Chapter XV: Canto THE SECOND: Matrimony (1)

Now MRS. PRINGLE, once for all, I say I will not such extravagance allow! Bills upon bills, and larger every day, Enough to drive a man to drink, I vow! Bonnets, gloves, frippery and trash--nay, nay, Tears, MRS. PRINGLE, will not gull me now-- I say I won't allow ten pounds a week; I can't afford it; madam, do not speak!

In wedding you I thought I had a treasure; I find myself most miserably mistaken! You rise at ten, then spend the day in pleasure;-- In fact, my confidence is slightly shaken. Ha! what's that uproar? This, ma'am, is my leisure; Sufficient noise the slumbering dead to waken! I seek retirement, and I find--a riot; Confound those children, but I'll make them quiet!

CONCERNING SISTERS-IN-LAW. PUNCH. I.

They looked so alike as they sat at their work, (What a pity it is that one isn't a Turk!) The same glances and smiles, the same habits and arts, The same tastes, the same frocks, and (no doubt) the same hearts The same irresistible cut in their jibs, The same little jokes, and the same little fibs-- That I thought the best way to get out of my pain Was by--HEADS for Maria, and WOMAN for Jane; For hang ME if it seemed it could matter a straw, Which dear became wife, and which sister-in-law.

II.

But now, I will own, I feel rather inclined To suspect I've some reason to alter my mind; And the doubt in my breast daily grows a more strong one, That they're not QUITE alike, and I've taken the wrong one. Jane is always so gentle, obliging, and cool; Never calls me a monster--not even a fool; All our little contentions, 'tis she makes them up, And she knows how much sugar to put in my cup:-- Yes, I sometimes HAVE wished--Heav'n forgive me the flaw!-- That my very dear wife was my sister-in-law.

III.

Oh, your sister-in-law, is a dangerous thing! The daily comparisons, too, she will bring! Wife--curl-papered, slip-shod, unwashed and undressed; She--ringleted, booted, and "fixed in her best;" Wife--sulky, or storming, or preaching, or prating; She--merrily singing, or laughing, or chatting: Then the innocent freedom her friendship allows To the happy half-way between mother and spouse. In short, if the Devil e'er needs a cat's-paw, He can't find one more sure than a sister-in-law.

IV.

That no good upon earth can be had undiluted Is a maxim experience has seldom refuted; And preachers and poets have proved it is so With abundance of tropes, more or less apropos. Every light has its shade, every rose has its thorn, The cup has its head-ache, its poppy the corn, There's a fly in the ointment, a spot on the sun-- In short, they've used all illustrations--but one; And have left it to me the most striking to draw-- Viz.: that none, without WIVES, can have SISTERS-IN-LAW.

THE LOBSTERS. [Footnote: Appeared at the time of the Anti-popery excitement, produced by the titles of Cardinal Wiseman, etc.] PUNCH.

As a young Lobster roamed about, Itself and mother being out, Their eyes at the same moment fell On a boiled lobster's scarlet shell "Look," said the younger; "is it true That we might wear so bright a hue? No coral, if I trust mine eye, Can with its startling brilliance vie; While you and I must be content A dingy aspect to present." "Proud heedless fool," the parent cried; "Know'st thou the penalty of pride? The tawdry finery you wish, Has ruined this unhappy fish. The hue so much by you desired By his destruction was acquired-- So be contented with your lot, Nor seek to change by going to pot."

TO SONG-BIRDS ON A SUNDAY.
PUNCH.

Silence, all! ye winged choir; Let not yon right reverend sire Hear your happy symphony: 'Tis too good for such as he.

On the day of rest divine, He poor townsfolk would confine In their crowded streets and lanes, Where they can not hear your strains.

All the week they drudge away, Having but one holiday; No more time for you, than that-- Unlike bishops, rich and fat.

Utter not your cheerful sounds, Therefore, in the bishop's grounds; Make him melody no more, Who denies you to the poor. Linnet, hist! and blackbird, hush! Throstle, be a songless thrush; Nightingale and lark, be mute, Never sing to such a brute.

Robin, at the twilight dim, Never let thine evening hymn, Bird of red and ruthful breast, Lend the bishop's Port a zest.

Soothe not, birds, his lonesome hours, Keeping us from fields and flowers, Who to pen us tries, instead, 'Mong the intramural dead.

Only let the raven croak At him from the rotten oak; Let the magpie and the jay Chatter at him on his way. And when he to rest has laid him, Let his ears the screech-owl harry; And the night-jar serenade him With a proper charivari.

THE FIRST SENSIBLE VALENTINE. (ONE OF THE MOST ASTONISHING FRUITS OF THE EMIGRATION MANIA.) PUNCH.

Let other swains, upon the best cream-laid
Or wire-wove note, their amorous strains indite;
Or, in despair, invoke the limner's aid
To paint the sufferings they can not write:

Upon their page, transfixed with numerous darts,
Let slender youths in agony expire;
Or, on one spit, let two pale pink calves' hearts
Roast at some fierce imaginary fire.

Let ANGELINA there, as in a bower
Of shrubs, unknown to LINDLEY, she reposes,
See her own ALFRED to the old church tower
Led on by CUPID, in a chain of roses;
Or let the wreath, when raised, a cage reveal,
Wherein two doves their little bills entwine;
(A vile device, which always makes me feel
Marriage would only add your bills to mine.)

For arts like these I've neither skill nor time;
But if you'll seek the Diggings, dearest maid,
And share my fortune in that happier clime,
Your berth is taken, and your passage paid.
For reading, lately, in my list of things,
"Twelve dozen shirts! twelve dozen collars," too!
The horrid host of buttons and of strings
Flashed on my spirit, and I thought--of you.

