And there we sit in judgment on men and things galore.
The fire burns briskly in the grate, and sheds a genial glare
On me, who most discreetly have pre-empted Isaac's chair,--
A big, low chair, with grateful springs, and curious device
To keep a fellow's cerebellum comf'table and nice,
A shade obscures the functions of the stately lamp, in spite
Of Mrs. Henderson's demands for somewhat more of light;
But he and I demur, and say a mystic gloom will do
For winter-night communion at The Boltons, 22.
Sometimes he reads me Browning, or from Bryant culls a bit,
And sometimes plucks a gem from Hood's philosophy and wit;
And oftentimes I tell him yarns, and (what I fear is worse)
Recite him sundry specimens of woolly Western verse.
And while his muse and mine transcend the bright Horatian's stars,
He smokes his modest pipe, and I--I smoke his choice cigars!
For best of mild Havanas this considerate host supplies,--
The proper brand, the proper shade, and quite the proper size;
And so I buckle down and smoke and smoke,--and so will you,
If ever you're invited to The Boltons, 22.
But, oh! the best of worldly joys is as a dream short-lived:
'Tis twelve o'clock, and Robinson reports our cab arrived.
A last libation ere we part, and hands all round, and then
A cordial invitation to us both to come again.
So home through Piccadilly and through Oxford Street we jog,
On slippery, noisy pavements and in blinding, choking fog,--
The same old route through Circus, Square, and Quadrant we retrace,
Till we reach the princely mansion known as 20 Alfred Place;
And then we seek our feathery beds of cotton to renew
In dreams the sweet distractions of The Boltons, 22.
God bless you, good friend Isaac, and your lovely, gracious wife;
May health and wealth attend you, and happiness, through life;
And as you sit of evenings that quiet room within,
Know that in spirit I shall be your guest as I have been.
So fill and place beside that chair that dainty claret-cup;
Methinks that ghostly hands shall take the tempting offering up,
That ghostly lips shall touch the bowl and quaff the ruby wine,
Pledging in true affection this toast to thee and thine:
"May God's best blessings fall as falls the gentle, gracious dew
Upon the kindly household at The Boltons, 22!"
DIBDIN'S GHOST.
DEAR wife, last midnight, whilst I read
The tomes you so despise,
A spectre rose beside the bed,
And spake in this true wise:
"From Canaan's beatific coast
I've come to visit thee,
For I am Frognall Dibdin's ghost,"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.
I bade him welcome, and we twain
Discussed with buoyant hearts
The various things that appertain
To bibliomaniac arts.
"Since you are fresh from t' other side,
Pray tell me of that host
That treasured books before they died,"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.
"They've entered into perfect rest;
For in the life they've won
There are no auctions to molest,
No creditors to dun.
Their heavenly rapture has no bounds
Beside that jasper sea;
It is a joy unknown to Lowndes,"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.
Much I rejoiced to hear him speak
Of biblio-bliss above,
For I am one of those who seek
What bibliomaniacs love.
"But tell me, for I long to hear
What doth concern me most,
Are wives admitted to that sphere?"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.
"The women folk are few up there;
For 'twere not fair, you know,
That they our heavenly joy should share
Who vex us here below.
The few are those who have been kind
To husbands such as we;
They knew our fads, and didn't mind,"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.
"But what of those who scold at us
When we would read in bed?
Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss
If we buy books instead?
And what of those who've dusted not
Our motley pride and boast,--
Shall they profane that sacred spot?"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.
"Oh, no! they tread that other path,
Which leads where torments roll,
And worms, yes, bookworms, vent their wrath
Upon the guilty soul.
Untouched of bibliomaniac grace,
That saveth such as we,
They wallow in that dreadful place,"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.
"To my dear wife will I recite
What things I've heard you say;
She'll let me read the books by night
She's let me buy by day.
For we together by and by
Would join that heavenly host;
She's earned a rest as well as I,"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.
THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN.
THE Hawthorne children, seven in all,
Are famous friends of mine;
And with what pleasure I recall
How, years ago, one gloomy fall
I took a tedious railway line,
And journeyed by slow stages down
Unto that soporiferous town
(Albeit one worth seeing)
Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred,
And Beatrix and Gwendolen,
And she that was the baby then,--
These famous seven, as aforesaid,
Lived, moved, and had their being.
