Chapter XXIII: Conclusion: Of Farewell Address at New Orleans (6)

Thou cherub, but of earth;
Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!)
With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint,
(Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life--
(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball--bestride the stick--
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as the star,--
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,--
(I'll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write unless he's sent above.)
T. Hood.

CCCLIX.

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.

I wrote some lines, once on a time
In wondering merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;
Albeit in the general way,
A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;
How kind it was of him,
To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,
I added (as a trifling jest),
"There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon a grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad.
And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man;
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.
O. W. Holmes.

CCCLX.

THE SEPTEMBER GALE.

I'm not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;--
For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married pairs get clashing;
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing,--
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,--
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.

Oh! how the ponds and rivers boiled,
And how the shingles rattled!
And oaks were scattered on the ground,
As if the Titans battled;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,--
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying;
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a flying;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,--
I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;
I saw them chase the clouds as if
A demon had been in them;
They were my darlings and my pride,--
My boyhood's only riches,--
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,--
"My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams,
How changed from what I knew them!
The dews had steeped their faded thread,
The winds had whistled through them;
I saw the wide and ghastly rents,
Where demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever,
But those young pantaloons have gone
Forever and forever!
And not till fate has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches!
O. W. Holmes.

CCCLVI.

LOVE AND MURDER.

In Manchester a maiden dwelt,
Her name was Phbe Blown;
Her cheeks were red, her hair was black,
And, she was considered by good judges to be
by all odds the best looking girl in town.

Her age was nearly seventeen,
Her eyes were sparkling bright;
A very lovely girl she was,
And for about a year and a half there had been a young man
paying his attention to her, by the name of Reuben Wright.

Now Reuben was a nice young man
As any in the town,
And Phbe loved him very dear,
But, on account of his being obliged to work for a living,
he never could make himself agreeable to old Mr. and Mrs. Brown.

Her parents were resolved
Another she should wed,
A rich old miser in the place,
And old Brown frequently declared, that rather than have his
daughter marry Reuben Wright, he'd sooner knock him in the head.

But Phbe's heart was brave and strong,
She feared not her parents' frowns;
And as for Reuben Wright so bold,
I've heard him say more than fifty times that (with the exception of Phbe)
he did n't care a cent for the whole race of Browns.

So Phbe Brown and Reuben Wright
Determined they would marry;
Three weeks ago last Tuesday night,
They started for old Parson Webster's, determined to be united in the holy
bonds of matrimony, though it was tremendous dark, and rained like the old
Harry.

But Captain Brown was wide awake,
He loaded up his gun,
And then pursued the loving pair;
He overtook 'em when they'd got about half way to the Parson's, and then
Reuben and Phbe started off upon the run.

Old Brown then took a deadly aim
Toward young Reuben's head,
But, oh! it was a bleeding shame,
He made a mistake, and shot his only daughter, and had the unspeakable
anguish of seeing her drop right down stone dead.

Then anguish filled young Reuben's heart,
And vengeance crazed his brain,
He drew an awful jack-knife out,
And plunged it into old Brown about fifty or sixty times, so that it's very
doubtful about his ever coming to again.

The briny drops from Reuben's eyes
In torrents pouréd down,--
And in this melancholy and heart-rending manner terminates the history of
Reuben and Phbe and likewise old Captain Brown.
Anonymous.

CCCLXII.

THE REMOVAL.

A nervous old gentleman, tired of trade,--
By which, though, it seems, he a fortune had made,--
Took a house 'twixt two sheds, at the skirts of the town,
Which he meant, at his leisure, to buy and pull down.

This thought struck his mind when he viewed the estate;
But, alas! when he entered he found it too late;
For in each dwelt a smith;--a more hard-working two
Never doctored a patient, or put on a shoe.

At six in the morning, their anvils, at work,
Awoke our good squire, who raged like a Turk.
"These fellows," he cried, "such a clattering keep,
That I never can get above eight hours of sleep."

From morning till night they keep thumping away,--
No sound but the anvil the whole of the day;
His afternoon's nap and his daughter's new song,
Were banished and spoiled by their hammer's ding-dong.

He offered each Vulcan to purchase his shop;
But, no! they were stubborn, determined to stop;
At length, (both his spirits and health to improved,)
He cried, "I'll give each fifty guineas to move."

