Chapter 51

OF all the ills that flesh is heir to, a cross, crabbed, ill-contented man is the most unendurable, because the most inexcusable. No occasion, no matter how trifling, is permitted to pass without eliciting his dissent, his sneer, or his growl. His good and patient wife never yet prepared a dinner that he liked. One day she prepares a dish that she thinks will particularly please him. He comes in the front door, and says: “Whew! whew! what have you got in the house? Now, my dear, you know that I never did like codfish.” Some evening, resolving to be especially gracious, he starts with his family to a place of amusement. He scolds the most of the way. He cannot afford the time or the money, and he does not believe the entertainment will be much, after all. The music begins. The audience are thrilled. The orchestra, with polished instruments, warble and weep, and thunder and pray—all the sweet sounds of the world flowering upon the strings of the bass viol, and wreathing the flageolets, and breathing from the lips of the cornet, and shaking their flower-bells upon the tinkling tambourine.He sits motionless and disgusted. He goes home saying: “Did you see that fat musician that got so red blowing that French horn? He looked like a stuffed toad. Did you ever hear such a voice asthat lady has? Why, it was a perfect squawk! The evening was wasted.” And his companion says: “Why, my dear!” “There, you needn’t tell me—you are pleased with everything. But never ask me to go again!” He goes to church. Perhaps the sermon is didactic and argumentative. He yawns. He gapes. He twists himself in his pew, and pretends he is asleep, and says: “I could not keep awake. Did you ever hear anything so dead? Can these dry bones live?” Next Sabbath he enters a church where the minister is much given to illustration. He is still more displeased. He says: “How dare that man bring such every-day things into his pulpit? He ought to have brought his illustrations from the cedar of Lebanon and the fir-tree, instead of the hickory and sassafrass. He ought to have spoken of the Euphrates and the Jordan, and not of the Kennebec and Schuylkill. He ought to have mentioned Mount Gerizim instead of the Catskills. Why, he ought to be disciplined. Why, it is ridiculous.” Perhaps afterward he joins the church. Then the church will have its hands full. He growls and groans and whines all the way up toward the gate of heaven. He wishes that the choir would sing differently, that the minister would preach differently, that the elders would pray differently. In the morning, he said, “The church was as cold as Greenland;” in the evening, “It was hot as blazes.” They painted the church; he didn’t like the color. They carpeted the aisles; he didn’t like the figure. They put in a new furnace; he didn’t like the patent. He wriggles and squirms, and frets and stews, and worries himself. He is like a horse, that, prancing and uneasy to the bit, worries himself into a lather of foam, while the horse hitched beside him just pulls straight ahead, makes no fuss, and comes to his oats in peace. Like a hedge-hog, he is all quills. Like a crab that, you know, always goes the other way, and moves backward in order to go forward, and turns in four directions all at once, and the first you know of his whereabouts you have missed him, and when he is completely lost he has gone by the heel—so that the first thing you know you don’t know anything—and while you expected to catch the crab, the crab catches you.So some men are crabbed—all hard-shell and obstinacy and opposition. I do not see how he is to get into heaven, unless he goes in backward, and then there will be danger that at the gate he will try to pick a quarrel withSt.Peter. Once in, I fear he will not like the music, and the services will be too long, and that he will spend the first two or three years in trying to find out whether the wall of heaven is exactly plumb. Let us stand off from such tendencies. Listen for sweet notes rather than discords, picking up marigolds and harebells in preference to thistles and coloquintida, culturing thyme and anemones rather than night-shade. And in a world where God has put exquisite tinge upon the shell washed in the surf, and planted a paradise of bloom in a child’s cheek, and adorned the pillars of the rock by hanging tapestry of morning mist, the lark saying, “I will sing soprano,” and the cascade replying, “I will carry the bass,” let us leave it to the owl to hoot, and the frog to croak, and the bear to growl, and the grumbler to find fault.PUTTING UP O’ THE STOVE; OR, THE RIME OF THE ECONOMICAL HOUSEHOLDER.THE melancholy days have come that no householder loves,Days of taking down of blinds and putting up of stoves;The lengths of pipe forgotten lie in the shadow of the shed,Dinged out of symmetry they be and all with rust are red;The husband gropes amid the mass that he placed there anon,And swears to find an elbow-joint and eke a leg are gone.So fared it with good Mister Brown, when his spouse remarked: “Behold!Unless you wish us all to go and catch our deaths of cold,Swift be yon stove and pipes from out their storing place conveyed,And to black-lead and set them up, lo! I will lend my aid.”This,Mr.Brown, he trembling heard, I trow his heart was sore,For he was married many years, and had been there before,And timidly he said, “My love, perchance, the better plan’Twere to hie to the tinsmith’s shop and bid him send a man?”His spouse replied indignantly: “So you would have me thenTo waste our substance upon riotous tinsmith’s journeymen?‘A penny saved is twopence earned,’ rash prodigal of pelf,Go! false one, go! and I will black and set it up myself.”When thus she spoke the husband knew that she had sealed his doom;“Fill high the bowl with Samian lead and gimme down that broom,”He cried; then to the outhouse marched. Apart the doors he hoveAnd closed in deadly conflict with his enemy, the stove.Round 1.They faced each other; Brown, to get an opening sparredAdroitly. His antagonist was cautious—on its guard.Brown led off with his left to where a length of stovepipe stood,And nearly cut his fingers off. (The stove allowed first blood.)Round 2.Brown came up swearing, in Græco-Roman style,Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove at it a weary while;At last the leg he held gave way; flat on his back fell Brown,And the stove fell on top of him and claimed theFirst Knock-down.* * * The fight is done and Brown has won; his hands are rasped and sore,And perspiration and black-lead stream from his every pore;Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner a shove,He cries, “Where, my good angel, shall Iputthis blessed stove?”And calmlyMrs.Brown to him she indicates the spot,And bids him keep his temper, and remarks that he looks hot,And now comes in the sweat o’ the day; the Brown holds in his gripeAnd strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five-inch pipe;He hammers, dinges, bends, and shakes, while his wife scornfullyTells him howshewould manage if only she were he.At last the joints are joined, they rear a pyramid in air,A tub upon the table, and upon the tub a chair,And on chair and supporters are the stovepipe and the Brown,Like the lion and the unicorn, a-fighting for the crown;While Mistress Brown, she cheerily says to him, “I expec’’Twould be just like your clumsiness to fall and break your neck.”Scarce were the piteous accents said before she was awareOf what might be called “a miscellaneous music in the air.”And in wild crash and confusion upon the floor rained downChairs, tables, tubs, and stovepipes, anathemas, and—Brown.There was a moment’s silence—Brown had fallen on the cat;She was too thick for a book-mark, but too thin for a mat;And he was all wounds and bruises, from his head to his foot,And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined with the soot.“O wedded love, how beautiful, how sweet a thing thou art!”Up from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she saw him falling, start,And shrieked aloud as a sickening fear did her inmost heartstrings gripe,“Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you gone and smashed that pipe?”Then fiercely starts thatMr.Brown, as one that had been wode,And big his bosom swelled with wrath, and red his visage glowed;Wild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his voice was sharp and shrill),“I have not, madam, but, by—by—by the nine gods, I will!”He swung the pipe above his head; he dashed it on the floor,And that stovepipe, as a stovepipe, it did exist no more;Then he strode up to his shrinking wife, and his face was stern and wan,And in a hoarse, changed voice he hissed:“Send for that tinsmith’s man!”THE POOR INDIAN!IKNOW him by his falcon eye,His raven tress and mien of pride;Those dingy draperies, as they fly,Tell that a great soul throbs inside!No eagle-feathered crown he wears,Capping in pride his kingly brow;But his crownless hat in grief declares,“I am an unthroned monarch now!”“O noble son of a royal line!”I exclaim, as I gaze into his face,“How shall I knit my soul to thine?How right the wrongs of thine injured race?“What shall I do for thee, glorious one?To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires.Speak! and say how the Saxon’s sonMay atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires!”He speaks, he speaks!—that noble chief!From his marble lips deep accents come;And I catch the sound of his mighty grief,—“Ple’ gi’ me tree cent for git some rum?”JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC.MARIA ANN recently determined to go to a picnic.Maria Ann is my wife—unfortunately she had planned it to go alone, so far as I am concerned, on that picnic excursion; but when I heard about it, I determined to assist.Shepretendedshe was very glad; I don’t believe she was.“It will do you good to get away from your work a day, poor fellow,” she said; “and we shall so much enjoy a cool morning ride on the cars, and a dinner in the woods.”On the morning of that day, Maria Ann got up at five o’clock. About three minutes later she disturbed my slumbers, and told me to come to breakfast. I told her I wasn’t hungry, but it didn’t make a bit of difference, I had to get up. The sun was up; I had no idea that the sun began his business so early in the morning, but there he was.“Now,” said Maria Ann, “we must fly around, for the cars start at half-past six. Eat all the breakfast you can, for you won’t get anything more before noon.”I could not eat anything so early in the morning. There was ice to be pounded to go around the pail of ice cream, and the sandwiches to be cut, and I thought I would never get the legs of the chicken fixed so I could get the cover on the big basket. Maria Ann flew around and piled up groceries for me to pack, giving directions to the girl about taking care of the house, and putting on her dress all at once. There is a deal of energy in that woman, perhaps a trifle too much.At twenty minutes past six I stood on the front steps, with a basket on one arm and Maria Ann’s waterproof on the other, and a pail in each hand, and a bottle of vinegar in my coat-skirt pocket. There was a camp-chair hung on me somewhere, too, but I forget just where.“Now,” said Maria Ann, “we must run or we shall not catch the train.”“Maria Ann,” said I, “that is a reasonable idea. How do you suppose I can run with all this freight?”“You must, you brute. You always try to tease me. If you don’t want a scene on the street, you will start, too.”So I ran.I had one comfort, at least. Maria Ann fell down and broke her parasol. She called me a brute again because I laughed. She drove me all the way to the depot at a brisk trot, and we got on the cars; but neither of us could get a seat, and I could not find a place where I could set the things down, so I stood there and held them.