Oh the elements varied—the exquisite plan—That are used in constructing the lovely young man!His face he has easily made to possessThe expression of nothing within to express;His hair is oiled glossily back of his ears,Atop of his head an equator appears;His scanty mustache has symmetrical bends,Is groomed with precision, and waxed at both ends;His darling complexion, bewitching to see,Is powdered the same as a lady's might be.And this is the dear whom the newspapers rudeHave scornfully treated, and christened the——.The mental equipment I'll tell, if I can,That Nature has given the lovely young man:A set of emotions consistently weak,To go with a creature so gentle and meek;A will no opposing can break or surmount(Concerning all matters of no great account);A reasoning wheel, quite correctly revolved(When used on small questions already resolved);A taste for each gaudy and glistening thingThat grows on the vision and dies on the wing.Elaborate methods and principles crudeEncompass the mental estate of the——.The outer habiliments hastily scan,Employed in adorning the lovely young man!His feet two triangular cases have sought,By which his five toes to a focus are brought;
Oh the elements varied—the exquisite plan—That are used in constructing the lovely young man!His face he has easily made to possessThe expression of nothing within to express;His hair is oiled glossily back of his ears,Atop of his head an equator appears;His scanty mustache has symmetrical bends,Is groomed with precision, and waxed at both ends;His darling complexion, bewitching to see,Is powdered the same as a lady's might be.And this is the dear whom the newspapers rudeHave scornfully treated, and christened the——.
The mental equipment I'll tell, if I can,That Nature has given the lovely young man:A set of emotions consistently weak,To go with a creature so gentle and meek;A will no opposing can break or surmount(Concerning all matters of no great account);A reasoning wheel, quite correctly revolved(When used on small questions already resolved);A taste for each gaudy and glistening thingThat grows on the vision and dies on the wing.Elaborate methods and principles crudeEncompass the mental estate of the——.
The outer habiliments hastily scan,Employed in adorning the lovely young man!His feet two triangular cases have sought,By which his five toes to a focus are brought;
"I REACHED MY HAND DOWN FOR IT AND IT STOPPED.""I REACHED MY HAND DOWN FOR IT AND IT STOPPED."
"I REACHED MY HAND DOWN FOR IT AND IT STOPPED."
The sheathes that enfold his propellers withinAre on the most intimate terms with his skin;His starch-tortured collar on tip-toe appears,Desirous of learning the length of his ears;And fifteen-sixteenths of his brain, very nigh,Has run all to blossom and stopped in his tie.Such some of the splendors mad Fashion has strewedAll over the surface comprising the——.Oh measure the brief philological spanOf the high-pressure words of the lovely young man!—"B' Jauve! you daun't sayh saw! youah playing it low!Aw, auyn't she a daisy! I knaw her, y' knaw.She's thweet on me, somehow, though why I dawn't say,It cawn't be my beauty, it must be myway!Did you notith, laust night, Chawley Johnson's neck-tie?It paralyzed me, and I thought I should d-i-e!He's quite a sound fellaw to talk to awhile;It's weally a pity he isn't our style!"And thus talks forever, with slight interlude,The creature that lately was christened a——.Oh boys! there are several hundreds of waysTo make yourselves small to the average gaze;Of which some will cost you considerably less,Accomplishing nearly an equal success.Go purchase a gilded hand-organ some day,And stand on the corner and solemnly play;Envelop yourselves in the skin of an ape,Assuming his methods as well, as his shape;Submit to refined zoological charms,And carry a lap-dog about in your arms;Butdon'tlet Destruction upon you intrude.So far as to make you down into a——.
The sheathes that enfold his propellers withinAre on the most intimate terms with his skin;His starch-tortured collar on tip-toe appears,Desirous of learning the length of his ears;And fifteen-sixteenths of his brain, very nigh,Has run all to blossom and stopped in his tie.Such some of the splendors mad Fashion has strewedAll over the surface comprising the——.
Oh measure the brief philological spanOf the high-pressure words of the lovely young man!—"B' Jauve! you daun't sayh saw! youah playing it low!Aw, auyn't she a daisy! I knaw her, y' knaw.She's thweet on me, somehow, though why I dawn't say,It cawn't be my beauty, it must be myway!Did you notith, laust night, Chawley Johnson's neck-tie?It paralyzed me, and I thought I should d-i-e!He's quite a sound fellaw to talk to awhile;It's weally a pity he isn't our style!"And thus talks forever, with slight interlude,The creature that lately was christened a——.
Oh boys! there are several hundreds of waysTo make yourselves small to the average gaze;Of which some will cost you considerably less,Accomplishing nearly an equal success.Go purchase a gilded hand-organ some day,And stand on the corner and solemnly play;Envelop yourselves in the skin of an ape,Assuming his methods as well, as his shape;Submit to refined zoological charms,And carry a lap-dog about in your arms;Butdon'tlet Destruction upon you intrude.So far as to make you down into a——.
I think I saw, a minute's half or less,The young girl who composed this spiteful mess;She watched me pick it up, made a half rushToward me, and then retreated with a blush.I called, before she vanished from my vision,"My dear, I think you've lost your composition!"But she dodged off, as if she seemed to doubt it,And, I suppose, went on to school without it.
I think I saw, a minute's half or less,The young girl who composed this spiteful mess;She watched me pick it up, made a half rushToward me, and then retreated with a blush.I called, before she vanished from my vision,"My dear, I think you've lost your composition!"But she dodged off, as if she seemed to doubt it,And, I suppose, went on to school without it.