The Hawthorne children gave me such
A welcome by the sea
That the eight of us were soon in touch,
And, though their mother marvelled much,
Happy as larks were we.
Egad, I was a boy again
With Henry, John, and Gwendolen;
And oh the funny capers
I cut with Hildegarde and Fred!
And oh the pranks we children played;
And oh the deafening noise we made--
'Twould shock my family if they read
About it in the papers!
The Hawthorne children all were smart:
The girls, as I recall,
Had comprehended every art
Appealing to the head and heart;
The boys were gifted, all.
'Twas Hildegarde who showed me how
To hitch a horse and milk a cow
And cook the best of suppers;
With Beatrix upon the sands
I sprinted daily, and was beat;
'Twas Henry trained me to the feat
Of walking round upon my hands
Instead of on my uppers.
The Hawthorne children liked me best
Of evenings, after tea,
For then, by general request,
I spun them yarns about the West,--
Yarns all involving Me!
I represented how I'd slain
The bison on his native plain;
And divers tales of wonder
I told of how I'd fought and bled
In Indian scrimmages galore,
Till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth, "No more,"
And packed her darlings off to bed,
To dream of blood and thunder.
They must have changed a deal since then;
The misses, tall and fair,
And those three handsome, lusty men,--
Would they be girls and boys again,
Were I to happen there,
Down in that spot beside the sea
Where we made such tumultuous glee
That dull autumnal weather?
Ah, me! the years go swiftly by;
And yet how fondly I recall
The week when we were children all,
Dear Hawthorne children, you and I,
Just eight of us together!
THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD.
ONCE on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go
To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show;
And after we had revelled in the saltatory sights,
We sought a neighboring _café_ for more tangible delights.
When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred,
He quoth: "A large cold bottle, and a small hot bird!"
Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies
Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes!
There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine,
A certain inspiration which I cannot well define!
How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say:
"Come! on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!"
But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate,--
How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate!
You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches
That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes;
To me, at least, (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred
What horror was encompassed in that small hot bird.
Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day,
And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay!
What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied
To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside!
And oh the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then
Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again!
The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so,
But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know!
The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said,
Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head,
And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred,
Was the large cold bottle,--_not_ the small hot bird.
Of course I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right
If ever it has been your wont to train around at night.
How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine,
And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline!
How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast,
And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest!
But you, O noxious, pygmy bird! whether it be you fly,
Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering festering lie,--
I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong,
Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song;
Go, get thee hence! and never more discomfit me and mine,--
I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine!
So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the telltale day,--
Come hither, with your fillets and your wreaths of posies gay;
We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine
Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine,
And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard
Of the large cold bottle,--_not_ the small hot bird!
AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL.
[The exile Meliboeus finds Tityrus in possession
of his own farm, restored to him by the Emperor
Augustus, and a conversation ensues. The poem is
in praise of Augustus, peace, and pastoral life.]
MELIBOEUS.
Tityrus, all in the shade of the wide-spreading beech-tree reclining,
Sweet is that music you've made on your pipe that is oaten and
slender;
Exiles from home, you beguile our hearts from their hopeless
repining,
As you sing Amaryllis the while in pastorals tuneful and tender.
TITYRUS.
A god--yes, a god, I declare--vouchsafes me these pleasant conditions,
And often I gayly repair with a tender white lamb to his altar;
He gives me the leisure to play my greatly admired compositions,
While my heifers go browsing all day, unhampered of bell and of
halter.
MELIBOEUS.
I do not begrudge you repose; I simply admit I'm confounded
To find you unscathed of the woes of pillage and tumult and battle.
To exile and hardship devote, and by merciless enemies hounded,
I drag at this wretched old goat and coax on my famishing cattle.
Oh, often the omens presaged the horrors which now overwhelm me--
But, come, if not elsewise engaged, who _is_ this good deity, tell me!
TITYRUS (reminiscently).