“Maria,” I said, “how is this for a cool morning ride?”Said she, “You are a brute, Jenkins.”Said I, “You have madethatobservation before, my love.”I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be an hour of wrath when we got home. While we were getting out of the cars, the bottle in my coat-pocketbroke, and consequently I had one boot half-full of vinegar all day. That kept me pretty quiet, and Maria Ann ran off with a big whiskered music-teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet, and tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much, after the fashion of picnic-goers.I thought it would never come dinner-time, and Maria Ann called me a pig because I wanted to open our basket before the rest of the baskets were opened.At last dinner came—the “nice dinner in the woods,” you know. Over three thousand little red ants had got into our dinner, and they were worse to pick out than fish-bones. The ice-cream had melted, and there was no vinegar for the cold meat, except what was in my boot, and, of course, that was of no immediate use. The music-teacher spilled a cup of hot coffee on Maria Ann’s head, and pulled all the frizzles out trying to wipe off the coffee with his handkerchief. Then I sat on a piece of raspberry-pie, and spoiled my white pants, and concluded I didn’t want anything more. I had to stand up against a tree the rest of the afternoon. The day offered considerable variety, compared to everyday life, but there were so many drawbacks that I did not enjoy it so much as I might have done.SEWING ON A BUTTON.BY J. M. BAILEY.IT is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but he is the embodiment of grace alongside of a married man. Necessity has compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter has always depended upon some one else for this service, and fortunately, for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand or runs a sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it is then the man clutches the needle around the neck, and forgetting to tie a knot in the thread commences to put on the button. It is always in the morning, and from five to twenty minutes after he is expected to be down street. He lays the button exactly on the site of its predecessor, and pushes the needle through one eye, and carefully draws the thread after, leaving about three inches of it sticking up for a leeway. He says to himself,—“Well, if women don’t have the easiest time I ever see.” Then he comes back the other way, and gets the needle through the cloth well enough, and lays himself out to find the eye, but in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle point persists in bucking against the solid parts of that button, and, finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the thread, and that three inches he had left to hold the button slips through the eye in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. He picks it up without a single remark, out of respect to his children, and makes another attempt to fasten it. This time when coming back with the needle he keeps both the thread and button from slipping by covering them with his thumb, and it is out of regard for that part of him that he feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious manner; but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes more and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and savage manner, and it is just then the needle finds the opening, and comes up through the button and part way through his thumb with a celerity that no human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays down the things, with a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured hand between his knees, and then holds it under the other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, and all the while he prances about the floor, and calls upon heaven and earth to witness that there has never been anything like it since the world was created, and howls, and whistles, and moans, and sobs. After awhile, he calms down, and puts on his pants, and fastens them together with a stick, and goes to his business a changed man.CASEY AT THE BAT.(Often recited by DeWolf Hopper, the comic opera singer, between the acts.)THERE was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,There was pride in Casey’s bearing, and a smile on Casey’s face;And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat,No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.And now the leather-covered sphere came whirling thro’ the air,And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there;Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped.“That ain’t my style,” said Casey, “Strike one,” the umpire said.From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore;“Kill him! kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand.And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone,He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on;He signalled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, “Fraud!”But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed;They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate,He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.THE MAGICAL ISLE.THERE’S a magical isle in the River of Time,Where softest of echoes are straying;And the air is as soft as a musical chime,Or the exquisite breath of a tropical climeWhen June with its roses is swaying.’Tis where memory dwells with her pure golden hueAnd music forever is flowing:While the low-murmured tones that come trembling throughSadly trouble the heart, yet sweeten it too,As the south wind o’er water when blowing.There are shadowy halls in that fairy-like isle,Where pictures of beauty are gleaming;Yet the light of their eyes, and their sweet, sunny smile,Only flash round the heart with a wildering wile,And leave us to know ’tis but dreaming.And the name of this isle is the Beautiful Past,And we bury our treasures all there:There are beings of beauty too lovely to last;There are blossoms of snow, with the dust o’er them cast;There are tresses and ringlets of hair.There are fragments of song only memory sings,And the words of a dear mother’s prayer;There’s a harp long unsought, and a lute without strings—Hallowed tokens that love used to wear.E’en the dead—the bright, beautiful dead—there arise,With their soft, flowing ringlets of gold:Though their voices are hushed, and o’er their sweet eyes,The unbroken signet of silence now lies,They are with us again, as of old.In the stillness of night, hands are beckoning there,And, with joy that is almost a pain,We delight to turn back, and in wandering there,Through the shadowy halls of the island so fair,We behold our lost treasures again.Oh! this beautiful isle, with its phantom-like show,Is a vista exceedingly bright:And the River of Time, in its turbulent flow,Is oft soothed by the voices we heard long ago,When the years were a dream of delight.STRAY BITS OF CHARACTER.BY WILL CARLETON.With original illustrations by Victor Perard.THE TOURIST.IN art, as well as literature, there should be a vast variety of methods, for a good many kinds of people wait to be instructed and pleased. Besides, there is frequently a great diversity of moods in the same person—all of which must be ministered to, at one time and another.AT THE LUNCH STAND.Some people, and perhaps all, when in certain states of mind, are fond of pictures brought out with photographic accuracy; every detail attended to; everything provided for; every incident faithfully related. Others prefer only the salient points—a mere suggestion of items is sufficient. They have no time for anything more—they want the spirit, the soul, of the scene and situation.Victor Perard’s work upon these pages will minister most to the latter class of people and moods. As one orator can give in ten words the story that another one has struggled with much voice and many gestures for an hour to make plain, so this silent story-teller dashes his pencil across the paper a few times, and behold! you see just what you already mayhave noticed again and again, but never before recognized in all its possibilities. You now have before you for a steady gaze, that of which you have had only a glimpse, a sketch that supplies the place of memory, shakes hands with imagination, and enables you to enjoy the scene at leisure.THE STREET TO THE SEA.IN WAIT.These are pictures that explain themselves, or at least permit the gazer to furnish his own explanation—and that is the most complimentary of all imaginative work, and produces a species of gratitude in the minds of the audience.THE OILER.Victor Perard is one of the younger artists of our country. His name would indicate him to be of French descent; but he is, I believe, a native of the Greater America, which has thus far shown such a cheerful willingness to assimilate the best brain of the world. He has, however, lived in Paris, and contributed to some of the leading French illustrated journals. He is now living a quiet domestic life in our American metropolis, and has done much good work for its periodicals.In “The Tourist,” one notices with every line of the solemn-looking individual an intense desire to get over the ground promptly and see everything possible on the way. There is something in the painful though unstudied diligence with which he keeps his carpet bag close to his person, that may enable a lively imagination to peep through its sides and detect notes for a forthcoming book.EXPECTING A CALLER.A VETERAN OF THE RANKS.A WIDE-REACHING AFFAIR.“At the Lunch Stand” is Whittier’s “Barefoot Boy,” transferred to the city. His lips are not “redder still, kissed by strawberries on the hill;” nor may he be coated with “outward sunshine,” or full of “inner joy.” The luxurious bowl of milk and bread which our Quaker poet describes, is not his, even with the wooden dish and pewter spoon; but he seems happy for the moment with the cup of more or less hot coffee which he imbibes. His jaunty, independent attitude shows that he is bound to get all the good of his powerful and perhaps palatable beverage; that he earned it, and is entitled to it.“The Street to the Sea” is in fact a picture of the sea, although the same is hardly in sight. Everything shows that we are approaching the great Country of the Waters. The villas in view; the wheel-harrowed road, admirably foreshortened; the deep shadows upon each side of the way; human figures looming faintly in the distance; everything, in fact, is somehow telling us a tale of the ocean, and we do not need our too sparse glimpse of the “solemn main” to tell what majestic voice will soon bring us to a halt; we almost smell the salt air.“WHO’S THAT COMING?”LEISURE.The lazy fisherman who has hung out his latch-string and is waiting for a dinner to call upon him, is Perard with a godsend of material—of the kind he likes. There could scarcely be found a better wedding of shiftlessness and ingenuity. The primitive character of the man’s garments is apparently not due to the climate alone; he takes no thought of the morrow, and not much of the current day, so far as its temporal affairs are concerned. But the crude marks of mechanical ability are all over and around him; one suspender is induced, by its oblique trend, to do service for two; an elaborate coil of line gives opportunity of play for the largest of fin-bearers; the stick in the sand guarantees that his expected caller shall not go away without experiencing the fisherman’speculiar hospitality; and there is considerable chance that if a “bite” occurs, the line will waken him, as it gradually warms the interstice between his toes.McCLELLAN SADDLE.SHOOTING THE STEAM ARROW.“A Veteran of the Ranks” might almost be Kipling’s Mulvaney himself. The fatigue-cap, which in its jaunty pose seems to have vegetated and grown there; the drooping mustache; the capacious pipe; are all what might have been characteristics of that renowned Hibernian warrior of India. The picture finally centres, however, in the eyes; which contain a world, or at least two hemispheres, of shrewdness, of that sort which only gets about so far in life, but is terribly correct within its own scope. They also possess a certain humanity and generosity, which would be likely to act as winsome daughters of his regiment of martial qualities, even upon the battle-field.“GRACIOUS GOODNESS!”“Miniature Men and Women” include a number of the most interesting of the genus Baby. As everyone knows, there are babies and babies, except to the parents of one. The infant is the true teacher and object-lesson combined; it shows us the grace, although not always the mercy and peace, of unconscious action. It has not been away from Heaven long enough to learn the deceit of this crooked world, is unaware that there is anything in life to conceal, and acts accordingly, until taught better, or, perhaps, worse. These babies, or this baby (for the same infant has so many different ways of acting and appearing, that these may all be pictures of the same) can be said to exhibit grace in every attitude and every position, from the symmetrical fragment of humanity on the mother’s arm, to the tot just contemplating a walking-lesson. All of them have a dignified simplicity.ON WINGS OF HOOFS.“Bon Voyage” shows the different attitudes which men will take while intently gazing at the same object. It does not necessarily follow thatthe “she” referred to is a lady; it may be and probably is, a ship, upon which all of our captured gazers have friends. Each one takes his own peculiar posture of observation; and their characters can be read from them.MINIATURE MEN AND WOMEN.“Waiting for Orders” is a faithful and almost pathetic presentation of that patient, long-suffering, but unreliable beast, whose lack of pride and hope have passed into a proverb. One is curious, seeing him standing there, how life can ever manage to wheedle him into the idea that it is worth living; but the same curiosity arises in regard to some men. We often find that these have stowed away upon their persons certain grains of comfort, concerning which we at first failed to take note. Our utterly opaque friend here has pleasanter experiences in the world than that of acting as a locomotive to a cart. The dashes of the breeze, the transports of the sun-bath, the pull at the water-bucket, the nourishment in the manger, all yield him tribute in a certain amount of pleasure; he has no responsibility upon his mind, excepting that he is to pull when told to; and although occasionally suffering maltreatment from the superior race in which he recognizes many of his own characteristics, there is no knowing how soon he may revenge it all, in the twinkling of a pair of heels.BON VOYAGE!WAITING ORDERS.Mr.Perard discovers himself in these sketches to be a facile technician, a shrewd and sympathetic observer, and several different kinds of a man—all good kinds. Observe one thing about him: he is healthy and sound all through. His work is calm, firm, and kind. There is heart in it. There is quite as warm a corner in that heart for the ragamuffin as there is for the howling swell.