Pacing the question over, far and near,I think the little maid was too severe.Sweet Charity can roof much sin, they tell,Why shouldn't it shelter foolishness as well?When we draw rein and look about a minute,We see no field but God is somewhere in it;He made the eagle and the lion, I've heard;Why not the monkey and the chipping-bird?
Pacing the question over, far and near,I think the little maid was too severe.Sweet Charity can roof much sin, they tell,Why shouldn't it shelter foolishness as well?When we draw rein and look about a minute,We see no field but God is somewhere in it;He made the eagle and the lion, I've heard;Why not the monkey and the chipping-bird?
Pavement and window and wallWhat is the cost of you all?Parlor and boudoir and stair,Crowded with furniture rare;Gems from the mountains and seas,Spires that out-measure the trees;Chamber and palace and hall—What is the price of you all?[Voices.]What did we cost? Bend ear;What did we cost? Now hear.Several millions men,There in the field and fen.Look! they are stripped and grim,Sturdy of voice and limb.Painfully, now, they toilInto the sullen soil;Stabbing the hills and meads,Planting the silent seeds.Into each streaming faceGlides the hot sun apace.You in the thoughtful guise,You with the dreamy eyes—"Why do you labor so?Where do your earnings go?—"A goodly part to the rulers that form the powers that be;A modest part, if lucky, for my family and for me;And all the rest for the splendors that fringe the river and sea."[Voices.]What did we cost? Bend ear;What did we cost? Now hear.Listen! the factory wallSends out its morning call.Hear the machinery's din;Look at the folks within.Child with a poor, pale face;Woman with hurried grace;Man with the look half wise;Girl with the handsome eyes.How the long spindles whirl!How the rich webs unfurl!Maid with the orbs that quiverWith light from "Over the River,"[1]Why are you toiling so?Where do your wages go?—"A goodly part to the owners, whoever they may be;A little part to the living of those I love and me;And all the rest to the cities that gem the river and sea."
Pavement and window and wallWhat is the cost of you all?Parlor and boudoir and stair,Crowded with furniture rare;Gems from the mountains and seas,Spires that out-measure the trees;Chamber and palace and hall—What is the price of you all?
[Voices.]What did we cost? Bend ear;What did we cost? Now hear.
Several millions men,There in the field and fen.Look! they are stripped and grim,Sturdy of voice and limb.Painfully, now, they toilInto the sullen soil;Stabbing the hills and meads,Planting the silent seeds.Into each streaming faceGlides the hot sun apace.You in the thoughtful guise,You with the dreamy eyes—"Why do you labor so?Where do your earnings go?—"A goodly part to the rulers that form the powers that be;A modest part, if lucky, for my family and for me;And all the rest for the splendors that fringe the river and sea."
[Voices.]What did we cost? Bend ear;What did we cost? Now hear.
Listen! the factory wallSends out its morning call.Hear the machinery's din;Look at the folks within.Child with a poor, pale face;Woman with hurried grace;Man with the look half wise;Girl with the handsome eyes.How the long spindles whirl!How the rich webs unfurl!Maid with the orbs that quiverWith light from "Over the River,"[1]Why are you toiling so?Where do your wages go?—"A goodly part to the owners, whoever they may be;A little part to the living of those I love and me;And all the rest to the cities that gem the river and sea."
[1] As is well known, the weird, inimitable poem, "Over the River,"was written by a factory girl.
[Voices.]What do we cost? Now hear;Hearken, with eye and ear.Several thousand men,There in the hill and glen;Forward, march! Take aim!Fire! now a storm of flame!Shriek and curse and shout;Death-beds lying about.Man with the kingly face,There in that gory placeBleeding and writhing so(Well a moment ago),Tell me, in mangled tones—Tell us, amid your groans,What do they buy with war?What were you fighting for?—"For country and for glory, and for the powers that be;To deck with pride and honor the family dear to me;And to defend our cities that gem the river and sea."[Voices.]What do we cost? Bend ear:No; you will never hear.
[Voices.]What do we cost? Now hear;Hearken, with eye and ear.
Several thousand men,There in the hill and glen;Forward, march! Take aim!Fire! now a storm of flame!Shriek and curse and shout;Death-beds lying about.Man with the kingly face,There in that gory placeBleeding and writhing so(Well a moment ago),Tell me, in mangled tones—Tell us, amid your groans,What do they buy with war?What were you fighting for?—"For country and for glory, and for the powers that be;To deck with pride and honor the family dear to me;And to defend our cities that gem the river and sea."
[Voices.]What do we cost? Bend ear:No; you will never hear.
November 1, 18—.
Wind north-east; weather getting cross and cool;Wife and the children gone to Sunday-school.And I—not very well—am home again,Holding a conversation with my pen.And all that I can make it say to meIs Wealth, wealth, wealth! how much I hear and see!Strange, how, on human brains, sixteen times o'er,Is stamped and carved the magic word of More!Some several thousands to my credit lieIn a small bank on Wall Street, handy by;But I can't help contriving what I'd doIf I possessed the whole Sub-Treasury too;Or if I had (to take a modest tone)A million million dollars, all my own!The subject took so strong a growth in me,I overtalked the same, last night, at tea;[2]And so my oldest daughter (who can rhyme,And strikes some notes that with her father's chime)Became with that same foolishness possessed,So much so that it would not let her rest,But hung about her bedside all the nightAnd brought its capabilities in sight.So much so that she threw it into verseAs bad as that her father writes—or worse.And then, with some unconscious girlish grace,And blushes chasing all about her face,She, in a way I've learned to understandQuite accident'ly, slipped it in my hand.It was not made in public to appear,But, privately, I'll paste it right in here:
Wind north-east; weather getting cross and cool;Wife and the children gone to Sunday-school.And I—not very well—am home again,Holding a conversation with my pen.And all that I can make it say to meIs Wealth, wealth, wealth! how much I hear and see!Strange, how, on human brains, sixteen times o'er,Is stamped and carved the magic word of More!Some several thousands to my credit lieIn a small bank on Wall Street, handy by;But I can't help contriving what I'd doIf I possessed the whole Sub-Treasury too;Or if I had (to take a modest tone)A million million dollars, all my own!