The city--the city called Rome, with my head full of herding and
tillage,
I used to compare with my home, these pastures wherein you now
wander;
But I didn't take long to find out that the city surpasses the village
As the cypress surpasses the sprout that thrives in the thicket out
yonder.
MELIBOEUS.
Tell me, good gossip, I pray, what led you to visit the city?
TITYRUS.
Liberty! which on a day regarded my lot with compassion;
My age and distresses, forsooth, compelled that proud mistress to
pity,
That had snubbed the attentions of youth in most reprehensible
fashion.
Oh, happy, thrice happy, the day when the cold Galatea forsook me;
And equally happy, I say, the hour when that other girl took me!
MELIBOEUS (slyly, as if addressing the damsel).
So now, Amaryllis, the truth of your ill-disguised grief I discover!
You pined for a favorite youth with cityfied damsels hobnobbing;
And soon your surroundings partook of your grief for your recusant
lover,--
The pine-trees, the copse and the brook, for Tityrus ever went
sobbing.
TITYRUS.
Meliboeus, what else could I do? Fate doled me no morsel of pity;
My toil was all vain the year through, no matter how earnest or
clever,
Till, at last, came that god among men, that king from that wonderful
city,
And quoth: "Take your homesteads again; they are yours and your
assigns forever!"
MELIBOEUS.
Happy, oh, happy old man! rich in what 's better than money,--
Rich in contentment, you can gather sweet peace by mere listening;
Bees with soft murmurings go hither and thither for honey,
Cattle all gratefully low in pastures where fountains are
glistening--
Hark! in the shade of that rock the pruner with singing rejoices,--
The dove in the elm and the flock of wood-pigeons hoarsely repining,
The plash of the sacred cascade,--ah, restful, indeed, are these
voices,
Tityrus, all in the shade of your wide-spreading beech-tree
reclining!
TITYRUS.
And he who insures this to me--oh, craven I were not to love him!
Nay, rather the fish of the sea shall vacate the water they swim in,
The stag quit his bountiful grove to graze in the ether above him,
While folk antipodean rove along with their children and women!
MELIBOEUS (suddenly recalling his own misery).
But we who are exiled must go; and whither--ah, whither--God knoweth!
Some into those regions of snow or of desert where Death reigneth
only;
Some off to the country of Crete, where rapid Oaxes down floweth;
And desperate others retreat to Britain, the bleak isle and lonely.
Dear land of my birth! shall I see the horde of invaders oppress thee?
Shall the wealth that outspringeth from thee by the hand of the
alien be squandered?
Dear cottage wherein I was born! shall another in conquest possess
thee,
Another demolish in scorn the fields and the groves where I've
wandered?
My flock! nevermore shall you graze on that furze-covered hillside
above me;
Gone, gone are the halcyon days when my reed piped defiance to
sorrow!
Nevermore in the vine-covered grot shall I sing of the loved ones
that love me,--
Let yesterday's peace be forgot in dread of the stormy to-morrow!
TITYRUS.
But rest you this night with me here; my bed,--we will share it
together,
As soon as you've tasted my cheer, my apples and chestnuts and
cheeses;
The evening already is nigh,--the shadows creep over the heather,
And the smoke is rocked up to the sky to the lullaby song of the
breezes.
PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE.
ALL day long they come and go,--
Pittypat and Tippytoe;
Footprints up and down the hall,
Playthings scattered on the floor,
Finger-marks along the wall,
Tell-tale streaks upon the door,--
By these presents you shall know
Pittypat and Tippytoe.
How they riot at their play!
And, a dozen times a day,
In they troop, demanding bread,--
Only buttered bread will do,
And that butter must be spread
Inches thick with sugar too!
Never yet have I said, "No,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!"
Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,
Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth;
For--I much regret to say--
Tippytoe and Pittypat
Sometimes interrupt their play
With an internecine spat;
Fie! oh, fie! to quarrel so,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
Oh, the thousand worrying things
Every day recurrent brings!
Hands to scrub and hair to brush,
Search for playthings gone amiss,
Many a murmuring to hush,
Many a little bump to kiss;
Life's indeed a fleeting show,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
And when day is at an end,
There are little duds to mend;
Little frocks are strangely torn,
Little shoes great holes reveal,
Little hose, but one day worn,
Rudely yawn at toe or heel!
