shown none? He has doomed a fair representative of that sex whose
presence civilizes ours, to an ever new affliction and a life of
perpetual wakefulness. What course can she pursue? There are but two
roads. Which shall she take? One leads to the court room and the other
leads to the cemetery. She must either be freed from her husband or go
down to an untimely grave, perhaps to have her place quickly filled by
another unsuspecting victim. No, your Honor; this man, and I regret to
say it, this husband and father, should not be permitted to destroy the
peace and bright prospects of more than one female. Let it be known to
the world that he has ruined the hopes of a loving wife, let it be
blazoned upon the housetops and upon the fences that he _snores_; then
let him get another mate, if he can.
[Illustration]
“The wife should not only have a divorce from the deceptive monster, but
she should have the custody of the children. She deserves them by virtue
of her long suffering and patience, while he who has so heartlessly
deceived her cannot be competent to guide their little feet aright in
the dangerous walks of life. On behalf of this sorrowing wife, all other
wives, and of the wives yet to be, who are ripening into womanhood
around our hearths, I cry separation! In the name of confidence
betrayed, of hopes blasted, and of a life aged before its time, I
repeat, separation! separation!”
He sank into his seat, and despite the order of the bailiff for “silence
in court,” generous applause swept throughout the room. The judge took
occasion to compliment the lawyer for his able argument, and said it was
the greatest forensic effort he had listened to since he assumed the
responsibilities of his office. The prayer was granted and the children
awarded to the plaintiff.
[Illustration]
VISITING A SCHOOL.
Accepting an invitation extended by the principal of an uptown school, I
visited that institution to-day. The masses of young humanity a person
finds in these temples of instruction is something amazingly impressive.
Eight or nine hundred scholars are attending the one school on which I
bestowed my attentions to-day.
[Illustration: HEAD OF HIS CLASS.]
[Illustration: FOOT OF HER CLASS.]
This article must be embellished with a faithful sketch of the boy who
stood at the head of his class. How he felt at that moment, I couldn’t
say, never having any experience in the position myself. He looked happy
and confident, however, and snapped eagerly at the words as they fell
from the teacher’s lips, much as a hungry dog does at the crumbs falling
from a table. But my sympathies were decidedly with the little
contortionist who stood mournfully at the foot of her class. I knew how
that was myself. I had been “yar,” and I regretted I wasn’t a
ventriloquist, that I might from afar whisper in her ear, and assist her
over some clogging syllables. If she could have gone into the yard,
where I noticed a scholar of the senior class throwing herself in a
delirium of joy, brought about by a skipping-rope, she would probably
have acquitted herself in a creditable manner, and won the praise of
all, for however inferior a person may be to another in some matters,
when they can choose their game they often reverse the order, and
peradventure the poor stammering scholar could have skipped the skirts
off those jogging ahead of her in the common speller.
THE REJECTED SUITOR.
Not often does a sadder sight
Wake sympathetic strain,
Than glimpse of some rejected wight
Whose suit has proved in vain;
Who often pinched necessities
For bouquets, sweet and rare,
For tickets to the carnival,
The opera, or fair;
[Illustration: A SUITOR NON-SUITED.]
Whose pocket oft was visited
The candy box to fill;
The dollar spent that should have gone
To pay his laundry bill.
Especially the case is sad,
If he who seeks a wife
Has, step by step, encroached upon
The shady side of life.
The fly no darker prospect views
That in the inkstand peers,
Than he, whose unrequited love
Must leak away in tears.
At such a time how ill the smile
Becomes the rival face;
The “ha, ha, ha’s!” the winks and nods,
Seem sadly out of place.
And then comparisons are drawn
At the expense, no doubt,
Of him whose overflowing cup
Seems full enough without.
While he who moves away, alas!
Of every grace so free,
To criticism opens wide
The door, as all may see.
His mind is not reflecting now
On fashions, style, or art,
On proper pace, or rules of grace;
But on his slighted heart.
He now but sees his promised joys
All foundering in his view,
His castles tumbling down, that high
In brighter moments grew.
To know that now those ruby lips
Another’s mouth will press,
And now that soft and soothing hand
Another’s brow caress,—
Oh, dark before, and dark behind,
And full of woe and pain
Is life to him, whose heavy loss
Makes up a rival’s gain.
The gravel-walk beneath his feet
Cannot too sudden ope’,
To gather in the wretch, who mourns
The death of every hope.
