis cooked,
And blew his soul out in a fly-away.

“You misspelled copy of a gentleman
With all the meaning lost!—if you dare call
Me names again as you have often done,
I’ll bung your pallid eyes. You’ve said too much,
So now just dwindle down. I’ve always been
Obedient and polite, and served you well,
As you were never served by any one,
And all you ever gave me was abuse,
And all because you were a vulgar fool.
Now stop your noise, or I will sling you out
Of yonder window for a fly-away!”

The boarder rose as if in roaring wrath,
The waiter jerked his linen jacket off
And fairly danced about in gypsy style,
Impatient for a fight. But then the guest
As if with self-command restrained himself,
And said to the assembled company,
“There must be lines in all society
To regulate our conduct. Lines, I say,
Which separate us from the vulgar herd,
With whom we may not fight. I draw the line
At waiters.” Here he looked about the room
To be applauded; but the only sound
Which rose was that of a tremendous slap
On his own face, and then a mighty roar
Of laughter from the happy company,
For all his valour was a fly-away.

So he sat down too terrified to speak;
And then the waiter took a dripping jug
Of ice-water and poured out every drop
Upon his head, yea, water, ice, and all;
And then that boarder burst in bitter tears,
And blubbered like a boy, while all the room
Rang with redoubled laughter. Then a guest
Proposed a vote of thanks to him who had
Put down a public nuisance, and the next
Passed round a hat and took collection up
To give the waiter as a small reward
For punishing a coward. Then he rose,
And since that hour has been a fly-away.

THE MASHER

The word to “mash,” in the sense of causing love or attracting
by a glance or fascinating look, came into ordinary slang from
the American stage. Thus an actress was often fined for
“mashing” or smiling at men in the audience. It was introduced
by the well-known gypsy family of actors, C., among whom Romany
was habitually spoken. The word “masher” or “mash” means in that
tongue to allure, delude, or entice. It was doubtless much aided
in its popularity by its quasi-identity with the English word. A
girl could be called a masher as she could be called a
man-killer, or killing. But there can be no doubt as to the
gypsy origin of “mash” as used on the stage. I am indebted for
this information to the late well-known _impresario_ Palmer of
New York, and I made a note of it years before the term had
become at all popular.

It was in the Indian summer-time, when life is tender brown,
And people in the country talk of going into town,
When the nights are crisp and cooling, though the sun is warm by day,
In the home-like town of Glasgow, in the State of Iowa;

It was in the railroad deepô of that greatly-favoured zone,
That a young man met a stranger, who was still not all unknown,
For they had run-countered casual in riding in the car,
And the latter to the previous had offered a cigar.

Now as the primal gentleman was nominated Gale,
It follows that the secondary man was Mr. Dale;
This is called poetic justice when arrangements fit in time,
And Fate allows the titles to accommodate in rhyme.

And a lovely sense of autumn seemed to warble in the air;
Boys with baskets selling peaches were vibratin’ everywhere,
While in the mellow distance folks were gettin’ in their corn,
And the biggest yellow punkins ever seen since you were born.

Now a gradual sensation emotioned this our Gale,
That he’d seldom seen so fine a man for cheek as Mr. Dale;
Yet simultaneous he felt that he was all the while
The biggest dude and cock-a-hoop within a hundred mile.

For the usual expression of his quite enormous eyes
Was that of two ripe gooseberries who’ve been decreed a prize;
Like a goose apart from berries, too—though not removed from sauce—
He conversed on lovely Woman as if he were all her boss.

Till, in fact, he stated plainly that, between his face and cash,
There was not a lady living whom he was not sure to mash;
The wealthiest, the loveliest, of families sublime,
At just a single look from him must all give in in time.

Now when our Dale had got along so far upon the strain,
They saw a Dream of Loveliness descending from the train,
A proud and queenly beauty of a transcendental face,
With gloves unto her shoulders, and the most expensive lace.

All Baltimore and New Orleans seemed centered into one,
As if their stars of beauty had been fused into a sun;
But, oh! her frosty dignity expressed a kind of glow
Like sunshine when thermometers show thirty grades below.

