Chapter VI: Part 6

It happened, one night, on a frolic he went,
He stayed till his very last penny was spent;
But how to go home, and get safely to bed,
Was the thing on his heart that most heavily weighed.
But home he must go; so he caught up his hat,
And off he went singing, by this and by that,
"I'll pluck up my courage; I guess she's in bed.
If she a'nt, 'tis no matter, I'm sure. Who's afraid?"
He came to his door; he lingered until
He peeped, and he listened, and all seemed quite still,
In he went, and his wife, sure enough, was in bed!
"Oh!" says he, "it's just as I thought. Who's afraid?"

He crept about softly, and spoke not a word;
His wife seemed to sleep, for she never e'en stirred!
Thought he, "For _this_ night, then, my fortune is made:
For my dear, scolding wife is asleep! Who's afraid?"
But soon he felt thirsty; and slyly he rose,
And, groping around, to the table he goes,
The pitcher found empty, and so was the bowl,
The pail, and the tumblers--she'd emptied the whole!
At length, in a corner, a vessel he found!
Says he, "Here's something to drink, I'll be bound!"
And eagerly seizing, he lifted it up--
And drank it all off in one long, hearty sup!

It tasted so queerly; and what could it be?
He wondered. It neither was water nor tea!
Just then a thought struck him and filled him with fear:
"Oh! it must be the poison for rats, I declare!"
And loudly he called on his dear, sleeping wife,
And begged her to rise; "for," said he, "on my life
I fear it was _poison_ the bowl did contain.
_Oh dear! yes_, it _was_ poison; I now feel the pain!"
"And what made you dry, sir?" the wife sharply cried.
"'Twould serve you just right if from poison you died;
And you've done a _fine_ job, and you'd now better march,
_For just see, you brute, you have drunk all my starch!_"

THE GREEN GOOSE.

Mr. Bogardus "gin a treat,"
And a green goose, best of birds to eat,
Delicious, savory, fat and sweet,
Formed the dish the guests to greet;
But such, we know,
Is small for a "blow,"
And many times around won't go;
So Mr. Bogardus chanced to reflect,
And with a wisdom circumspect,
He sent round cards to parties select,
Some six or so the goose to dissect,
The day and hour defining;
And then he laid in lots of things,
That might have served as food for kings,
Liquors drawn from their primal springs,
And all that grateful comfort brings
To epicures in dining.

But Mr. Bogardus's brother Sim,
With moral qualities rather dim,
Copied the message sent to him,
In his most clerkly writing,
And sent it round to Tom, and Dick,
And Harry, and Jack, and Frank, and Nick,
And many more, to the green goose "pick"
Most earnestly inviting;
He laid it on the green goose thick,
Their appetites exciting.

'Twas dinner time by the Old South Clock;
Bogardus waited the sounding knock
Of friends to come at the moment, "chock,"
To try his goose, his game, his hock,
And hoped they would not dally;
When one, and two, and three, and four,
And running up the scale to a score,
And adding to it many more,
Who all their Sunday fixings wore,
Came in procession to the door,
And crowded in on his parlor floor,
Filling him with confusion sore,
Like an after-election rally!

"Gentlemen," then murmured he,
"To what unhoped contingency
Am I owing for this felicity,
A visit thus unexpected?"
Then they held their cards before his eyes,
And he saw, to his infinite surprise,
That some sad dog had taken a rise
On him, and his hungry friends likewise,
And _whom_ he half suspected;
But there was Sim,
Of morals dim,
With a face as long, and dull, and grim,
As though _he_ the ire reflected.

Then forth the big procession went,
With mirth and anger equally blent;
To think they didn't get the scent
Of what the cursed missive meant
Annoyed some of 'em deeply;
They felt they'd been caught by a green goose bait,
And plucked and skinned, and then, light weight,
Had been sold very cheaply.

MORAL.

Keep your weather eye peeled for trap,
For we never know just what may hap,
Nor if we shall be winners;
Remembering that one green goose
Will be of very little use
'Mongst twenty hungry sinners.

MIGRATORY BONES,[2]

SHOWING THE VAGABONDISH TENDENCY OF BONES THAT ARE LOOSE.

We all have heard of Dr. Redman,
The man in New York who deals with dead men,
Who sits at a table,
And straightway is able
To talk with the spirits of those who have fled, man!
And gentles and ladies
Located in Hades,
Through his miraculous mediation,
Declare how they feel,
And such things reveal
As suits their genius for impartation.
'Tis not with any irreverent spirit
I give the tale, or flout it, or jeer it;
For many good folk
Not subject to joke
Declare for the fact that they both see and hear it.
It comes from New York, though,
And it might be hard work, though,
To bring belief to any point near it.