"Surely," I said, as in my chest I dived--
That vast receptacle of all things known--
"To teach this truth my outfit was contrived,
It is not good for man to be alone!"
Then fly with me! My bark is on the shore
(Her mark A 1, her size eight hundred tons),
And though she's nearly full, can take some more
Dry goods, by measurement--say GREEN and SONS.

Yes, fly with me! Had all our friends been blind,
We might have married, and been happy HERE;
But since young married folks the means must find
The eyes of stern society to cheer,
And satisfy its numerous demands,
I think 'twill save us many a vain expense,
If on our wedding cards this Notice stands,
"At Home, at Ballarat, just three months hence!"

A SCENE ON THE AUSTRIAN FRONTIER.
PUNCH.

"Dey must not pass!" was the warning cry of the Austrian sentinel To one whose little knapsack bore the books he loved so well "Thev must not pass? Now, wherefore not?" the wond'ring tourist cried; "No English book can pass mit me;" the sentinel replied. The tourist laughed a scornful laugh; quoth he, "Indeed, I hope There are few English books would please a Kaiser or a Pope; But these are books in common use: plain truths and facts they tell--" "Der Teufel! Den dey MOST NOT pass!" said the startled sentinel.

"This Handbook to North Germany, by worthy Mr. MURRAY, Need scarcely put your government in such a mighty flurry; If tourists' handbooks be proscribed, pray have you ever tried To find a treasonable page in Bradshaws Railway Guide? This map, again, of Switzerland--nay, man, you needn't start or Look black at such a little map, as if't were Magna Charta; I know it is the land of TELL, but, curb your idle fury-- We've not the slightest hope, to-day, to find a TELL in your eye (Uri)."

"Sturmwetter!" said the sentinel, "Come! cease dis idle babbles! Was ist dis oder book I see? Das Haus mit sieben Gabbles? I nevvare heard of him bifor, ver mosh I wish I had, For now Ich kann nicht let him pass, for fear he should be bad. Das Haus of Commons it must be; Ja wohl! 'tis so, and den Die Sieben Gabbles are de talk of your chief public men; Potzmiekchen! it is dreadful books. Ja! Ja! I know him well; Hoch Himmel! here he most not pass:" said the learned sentinel.

"Dis PLATO, too, I ver mosh fear, he will corrupt the land, He has soch many long big words, Ich kann nicht onderstand." "My friend," the tourist said, "I fear you're really in the way to Quite change the proverb, and be friends will neither Truth nor PLATO. My books, 'tis true, are little worth, but they have served me long, And I regard the greatness less than the nature of the wrong; So, if the books must stay behind, I stay behind as well." "Es ist mir nichts, mein lieber Freund," said the courteous sentinel.

ODE TO THE GREAT SEA-SERPENT ON HIS WONDERFUL REAPPEARANCE.
PUNCH.

From what abysses of the unfathom'd sea
Turnest thou up, Great Serpent, now and then,
If we may venture to believe in thee,
And affidavits of sea-faring men?

What whirlpool gulf to thee affords a home!
Amid the unknown depths where dost thou dwell?
If--like the mermaid, with her glass and comb--
Thou art not what the vulgar call a Sell.

Art thou, indeed, a serpent and no sham?
Or, if no serpent, a prodigious eel,
An entity, though modified by flam,
A basking shark, or monstrous kind of seal?

I'll think that thou a true Ophidian art;
I can not say a reptile of the deep,
Because thou dost not play a reptile's part;
Thou swimmest, it appears, and dost not creep.

The Captain was not WALKER but M'QUHAE,
I'll trust, by whom thou some time since wast seen
And him who says he saw thee t'other day,
I will not bid address the corps marine.

Sea-Serpent, art thou venomous or not?
What sort of snake may be thy class and style?
That of Mud-Python, by APOLLO shot,
And mentioned--rather often--by CARLYLE?

Or, art thou but a serpent of the mind?
Doubts, though subdued, will oft recur again--
A serpent of the visionary kind,
Proceeding from the grog-oppressed brain?

Art thou a giant adder, or huge asp,
And hast thou got a rattle at thy tail?
If of the Boa species, couldst thou clasp
Within thy fold, and suffocate, a whale?

How long art thou?--Some sixty feet, they say,
And more--but how much more they do not know:
I fancy thou couldst reach across a bay
From head to head, a dozen miles or so.

Scales hast thou got, of course--but what's thy weight?
On either side 'tis said thou hast a fin,
A crest, too, on thy neck, deponents state,
A saw-shaped ridge of flabby, dabby skin.

If I could clutch thee--in a giant's grip--
Could I retain thee in that grasp sublime?
Wouldst thou not quickly through my fingers slip,
Being all over glazed with fishy slime?

Hast thou a forked tongue--and dost thou hiss
If ever thou art bored with Ocean's play?
And is it the correct hypothesis
That thou of gills or lungs dost breathe by way?

What spines, or spikes, or claws, or nails, or fin,
Or paddle, Ocean-Serpent, dost thou bear?
What kind of teeth show'st thou when thou dost grin?--
A set that probably would make one stare.

What is thy diet? Canst thou gulp a shoal
Of herrings? Or hast thou the gorge and room
To bolt fat porpoises and dolphins, whole,
By dozens, e'en as oysters we consume?

Art thou alone, thou serpent, on the brine,
The sole surviving member of thy race?
Is there no brother, sister, wife, of thine,
But thou alone, afloat on Ocean's face?

If such a calculation may be made,
Thine age at what a figure may we take?
When first the granite mountain-stones were laid,
Wast thou not present there and then, old Snake?

What fossil Saurians in thy time have been?
How many Mammoths crumbled into mold?
What geologic periods hast thou seen,
Long as the tail thou doubtless canst unfold?