But it flashed a gleam of shrewdness into the head of Gale,
And with aggravatin’ humour he exclaimed to Mr. Dale,
“Since every girl’s a cricket-ball and you’re the only bat,
If you want to show you’re champion, go in and mash on that.

“I will bet a thousand dollars, and plank them on the rub,
That if you try it thither, you will catch a lofty snub.
I don’t mean but what a lady may reply to what you say,
But I bet you cannot win her into wedding in a day.”

A singular emotion enveloped Mr. Dale;
One would say he seemed confuseled, for his countenance was pale:
At first there came an angry look, and when that look did get,
He larft a wild and hollow larf, and said, “I take the debt.

“The brave deserve the lovely—every woman may be won;
What men have fixed before us may by other men be done.
You will lose your thousand dollars. For the first time in my life
I have gazed upon a woman whom I wish to make my wife.”

Like a terrier at a rabbit, with his hat upon his eyes
Mr. Dale, the awful masher, went head-longing at the prize,
Looking rather like a party simply bent to break the peace,
Mr. Gale, with smiles, expected just a yell for the police.

Oh! what are women made of? Oh! what can women be?
From Eves to Jersey Lilies what bewildering sights we see!
One listened on the instant to all the Serpent said;
The other paid attention right away to Floral Ned.

With a blow as with a hammer the intruder broke the ice,
And the proud and queenly beauty seemed to think it awful nice.
Mr. Gale, as he beheld it, with a trembling heart began
To realise he really was a most astonished man.

Shall I tell you how he wooed her? shall I tell you how he won?
How they had a hasty wedding ere the evening was done?
For when all things were considered, the fond couple thought it best—
Such things are not uncommon in the wild and rapid West.

Dale obtained the thousand dollars, and then vanished with the dream.
Gale stayed in town with sorrow, like a spoon behind the cream;
Till one morning in the paper he read, though not in rhymes,
How a certain blooming couple had been married fifty times!

How they wandered o’er the country; how the bridegroom used to bet
He would wed the girl that evening,—how he always pulled the debt;
How his eyes were large and greensome; how, in fact, to end the tale,
Their very latest victim was a fine young man named Gale.

ARIZONA JOHN

When in a situation it always pays the best
To have your wits about you, for it helps the interest;
And a man gets so encouraged by succeedin’ when he tries,
That the more you crowd him downward, the more he’s bound to rise.

As when near Tres Alamos, while workin’ at his mine,
John Lyons, late of Tombstone, without the least design
To involve himself whatever in any kind of tricks,
Got inside an unprovided and a most unpleasant fix.

John Lyons, late of Tombstone, had but just put in a blast,
When he saw four buck Apaches approximatin’ fast
Upon their headlong horses in a rackaloose career,
And every one preceded by a long projectin’ spear:

He had planted all the powder, and was just atop the shaft,
While the foemen kept a-comin’ like as they was telegrapht.
To run was to be taken, and to stay was to be slew—
And in such a situation how-whatever could he do?

Bein’ quick upon the trigger Lyons did not stop to choose,
For a match was in his fingers, so he lighted up the fuse,
And dropped behind a boulder for to disabuse their aim,
When at him like a sheriff’s writ full dig the Injuns came.

He had timed the fuse so nicely that the ’Paches reached the rock
Exactly at the nick of the explosionary shock:
Bang! How the big rock busted as the powder gave a flare!
While a rain of stones and gravel went a-thunderin’ through the air.

It was four red Apaches who also had a rise,
And started for the hunting-grounds on horseback thro’ the skies;
Or as if they had the notion, but recalled it there and then,
For they speedily descended as four non-existent men.

John Lyons, late of Tombstone, just down behind his rock,
Escaped the influential effect of such a shock,
And examinin’ the prospect, he very plainly sees
He has worked the blast quite perfect—likewise slammed his enemies.

When narratin’ the adventure which I’ve chanted in my song,
If he terms them “blasted Injuns” no one calls his language strong—
For their hopes were surely blasted which they fondly reckoned on,
And with patent giant-powder by this Arizona John.

THE BALLAD OF CHARITY

It was in a pleasant deepô, sequestered from the rain,
That many weary passengers were waitin’ for the train;
Piles of quite expensive baggage, many a gorgeous portmantó,
Ivory-handled umberellas made a most touristic show.

