I really believe some people save their bright thoughts, as being too
precious for conversation. What do you think an admiring friend said the
other day to one that was talking good things,—good enough to print?
“Why,” said he, “you are wasting mechantable literature, a cash article,
at the rate, as nearly as I can tell, of fifty dollars an hour.” The
talker took him to the window and asked him to look out and tell what he
saw.
“Nothing but a very dusty street,” he said, “and a man driving a
sprinkling-machine through it.”
“Why don’t you tell the man he is wasting that water? What would be the
state of the highways of life, if we did not drive our
_thought-sprinklers_ through them with the valves open, sometimes?
“Besides, there is another thing about this talking, which you forget.
It shapes our thoughts for us;—the waves of conversation roll them as the
surf rolls the pebbles on the shore. Let me modify the image a little.
I rough out my thoughts in talk as an artist models in clay. Spoken
language is so plastic,—you can pat and coax, and spread and shave, and
rub out, and fill up, and stick on so easily when you work that soft
material, that there is nothing like it for modelling. Out of it come
the shapes which you turn into marble or bronze in your immortal books,
if you happen to write such. Or, to use another illustration, writing or
printing is like shooting with a rifle; you may hit your reader’s mind,
or miss it;—but talking is like playing at a mark with the pipe of an
engine; if it is within reach, and you have time enough, you can’t help
hitting it.”
The company agreed that this last illustration was of superior
excellence, or, in the phrase used by them, “Fust-rate.” I acknowledged
the compliment, but gently rebuked the expression. “Fust-rate,” “prime,”
“a prime article,” “a superior piece of goods,” “a handsome garment,” “a
gent in a flowered vest,”—all such expressions are final. They blast the
lineage of him or her who utters them, for generations up and down.
There is one other phrase which will soon come to be decisive of a man’s
social _status_, if it is not already: “That tells the whole story.” It
is an expression which vulgar and conceited people particularly affect,
and which well-meaning ones, who know better, catch from them. It is
intended to stop all debate, like the previous question in the General
Court. Only it doesn’t; simply because “that” does not usually tell the
whole, nor one half of the whole story.
—It is an odd idea, that almost all our people have had a professional
education. To become a doctor a man must study some three years and hear
a thousand lectures, more or less. Just how much study it takes to make
a lawyer I cannot say, but probably not more than this. Now most decent
people hear one hundred lectures or sermons (discourses) on theology
every year,—and this, twenty, thirty, fifty years together. They read a
great many religious books besides. The clergy, however, rarely hear any
sermons except what they preach themselves. A dull preacher might be
conceived, therefore, to lapse into a state of _quasi_ heathenism, simply
for want of religious instruction. And on the other hand, an attentive
and intelligent hearer, listening to a succession of wise teachers, might
become actually better educated in theology than any one of them. We are
all theological students, and more of us qualified as doctors of divinity
than have received degrees at any of the universities.
It is not strange, therefore, that very good people should often find it
difficult, if not impossible, to keep their attention fixed upon a sermon
treating feebly a subject which they have thought vigorously about for
years, and heard able men discuss scores of times. I have often noticed,
however, that a hopelessly dull discourse acts _inductively_, as
electricians would say, in developing strong mental currents. I am
ashamed to think with what accompaniments and variations and _fioriture_
I have sometimes followed the droning of a heavy speaker,—not
willingly,—for my habit is reverential,—but as a necessary result of a
slight continuous impression on the senses and the mind, which kept both
in action without furnishing the food they required to work upon. If you
ever saw a crow with a king-bird after him, you will get an image of a
dull speaker and a lively listener. The bird in sable plumage flaps
heavily along his straight-forward course, while the other sails round
him, over him, under him, leaves him, comes back again, tweaks out a
black feather, shoots away once more, never losing sight of him, and
finally reaches the crow’s perch at the same time the crow does, having
cut a perfect labyrinth of loops and knots and spirals while the slow
fowl was painfully working from one end of his straight line to the
other.