He sits motionless and disgusted. He goes home saying: “Did you see that fat musician that got so red blowing that French horn? He looked like a stuffed toad. Did you ever hear such a voice asthat lady has? Why, it was a perfect squawk! The evening was wasted.” And his companion says: “Why, my dear!” “There, you needn’t tell me—you are pleased with everything. But never ask me to go again!” He goes to church. Perhaps the sermon is didactic and argumentative. He yawns. He gapes. He twists himself in his pew, and pretends he is asleep, and says: “I could not keep awake. Did you ever hear anything so dead? Can these dry bones live?” Next Sabbath he enters a church where the minister is much given to illustration. He is still more displeased. He says: “How dare that man bring such every-day things into his pulpit? He ought to have brought his illustrations from the cedar of Lebanon and the fir-tree, instead of the hickory and sassafrass. He ought to have spoken of the Euphrates and the Jordan, and not of the Kennebec and Schuylkill. He ought to have mentioned Mount Gerizim instead of the Catskills. Why, he ought to be disciplined. Why, it is ridiculous.” Perhaps afterward he joins the church. Then the church will have its hands full. He growls and groans and whines all the way up toward the gate of heaven. He wishes that the choir would sing differently, that the minister would preach differently, that the elders would pray differently. In the morning, he said, “The church was as cold as Greenland;” in the evening, “It was hot as blazes.” They painted the church; he didn’t like the color. They carpeted the aisles; he didn’t like the figure. They put in a new furnace; he didn’t like the patent. He wriggles and squirms, and frets and stews, and worries himself. He is like a horse, that, prancing and uneasy to the bit, worries himself into a lather of foam, while the horse hitched beside him just pulls straight ahead, makes no fuss, and comes to his oats in peace. Like a hedge-hog, he is all quills. Like a crab that, you know, always goes the other way, and moves backward in order to go forward, and turns in four directions all at once, and the first you know of his whereabouts you have missed him, and when he is completely lost he has gone by the heel—so that the first thing you know you don’t know anything—and while you expected to catch the crab, the crab catches you.

