a slap on the shoulder and the grateful compliment,--"Old Trib, you're
a trump!"
"Thank you; then I'll _take_ something,"--which I did, in the shape
of dinner, reeling off my news at the rate of three dozen words to a
mouthful; and as every one else talked equally fast, and all together,
the scene was most inspiring.
As boys going to sea immediately become nautical in speech, walk as
if they already had their sea-legs on, and shiver their timbers on all
possible occasions, so I turned military at once, called my dinner my
rations, saluted all new-comers, and ordered a dress-parade that very
afternoon.
Having reviewed every rag I possessed, I detailed some pieces for
picket duty while airing on the fence; some to the sanitary influences
of the wash-tub; others to mount guard in the trunk; while the weak
and wounded went to the Work-basket Hospital, to be made ready for
active service again.
To this squad I devoted myself for a week; but all was done, and I
had time to get powerfully impatient before the letter came. It did
arrive, however, and brought a disappointment along with its good-will
and friendliness; for it told me that the place in the Armory Hospital
that I supposed I was to take was already filled, and a much less
desirable one at Hurly-burly House was offered instead.
"That's just your luck, Trib. I'll take your trunk up garret for you
again; for of course you won't go," Tom remarked, with the disdainful
pity which small boys affect when they get into their teens.
I was wavering in my secret soul; but that remark settled the matter,
and I crushed him on the spot with martial brevity,--"It is now one; I
shall march at six."
I have a confused recollection of spending the afternoon in pervading
the house like an executive whirlwind, with my family swarming after
me,--all working, talking, prophesying, and lamenting while I packed
such of my things as I was to take with me, tumbled the rest into two
big boxes, danced on the lids till they shut, and gave them in charge,
with the direction,--"If I never come back, make a bonfire of them."
Then I choked down a cup of tea, generously salted instead of sugared
by some agitated relative, shouldered my knapsack,--it was only a
travelling-bag, but do let me preserve the unities,--hugged my family
three times all round without a vestige of unmanly emotion, till a
certain dear old lady broke down upon my neck, with a despairing sort
of wail,--"O my dear, my dear! how can I let you go?"
"I'll stay, if you say so, mother."
"But I don't; go, and the Lord will take care of you."
Much of the Roman matron's courage had gone into the Yankee matron's
composition, and, in spite of her tears, she would have sent ten
sons to the war, had she possessed them, as freely as she sent one
daughter, smiling and flapping on the door-step till I vanished,
though the eyes that followed me were very dim, and the handkerchief
she waved was very wet.
My transit from The Gables to the village depot was a funny mixture
of good wishes and good-bys, mud-puddles and shopping. A December
twilight is not the most cheering time to enter upon a somewhat
perilous enterprise; but I'd no thought of giving out, O, bless you,
no!
When the ingine screeched "Here we are!" I clutched my escort in a
fervent embrace, and skipped into the car with as blithe a farewell as
if going on a bridal tour,--though I believe brides don't usually wear
cavernous black bonnets and fuzzy brown coats, with a hair-brush, a
pair of rubbers, two books, and a bag of gingerbread distorting the
pockets.
If I thought that people would believe it, I'd boldly state that I
slept from C. to B., which would simplify matters immensely; but as
I know they wouldn't, I'll confess that the head under the funereal
coal-hod fermented with all manner of high thoughts and heroic
purposes "to do or die,"--perhaps both; and the heart under the fuzzy
brown coat felt very tender with the memory of the dear old lady,
probably sobbing over her army socks and the loss of her topsy-turvy
Trib.
At this juncture I took the veil, and what I did behind it is nobody's
business; but I maintain that the soldier who cries when his mother
says "Good by" is the boy to fight best, and die bravest, when the
time comes, or go back to her better than he went.
ONLY SIXTEEN.
"When last seen, he was considerably intoxicated.... and was
found dead in the highway."--_Republican and Democrat of_ May
17.
Only sixteen, so the papers say,
Yet there on the cold, stony ground he lay;
'Tis the same sad story we hear every day--
He came to his death in the public highway.
Full of promise, talent, and pride,
Yet the rum fiend conquered him; so he died.