[I think these remarks were received rather coolly. A temporary boarder
from the country, consisting of a somewhat more than middle-aged female,
with a parchment forehead and a dry little “frisette” shingling it, a
sallow neck with a necklace of gold beads, a black dress too rusty for
recent grief and contours in basso-rilievo, left the table prematurely,
and was reported to have been very virulent about what I said. So I went
to my good old minister, and repeated the remarks, as nearly as I could
remember them, to him. He laughed good-naturedly, and said there was
considerable truth in them. He thought he could tell when people’s minds
were wandering, by their looks. In the earlier years of his ministry he
had sometimes noticed this, when he was preaching;—very little of late
years. Sometimes, when his colleague was preaching, he observed this
kind of inattention; but after all, it was not so very unnatural. I will
say, by the way, that it is a rule I have long followed, to tell my worst
thoughts to my minister, and my best thoughts to the young people I talk
with.]
—I want to make a literary confession now, which I believe nobody has
made before me. You know very well that I write verses sometimes,
because I have read some of them at this table. (The company
assented,—two or three of them in a resigned sort of way, as I thought,
as if they supposed I had an epic in my pocket, and was going to read
half a dozen books or so for their benefit.)—I continued. Of course I
write some lines or passages which are better than others; some which,
compared with the others, might be called relatively excellent. It is in
the nature of things that I should consider these relatively excellent
lines or passages as absolutely good. So much must be pardoned to
humanity. Now I never wrote a “good” line in my life, but the moment
after it was written it seemed a hundred years old. Very commonly I had
a sudden conviction that I had seen it somewhere. Possibly I may have
sometimes unconsciously stolen it, but I do not remember that I ever once
detected any historical truth in these sudden convictions of the
antiquity of my new thought or phrase. I have learned utterly to
distrust them, and never allow them to bully me out of a thought or line.
This is the philosophy of it. (Here the number of the company was
diminished by a small secession.) Any new formula which suddenly emerges
in our consciousness has its roots in long trains of thought; it is
virtually old when it first makes its appearance among the recognized
growths of our intellect. Any crystalline group of musical words has had
a long and still period to form in. Here is one theory.
[Picture: The schoolmistress]
But there is a larger law which perhaps comprehends these facts. It is
this. The rapidity with which ideas grow old in our memories is in a
direct ratio to the squares of their importance. Their apparent age runs
up miraculously, like the value of diamonds, as they increase in
magnitude. A great calamity, for instance, is as old as the trilobites
an hour after it has happened. It stains backward through all the leaves
we have turned over in the book of life, before its blot of tears or of
blood is dry on the page we are turning. For this we seem to have lived;
it was foreshadowed in dreams that we leaped out of in the cold sweat of
terror; in the “dissolving views” of dark day-visions; all omens pointed
to it; all paths led to it. After the tossing half-forgetfulness of the
first sleep that follows such an event, it comes upon us afresh, as a
surprise, at waking; in a few moments it is old again,—old as eternity.
[I wish I had not said all this then and there. I might have known
better. The pale schoolmistress, in her mourning dress, was looking at
me, as I noticed, with a wild sort of expression. All at once the blood
dropped out of her cheeks as the mercury drops from a broken
barometer-tube, and she melted away from her seat like an image of snow;
a slung-shot could not have brought her down better. God forgive me!
After this little episode, I continued, to some few that remained
balancing teaspoons on the edges of cups, twirling knives, or tilting
upon the hind legs of their chairs until their heads reached the wall,
where they left gratuitous advertisements of various popular cosmetics.]
When a person is suddenly thrust into any strange, new position of trial,
he finds the place fits him as if he had been measured for it. He has
committed a great crime, for instance, and is sent to the State Prison.
The traditions, prescriptions, limitations, privileges, all the sharp
conditions of his new life, stamp themselves upon his consciousness as
the signet on soft wax;—a single pressure is enough. Let me strengthen
the image a little. Did you ever happen to see that most soft-spoken and
velvet-handed steam-engine at the Mint? The smooth piston slides
backward and forward as a lady might slip her delicate finger in and out
of a ring. The engine lays one of _its_ fingers calmly, but firmly, upon
a bit of metal; it is a coin now, and will remember that touch, and tell
a new race about it, when the date upon it is crusted over with twenty
centuries. So it is that a great silent-moving misery puts a new stamp
on us in an hour or a moment,—as sharp an impression as if it had taken
half a lifetime to engrave it.
