all, so Josiah had to put a bottle of red rossberry 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 to, he
felt so neat about goin', and boasted so on what a splendid exertion it
was goin' to be.
We got to the lake about eight o'clock, for the old mare went slow. We
was about the first ones there, but they kep' a-comin', and before ten
o'clock we all got there.
The young folks made up their minds they would stay and eat their dinner
in a grove on the mainland. But the majority of the old folks thought it
was best to go and set our tables where we laid out to in the first
place. Josiah seemed to be the most rampant of any of the company about
goin'. He said he shouldn't eat a mouthful if he didn't eat it on that
island. He said what was the use of going to a pleasure exertion at all
if you didn't try to take all the pleasure you could. So about twenty
old fools of us sot sail for the island.
I had made up my mind from the first on't to face trouble, so it didn't
put me out so much when Deacon Dobbins, in gettin' into the boat,
stepped onto my new lawn dress and tore a hole in it as big as my two
hands, and ripped it half offen the waist. But Josiah havin' felt so
animated and tickled about the exertion, it worked him up awfully when,
jest after we had got well out onto the lake, the wind took his hat off
and blew it away out onto the lake. He had made up his mind to look so
pretty that day that it worked him up awfully. And then the sun beat
down onto him; and if he had had any hair onto his head it would have
seemed more shady.
But I did the best I could by him. I stood by him and pinned on his red
bandanna handkerchief onto his head. But as I was a-fixin' it on, I see
there was suthin' more than mortification ailded him. The lake was rough
and the boat rocked, and I see he was beginning to be awful sick. He
looked deathly. Pretty soon I felt bad, too. Oh! the wretchedness of
that time. I have enjoyed poor health considerable in my life, but never
did I enjoy so much sickness in so short a time as I did on that
pleasure exertion to that island. I s'pose our bein' up all night a'most
made it worse. When we reached the island we was both weak as cats.
I sot right down on a stun and held my head for a spell, for it did seem
as if it would split open. After awhile I staggered up onto my feet, and
finally I got so I could walk straight and sense things a little; though
it was tejus work to walk anyway, for we had landed on a sand-bar, and
the sand was so deep it was all we could do to wade through it, and it
was as hot as hot ashes ever was.
Then I began to take the things out of my dinner-basket. The butter had
all melted, so we had to dip it out with a spoon. And a lot of water had
washed over the side of the boat, so my pies and tarts and delicate
cakes and cookies looked awful mixed up. But no worse than the rest of
the company's did.
But we did the best we could, and the chicken and cold meats bein' more
solid, had held together quite well, so there was some pieces of it
conside'able hull, though it was all very wet and soppy. But we
separated 'em out as well as we could, and begun to make preparations to
eat. We didn't feel so animated about eatin' as we should if we hadn't
been so sick to our stomachs. But we felt as if we must hurry, for the
man that owned the boat said he knew it would rain before night by the
way the sun scalded.
There wasn't a man or a woman there but what the presperation and sweat
jest poured down their faces. We was a haggard and melancholy lookin'
set. There was a piece of woods a little ways off, but it was up quite a
rise of ground, and there wasn't one of us but what had the rheumatiz
more or less. We made up a fire on the sand, though it seemed as if it
was hot enough to steep tea and coffee as it was.
After we got the fire started, I histed a umberell and sot down under it
and fanned myself hard, for I was afraid of a sunstroke.
Wal, I guess I had set there ten minutes or more, when all of a sudden I
thought, Where is Josiah? I hadn't seen him since we had got there. I
riz up and asked the company, almost wildly, if they had seen my
companion, Josiah.
They said, No, they hadn't.
But Celestine Wilkin's little girl, who had come with her grandpa and
grandma Gowdy, spoke up, and says she:
"I seen him goin' off toward the woods. He acted dretful strange, too;
he seemed to be a walkin' off sideways."
"Had the sufferin's he had undergone made him delerious?" says I to
myself; and then I started off on the run toward the woods, and old Miss
Bobbet, and Miss Gowdy, and Sister Bamber, and Deacon Dobbinses' wife
all rushed after me.