Now this Dr. Redman,
Who deals with dead men,
Once cut up a fellow whose spirit had fled, man,
Who (the fellow) perchance
Had indulged in that dance
Performed at the end of a hempen thread, man;
And the cut-up one,
(A sort of a gun!)
Like Banquo, though he was dead, wasn't done,
Insisted in very positive tones
That he'd be ground to calcined manure,
Or any other evil endure,
Before he'd give up his right to his bones!
And then, through knocks, the resolute dead man
Gave his bones a bequest to Redman.
In Hartford, Conn.,
This matter was done,
And Redman the bones highly thought on,
When, changed to New York
Was the scene of his work,
In conjunction with Dr. Orton.

Now mark the wonder that here appears:
After a season of months and years,
Comes up again the dead man,
Who in a very practical way,
Says he'll bring his bones some day,
And give them again to Redman.
When, sure enough
(Though some that are rough
Might call the narrative "devilish tough"),
One charming day
In the month of May,
As Orton and Redman walked the street
Through the severing air,
From they knew not where,
Came a positive bone, all bleached and bare.
That dropped at the doctor's wondering feet!

Then the sprightly dead man
Knocked out to Redman
The plan that lay in his ghostly head, man:
He'd carry the freight,
Unheeding its weight;
They needn't question how, or about it;
But they might be sure
The bones he'd procure
And not make any great bones about it.
From that he made it a special point
Each day for their larder to furnish a joint!

From overhead, and from all around,
Upon the floor, and upon the ground,
Pell-mell,
Down fell
Low bones, and high bones,
Jaw bones, and thigh bones,
Until the doctors, beneath their power,
Ducked like ducks in a thunder-shower!
Armfuls of bones,
Bagfuls of bones,
Cartloads of bones,
No end to the multitudinous bones,
Until, forsooth, this thought gained head, man,
That this invisible friend, the dead man,
Had chartered a band
From the shadowy land,
Who had turned to work with a busy hand,
And boned all their bones for Dr. Redman!

Now, how to account for all the mystery
Of this same weird and fantastical history?
That is the question
For people's digestion,
And calls aloud for instant untwistery!
Of this we are certain,
By this lift of the curtain,
That still they're alive for work or enjoyment,
Though I must confess
That I scarcely can guess
Why they don't choose some useful employment.

[Footnote 2: Dr. Redman, of New York, was a noted medium, and it was said that, for a while, wherever he might be, bones would be dropped all about him, to the confusion and wonder of everybody. These bones, he said, were brought him by a spirit, whose bones were of no further use to him.]

THE RED CHIGNON.

(FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS.

MISS PRISCILLA PRECISE, { Principal of a genteel Boarding
{ School for Young Ladies.

HETTY GRAY, }
FANNY RICE, } Pupils.
LIZZIE BOND, }
HANNAH JONES, }
MRS. LOFTY, a fashionable Lady.

SCENE.--_Parlor in_ MISS PRECISE'S _Establishment._

_Piano_ R., _Lounge_ L., _Chairs_ C.

_Enter_ HETTY, FANNY, _and_ LIZZIE, R., _laughing._

_Hetty._ O, such a fright!

_Fanny._ Such a stupid!

_Lizzie._ I never saw such a ridiculous figure in the whole course of my life!

_Hetty._ I should think she came from the back-woods.

_Fanny._ Who is she, any way?

_Lizzie._ She's the daughter of the rich Mr. Jones, a man, who, three years ago, was the proprietor of a very small saw-mill away down east. He managed to scrape together a little money, which he invested in certain railroad stocks, which nobody thought would ever pay. They did, however, and he has, no doubt to his own astonishment, made a great deal of money.

_Hetty._ And that accounts for Miss Precise's partiality. Well, I'm not going to associate myself with her; and I mean to write to father this very day, and tell him to take me home. She dresses so ridiculously!

_Lizzie._ And talks so horridly!

_Fanny._ And plays so wretchedly!

_Hetty._ O, girls, don't you think I caught her at the piano this morning playing Yankee Doodle and whistling an accompaniment!

_Fanny._ Whistling!

_Lizzie._ Good gracious! what would Miss Precise say. If there's anything she forbids, it's whistling.

_Hetty._ Yes, and such a reader! I heard her reciting Longfellow's Excelsior; and such reading, and such gestures! (_Recites._)

"The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an All-pine village past--"

(_All laugh._)

_Fanny._ O, it's ridiculous!

_Lizzie._ And then her dress! O, girls, I've made a discovery!

_Fanny._ What is it? What is it?

_Hetty._ O, do tell us!

_Lizzie._ Well, then, you must be secret.

_Fanny and Hetty._ Of course, of course!

_Lizzie._ Well, yesterday, at just twelve o'clock, I was in the hall; the door-bell rang; I opened it; there was a box for Miss Hannah Jones; I took it; I carried it to her room; I opened--

_Fanny and Hetty._ The box?

_Lizzie._ The door; she wasn't there. I put it on the table; it slipped off; the cover rolled off; and such a sight!

_Fanny._ What was it?

_Hetty._ O, do tell us!

_Lizzie._ Four--great--red--

_Fanny and Hetty._ What? What?