Did not the angels weep over the scene?
For he died a drunkard--and only sixteen,
Only sixteen.
Oh! it were sad he must die all alone:
That of all his friends, not even one
Was there to list to his last faint moan,
Or point the suffering soul to the throne
Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son
Would say, "Whosoever will may come."
But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,
With his God we leave him--only sixteen.
Only sixteen.
Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought:
Witness the suffering and pain you have brought
To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,
And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell
That beclouded his brain, his reason dethroned,
And left him to die out there all alone.
What if 'twere _your_ son instead of another?
What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,
And he only sixteen?
Ye free-holders who signed the petition to grant
The license to sell, do you think you will want
That record to meet in the last great day,
When the earth and the heavens shall have passed away,
When the elements, melted with fervent heat,
Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete?
Will you wish to have his blood on your hands
When before the great throne you each shall stand,
And he only sixteen?
Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,
To action and duty; into the light
Come with your banners, inscribed "Death to rum."
Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;
Strike killing blows; hew to the line;
Make it a felony even to sign
A petition to license; you would do it, I ween,
If that were your son, and "only sixteen,"
Only sixteen.
THE WATCHWORD.
THE GRIDIRON.
THE CAPTAIN, PATRICK, AND THE FRENCHMAN.
_Patrick._ Well, Captain, whereabouts in the wide world _are_ we? Is
it Roosia, Proosia, or the Jarmant oceant?
_Captain._ Tut, you fool; it's France.
_Patrick._ Tare and ouns! do you tell me so? and how do you know it's
France, Captain dear?
_Captain._ Because we were on the coast of the Bay of Biscay when the
vessel was wrecked.
_Patrick._ Throth, I was thinkin' so myself. And now, Captain jewel,
it is I that wishes we had a gridiron.
_Captain._ Why, Patrick, what puts the notion of a gridiron into your
head?
_Patrick._ Because I'm starving with hunger, Captain dear.
_Captain._ Surely you do not intend to eat a gridiron, do you?
_Patrick._ Ate a gridiron; bad luck to it! no. But if we had a
gridiron, we could dress a beefsteak.
_Captain._ Yes; but where's the beefsteak, Patrick?
_Patrick._ Sure, couldn't we cut it off the pork?
_Captain._ I never thought of that. You are a clever fellow, Patrick.
(_Laughing._)
_Patrick._ There's many a thrue word said in joke, Captain. And now,
if you will go and get the bit of pork that we saved from the rack,
I'll go to the house there beyant, and ax some of them to lind me the
loan of a gridiron.
_Captain._ But, Patrick, this is France, and they are all foreigners
here.
_Patrick._ Well, and how do you know but I am as good a furriner
myself as any o' them.
_Captain._ What do you mean, Patrick?
_Patrick._ Parley voo frongsay?
_Captain._ O, you understand French, then, is it?
_Patrick._ Throth, you may say that, Captain dear.
Captain. Well, Patrick, success to you. Be civil to the foreigners,
and I'll be back with the pork in a minute. [_He goes out._
_Patrick._ Ay, sure enough, I'll be civil to them; for the Frinch are
always mighty p'lite intirely, and I'll show them I know what good
manners is. Indade, and here comes munseer himself, quite convaynient.
(_As the Frenchman enters, Patrick takes off his hat, and making a
low bow, says:_) God save you, sir, and all your children. I beg your
pardon for the liberty I take, but it's only being in disthress in
regard of ateing, that I make bowld to trouble ye; and if you could
lind me the loan of a gridiron, I'd be intirely obleeged to ye.
_Frenchman (staring at him)._ Comment!
_Patrick._ Indade it's thrue for you. I'm tathered to paces, and God
knows I look quare enough; but it's by rason of the storm that dhruve
us ashore jist here, and we're all starvin'.
_Frenchman._ Je m'y t--(_pronounced_ zhe meet).
_Patrick._ Oh! not at all! by no manes! we have plenty of mate
ourselves, and we'll dhress it, if you be plased jist to lind us the
loan of a gridiron, sir. (_Making a low bow._)
_Frenchman (staring at him, but not understanding a word.)_
_Patrick._ I beg pardon, sir; but maybe I'm undher a mistake, but I
thought I was in France, sir. An't you all furriners here? Parley voo
frongsay?