Oh, the agony of them two or three minutes! my mind so distracted with
fourbodin's, and the presperation and sweat a-pourin' down. But all of a
sudden, on the edge of the woods, we found him. Miss Gowdy, weighin' a
little less than me, mebby one hundred pounds or so, had got a little
ahead of me. He sot backed up against a tree in a awful cramped
position, with his left leg under him. He looked dretful uncomfortable.
But when Miss Gowdy hollered out: "Oh, here you be! We have been skairt
about you. What is the matter?" he smiled a dretful sick smile, and says
he: "Oh, I thought I would come out here and meditate a spell. It was
always a real treat to me to meditate."
Just then I come up a-pantin' for breath, and as the wimmen all turned
to face me, Josiah scowled at me and shook his fist at them four wimmen,
and made the most mysterious motions of his hands toward 'em. But the
minute they turned round he smiled in a sickish way, and pretended to go
to whistlin'.
Says I, "What is the matter, Josiah Allen? What are you off here for?"
"I am a-meditatin', Samantha."
Says I, "Do you come down and jine the company this minute, Josiah
Allen. You was in a awful takin' to come with 'em, and what will they
think to see you act so?"
The wimmen happened to be a-lookin' the other way for a minute, and he
looked at me as if he would take my head off, and made the strangest
motions toward 'em; but the minute they looked at him he would pretend
to smile--that deathly smile.
Says I, "Come, Josiah Allen, we're goin' to get dinner right away, for
we are afraid it will rain."
"Oh, wal," says he, "a little rain, more or less, hain't a-goin' to
hender a man from meditatin'."
I was wore out, and says I, "Do you stop meditatin' this minute, Josiah
Allen!"
Says he, "I won't stop, Samantha. I let you have your way a good deal of
the time; but when I take it into my head to meditate, you hain't
a-goin' to break it up."
Jest at that minute they called to me from the shore to come that minute
to find some of my dishes. And we had to start off. But oh! the gloom of
my mind that was added to the lameness of my body. Them strange motions
and looks of Josiah wore on me. Had the sufferin's of the night, added
to the trials of the day, made him crazy? I thought more'n as likely as
not I had got a luny on my hands for the rest of my days.
And then, oh, how the sun did scald down onto me, and the wind took the
smoke so into my face that there wasn't hardly a dry eye in my head. And
then a perfect swarm of yellow wasps lit down onto our vittles as quick
as we laid 'em down, so you couldn't touch a thing without runnin' a
chance to be stung. Oh, the agony of that time! the distress of that
pleasure exertion! But I kep' to work, and when we had got dinner most
ready I went back to call Josiah again. Old Miss Bobbet said she would
go with me, for she thought she see a wild turnip in the woods there,
and her Shakespeare had a awful cold, and she would try to dig one to
give him. So we started up the hill again. He sot in the same position,
all huddled up, with his leg under him, as uncomfortable a lookin'
creeter as I ever see. But when we both stood in front of him, he
pretended to look careless and happy, and smiled that sick smile.
Says I, "Come, Josiah Allen; dinner is ready."
"Oh, I hain't hungry," says he. "The table will probable be full. I had
jest as lieves wait."
"Table full!" says I. "You know jest as well as I do that we are eatin'
on the ground. Do you come and eat your dinner this minute."
"Yes, do come," says Miss Bobbet; "we can't get along without you!"
"Oh!" says he, with a ghastly smile, pretending to joke, "I have got
plenty to eat here--I can eat muskeeters."
The air was black with 'em, I couldn't deny it.
"The muskeeters will eat you, more likely," says I. "Look at your face
and hands; they are all covered with 'em."
"Yes, they have eat considerable of a dinner out of me, but I don't
begrech 'em. I hain't small enough, nor mean enough, I hope, to begrech
'em one good meal."
Miss Bobbet started off in search of her wild turnip, and after she had
got out of sight Josiah whispered to me with a savage look and a tone
sharp as a sharp ax:
"Can't you bring forty or fifty more wimmen up here? You couldn't come
here a minute, could you, without a lot of other wimmen tight to your
heels?"
I begun to see daylight, and after Miss Bobbet had got her wild turnip
and some spignut, I made some excuse to send her on ahead, and then
Josiah told me all about why he had gone off by himself alone, and why
he had been a-settin' in such a curious position all the time since we
had come in sight of him.