As a dead whale, but as a whale, though dead,
Thy floating bulk a British crew did strike;
And, so far, none will question what they said,
That thou unto a whale wast very like.

A flock of birds a record, rather loose,
Describes as hovering o'er thy lengthy hull;
Among them, doubtless, there was many a Goose,
And also several of the genus Gull.

THE FEAST OF VEGETABLES, AND THE FLOW OF WATER.
PUNCH.

New Year comes,--so let's be jolly;
On the board the Turnip smokes,
While we sit beneath, the holly,
Eating Greens and passing jokes

How the Cauliflower is steaming,
Sweetest flower that ever blows.
See, good old Sir Kidney, beaming,
Shows his jovial famed red nose.

Here behold the reign of Plenty,--
Help the Carrots, hand the Kail;
Roots how nice, and herbs how dainty,
Well washed down with ADAM'S Ale!

Feed your fill,--untasted only
Let the fragrant onion go;
Or, amid the revels lonely,
Go not nigh the mistletoe!

KINDRED QUACKS.
PUNCH.

I overheard two matrons grave, allied by close affinity (The name of one was PHYSIC, and the other's was DIVINITY), As they put their groans together, both so doleful and lugubrious:

Says PHYSIC, "To unload the heart of grief, ma'am, is salubrious: Here am I, at my time of life, in this year of our deliverance; My age gives me a right to look for some esteem and reverence. But, ma'am, I feel it is too true what every body says to me,-- Too many of my children are a shame and a disgrace to me."

"Ah!" says DIVINITY, "my heart can suffer with another, ma'am; I'm sure I can well understand your feelings as a mother, ma'am. I've some, as well,--no doubt but what you're perfectly aware on't, ma'am, Whose doings bring derision and discredit on their parent, ma'am."

"There are boys of mine," says PHYSIC, "ma'am, such silly fancies nourishing, As curing gout and stomach-ache by pawing and by flourishing."

"Well," says DIVINITY, "I've those that teach that Heaven's beatitudes Are to be earned by postures, genuflexions, bows, and attitudes."

"My good-for-nothing sons," says PHYSIC, "some have turned hydropathists, Some taken up with mesmerism, or joined the homoeopathists."

"Mine," says DIVINITY, "pursue a system of gimcrackery, Called Puseyism, a pack of stuff, and quite as arrant quackery."

Says PHYSIC, "Mine have sleep-walkers, pretending through the hide of
you,
To look, although their eyes are shut, and tell you what's inside of
you."

"Ah!" says DIVINITY, "so mine, with quibbling and with caviling, Would have you, ma'am, to blind yourself, to see the road to travel in."

"Mine," PHYSIC says, "have quite renounced their good old pills and potions, ma'am, For doses of a billionth of a grain, and such wild notions, ma'am."

"So," says DIVINITY, "have mine left wholesome exhortation, ma'am, For credence-tables, reredoses, rood-lofts, and maceration, ma'am."

"But hospitals," says PHYSIC, "my misguided boys are founding, ma'am."

"Well," says DIVINITY, "of mine, the chapels are abounding, ma'am."

"Mine are trifling with diseases, ma'am," says PHYSIC, "not attacking
them."

"Mine," says DIVINITY, "instead of curing souls, are quacking them."

"Ah, ma'am," says PHYSIC, "I'm to blame, I fear, for these
absurdities."

"That's my fear too," DIVINITY says; "ma'am, upon my word it is."

Says PHYSIC, "Fees, not science, have been far too much my wishes,
ma'am."

"Truth," says DIVINITY, "I've loved much less than loaves and fishes,
ma'am."

Says each to each, "We're simpletons, or sad deceivers, some of us; And I am sure, ma'am, I don't know whatever will become of us."

THE RAILWAY TRAVELER'S FAREWELL TO HIS FAMILY.
PUNCH.

'T was business call'd a Father to travel by the Rail; His eye was calm, his hand was firm, although his cheek was pale. He took his little boy and girl, and set them on his knee; And their mother hung about his neck, and her tears flowed fast and free.

I'm going by the Rail, my dears--ELIZA, love, don't cry-- Now, kiss me both before I leave, and wish Papa good-by. I hope I shall be back again, this afternoon, to tea, And then, I hope, alive and well, that your Papa you'll see.

I'm going by the Rail, my dears, where the engines puff and hiss; And ten to one the chances are that something goes amiss; And in an instant, quick as thought--before you could cry "Ah!" An accident occurs, and--say good-by to poor Papa!

Sometimes from scandalous neglect, my dears, the sleepers sink, And then you have the carriages upset, as you may think. The progress of the train, sometimes, a truck or coal-box checks, And there's a risk for poor Papa's, and every body's necks.

Or there may be a screw loose, a hook, or bolt, or pin-- Or else an ill-made tunnel may give way, and tumble in; And in the wreck the passengers and poor Papa remain Confined, till down upon them comes the next Excursion-train.

If a policeman's careless, dears, or if not over-bright, When he should show a red flag, it may be he shows a white; Between two trains, in consequence, there's presently a clash, If poor Papa is only bruised, he's lucky in the smash.

Points may be badly managed, as they were the other day, Because a stingy Company for hands enough won't pay; Over and over goes the train--the engine off the rail, And poor Papa's unable, when he's found, to tell the tale.

And should your poor Papa escape, my darlings, with his life, May he return on two legs, to his children and his wife-- With both his arms, my little dears, return your fond embrace, And present to you, unalter'd, every feature of his face.

I hope I shall come back, my dears--but, mind, I am insured-- So, in case the worst may happen, you are so far all secured. An action then will also lie for you and your Mamma-- And don't forget to bring it--on account of poor Papa.