The swallows, whispering in a row,
Seem mocking at his tear,
And in the cawing of the crow
He seems to catch a sneer;
The cattle grazing in the field
Awhile their lunch delay,
To gaze at him, who moves along
In such a listless way.
Perhaps he’ll know a thousand griefs
Ere death has laid him low.
Perhaps, beside an open grave,
He’ll shed the tear of woe;
Perhaps he’ll turn him from the sods
That hide a mother’s face,
A father’s smile, a brother’s hand,
Or sister’s buried grace;
But there can hardly come a time
When life will look so drear,
Or can so little reason show
Why he should linger here.
A NIGHT OF TERROR.
I am not the oldest inhabitant, and don’t know what sort of storms they
used to have here before the flood; but I’ll wager a corner lot against
a plug of tobacco, that this section, for the last twenty years, has not
snoozed through a rougher night than the one just past.
It would have been a glorious night for a revivalist to stir up the
masses. Converts would have crowded in like grists to a mill after
harvest. Since the last great earthquake I have not felt so much concern
about my future state as I did about twelve o’clock last night. I arose
from bed, and went to rummaging books, trying to find the description of
a storm that would equal ours. I found the tempest that Tam O’Shanter
faced the night he discovered the witches, and the one in which King
Lear was cavorting around, bare-headed, and that which made Cæsar take
an account of stock and turn to interpreting dreams, and jumbled them
all together; but the product was unequal to the fury that was raging
without. There was no more similarity than a baby’s rattle bears to a
Chinese gong.
[Illustration: A ROUSING EVENT.]
Then I fished out the storm that howled while Macbeth was murdering
Duncan, and tumbled it in with the others. This addition made things
about even. The “lamentations heard i’ the air” of Macbeth’s tempest
were a fair precedent of the clamorous uproar from the fire bell in the
City Hall tower. Only an earthquake was lacking to enable us to say,
“The earth was feverous, and did shake,” or boast a night outvieing four
of the roughest on record, all woven into one.
It had one good effect, however—one for which poison and boot-jacks have
been tried in vain: it did silence the dogs and cats. Their midnight
carousals were as rare as they were in Paris just before the
capitulation. Quarrelsome curs postponed the settlement of their little
differences and defiant barks until such times as they would be able to
discover themselves whether they barked or yawned, and cats sought other
places besides a fellow’s window-sill to express opinions about each
other or chant their tales of love.
I know the rain is refreshing, the wind purifying, the lightning grand,
and the thunder awe-inspiring; but as the poor land-lubber advised, when
he was clinging to the spar of the wrecked vessel, “Praise the sea, but
keep on land,” so I say to those people who want to prick up their
willing ears, like a war-horse, to catch the sublime rumble of heaven’s
artillery, or sit by their window and blink at the blazing sky, like a
bedazzled owl at a calcium light; but I know _one_ individual who could
have got along quite as well if there had raged no war of the elements.
He would have slept soundly and never mourned for what he had lost.
MY DRIVE TO THE CLIFF.
I am wofully out of humor, and what is worse, out of pocket, and have
just been settling a bill for repairs to a buggy which was knocked out
of kilter on the Cliff House road the other day. At the present writing
I feel that it will be some time before I take the chances of injuring
another. The moon may fill her horn and wane again, the seals howl, and
the ocean roar, but I will hardly indulge in the luxury of a drive to
the beach for many a day to come. I had a couple of ladies with me.
Splendid company ladies are—so long as they have unlimited confidence in
your skill as a driver. But they try one’s patience after they lose
faith, and want to get the lines in their own hands every time you
chance to run a wheel into the ditch, or accidentally climb over a pig
or calf. Those who were with me on that occasion are not particularly
loud in their praise of my driving. The fact is, I didn’t acquit myself
in a manner calculated to draw down encomiums in showers upon my head. I
drove a span that day. They were called high-strung animals. But I don’t
like high-strung horses any more. If they would only run along the track
like a locomotive, I could hold the ribbons as gracefully as anybody;
but I am very much opposed to all of their little by-plays. This getting
scared at a floating thistle-down, or grasshopper swinging on a straw,
is something I don’t approve of in a horse. There is no reason in it; no
profit accrues from it.