The subject took so strong a growth in me,I overtalked the same, last night, at tea;[2]And so my oldest daughter (who can rhyme,And strikes some notes that with her father's chime)Became with that same foolishness possessed,So much so that it would not let her rest,But hung about her bedside all the nightAnd brought its capabilities in sight.So much so that she threw it into verseAs bad as that her father writes—or worse.And then, with some unconscious girlish grace,And blushes chasing all about her face,She, in a way I've learned to understandQuite accident'ly, slipped it in my hand.It was not made in public to appear,But, privately, I'll paste it right in here:
[2] Our dinner is at noon; our supper, six,We have not yet learned all the city tricks.
[2] Our dinner is at noon; our supper, six,We have not yet learned all the city tricks.
If I'd a million millions—Just think! a million millions!—What wouldn't I do—what couldn't I do—If I'd a million millions?From every forest's finest treeMy many-gabled house should be;With silver threads from golden loomsShould be attired my palace-rooms;My blossomed table have the bestOf all the East and all the West;My bed should be a daintier thingThan ever sheltered queen or king;What wouldn't I do,What couldn't I do,If I'd a million millions?If I'd a million millions—A good, square million millions—With gratefulness my friends should blessMe and my million millions!None that had e'er befriended meBut he a millionaire should be;Who kindly words of me had told,Should find their silver turned to gold;And he who did but just advanceThe sunbeam of a friendly glanceIn my affliction's cloudy dayShould have rich, unexpected pay.What wouldn't I do,What couldn't I do,If I'd a million millions?If I'd a million millions—Just think! a million millions!—How many coals on hostile soulsI'd heap with all my millions!No enemy that earned my hateShould for a fiery guerdon wait;With roses sweet I'd twine him o'erUntil the thorns should prick him sore(How much of credit may be claimedForsweetlymaking foes ashamedI do not know; it may dependOn how much true love we extend);But love outpouredI could afford,If I'd a million millions!An honest million millions—Just think! a million millions!The poor should bless the strange successThat gave me all those millions!I'd slaughter every hungry wightWithin the circle of my sight,And resurrect him with such foodAs should go far to make him good;No poor-house but must bow its headAnd gaze at cottage walls instead;And hungry paupers soon should seeA year of genuine jubilee.Nought should alloyTheir perfect joy,That could be saved by millions!Just think! a million millions!—The care of all those millions!And after all, what would befallA life with all those millions?Would not the lucre clog my brain,And make me hard and cold and vain?Might not my treasure win my heart,And make me loath with it to part?How could I tell, by mortal sign,Betwixt my money's friends and mine?And then, the greed, and strife, and curse,The world brings round a princely purse:Perhaps my soul,Upon the whole,Is best, without the millions!
If I'd a million millions—Just think! a million millions!—What wouldn't I do—what couldn't I do—If I'd a million millions?From every forest's finest treeMy many-gabled house should be;With silver threads from golden loomsShould be attired my palace-rooms;My blossomed table have the bestOf all the East and all the West;My bed should be a daintier thingThan ever sheltered queen or king;What wouldn't I do,What couldn't I do,If I'd a million millions?
If I'd a million millions—A good, square million millions—With gratefulness my friends should blessMe and my million millions!None that had e'er befriended meBut he a millionaire should be;Who kindly words of me had told,Should find their silver turned to gold;And he who did but just advanceThe sunbeam of a friendly glanceIn my affliction's cloudy dayShould have rich, unexpected pay.What wouldn't I do,What couldn't I do,If I'd a million millions?
If I'd a million millions—Just think! a million millions!—How many coals on hostile soulsI'd heap with all my millions!No enemy that earned my hateShould for a fiery guerdon wait;With roses sweet I'd twine him o'erUntil the thorns should prick him sore(How much of credit may be claimedForsweetlymaking foes ashamedI do not know; it may dependOn how much true love we extend);But love outpouredI could afford,If I'd a million millions!
An honest million millions—Just think! a million millions!The poor should bless the strange successThat gave me all those millions!I'd slaughter every hungry wightWithin the circle of my sight,And resurrect him with such foodAs should go far to make him good;No poor-house but must bow its headAnd gaze at cottage walls instead;And hungry paupers soon should seeA year of genuine jubilee.Nought should alloyTheir perfect joy,That could be saved by millions!
Just think! a million millions!—The care of all those millions!And after all, what would befallA life with all those millions?Would not the lucre clog my brain,And make me hard and cold and vain?Might not my treasure win my heart,And make me loath with it to part?How could I tell, by mortal sign,Betwixt my money's friends and mine?And then, the greed, and strife, and curse,The world brings round a princely purse:Perhaps my soul,Upon the whole,Is best, without the millions!
Now comes the Christmas-tide:Love wakes on every side;Mirth smiles from every eye;Wreaths greet the passer-by.Who, full of haughty pride,Loves not the Christmas-tide?He who, with av'rice low,Cares not to joy bestow.God save the wretch deniedLove for the Christmas-tide!God tell his hardened heartPure joy must joy impart!Who, close to grief allied,Grieves 'mid the Christmas-tide?She who, at Sorrow's call,Now mourns the loss of all.God save the dear bereft—Teach her the mercies left!Show her that clouds may yetLift, ere her sun be set!