_Lizzie._ Chignons!

_Hetty._ Chignons? Why, Miss Precise has forbidden our wearing them.

_Fanny._ O, it's horrible!

_Lizzie._ Ain't it? And I did want one so bad!

_Hetty._ But she cannot wear them.

_Lizzie._ We shall see! Now comes Miss Precise's trial. She has taken Hannah Jones because her father is rich. She worships money; but if there is anything she hates, it is chignons. If she can stand this test, it will be the best thing in the world for us. Then we'll all have them.

_Hetty._ Of course we will.

_Fanny._ But I don't like the idea of having such an interloper here. She's no company for us.

_Enter_ MISS PRECISE, L. _She stands behind the Girls with folded arms._

_Hetty._ Indeed she isn't! I think Miss Precise is real mean to allow her to stay.

_Lizzie._ She'd better go where she belongs,--among the barbarians!

_Miss Precise._ And pray, whom are you consigning to a place among the barbarians, young ladies?

_Hetty._ Good gracious!

_Fanny._ O, dear! O, dear!

_Lizzie._ O, who'd have thought!

(_They separate_, HETTY _and_ FANNY, L., LIZZIE, R., MISS PRECISE, C.)

_Miss P._ Speak, young ladies; upon whom has your dread anathema been bestowed?

_Lizzie._ Well, Miss Precise, if I must tell, it's that hateful new pupil, Miss Jones. I detest her.

_Fanny._ I can't abide her.

_Hetty._ She's horrible!

_Lizzie._ So awkward!

_Fanny._ Talks so badly!

_Hetty._ And dresses so ridiculously!

_Lizzie._ If she stays here, I shan't!

_Fanny._ Nor I.

_Hetty._ Nor I.

_Miss P._ Young ladies, are you pupils of the finest finishing-school in the city? Are you being nursed at the fount of learning? Are you being led in the paths of literature by my fostering hands?

_Lizzie._ Don't know. S'pose so.

_Miss P._ S'pose so! What language! S'pose so! Is this the fruit of my teaching? Young ladies, I blush for you!--you, who should be the patterns of propriety! Let me hear no more of this. Miss Jones is the daughter of one of the richest men in the city, and, as such, she should be respected by you.

_Lizzie._ She's a low, ignorant girl.

_Miss P._ Miss Bond!

_Hetty._ With arms like a windmill.

_Miss P._ Miss Gray!

_Fanny._ A voice like a peacock.

_Miss P._ Miss Rice!

_Hetty, Lizzie, and Fanny._ O, she's awful!

_Miss P._ Young ladies! I'm astonished! I'm shocked! I'm thunderstruck! Miss Jones is my pupil. She is your associate. As such, you will respect her. Let me hear no more of this. Go to your studies. I highly respect Miss Jones. Imitate her. She's not given to conspiracies. She's not forever gossiping. Be like her, and you will deserve my respect. To your studies. Miss Jones is a model for your imitation. [_Exit_, L.

_Hetty._ Did you ever!

_Fanny._ No, I never!

_Lizzie._ A model for imitation! Girls, we'll have some fun out of this. Imitate Miss Jones! I only hope she'll put on one of her chignons. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ HANNAH JONES, R., _extravagantly dressed, with a red chignon, followed by_ MRS. LOFTY.

_Hannah._ Come right in, marm; this is our setting-room, where we receive callers. Take a seat.

(MRS. LOFTY _sits on lounge_.)

_Mrs. Lofty._ Will you please call your mistress at once?

_Hannah._ My mistress? Law, neow, I s'pose yeou take me for a hired gal. Yeou make me laugh! Why, my pa's richer than all the rest of 'em's pas put together. I deon't look quite so scrumptious as the rest o 'em, p'r'aps, but I'm one of the scholars here.

_Mrs. L._ I beg your pardon. No offence was intended.

_Hannah._ Law, I don't mind it. Yeou see our folks come from deown east, and we haven't quite got the hang of rich folks yit. That's why I'm here to git polished up. Miss Precise is the schoolmarm, but she's so stiff, I don't expect she'll make much of me. I do hate airs. She makes the girls tend tu door, because she's too poor to keep help.

_Mrs. L._ Will you please speak to her? I have not much time to spare, as this is my charity day.

_Hannah._ Charity day! Pray, what's that?

_Mrs. L._ I devote one day in the week to visiting poor people, and doing what I can to alleviate their misfortunes.

_Hannah._ Well, marm, that's real clever in you. I do like to see rich folks look arter the poor ones. Won't you please to let me help you? I don't know the way among the poor yit, but I'm going to find out. Here's my pocket-book; there's lots uv money in it; and if you'll take and use it for the poor folks, I'll be obleeged. (_Gives pocket-book._)

_Mrs. L._ O, thank you, thank you! you are very kind; I will use it, for I know just where it is needed. Can you really spare it?