A LETTER AND AN ANSWER.
PUNCH.

THE PRESBYTERS TO PALMERSTON.

The Plague has come among us, Miserable sinners! Fear and remorse have stung us, Miserable sinners! We ask the State to fix a day, Whereon all men may fast and pray, That Heaven will please to turn away The Plague that works us sore dismay, Miserable sinners!

PALMERSTON TO THE PRESBYTERS.

The Plague that comes among you, Miserable sinners! To effort hath it strung you? Miserable sinners! You ask that all should fast and pray; Better all wake and work, I say; Sloth and supineness put away, That so the Plague may cease to slay; Miserable sinners!

For Plagues, like other evils, Miserable sinners! Are GOD'S and not the Devil's, Miserable sinners! Scourges they are, but in a hand Which love and pity do command: And when the heaviest stripes do fall, 'Tis where they're wanted most of all, Miserable sinners!

Look round about your city, Miserable sinners! Arouse to shame and pity, Miserable sinners! Pray: but use brush and limewash pail; Fast: but feed those for want who fail; Bow down, gude town, to ask for grace But bow with cleaner hands and face, Miserable sinners!

All Time GOD'S Law hath spoken, Miserable sinners! That Law may not be broken, Miserable sinners! But he that breaks it must endure The penalty which works the cure. To us, for GOD'S great laws transgressed, Is doomsman Pestilence addressed, Miserable sinners!

We can not juggle Heaven, Miserable sinners! With one day out of seven, Miserable sinners! Shall any force of fasts atone For years of duty left undone? How expiate with prayer or psalm, Deaf ear, blind eye, and folded palm? Miserable sinners!

Let us be up and stirring, Miserable sinners! 'Mong ignorant and erring, Miserable sinners! Sloth and self-seeking from us cast, Believing this the fittest fast, For of all prayers prayed 'neath the sun There is no prayer like work well done, Miserable sinners!

PAPA TO HIS HEIR,
A FAST MINOR.
PUNCH.

My son, a father's warning heed;
I think my end is nigh:
And then, you dog, you will succeed
Unto my property.

But, seeing you are not, just yet.
Arrived at man's estate,
Before you full possession get,
You'll have a while to wait.

A large allowance I allot
You during that delay;
And I don't recommend you not
To throw it all away.

To such advice you'd ne'er attend;
You won't let prudence rule
Your courses; but, I know, will spend
Your money like a fool.

I do not ask you to eschew
The paths of vice and sin;
You'll do as all young boobies, who
Are left, as you say, tin.

You'll sot, you'll bet; and, being green,
At all that's right you'll joke;
Your life will be a constant scene
Of billiards and of smoke.

With bad companions you'll consort
With creatures vile and base,
Who'll rob you; yours will be, in short,
The puppy's common case.

But oh, my son! although you must
Through this ordeal pass,
You will not be, I hope--I trust--
A wholly senseless ass.

Of course at prudence you will sneer,
On that theme I won't harp;
Be good, I won't say--that's severe;
But be a little sharp.

All rascally associates shun
To bid you were too much,
But, oh I beware, my spooney son,
Beware one kind of such.

It asks no penetrative mind
To know these fellows: when
You meet them, you, unless you're blind,
At once discern the men.

The turgid lip, the piggish eye,
The nose in form of hook,
The rings, the pins, you tell them by,
The vulgar flashy look.

Spend every sixpence, if you please,
But do not, I implore,
Oh! I do not go, my son, to these
Vultures to borrow more.

Live at a foolish wicked rate,
My hopeful, if you choose,
But don't your means anticipate
Through bill-discounting Jews.

SELLING OFF AT THE OPERA HOUSE A POETICAL CATALOGUE. PUNCH.

Lot One, The well-known village, with bridge, and church, and green, Of half a score divertissements the well-remembered scene, Including six substantial planks, forming the eight-inch ridge On which the happy peasantry came dancing down the bridge. Lot Two, A Sheet of Thunder. Lot Three, A Box of Peas Employed in sending storms of hail to rattle through the trees. Lot Four, A Canvas Mossy Bank for Cupids to repose. Lot Five, The old Stage Watering-pot, complete--except the nose. Lot Six, The favorite Water-mill, used for Amina's dream, Complete, with practicable wheel, and painted canvas stream. Lots Seven to Twelve, Some sundries--A Pair of Sylphide's Wings; Three dozen Druid's Dresses (one of them wanting strings). Lots Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen--Three Services of Plate In real papier mache--all in a decent state; One of these services includes--its value to increase-- A full dessert, each plate of fruit forming a single piece. Lot Seventeen, The Gilded Cup, from which Genarro quaffed, Mid loud applause, night after night, Lucrezia's poisoned draught. Lots Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Three rich White Satin Skirts, Lot Twenty-one, A set of six Swiss Peasants' Cotton Shirts. Lot Twenty-two, The sheet that backed Mascaniello's tent. Lot Twenty-three, The Long White Wig--in wool--of Bide-the-Bent. Lots Twenty-three to Forty, The Fish--Soles, Cod, and Dace-- For pelting the Vice-regal Guard in Naples' Market-place. Lot Forty-one, Vesuvius, rather the worse for wear. Lots Forty-two to Fifty, Priests' Leggings--at per pair. Lot Fifty-one, The well-known Throne, with canopy and seat, And plank in front, for courtiers to kneel at Sovereigns' feet. Lot Fifty-two, A Royal Robe of Flannel, nearly white, Warranted equal to Cashmere--upon the stage at night-- With handsome ermine collar thrown elegantly back; The tails of twisted worsted--pale yellow, tipped with black. Lots Fifty-three to Sixty, Some Jewellery rare-- The Crown of Semiramide--complete, with false back hair; The Order worn by Ferdinand, when he proceeds to fling His sword and medals at the feet of the astonished king. Lot Sixty-one, The Bellows used in Cinderella's song. Lot Sixty-two, A Document. Lot Sixty-three, A Gong. Lots Sixty-four to Eighty, Of Wigs a large array, Beginning at the Druids down to the present day. Lot Eighty-one, The Bedstead on which Amina falls. Lots Eighty-two to Ninety, Some sets of Outer Walls. Lot Ninety-one, The Furniture of a Grand Ducal Room, Including Chair and Table. Lot Ninety-two, A Tomb. Lot Ninety-three, A set of Kilts. Lot Ninety-four, A Rill. Lot Ninety-five, A Scroll, To form death-warrant, deed, or will. Lot Ninety-six, An ample fall of best White Paper Snow. Lot Ninety-seven, A Drinking-cup, brimmed with stout extra tow. Lot Ninety-eight, A Set of Clouds, a Moon, to work on flat; Water with practicable boat. Lot Ninety-nine, A Hat. Lot Hundred, Massive Chandelier. Hundred and one, A Bower. Hundred and two, A Canvas Grove. Hundred and three, A Tower. Hundred and four, A Fountain. Hundred and five, Some Rocks. Hundred and six, The Hood that hides the Prompter in his box.