Now comes the Christmas-tide:Love wakes on every side;Mirth smiles from every eye;Wreaths greet the passer-by.
Who, full of haughty pride,Loves not the Christmas-tide?He who, with av'rice low,Cares not to joy bestow.
God save the wretch deniedLove for the Christmas-tide!God tell his hardened heartPure joy must joy impart!
Who, close to grief allied,Grieves 'mid the Christmas-tide?She who, at Sorrow's call,Now mourns the loss of all.
God save the dear bereft—Teach her the mercies left!Show her that clouds may yetLift, ere her sun be set!
Who lonely must abideAll through the Christmas-tide?He who has never knownLove-passion of his own.So follows he his fate,Friendly but desolate;So—sad—his heart must hideAll through the Christmas-tide!
Who lonely must abideAll through the Christmas-tide?He who has never knownLove-passion of his own.
So follows he his fate,Friendly but desolate;So—sad—his heart must hideAll through the Christmas-tide!
December 25, 18—.
Wind in the north-east; snow in wagon-loads;Good sleighing everywhere on all the roads.Family healthy, sensible, and pleasant,And each one got the proper Christmas-present.(At least it seems so, for they all act suited,And Santa Claus's taste hasn't been disputed.)Our family room is filled with tasty mixingsOf evergreens and other woman-fixings;The open grate makes things look rich and mellow,With good hard coals the fire has painted yellow;[3]Pictures peep from the walls, withthoughtall through them,That set me studying every time I view them;There's certain books upon the centre-tableThat say what I'd have said if I'd been able;And, measuring up this room with honest style,'Tisn't a bad place to be in for a while.And so I sit here, thinking, musing, dreaming,About the world and all its curious scheming,And, full of certainty-begotten doubt,Wondering what this life is all about(From all that I can learn I'm not to blame,For wiser men have often done the same).We went a mile or two, last night, to seeThe decorations on a Christmas-tree;I spied, hung on that sapling's gilded arms,Things that would buy a couple good sized farms;And just upon our way home, I should guessWe met some fifty people, more or less,Who needed, to make passable their days,A decent share of what those farms would raise.But here's the question: should those ill-to-doDeprive rich people of their comforts too?Because there are some people lack for bread,Must others' minds and fancies go unfed?It's quite a puzzle, which I don't know whetherMy clumsy mind knows how to put together;But one thing's sure: wants satisfied wants breed—The more folks get, the more they seem to need.Then, one man lives on what would starve another,And what is joy for you might kill your brother.
Wind in the north-east; snow in wagon-loads;Good sleighing everywhere on all the roads.Family healthy, sensible, and pleasant,And each one got the proper Christmas-present.
(At least it seems so, for they all act suited,And Santa Claus's taste hasn't been disputed.)Our family room is filled with tasty mixingsOf evergreens and other woman-fixings;The open grate makes things look rich and mellow,With good hard coals the fire has painted yellow;[3]Pictures peep from the walls, withthoughtall through them,That set me studying every time I view them;There's certain books upon the centre-tableThat say what I'd have said if I'd been able;And, measuring up this room with honest style,'Tisn't a bad place to be in for a while.
And so I sit here, thinking, musing, dreaming,About the world and all its curious scheming,And, full of certainty-begotten doubt,Wondering what this life is all about(From all that I can learn I'm not to blame,For wiser men have often done the same).
We went a mile or two, last night, to seeThe decorations on a Christmas-tree;I spied, hung on that sapling's gilded arms,Things that would buy a couple good sized farms;And just upon our way home, I should guessWe met some fifty people, more or less,Who needed, to make passable their days,A decent share of what those farms would raise.
But here's the question: should those ill-to-doDeprive rich people of their comforts too?Because there are some people lack for bread,Must others' minds and fancies go unfed?It's quite a puzzle, which I don't know whetherMy clumsy mind knows how to put together;
But one thing's sure: wants satisfied wants breed—The more folks get, the more they seem to need.Then, one man lives on what would starve another,And what is joy for you might kill your brother.
[3] Althoughto meit doesn't contain the charmOf our old, wide log fire-place on the farm.
[3] Althoughto meit doesn't contain the charmOf our old, wide log fire-place on the farm.
January 5, 18—.
Went to a skating-rink a little while,To see them slide in the new-fangled style;And, strange enough, this eve a letter cameFrom a friend—Abdiel Stebbins is his name—A cousin of my aunt, Sophia Dean;A wise old man, but clumsy like, and green.He's on a visit in a neighboring city,And he has been a-skating—more's the pity!He tells it in a manner quite sincere;I think perhaps I'll paste it right in here:
Went to a skating-rink a little while,To see them slide in the new-fangled style;And, strange enough, this eve a letter cameFrom a friend—Abdiel Stebbins is his name—A cousin of my aunt, Sophia Dean;A wise old man, but clumsy like, and green.He's on a visit in a neighboring city,And he has been a-skating—more's the pity!He tells it in a manner quite sincere;I think perhaps I'll paste it right in here:
Rochester,January 4.
