who'll buy this brave estate of mine, and set this weary spirit free?
'Tis going! yes, I mean to fling the bauble from my soul away; I'll
sell it, whatsoe'er it bring: the world's at auction here to-day! It
is a glorious sight to see--but, ah! it has deceived me sore; it is
not what it seems to be. For sale! it shall be mine no more. Come,
turn it o'er and view it well; I would not have you purchase dear.
'Tis going! going! I must sell! Who bids! who'll buy this splendid
Tear? Here's Wealth, in glittering heaps of gold; who bids? But let me
tell you fair, a baser lot was never sold! Who'll buy the heavy heaps
of Care? and, here, spread out in broad domain, a goodly landscape
all may trace; hall, cottage, tree, field, hill and plain:--who'll
buy himself a burial place? Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell that
Beauty flings around the heart; I know its power, alas! too well; 'tis
going! Love and I must part! Must part? What can I more with Love? all
o'er is the enchanter's reign. Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove--a
breath of bliss, a storm of pain? And Friendship, rarest gem of earth;
who e'er has found the jewel his? Frail, fickle, false, and little
worth! who bids for Friendship--as it is? 'Tis going! going! hear the
call; once, twice and thrice, 'tis very low! 'Twas once my hope,
my stay, my all, but now the broken staff must go! Fame! hold the
brilliant meteor high; how dazzling every gilded name! Ye millions!
now's the time to buy. How much for Fame? how much for Fame? Hear
how it thunders! Would you stand on high Olympus, far renowned, now
purchase, and a world command!--and be with a world's curses crowned.
Sweet star of Hope! with ray to shine in every sad foreboding breast,
save this desponding one of mine--who bids for man's last friend, and
best? Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life, this treasure should my
soul sustain! But Hope and Care are now at strife, nor ever may unite
again. Ambition, Fashion, Show and Pride, I part from all forever now;
Grief, in an overwhelming tide, has taught my haughty heart to bow. By
Death, stern sheriff! all bereft, I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod; the
best of all I still have left--my Faith, My Bible, and my GOD.
HOW WE HUNTED A MOUSE.
JOSHUA JENKINS.
I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good
times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most
startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice
came from the kitchen and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form
of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron
spoon in all directions, and shouting "shoo," in a general manner,
at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was
the matter, she screamed, "O Joshua! a mouse, shoo--wha--shoo--a
great--ya, shoo--horrid mouse, and--she--ew--it ran right out of the
cupboard--shoo--go away--O Lord--Joshua--shoo--kill it, oh, my--shoo."
All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women
are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to
poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down, and ran off into another
room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time
I hit it I didn't poke it any on account of getting the poker all
tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any
more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me,
and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice,
and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons,
I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my
garment. There is something real disagreeable about having a mouse
inside the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing
between you and the mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are
scratchy, and its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is
nothing pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it will try
to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of on the cloth. That mouse
was next to me. I could feel its every motion with startling and
suggestive distinctness. For these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as
the case seemed urgent to me I may have yelled with a certain degree
of vigor; but I deny that I yelled fire, and if I catch the boy who
thought that I did, I shall inflict punishment on his person.
I did not loose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse
just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the
outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I
kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would
not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear
its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can't handle many mice
at once to advantage.
Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked
what she should do--as though I could hold the mouse and plan a
campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she
thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no
earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect
on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and
the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around.
Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. "O Joshua," she
cried, "I wish you had not killed the cat." Now I submit that the wish
was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. How on earth did she
suppose a cat could get where that mouse was?--rather have the mouse
there alone, anyway, than to have a cat prowling around after it.
I reminded Maria of the fact that she was a fool. Then she got the
tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process,
except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse
down, but I did not dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters
were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I
kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped
over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very
dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.
That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered
my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole
company followed him through, and they dradged hose around, and mussed
things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me
because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified
before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and
told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I
could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching
me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house
clear.
Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let Maria
"shoo" them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for
the trouble.
THE DYING HEBREW.
KIMBIE.
The following poem, a favourite with the late Mr. Edwin
Forrest, was composed by a young law student, and first
published in Boston in 1858.
A Hebrew knelt in the dying light,
His eye was dim and cold;
The hairs on his brow were silver white,
And his blood was thin and old!
He lifted his look to his latest sun,
For he knew that his pilgrimage was done;
And as he saw God's shadow there,
His spirit poured itself in prayer!