WONDERS OF THE VICTORIAN AGE.
PUNCH.

Our gracious Queen--long may she fill her throne-- Has been to see Louis Napoleon. The Majesty of England--bless her heart!-- Has cut her mutton with a Bonaparte; And Cousin Germans have survived the view Of Albert taking luncheon at St. Cloud.

In our young days we little thought to see Such legs stretched under such mahogany; That British Royalty would ever share At a French Palace, French Imperial fare: Nor eat--as we should have believed at school-- The croaking tenant of the marshy pool. At the Trois Freres we had not feasted then, As we have since, and hope to do again.

This great event of course could not take place Without fit prodigies for such a case; The brazen pig-tail of King George the Third Thrice with a horizontal motion stirr'd, Then rose on end, and stood so all day long, Amid the cheers of an admiring throng. In every lawyer's office Eldon shed From plaster nose three heavy drops of red. Each Statue, too, of Pitt turn'd up the point Of its proboscis--was that out of joint? While Charles James Fox's grinn'd from ear to ear, And Peel's emitted frequent cries of "Hear!"

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN," IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

It may be so--perhaps thou hast
A warm and loving heart;
I will not blame thee for thy face,
Poor devil as thou art.

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose,
Unsightly though it be,--
In spite of all the cold world's scorn,
It may be much to thee.

Those eyes,--among thine elder friends
Perhaps they pass for blue;--
No matter,--if a man can see,
What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth--that fissure in thy face
By something like a chin,--
May be a very useful place
To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home,
I know thou hast a child,
By that subdued, domestic smile
Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side,
That cherub on thy knee;
They do not shudder at thy looks,
They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,--
A portrait once was there;
It was thine only ornament,--
Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go,
She begged thee all in vain:
She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer
To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see
That picture torn away;
It was a solemn thought to think
What all her friends would say!

And often in her calmer hours,
And in her happy dreams,
Upon its long-deserted hook
The absent portrait seems.

Thy wretched infant turns his head
In melancholy wise,
And looks to meet the placid stare
Of those unbending eyes.

I never saw thee, lovely one,--
Perchance I never may;
It is not often that we cross
Such people in our way;

But if we meet in distant years,
Or on some foreign shore,
Sure I can take my Bible oath
I've seen that face before.

MY AUNT.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!
Long years have o'er her flown;
Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone;
I know it hurts her--though she looks
As cheerful as she can;
Her waist is ampler than her life,
For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!
Her hair is almost gray;
Why will she train that winter curl
In such a spring-like way?
How can she lay her glasses down,
And say she reads as well,
When, through a double convex lens,
She just makes out to spell?

Her father--grandpapa! forgive
This erring lip its smiles--
Vowed she should make the finest girl
Within a hundred miles;
He sent her to a stylish school;
'T was in her thirteenth June;
And with her, as the rules required,
"Two towels and a spoon."

They braced my aunt against a board,
To make her straight and tall;
They laced her up, they starved her down,
To make her light and small.
They pinched her feet, they singed her hair,
They screwed it up with pins;--
O never mortal suffered more
In penance for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done,
My grandsire brought her back;
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth
Might follow on the track;)
"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook
Some powder in his pan,
"What could this lovely creature do
Against a desperate man!"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,
Nor bandit cavalcade,
Tore from the trembling father's arms
His all-accomplished maid.
For her how happy had it been!
And heaven had spared to me
To see one sad, ungathered rose
On my ancestral tree.

COMIC MISERIES.
JOHN G. SAXE.

My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself a "happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!

You're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks,--
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes,--
A lady doesn't catch the point,
And begs you to explain--
Alas for one that drops a jest
And takes it up again!

You're talking deep philosophy
With very special force,
To edify a clergyman
With suitable discourse,--
You think you 've got him--when he calls
A friend across the way,
And begs you'll say that funny thing
You said the other day!

You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot
Into a neighbor's ears,
Who likes to give you credit for
The clever thing he hears,
And so he hawks your jest about
The old authentic one,
Just breaking off the point of it,
And leaving out the pun!

By sudden change in politics,
Or sadder change in Polly,
You, lose your love, or loaves, and fall
A prey to melancholy,
While every body marvels why
Your mirth is under ban,--
They think your very grief "a joke,"
You're such a funny man!

You follow up a stylish card
That bids you come and dine,
And bring along your freshest wit
(To pay for musty wine),
You're looking very dismal, when
My lady bounces in,
And wonders what you're thinking of
And why you don't begin!