But my trotters were frightened at different objects at the same
moment—one at a snail peacefully pursuing his way across the road, and
the other at a butterfly winging his wabbling flight along the ditch. At
once they became unmanageable, and vied with each other in extravagant
antics. From the first the ladies had no very exalted opinion of my
manner of handling the lines. Even before we were well under way I had
the misfortune to run down a calf. Then a Newfoundland dog thought to
stop the buggy by taking hold of one of the hubs, but he made a
mis-dive, and shoving his head between the spokes, kept us company for
twenty rods without any effort on his part whatever. I also ran over a
wheelbarrow loaded with bricks (the Irishman escaped with a crushed
hat), and overthrew an apple woman’s stand while turning a corner. I can
yet hear ringing in my ear the shouts and execrations of the old vender,
when she saw the wheels mounting her baskets and squeezing the cider out
of her choicest bellflowers. Until I passed the next street I could look
back and see the old lady in her embarrassing situation. There she sat,
caught under the broken table, and kicking about wildly in frantic
efforts to free herself, while her bonnet was knocked askew by the fall
and stuck on one side of her head in the most jaunty position
imaginable.
[Illustration: SLIGHTLY EMBARRASSING.]
At this point the horses became more frightened, and commenced cutting
up strange didos. Things were getting badly mixed, so much so that one
horse turned his head to the dasher. The ladies took a hurried view of
the situation, and voting me an incompetent driver, began to desert me
by back-action movements over the rear end of the buggy.
[Illustration: BADLY MIXED.]
I shall always think that I could have managed the animals without any
difficulty if they had not both been frightened at the same time. But
with one bucking like a Mexican plug, evidently bent on crawling under
the buggy, and the other seemingly striving to reach the stars by an
invisible ladder, they were indeed difficult to control.
My companions concluded they had sufficient buggy riding for one day,
and took the cars into town, while I patched up the harness as best I
could, and returned to the livery stable, fully concurring with the
women folks that as a driver I was not a success, and that hereafter
promenades would suit me better.
[Illustration]
SECOND SIGHT.
A singular case of second sight occurred in the western part of the city
last evening while I was there. An old Irishman named McSweegan, who
lives in that locality, is the possessor of a multiplying pair of eyes.
That is, they have the strange faculty of making two objects of one.
This natural endowment is particularly distinguishable after he has been
indulging freely in strong decoctions of old rye.
Yesterday he was attending a primary election, at which he expected to
be brought before the public as a candidate for a fat local office. An
influential friend had been intrusted with the highly important and
vital mission of bringing his name before the delegates, for which
service he was to receive some petty office if the election was
effected. McSweegan stood back in a recess of the hall, hat in hand,
impatiently waiting to hear the familiar name pronounced. In fancy, he
already listened to the shout of applause that would follow his
nomination. But he stood with a quiet smile and an attentive ear in
vain. Candidate after candidate was announced, but the ancient and
honorable name of McSweegan thrilled not his auricular nerves. The
ticket was at last declared full, and he was not one of the happy
number. His friend had played him false—to use a common expression, “had
gone back on him,” and he was justly indignant.
On his way home he took Lethean draughts in which to drown his trouble
and keen disappointment, and by the time he reached his clap-board front
was in capital condition for seeing double. The hour was late as he
entered his house, but he found his industrious better half sitting at a
table sewing by the flicker of a tallow candle. His red and multiplying
optics were riveted by the wannish flame, which to him had the semblance
of two well-defined and separate lights. This was an extravagance that
he could not countenance. To have found his wife up at such a late hour
would have been severe enough strain upon his already ruffled temper,
for he had no wish to discuss the result of the “Primary.” But to find
her needlessly consuming _two_ candles showed a wastefulness on her
part, evincing an utter disregard for the low condition of his
exchequer. He was exceedingly provoked, and with a view of curtailing
home expenses, attempted to puff out one of the flames.
[Illustration: THE ECONOMIST SEEING DOUBLE.]
After several ineffectual attempts, in which he scorched his whiskers
and eyebrows, he succeeded, but found himself enveloped in Egyptian
darkness. His rage increased. He at once accused his wife of blowing out
the “other candle” through spite. Her contradictions only fanned his
fury, and the performance ended by putting her out of the house and
keeping her out all night—for which unhusbandly treatment she had him
arrested, and he now languishes in the lock-up.
THE THIEF.