"I come unto death's second birth
Beneath a stranger air,
A pilgrim on a dull, cold earth,
As all my fathers were!
And men have stamped me with a curse,
I feel it is not Thine;
Thy mercy, like yon sun, was made
On me, as them, to shine;
And therefore dare I lift mine eye
Through that to Thee before I die!
In this great temple, built by Thee,
Whose pillars are divine,
Beneath yon lamp, that ceaselessly
Lights up Thine own true shrine,
Oh take my latest sacrifice--
Look down and make this sod
Holy as that where, long ago,
The Hebrew met his God.
I have not caused the widow's tears,
Nor dimmed the orphan's eye;
I have not stained the virgin's years,
Nor mocked the mourner's cry.
The songs of Zion in mine ear
Have ever been most sweet,
And always, when I felt Thee near,
My shoes were off my feet.
I have known Thee in the whirlwind,
I have known Thee on the hill,
I have loved Thee in the voice of birds,
Or the music of the rill;
I dreamt Thee in the shadow,
I saw Thee in the light;
I blessed Thee in the radiant day,
And worshiped Thee at night.
All beauty, while it spoke of Thee,
Still made my soul rejoice,
And my spirit bowed within itself
To hear Thy still, small voice!
I have not felt myself a thing,
Far from Thy presence driven,
By flaming sword or waving wing
Shut off from Thee and heaven.
Must I the whirlwind reap because
My fathers sowed the storm?
Or shrink, because another sinned,
Beneath Thy red, right arm?
Oh much of this we dimly scan,
And much is all unknown;
But I will not take my curse from man--
I turn to Thee alone!
Oh bid my fainting spirit live,
And what is dark reveal,
And what is evil, oh forgive,
And what is broken heal.
And cleanse my nature from above,
In the dark Jordan of Thy love!
I know not if the Christian's heaven
Shall be the same as mine;
I only ask to be forgiven,
And taken home to Thine.
I weary on a far, dim strand,
Whose mansions are as tombs,
And long to find the Fatherland,
Where there are many homes.
Oh grant of all yon starry thrones,
Some dim and distant star,
Where Judah's lost and scattered sons
May love Thee from afar.
Where all earth's myriad harps shall meet
In choral praise and prayer,
Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet,
Alone be wanting there?
Yet place me in Thy lowest seat,
Though I, as now, be there,
The Christian's scorn, the Christian's jest;
But let me see and hear,
From some dim mansion in the sky,
Thy bright ones and their melody."
The sun goes down with sudden gleam,
And--beautiful as a lovely dream
And silently as air--
The vision of a dark-eyed girl,
With long and raven hair,
Glides in--as guardian spirits glide--
And lo! is kneeling by his side,
As if her sudden presence there
Were sent in answer to his prayer.
(Oh say they not that angels tread
Around the good man's dying bed?)
His child--his sweet and sinless child--
And as he gazed on her
He knew his God was reconciled,
And this the messenger,
As sure as God had hung on high
The promise bow before his eye--
Earth's purest hopes thus o'er him flung,
To point his heavenward faith,
And life's most holy feeling strung
To sing him into death;
And on his daughter's stainless breast
The dying Hebrew found his rest!
GIVE ME BACK MY HUSBAND.
Not many years since, a young married couple from the far
"fast-anchored isle" sought our shores with the most sanguine
anticipations of happiness and prosperity. They had begun to realize
more than they had seen in the visions of hope, when, in an evil hour,
the husband was tempted "to look upon the wine when it is red," and
to taste of it, "when it giveth its colour in the cup." The charmer
fastened round its victim all the serpent-spells of its sorcery, and
he fell; and at every step of his degradation from the man to
the brute, and downward, a heartstring broke in the bosom of his
companion.
Finally, with the last spark of hope flickering on the altar of her
heart, she threaded her way into one of those shambles where man is
made such a thing as the beasts of the field would bellow at. She
pressed her way through the bacchanalian crowd who were revelling
there in their own ruin. With her bosom full of "that perilous stuff
that preys upon the heart," she stood before the plunderer of her
husband's destiny, and exclaimed in tones of startling anguish, "_Give
me back my husband!_"
"There's your husband," said the man, as he pointed toward the
prostrate wretch.
"_That my husband?_ What have you done to him? _That my husband?_ What
have you done to that noble form that once, like the great oak,
held its protecting shade over the fragile vine that clung to it for
support and shelter? _That my husband?_ With what torpedo chill have
you touched the sinews of that manly arm? What have you done to that
once noble brow, which he wore high among his fellows, as if it bore
the superscription of the Godhead? _That my husband?_ What have you
done to that eye, with which he was wont to look erect on heaven, and
see in his mirror the image of his God? What Egyptian drug have you
poured into his veins, and turned the ambling fountains of the heart
into black and burning pitch? Give me back my husband! Undo your
basilisk spells, and give me back the _man_ that stood with me by the
altar!"
The ears of the rumseller, ever since the first demijohn of that
burning liquid was opened upon our shores, have been saluted, at every
stage of the traffic, with just such appeals as this. Such wives, such
widows, and mothers, such fatherless children, as never mourned in
Israel at the massacre of Bethlehem or at the burning of the temple,
have cried in his ears, morning, night, and evening, "_Give me back my
husband! Give me back my boy! Give me back my brother! Give me back my
sister! Give me back my wife!_"
But has the rumseller been confounded or speechless at these appeals?
No! not he. He could show his credentials at a moment's notice with
proud defiance. He always carried in his pocket a written absolution
for all he had done and could do in his work of destruction. _He
had bought a letter of indulgence_--I mean a _license!_--a precious
instrument, signed and sealed by an authority stronger and more
respectable than the pope's. _He_ confounded? Why, the whole artillery
of civil power was ready to open in his defence and support. Thus
shielded by the law, he had nothing to fear from the enemies of
his traffic. He had the image and superscription of Caesar on his
credentials, and unto Caesar he appealed; and unto Caesar, too, his
_victims_ appealed, and _appealed in vain_.
THE ONE-HOSS SHAY; OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE.
A LOGICAL STORY.
O.W. HOLMES.
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden, it--ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,--
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
_Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,--
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
And left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot,--
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,--
Above or below, or within or without,--
And that's the reason beyond a doubt,
A chaise _breaks down_, but doesn't _wear out_.
But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell _yeou_,")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,--
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of whitewood, that cut like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"--
Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."--
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren,--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;--
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)
FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day,--
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local as one may say.
There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub _encore_.
And yet, _as a whole_, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be _worn out!_
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text,--
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
--First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,--
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,--
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
--What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,--
All at once, and nothing first,--
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
THE INJURED MOTHER.
From the Rev. JOHN BROWN'S tragedy of BARBAROSSA.
CHARACTERS:
BARBAROSSA, _an Usurper_,
OTHMAN, _an officer_,
ZAPHIRA, _the Widowed Queen_.
[This play has many passages of splendid diction, well
calculated for bold declamation. The plot of the piece runs
thus: _Barbarossa_ having killed, and then usurped the throne
of his friend and master, tries to obtain the hand of Zaphira,
the late monarch's widow--having previously destroyed, (as is
supposed) her son, _Selim_. The following scene represents the
interviews between the unhappy queen and her faithful Othman,
and of the queen with Barbarossa.
COSTUMES.--_Barbarossa_ green velvet robe, scarlet satin
shirt, white trousers, russet boots, and turban. _Othman_,
scarlet fly, yellow satin shirt, white slippers, turban white,
scarlet cashmere vest. _Zaphira_, white dress, embroidered
with silver, turban, and Turkish shoes.
NOTE.--A little taste will enable any smart young lady to make
up these dresses. They are mostly loose, and the embroidery
may be of tinsel--while cheap velveteen looks as well as the
best velvet on the stage.]
SCENE I.--_An apartment, with sofa._
_Enter_ ZAPHIRA, R.
ZAP. (C.) When shall I be at peace? O, righteous heaven
Strengthen my fainting soul, which fain would rise
To confidence in thee! But woes on woes
O'erwhelm me. First my husband, now my son--
Both dead--both slaughter'd by the bloody hand
Of Barbarossa! What infernal power
Unchain'd thee from thy native depth of hell,
To stalk the earth with thy destructive train,
Murder and lust! To wake domestic peace,
And every heart-felt joy!
_Enter_ OTHMAN, L.
O, faithful Othman!
Our fears were true; my Selim is no more!
OTH. Has, then, the fatal secret reach'd thine ear? Inhuman tyrant!
ZAP. Strike him, heav'n with thunder,
Nor let Zaphira doubt thy providence!
OTH. 'Twas what we fear'd. Oppose not heav'n's high will,
Nor struggle with the ten-fold chain of fate,
That links thee to thy woes. O, rather yield,
And wait the happier hour, when innocence
Shall weep no more. Rest in that pleasing hope,
And yield thyself to heaven, my honor'd queen.