_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur.
_Patrick._ Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, if you
plase? (_The Frenchman stares more than ever, as if anxious to
understand._) I know it's a liberty I take, sir; but it's only in the
regard of bein' cast away; and if you plase, sir, parley voo frongsay?
_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur, oui.
_Patrick._ Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, sir and
you'll obleege me?
_Frenchman._ Monsieur, pardon, monsieur--
_Patrick. (Angrily)._ By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress, and
if it was to owld Ireland you came, it's not only the gridiron they'd
give you, if you axed it, but something to put on it too, and a dhrop
of dhrink into the bargain. Can't you understand your own language?
(_Very slowly._) Parley--voo--frongsay--munseer?
_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur; oui, monsieur, mais--
_Patrick._ Then lend me the loan of a gridiron, I say, and bad scram
to you.
_Frenchman (bowing and scraping)._ Monsieur, je ne l'entend--
_Patrick._ Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your long tongs! I don't
want a tongs at all, at all. Can't you listen to rason?
_Frenchman._ Oui, oui, monsieur: certainement, mais--
_Patrick._ Then lind me the loan of a gridiron, and howld your prate.
(_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if to say he did not understand;
but Patrick, thinking he meant it as a refusal, says, in a passion:_)
Bad cess to the likes o' you! Throth, if you were in my counthry, it's
not that-a-way they'd use you. The curse o' the crows on you, you owld
sinner! The divil another word I'll say to you. (_The Frenchman
puts his hand on his heart, and tries to express compassion in his
countenance._) Well, I'll give you one chance more, you old thafe!
Are you a Christhian, at all, at all? Are you a furriner that all the
world calls so p'lite? Bad luck to you! do you understand your mother
tongue? Parley voo frongsay? (_Very loud._) Parley voo frongsay?
_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur, oui, oui.
_Patrick._ Then, thunder and turf! will you lind me the loan of
a gridiron? (_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if he did not
understand; and Pat says, vehemently:_) The curse of the hungry be on
you, you owld negarly villian! the back of my hand and the sowl of my
fut to you! May you want a gridiron yourself yet! and wherever I go,
it's high and low, rich and poor, shall hear of it, and be hanged to
you!
THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.
SAMUEL FERGUSON.
This fine poem is full of points for brilliant declamation;
at times there should be a flow of rapid narration, rising
frequently into shouts of exultation:
Come, see the good ship's anchor forged--'tis at a white heat now:
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased--though on the forge's brow
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound,
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round;
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare--
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.
The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves
below,
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe!
It rises, roars, rends all outright--O, Vulcan, what a glow:
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright--the high sun shines not
so!
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show;
The roof-ribs swart, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row
Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing-monster slow
Sinks on the anvil--all about the faces fiery grow.
"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out--leap out;" bang, bang the sledges
go;
Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low--
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every quashing blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow
The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow
And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"
Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly anchor--a bower thick and broad;
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road--
The low reef roaring on her lee--the roll of ocean poured
From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;
The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains!
But courage still, brave mariners--the bower yet remains!
And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high;
Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing--here am I."
Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time;
Your blows make sweeter music far than any steeple's chime.
But while you sling your sledges, sing--and let the burden be,
"The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we:"
Strike in, strike in--the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.
Our anchor must soon change his bed of fiery rich array,
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
Our anchor must soon change the lay of merry craftsmen here,
For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the "Heave-away!" and the sighing
seaman's cheer;
When, weighing slow, at eve they go--far, far from love and home;
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.
In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cast was cast.
O, trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!
O, broad-armed diver of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?
The good ship weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;
And, night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play.
O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand
Whose be the white bones by thy side, once leagued in patriot band!
O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,
Thine iron sides would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the
sea!
Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand,
To shed their blood so freely for love of father-land--
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave--
O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,
Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!
LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON.
AND THE RIDDLE HE MADE THERE.