Whereunto there came a person, very humble was his mien,
Who took an observation of the interestin’ scene;
Closely scanned the umberellas, watched with joy the mighty trunks,
And observed that all the people were securin’ Pullman bunks:

Who was followed shortly after by a most unhappy tramp,
Upon whose features poverty had jounced her iron stamp;
And to make a clear impression as bees sting you while they buzz,
She had hit him rather harder than she generally does.

For he was so awful ragged, and in parts so awful bare,
That the folks were quite repulsioned to behold him begging there;
And instead of drawing currency from out their pocket-books,
They drew themselves asunder with aversionary looks.

Sternly gazed the first newcomer on the unindulgent crowd,
Then in tones which pierced the deepô he solilicussed aloud:—
“I hev trevelled o’er this cont’nent from Quebec to Bogotáw,
But setch a set of scallawags as these I never saw.

“Ye are wealthy, ye are gifted, ye have house and lands and rent,
Yet unto a suff’rin’ mortal ye will not donate a cent;
Ye expend your missionaries to the heathen and the Jew,
But there isn’t any heathen that is half as small as you.

“Ye are lucky—ye hev cheque-books and deeposits in the bank,
And ye squanderate your money on the titled folks of rank;
The onyx and the sardonyx upon your garments shine,
An’ ye drink at every dinner p’r’aps a dollar’s wuth of wine.

“Ye are goin’ for the summer to the islands by the sea,
Where it costs four dollars daily—setch is not for setch as me;
Iv’ry-handled umberellers do not come into my plan,
But I kin give a dollar to this suff’rin’ fellow-man.

“Hand-bags made of Rooshy leather are not truly at my call,
Yet in the eyes of Mussy I am richer ’en you all,
For I kin give a dollar wher’ you dare not stand a dime,
And never miss it nother, nor regret it any time.”

Sayin’ this he drew a wallet from the inner of his vest,
And gave the tramp a daddy, which it was his level best;
Other people havin’ heard him soon to charity inclined—
One giver soon makes twenty if you only get their wind.

The first who gave the dollar led the other one about,
And at every contribution he a-raised a joyful shout,
Exclaimin’ how ’twas noble to relieviate distress,
And remarkin’ that our duty is our present happiness.

Thirty dollars altogether were collected by the tramp,
When he bid ’em all good evenin’ and went out into the damp,
And was followed briefly after by the one who made the speech,
And who showed by good example how to practise as to preach.

Which soon around the corner the couple quickly met,
And the tramp produced the specie for to liquidate his debt;
And the man who did the preachin’ took his twenty of the sum,
Which you see that out of thirty left a tenner for the bum.

And the couple passed the summer at Bar Harbour with the rest,
Greatly changed in their appearance and most elegantly dressed.
Any fowl with change of feathers may a brilliant bird become:
Oh, how hard is life for many! oh, how sweet it is for some!

MULTUM IN PARVO

“Great thoughts are oft expressed in fewest words,”
And I remember how long years ago,
When a great lady in her diary
Of a short visit to the Scottish land,
Recorded of a sorrowful event,
“To-day poor little Vicky, by mischance,
Sat on a wasps’ nest.” All the newspapers
Declared it was a perfect masterpiece
Of excellent conciseness. Yet I think
It was outdone by a Red Indian—
One of the Quoddy tribe—who did the same;
Since he, like “little Vicky,” also sat
Upon a seat as hot; and when he rose,
Briefly exclaimed in his vernacular:—
“_H’lam-kikqu’!_” and being asked what this
Might mean, responded in the English tongue:
“_Heap hell!_” O reader! if the soul of wit
Be brevity, this Indian was there.

THE ORGANIST OF BERGAMO

“For blowing is not playing on the flute,
To do that well you must put fingers to’t.”

GERMAN PROVERB.

This is a Merry Tale of Bergamo.

It chanced in Fifteen Hundred Twenty-Eight
[As I do find the fact recorded in
A pleasing book of Sixteen Thirty-Six
Entitled _Scelta di Facetie_—
A little yellow, quaint, italic tome,
Which looks as if it were behind the age,
And would have been black letter if it could]
That in fair Venice raged a pestilence
Whereof in time full many people died,
And among these a trusty servitor
Who blew the bellows for the organist
All in the great Cathedral of Saint Mark,
Whose billowy pavement truly seems to roll
In time and measure with the music sweet,
So perfect were the harmonies of Art
Which men imagined in the olden time.

Now as this man had died while at his work,
Even while blowing a _Magnificat_
All in the holy church, it was adjudged
That he almost deserved to be a saint.
And he who preached the sermon over him
Said that “his soul had risen on the notes
Of the grand anthem which he had inspired,
And having reached the Music all divine
Had softly sunk, as light is lost in light,
Into the pure Celestial.” Here he stopped.
Men were great preachers in the olden time.

It happened that a certain Giannolo,
_Facchino Bergamasco_, or a man
From Bergamo, a porter by his trade,
Who carried heavy burdens, yet withal
Was not o’erburdened with a load of wit,
Hearing this sermon, got it in his head—
And no great wonder either—that the late
Departed bellows-blower must have been
The Chief Musician of the Holy House;
And knowing that the man who bloweth up
A pair of bagpipes also is the one
Who plays upon the same—drew inference
That the deceased was the true organist,
And he who played thereon his humble aid,
Who only worked to keep the tune in time.

Now being smitten with a deep desire
To rise in life and also to be called
A Child of Art—with a nice salary—
And have a sermon preached o’er him when dead,
Giannolo unto the Bishop went,
And made a great entreaty to be placed
Among the holy followers of Saint Mark,
And that the aim of his ambition was
_Alzare i mantici quando suonava_
_gli organi_—that’s to say:
“To lift the bellows when the organ played.”
And as he was a stout and lusty knave
Who might be useful in a hundred ways,
They gladly took him on, so there he stayed
Blowing the bellows faithfully in time.

I ween there is not in all Italy
A man—unless he came from Bergamo—
Who could have blown an organ seven years
In the full faith that he was playing it,
And was indeed the real organist.
Yet this, in fact, unless the legend lies,
Was what befell Giannolo. By this time,
Having laid by a very handsome sum,
And being well attired though modestly,
As is becoming to a Son of Art,
He went a-visiting his native place,
Where all who were related unto him—
That is to say about one-half the town—
Did greatly marvel at his handsome clothes
And at his air of stately dignity,
But most of all when he informed them that
He was no more a porter: he had felt
Immortal longings in him to arise
Above that vulgar calling, and to soar
“’Mid palpitations sweet and pleasures soft,
The manifestations of that beauteous life
Diffused unseen throughout eternal Space”
Which men call Music; and that he had risen
Even to a monthly salary of ten francs,
Wherewith were many pleasing perquisites;
And that he played the organ in Saint Mark’s,
As all the world allowed, in perfect time.

Up rose a buzz of strangest wonderment,
Or, as ’tis writ, _Di che restarono_
_Più maravigliati_; for they all
Were much amazed that such a common man—
_Si vile e si rozzo_—such a boor—
Had risen to the pinnacle of Art
In Venice, where all Art was at its height,
And gained the crown of glory—_Iddio_!
“Ten francs a month besides the perquisites!”
They bowed before him with deep reverence,
Hoping he’d stay with them a little time.

Then some one spoke with hesitating tone,
As if in fear to take a liberty,
And said: “Your Excellence—if we might dare—
Since we would celebrate the kind return
Of such an Honour to our noble town,
Would you not grace the occasion, and increase
Our joy and sense of deep respectfulness,
By playing Vespers for us in the Dome
On Sunday next?” Giannolo bowed low,
And in a speech adorned with many flowers,
Which he had culled from sermons in Saint Mark,
Acceded gracefully to their request,
And said he would be there to play, in time.
When Sunday came there came with it a crowd
Such as Bergamo never saw before,
For in her streets and past her palaces
Thousands in holiday attire swept on,
And even afar there was a thundering roar,
From time to time, which rolled from square to square,
As when the incoming ocean, with a tide
Urged by a tempest, breaks among the rocks.
Yea, there were many—_tanto popolo_—
All that the church would hold, and then outside
A vast, impatient, brilliant multitude,
Such as had ne’er been there at any time.