"Agreed!" said the pair; "that will make us amends."
"Then come to my house, and let us part friends;
You shall dine; and we'll drink on this joyful occasion,
That each may live long in his new habitation."

He gave the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale;
He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale;
So much was he pleased with the thought that each guest
Would take from him noise, and restore him to rest.

"And now." said he, "tell me, where mean you to move?
I hope to some spot where your trade will improve."
"Why, sir," replied one with a grin on his phiz,
"Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his!"
Anonymous.

CCCLXIII.

NONGTONGPAW.

John Bull for pastime took a prance,
Some time ago, to peep at France;
To talk of sciences and arts,
And knowledge gained in foreign parts.
Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,
And answered John in heathen Greek:
To all he asked, 'bout all he saw,
'T was "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas."

John, to the Palais-Royal came,
Its splendor almost struck him dumb.
"I say, whose house is that there here?"
"House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."--
"What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John;
"This fellow is some mighty Don:
No doubt he 's plenty for the maw,
I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."

John saw Versailles from Marlé's height,
And cried, astonished at the sight,
"Whose fine estate is that there here?"
"State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"His? What the land and houses too?
The fellow's richer than a Jew:
On everything he lays his claw!
I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair,
John cried, enchanted with her air,
"What lovely wench is that there here?"
"Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"What, he again? Upon my life!
A palace, lands, and then a wife
Sir Joshua might delight to draw:
I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw."

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John.
"Je vous n'entends paw."--"what is he gone?
Wealth fame, and beauty could not save
Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave!
His race is run, his game is up,--
I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup;
But since he chooses to withdraw,
Good-night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw."
C. Dibdin.

CCCLXIV.

THE SWELLS SOLILOQUY ON THE WAR.

I don't approve this hawid waw;
Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes;
And guns and drums are such a baw--
Why don't the pawties compwamise?

Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms;
But why must all the vulgah crowd
Pawsist in spawting uniforms
In cullaws so extremely loud?

And then the ladies--precious deahs!--
I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow;
Bai Jove! I really have my feahs
They wathah like the howid wow!

To hear the chawming cweatures talk,
Like patwons of the bloody wing,
Of waw and all its dawty wark?--
It does n't seem a pwappah thing!

I called at Mrs. Gween's last night,
To see her niece, Miss Mary Hertz,
And found her making--cwushing sight!--
The weddest kind of flannel shirts!
Of cawce I wose and saught the daw,
With fewy flashing from my eyes!
I can't approve this hawid waw;--
Why don't the parties compromise?
Vanity Fair.

CCCLXV.

THE ALARMED SKIPPER.

Many a long, long year ago,
Nantucket skippers had a plan
Of finding out, though "lying low,"
How near New York their schooners ran.

They greased the lead before it fell,
And then, by sounding through the night,
Knowing the soil that stuck, so well,
They always guessed their reckoning right.

A skipper gray, whose eye's were dim,
Could tell by tasting, just the spot,
And so below, he'd "dowse the glim,"--
After, of course, his "something hot."

Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock,
This ancient skipper might be found;
No matter how his craft would rock,
He slept,--for skippers' naps are sound!

The watch on deck would now and then
Run down and wake him, with the lead;
He'd up and taste, and tell the men
How many miles they went ahead.

One night, 't was Jotham Marden's watch,
A curious wag,--the pedler's son;
And so he mused (the wanton wretch),
"To-night I'll have a grain of fun.

"We're all a set of stupid fools,
To think the skipper knows by tasting,
What ground he's on; Nantucket schools
Don't teach such stuff; with all their basting!"

And so he took the well-greased lead,
And rubbed it o'er a box of earth
That stood on deck--(a parsnip bed),--
And then he sought the skipper's berth.

"Where are we now, sir, please to taste."
The skipper yawned, put out his tongue,
Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste,
And then upon the floor he sprung!

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair,
Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,--
"Nantucket 's sunk, and here we are
Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!"
J. T. Fields.

CCCLXVI.

THE COLD-WATER MAN.

It was an honest fisherman,
I knew him passing well;
And he lived by a little pond,
Within a little dell.

A grave and quiet man was he,
Who loved his hook and rod;
So even ran his line of life
His neighbors thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said
He never had a wish;
No school to him was worth a fig,
Except a school of fish.