Richard Roe was a thief, whose temptation to steal
Always grew more resistless when wanting a meal;
Once he entered a store, when no person was by,
Took a box of sardines, and attempted to fly;
But, although he could slope when occasion required,
Like a stag to a stream when the forest is fired,
The scoundrel was spotted and nabbed at the door,
By officers Murphy, McMannus and Moore;
And away to the jail, midst a crowd you should see,
Went the thief, the sardines, and the officers three.
The next day came his hearing, and people were there
From all stations in life, on the prisoner to stare:
There were gamblers, street-pavers, stevedores, undertakers,
Ship-chandlers, brick-masons, and umbrella makers,
Corn-doctors, reporters, clerks, tailors, and teachers,
Fruit-peddlers, horse-trainers, clairvoyants, and preachers;
A few women also jammed in with the rest,
With their bonnets awry, and their clothing sore pressed,
And their uplifted faces, perspiring and red,
Full ear-deep in the back of some person ahead;
And like peas in a kettle, or bees in a hive—
Ever shifting position—so they were alive;
All impatiently wedging around in a stew,
In the hope they could better their chance for a view;
This one grumbling because some one crowded so near
That he shot his hot breath in the depths of his ear;
That one cursing because some one’s elbow so rude
On his ribs was inclined to encroach and intrude;
And another one howling and looking forlorn,
Just because some one trod on his favorite corn;
Over all the hoarse voice of the bailiff did wheeze:
“Order! order in the court, gentlemen, if you please!”
Six feet two, if an inch, and proportioned in size,
Stood the thief in the dock, when the clerk bid him rise;
And amongst all that crowd not a man could be found
With his shoulders so square and a physique so sound.
[Illustration: RICHARD ROE, THE SARDINE THIEF.]
First, around on the lawyers and officers there
He defiantly gazed with a bold, brazen air;
And then, turning around, stared the Judge in the face,
As though _he_ was the thief and the rogue in the case.
The stern Judge ran his eyes the unmoved villain o’er,
From the crown of his head to his feet on the floor—
While the rogue seemed to study with critical care
The time-honored “Court,” with his thin crop of hair.
For five minutes or more, it’s my candid belief
That the thief eyed the Judge, and the Judge eyed the thief;
As two rivals, long parted, in some foreign land
By mischance blown together, each other they scanned;
While there rose from the concourse no perceptible sound,
Not a whisper or yawn, even, circled around.
But a charnel-house calm o’er the room seemed to fall,
Till the flies could be heard on the plastering crawl—
Till beneath the rogue’s stare the Court’s visage grew red.
But down-choking his rising resentment, he said:—
“Richard Roe”—and he spoke quite emphatic and slow,
As though weighing each word before letting it go—
And inclined his head downward, as men often do
When they look over spectacles rather than through—
“Richard Roe, you have come to the surface once more,
Like the ghost to the feast of the monarch of yore;
I have lectured, imprisoned and fined you in vain—
You will still depredate, and confront me again.
From the door of the jail to the till of a store
There is simply one pace unto you, and no more;
As the dog to his vomit, the sow to her mire,
You will glide, the born slave of your fiendish desire;
By my oath, it’s a sin, a disgrace, and a shame;
With your shoulders so broad, and so robust your frame,
With your arms like a Hercules, muscled and strong,
With your wind like a stag-hound’s, so perfect and long,
To earn a support you’re possessed of all means—
And yet you’ve been stealing a box of sardines.
[Illustration: THE JUDGE.]
“I have worked my way onward, year out and year in,
Among characters blackened and blistered with sin;
Amongst men I’d have quaked to have met in a lane,
As I would the arch demon, relieved of his chain;
But I’m frank to confess, and I’d state it as free
On a Bible as large as a bed, if need be,
In my thirty years’ practice, on Bench or at Bar,
A thief more consummate and bold than you are
I have never encountered, in county or town,
Among whites, copper-colored, or greasers done brown;
You’re as prone to purloin as an eagle to fly,
Or a salmon to swim, or a lover to sigh;
Not an esculent known, or utensil of use,
From a cantaloupe down to the quill of a goose,
From a tripe in the stall to a fowl in the coop,
But at some time or other in your life you did scoop.”
And as if in assent, Richard Roe bowed his head,
While the Judge wiped his face, and continuing, said:
“Here so often, of late, you have taken the stand,
To give answer for larcenies, petty or grand,
That your face has become as familiar to all
The practitioners here as the clock on the wall;”
Here he pointed it out, and a glance at it threw;
And bold Richard turned round and regarded it too,
While full back to his ears a grim smile slowly broke,
For, despite his position, he relished the joke.