It is awful to be in the hands of the wholesale professional dealers in
misfortune; undertakers and jailers magnetize you in a moment, and you
pass out of the individual life you were living into the rhythmical
movements of their horrible machinery. Do the worst thing you can, or
suffer the worst that can be thought of, you find yourself in a category
of humanity that stretches back as far as Cain, and with an expert at
your elbow who has studied your case all out beforehand, and is waiting
for you with his implements of hemp or mahogany. I believe, if a man
were to be burned in any of our cities tomorrow for heresy, there would
be found a master of ceremonies that knew just how many fagots were
necessary, and the best way of arranging the whole matter.
—So we have not won the Goodwood cup; _au contraire_, we were a “bad
fifth,” if not worse than that; and trying it again, and the third time,
has not yet bettered the matter. Now I am as patriotic as any of my
fellow-citizens,—too patriotic in fact, for I have got into hot water by
loving too much of my country; in short, if any man, whose fighting
weight is not more than eight stone four pounds, disputes it, I am ready
to discuss the point with him. I should have gloried to see the stars
and stripes in front at the finish. I love my country, and I love
horses. Stubbs’s old mezzotint of Eclipse hangs over my desk, and
Herring’s portrait of Plenipotentiary,—whom I saw run at Epsom,—over my
fireplace. Did I not elope from school to see Revenge, and Prospect, and
Little John, and Peacemaker run over the race-course where now yon
suburban village flourishes, in the year eighteen hundred and
ever-so-few? Though I never owned a horse, have I not been the
proprietor of six equine females, of which one was the prettiest little
“Morgin” that ever stepped? Listen, then, to an opinion I have often
expressed long before this venture of ours in England. Horse-_racing_ is
not a republican institution; horse-_trotting_ is. Only very rich
persons can keep race-horses, and everybody knows they are kept mainly as
gambling implements. All that matter about blood and speed we won’t
discuss; we understand all that; useful, very,—_of_ course,—great
obligations to the Godolphin “Arabian,” and the rest. I say racing
horses are essentially gambling implements, as much as roulette tables.
Now I am not preaching at this moment; I may read you one of my sermons
some other morning; but I maintain that gambling, on the great scale, is
not republican. It belongs to two phases of society,—a cankered
over-civilization, such as exists in rich aristocracies, and the reckless
life of borderers and adventurers, or the semi-barbarism of a
civilization resolved into its primitive elements. Real Republicanism is
stern and severe; its essence is not in forms of government, but in the
omnipotence of public opinion which grows out of it. This public opinion
cannot prevent gambling with dice or stocks, but it can and does compel
it to keep comparatively quiet. But horse-racing is the most public way
of gambling, and with all its immense attractions to the sense and the
feelings,—to which I plead very susceptible,—the disguise is too thin
that covers it, and everybody knows what it means. Its supporters are
the Southern gentry,—fine fellows, no doubt, but not republicans exactly,
as we understand the term,—a few Northern millionnaires more or less
thoroughly millioned, who do not represent the real people, and the mob
of sporting men, the best of whom are commonly idlers, and the worst very
bad neighbors to have near one in a crowd, or to meet in a dark alley.
In England, on the other hand, with its aristocratic institutions, racing
is a natural growth enough; the passion for it spreads downwards through
all classes, from the Queen to the costermonger. London is like a
shelled corn-cob on the Derby day, and there is not a clerk who could
raise the money to hire a saddle with an old hack under it that can sit
down on his office-stool the next day without wincing.
Now just compare the racer with the trotter for a moment. The racer is
incidentally useful, but essentially something to bet upon, as much as
the thimble-rigger’s “little joker.” The trotter is essentially and
daily useful, and only incidentally a tool for sporting men.
What better reason do you want for the fact that the racer is most
cultivated and reaches his greatest perfection in England, and that the
trotting horses of America beat the world? And why should we have
expected that the pick—if it was the pick—of our few and far-between
racing stables should beat the pick of England and France? Throw over
the fallacious time-test, and there was nothing to show for it but a
natural kind of patriotic feeling, which we all have, with a thoroughly
provincial conceit, which some of us must plead guilty to.