It seems he had set down on that bottle of rossberry jell. That red
stripe on the side wasn't hardly finished, as I said, and I hadn't
fastened my thread properly, so when he got to pullin' at 'em to try to
wipe off the jell, the thread started, and bein' sewed on a machine,
that seam jest ripped from top to bottom. That was what he had walked
off sideways toward the woods for. But Josiah Allen's wife hain't one to
desert a companion in distress. I pinned 'em up as well as I could, and
I didn't say a word to hurt his feelin's, only I jest said this to him,
as I was fixin' 'em--I fastened my gray eye firmly, and almost sternly
onto him, and says I:
"Josiah Allen, is this pleasure?" Says I, "You was determined to come."
"Throw that in my face agin, will you? What if I was? There goes a pin
into my leg! I should think I had suffered enough without your stabbin'
of me with pins."
"Wal, then, stand still, and not be a-caperin' round so. How do you
s'pose I can do anything with you a-tossin' round so?"
"Wal, don't be so aggravatin', then."
I fixed 'em as well as I could, but they looked pretty bad, and there
they was all covered with jell, too. What to do I didn't know. But
finally I told him I would put my shawl onto him. So I doubled it up
corner-ways as big as I could, so it almost touched the ground behind,
and he walked back to the table with me. I told him it was best to tell
the company all about it, but he just put his foot down that he
wouldn't, and I told him if he wouldn't that he must make his own
excuses to the company about wearin' the shawl. So he told 'em he always
loved to wear summer shawls; he thought it made a man look so dressy.
But he looked as if he would sink all the time he was a-sayin' it. They
all looked dretful curious at him, and he looked as meachin' as if he
had stole sheep--and meachin'er--and he never took a minute's comfort,
nor I nuther. He was sick all the way back to the shore, and so was I.
And jest as we got into our wagons and started for home, the rain began
to pour down. The wind turned our old umberell inside out in no time. My
lawn dress was most spilte before, and now I give up my bonnet. And I
says to Josiah:
"This bonnet and dress are spilte, Josiah Allen, and I shall have to buy
some new ones."
"Wal, wal! who said you wouldn't?" he snapped out.
But it were on him. Oh, how the rain poured down! Josiah, havin' nothin'
but a handkerchief on his head, felt it more than I did. I had took a
apron to put on a-gettin' dinner, and I tried to make him let me pin it
on his head. But says he, firmly:
"I hain't proud and haughty, Samantha, but I do feel above ridin' out
with a pink apron on for a hat."
"Wal, then," says I, "get as wet as sop, if you had ruther."
I didn't say no more, but there we jest sot and suffered. The rain
poured down; the wind howled at us; the old mare went slow; the
rheumatiz laid holt of both of us; and the thought of the new bonnet and
dress was a-wearin' on Josiah, I knew.
There wasn't a house for the first seven miles, and after we got there I
thought we wouldn't go in, for we had got to get home to milk anyway,
and we was both as wet as we could be. After I had beset him about the
apron, we didn't say hardly a word for as much as thirteen miles or so;
but I did speak once, as he leaned forward, with the rain drippin' offen
his bandanna handkerchief onto his blue pantaloons. I says to him in
stern tones:
"Is this pleasure, Josiah Allen?"
He give the old mare a awful cut and says he: "I'd like to know what you
want to be so aggravatin' for?"
I didn't multiply any more words with him, only as we drove up to our
doorstep, and he helped me out into a mud-puddle, I says to him:
"Mebbe you'll hear to me another time, Josiah Allen."
And I'll bet he will. I hain't afraid to bet a ten-cent bill that that
man won't never open his mouth to me again about a pleasure exertion.
* * * * *
A simple-hearted and truly devout country preacher, who had tasted but
few of the drinks of the world, took dinner with a high-toned family,
where a glass of milk punch was quietly set down by each plate. In
silence and happiness this new Vicar of Wakefield quaffed his goblet,
and then added, "Madam, you should daily thank God for such a good
cow."
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
THE DIAMOND WEDDING
O Love! Love! Love! What times were those,
Long ere the age of belles and beaux,
And Brussels lace and silken hose,
When, in the green Arcadian close,
You married Psyche under the rose,
With only the grass for bedding!
Heart to heart, and hand to hand,
You followed Nature's sweet command,
Roaming lovingly through the land,
Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding.