Dear Cousin John:
We got here safe—my worthy wife an' me—An' put up at James Sunnyhopes'—a pleasant place to be;An' Isabel, his oldest girl, is home from school just now,An' pets me with her manners all her young man will allow;An' his good wife has monstrous sweet an' culinary ways:It is a summery place to pass a few cold winter days.Besides, I've various cast-iron friends in different parts o' town,That's always glad to have me call whenever I come down;But t'other day, when 'mongst the same I undertook to roam,I could not find a single one that seemed to be to home!An' when I asked their whereabouts, the answer was, "I think,If you're a-goin' down that way, you'll find 'em at the Rink."I asked what night the Lyceum folks would hold their next debate—(I've sometimes gone an' helped 'em wield the cares of Church an' State),An' if protracted meetin's now was holdin' anywhere(I like to get my soul fed up with fresh celestial fare);Or when the next church social was; they'd give a knowin' wink,An' say, "I b'lieve there's nothin' now transpirin' but the Rink.""What is this 'Rink?'" I innocent inquired, that night at tea."Oh, you must go," said Isabel, "this very night with me!And Mrs. Stebbins she must go, an' skate there with us, too!"My wife replied, "My dear, just please inform me when I do.But you two go." An' so we went, an' saw a circus there,With which few sights I've ever struck will anyways compare.It seems a good-sized meetin'-house had given up its pews(The church an' pastor had resigned, from spiritual blues),An' several acres of the floor was made a skatin' ground,Where folks of every shape an' size went skippin' round an' round;An' in the midst a big brass band was helpin' on the fun,An' everything was gay as sixteen weddin's joined in one.I've seen small insects crazy-like go circlin' through the air,An' wondered if they thought some time they'd maybe get somewhere;I've seen a million river-bugs go scootin' round an' round,An' wondered what 'twas all about, or what they'd lost or found;But men an' women, boys an' girls, upon a hard-wood floor,All whirlin' round like folks possessed, I never saw before.An' then it straight came back to me, the things I'd read an' heardAbout the rinks, an' how their ways was wicked an' absurd;I'd learned somewhere that skatin' wasn't a healthy thing to do—But there was Doctor Saddlebags—his fam'ly with him, too!I'd heard that 'twasn't a proper place for Christian folks to seek—Old Deacon Perseverance Jinks flew past me like a streak!Then Sister Is'bel Sunnyhopes put on a pair o' skates,An' started off as if she'd run through several different States.My goodness! how that gal showed up! I never did opineThat she could twist herself to look so charmin' an' so fine;And then a fellow that she knew took hold o' hands with her,A sort o' double crossways like, an' helped her, as it were.Iused to skate; an' 'twas a sport of which I once was fond.Why, I could write my autograph on Tompkins' saw-mill pond.Of course to slip on runners, that is one thing, one may say,An' movin' round on casters is a somewhat different way;But when the fun that fellow had came flashin' to my eye,I says, "I'm young again; by George, I'll skate once more or die!"A little boy a pair o' skates to fit my boots soon found—He had to put 'em on for me (I weigh three hundred pound);An' then I straightened up an' says, "Look here, you younger chaps,You think you're runnin' some'at past us older heads, perhaps.If this young lady here to me will trust awhile her fate,I'll go around a dozen times an' show you how to skate."She was a niceish, plump young gal, I'd noticed quite a while,An' she reached out her hands with 'most too daughterly a smile;But off we pushed with might an' main; when all to once the wheelsDeparted suddenly above, an' took along my heels;My head assailed the floor as if 'twas tryin' to get through,An' all the stars I ever saw arrived at once in view.'Twas sing'lar (as not quite unlike a saw-log there I lay)How many of the other folks was goin' that same way;They stumbled over me in one large animated heap,An' formed a pile o' legs an' arms not far from ten foot deep;But after they had all climbed off, in rather fierce surprise,I lay there like a saw-log still—considerin' how to rise.Then, dignified I rose, with hands upon my ample waist,An' then sat down again with large and very painful haste;An' rose again, and started off to find a place to rest,Then on my gentle stomach stood, an' tore my meetin' vest;When Sister Sunnyhopes slid up as trim as trim could be,An' she an' her young fellow took compassionate charge o' me.Then after I'd got off the skates an' flung 'em out o' reach,I rose, while all grew hushed an' still, an' made the followin' speech:"My friends, I've struck a small idea (an' struck it pretty square),Which physic'ly an' morally will some attention bear:
We got here safe—my worthy wife an' me—An' put up at James Sunnyhopes'—a pleasant place to be;An' Isabel, his oldest girl, is home from school just now,An' pets me with her manners all her young man will allow;An' his good wife has monstrous sweet an' culinary ways:It is a summery place to pass a few cold winter days.
Besides, I've various cast-iron friends in different parts o' town,That's always glad to have me call whenever I come down;But t'other day, when 'mongst the same I undertook to roam,I could not find a single one that seemed to be to home!An' when I asked their whereabouts, the answer was, "I think,If you're a-goin' down that way, you'll find 'em at the Rink."
I asked what night the Lyceum folks would hold their next debate—(I've sometimes gone an' helped 'em wield the cares of Church an' State),An' if protracted meetin's now was holdin' anywhere(I like to get my soul fed up with fresh celestial fare);Or when the next church social was; they'd give a knowin' wink,An' say, "I b'lieve there's nothin' now transpirin' but the Rink."
"What is this 'Rink?'" I innocent inquired, that night at tea."Oh, you must go," said Isabel, "this very night with me!And Mrs. Stebbins she must go, an' skate there with us, too!"My wife replied, "My dear, just please inform me when I do.But you two go." An' so we went, an' saw a circus there,With which few sights I've ever struck will anyways compare.
It seems a good-sized meetin'-house had given up its pews(The church an' pastor had resigned, from spiritual blues),An' several acres of the floor was made a skatin' ground,Where folks of every shape an' size went skippin' round an' round;An' in the midst a big brass band was helpin' on the fun,An' everything was gay as sixteen weddin's joined in one.