_Hannah._ Spare it? Of course I can. I know where to git lots more; and my pa says, 'What's the use of having money, if you don't do good with it?' Law, I forgot all about Miss Precise. You just make yourself to home, and I'll call her. [_Exit_, L.

_Mrs. L._ A rough diamond. She has a kind heart. I hope she'll not be spoiled in the hands of Miss Precise. (_Opens pocket-book._) What a roll of bills! I must speak to Miss Precise before I use her money. She may not be at liberty to dispose of it in this wholesale manner.

_Enter_ MISS PRECISE, L.

_Miss P._ My dear Mrs. Lofty, I hope I have not kept you waiting. (_Shakes hands with her, then sits in chair_, C.)

_Mrs. L._ O, no; though I'm in something of a hurry. I called to ask you if you could take my daughter as a pupil.

_Miss P._ Well, I am rather full just now; and the duties of instructor are so arduous, and I am so feeble in health----

_Mrs. L._ O, don't let me add to your trials. I will look elsewhere.

_Miss P._ No, no; you did not hear me out. I was going to say I have decided to take but one more pupil.

_Mrs. L._ What are the studies?

_Miss P._ English branches, French, Italian, German, and Spanish languages, and music; all taught under my personal supervision.

_Mrs. L._ Quite an array of studies; almost too much for one teacher.

_Miss P._ Ah, Mrs. Lofty, the mind--the mind is capable of great expansion; and to one gifted with the power to lead the young in the flowery paths of learning, no toil is too difficult. My school is select, refined; nothing rough or improper is allowed to mingle with the high-toned elements with which I endeavour to form a fashionable education.

_Mrs. L._ I should like to see some of your pupils.

_Miss P._ O, certainly. You will take them unawares; but I flatter myself you will not find them unprepared. (_Strikes bell on piano._)

_Enter_ FANNY, _dressed as before, but with large, red chignon on her head._

_Miss P._ This is Miss Fanny Rice. Mrs. Lofty, Fanny. There you see one of my pupils who has an exquisite touch for the piano, a refined, delicate appreciation of the sweetest strains of the great masters. Fanny, my dear, take your place at the piano, and play one of those pieces which you know I most admire. (FANNY _sits at piano, plays Yankee Doodle, whistling an accompaniment._) What does this mean? (_Turns and looks at_ FANNY, _starts, puts her eye-glass to her eye.--Aside._) Heavens! that child has one of those horrible chignons on her head!--(_Aloud._) Miss Rice, why did you make that selection?

_Fanny._ (_Imitates_ HANNAH'S _manner of speaking._) Cos I thought you'd like it.

_Miss P._ "Cos?" O, I shall die! And why did you think I should like it?

_Fanny._ Cos that's the way Hannah Jones does.

_Miss P._ Send Miss Gray to me. (_Follows_ FANNY _to door._) And take that flaming turban off your head. I'll pay you for this! [_Exit_ FANNY, L.

_Mrs. L._ Your pupil is exceedingly patriotic in her selection.

_Miss P._ Yes; there's some mistake here. She's evidently not on her good behaviour.

_Enter_ HETTY GRAY, L., _with red chignon._

Ah, here's Miss Gray. Mrs. Lofty, Miss Gray. She has a sweet voice, and sings sentimental songs in a bewitching manner. Miss Gray, take your place at the piano, and sing one of my favourites.

(HETTY _sits at piano, plays and sings._)

"Father and I went down to camp
Along with Captain Goodin,
And there we saw the boys and girls
As thick as hasty-puddin."

_Miss P._ Stop! (_Looks at her through eye-glass._) She's got one of those hateful things on too,--chignons! Is there a conspiracy? Miss Gray, who taught you that song?

_Hetty._ Miss Hannah Jones, if you please.

_Miss P._ Go back to your studies, and send Miss Bond to me. (_Takes her by the ear, and leads her to the door._)

_Hetty._ Ow! you hurt!

_Miss P._ Silence, miss! Take off that horrid head-dress at once.

[_Exit_, HETTY, L.

Mrs. Lofty, how can I find words to express my indignation at the conduct of my pupils? I assure you, this is something out of the common course.

_Enter_ LIZZIE, L., _with red chignon._

Here is one of my smartest pupils, Miss Bond. Mrs. Lofty, Miss Bond. She particularly excels in reading. Miss Bond, take a book from the piano and read, something sweet and pathetic! something that you think would suit me.

LIZZIE _takes a position_, L., _opens book, and reads, in imitation of_ HANNAH'S _voice._

_Lizzie._

What is it that salutes the light,
Making the heads of mortals bright,
And proves attractive to the sight?
My chignon.

_Miss P._ Good gracious! is the girl mad?

_Lizzie._

What moves the heart of Miss Precise
To throw aside all prejudice,
And gently whisper, It is nice?
My chignon!

_Miss P._ Chignon, indeed! Who taught you to read in that manner?

_Lizzie._ Hannah Jones.

_Miss P._ O, this is too bad! You, too, with one of these horrid things on your head? (_Snatches it off, and beats her on head with it._) Back to your room! You shall suffer for this! [_Exit_ LIZZIE, L.

_Mrs. L._ Excuse me, Miss Precise, but your pupils all wear red chignons. Pray, is this a uniform you have adopted in your school?

_Miss P._ O, Mrs. Lofty, I'm dying with mortification! Chignons! I detest them; and my positive orders to my pupils are, never to wear them in the house.

_Hannah._ (_Outside_, L.) Wal, we'll see what Miss Precise will say to this.

_Enters with a red chignon in each hand, followed by_ LIZZIE, HETTY, _and_ FANNY.

_Miss P._ Good gracious! More of these horrid things!

_Hannah._ Miss Precise, jest look at them! Here these pesky girls have been rummaging my boxes, and putting on my best chignons that pa sent me only yesterday. Look at them! They're teetotally ruined!

_Miss P._ Why, Miss Jones, you've got one on your head now!

_Hannah._ Of course I have. Have you got anything to say against it?

_Miss P._ O, no; only it don't match your hair.

_Hannah._ What of that? Pa always goes for the bright colours, and so do I.

_Lizzie._ Miss Precise, I thought pupils were forbidden to wear them.

_Miss P._ Well, yes--no--I must make exceptions. Miss Jones has permission to wear them.

_Lizzie._ Then I want permission.

_Hetty._ And so do I.

_Fanny._ And so do I.

_Miss P._ First tell me what is the meaning of this scene we have just had.

_Lizzie._ Scene? Why, didn't you tell us to take Miss Jones as a model for imitation? Haven't we done it?

_Miss P._ But Miss Jones doesn't whistle.

_Hannah._ Whistle? I bet I can. Want to hear me?

_Miss P._ No. She don't sing comic songs.

_Hannah._ Yes, she does.

_Lizzie._ Yes, and she wears chignons. As we must imitate her, and hadn't any of our own, we appropriated hers.

_Miss P._ Shame, shame! What will Mrs. Lofty say?

_Mrs. L._ That she rather enjoyed it. I saw mischief in their eyes as they came in. And now, girls, I'm going to tell you what Miss Jones does that you _don't_ know. A short time ago she placed in my hands her pocket-book, containing a large roll of bills, to be distributed among the poor.

_Lizzie._ Why, isn't she splendid?

_Hetty._ Why, she's "mag."

_Fanny._ O, you dear old Hannah. (_Kisses her._)

_Mrs. L._ I'm going to send my daughter here to school, and I shall tell her to make all the friends she can; but her first friend must be Hannah Jones.

_Hannah._ Well, I'm sure, I'm obleeged to you.

_Lizzie._ O, Miss Precise, we are so sorry we have acted so! Let us try again, and show Mrs. Lofty that we have benefited by your instruction.

_Miss P._ Not now. If Mrs. Lofty will call again, we will try to entertain her. I see I was in the wrong to give you such general directions. I say now, imitate Hannah Jones--her warm heart, her generous hand.

_Mrs. L._ And help her, by your friendship, to acquire the knowledge which Miss Precise so ably dispenses.

_Lizzie._ We will, we will.

_Miss P._ Only, ladies, avoid whistling.

_Hetty._ Of course, of course.

_Miss P._ And comic songs!

_Fanny._ O, certainly.

_Lizzie._ And there is one more thing we shall be sure to avoid.

_Miss P._ What is that?

_Lizzie._ The wearing of red chignons.

[_Exeunt._

THE KNIFE-GRINDER.

GEORGE CANNING.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road,--your wheel is out of order,--
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in 't,
So have your breeches!

Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work 't is crying all day 'Knives and
Scissors to grind O!

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.

KNIFE-GRINDER.

Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night, a drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-
Stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee hang'd first,--
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance--
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!

[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]

PREACHING TO THE POOR.

Father Taylor once said, "'Tis of no use to preach to empty
stomachs."

The parson preached in solemn way,
--A well-clad man on ample pay,--
And told the poor they were sinners all,
Depraved and lost by Adam's fall;
That they must repent, and save their souls.
A hollow-eyed wretch cried, "_Give us coals!_"

Then he told of virtue's pleasant path,
And that of ruin and of wrath;
How the slipping feet of sinners fell
Quick on the downward road to h----,
To suffer for sins when they are dead;
And the hollow voice answered, "_Give us bread!_"

Then he spoke of a land of love and peace,
Where all of pain and woe shall cease,
Where celestial flowers bloom by the way,
Where the light is brighter than solar day,
And there's no cold nor hunger there.
"Oh," says the voice, "_Give us clothes to wear!_"

Then the good man sighed, and turned away,
For such depravity to pray,
That had cast aside the heavenly worth
For the transient and fleeting things of earth!
And his church that night, to his content,
Raised his salary fifty per cent.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

BY C.B. SOUTHEY.