In short, this honest fisherman,
All other tools forsook;
And though no vagrant man was he,
He lived by hook and crook.

He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth,
Nor cared about a name;
For though much famed for fish was he,
He never fished for fame!

To charm the fish he never spoke,
Although his voice was fine;
He found the most convenient way
Was just to drop a line!

And many a gudgeon of the pond,
If they could speak to-day,
Would own, with grief, the angler had
A mighty taking way!

One day, while fishing on a log,
He mourned his want of luck,--
When suddenly, he felt a bite,
And jerking--caught a duck!

Alas! that day this fisherman
Had taken too much grog;
And being but a landsman, too,
He could n't keep the log!

'T was all in vain with might and main
He strove to reach the shore;
Down, down he went, to feed the fish
He'd baited oft before!

The jury gave their verdict, that
'T was nothing else but gin,
That caused the fisherman to be
So sadly taken in;

Though one stood out upon a whim,
And said the angler's slaughter,
To be exact about the fact,
Was clearly gin-and-water.

The moral of this mournful tale,
To all is plain and clear,--
That drinking habits bring a man
Too often to his bier;

And he who scorns to "take the pledge,"
And keep the promise fast,
May be, in spite of fate, a stiff
Cold-water man, at last!
J. G. Saxe.

CCCLXVII.

WHITTLING.

The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school,
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,
The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye
Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby;
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,
Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;
And, in the education of the lad,
No little part that implement hath had,--
His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things.

Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,
His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart,
His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod,
its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,
His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,
Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed
His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,
His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win,
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin;
Or, if his father lives upon the shore,
You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"
Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers stanch
And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven,
Ere long he'll solve you any problem given;
Make any jim-crack, musical or mute,
A plough, a couch, an organ or a flute;
Make you a locomotive or a clock,
Cut a canal, or build a floating dock,
Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block;--
Make anything, in short, for sea or shore,
From a child's rattle, to a seventy-four;--
Make it, said I?--Ay, when he undertakes it,
He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it.

And when the thing is made, whether it be
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,
Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand 's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.
J. Pierpont.

CCCLXVIII.

HOTSPUR'S ACCOUNT OF A FOP.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But, I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble land at harvest-home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And. 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon,
He gave his nose, and took 't away again;--
And still he smiled and talked;
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them--untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He questioned me; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answered neglectingly, I know not what;
He should, or he should not;--for he made me mad.
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)
And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was a great pity, so it was,
This villainous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said;
And, I beseech you, let not this report
Come current for an accusation
Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
Shakespeare.

CCCLXIX.

HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE.

Hard by a poet's attic lived a chemist,
Or alchemist, who had a mighty
Faith in the elixir vitæ;
And, though unflattered by the dimmest
Glimpse of success, kept credulously groping
And grubbing in his dark vocation;
Stupidly hoping
To onto the art of changing metals,
And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles,
By mystery of transmutation.

Our starving poet took occasion
To seek this conjurer's abode;
Not with encomiastic ode,
Of laudatory dedication,
But with an offer to impart,
For twenty pounds, the secret art
Which should procure, without the pain
Of metals, chemistry, and fire,
What he so long had sought in vain,
And gratify his heart's desire.

The money paid, our bard was hurried
To the philosopher's sanctorum,
Who, as it were sublimed and flurried
Out of his chemical decorum,
Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his
Crucibles, retort, and furnace,
And cried, as he secured the door,
And carefully put to the shutter,
"Now, now, the secret, I implore!
For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter!"

With grave and solemn air the poet
Cried: "List! O, list, for thus I show it:
Let this plain truth those ingrates strike,
Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave;
THAT WE MAY ALL HAVE WHAT WE LIKE,
SIMPLY BY LIKING WHAT WE HAVE!"
Horace Smith.

CCCLXX.

THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the hand:
"Hark ye," said he, "'tis an odd story this,
About the crows!"--"I don't know what it is,"
Replied his friend.--"No? I'm surprised at that;
Where I came from 't is the common chat;
But you shall hear: an odd affair indeed!
And that it happened, they are all agreed.
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change,
This week, in short, as all the alley knows,
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows."
"Impossible!"--"Nay, but it 's really true;
I had it from good hands, and so may you."
"From whose, I pray?" So having named the man,
Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran.
"Sir, did you tell?"--relating the affair--
"Yes, sir, I did; and if it's worth you care,
Ask Mr. Such-a-one; he told it me;
But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three."
Resolved to trace so wondrous an event,
Whip to the third, the virtuoso went.
"Sir,"--and so forth--"Why, yes; the thing is fact,
Though in regard to number not exact;
It was not two black crows; 't was only one;
The truth of that you may depends upon,
The gentleman himself told me the case."
"Where may I find him?"--"Why, in such a place."
Away he goes, and having found him out--
"Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt."

Then to his last informant he referred,
And begged to know if true what he had heard.
"Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?"--"Not I!"--
"Bless me! how people propagate a lie!
Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one,
And here I find at last all comes to none!
Did you say nothing of a crow at all?"
"Crow--crow--perhaps I might, now I recall
The matter over."--"And pray, sir, what was 't?"
"Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last,
I did throw up, and told my neighbor so,
Something that was as black, sir, as a crow."
Byrom.

CCCLXXI.

HELPS TO READ.

A certain artist--I've forgot his name--
Had got, for making spectacles, a fame,
Or, "helps to read," as, when they first were sold,
Was writ upon his glaring sign in gold;
And, for all uses to be had from glass,
His were allowed by readers to surpass.
There came a man into his shop one day--
"Are you the spectacle contriver, pray?"
"Yes Sir," said he, "I can in that affair
Contrive to please you, if you want a pair."
"Can you? pray do, then." So at first he chose
To place a youngish pair upon his nose;
And, book produced, to see how they would fit,
Asked how he liked them. "Like 'em!--not a bit."
"Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try
These in my hand will better suit your eye?"--
"No, but they don't."--"Well come, sir, if you please,
Here is another sort; we'll e'en try these;
Still somewhat more they magnify the letter,
Now, sir?"--"Why, now, I'm not a bit the better."--
"No! here, take these which magnify still more,--
How do they fit"?--"Like all the rest before!"
In short, they tried a whole assortment through,
But all in vain, for none of them would do.
The operator, much surprised to find
So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind!
"What sort of eyes can you have got?" said he.
"Why very good ones, friend, as you may see."
"Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball.
Pray let me ask you Can you read at all?"
"No! you great blockhead!--If I could, what need
Of paying you for any 'helps to read?'"
And so he left the maker in a heat,
Resolved to post him for an arrant cheat.
Byrom.

BOOK FOURTH.

STANDARD SELECTIONS
OF
DIALOGUES.

BOOK FOURTH.

STANDARD DIALOGUES.

CCCLXXII.

PRINCE ARTHUR OF BRETAGNE.

PRINCE ARTHUR--HUBERT--ATTENDANTS.

HUB. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand
Within the arras; when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground rush forth,
And bind the boy which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.
1 Att. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.
Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to it.
[Exeunt Attendants.]
Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. [Enter Arth.]
Arth. Good morrow, Hubert.
Hub. Good morrow, little prince.
Arth. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be.--You are sad.
Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.
Arth. Mercy on me!
Methinks nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practices more harm to me.
He is afraid of me, and I of him.
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?
No, indeed, is 't not; and I would to Heaven,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate,
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [Aside.]
Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day.
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,
That I might, sit all night, and watch with you.
I warrant, I love you more than you do me.
Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.--
Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now,
foolish rheum. [Aside.]
Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.--
Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?
Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?
Hub. Young boy, I must.
Arth. And will you?
Hub. And I will.
Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)
And I did never ask it you again;
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you? and Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you:
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was a crafty love,
And call it cunning: do, and if you will:
If Heaven be pleased that you should use me ill,
Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?--
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you?
Hub. I have sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.
Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench its fiery indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence:
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron?
An if an angel should have come to me,
And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believed him; no tongue, but Hubert's.
Hub. Come forth. [Stamps.--Reënter Attendants.]
Do as I bid you.
Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out,
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Arth. Alas! what need you be so boisterous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the irons angrily.
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.
Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
1 Att. I am best pleased to be away from such a deed.
[Exeunt Attendants.]
Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend:
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart.
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.
Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
Arth. Is there no remedy?
Hub. None, but to lose your eyes.
Arth. O, Heaven! that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a meandering hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
Hub. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue.
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes.
Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert!
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes; O, spare mine eyes,
Though to no use, but still to look on you!
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.
Hub. I can heat it, boy.
Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief--
Being create for comfort,--to be used
In undeserved extremes. See else yourself:
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
And strewed repentant ashes on his head.
Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert;
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes,
And, like a dog, that is compelled to fight,
Snatch at his master that does tarre him on.
All things that you should use to do me wrong,
Deny their office: only you do lack
That mercy, which fierce fire, and iron, extends,--
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.
Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes.
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.
Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while
You were disguised.
Hub. Peace; no more: Adieu!--
Your uncle must not know but you are dead;
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports.
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.
Arth. O, Heaven!--I thank you, Hubert.
Hub. Silence: no more. Go closely in with me:
Much danger do I undergo for thee.
Shakespeare.

CCCLXXIII.

QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.

Cassius. That you have wronged me, doth appear in
this:
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella
For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
Wherein, my letters, praying on his side,
Because I knew the man, were slighted off.
Brutus. You wronged yourself to write in such a case.
Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear its comment.
Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm;
To sell and mart your offices for gold,
To undeservers.
Cas. I an itching palm?
You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last!
Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.
Cas. Chastisement!
Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember!
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?
What villain touched his body, that did stab,
And not for justice?--What! shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world,
But for supporting robbers,--shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
And sell the mighty space of our large honors
For so much trash as may be graspéd thus?--
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman!
Cas. Brutus, bay not me!
I'll not endure it. You forget yourself,
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.
Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius.
Cas. I am.
Bru. I say you are not.
Cas. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself;
Have mind upon your health; tempt me no farther!
Bru. Away, slight man!
Cas. Is 't possible?
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?
Cas O ye gods! ye gods! Must I endure all this?
Bru. All this? ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break;
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble! Must I budge?
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humor? By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth,--yea for my laughter,
When you are waspish!
Cas. Is it come to this?
Bru. You say, you are a better soldier:
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well. For mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus:
I said, an elder soldier, not a better.
Did I say, better?
Bru. If you did, I care not.
Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.
Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him!
Cas. I durst not?
Bru. No.
Cas. What? durst not tempt him?
Bru. For your life, you durst not!
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;
I may do that I shall be sorry for.
Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;--
For I can raise no money by vile means:
By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection! I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces!
Can. I denied you not.
Bru. You did.
Cas. I did not;--he was but a fool
That brought my answer back.--Brutus hath rived my heart;
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.
Bru. I do not like your faults.
Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus.
Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is aweary of the world;
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes!--There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast; within a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine,--richer than gold;
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
I that denied thee gold, will give my heart:
Strike as thou didst at Cæsar; for, I know,
When thou didst hate him worst, then lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius!
Brat. Sheathe your dagger;
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.
O Cassius, you are yokéd with a lamb
That carries anger, as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforcéd, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.
Cas. Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him?
Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered, too.
Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart too.
Cas. O, Brutus!
Bru. What's the matter?
Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humor, which my mother gave me,
Makes me forgetful?
Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
Shakespeare.

CCCXXLXIV.

DOGBERRY'S CHARGE.

DOGBERRY--VERGES--THE WATCH.

Dog. Are you good men and true?
Ver. Yea, or else it were a pity but they should suffer
salvation, body and soul.
Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if
they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the
prince's watch.
Ver. Well, give them their charge, neighbor Dogberry.
Dog. First, who think you the most desartless man to be
constable?
1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they
can write and read.
Dog. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal. God hath blessed
you with a good name: to be a well-favored man is the gift of
fortune, but to write and read comes by nature.
2 Watch. Both which, master constable,--
Dog. You have; I knew it would be your answer. Well,
for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of
it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there
is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most
senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore,
bear you the lantern. This is your charge;--you shall comprehend
all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the
prince's name.
2 Watch. How, if he will not stand?
Dog. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and
presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you
are rid of a knave.
Ver. If he will not stand when he is bidden he is none of
the prince's subjects.
Dog. True, and they are to meddle with none but the
prince's subjects.--You shall also make no noise in the streets:
for, for the watch to babble and talk, is most tolerable, and not
to be endured.
2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk: we know what
belongs to a watch.
Dog. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman;
for I cannot see how sleeping should offend: only, have a
care that your bills be not stolen.--Well, you are to call at
all the ale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.
2 Watch. How, if they will not?
Dog. Why, then, let them alone till they are sober; if they
make you not then the better answer, you may say, they are not
the men you took them for.
2 Watch. Well, sir.
Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue
of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the
less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your
honesty.
2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay
hands on him?
Dog. Truly, by your office, you may; but, I think, they
that touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable way for you,
if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is, and
steal out of your company.
Ver. You have been always called a merciful man, partner.
Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog, by my will; much
more a man who hath any honesty in him.
Ver. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to
the nurse, and bid her still it.
2 Watch. How, if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us.
Dog. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake
her with crying: for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when
it baes, will never answer a calf when it bleats.
Ver. 'T is very true.
Dog. This is the end of the charge. You, constable, are to
present the prince's own person: if you meet the prince in the
night, you may stay him.
Ver. Nay, by 'r lady, that, I think, he cannot.
Dog. Five shillings to one on 't, with any man that knows
the statues, he may stay him: marry, not without the prince be
willing: for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is
an offence to stay a man against his will.
Ver. By 'r lady, I think, it be so.
Dog. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be
any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows'
counsels and your own, and good-night.--Come, neighbor.
2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit
here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed.
Dog. One word more, honest neighbors: I pray you, watch
about Signior Leonato's door, for the wedding being there
tomorrow there is a great coil to-night.--Adieu; be vigilant,
I beseech you.
Shakespeare.

CCCLXXV.

INDIGESTION.

DR. GREGORY--PATIENT.

[SCENE.----DR. GREGORY'S STUDY. ENTER A PLUMP GLASGOW MERCHANT.]

Pa. Good morning, Dr. Gregory! I'm just come into
Edinburg about some law business, and I thought when
I was here, at any rate, I might just as weel take your advice,
sir, about my trouble.
Dr. Pray, sir, sit down. And now, my good sir, what may
your trouble be?
Pa. Indeed, Doctor, I'm not very sure; but I'm thinking
it's a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a
kind of pickling about my stomachs;--I'm just na right.
Dr. You are from the West country, I should suppose, sir?
Pa. Yes, sir, from Glasgow.
Dr. Ay; pray, sir, are you a glutton?
Pa. God forbid, sir; I'm one of the plainest men living in
all the West country.
Dr. Then, perhaps, you are a drunkard?
Pa. No, Dr. Gregory; thank God, no one can accuse me of
that. I'm of the Dissenting persuasion, Doctor, and an Elder;
so you may suppose I'm na drunkard.
Dr. I'll suppose no such thing till you tell me your mode of
life. I'm so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I
would wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When
do you breakfast, and what do you take at it?
Pa. I breakfast at nine o'clock; take a cup of coffee, and
one or two cups of tea, a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or
kipper salmon, or, may be, both, if they're good, and two or
three rolls and butter.
Dr. Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, at breakfast?
Pa. Oh, yes, sir! but I don't count that as anything.
Dr. Come, this is a very moderate breakfast. What kind
of a dinner do you make?
Pa. Oh, sir, I eat a very plain dinner indeed; some soup,
and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled; for I dinna care
for made dishes; I think, some way, they never satisfy the
appetite.
Dr. You take a little pudding, teens and afterwards some
cheese.
Pa. Oh, yes! though I don't care much about them.
Dr. You take a glass of ale and porter with your cheese?
Pa. Yes, one or the other; but seldom both.
Dr. You West-country people generally take a glass of Highland
whiskey after dinner.
Pa. Yes, we do; it as good for digestion.
Dr. Do you take any wine during dinner?
Pa. Yes, a glass or two of sherry; but I'm indifferent as to
wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer
Dr. What quantity of port do you drink?
Pa. Oh, very little; not above half a dozen glasses or so.
Dr. In the West country it is impossible, I hear to dine
without punch?
Pa. Yes, sir, indeed, 't is punch we drink chiefly; but for
myself unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take
more than a couple of tumblers or so, and that's moderate.
Dr. Oh, exceedingly moderate indeed! You then, after
this slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter?
Pa. Yes, before I go to the counting-house to read the evening
letters.
Dr. And on your return you take supper, I suppose.
Pa. No, sir, I canna be said to take supper; just something
before going to bed;--a rizzard haddock, or a bit of toasted
cheese, or a half-hundred of oysters: or the like o' that and may
be, two thirds of a bottle of ale; but I take no regular supper.
Dr. But you take a little more punch after that?
Pa. No, sir, punch does not agree with me at bedtime. I
take a tumbler of warm whiskey-toddy at night; it is lighter to
sleep on.
Dr. So it must be, no doubt. This, you say, is your every
day life; but, upon great occasions, you perhaps exceed a little?
Pa. No, sir, except when a friend or two dine with me, or I
dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often
happen.
Dr. Not above twice a week?
Pa. No; not oftener.
Dr. Of course you sleep well and have a good appetite?
Pa. Yes, sir, thank God, I have; indeed, any ill-health that
I have is about meal-time.
Dr. [Assuming a severe look, knitting his brow, and lowering
his eyebrows.] Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow indeed.
You come here and tell me you are a moderate man; but upon
examination, I find by your own showing that you are a most
voracious glutton. You said you were a sober man; yet, by
your own showing, you are a beer-swiller, a dram-drinker, a
wine-bibber, and a guzzler of punch. You tell me you eat indigestible
suppers, and swill toddy to force sleep. I see that
you chew tobacco. Now, sir, what human stomach can stand
this? Go home, sir, and leave your present [course of ] riotous
living, and there are hopes that your stomach may recover its
tone, and you be in good health, like your neighbors.
Pa. I'm sure, Doctor, I 'm very much obliged to you [taking
out a bundle of bank-notes], I shall endeavor to.
Dr. Sir, you are not obliged to me:--put up your money,
sir. Do you think I 'll take a fee for telling you what you know
as well as myself? Though you 're no physician, sir, you are not
altogether a fool. Go home, sir, and reform, or, take my word
for it, your life is not worth half a year's purchase.