So have we read in classic Ovid,
How Hero watched for her belovèd,
Impassioned youth, Leander.
She was the fairest of the fair,
And wrapt him round with her golden hair,
Whenever he landed cold and bare,
With nothing to eat and nothing to wear,
And wetter than any gander;
For Love was Love, and better than money;
The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey;
And kissing was clover, all the world over,
Wherever Cupid might wander.
So thousands of years have come and gone,
And still the moon is shining on,
Still Hymen's torch is lighted;
And hitherto, in this land of the West,
Most couples in love have thought it best
To follow the ancient way of the rest,
And quietly get united.
But now, True Love, you're growing old--
Bought and sold, with silver and gold,
Like a house, or a horse and carriage!
Midnight talks,
Moonlight walks,
The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh,
The shadowy haunts, with no one by,
I do not wish to disparage;
But every kiss
Has a price for its bliss,
In the modern code of marriage;
And the compact sweet
Is not complete
Till the high contracting parties meet
Before the altar of Mammon;
And the bride must be led to a silver bower,
Where pearls and rubies fall in a shower
That would frighten Jupiter Ammon!
I need not tell
How it befell,
(Since Jenkins has told the story
Over and over and over again,
In a style I cannot hope to attain,
And covered himself with glory!)
How it befell, one summer's day,
The king of the Cubans strolled this way--
King January's his name, they say--
And fell in love with the Princess May,
The reigning belle of Manhattan;
Nor how he began to smirk and sue,
And dress as lovers who come to woo,
Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do,
When they sit full-bloomed in the ladies' view,
And flourish the wondrous baton.
He wasn't one of your Polish nobles,
Whose presence their country somehow troubles,
And so our cities receive them;
Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees,
Who ply our daughters with lies and candies,
Until the poor girls believe them.
No, he was no such charlatan--
Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan,
Full of gasconade and bravado--
But a regular, rich Don Rataplan,
Santa Claus de la Muscovado,
Señor Grandissimo Bastinado.
His was the rental of half Havana
And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna,
Rich as he was, could hardly hold
A candle to light the mines of gold
Our Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers;
And broad plantations, that, in round figures,
Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers!
"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!"
The Señor swore to carry the day,
To capture the beautiful Princess May,
With his battery of treasure;
Velvet and lace she should not lack;
Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black,
Genin and Stewart his suit should back,
And come and go at her pleasure;
Jet and lava--silver and gold----
Garnets--emeralds rare to behold----
Diamonds--sapphires--wealth untold----
All were hers, to have and to hold:
Enough to fill a peck measure!
He didn't bring all his forces on
At once, but like a crafty old Don,
Who many a heart had fought and won,
Kept bidding a little higher;
And every time he made his bid,
And what she said, and all they did----
'Twas written down,
For the good of the town,
By Jeems, of _The Daily Flyer_.
A coach and horses, you'd think, would buy
For the Don an easy victory;
But slowly our Princess yielded.
A diamond necklace caught her eye,
But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh.
She knew the worth of each maiden glance,
And, like young colts, that curvet and prance,
She led the Don a deuce of a dance,
In spite of the wealth he wielded.
She stood such a fire of silks and laces,
Jewels and gold dressing-cases,
And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls,
That every one of her dainty curls
Brought the price of a hundred common girls;
Folks thought the lass demented!
But at last a wonderful diamond ring,
An infant Kohinoor, did the thing,
And, sighing with love, or something the same,
(What's in a name?)
The Princess May consented.
Ring! ring the bells, and bring
The people to see the marrying!
Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poor
Throng round the great cathedral door,
To wonder what all the hubbub's for,
And sometimes stupidly wonder
At so much sunshine and brightness which
Fall from the church upon the rich,
While the poor get all the thunder.
Ring, ring! merry bells, ring!
O fortunate few,
With letters blue,
Good for a seat and a nearer view!
Fortunate few, whom I dare not name;
_Dilettanti! Crême de la crême!_
We commoners stood by the street façade,
And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade.
We saw the bride
In diamond pride,
With jeweled maidens to guard her side----
Six lustrous maidens in tarletan.
She led the van of the caravan;
Close behind her, her mother
(Dressed in gorgeous _moire antique_,
That told as plainly as words could speak,
She was more antique than the other)
Leaned on the arm of Don Rataplan
Santa Claus de la Muscovado
Señor Grandissimo Bastinado.
Happy mortal! fortunate man!
And Marquis of El Dorado!
In they swept, all riches and grace,
Silks and satins, jewels and lace;
In they swept from the dazzled sun,
And soon in the church the deed was done.
Three prelates stood on the chancel high:
A knot that gold and silver can buy,
Gold and silver may yet untie,
Unless it is tightly fastened;
What's worth doing at all's worth doing well,
And the sale of a young Manhattan belle
Is not to be pushed or hastened;
So two Very-Reverends graced the scene,
And the tall Archbishop stood between,
By prayer and fasting chastened.
The Pope himself would have come from Rome,
But Garibaldi kept him at home.
Haply these robed prelates thought
Their words were the power that tied the knot;
But another power that love-knot tied,
And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride----
A glistening, priceless, marvelous chain,
Coiled with diamonds again and again,
As befits a diamond wedding;
Yet still 'twas a chain, and I thought she knew it,
And halfway longed for the will to undo it,
By the secret tears she was shedding.
But isn't it odd to think, whenever
We all go through that terrible River----
Whose sluggish tide alone can sever
(The Archbishop says) the Church decree,
By floating one in to Eternity
And leaving the other alive as ever----
As each wades through that ghastly stream,
The satins that rustle and gems that gleam,
Will grow pale and heavy, and sink away
To the noisome River's bottom-clay!
Then the costly bride and her maidens six
Will shiver upon the bank of the Styx,
Quite as helpless as they were born----
Naked souls, and very forlorn;
The Princess, then, must shift for herself,
And lay her royalty on the shelf;
She, and the beautiful Empress, yonder,
Whose robes are now the wide world's wonder,
And even ourselves, and our dear little wives,
Who calico wear each morn of their lives,
And the sewing-girls, and _les chiffonniers_,
In rags and hunger--a gaunt array----
And all the grooms of the caravan----
Ay, even the great Don Rataplan
Santa Claus de la Muscovado
Señor Grandissimo Bastinado----
That gold-encrusted, fortunate man----
All will land in naked equality:
The lord of a ribboned principality
Will mourn the loss of his _cordon_;
Nothing to eat and nothing to wear
Will certainly be the fashion there!
Ten to one, and I'll go it alone;
Those most used to a rag and bone,
Though here on earth they labor and groan,
Will stand it best, as they wade abreast
To the other side of Jordan.
* * * * *
When Grant's army crossed the Rappahannock Lee's veterans felt sure of
sending it back as "tattered and torn" as ever it had been under the new
general's numerous predecessors. After the crossing, the first prisoners
caught by Mosby were asked many questions by curious Confederates.
"What has become of your pontoon train?" said one such inquirer.
"We haven't got any," answered the prisoner.
"How do you expect to get over the river when you go back?"
"Oh," said the Yankee, "we are not going back. Grant says that all the
men he sends back can cross on a log."
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS
Guvener B. is a sensible man;
He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wun't vote fer Guvener B.
My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we du?
We can't never choose him o' course--thet's flat;
Guess we shall hev to come round (don't you?)
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wun't vote for Guvener B.
Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:
He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan----
He's ben true to _one_ party--an' thet is himself;
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote for Gineral C.
Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;
He don't vally principle more'n an old cud;
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,
With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't,
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an pillage,
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.
The side of our country must ollers be took,
An' President Polk, you know, _he_ is our country.
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book
Puts the _debit_ to him, an' to us the _per contry_;
An' John P.
Robinson he
Sez this is his view o' the things to a T.
Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;
Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest _fee, faw, fum_:
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies
Is half on it ign'ance an' t'other half rum;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez it ain't no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.
Parson Wilbur sez _he_ never heerd in his life
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats,
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,
To git some on 'em office, and some on 'em votes;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.
Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us
The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow----
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,
To start the world's team w'en it gits in a slough;
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!
* * * * *
_Old Gentleman_ (to driver of street-car): "My friend, what do you do
with your wages every week--put part of it in the savings bank?"
_Driver:_ "No, sir. After payin' the butcher an' grocer an' rent, I pack
away what's left in barrels. I'm 'fraid of them savin's banks."
MUSIC BY THE CHOIR