The king----
ZAP. Whom stylest thou king?
OTH. 'Tis Barbarossa.
ZAP. Does he assume the name of king?
OTH. He does.
ZAP. O, title vilely purchas'd!--by the blood
Of innocence--by treachery and murder!
May heav'n, incens'd, pour down its vengeance on him,
Blast all his joys, and turn them into horror
Till phrensy rise, and bid him curse the hour
That gave his crimes their birth!--My faithful Othman,
My sole surviving prop, canst thou devise
No secret means, by which I may escape
This hated palace?
OTH. That hope is vain. The tyrant knows thy hate;
Hence, day and night, his guards environ thee.
Rouse not, then, his anger:
Let soft persuasion and mild eloquence
Redeem that liberty, which stern rebuke
Would rob thee of for ever.
ZAP. An injur'd queen
To kneel for liberty!--And, oh! to whom!
E'en to the murd'rer of her lord and son!
O, perish first, Zaphira! Yes, I'll die!
For what is life to me? My dear, dear lord--
My hapless child--yes, I will follow you!
OTH. Wilt thou not see him, then?
ZAP. I will not, Othman;
Or, if I do, with bitter imprecation
More keen than poison shot from serpents' tongues,
I'll pour my curses on him.
OTH. Will Zaphira
Thus meanly sink in woman's fruitless rage,
When she should wake revenge?
ZAP. Revenge!--O, tell me--
Tell, me but how?--What can a helpless woman?
OTH. (C.). Gain but the tyrant's leave, and seek thy father;
Pour thy complaints before him; let thy wrongs
Kindle his indignation to pursue
This vile usurper, till unceasing war
Blast his ill-gotten pow'r.
ZAP. (L.C.). Ah! say'st thou, Othman?
Thy words have shot like lightning through my frame,
And all my soul's on fire!--thou faithful friend!
Yes, with more gentle speech I'll soothe his pride;
Regain my freedom; reach my father's tents;
There paint my countless woes. His kindling rage
Shall wake the valleys into honest vengeance;
The sudden storm shall pour on Barbarossa,
And ev'ry glowing warrior steep his shaft
In deadlier poison, to revenge my wrongs! (_crosses to_ R.)
OTH. (C.). There spoke the queen.--But, as thou lov'st thy freedom,
Touch not on Selim's death. Thy soul will kindle,
And passion mount in flames that will consume thee.
ZAP. (R.). My murder'd son!--Yes, to revenge thy death,
I'll speak a language which my heart disdains.
OTH. Peace, peace,!--the tyrant comes. Now, injur'd Queen,
Plead for thy freedom, hope for just revenge,
And check each rising passion. [_Exit_ OTHMAN, R.
_Enter_ BARBAROSSA, L.
BAR. (L.). Hail sovereign fair! in whom
Beauty and majesty conspire to charm:
Behold the conqu'ror.
ZAP. (R.C.) O, Barbarossa,
No more the pride of conquest e'er can charm
My widow'd heart. With my departed lord
My love lies buried!
Then turn thee to some happier fair, whose heart
May crown thy growing love with love sincere;
For I have none to give.
BAR. Love ne'er should die:
'Tis the soul's cordial--'tis the font of life;
Therefore should spring eternal in the breast.
One object lost, another should succeed,
And all our life be love.
ZAP. Urge me no more.--Thou mightst with equal hope
Woo the cold marble, weeping o'er a tomb,
To meet thy wishes. But, if generous love (_approaches him._)
Dwell in thy breast, vouchsafe me proof sincere:
Give me safe convoy to the native vales
Of dear Mutija, where my father reigns.
BAR. O, blind to proffer'd bliss!--What! fondly quit
This pomp
Of empire for an Arab's wand'ring tent,
Where the mock chieftain leads his vagrant tribes
From plain to plain, and faintly shadows out
The majesty of kings!--Far other joys
Here shall attend thy call:
Submissive realms
Shall bow the neck; and swarthy kings and Queens,
From the far-distant Niger and the Nile,
Drawn captive at my conqu'ring chariot wheels,
Shall kneel before thee.
ZAP. Pomp and pow'r are toys,
Which e'en the mind at ease may well disdain:
But oh! what mockery is the tinsel pride
Of splendour, when the mind
Lies desolate within!--Such, such is mine!
O'erwhelm'd with ills, and dead to ev'ry joy;
Envy me not this last request, to die
In my dear father's tents.