Who but you could work such woe,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
But when comes this thought to me,
"Some there are that childless be,"
Stealing to their little beds,
With a love I cannot speak,
Tenderly I stroke their heads,
Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.
God help those who do not know
A Pittypat or Tippytoe!
On the floor, along the hall,
Rudely traced upon the wall,
There are proofs in every kind
Of the havoc they have wrought;
And upon my heart you'd find
Just such trademarks, if you sought.
Oh, how glad I am 'tis so,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
ASHES ON THE SLIDE.
WHEN Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago.
How gayly did we use to hail the coming of the snow!
Our sleds, fresh painted red and with their runners round and bright,
Seemed to respond right briskly to our clamor of delight
As we dragged them up the slippery road that climbed the rugged hill
Where perched the old frame meetin'-house, so solemn-like and still.
Ah, coasting in those days--those good old days--was fun indeed!
Sleds at that time I'd have you know were paragons of speed!
And if the hill got bare in spots, as hills will do, why then
We'd haul on ice and snow to patch those bald spots up again;
But, oh! with what sad certainty our spirits would subside
When Deacon Frisbee sprinkled ashes where we used to slide!
The deacon he would roll his eyes and gnash his toothless gums,
And clear his skinny throat, and twirl his saintly, bony thumbs,
And tell you: "When I wuz a boy, they taught me to eschew
The godless, ribald vanities which modern youth pursue!
The pathway that leads down to hell is slippery, straight, and wide;
And Satan lurks for prey where little boys are wont to slide!"
Now, he who ever in his life has been a little boy
Will not reprove me when he hears the language I employ
To stigmatize as wickedness the deacon's zealous spite
In interfering with the play wherein we found delight;
And so I say, with confidence, not unalloyed of pride:
"Gol durn the man who sprinkles ashes where the youngsters slide!"
But Deacon Frisbee long ago went to his lasting rest,
His money well invested in farm mortgages out West;
Bill, Jim, and I, no longer boys, have learned through years of strife
That the troubles of the little boy pursue the man through life;
That here and there along the course wherein we hoped to glide
Some envious hand has sprinkled ashes just to spoil our slide!
And that malicious, envious hand is not the deacon's now.
Grim, ruthless Fate, that evil sprite none other is than thou!
Riches and honors, peace and care come at thy beck and go;
The soul, elate with joy to-day, to-morrow writhes in woe;
And till a man has turned his face unto the wall and died,
He must expect to get his share of ashes on his slide!
THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS.
"CUPID!" Venus went a-crying;
"Cupid, whither dost thou stray?
Tell me, people, hither hieing,
Have you seen my runaway?
Speak,--my kiss shall be your pay!
Yes, and sweets more gratifying,
If you bring him back to-day.
"Cupid," Venus went a-calling,
"Is a rosy little youth,
But his beauty is inthralling.
He will speak you fair, in sooth,
Wheedle you with glib untruth,--
Honey-like his words; but galling
Are his deeds, and full of ruth!
"Cupid's hair is curling yellow,
And he hath a saucy face;
With his chubby hands the fellow
Shooteth into farthest space,
Heedless of all time and place;
King and squire and punchinello
He delighteth to abase!
"Nude and winged the prankish blade is,
And he speedeth everywhere,
Vexing gentlemen and ladies,
Callow youths and damsels fair
Whom he catcheth unaware,--
Venturing even into Hades,
He hath sown his torments there!
"For that bow, that bow and quiver,--
Oh, they are a cruel twain!
Thinking of them makes me shiver.
Oft, with all his might and main,
Cupid sends those darts profane
Whizzing through my heart and liver,
Setting fire to every vein!
"And the torch he carries blazing,--
Truly 'tis a tiny one;
Yet, that tiny torch upraising,
Cupid scarifies the sun!
Ah, good people, there is none
Knows what mischief most amazing
Cupid's evil torch hath done!
"Show no mercy when you find him!
Spite of every specious plea
And of all his whimpering, bind him!