One of the many popular delusions wespecting the Bwitish swell is the
supposition that he leads an independent life,--goes to bed when he
likes, gets up when he likes, d-dwesses how he likes, and dines when
he pleases.
The public are gwossly deceived on this point. A weal swell is as
m-much under authowity as a p-poor devil of a pwivate in the marines,
a clerk in a government office, or a f-forth-form boy at Eton. Now
I come under the demon--demonima--(no,--thop,--what is the
word?)--dom--denom--d-denomination, that 'th it--I come under the
d-denomination of a swell--(in--in fact--a _howwid_ swell--some of my
friends call me, but _that'th_ only their flattewy), and I assure
you a f-fellah in that capacity is so much westained by rules of
f-fashion, that he can scarcely call his eyeglath his own. A swell, I
take it, is a fellah who t-takes care that he swells as well as swells
who swell as well as he, (there's thuch lot of thwelling in that
thentence,--ha, ha!--it's what you might c-call a busting definition).
What I mean is, that a f-fellah is obliged to do certain things at
certain times of the year, whether he likes 'em or no. For instance,
in the season I've got to go to a lot of balls and dwums and
tea-fights in town, that I don't care a bit about, and show myself in
the Park wegularly evewy afternoon; and latht month I had to victimize
mythelf down in the countwy,--shooting (a bwutal sort of amusement, by
the way). Well, about the end of October evewy one goes to Bwighton,
n-no one knowth why,--that'th the betht of it,--and so I had to go
too,--that's the wortht of it,--ha, ha!
Not that it's such a b-bad place after all,--I d-dare say if I hadn't
_had_ to go I should have gone all the same, for what is a f-fellah
to do who ith n't much of a sportsman just about this time? There 'th
n-nothing particular going on in London. Evewything is b-beathly dull;
so I thought I would just run down on the Southeastern Wailway to
be--ha, ha!--Bwightoned up a bit. (Come, th-that's not bad for an
impromptu!)
B-Bwighton was invented in the year 1784, by his Woyal Highness George
P-Pwince of Wales,--the author of the shoebuckle, the stand-up collar
(a b-beathly inconvenient and cut-throat thort of a machine), and
a lot of other exthploded things. He built the Pavilion down there,
which looks like a lot of petrified onions from Bwobdinag clapped down
upon a guard-house. There'th a jolly sort of garden attached to the
building, in which the b-band plays twice a week, and evewy one turns
in there about four o'clock, so I went too (n-not _too_ o'clock,
you know, but f-four o'clock). I--I'm vewy fond of m-martial music,
mythelf. I like the dwums and the t-twombones, and the ophicleides,
and all those sort of inshtwuments,--yeth, ethpethelly the bwass
ones,--they're so vewy exthpiring, they are. Thtop though, ith it
expiring or _p-per_thpiring?--n-neither of 'em sound quite right. Oh!
I have it now, it--it's _in_thspiring,--that'th what it is, because
the f-fellahs _bweathe into them_!
That weminds me of a widdle I made down there (I--I've taken to
widdles lately, and weally it'th a vewy harmleth thort of a way of
getting thwough the morning, and it amuthes two f-fellahs at onth,
because if--if you athk a fellah a widdle, and he can't guess it, you
can have a jolly good laugh at _him_, and--if he--if he _doth_ guess
it, he--I mean you--no--that is the widdle--stop, I--I'm getting
confuthed,--where wath I? Oh! I know. If--if he _doth_ guess it....
however it ithn't vewy likely he would--so what's the good of
thupposing impwobabilities?) Well, thith was the widdle I made,--I
thed to Sloper (Sloper's a fwiend of mine,--a vewy gook thort of
fellah Sloper is,--I d-don't know exactly what his pwofession would
be called, but hith uncle got him into a b-berth where he gets f-five
hundred a year,--f-for doing nothing--s-somewhere--I forget where--but
I--I know he does it),--I said to Sloper, "Why is that f-fellah with
the b-bassooon l-like his own instrument?" and Sloper said, "How--how
the dooth should I know?" (Ha, ha!--I thought he'd give it up!) So
I said to Sloper, "Why, b-because they both get _blown_--in _time_!"
_You_ thee the joke, of course, but I don't think Sloper did,
thomhow; all he thed was, "V-vewy mild, Dundreary,"--and t-tho--it was
mild--thertainly, _f-for October_, but I d-don't thee why a f-fellah
should go making wemarks about the weather instead of laughing at m-my
widdle.
In this pwomenade that I was speaking of, you see such a lot of
thtunning girls evewy afternoon,--dwessed twemendous swells, and
looking like--yes, by Jove! l-like angels in cwinoline,--there 'th
no other word for it. There are two or thwee always _will_ l-laugh,
somehow, when I meet them,--they do now _weally_. I--I almost fancy
they wegard me with intewest. I mutht athk Sloper if he can get me
an introduction. Who knowth? pwaps I might make an impwession,--I'll
twy,--I--I've got a little converthathional power,--and _theveral_ new
wethcoats.
Bwighton is filling fast now. You see dwoves of ladies evewy day on
horseback, widing about in all diwections. By the way, I--I muthn't
forget to mention that I met those two girls that always laugh when
they thee me, at a tea-fight. One of 'em--the young one--told me, when
I was intwoduced to her,--in--in confidence, mind,--that she had often
heard of me and of my _widdles_. Tho you thee I'm getting quite
a weputathun that way. The other morning, at Mutton's, she wath
ch-chaffing me again, and begging me to tell her the latetht thing
in widdles. Now, I hadn't heard any mythelf for thome time, tho I
couldn't give her any _vewy_ great novelty, but a fwiend of mine made
one latht theason which I thought wather neat, tho I athked her, When
ith a jar not a jar? Thingularly enough, the moment she heard thith
widdle she burtht out laughing behind her pocket-handkerchief!
"Good gwacious! what'th the matter?" said I. "Have you ever heard it
before?"
"Never," she said emphatically, "in that form; do, _please_ tell me
the answer."
So I told her,--When it ith a door! Upon which she--she went off again
in hystewics. I--I--I never _did_ see such a girl for laughing. I know
it's a good widdle, but I didn't think it would have such an effect as
_that_.
By the way, Sloper told me afterwards that he thought _he_ had heard
the widdle before, somewhere, but it was put in a different way. He
said it was: When ith a door not a door?--and the answer, When it ith
ajar!
I--I've been thinking over the matter lately, and though I dare thay
it--d-don't much matter which way the question is put, still--pwaps
the last f-form is the betht. It--it seems to me to _wead_ better.
What do you think?
Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on the
Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New--Newfoundland dog, and he
inthpired me--the dog, you know, not the fellah,--he wath a lunatic.
I'm keeping the widdle, but I don't mind telling _you_.
Why does a dog waggle hith tail? Give it up? I think motht fellahs
will give that up!
You thee, the dog waggles hith tail becauth the dog's stwonger than
the tail. If he wath n't, the tail would waggle the dog!
Ye-th,--that 'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I
thall athtonish those two girls thome of these days.
THE VOICES AT THE THRONE.
T. WESTWOOD.
A little child,
A little meek-faced, quiet village child,
Sat singing by her cottage door at eve
A low, sweet sabbath song. No human ear
Caught the faint melody,--no human eye
Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile
That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed
The oft-repeated burden of the hymn,
"Praise God! Praise God!"
A seraph by the throne
In full glory stood. With eager hand
He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood
Of harmony on the celestial air
Welled forth, unceasing. There with a great voice,
He sang the "Holy, holy evermore,
Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courts
Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies,
Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned
With vehement adoration.
Higher yet
Rose the majestic anthem, without pause,
Higher, with rich magnificence of sound,
To its full strength; and still the infinite heavens
Rang with the "Holy, holy evermore!"
Till, trembling with excessive awe and love,
Each sceptred spirit sank before the Throne
With a mute hallelujah.
But even then,
While the ecstatic song was at its height,
Stole in an alien voice,--a voice that seemed
To float, float upward from some world afar,--
A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet!
That blended with the spirits' rushing strain,
Even as a fountain's music, with the roll
Of the reverberate thunder.