I've seen small insects crazy-like go circlin' through the air,An' wondered if they thought some time they'd maybe get somewhere;I've seen a million river-bugs go scootin' round an' round,An' wondered what 'twas all about, or what they'd lost or found;But men an' women, boys an' girls, upon a hard-wood floor,All whirlin' round like folks possessed, I never saw before.
An' then it straight came back to me, the things I'd read an' heardAbout the rinks, an' how their ways was wicked an' absurd;I'd learned somewhere that skatin' wasn't a healthy thing to do—But there was Doctor Saddlebags—his fam'ly with him, too!I'd heard that 'twasn't a proper place for Christian folks to seek—Old Deacon Perseverance Jinks flew past me like a streak!
Then Sister Is'bel Sunnyhopes put on a pair o' skates,An' started off as if she'd run through several different States.My goodness! how that gal showed up! I never did opineThat she could twist herself to look so charmin' an' so fine;And then a fellow that she knew took hold o' hands with her,A sort o' double crossways like, an' helped her, as it were.
Iused to skate; an' 'twas a sport of which I once was fond.Why, I could write my autograph on Tompkins' saw-mill pond.Of course to slip on runners, that is one thing, one may say,An' movin' round on casters is a somewhat different way;But when the fun that fellow had came flashin' to my eye,I says, "I'm young again; by George, I'll skate once more or die!"
A little boy a pair o' skates to fit my boots soon found—He had to put 'em on for me (I weigh three hundred pound);An' then I straightened up an' says, "Look here, you younger chaps,You think you're runnin' some'at past us older heads, perhaps.If this young lady here to me will trust awhile her fate,I'll go around a dozen times an' show you how to skate."
She was a niceish, plump young gal, I'd noticed quite a while,An' she reached out her hands with 'most too daughterly a smile;But off we pushed with might an' main; when all to once the wheelsDeparted suddenly above, an' took along my heels;My head assailed the floor as if 'twas tryin' to get through,An' all the stars I ever saw arrived at once in view.
'Twas sing'lar (as not quite unlike a saw-log there I lay)How many of the other folks was goin' that same way;They stumbled over me in one large animated heap,An' formed a pile o' legs an' arms not far from ten foot deep;But after they had all climbed off, in rather fierce surprise,I lay there like a saw-log still—considerin' how to rise.
Then, dignified I rose, with hands upon my ample waist,An' then sat down again with large and very painful haste;An' rose again, and started off to find a place to rest,Then on my gentle stomach stood, an' tore my meetin' vest;When Sister Sunnyhopes slid up as trim as trim could be,An' she an' her young fellow took compassionate charge o' me.
Then after I'd got off the skates an' flung 'em out o' reach,I rose, while all grew hushed an' still, an' made the followin' speech:"My friends, I've struck a small idea (an' struck it pretty square),Which physic'ly an' morally will some attention bear:
"...WHEN ALL TO ONCE THE WHEELS DEPARTED SUDDENLY ABOVE, AN' TOOK ALONG MY HEELS.""...WHEN ALL TO ONCE THE WHEELS DEPARTED SUDDENLY ABOVE, AN' TOOK ALONG MY HEELS."
"...WHEN ALL TO ONCE THE WHEELS DEPARTED SUDDENLY ABOVE, AN' TOOK ALONG MY HEELS."
Those who their balance can preserve are safe here any day,An' those who can't, I rather think, had better keep away."Then I limped out with very strong unprecedented pains,An' hired a horse at liberal rates to draw home my remains;An' lay abed three days, while wife laughed at an' nursed me well,An' used up all the arnica two drug-stores had to sell;An' when Miss Is'bel Sunnyhopes said, "Won't you skate some more?"I answered, "Not while I remain on this terrestrial shore."
Those who their balance can preserve are safe here any day,An' those who can't, I rather think, had better keep away."
Then I limped out with very strong unprecedented pains,An' hired a horse at liberal rates to draw home my remains;An' lay abed three days, while wife laughed at an' nursed me well,An' used up all the arnica two drug-stores had to sell;An' when Miss Is'bel Sunnyhopes said, "Won't you skate some more?"I answered, "Not while I remain on this terrestrial shore."
FARMER STEBBINS ON ROLLERS.FARMER STEBBINS ON ROLLERS.
FARMER STEBBINS ON ROLLERS.
February 5, 18—.