Full of flatteries is he;
Armed with treachery, _cap-a-pie_,
He'll play 'possum; never mind him,--
March him straightway back to me!
"Bow and arrows and sweet kisses
He will offer you, no doubt;
But beware those proffered blisses,--
They are venomous throughout!
Seize and bind him fast about;
Mind you,--most important this is:
Bind him, bring him, but--watch out!"
CHRISTMAS EVE.
OH, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
The evening shades are falling,--
Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear
The voice of the Master calling?
Deep lies the snow upon the earth,
But all the sky is ringing
With joyous song, and all night long
The stars shall dance, with singing.
Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
And close thine eyes in dreaming,
And angels fair shall lead thee where
The singing stars are beaming.
A shepherd calls his little lambs,
And he longeth to caress them;
He bids them rest upon his breast,
That his tender love may bless them.
So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
Whilst evening shades are falling,
And above the song of the heavenly throng
Thou shalt hear the Master calling.
CARLSBAD.
DEAR Palmer, just a year ago we did the Carlsbad cure,
Which, though it be exceeding slow, is as exceeding sure;
To corpulency you were prone, dyspepsia bothered me,--
You tipped the beam at twenty stone and I at ten stone three!
The cure, they told us, works both ways: it makes the fat man lean;
The thin man, after many days, achieves a portly mien;
And though it's true you still are fat, while I am like a crow,--
All skin and feathers,--what of that? The cure takes time, you know.
The Carlsbad scenery is sublime,--that's what the guide-books say;
We did not think so at that time, nor think _I_ so to-day!
The bluffs that squeeze the panting town permit no pleasing views,
But weigh the mortal spirits down and give a chap the blues.
With nothing to amuse us then or mitigate our spleen,
We rose and went to bed again, with three bad meals between;
And constantly we made our moan,--ah, none so drear as we,
When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three!
We never scaled the mountain-side, for walking was my bane,
And you were much too big to ride the mules that there obtain;
And so we loitered in the shade with Israel out in force,
Or through the Pupp'sche allee strayed and heard the band discourse.
Sometimes it pleased us to recline upon the Tepl's brink,
Or watch the bilious human line file round to get a drink;
Anon the portier's piping tone embittered you and me,
When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three!
And oh! those awful things to eat! No pudding, cake, or pie,
But just a little dab of meat, and crusts absurdly dry;
Then, too, that water twice a day,--one swallow was enough
To take one's appetite away,--the tepid, awful stuff!
Tortured by hunger's cruel stings, I'd little else to do
Than feast my eyes upon the things prescribed and cooked for you.
The goodies went to you alone, the husks all fell to me,
When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three.
Yet happy days! and rapturous ills! and sweetly dismal date!
When, sandwiched in between those hills, we twain bemoaned our fate.
The little woes we suffered then like mists have sped away,
And I were glad to share again those ills with you to-day,--
To flounder in those rains of June that flood that Austrian vale,
To quaff that tepid Kaiserbrunn and starve on victuals stale!
And often, leagues and leagues away from where we suffered then,
With envious yearnings I survey what cannot be again!
And often in my quiet home, through dim and misty eyes,
I seem to see that curhaus dome blink at the radiant skies;
I seem to hear that Wiener band above the Tepl's roar,--
To feel the pressure of your hand and hear your voice once more;
And, better yet, my heart is warm with thoughts of you and yours,
For friendship hath a sweeter charm than thrice ten thousand cures!
So I am happy to have known that time across the sea
When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three.
THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE.
HAVE you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?
'Tis a marvel of great renown!
It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop Sea
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;
The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet
(As those who have tasted it say)
That good little children have only to eat
Of that fruit to be happy next day.
When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time
To capture the fruit which I sing;
The tree is so tall that no person could climb
To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!
But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,
And a gingerbread dog prowls below;
And this is the way you contrive to get at
Those sugar-plums tempting you so:
You say but the word to that gingerbread dog,
And he barks with such terrible zest
That the chocolate cat is at once all agog,
As her swelling proportions attest.
And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around
From _this_ leafy limb unto _that_,
And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground,--
Hurrah for that chocolate cat!