You're telling to a knot of friends
A fancy-tale of woes
That cloud your matrimonial sky,
And banish all repose--
A solemn lady overhears
The story of your strife,
And tells the town the pleasant news:
You quarrel with your wife!

My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!

IDEES NAPOLEONIENNES.
WILLIAM AYTOUN.

The impossibility of translating this now well-known expression (imperfectly rendered in a companion-work, "Ideas of Napoleonism"), will excuse the title and burden of the present ballad being left in the original French.--TRANSLATOR.

Come, listen all who wish to learn
How nations should be ruled,
From one who from his youth has been
In such-like matters school'd;
From one who knows the art to please,
Improve and govern men--
Eh bien! Ecoutez, aux Idees,
Napoleoniennes!

To keep the mind intently fixed
On number One alone--
To look to no one's interest,
But push along your own,
Without the slightest reference
To how, or what, or when--
Eh bien! c'est la premiere Idee
Napoleonienne.

To make a friend, and use him well,
By which, of course, I mean
To use him up--until he's drain'd
Completely dry and clean
Of all that makes him useful, and
To kick him over then
Without remorse--c'est une Idee
Napoleonienne.

To sneak into a good man's house
With sham credentials penn'd--
to sneak into his heart and trust,
And seem his children's friend--
To learn his secrets, find out where
He keeps his keys--and then
To bone his spoons--c'est une Idee
Napoleonienne.

To gain your point in view--to wade
Through dirt, and slime, and blood--
To stoop to pick up what you want
Through any depth of mud.
But always in the fire to thrust
Some helpless cat's-paw, when
Your chestnuts burn--c'est une Idee
Napoleonienne.

To clutch and keep the lion's share--
To kill or drive away
The wolves, that you upon the lambs
May, unmolested, prey--
To keep a gang of jackals fierce
To guard and stock your den,
While you lie down--c'est une Idee
Napoleonienne.

To bribe the base, to crush the good,
And bring them to their knees--
To stick at nothing, or to stick
At what or whom you please--
To stoop, to lie, to brag, to swear,
Forswear, and swear again--
To rise--Ah! voia des Idees
Napoleoniennes.

THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND
WILLIAM AYTOUN

Air--"The days we went a-gipsying."

I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o'er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I'm touched myself,
For that I do not fear;
No female face hath shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But 'tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider cup,
And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.
Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply's a burning sigh,
And "What a mind it is!"
O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

I've heard her thoroughly described
A hundred times, I'm sure;
And all the while I've tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes, strong upon his pangs,
And potters o'er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way--
"Why you're a lucky dog!"
But oh! it is the heaviest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

I really wish he'd do like me
When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,
But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood--
That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o'er the sea.
For 'tis the most egregious bore,
Of all the bores I know.
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

PARODIES AND BURLESQUES

WINE.
JOHN GAY.

Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt,
Quae scribuntur aquae potoribus. HOR.

Of happiness terrestrial, and the source Whence human pleasures flow, sing, heavenly Muse! Of sparkling juices, of the enlivening grape, Whose quickening taste adds vigor to the soul, Whose sovereign power revives decaying nature, And thaws the frozen blood of hoary Age, A kindly warmth diffusing;--youthful fires Gild his dim eyes, and paint with ruddy hue His wrinkled visage, ghastly wan before: Cordial restorative to mortal man, With copious hand by bounteous gods bestow'd!

Bacchus divine! aid my adventurous song, That with no middle flight intends to soar Inspir'd sublime, on Pegasean wing, By thee upborne, I draw Miltonic air. When fumy vapors clog our loaded brows With furrow'd frowns, when stupid downcast eyes, The external symptoms of remorse within, Express our grief, or when in sullen dumps, With head incumbent on expanded palm, Moping we sit, in silent sorrow drown'd; Whether inveigling Hymen has trepann'd The unwary youth, and tied the gordian knot Of jangling wedlock not to be dissolv'd; Worried all day by loud Xantippe's din, Who fails not to exalt him to the stars, And fix him there among the branched crew (Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn, The greatest monsters of the Zodiac), Or for the loss of anxious worldly pelf, Or Delia's scornful slights, and cold disdain, Which check'd his amorous flame with coy repulse, The worst events that mortals can befall; By cares depress'd, in pensive hippish mood, With slowest pace the tedious minutes roll, Thy charming sight, but much more charming gust, New life incites, and warms our chilly blood. Straight with pert looks we raise our drooping fronts, And pour in crystal pure thy purer juice;-- With cheerful countenance and steady hand Raise it lip-high, then fix the spacious rim To the expecting mouth:--with grateful taste The ebbing wine glides swiftly o'er the tongue; The circling blood with quicker motion flies: Such is thy powerful influence, thou straight Dispell'st those clouds that, lowering dark, eclips'd The whilom glories of the gladsome face;-- While dimpled cheeks, and sparkling rolling eyes, Thy cheering virtues, and thy worth proclaim. So mists and exhalations that arise From "hills or steamy lake, dusky or gray," Prevail, till Phoebus sheds Titanian rays, And paints their fleecy skirts with shining gold; Unable to resist, the foggy damps, That vail'd the surface of the verdant fields, At the god's penetrating beams disperse! The earth again in former beauty smiles, In gaudiest livery drest, all gay and clear.

When disappointed Strephon meets repulse, Scoff'd at, despis'd, in melancholic mood Joyless he wastes in sighs the lazy hours, Till reinforc'd by thy most potent aid He storms the breach, and wins the beauteous fort.