“I regret that our law draws the limiting line,
For it seems but a farce to impose a small fine,
Or to send you below for a week or ten days,
To recline on a mat and hatch future forays.
“But since neither the gloom of the prison, nor fine,
Seems to work a reform in that bosom of thine,
I will try a new method—throw justice one side,
And appeal to your manhood, your honor, and pride;
It is said kindness conquers where knuckles will fail,
And a pardon may faster reform than the jail;
Since the stock-raiser advocates crossing the breed,
And the farmer finds profit by changing the seed,
Who can tell but a change may regenerate you—
So we offer you mercy where none is your due.
“Mr. Sheriff! release that purloiner! as free
As the wind that awakes the dull ocean, is he.
But, sir, hark! Richard Roe, ere you mix with the throng,
Take this friendly advice from one knowing you long:
And in future, whenever your stomach does feel
Like digesting a fish, take a rod, and a reel,
A few hooks, a fine line, and of gentles a few,
And go catch your own fry, as all good people do;
For you’ll find it more wholesome to follow a creek,
And there angle for trout seven days of the week,
Than to strive to obtain by unwarranted means
E’en a box of diminutive, oily sardines.”
Subdued was bold Richard, he gazed in surprise,
And trembled, while tears welled fast from his eyes,
As he vowed that henceforth the right course he’d pursue;
And Roe is now honest, trustworthy, and true.
[Illustration]
A STARTLING CAT-ASTROPHE.
“Methought I heard a voice cry, ‘Sleep no more.’”
—_Shakespeare._
Last night, soon after retiring, I was made aware of the exceedingly
annoying fact that a pair of cats had selected the yard under my window
for their trysting-place, and were behaving in a most demonstrative
manner.
I have no objection to cats having their courtships as well as men; but
I see no reason in their having such a hoodooing time over it, making
night hideous with rascally yowls. There is, perhaps, nothing more
aggravating in life than to have a little saucy spit-fire of a puss keep
a whole community awake for hours together, because an admirer of hers
happens to take a moonlight stroll on a neighboring fence.
The night wore on. Their inharmonious chants increased in volume and
spirit. Considering the matter, I came to the conclusion that I would
rather pay the fine imposed for shooting in the city limits than lose so
many hours from needed rest.
I hastened to procure my shot-gun, determined to make a scattering
amongst them, if nothing more. As I reached the casement, a bright flash
from the window of an adjoining house, and a simultaneous patter of shot
in the yard, informed me that some co-sufferer had taken the initiative
in the good work of demolition; for though wrought to the highest pitch
of ferocity, his nerves were steady and his aim was sure.
He evidently hit them where their nine lives were centered, and they
dropped as they stood when the fatal tube was leveled. In short—
They died as erring cats should die—
Without a kick, without a cry;
The faintest rustle in the chips,
A slight contraction of the lips,
Which brought the pointed teeth in sight,
And they had passed to endless night.
Even as I write (ten o’clock A. M.) they are lying in the yard as they
fell, a terrible illustration of sudden transition from noisy debate to
silent repose. There they lie, to compare small things with great, like
a pair of shipwrecked lovers, who have clung to each other through fire
and water, and at last have reached the wreck-strewed beach in body, but
not in spirit.
The gentleman who owns the yard has just been out looking at them. After
silently surveying the dead for a long time in silence, he walked away
without disturbing them, pathetically murmuring the Latin motto,
“_Requies-cat in pace._”
A TRIP TO THE MOUNTAINS.
I have been taking a flying trip over the Sierras about which the poet
so mellifluously sings. There were many beautiful scenes presented
during that trip, but abler pens than mine have described them fully,
and have done them justice, so I will not attempt to set forth their
various charms. It is not my _forte_, anyway, and I am free to confess
the fact. Enough for me to describe the excellent lunch which I had the
good fortune to have along with me, and to speak plainly, I enjoyed it
the most of anything I saw during my trip. It was no ordinary lunch,
however. The back-bone of it was a nicely-roasted chicken, which
reflected great credit upon both the poulterer and the kind-hearted
young lady who volunteered to see it through the oven. Ah, that brisk
little lady can prepare a dish fit to set before the gods. If that is
not doing her justice, tell me what more can be said, and I will pile it
higher. She is worthy of it.