Tread softly--bow the head;
In reverent silence bow;
No passing bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that poor shed,
One by that paltry bed,
Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state;
Enter--no crowds attend;
Enter--no guards defend
This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound--
An infant wail alone:
A sob suppressed--again
That short, deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.

Oh! change!--Oh! wondrous change!--
Burst are the prison bars--
This moment there, so low,
So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars!

Oh! change--stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod!
The sun eternal breaks--
The new immortal wakes
Wakes with his God!

A HORSE-CAR INCIDENT.

No matter what horse-car, but it happened that I had to go a mile or two, and held up my cane to attract the attention of the driver or the conductor of one of them, which I did, after some difficulty. I am bound to say it was not on the Touchandgo road, for the officers employed there have an instinctive knowledge whether a man wishes to ride or not, and indeed often by the magic of the upraised finger they draw people in to ride who had hardly any previous intention of it. I have been attracted in this way, and found myself to my astonishment, seated in the car, confident that I had signified no disposition to do so. In this instance, however, I would ride, and got in.

There were the usual passengers in the car--the respectable people going out of town, who were reading the last editions of the papers, the women who had been shopping, the servant girls who had been in to visit their friends, feeling no interest in one another, and all absorbed in their own reflections, as I was. I was thinking seriously, when--my eye was attracted by some glittering object on the floor, beneath the opposite seat.

Of course everybody is attracted by glitter. A piece of glass in the moonlight may be a diamond, and show is far ahead of substance in influencing men, from the illusion which affects short-sighted vision. Thus this glittering object. What was it?--a diamond pin dropped by a former passenger? No, it could not be this, because it appeared to be round, and bigger than a pin stone could be. Could it be a bracelet? No, for it was too small. I directed my gaze more earnestly towards it in my doubt, and saw that it was a QUARTER, bright and sparkling with the freshness of new mint about it, so it seemed.

This I determined to make mine at the first chance, for a woman was sitting very near it, and I dreaded any confusion I might cause, by a sudden plunge, through the motion of the cars; so, whistling at a low breath, as if indifferent, but keeping my eye upon the prize, I awaited the opportunity that should insure me the coveted one-and-sixpence. It soon came: the bell rang, and the lady opposite, with her arms full of bundles, walked out, leaving the object of my ardent regard more distinctly in view. It seemed to me that every one in the car had an eye on that quarter, which I felt was mine by right of discovery, and which I was determined to have.

As the coach started I rose and fairly tumbled over into the just-vacated seat, taking care to drop in such a way as to screen the glittering bait. I looked at my fellow-passengers, and found that all were staring at me, as though they were reading my secret. The conductor had come inside the door, and was looking at me, and a heavy gentleman on the same seat with me leaned far out on his cane, so that he could take in my whole person with his glance, as though I were a piece of property on which he had to estimate. I felt my face burn, and a general discomfort seized me, as a man sometimes feels when he has done a wrong or a foolish act; though I couldn't think the act I was about to perform was wrong, and no one could say it was foolish in one to try to get a quarter of a dollar in this day of postal currency. At length I stooped down as if to adjust something about my boot, and slipped the object of my solicitude into my hand, unseen, as I believed.

"What is it?" asked the conductor.

"What's what?" said I, with affected smartness.

"What you just found," he persisted.

"I was pulling my pants down over my boot," I prevaricated.

"That's all humbug," said he; "you found something in the car, and it belongs to the company."

"Prove that I found any thing," said I, angrily.

"Young man," said the voice of the big man who was leaning on his cane, still looking at me, "it is as bad to lie about a thing as it is to steal. I saw you pick something up, and to me it had the appearance of money." He struck his cane on the floor as he spoke, and grasped it firmer, as if to clinch his remark.

"Yes," said the conductor; "and we don't want nothing of the kind here, and what's more, we won't have it; so hand over."

"My fine fellow," said I, prepared for a crisis, "I know my rights, and, without admitting that I have found any thing, I contend that if I had, in this public conveyance, which is as public as the street to him who pays for a ride in it, that which I find in it is mine after I have made due endeavour to find out its owner. Money being an article impossible to identify, unless it is marked, if I had found it, it would have been mine--according to Whately, Lycurgus, and Jew Moses."

"Hang your authorities," said he; "I don't know any thing about 'em, but this I know,--that money belongs to the Touchandgo Horse Railroad Company, and I'll have it. Ain't I right, Mr. Diggs?" addressing a gentleman with glasses on, reading the Journal.

"I think you are," replied he, looking at me over the top of his spectacles, as though he were shooting from behind a breastwork; "I think the pint is clear, and that it belongs to the company to advertise it and find out the owner."

"Well," I put in, "suppose they don't find the owner; who has it?"

"The company, I should think," said he, folding his paper preparatory to getting out.

"That's it," said the conductor, taking up the thread as he put the passenger down; "and now I want that money." He looked ugly.

"What money?" I queried.

"The money you picked up on the floor."

I saw that I was in a place of considerable difficulty, involving a row on one side and imputation of villany on the other, and studied how to escape.

"Well," said I, "if, in spite of the authorities I have quoted, you insist upon my giving this up which I hold in my hand,--the value of which I do not know,--I shall protest against your act, and hold the company responsible."

"Responsible be----blowed," replied he, severely; "shell out."

The people in the car were much excited. The fat man on the seat had risen up, though still in sitting position, and balanced himself upon his toes to get a better view. I unclosed my hand and deposited in the conductor's a round piece of tin that had been punched out by some tin-man and hammered smooth bearing a close resemblance to money!

The disappointment of every one was intense. The conductor intimated that if he met me in society he would give me my money's worth, the fat man muttered something about my being an "imposture," several lady passengers looked bluely at me, and only one laughed heartily at the whole affair, as I did. It was a queer incident.

SOCRATES SNOOKS.

Mister Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation,
The second time entered the married relation:
Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand,
And they thought him the happiest man in the land,
But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his head,
When, one morning, to Xantippe, Socrates said,
"I think, for a man of my standing in life,
This house is too small, as I now have a wife:
So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey
Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy."

"Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied,
"I hate to hear every thing vulgarly _my'd_;
Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again,
Say, _our_ cow house, _our_ barn yard, _our_ pig pen."
"By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please
Of _my_ houses, _my_ lands, _my_ gardens, _my_ trees."
"Say _our_," Xantippe exclaimed in a rage.
"I won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age!"

Oh, woman! though only a part of man's rib,
If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib,
Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you,
You are certain to prove the best man of the two.
In the following case this was certainly true;
For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her shoe,
And laying about her, all sides at random,
The adage was verified--"Nil desperandum."

Mister Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain,
To ward off the blows which descended like rain--
Concluding that valour's best part was discretion--
Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian:
But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid,
Converted the siege into a blockade.

At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate,
He concluded 't was useless to strive against fate:
And so, like a tortoise protruding his head,
Said, "My dear, may we come out from under _our_ bed?"
"Hah! hah!" she exclaimed, "Mr. Socrates Snooks,
I perceive you agree to my terms by your looks:
Now, Socrates--hear me--from this happy hour,
If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour."
'T is said the next Sabbath, ere going to church,
He chanced for a clean pair of trousers to search:
Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches,
"My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches?"

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend--"If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack-door,
The sound of arms and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade--
Up the light ladder, slender and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the quiet town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the church-yard, lay the dead
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still,
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread
The watchful night-wind as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay--
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore waited Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North-Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

It was twelve by the village-clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town,
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village-clock,
When he rode into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gazed at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village-clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning-breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown,
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British regulars fired and fled--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm--
A cry of defiance, and not of fear--
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed.
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.

A PLEASURE EXERTION.

MARIETTA HOLLEY.

This humorous sketch is taken from a work entitled "My
Opinions and Betsey Bobbet's."

They have been havin' pleasure exertions all summer here to Jonesville. Every week a'most they would go off on a exertion after pleasure, and Josiah was all up in end to go too.

That man is a well-principled man as I ever see; but if he had his head he would be worse than any young man I ever see to foller up pic-nics, and 4th of Julys, and camp meetin's, and all pleasure exertions. But I don't encourage him in it. I have said to him, time and agin, "There is a time for everything, Josiah Allen, and after anybody has lost all their teeth, and every mite of hair on the top of their head, it is time for 'em to stop goin' to pleasure exertions."

But, good land! I might jest as well talk to the wind. If that man should get to be as old as Mr. Methusler, and be a goin' a thousand years old, he would prick up his ears if he should hear of an exertion. All summer long that man has beset me to go to 'em, for he wouldn't go without me. Old Bunker Hill himself hain't any sounder in principle than Josiah Allen, and I have had to work head-work to make excuses, and quell him down. But, last week, the old folks was goin' to have one out on the lake, on an island, and that man sot his foot down that go he would.

We was to the breakfast-table, a talkin' it over, and says I, "I shan't go, for I am afraid of big water any way."

Says Josiah, "You are jest as liable to be killed in one place as another."

Says I, with a almost frigid air, as I passed him his coffee, "Mebby I shall be drownded on dry land, Josiah Allen; but I don't believe it."

Says he, in a complainin' tone, "I can't get you started onto a exertion for pleasure any way."

Says I, in a almost eloquent way, "I don't believe in makin' such exertions after pleasure. I don't believe in chasin' of her up." Says I, "Let her come of her own free will." Says I, "You can't catch her by chasin' of her up, no more than you can fetch a shower up, in a drewth, by goin' out doors, and running after a cloud up in the heavens above you. Sit down, and be patient; and when it gets ready, the refreshin' rain-drops will begin to fall without none of your help. And it is jest so with pleasure, Josiah Allen; you may chase her up over all the ocians and big mountains of the earth, and she will keep ahead of you all the time; but set down, and not fatigue yourself a thinkin' about her, and like as not she will come right into your house, unbeknown to you."