To pay thee homage, and receive thy blessing, The British seaman quits his native shore, And ventures through the trackless, deep abyss, Plowing the ocean, while the upheav'd oak, "With beaked prow, rides tilting o'er the waves;" Shock'd by tempestuous jarring winds, she rolls In dangers imminent, till she arrives At those blest climes thou favor'st with thy presence. Whether at Lusitania's sultry coast, Or lofty Teneriffe, Palma, Ferro, Provence, or at the Celtiberian shores, With gazing pleasure and astonishment, At Paradise (seat of our ancient sire) He thinks himself arrived: the purple grapes, In largest clusters pendent, grace the vines Innumerous: in fields grotesque and wild, They with implicit curls the oak entwine, And load with fruit divine his spreading boughs: Sight most delicious! not an irksome thought, Or of left native isle, or absent friends, Or dearest wife, or tender sucking babe, His kindly treacherous memory now presents; The jovial god has left no room for cares.

Celestial Liquor! thou that didst inspire Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian bard, With lofty numbers, and heroic strains Unparallel'd, with eloquence profound, And arguments convictive, didst enforce Fam'd Tully, and Demosthenes renown'd; Ennius, first fam'd in Latin song, in vain Drew Heliconian streams, ungrateful whet To jaded Muse, and oft with vain attempt, Heroic acts, in flagging numbers dull, With pains essay'd; but, abject still and low, His unrecruited Muse could never reach The mighty theme, till, from the purple fount Of bright Lenaean sire, her barren drought He quench'd, and with inspiring nectarous juice Her drooping spirits cheer'd:--aloft she towers, Borne on stiff pennons, and of war's alarms, And trophies won, in loftiest numbers sings. 'Tis thou the hero's breast to martial acts, And resolution bold, and ardor brave, Excit'st: thou check'st inglorious lolling ease, And sluggish minds with generous fires inflam'st. O thou! that first my quickened soul didst warm, Still with thy aid assist me, that thy praise, Thy universal sway o'er all the world, In everlasting numbers, like the theme, I may record, and sing thy matchless worth.

Had the Oxonian bard thy praise rehears'd, His Muse had yet retain'd her wonted height; Such as of late o'er Blenheim's field she soar'd Aerial; now in Ariconian bogs She lies inglorious, floundering, like her theme, Languid and faint, and on damp wing, immerg'd In acid juice, in vain attempts to rise.

With what sublimest joy from noisy town, At rural seat, Lucretius retir'd: Flaccus, untainted by perplexing cares, Where the white poplar and the lofty pine Join neighboring boughs, sweet hospitable shade, Creating, from Phoebean rays secure, A cool retreat, with few well-chosen friends, On flowery mead recumbent, spent the hours In mirth innocuous, and alternate verse! With roses interwoven, poplar wreaths, Their temples bind, dress of sylvestrian gods! Choicest nectarean juice crown'd largest bowls, And overlook'd the brim, alluring sight, Of fragrant scent, attractive, taste divine! Whether from Formian grape depressed, Falern, Or Setin, Massic, Gauran, or Sabine, Lesbian, or Coecuban, the cheering bowl Mov'd briskly round, and spurr'd their heighten'd wit To sing Mecaena's praise, their patron kind.

But we not as our pristine sires repair To umbrageous grot or vale; but when the sun Faintly from western skies his rays oblique Darts sloping, and to Thetis' wat'ry lap Hastens in prone career, with friends select Swiftly we hie to Devil,* young or old, *[Footnote: The Devil's Tavern, Temple Bar.] Jocund and boon; where at the entrance stands A stripling, who with scrapes and humil cringe Greets us in winning speech, and accent bland: With lightest bound, and safe unerring step, He skips before, and nimbly climbs the stairs. Melampus thus, panting with lolling tongue, And wagging tail, gambols and frisks before His sequent lord, from pensive walk return'd, Whether in shady wood or pasture green, And waits his coming at the well-known gate. Nigh to the stairs' ascent, in regal port, Sits a majestic dame, whose looks denounce Command and sovereignty: with haughty air, And studied mien, in semicircular throne Enclos'd, she deals around her dread commands; Behind her (dazzling sight!) in order rang'd, Pile above pile, crystalline vessels shine: Attendant slaves with eager strides advance, And, after homage paid, bawl out aloud Words unintelligible, noise confus'd: She knows the jargon sounds, and straight describes, In characters mysterious, words obscure: More legible are algebraic signs, Or mystic figures by magicians drawn, When they invoke the infernal spirit's aid.

Drive hence the rude and barbarous dissonance Of savage Thracians and Croatian boors; The loud Centaurian broils with Lapithae Sound harsh, and grating to Lenaean god; Chase brutal feuds of Belgian skippers hence (Amid their cups whose innate temper's shown), In clumsy fist wielding scymetrian knife, Who slash each other's eyes, and blubber'd face, Profaning Bacchanalian solemn rites: Music's harmonious numbers better suit His festivals, from instruments or voice, Or Gasperani's hand the trembling string Should touch; or from the dulcet Tuscan dames, Or warbling Toft's far more melodious tongue, Sweet symphonies should flow: the Delian god For airy Bacchus is associate meet. The stair's ascent now gain'd, our guide unbars The door of spacious room, and creaking chairs (To ear offensive) round the table sets. We sit; when thus his florid speech begins: "Name, sirs! the wine that most invites your taste; Champaign, or Burgundy, or Florence pure, Or Hock antique, or Lisbon new or old, Bourdeaux, or neat French white, or Alicant." For Bourdeaux we with voice unanimous Declare, (such sympathy's in boon compeers). He quits the room alert, but soon returns, One hand capacious glistering vessels bears Resplendent, the other, with a grasp secure, A bottle (mighty charge!) upstaid, full fraught With goodly wine. He, with extended hand Rais'd high, pours forth the sanguine frothy juice, O'erspread with bubbles, dissipated soon: We straight to arms repair, experienc'd chiefs: Now glasses clash with glasses (charming sound!) And glorious Anna's health, the first, the best, Crowns the full glass; at her inspiring name The sprightly wine results, and seems to smile: With hearty zeal and wish unanimous, Her health we drink, and in her health our own.