So some men are crabbed—all hard-shell and obstinacy and opposition. I do not see how he is to get into heaven, unless he goes in backward, and then there will be danger that at the gate he will try to pick a quarrel withSt.Peter. Once in, I fear he will not like the music, and the services will be too long, and that he will spend the first two or three years in trying to find out whether the wall of heaven is exactly plumb. Let us stand off from such tendencies. Listen for sweet notes rather than discords, picking up marigolds and harebells in preference to thistles and coloquintida, culturing thyme and anemones rather than night-shade. And in a world where God has put exquisite tinge upon the shell washed in the surf, and planted a paradise of bloom in a child’s cheek, and adorned the pillars of the rock by hanging tapestry of morning mist, the lark saying, “I will sing soprano,” and the cascade replying, “I will carry the bass,” let us leave it to the owl to hoot, and the frog to croak, and the bear to growl, and the grumbler to find fault.

PUTTING UP O’ THE STOVE; OR, THE RIME OF THE ECONOMICAL HOUSEHOLDER.

THE melancholy days have come that no householder loves,Days of taking down of blinds and putting up of stoves;The lengths of pipe forgotten lie in the shadow of the shed,Dinged out of symmetry they be and all with rust are red;The husband gropes amid the mass that he placed there anon,And swears to find an elbow-joint and eke a leg are gone.So fared it with good Mister Brown, when his spouse remarked: “Behold!Unless you wish us all to go and catch our deaths of cold,Swift be yon stove and pipes from out their storing place conveyed,And to black-lead and set them up, lo! I will lend my aid.”This,Mr.Brown, he trembling heard, I trow his heart was sore,For he was married many years, and had been there before,And timidly he said, “My love, perchance, the better plan’Twere to hie to the tinsmith’s shop and bid him send a man?”His spouse replied indignantly: “So you would have me thenTo waste our substance upon riotous tinsmith’s journeymen?‘A penny saved is twopence earned,’ rash prodigal of pelf,Go! false one, go! and I will black and set it up myself.”When thus she spoke the husband knew that she had sealed his doom;“Fill high the bowl with Samian lead and gimme down that broom,”He cried; then to the outhouse marched. Apart the doors he hoveAnd closed in deadly conflict with his enemy, the stove.Round 1.They faced each other; Brown, to get an opening sparredAdroitly. His antagonist was cautious—on its guard.Brown led off with his left to where a length of stovepipe stood,And nearly cut his fingers off. (The stove allowed first blood.)Round 2.Brown came up swearing, in Græco-Roman style,Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove at it a weary while;At last the leg he held gave way; flat on his back fell Brown,And the stove fell on top of him and claimed theFirst Knock-down.* * * The fight is done and Brown has won; his hands are rasped and sore,And perspiration and black-lead stream from his every pore;Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner a shove,He cries, “Where, my good angel, shall Iputthis blessed stove?”And calmlyMrs.Brown to him she indicates the spot,And bids him keep his temper, and remarks that he looks hot,And now comes in the sweat o’ the day; the Brown holds in his gripeAnd strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five-inch pipe;He hammers, dinges, bends, and shakes, while his wife scornfullyTells him howshewould manage if only she were he.At last the joints are joined, they rear a pyramid in air,A tub upon the table, and upon the tub a chair,And on chair and supporters are the stovepipe and the Brown,Like the lion and the unicorn, a-fighting for the crown;While Mistress Brown, she cheerily says to him, “I expec’’Twould be just like your clumsiness to fall and break your neck.”Scarce were the piteous accents said before she was awareOf what might be called “a miscellaneous music in the air.”And in wild crash and confusion upon the floor rained downChairs, tables, tubs, and stovepipes, anathemas, and—Brown.There was a moment’s silence—Brown had fallen on the cat;She was too thick for a book-mark, but too thin for a mat;And he was all wounds and bruises, from his head to his foot,And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined with the soot.“O wedded love, how beautiful, how sweet a thing thou art!”Up from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she saw him falling, start,And shrieked aloud as a sickening fear did her inmost heartstrings gripe,“Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you gone and smashed that pipe?”Then fiercely starts thatMr.Brown, as one that had been wode,And big his bosom swelled with wrath, and red his visage glowed;Wild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his voice was sharp and shrill),“I have not, madam, but, by—by—by the nine gods, I will!”He swung the pipe above his head; he dashed it on the floor,And that stovepipe, as a stovepipe, it did exist no more;Then he strode up to his shrinking wife, and his face was stern and wan,And in a hoarse, changed voice he hissed:“Send for that tinsmith’s man!”

HE melancholy days have come that no householder loves,

Days of taking down of blinds and putting up of stoves;

The lengths of pipe forgotten lie in the shadow of the shed,

Dinged out of symmetry they be and all with rust are red;

The husband gropes amid the mass that he placed there anon,

And swears to find an elbow-joint and eke a leg are gone.

So fared it with good Mister Brown, when his spouse remarked: “Behold!

Unless you wish us all to go and catch our deaths of cold,

Swift be yon stove and pipes from out their storing place conveyed,

And to black-lead and set them up, lo! I will lend my aid.”

This,Mr.Brown, he trembling heard, I trow his heart was sore,

For he was married many years, and had been there before,

And timidly he said, “My love, perchance, the better plan

’Twere to hie to the tinsmith’s shop and bid him send a man?”

His spouse replied indignantly: “So you would have me then

To waste our substance upon riotous tinsmith’s journeymen?

‘A penny saved is twopence earned,’ rash prodigal of pelf,

Go! false one, go! and I will black and set it up myself.”

When thus she spoke the husband knew that she had sealed his doom;

“Fill high the bowl with Samian lead and gimme down that broom,”

He cried; then to the outhouse marched. Apart the doors he hove

And closed in deadly conflict with his enemy, the stove.

Round 1.

They faced each other; Brown, to get an opening sparred

Adroitly. His antagonist was cautious—on its guard.

Brown led off with his left to where a length of stovepipe stood,

And nearly cut his fingers off. (The stove allowed first blood.)

Round 2.

Brown came up swearing, in Græco-Roman style,

Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove at it a weary while;

At last the leg he held gave way; flat on his back fell Brown,

And the stove fell on top of him and claimed theFirst Knock-down.

* * * The fight is done and Brown has won; his hands are rasped and sore,

And perspiration and black-lead stream from his every pore;

Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner a shove,

He cries, “Where, my good angel, shall Iputthis blessed stove?”

And calmlyMrs.Brown to him she indicates the spot,

And bids him keep his temper, and remarks that he looks hot,

And now comes in the sweat o’ the day; the Brown holds in his gripe

And strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five-inch pipe;

He hammers, dinges, bends, and shakes, while his wife scornfully

Tells him howshewould manage if only she were he.

At last the joints are joined, they rear a pyramid in air,

A tub upon the table, and upon the tub a chair,

And on chair and supporters are the stovepipe and the Brown,

Like the lion and the unicorn, a-fighting for the crown;

While Mistress Brown, she cheerily says to him, “I expec’

’Twould be just like your clumsiness to fall and break your neck.”

Scarce were the piteous accents said before she was aware

Of what might be called “a miscellaneous music in the air.”

And in wild crash and confusion upon the floor rained down

Chairs, tables, tubs, and stovepipes, anathemas, and—Brown.

There was a moment’s silence—Brown had fallen on the cat;

She was too thick for a book-mark, but too thin for a mat;

And he was all wounds and bruises, from his head to his foot,

And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined with the soot.

“O wedded love, how beautiful, how sweet a thing thou art!”

Up from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she saw him falling, start,

And shrieked aloud as a sickening fear did her inmost heartstrings gripe,

“Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you gone and smashed that pipe?”

Then fiercely starts thatMr.Brown, as one that had been wode,

And big his bosom swelled with wrath, and red his visage glowed;

Wild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his voice was sharp and shrill),

“I have not, madam, but, by—by—by the nine gods, I will!”

He swung the pipe above his head; he dashed it on the floor,

And that stovepipe, as a stovepipe, it did exist no more;

Then he strode up to his shrinking wife, and his face was stern and wan,

And in a hoarse, changed voice he hissed:

“Send for that tinsmith’s man!”

THE POOR INDIAN!

IKNOW him by his falcon eye,His raven tress and mien of pride;Those dingy draperies, as they fly,Tell that a great soul throbs inside!No eagle-feathered crown he wears,Capping in pride his kingly brow;But his crownless hat in grief declares,“I am an unthroned monarch now!”“O noble son of a royal line!”I exclaim, as I gaze into his face,“How shall I knit my soul to thine?How right the wrongs of thine injured race?“What shall I do for thee, glorious one?To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires.Speak! and say how the Saxon’s sonMay atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires!”He speaks, he speaks!—that noble chief!From his marble lips deep accents come;And I catch the sound of his mighty grief,—“Ple’ gi’ me tree cent for git some rum?”

KNOW him by his falcon eye,

His raven tress and mien of pride;

Those dingy draperies, as they fly,

Tell that a great soul throbs inside!

No eagle-feathered crown he wears,

Capping in pride his kingly brow;

But his crownless hat in grief declares,

“I am an unthroned monarch now!”

“O noble son of a royal line!”

I exclaim, as I gaze into his face,

“How shall I knit my soul to thine?

How right the wrongs of thine injured race?

“What shall I do for thee, glorious one?

To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires.

Speak! and say how the Saxon’s son

May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires!”

He speaks, he speaks!—that noble chief!

From his marble lips deep accents come;

And I catch the sound of his mighty grief,—

“Ple’ gi’ me tree cent for git some rum?”

JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC.

MARIA ANN recently determined to go to a picnic.Maria Ann is my wife—unfortunately she had planned it to go alone, so far as I am concerned, on that picnic excursion; but when I heard about it, I determined to assist.Shepretendedshe was very glad; I don’t believe she was.“It will do you good to get away from your work a day, poor fellow,” she said; “and we shall so much enjoy a cool morning ride on the cars, and a dinner in the woods.”On the morning of that day, Maria Ann got up at five o’clock. About three minutes later she disturbed my slumbers, and told me to come to breakfast. I told her I wasn’t hungry, but it didn’t make a bit of difference, I had to get up. The sun was up; I had no idea that the sun began his business so early in the morning, but there he was.“Now,” said Maria Ann, “we must fly around, for the cars start at half-past six. Eat all the breakfast you can, for you won’t get anything more before noon.”I could not eat anything so early in the morning. There was ice to be pounded to go around the pail of ice cream, and the sandwiches to be cut, and I thought I would never get the legs of the chicken fixed so I could get the cover on the big basket. Maria Ann flew around and piled up groceries for me to pack, giving directions to the girl about taking care of the house, and putting on her dress all at once. There is a deal of energy in that woman, perhaps a trifle too much.At twenty minutes past six I stood on the front steps, with a basket on one arm and Maria Ann’s waterproof on the other, and a pail in each hand, and a bottle of vinegar in my coat-skirt pocket. There was a camp-chair hung on me somewhere, too, but I forget just where.“Now,” said Maria Ann, “we must run or we shall not catch the train.”“Maria Ann,” said I, “that is a reasonable idea. How do you suppose I can run with all this freight?”“You must, you brute. You always try to tease me. If you don’t want a scene on the street, you will start, too.”So I ran.I had one comfort, at least. Maria Ann fell down and broke her parasol. She called me a brute again because I laughed. She drove me all the way to the depot at a brisk trot, and we got on the cars; but neither of us could get a seat, and I could not find a place where I could set the things down, so I stood there and held them.“Maria,” I said, “how is this for a cool morning ride?”Said she, “You are a brute, Jenkins.”Said I, “You have madethatobservation before, my love.”I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be an hour of wrath when we got home. While we were getting out of the cars, the bottle in my coat-pocketbroke, and consequently I had one boot half-full of vinegar all day. That kept me pretty quiet, and Maria Ann ran off with a big whiskered music-teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet, and tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much, after the fashion of picnic-goers.I thought it would never come dinner-time, and Maria Ann called me a pig because I wanted to open our basket before the rest of the baskets were opened.At last dinner came—the “nice dinner in the woods,” you know. Over three thousand little red ants had got into our dinner, and they were worse to pick out than fish-bones. The ice-cream had melted, and there was no vinegar for the cold meat, except what was in my boot, and, of course, that was of no immediate use. The music-teacher spilled a cup of hot coffee on Maria Ann’s head, and pulled all the frizzles out trying to wipe off the coffee with his handkerchief. Then I sat on a piece of raspberry-pie, and spoiled my white pants, and concluded I didn’t want anything more. I had to stand up against a tree the rest of the afternoon. The day offered considerable variety, compared to everyday life, but there were so many drawbacks that I did not enjoy it so much as I might have done.

MARIA ANN recently determined to go to a picnic.

Maria Ann is my wife—unfortunately she had planned it to go alone, so far as I am concerned, on that picnic excursion; but when I heard about it, I determined to assist.

Shepretendedshe was very glad; I don’t believe she was.

“It will do you good to get away from your work a day, poor fellow,” she said; “and we shall so much enjoy a cool morning ride on the cars, and a dinner in the woods.”

On the morning of that day, Maria Ann got up at five o’clock. About three minutes later she disturbed my slumbers, and told me to come to breakfast. I told her I wasn’t hungry, but it didn’t make a bit of difference, I had to get up. The sun was up; I had no idea that the sun began his business so early in the morning, but there he was.

“Now,” said Maria Ann, “we must fly around, for the cars start at half-past six. Eat all the breakfast you can, for you won’t get anything more before noon.”

I could not eat anything so early in the morning. There was ice to be pounded to go around the pail of ice cream, and the sandwiches to be cut, and I thought I would never get the legs of the chicken fixed so I could get the cover on the big basket. Maria Ann flew around and piled up groceries for me to pack, giving directions to the girl about taking care of the house, and putting on her dress all at once. There is a deal of energy in that woman, perhaps a trifle too much.

At twenty minutes past six I stood on the front steps, with a basket on one arm and Maria Ann’s waterproof on the other, and a pail in each hand, and a bottle of vinegar in my coat-skirt pocket. There was a camp-chair hung on me somewhere, too, but I forget just where.

“Now,” said Maria Ann, “we must run or we shall not catch the train.”

“Maria Ann,” said I, “that is a reasonable idea. How do you suppose I can run with all this freight?”

“You must, you brute. You always try to tease me. If you don’t want a scene on the street, you will start, too.”

So I ran.

I had one comfort, at least. Maria Ann fell down and broke her parasol. She called me a brute again because I laughed. She drove me all the way to the depot at a brisk trot, and we got on the cars; but neither of us could get a seat, and I could not find a place where I could set the things down, so I stood there and held them.

“Maria,” I said, “how is this for a cool morning ride?”

Said she, “You are a brute, Jenkins.”

Said I, “You have madethatobservation before, my love.”

I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be an hour of wrath when we got home. While we were getting out of the cars, the bottle in my coat-pocketbroke, and consequently I had one boot half-full of vinegar all day. That kept me pretty quiet, and Maria Ann ran off with a big whiskered music-teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet, and tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much, after the fashion of picnic-goers.

I thought it would never come dinner-time, and Maria Ann called me a pig because I wanted to open our basket before the rest of the baskets were opened.

At last dinner came—the “nice dinner in the woods,” you know. Over three thousand little red ants had got into our dinner, and they were worse to pick out than fish-bones. The ice-cream had melted, and there was no vinegar for the cold meat, except what was in my boot, and, of course, that was of no immediate use. The music-teacher spilled a cup of hot coffee on Maria Ann’s head, and pulled all the frizzles out trying to wipe off the coffee with his handkerchief. Then I sat on a piece of raspberry-pie, and spoiled my white pants, and concluded I didn’t want anything more. I had to stand up against a tree the rest of the afternoon. The day offered considerable variety, compared to everyday life, but there were so many drawbacks that I did not enjoy it so much as I might have done.

SEWING ON A BUTTON.

BY J. M. BAILEY.

IT is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but he is the embodiment of grace alongside of a married man. Necessity has compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter has always depended upon some one else for this service, and fortunately, for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand or runs a sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it is then the man clutches the needle around the neck, and forgetting to tie a knot in the thread commences to put on the button. It is always in the morning, and from five to twenty minutes after he is expected to be down street. He lays the button exactly on the site of its predecessor, and pushes the needle through one eye, and carefully draws the thread after, leaving about three inches of it sticking up for a leeway. He says to himself,—“Well, if women don’t have the easiest time I ever see.” Then he comes back the other way, and gets the needle through the cloth well enough, and lays himself out to find the eye, but in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle point persists in bucking against the solid parts of that button, and, finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the thread, and that three inches he had left to hold the button slips through the eye in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. He picks it up without a single remark, out of respect to his children, and makes another attempt to fasten it. This time when coming back with the needle he keeps both the thread and button from slipping by covering them with his thumb, and it is out of regard for that part of him that he feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious manner; but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes more and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and savage manner, and it is just then the needle finds the opening, and comes up through the button and part way through his thumb with a celerity that no human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays down the things, with a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured hand between his knees, and then holds it under the other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, and all the while he prances about the floor, and calls upon heaven and earth to witness that there has never been anything like it since the world was created, and howls, and whistles, and moans, and sobs. After awhile, he calms down, and puts on his pants, and fastens them together with a stick, and goes to his business a changed man.

CASEY AT THE BAT.

(Often recited by DeWolf Hopper, the comic opera singer, between the acts.)

THERE was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,There was pride in Casey’s bearing, and a smile on Casey’s face;And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat,No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.And now the leather-covered sphere came whirling thro’ the air,And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there;Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped.“That ain’t my style,” said Casey, “Strike one,” the umpire said.From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore;“Kill him! kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand.And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone,He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on;He signalled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, “Fraud!”But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed;They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate,He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

HERE was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,

There was pride in Casey’s bearing, and a smile on Casey’s face;

And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came whirling thro’ the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there;

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped.

“That ain’t my style,” said Casey, “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore;

“Kill him! kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand.

And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone,

He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on;

He signalled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, “Fraud!”

But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed;

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate,

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,

But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

THE MAGICAL ISLE.

THERE’S a magical isle in the River of Time,Where softest of echoes are straying;And the air is as soft as a musical chime,Or the exquisite breath of a tropical climeWhen June with its roses is swaying.’Tis where memory dwells with her pure golden hueAnd music forever is flowing:While the low-murmured tones that come trembling throughSadly trouble the heart, yet sweeten it too,As the south wind o’er water when blowing.There are shadowy halls in that fairy-like isle,Where pictures of beauty are gleaming;Yet the light of their eyes, and their sweet, sunny smile,Only flash round the heart with a wildering wile,And leave us to know ’tis but dreaming.And the name of this isle is the Beautiful Past,And we bury our treasures all there:There are beings of beauty too lovely to last;There are blossoms of snow, with the dust o’er them cast;There are tresses and ringlets of hair.There are fragments of song only memory sings,And the words of a dear mother’s prayer;There’s a harp long unsought, and a lute without strings—Hallowed tokens that love used to wear.E’en the dead—the bright, beautiful dead—there arise,With their soft, flowing ringlets of gold:Though their voices are hushed, and o’er their sweet eyes,The unbroken signet of silence now lies,They are with us again, as of old.In the stillness of night, hands are beckoning there,And, with joy that is almost a pain,We delight to turn back, and in wandering there,Through the shadowy halls of the island so fair,We behold our lost treasures again.Oh! this beautiful isle, with its phantom-like show,Is a vista exceedingly bright:And the River of Time, in its turbulent flow,Is oft soothed by the voices we heard long ago,When the years were a dream of delight.

HERE’S a magical isle in the River of Time,

Where softest of echoes are straying;

And the air is as soft as a musical chime,

Or the exquisite breath of a tropical clime

When June with its roses is swaying.

’Tis where memory dwells with her pure golden hue

And music forever is flowing:

While the low-murmured tones that come trembling through

Sadly trouble the heart, yet sweeten it too,

As the south wind o’er water when blowing.

There are shadowy halls in that fairy-like isle,

Where pictures of beauty are gleaming;

Yet the light of their eyes, and their sweet, sunny smile,

Only flash round the heart with a wildering wile,

And leave us to know ’tis but dreaming.

And the name of this isle is the Beautiful Past,

And we bury our treasures all there:

There are beings of beauty too lovely to last;

There are blossoms of snow, with the dust o’er them cast;

There are tresses and ringlets of hair.

There are fragments of song only memory sings,

And the words of a dear mother’s prayer;

There’s a harp long unsought, and a lute without strings—

Hallowed tokens that love used to wear.

E’en the dead—the bright, beautiful dead—there arise,

With their soft, flowing ringlets of gold:

Though their voices are hushed, and o’er their sweet eyes,

The unbroken signet of silence now lies,

They are with us again, as of old.

In the stillness of night, hands are beckoning there,

And, with joy that is almost a pain,

We delight to turn back, and in wandering there,

Through the shadowy halls of the island so fair,

We behold our lost treasures again.

Oh! this beautiful isle, with its phantom-like show,

Is a vista exceedingly bright:

And the River of Time, in its turbulent flow,

Is oft soothed by the voices we heard long ago,

When the years were a dream of delight.

STRAY BITS OF CHARACTER.

BY WILL CARLETON.

With original illustrations by Victor Perard.

THE TOURIST.IN art, as well as literature, there should be a vast variety of methods, for a good many kinds of people wait to be instructed and pleased. Besides, there is frequently a great diversity of moods in the same person—all of which must be ministered to, at one time and another.AT THE LUNCH STAND.Some people, and perhaps all, when in certain states of mind, are fond of pictures brought out with photographic accuracy; every detail attended to; everything provided for; every incident faithfully related. Others prefer only the salient points—a mere suggestion of items is sufficient. They have no time for anything more—they want the spirit, the soul, of the scene and situation.Victor Perard’s work upon these pages will minister most to the latter class of people and moods. As one orator can give in ten words the story that another one has struggled with much voice and many gestures for an hour to make plain, so this silent story-teller dashes his pencil across the paper a few times, and behold! you see just what you already mayhave noticed again and again, but never before recognized in all its possibilities. You now have before you for a steady gaze, that of which you have had only a glimpse, a sketch that supplies the place of memory, shakes hands with imagination, and enables you to enjoy the scene at leisure.THE STREET TO THE SEA.IN WAIT.These are pictures that explain themselves, or at least permit the gazer to furnish his own explanation—and that is the most complimentary of all imaginative work, and produces a species of gratitude in the minds of the audience.THE OILER.Victor Perard is one of the younger artists of our country. His name would indicate him to be of French descent; but he is, I believe, a native of the Greater America, which has thus far shown such a cheerful willingness to assimilate the best brain of the world. He has, however, lived in Paris, and contributed to some of the leading French illustrated journals. He is now living a quiet domestic life in our American metropolis, and has done much good work for its periodicals.In “The Tourist,” one notices with every line of the solemn-looking individual an intense desire to get over the ground promptly and see everything possible on the way. There is something in the painful though unstudied diligence with which he keeps his carpet bag close to his person, that may enable a lively imagination to peep through its sides and detect notes for a forthcoming book.EXPECTING A CALLER.A VETERAN OF THE RANKS.A WIDE-REACHING AFFAIR.“At the Lunch Stand” is Whittier’s “Barefoot Boy,” transferred to the city. His lips are not “redder still, kissed by strawberries on the hill;” nor may he be coated with “outward sunshine,” or full of “inner joy.” The luxurious bowl of milk and bread which our Quaker poet describes, is not his, even with the wooden dish and pewter spoon; but he seems happy for the moment with the cup of more or less hot coffee which he imbibes. His jaunty, independent attitude shows that he is bound to get all the good of his powerful and perhaps palatable beverage; that he earned it, and is entitled to it.“The Street to the Sea” is in fact a picture of the sea, although the same is hardly in sight. Everything shows that we are approaching the great Country of the Waters. The villas in view; the wheel-harrowed road, admirably foreshortened; the deep shadows upon each side of the way; human figures looming faintly in the distance; everything, in fact, is somehow telling us a tale of the ocean, and we do not need our too sparse glimpse of the “solemn main” to tell what majestic voice will soon bring us to a halt; we almost smell the salt air.“WHO’S THAT COMING?”LEISURE.The lazy fisherman who has hung out his latch-string and is waiting for a dinner to call upon him, is Perard with a godsend of material—of the kind he likes. There could scarcely be found a better wedding of shiftlessness and ingenuity. The primitive character of the man’s garments is apparently not due to the climate alone; he takes no thought of the morrow, and not much of the current day, so far as its temporal affairs are concerned. But the crude marks of mechanical ability are all over and around him; one suspender is induced, by its oblique trend, to do service for two; an elaborate coil of line gives opportunity of play for the largest of fin-bearers; the stick in the sand guarantees that his expected caller shall not go away without experiencing the fisherman’speculiar hospitality; and there is considerable chance that if a “bite” occurs, the line will waken him, as it gradually warms the interstice between his toes.McCLELLAN SADDLE.SHOOTING THE STEAM ARROW.“A Veteran of the Ranks” might almost be Kipling’s Mulvaney himself. The fatigue-cap, which in its jaunty pose seems to have vegetated and grown there; the drooping mustache; the capacious pipe; are all what might have been characteristics of that renowned Hibernian warrior of India. The picture finally centres, however, in the eyes; which contain a world, or at least two hemispheres, of shrewdness, of that sort which only gets about so far in life, but is terribly correct within its own scope. They also possess a certain humanity and generosity, which would be likely to act as winsome daughters of his regiment of martial qualities, even upon the battle-field.“GRACIOUS GOODNESS!”“Miniature Men and Women” include a number of the most interesting of the genus Baby. As everyone knows, there are babies and babies, except to the parents of one. The infant is the true teacher and object-lesson combined; it shows us the grace, although not always the mercy and peace, of unconscious action. It has not been away from Heaven long enough to learn the deceit of this crooked world, is unaware that there is anything in life to conceal, and acts accordingly, until taught better, or, perhaps, worse. These babies, or this baby (for the same infant has so many different ways of acting and appearing, that these may all be pictures of the same) can be said to exhibit grace in every attitude and every position, from the symmetrical fragment of humanity on the mother’s arm, to the tot just contemplating a walking-lesson. All of them have a dignified simplicity.ON WINGS OF HOOFS.“Bon Voyage” shows the different attitudes which men will take while intently gazing at the same object. It does not necessarily follow thatthe “she” referred to is a lady; it may be and probably is, a ship, upon which all of our captured gazers have friends. Each one takes his own peculiar posture of observation; and their characters can be read from them.MINIATURE MEN AND WOMEN.“Waiting for Orders” is a faithful and almost pathetic presentation of that patient, long-suffering, but unreliable beast, whose lack of pride and hope have passed into a proverb. One is curious, seeing him standing there, how life can ever manage to wheedle him into the idea that it is worth living; but the same curiosity arises in regard to some men. We often find that these have stowed away upon their persons certain grains of comfort, concerning which we at first failed to take note. Our utterly opaque friend here has pleasanter experiences in the world than that of acting as a locomotive to a cart. The dashes of the breeze, the transports of the sun-bath, the pull at the water-bucket, the nourishment in the manger, all yield him tribute in a certain amount of pleasure; he has no responsibility upon his mind, excepting that he is to pull when told to; and although occasionally suffering maltreatment from the superior race in which he recognizes many of his own characteristics, there is no knowing how soon he may revenge it all, in the twinkling of a pair of heels.BON VOYAGE!WAITING ORDERS.Mr.Perard discovers himself in these sketches to be a facile technician, a shrewd and sympathetic observer, and several different kinds of a man—all good kinds. Observe one thing about him: he is healthy and sound all through. His work is calm, firm, and kind. There is heart in it. There is quite as warm a corner in that heart for the ragamuffin as there is for the howling swell.

THE TOURIST.

IN art, as well as literature, there should be a vast variety of methods, for a good many kinds of people wait to be instructed and pleased. Besides, there is frequently a great diversity of moods in the same person—all of which must be ministered to, at one time and another.

AT THE LUNCH STAND.

Some people, and perhaps all, when in certain states of mind, are fond of pictures brought out with photographic accuracy; every detail attended to; everything provided for; every incident faithfully related. Others prefer only the salient points—a mere suggestion of items is sufficient. They have no time for anything more—they want the spirit, the soul, of the scene and situation.

Victor Perard’s work upon these pages will minister most to the latter class of people and moods. As one orator can give in ten words the story that another one has struggled with much voice and many gestures for an hour to make plain, so this silent story-teller dashes his pencil across the paper a few times, and behold! you see just what you already mayhave noticed again and again, but never before recognized in all its possibilities. You now have before you for a steady gaze, that of which you have had only a glimpse, a sketch that supplies the place of memory, shakes hands with imagination, and enables you to enjoy the scene at leisure.

THE STREET TO THE SEA.

IN WAIT.

These are pictures that explain themselves, or at least permit the gazer to furnish his own explanation—and that is the most complimentary of all imaginative work, and produces a species of gratitude in the minds of the audience.

THE OILER.

Victor Perard is one of the younger artists of our country. His name would indicate him to be of French descent; but he is, I believe, a native of the Greater America, which has thus far shown such a cheerful willingness to assimilate the best brain of the world. He has, however, lived in Paris, and contributed to some of the leading French illustrated journals. He is now living a quiet domestic life in our American metropolis, and has done much good work for its periodicals.

In “The Tourist,” one notices with every line of the solemn-looking individual an intense desire to get over the ground promptly and see everything possible on the way. There is something in the painful though unstudied diligence with which he keeps his carpet bag close to his person, that may enable a lively imagination to peep through its sides and detect notes for a forthcoming book.

EXPECTING A CALLER.

A VETERAN OF THE RANKS.

A WIDE-REACHING AFFAIR.

“At the Lunch Stand” is Whittier’s “Barefoot Boy,” transferred to the city. His lips are not “redder still, kissed by strawberries on the hill;” nor may he be coated with “outward sunshine,” or full of “inner joy.” The luxurious bowl of milk and bread which our Quaker poet describes, is not his, even with the wooden dish and pewter spoon; but he seems happy for the moment with the cup of more or less hot coffee which he imbibes. His jaunty, independent attitude shows that he is bound to get all the good of his powerful and perhaps palatable beverage; that he earned it, and is entitled to it.

“The Street to the Sea” is in fact a picture of the sea, although the same is hardly in sight. Everything shows that we are approaching the great Country of the Waters. The villas in view; the wheel-harrowed road, admirably foreshortened; the deep shadows upon each side of the way; human figures looming faintly in the distance; everything, in fact, is somehow telling us a tale of the ocean, and we do not need our too sparse glimpse of the “solemn main” to tell what majestic voice will soon bring us to a halt; we almost smell the salt air.

“WHO’S THAT COMING?”

LEISURE.

The lazy fisherman who has hung out his latch-string and is waiting for a dinner to call upon him, is Perard with a godsend of material—of the kind he likes. There could scarcely be found a better wedding of shiftlessness and ingenuity. The primitive character of the man’s garments is apparently not due to the climate alone; he takes no thought of the morrow, and not much of the current day, so far as its temporal affairs are concerned. But the crude marks of mechanical ability are all over and around him; one suspender is induced, by its oblique trend, to do service for two; an elaborate coil of line gives opportunity of play for the largest of fin-bearers; the stick in the sand guarantees that his expected caller shall not go away without experiencing the fisherman’speculiar hospitality; and there is considerable chance that if a “bite” occurs, the line will waken him, as it gradually warms the interstice between his toes.

McCLELLAN SADDLE.

SHOOTING THE STEAM ARROW.

“A Veteran of the Ranks” might almost be Kipling’s Mulvaney himself. The fatigue-cap, which in its jaunty pose seems to have vegetated and grown there; the drooping mustache; the capacious pipe; are all what might have been characteristics of that renowned Hibernian warrior of India. The picture finally centres, however, in the eyes; which contain a world, or at least two hemispheres, of shrewdness, of that sort which only gets about so far in life, but is terribly correct within its own scope. They also possess a certain humanity and generosity, which would be likely to act as winsome daughters of his regiment of martial qualities, even upon the battle-field.

“GRACIOUS GOODNESS!”

“Miniature Men and Women” include a number of the most interesting of the genus Baby. As everyone knows, there are babies and babies, except to the parents of one. The infant is the true teacher and object-lesson combined; it shows us the grace, although not always the mercy and peace, of unconscious action. It has not been away from Heaven long enough to learn the deceit of this crooked world, is unaware that there is anything in life to conceal, and acts accordingly, until taught better, or, perhaps, worse. These babies, or this baby (for the same infant has so many different ways of acting and appearing, that these may all be pictures of the same) can be said to exhibit grace in every attitude and every position, from the symmetrical fragment of humanity on the mother’s arm, to the tot just contemplating a walking-lesson. All of them have a dignified simplicity.

ON WINGS OF HOOFS.

“Bon Voyage” shows the different attitudes which men will take while intently gazing at the same object. It does not necessarily follow thatthe “she” referred to is a lady; it may be and probably is, a ship, upon which all of our captured gazers have friends. Each one takes his own peculiar posture of observation; and their characters can be read from them.

MINIATURE MEN AND WOMEN.

“Waiting for Orders” is a faithful and almost pathetic presentation of that patient, long-suffering, but unreliable beast, whose lack of pride and hope have passed into a proverb. One is curious, seeing him standing there, how life can ever manage to wheedle him into the idea that it is worth living; but the same curiosity arises in regard to some men. We often find that these have stowed away upon their persons certain grains of comfort, concerning which we at first failed to take note. Our utterly opaque friend here has pleasanter experiences in the world than that of acting as a locomotive to a cart. The dashes of the breeze, the transports of the sun-bath, the pull at the water-bucket, the nourishment in the manger, all yield him tribute in a certain amount of pleasure; he has no responsibility upon his mind, excepting that he is to pull when told to; and although occasionally suffering maltreatment from the superior race in which he recognizes many of his own characteristics, there is no knowing how soon he may revenge it all, in the twinkling of a pair of heels.

BON VOYAGE!

WAITING ORDERS.

Mr.Perard discovers himself in these sketches to be a facile technician, a shrewd and sympathetic observer, and several different kinds of a man—all good kinds. Observe one thing about him: he is healthy and sound all through. His work is calm, firm, and kind. There is heart in it. There is quite as warm a corner in that heart for the ragamuffin as there is for the howling swell.

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