"Wal," says he, "I guess I'll have another griddlecake, Samantha." And as he took it, and poured the maple syrup over it, he added, gently but firmly, "I shall go, Samantha, to this exertion, and I should be glad to have you present at it, because it seems jest, to me, as if I should fall overboard durin' the day."

Men are deep. Now that man knew that no amount of religious preachin' could stir me up like that one speech. For though I hain't no hand to coo, and don't encourage him in bein' spoony at all, he knows that I am wrapped almost completely up in him. I went.

We had got to start about the middle of the night, for the lake was fifteen miles from Jonesville, and the old horse bein' so slow, we had got to start a hour or two ahead of the rest. I told Josiah that I had jest as lives set up all night, as to be routed out at two o'clock. But he was so animated and happy at the idee of goin' that he looked on the bright side of everything, and he said that we would go to bed before dark, and get as much sleep as we commonly did! So we went to bed, the sun an hour high. But we hadn't more'n got settled down into the bed, when we heard a buggy and a single wagon stop to the gate, and I got up and peeked through the window, and I see it was visitors come to spend the evenin'--Elder Wesley Minkly and his family, and Deacon Dobbins' folks. Josiah vowed that he wouldn't stir one step out of that bed that night. But I argued with him pretty sharp, while I was throwin' on my clothes, and I finally got him started up. I hain't deceitful, but I thought, if I got my clothes all on before they came in, I wouldn't tell 'em that I had been to bed that time of day. And I did get all dressed up, even to my handkerchief pin. And I guess they had been there as much as ten minutes before I thought that I hadn't took my night-cap off. They looked dretful curious at me, and I felt awful meachin'. But I jest ketched it off, and never said nothin'. But when Josiah came out of the bedroom, with what little hair he has got standin' out in every direction, no two hairs a layin' the same way, I up and told 'em. I thought mebby they wouldn't stay long. But Deacon Dobbins' folks seemed to be all waked up on the subject of religion, and they proposed we should turn it into a kind of a conference meetin'; so they never went home till after ten o'clock.

It was most eleven o'clock when Josiah and me got to bed agin. And then jest as I was gettin' into a drowse, I heard the cat in the buttery, and I got up to let her out. And that rousted Josiah up, and he thought he heard the cattle in the garden, and he got up and went out. And there we was a marchin' round most all night. And if we would get into a nap, Josiah would think it was mornin', and he would start up and go out to look at the clock. I lost myself once, for I dreampt that Josiah was a droundin', and Deacon Dobbins was on the shore a prayin' for him. It started me so, that I jest ketched hold of Josiah and hollered. It skairt him awfully, and says he, "What does ail you, Samantha? I hain't been asleep before to-night, and now you have rousted me up for good. I wonder what time it is?" And then he got out of bed again, and went out and looked at the clock. It was half-past one, and he said "he didn't believe we had better go to sleep again for fear we would be too late for the exertion, and he wouldn't miss that for nothin'."

"Exertion," says I, in a awful cold tone; "I should think we had had exertion enough for one spell."

But I got up at 2 o'clock, and made a cup of tea as strong as I could, for we both felt beat out, worse than if we had watched in sickness.

But, as bad and wore out as Josiah felt bodily, he was all animated in his mind about what a good time he was a goin' to have. He acted foolish, and I told him so. I wanted to wear my brown and black gingham, and a shaker; but Josiah insisted that I should wear a new lawn dress that he had brought me home as a present, and I had got just made up. So, jest to please him, I put it on, and my best bonnet. And that man, all I could do and say, would wear a pair of pantaloons I had been a makin' for Thomas Jefferson. They was gettin' up a military company in Thomas J.'s school, and these pantaloons was white with a blue stripe down the sides, a kind of uniform. Josiah took a awful fancy to 'em; and, says he,

"I will wear 'em, Samantha; they look so dressy."

Says I, "They hain't hardly done. I was goin' to stitch that blue stripe on the left leg on again. They haint finished as they ought to be, and I would not wear 'em. It looks vain in you."

Says he, "I will wear 'em, Samantha. I will be dressed up for once."

I didn't contend with him. Thinks I, we are makin' fools of ourselves by goin' at all, and if he wants to make a little bigger fool of himself, I won't stand in his light. And then I had got some machine oil onto 'em, so I felt that I had got to wash 'em any way, before Thomas J. took 'em to school. So he put 'em on.

I had good vittles, and a sight of 'em. The basket wouldn't hold 'em all. So Josiah had to put a bottle of red rhaspberry jell into the pocket of his dress coat, and lots of other little things, such as spoons, and knives, and forks, in his pantaloons and breast pockets. He looked like Captain Kidd, armed up to the teeth, and I told him so. But, good land, he would have carried a knife in his mouth if I had asked him, he felt so neat about goin', and boasted so, on what a splendid exertion it was going to be.