A pause ensues: and now with grateful chat We improve the interval, and joyous mirth Engages our rais'd souls; pat repartee, Or witty joke, our airy senses moves To pleasant laughter; straight the echoing room With universal peals and shouts resounds.

The royal Dane, blest consort of the Queen, Next crowns the ruby'd nectar, all whose bliss In Anna's plac'd: with sympathetic flame, And mutual endearments, all her joys, Like to the kind turtle's pure untainted love, Center in him, who shares the grateful hearts Of loyal subjects, with his sovereign queen; For by his prudent care united shores Were sav'd from hostile fleets' invasion dire.

The hero Marlborough next, whose vast exploits Fame's clarion sounds; fresh laurels, triumphs new We wish, like those he won at Hockstet's field.

Next Devonshire illustrious, who from race Of noblest patriots sprang, whose worthy soul Is with each fair and virtuous gift adorn'd, That shone in his most worthy ancestors; For then distinct in separate breasts were seen Virtues distinct, but all in him unite.

Prudent Godolphin, of the nation's weal Frugal, but free and generous of his own. Next crowns the bowl; with faithful Sunderland, And Halifax, the Muses' darling son, In whom conspicuous, with full luster, shine The surest judgment and the brightest wit, Himself Mecaenas and a Flaccus too; And all the worthies of the British realm, In order rang'd succeed; such healths as tinge The dulcet wine with a more charming gust.

Now each his mistress toasts, by whose bright eye He's fired; Cosmelia fair, or Dulcibell, Or Sylvia, comely black, with jetty eyes Piercing, or airy Celia, sprightly maid!-- Insensibly thus flow unnumber'd hours; Glass succeeds glass, till the Dircean god Shines in our eyes, and with his fulgent rays Enlightens our glad looks with lovely dye; All blithe and jolly, that like Arthur's knights Of Rotund Table, fam'd in old records, Now most we seem'd--such is the power of Wine.

Thus we the winged hours in harmless mirth And joys unsullied pass, till humid Night Has half her race perform'd; now all abroad Is hush'd and silent, nor the rumbling noise Of coach, or cant, or smoky link-boy's call, Is heard--but universal silence reigns; When we in merry plight, airy and gay, Surpris'd to find the hours so swiftly fly, With hasty knock, or twang of pendant cord, Alarm the drowsy youth from slumbering nod: Startled he flies, and stumbles o'er the stairs Erroneous, and with busy knuckles plies His yet clung eyelids, and with staggering reel Enters confus'd, and muttering asks our wills; When we with liberal hand the score discharge, And homeward each his course with steady step Unerring steers, of cares and coin bereft.

ODE ON SCIENCE.
DEAN SWIFT.

O, heavenly born! in deepest dells If fairer science ever dwells Beneath the mossy cave; Indulge the verdure of the woods, With azure beauty gild the floods, And flowery carpets lave.

For, Melancholy ever reigns Delighted in the sylvan scenes With scientific light While Dian, huntress of the vales, Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales Though wrapt from mortal sight

Yet, goddess, yet the way explore With magic rites and heathen lore Obstructed and depress'd; Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine, Untaught, not uninspired, to shine By Reason's power redress'd.

When Solon and Lycurgus taught To moralize the human thought Of mad opinion's maze, To erring zeal they gave new laws, Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause, That blends congenial rays.

Bid bright Astraea gild the morn, Or bid a hundred suns be born, To hecatomb the year; Without thy aid, in vain the poles, In vain the zodiac system rolls, In vain the lunar sphere.

Come, fairest princess of the throng; Bring sweet philosophy along, In metaphysic dreams: While raptured bards no more behold A vernal age of purer gold, In Heliconian streams.

Drive thraldom with malignant hand, To curse some other destined land. By Folly led astray: Ierne bear on azure wing; Energic let her soar, and sing Thy universal sway.

So when Amphion bade the lyre To more majestic sound aspire, Behold the mad'ning throng, In wonder and oblivion drowned, To sculpture turned by magic sound, And petrifying song.

A LOVE SONG, IN THE MODERN TASTE. DEAN SWIFT.

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart:
I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping
Mourned Adonis, darling youth;
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the lyre:
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE
PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH
BOOK OF OVID.
DEAN SWIFT

In ancient time, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality.

It happen'd on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tatter'd habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begg'd from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win; But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what was wonderful) they found 'T was still replenish'd to the top, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed; For both were frighten'd to the heart, And just began to cry, "What ar't!" Then softly turn'd aside, to view Whether the lights were burning blue The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, Told them their calling and their errand: "Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints," the hermits said; "No hurt shall come to you or yours: But for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drown'd, While you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, The roof began to mount aloft; Aloft rose every beam and rafter; The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fasten'd to a joist, But with the upside down, to show Its inclination for below: In vain; for a superior force Applied at bottom stops its course: Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increased by new intestine wheels; And, what exalts the wonder more, The number made the motion slower. The flier, though it had leaden feet, Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't; But, slacken'd by some secret power, Now hardly moves an inch an hour. The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side; The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone; But, up against the steeple rear'd, Became a clock, and still adhered; And still its love to household cares, By a shrill voice at noon, declares, Warning the cook-maid not to burn That roast meat, which it can not turn.

The groaning-chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail, along the wall; There stuck aloft in public view, And with small change, a pulpit grew.