Want—want—want—want! O God! forgive the crime,If I, asleep, awake, at any time,Upon my bended knees, my back, my feet,In church, on bed, on treasure-lighted street,Have everhinted, or, much less, have pleadedThat I hadn't ten times over all I needed!Lord save my soul! I never knew the wayThat people starve along from day to day;May gracious Heaven forgive me, o'er and o'er,That I have never found these folks before!Of course some news of it has come my way,Like a faint echo on a drowsy day;At home I "gave," whene'er by suffering grieved,And called it "Charity," and felt relieved;And thought that I was never undertasked,If I bestowed when with due deference asked.But no one finds thepoorest poor, I doubt,Unless he goes himself and hunts them out;And when you getreal sufferingamong,Be thankful if your heart-strings are not wrung!These thoughts sobbed through me this cold, snowy day,As carefully I picked a dubious way'Mongst nakedness and want on every side,And a rough, masculine angel for my guide,Who goes about among affliction's heirs,And gives his life to piece out some of theirs.Up—up—up—up! and yet, I am afraid,Farther from Heaven at every step we made!Gaunt, hungry creatures stood on every sideWith cheeks drawn close and sad eyes opened wide,Filled to the brim with greedy, starving prayers,As we went past them up the creaking stairs.And I peeped into rooms 'twas death to see(Or, rather, they peeped darkly out at me)—Such as I wouldn't have had the cheek to 've shownTo any swine I've ever chanced to own.'Twas sad to see, in this great misery-cup,How guilt and innocence were all mixed up:Here lay a fellow, stupid, dull, and dumb,Whose breath was like a broken keg of rum;And there a baby, looking scared and odd,Who had not been a week away from God.Here a clean woman, toiling for her bread;And there a wretch whose dirty heart was dead.Here a sound rascal, lazy, loud, and bold;And there the helpless, weak and sick and old.Want—want! O Lord! forgive me, o'er and o'er,That I haven't found these suffering folks before!We had a decent poor-house in our town,And I would often drive my spare horse down,And take a little stroll among them there,And try to cheer their every-day despair,And with their little wants and worries join,And chink round 'mongst them with small bits of coin(Done up in good advice, somewhat severe),And send them Christmas turkeys every year;Then, in my cosy home, think, with a grin,What a fine, liberal angel I had been.But here, O heavens! I find them, high and low,Hundreds of pauper-houses in a row!And suffering—suffering—in a shape, I vow,That makes my poor old tears run even now!For city trouble, any one will find,Is more ingenious than the country kind,And has a thousand cute-invented waysTo torture men and shorten off their days.And while we wonder that God made it so,He doesn't seem very anxious we should know;But He is willing we should search His plan,And pry around and find out all we can;And I suspect, when pains and troubles fall,That every one is useful, after all.At any rate, the miseries that I seeAre useful in their good effects on me;And though that isn't a great thing, on the whole(Though Heavendoesput a premium on each soul),Yet there are several people, I suspect,Who need a little of that same effect;And if they do not get it, old and young,'Twill be because I've lost my poor old tongue.One more small portion of God's plan I seeConcerning its effect on "even me:"And that's its leading me, by methods queer,To be some help to these poor people here.For now I promise, from this very night,And hereby put it down in black and white,That out of every day that's given me yet,And out of every dollar I can get,And out of every talent, small or large,That God sees fit to put into my charge,A part shall be devoted—square and sure—To God's own suffering, struggling, dying poor!
Want—want—want—want! O God! forgive the crime,If I, asleep, awake, at any time,Upon my bended knees, my back, my feet,In church, on bed, on treasure-lighted street,Have everhinted, or, much less, have pleadedThat I hadn't ten times over all I needed!Lord save my soul! I never knew the wayThat people starve along from day to day;May gracious Heaven forgive me, o'er and o'er,That I have never found these folks before!
Of course some news of it has come my way,Like a faint echo on a drowsy day;At home I "gave," whene'er by suffering grieved,And called it "Charity," and felt relieved;And thought that I was never undertasked,If I bestowed when with due deference asked.But no one finds thepoorest poor, I doubt,Unless he goes himself and hunts them out;And when you getreal sufferingamong,Be thankful if your heart-strings are not wrung!
These thoughts sobbed through me this cold, snowy day,As carefully I picked a dubious way'Mongst nakedness and want on every side,And a rough, masculine angel for my guide,Who goes about among affliction's heirs,And gives his life to piece out some of theirs.Up—up—up—up! and yet, I am afraid,Farther from Heaven at every step we made!Gaunt, hungry creatures stood on every sideWith cheeks drawn close and sad eyes opened wide,Filled to the brim with greedy, starving prayers,As we went past them up the creaking stairs.
And I peeped into rooms 'twas death to see(Or, rather, they peeped darkly out at me)—Such as I wouldn't have had the cheek to 've shownTo any swine I've ever chanced to own.'Twas sad to see, in this great misery-cup,How guilt and innocence were all mixed up:Here lay a fellow, stupid, dull, and dumb,Whose breath was like a broken keg of rum;And there a baby, looking scared and odd,Who had not been a week away from God.Here a clean woman, toiling for her bread;And there a wretch whose dirty heart was dead.Here a sound rascal, lazy, loud, and bold;And there the helpless, weak and sick and old.
Want—want! O Lord! forgive me, o'er and o'er,That I haven't found these suffering folks before!We had a decent poor-house in our town,And I would often drive my spare horse down,And take a little stroll among them there,And try to cheer their every-day despair,And with their little wants and worries join,And chink round 'mongst them with small bits of coin(Done up in good advice, somewhat severe),And send them Christmas turkeys every year;Then, in my cosy home, think, with a grin,What a fine, liberal angel I had been.But here, O heavens! I find them, high and low,Hundreds of pauper-houses in a row!And suffering—suffering—in a shape, I vow,That makes my poor old tears run even now!
For city trouble, any one will find,Is more ingenious than the country kind,And has a thousand cute-invented waysTo torture men and shorten off their days.And while we wonder that God made it so,He doesn't seem very anxious we should know;But He is willing we should search His plan,And pry around and find out all we can;And I suspect, when pains and troubles fall,That every one is useful, after all.
At any rate, the miseries that I seeAre useful in their good effects on me;And though that isn't a great thing, on the whole(Though Heavendoesput a premium on each soul),Yet there are several people, I suspect,Who need a little of that same effect;And if they do not get it, old and young,'Twill be because I've lost my poor old tongue.
One more small portion of God's plan I seeConcerning its effect on "even me:"And that's its leading me, by methods queer,To be some help to these poor people here.For now I promise, from this very night,And hereby put it down in black and white,That out of every day that's given me yet,And out of every dollar I can get,And out of every talent, small or large,That God sees fit to put into my charge,A part shall be devoted—square and sure—To God's own suffering, struggling, dying poor!