CCCLXXVI.

THE TWO ROBBERS.

[Alexander THE great, in his tent. A man with a fierce
countenance, chained and fettered, brought before him.]
Alex. What! art thou the Thracian robber, of whose
exploits I have heard so much?
Rob. I am a Thracian, and a soldier.
Alex. A soldier!--a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! the
pest of the country! I could honor thy courage; but I must
detest and punish thy crimes.
Rob. What have I done of which you can complain?
Alex. Hast thou not set at defiance my authority; violated
the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring the persons and
the properties of thy fellow-subjects?
Rob. Alexander, I am your captive I must hear what you
please to say, and endure what you please to inflict. But my
soul is unconquered; and if I reply at all to your reproaches, I
will reply like a free man.
Alex. Speak freely. Far be it for me take the advantage of
my power, to silence those with whom I deign to converse.
Rob. I must; then, answer your question by another. How
have you passed your life?
Alex. Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she will tell you.
Among the brave, I have been the bravest; among sovereigns,
the noblest; among conquerors, the mightiest.
Rob. And does not Fame speak of me, too? Was there
ever a bolder captain of a more valiant band? Was there ever--
but I scorn to boast. You yourself know that I have not been
easily subdued.
Alex. Still, what are you, but a robber--a base dishonest
robber?
Rob. And what is a conqueror? Have not you, too gone
about the earth like an evil genius: blasting the fair fruits of
peace and industry; plundering, ravaging, killing without law,
without justice, merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion?
All that I have done to a single district, with a hundred followers
you have done to whole nations, with a hundred thousand.
If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and princes.
If I have burned a few hamlets, you have desolated the
most flourishing kingdoms and cities of the earth. What is then
the difference, but that as you were born a king, and I a private
man, you have been able to become a mightier robber than I?
Alex. But if I have taken like a king, I have given like a
king. If I have subverted empires, I have founded greater. I
have cherished arts, commerce, and philosophy.
Rob. I, too, have freely given to the poor what I took from
the rich. I have established order and discipline among the
most ferocious of mankind; and I have stretched out my protecting
arm over the oppressed. I know, indeed, little of the philosphy
you talk of; but I believe neither you nor I shall ever
atone to the world for the mischief we have done it.
Alex. Leave me.--Take off his chains, and use him well.
Are we, then, so much alike? Alexander to a robber?--Let
me reflect.
Dr. Aiken.

CCCLXXVII.

THE MISER.

LOVEGOLD--JAMES.