We may beat yet. As an American, I hope we shall. As a moralist and
occasional sermonizer, I am not so anxious about it. Wherever the
trotting horse goes, he carries in his train brisk omnibuses, lively
bakers’ carts, and therefore hot rolls, the jolly butcher’s wagon, the
cheerful gig, the wholesome afternoon drive with wife and child,—all the
forms of moral excellence, except truth, which does not agree with any
kind of horse-flesh. The racer brings with him gambling, cursing,
swearing, drinking, the eating of oysters, and a distaste for mob-caps
and the middle-aged virtues.
And by the way, let me beg you not to call a _trotting match_ a _race_,
and not to speak of a “thoroughbred” as a “_blooded_” horse, unless he
has been recently phlebotomized. I consent to your saying “blood horse,”
if you like. Also, if, next year, we send out Posterior and
Posterioress, the winners of the great national four-mile race in 7 18.5,
and they happen to get beaten, pay your bets, and behave like men and
gentlemen about it, if you know how.
[I felt a great deal better after blowing off the ill-temper condensed in
the above paragraph. To brag little,—to show well,—to crow gently, if in
luck,—to pay up, to own up, and to shut up, if beaten, are the virtues of
a sporting man, and I can’t say that I think we have shown them in any
great perfection of late.]
—Apropos of horses. Do you know how important good jockeying is to
authors? Judicious management; letting the public see your animal just
enough, and not too much; holding him up hard when the market is too full
of him; letting him out at just the right buying intervals; always gently
feeling his mouth; never slacking and never jerking the rein;—this is
what I mean by jockeying.
—When an author has a number of books out a cunning hand will keep them
all spinning, as Signor Blitz does his dinner-plates; fetching each one
up, as it begins to “wabble,” by an advertisement, a puff, or a
quotation.
—Whenever the extracts from a living writer begin to multiply fast in the
papers, without obvious reason, there is a new book or a new edition
coming. The extracts are _ground-bait_.
—Literary life is fun of curious phenomena. I don’t know that there is
anything more noticeable than what we may call _conventional
reputations_. There is a tacit understanding in every community of men
of letters that they will not disturb the popular fallacy respecting this
or that electro-gilded celebrity. There are various reasons for this
forbearance: one is old; one is rich; one is good-natured; one is such a
favorite with the pit that it would not be safe to hiss him from the
manager’s box. The venerable augurs of the literary or scientific temple
may smile faintly when one of the tribe is mentioned; but the farce is in
general kept up as well as the Chinese comic scene of entreating and
imploring a man to stay with you with the implied compact between you
that he shall by no means think of doing it. A poor wretch he must be
who would wantonly sit down on one of these bandbox reputations. A
Prince-Rupert’s-drop, which is a tear of unannealed glass, lasts
indefinitely, if you keep it from meddling hands; but break its tail off,
and it explodes and resolves itself into powder. These celebrities I
speak of are the Prince-Rupert’s-drops of the learned and polite world.
See how the papers treat them! What an array of pleasant kaleidoscopic
phrases, which can be arranged in ever so many charming patterns, is at
their service! How kind the “Critical Notices”—where small authorship
comes to pick up chips of praise, fragrant, sugary, and sappy—always are
to them! Well, life would be nothing without paper-credit and other
fictions; so let them pass current. Don’t steal their chips; don’t
puncture their swimming-bladders; don’t come down on their pasteboard
boxes; don’t break the ends of their brittle and unstable reputations,
you fellows who all feel sure that your names will be household words a
thousand years from now.
“A thousand years is a good while,” said the old gentleman who sits
opposite, thoughtfully.
—Where have I been for the last three or four days? Down at the Island,
deer-shooting.—How many did I bag? I brought home one buck shot.—The
Island is where? No matter. It is the most splendid domain that any man
looks upon in these latitudes. Blue sea around it, and running up into
its heart, so that the little boat slumbers like a baby in lap, while the
tall ships are stripping naked to fight the hurricane outside, and
storm-stay-sails banging and flying in ribbons. Trees, in stretches of
miles; beeches, oaks, most numerous;—many of them hung with moss, looking
like bearded Druids; some coiled in the clasp of huge, dark-stemmed
grape-vines. Open patches where the sun gets in and goes to sleep, and
the winds come so finely sifted that they are as soft as swan’s down.
Rocks scattered about,—Stonehenge-like monoliths. Fresh-water lakes; one
of them, Mary’s lake, crystal-clear, full of flashing pickerel lying
under the lily-pads like tigers in the jungle. Six pounds of ditto
killed one morning for breakfast. EGO _fecit._
The divinity-student looked as if he would like to question my Latin.
No, sir, I said,—you need not trouble yourself. There is a higher law in
grammar, not to be put down by Andrews and Stoddard. Then I went on.
Such hospitality as that island has seen there has not been the like of
in these our New England sovereignties. There is nothing in the shape of
kindness and courtesy that can make life beautiful, which has not found
its home in that ocean-principality. It has welcomed all who were worthy
of welcome, from the pale clergyman who came to breathe the sea-air with
its medicinal salt and iodine, to the great statesman who turned his back
on the affairs of empire, and smoothed his Olympian forehead, and flashed
his white teeth in merriment over the long table, where his wit was the
keenest and his story the best.
[I don’t believe any man ever talked like that in this world. I don’t
believe _I_ talked just so; but the fact is, in reporting one’s
conversation, one cannot help _Blair_-ing it up more or less, ironing out
crumpled paragraphs, starching limp ones, and crimping and plaiting a
little sometimes; it is as natural as prinking at the looking-glass.]
—How can a man help writing poetry in such a place? Everybody does write
poetry that goes there. In the state archives, kept in the library of
the Lord of the Isle, are whole volumes of unpublished verse,—some by
well-known hands, and others quite as good, by the last people you would
think of as versifiers,—men who could pension off all the genuine poets
in the country, and buy ten acres of Boston common, if it was for sale,
with what they had left. Of course I had to write my little copy of
verses with the rest; here it is, if you will hear me read it. When the
sun is in the west, vessels sailing in an easterly direction look bright
or dark to one who observes them from the north or south, according to
the tack they are sailing upon. Watching them from one of the windows of
the great mansion, I saw these perpetual changes, and moralized thus:—
SUN AND SHADOW.
As I look from the isle, o’er its billows of green,
To the billows of foam-crested blue,
Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen,
Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue:
Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray
As the chaff in the stroke of the flail;
Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on her way,
The sun gleaming bright on her sail.
Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun,—
Of breakers that whiten and roar;
How little he cares, if in shadow or sun
They see him that gaze from the shore!
He looks to the beacon that looms from the reef,
To the rock that is under his lee,
As he drifts on the blast, like a wind-wafted leaf,
O’er the gulfs of the desolate sea.
Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted caves
Where life and its ventures are laid,
The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves
May see us in sunshine or shade;
Yet true to our course, though our shadow grow dark,
We’ll trim our broad sail as before,
And stand by the rudder that governs the bark,
Nor ask how we look from the shore!
—Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtasked. Good mental
machinery ought to break its own wheels and levers, if anything is thrust
among them suddenly which tends to stop them or reverse their motion. A
weak mind does not accumulate force enough to hurt itself; stupidity
often saves a man from going mad. We frequently see persons in insane
hospitals, sent there in consequence of what are called _religious_
mental disturbances. I confess that I think better of them than of many
who hold the same notions, and keep their wits and appear to enjoy life
very well, outside of the asylums. Any decent person ought to go mad, if
he really holds such or such opinions. It is very much to his discredit
in every point of view, if he does not. What is the use of my saying
what some of these opinions are? Perhaps more than one of you hold such
as I should think ought to send you straight over to Somerville, if you
have any logic in your heads or any human feeling in your hearts.
Anything that is brutal, cruel, heathenish, that makes life hopeless for
the most of mankind and perhaps for entire races,—anything that assumes
the necessity of the extermination of instincts which were given to be
regulated,—no matter by what name you call it,—no matter whether a fakir,
or a monk, or a deacon believes it,—if received, ought to produce
insanity in every well-regulated mind. That condition becomes a normal
one, under the circumstances. I am very much ashamed of some people for
retaining their reason, when they know perfectly well that if they were
not the most stupid or the most selfish of human beings, they would
become _non-compotes_ at once.
[Nobody understood this but the theological student and the
schoolmistress. They looked intelligently at each other; but whether
they were thinking about my paradox or not, I am not clear.—It would be
natural enough. Stranger things have happened. Love and Death enter
boarding-houses without asking the price of board, or whether there is
room for them. Alas, these young people are poor and pallid! Love
_should_ be both rich and rosy, but _must_ be either rich or rosy. Talk
about military duty! What is that to the warfare of a married
maid-of-all-work, with the title of mistress, and an American female
constitution, which collapses just in the middle third of life, and comes
out vulcanized India-rubber, if it happen to live through the period when
health and strength are most wanted?]
—Have I ever acted in private theatricals? Often. I have played the
part of the “Poor Gentleman,” before a great many audiences,—more, I
trust, than I shall ever face again. I did not wear a stage-costume, nor
a wig, nor moustaches of burnt cork; but I was placarded and announced as
a public performer, and at the proper hour I came forward with the
ballet-dancer’s smile upon my countenance, and made my bow and acted my
part. I have seen my name stuck up in letters so big that I was ashamed
to show myself in the place by daylight. I have gone to a town with a
sober literary essay in my pocket, and seen myself everywhere announced
as the most desperate of _buffos_,—one who was obliged to restrain
himself in the full exercise of his powers, from prudential
considerations. I have been through as many hardships as Ulysses, in the
pursuit of my histrionic vocation. I have travelled in cars until the
conductors all knew me like a brother. I have run off the rails, and
stuck all night in snow-drifts, and sat behind females that would have
the window open when one could not wink without his eyelids freezing
together. Perhaps I shall give you some of my experiences one of these
days;—I will not now, for I have something else for you.
Private theatricals, as I have figured in them in country lyceum-halls,
are one thing,—and private theatricals, as they may be seen in certain
gilded and frescoed saloons of our metropolis, are another. Yes, it is
pleasant to see real gentlemen and ladies, who do not think it necessary
to mouth, and rant, and stride, like most of our stage heroes and
heroines, in the characters which show off their graces and talents; most
of all to see a fresh, unrouged, unspoiled, high bred young maiden, with
a lithe figure, and a pleasant voice, acting in those love-dramas which
make us young again to look upon, when real youth and beauty will play
them for us.
—Of course I wrote the prologue I was asked to write. I did not see the
play, though. I knew there was a young lady in it, and that somebody was
in love with her, and she was in love with him, and somebody (an old
tutor, I believe) wanted to interfere, and, very naturally, the young
lady was too sharp for him. The play of course ends charmingly; there is
a general reconciliation, and all concerned form a line and take each
others’ hands, as people always do after they have made up their
quarrels,—and then the curtain falls,—if it does not stick, as it
commonly does at private theatrical exhibitions, in which case a boy is
detailed to pull it down, which he does, blushing violently.
Now, then, for my prologue. I am not going to change my cæsuras and
cadences for anybody; so if you do not like the heroic, or iambic
trimeter brachy-catalectic, you had better not wait to hear it
THIS IS IT.
A Prologue? Well, of course the ladies know;—
I have my doubts. No matter,—here we go!
What is a Prologue? Let our Tutor teach:
_Pro_ means beforehand; _logos_ stands for speech.
’Tis like the harper’s prelude on the strings,
The prima donna’s courtesy ere she sings;—
Prologues in metre are to other _pros_
As worsted stockings are to engine-hose.
“The world’s a stage,” as Shakspeare said, one day;
The stage a world—was what he meant to say.
The outside world’s a blunder, that is clear;
The real world that Nature meant is here.
Here every foundling finds its lost mamma;
Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern papa;
Misers relent, the spendthrift’s debts are paid,
The cheats are taken in the traps they laid;
One after one the troubles all are past
Till the fifth act comes right side up at last,
When the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all,
Join hands, _so_ happy at the curtain’s fall.
—Here suffering virtue ever finds relief,
And black-browed ruffians always come to grief,
—When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech,
And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach,
Cries, “Help, kyind Heaven!” and drops upon her knees
On the green—baize,—beneath the (canvas) trees,—
See to her side avenging Valor fly:—
“Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terraitorr, yield or die!”
—When the poor hero flounders in despair,
Some dear lost uncle turns up millionnaire,—
Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy,
Sobs on his neck, “_My boy_! MY BOY!! MY BOY!!!”
Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world to-night.
Of love that conquers in disaster’s spite.
Ladies, attend! While woful cares and doubt
Wrong the soft passion in the world without,
Though fortune scowl, though prudence interfere,
One thing is certain: Love will triumph here!
Lords of creation, whom your ladies rule,—
The world’s great masters, when you’re out of school,—
Learn the brief moral of our evening’s play:
Man has his will,—but woman has her way!
While man’s dull spirit toils in smoke and fire,
Woman’s swift instinct threads the electric wire,—
The magic bracelet stretched beneath the waves
Beats the black giant with his score of slaves.
All earthly powers confess your sovereign art
But that one rebel,—woman’s wilful heart.
All foes you master; but a woman’s wit
Lets daylight through you ere you know you’re hit.
So, just to picture what her art can do,
Hear an old story made as good as new.
Rudolph, professor of the headsman’s trade,
Alike was famous for his arm and blade.
One day a prisoner Justice had to kill
Knelt at the block to test the artist’s skill.
Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed,
Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd.
His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam,
As the pike’s armor flashes in the stream.
He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go;
The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.
“Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act,”
The prisoner said. (Hs voice was slightly cracked.)
“Friend I _have_ struck,” the artist straight replied;
“Wait but one moment, and yourself decide.”
He held his snuff-box,—“Now then, if you please!”
The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze,
Off his head tumbled,—bowled along the floor,—
Bounced down the steps;—the prisoner said no more!
Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye;
If death lurks in it, oh, how sweet to die!
Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the head;
We die with love, and never dream we’re dead!
The prologue went off very well, as I hear. No alterations were
suggested by the lady to whom it was sent, so far as I know. Sometimes
people criticize the poems one sends them, and suggest all sorts of
improvements. Who was that silly body that wanted Burns to alter “Scots
wha hae,” so as to lengthen the last line, thus
“_Edward_!” Chains and slavery!
Here is a little poem I sent a short time since to a committee for a
certain celebration. I understood that it was to be a festive and
convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly. It seems the
president of the day was what is called a “teetotaller.” I received a
note from him in the following words, containing the copy subjoined, with
the emendations annexed to it.
“Dear Sir,—your poem gives good satisfaction to the committee. The
sentiments expressed with reference to liquor are not, however, those
generally entertained by this community. I have therefore consulted the
clergyman of this place, who has made come slight changes, which he
thinks will remove all objections, and keep the valuable portions of the
poem. Please to inform me of your charge for said poem. Our means are
limited, etc., etc., etc.
Yours with respect.”
HERE IT IS—WITH THE _SLIGHT ALTERATIONS_!
Come! fill a fresh bumper,—for why should we go
While the [nectar → logwood] still reddens our cups as they flow?
Pour out the [rich juices → decoction] still bright with the sun,
Till o’er the brimmed crystal the [rubies → dye-stuff] shall run.
The [purple glebed clusters → half-ripened apples] their life-dews
have bled;
How sweet is the [breath → taste] of the [fragrance they shed → sugar
of lead]!
For summer’s [last roses → rank poisons] lie hid in the [wines →
_wines_!!!]
That were garnered by [maidens who laughed through the vines. →
stable-boys smoking long-nines.]
Then a [smile → scowl], and a [glass → howl], and a [toast → scoff],
and a [cheer → sneer],
For all [the good wine, and we’ve some of it here → strychnine and
whiskey, and ratsbane and beer]
In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,
[Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all! → Down, down, with
the tyrant that masters us all!]
The company said I had been shabbily treated, and advised me to charge
the committee double,—which I did. But as I never got my pay, I don’t
know that it made much difference. I am a very particular person about
having all I write printed as I write it. I require to see a proof, a
revise, a re-revise, and a double re-revise, or fourth-proof rectified
impression of all my productions, especially verse. A misprint kills a
sensitive author. An intentional change of his text murders him. No
wonder so many poets die young!
I have nothing more to report at this time, except two pieces of advice I
gave to the young women at table. One relates to a vulgarism of
language, which I grieve to say is sometimes heard even from female lips.
The other is of more serious purport, and applies to such as contemplate
a change of condition,—matrimony, in fact.
—The woman who “calculates” is lost.
—Put not your trust in money, but put your money in trust.