Poverty, why wast thou bornIn the world's earliest morn?Why hast thou lived all the years,Sowing thy pains and thy tears?Roaming about thou art seen,Crooked, decrepit, and lean;Travelling all the world through—Suffering's "wandering Jew."Thin and unkempt is thy hair,Fleshless as parchment thy cheek,Sad and ungainly thine air,Hollow the words thou dost speak,Bony and grasping thy hand,Dreary thy days in the land.Poverty, why wast thou bornUnder the world's quiet scorn?
Poverty, why wast thou bornIn the world's earliest morn?Why hast thou lived all the years,Sowing thy pains and thy tears?Roaming about thou art seen,Crooked, decrepit, and lean;Travelling all the world through—Suffering's "wandering Jew."Thin and unkempt is thy hair,Fleshless as parchment thy cheek,Sad and ungainly thine air,Hollow the words thou dost speak,Bony and grasping thy hand,Dreary thy days in the land.Poverty, why wast thou bornUnder the world's quiet scorn?
Poverty, thou hast been seenClad in a comelier mien.Oft, to the clear-seeing eyes,Thou art a saint in disguise.Discipline rich thou hast brought,Lessons of labor and thought.Oft, in thy dreariest night,Virtue gleams sturdy and bright;Oft, from thy scantiest hour,Grow the beginnings of power;Oft, 'mongst thy squalors and needsLive such magnificent deedsAs the proud angels will crownThere in their gold-streeted town;Oft, from thy high garrets, throngNotes of magnificent song,That, from sad day unto day,Float through the ages away.Poverty—brave or forlorn—God knoweth why thou wast born.
Poverty, thou hast been seenClad in a comelier mien.Oft, to the clear-seeing eyes,Thou art a saint in disguise.Discipline rich thou hast brought,Lessons of labor and thought.Oft, in thy dreariest night,Virtue gleams sturdy and bright;Oft, from thy scantiest hour,Grow the beginnings of power;Oft, 'mongst thy squalors and needsLive such magnificent deedsAs the proud angels will crownThere in their gold-streeted town;Oft, from thy high garrets, throngNotes of magnificent song,That, from sad day unto day,Float through the ages away.Poverty—brave or forlorn—God knoweth why thou wast born.
February 12, 18—.
Wind in the South; a fresh, sweet, winter day;'Twould have been sad to see it go away,If 'twere not that the sunset's signal-lightsGlimmered awhile across the Jersey heights,Then, lightly dancing o'er the river, cameAnd set some New York windows all aflame.(From a clear sunset I can always borrowGod's sweet half promise of a fair to-morrow.)But, while I gazed upon that splendid sight,My mindwouldtake a heavy, care-winged flightUp to a small back garret, far away,Where I had stood at two o'clock to-day.Want—want—want—want! it hung 'round everywhere;It threw its odors on the sickly air!The room was somewhat smaller, to begin,Than I would put a span of horses in;The floor was rough and damp as floor could be;No picture on the walls but Poverty;The bed was ragged, scanty, hard, and drear;A rough-made, empty crib was standing near;The "window" 'd never felt the sun's warm stare,Or breathed a breath of good old-fashioned air;
Wind in the South; a fresh, sweet, winter day;'Twould have been sad to see it go away,If 'twere not that the sunset's signal-lightsGlimmered awhile across the Jersey heights,Then, lightly dancing o'er the river, cameAnd set some New York windows all aflame.(From a clear sunset I can always borrowGod's sweet half promise of a fair to-morrow.)
But, while I gazed upon that splendid sight,My mindwouldtake a heavy, care-winged flightUp to a small back garret, far away,Where I had stood at two o'clock to-day.
Want—want—want—want! it hung 'round everywhere;It threw its odors on the sickly air!The room was somewhat smaller, to begin,Than I would put a span of horses in;The floor was rough and damp as floor could be;No picture on the walls but Poverty;The bed was ragged, scanty, hard, and drear;A rough-made, empty crib was standing near;The "window" 'd never felt the sun's warm stare,Or breathed a breath of good old-fashioned air;
"YES, IT'S STRAIGHT AND TRUE, GOOD PREACHER, EVERY WORD THAT YOU HAVE SAID.""YES, IT'S STRAIGHT AND TRUE, GOOD PREACHER, EVERY WORD THAT YOU HAVE SAID."
A little, worn-out doll some child had had,Looking, like its surroundings, rough and sad,And dressed in rags and pinched and famine-faced,But bearing still some marks of girlish taste;A gaunt, gray kitten, showing every signThat it was on the last life of its nine,Though trying hard to feel quite sleek and fat,And not a very care-worn, desolate cat;A man, so grieved my heart can see him now,With frightful sorrow printed on his brow;A rough, wood coffin stood there near the bed,Looking uneasy even for the dead;A little, pallid face I saw therein—A niceish-looking child she must have been,As sweet as ever need to feed a glance,If she had only had one-half a chance.But still, she woke a thought I could not smother—"That child was murdered in some way or other."[4]And my opinion didn't seem much amissWhen the man spoke up, something like to this:
A little, worn-out doll some child had had,Looking, like its surroundings, rough and sad,And dressed in rags and pinched and famine-faced,But bearing still some marks of girlish taste;A gaunt, gray kitten, showing every signThat it was on the last life of its nine,Though trying hard to feel quite sleek and fat,And not a very care-worn, desolate cat;A man, so grieved my heart can see him now,With frightful sorrow printed on his brow;
A rough, wood coffin stood there near the bed,Looking uneasy even for the dead;A little, pallid face I saw therein—A niceish-looking child she must have been,As sweet as ever need to feed a glance,If she had only had one-half a chance.But still, she woke a thought I could not smother—"That child was murdered in some way or other."[4]
And my opinion didn't seem much amissWhen the man spoke up, something like to this: