The Piper sat by the river, his tireless pipe in his hand,But ere the sun set and the white stars metHe scratched with a stick on the sand."My bills are due," quoth the Piper, "and now they pay," quoth he,"Who danced and played from the sun into shadeNow render account to me."Here is one for a year," quoth the Piper; "a year of love's delight;A heart that is dead and a soul unwedShall cancel a debt so trite!I need not dun," quoth the Piper—and laughed, but nobody heard,A chill in the air, and a shudder somewhere—"They will render without one word."And this for my maddest playing"—oh, he wrote as he chuckled and laughed—"I will make my dole an immortal soul;They shall drain where they only quaffed!"So, he did his sum in addition, till the rose and the star had met,But although he tried to thrust it asideOne name lay unchallenged yet.Complacently, knave and sinner, apportioned he each his due,But when it was o'er there remained one more,And its pattern the Piper knew."Rascal or thief," mused the Piper, "I play for their dancing and smile,They have their way for a little day,I have mine after a while."I can score each knave," quoth the Piper, "in Life's ill-sorted school,For they take and they take their greed to slake,But I am no match for the Fool!For he pays as he goes," frowned the Piper, "pain, laughter, passion of tears!He claims no pelf from Life for himself,But gives his all without tears."The rest of my dancers laugh not, and I hold each one as a tool,But he pays as he goes, be it rapture or woes,And I have no bill for the Fool!He loves and he lives," frowned the Piper, "and such poor returns suffice,For he cries 'Voilà le diable!' and gives himself as the price!"Then, with chagrin and reluctance, as the star sank into the pool,The Piper made claim on each separate name,But receipted in full—for the Fool.
The Piper sat by the river, his tireless pipe in his hand,But ere the sun set and the white stars metHe scratched with a stick on the sand."My bills are due," quoth the Piper, "and now they pay," quoth he,"Who danced and played from the sun into shadeNow render account to me.
"Here is one for a year," quoth the Piper; "a year of love's delight;A heart that is dead and a soul unwedShall cancel a debt so trite!I need not dun," quoth the Piper—and laughed, but nobody heard,A chill in the air, and a shudder somewhere—"They will render without one word.
"And this for my maddest playing"—oh, he wrote as he chuckled and laughed—"I will make my dole an immortal soul;They shall drain where they only quaffed!"So, he did his sum in addition, till the rose and the star had met,But although he tried to thrust it asideOne name lay unchallenged yet.
Complacently, knave and sinner, apportioned he each his due,But when it was o'er there remained one more,And its pattern the Piper knew."Rascal or thief," mused the Piper, "I play for their dancing and smile,They have their way for a little day,I have mine after a while.
"I can score each knave," quoth the Piper, "in Life's ill-sorted school,For they take and they take their greed to slake,But I am no match for the Fool!For he pays as he goes," frowned the Piper, "pain, laughter, passion of tears!He claims no pelf from Life for himself,But gives his all without tears.
"The rest of my dancers laugh not, and I hold each one as a tool,But he pays as he goes, be it rapture or woes,And I have no bill for the Fool!He loves and he lives," frowned the Piper, "and such poor returns suffice,For he cries 'Voilà le diable!' and gives himself as the price!"Then, with chagrin and reluctance, as the star sank into the pool,The Piper made claim on each separate name,But receipted in full—for the Fool.
The Bookman.
A friend wrote to Mark Twain, asking his opinion on a certain matter, and received no reply. He waited a few days, and wrote again.
His second letter was also ignored. Then he sent a third note, enclosing a sheet of paper and a two-cent stamp.
By return mail he received a postal card, on which was the following: "Paper and stamp received. Please send envelope."—Boston Herald.
A New England statesman was referring to the dry humor of the late Senator Hoar, when he was reminded of the following:
One day Hoar learned that a friend in Worcester who had been thought to have appendicitis was in reality suffering from acute indigestion.
Whereupon the senator smiled genially. "Really," said he, "that's good news. I rejoice for my friend that the trouble lies in the table of contents rather than in the appendix."—New York Tribune.
A large touring automobile containing a man and his wife in a narrow road met a hay wagon fully loaded. The woman declared that the farmer must back out, but her husband contended that she was unreasonable.
"But you can't back the automobile so far," she said, "and I don't intend to move for anybody. He should have seen us."
The husband pointed out that this was impossible, owing to an abrupt turn in the road.
"I don't care," she insisted, "I won't move if we have to stay here all night!"
The man in the automobile was starting to argue the matter when the farmer, who had been sitting quietly on the hay, interrupted.
"Never mind, sir," he exclaimed, "I'll try to back out. I've got one just like her at home!"—Philadelphia Ledger.
"Your son is a philosophical student, I hear?"
"Yes, I believe he is. I can't understand what he's talking about."—Detroit Free Press.
By Matthias Barr.
Come, give me your hand, sir, my friend and my brother.If honest, why, sure, that's enough!One hand, if it's true, is as good as another,No matter how brawny or rough.Though it toil for a living at hedges or ditches,Or make for its owner a name,Or fold in its grasp all the dainties of riches—If honest, I love it the same.Not less in the sight of his Heavenly MakerIs he who must toil for his bread;Not more in the sight of the mute undertakerIs majesty shrouded and dead.Let none of us jeeringly scoff at his neighborOr mock at his lowly birth.We are all of us God's. Let us earnestly laborTo better this suffering earth.
Come, give me your hand, sir, my friend and my brother.If honest, why, sure, that's enough!One hand, if it's true, is as good as another,No matter how brawny or rough.
Though it toil for a living at hedges or ditches,Or make for its owner a name,Or fold in its grasp all the dainties of riches—If honest, I love it the same.
Not less in the sight of his Heavenly MakerIs he who must toil for his bread;Not more in the sight of the mute undertakerIs majesty shrouded and dead.
Let none of us jeeringly scoff at his neighborOr mock at his lowly birth.We are all of us God's. Let us earnestly laborTo better this suffering earth.
Brown had returned from a fishing expedition, and, after partaking of a most welcome dinner, was relating some of his fishing experiences.
"Last year," said he, "while fishing for pike, I dropped half a sovereign. I went to the same place this year, and after my line had been cast a few minutes I felt a terrific pull. Eventually I landed a line pike, which had swallowed the hook, and, on cutting it open to release the hook, to my amazement——"
"Ah," said his friends, "you found your half-sovereign?"
"Oh, no," replied Brown, "I found nine shillings and sixpence in silver and threepence in copper."
"Well, what became of the other threepence?" queried his friends.
"I suppose the pike paid to go through the lock with it," answered Brown.—Pearson's Weekly.
Oh! too convincing—dangerously dear—In woman's eye the unanswerable tear!That weapon of her weakness she can wield,To save, subdue—at once her spear and shield.Corsair, Canto 2.
Oh! too convincing—dangerously dear—In woman's eye the unanswerable tear!That weapon of her weakness she can wield,To save, subdue—at once her spear and shield.
Corsair, Canto 2.
The mild business man was calmly reading his paper in the crowded trolley-car. In front of him stood a little woman hanging by a strap. Her arm was being slowly torn out of her body, her eyes were flashing at him, but she constrained herself to silence.
Finally, after he had endured it for twenty minutes, he touched her arm, and said:
"Madam, you are standing on my foot."
"Oh, am I?" she savagely retorted. "I thought it was a valise."—Kansas City Independent.
She is mine own;And I as rich in having such a jewelAs twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.Two Gentlemen of Verona.
She is mine own;And I as rich in having such a jewelAs twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
Very few persons acquit themselves nobly in their maiden speech. At a wedding feast recently the bridegroom was called upon, as usual, to respond to the given toast.
Blushing to the roots of his hair, he rose to his feet. He intended to imply that he was unprepared for speechmaking, but, unfortunately, placed his hand upon the bride's shoulder, and looked down at her as he stammered out his opening (and concluding) words: "This—er—thing has been thrust upon me."—Tit-Bits.
ByOLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
At Twenty He Smiled at the Picture Presented by a Patriarch—AtThree Score and Ten He Told of an Old Man's Dreams.
I saw him once before,As he passed by the door,And againThe pavement stones resound,As he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning-knife of TimeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the Crier on his roundThrough the town.But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meetsSad and wan,And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he has prestIn their bloom,And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.My grandmamma has said—Poor old lady, she is deadLong ago—That he had a Roman noseAnd his cheek was like a roseIn the snow;But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff,And a crook is in his backAnd a melancholy crackIn his laugh.I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here;But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches, and all that,Are so queer!And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.
I saw him once before,As he passed by the door,And againThe pavement stones resound,As he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.
They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning-knife of TimeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the Crier on his roundThrough the town.
But now he walks the streets,And he looks at all he meetsSad and wan,And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."
The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he has prestIn their bloom,And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.
My grandmamma has said—Poor old lady, she is deadLong ago—That he had a Roman noseAnd his cheek was like a roseIn the snow;
But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff,And a crook is in his backAnd a melancholy crackIn his laugh.
I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here;But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches, and all that,Are so queer!
And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.
I was a little over twenty years old when I wrote "The Last Leaf." The world was a garden to me then; it is a churchyard now. And yet those are not bitter or scalding tears that fall from my eyes upon "mossy marbles."
The young who left my side early in my life's journey are still with me in the unchanged freshness and beauty of youth. Those who have long kept company with me live on after their seeming departure, were it only by the mere force of habit; their images are all around me, as if every surface had been a sensitive film that photographed them; their voices echo about me as if they had been recorded on those unforgotten cylinders which bring back to us the tones and accents that have imprinted them as the extinct animals left their tracks on the hardened sand.
The melancholy of old age has a divine tenderness in it, which only the sad experience of life can lend a sad soul.
BY SAMUEL LOVER.
Samuel Lover was born in Dublin in 1797. As a novelist he was one of the most popular of the period in which he lived. He is acknowledged to have written the best Irish peasant sketches and the best Irish peasant songs in the language. Lover was the son of a Dublin stock-broker, who attempted to prepare his son for that business. At the age of seventeen, however, the boy turned his back on the office, and, with his scanty savings, he took up the study of art. Three years later he began to win success as a painter of miniatures. An admirable miniature of Paganini painted by Lover excited so much attention in London that the young artist was induced to go to the metropolis. There he spent a considerable part of his time in literary work."The Gridiron" was one of his first productions. His three-volume novel, "Rory O'More," appeared in 1836. This was dramatized and met with such success that its versatile author for a time devoted himself to playwriting. He also wrote the words and music of several operettas. As a song writer he now became one of the most popular in the United Kingdom.On the day that Victoria was crowned Queen of England she was escorted to Buckingham Palace to the strains of "Rory O'More." His most popular novel was "Handy Andy." Lover visited the United States in 1846. He died in 1868. Besides his literary talent, he possessed a high degree of musical ability. Among Samuel Lover's descendants is Victor Herbert, the well-known musical director and composer.
Samuel Lover was born in Dublin in 1797. As a novelist he was one of the most popular of the period in which he lived. He is acknowledged to have written the best Irish peasant sketches and the best Irish peasant songs in the language. Lover was the son of a Dublin stock-broker, who attempted to prepare his son for that business. At the age of seventeen, however, the boy turned his back on the office, and, with his scanty savings, he took up the study of art. Three years later he began to win success as a painter of miniatures. An admirable miniature of Paganini painted by Lover excited so much attention in London that the young artist was induced to go to the metropolis. There he spent a considerable part of his time in literary work."The Gridiron" was one of his first productions. His three-volume novel, "Rory O'More," appeared in 1836. This was dramatized and met with such success that its versatile author for a time devoted himself to playwriting. He also wrote the words and music of several operettas. As a song writer he now became one of the most popular in the United Kingdom.On the day that Victoria was crowned Queen of England she was escorted to Buckingham Palace to the strains of "Rory O'More." His most popular novel was "Handy Andy." Lover visited the United States in 1846. He died in 1868. Besides his literary talent, he possessed a high degree of musical ability. Among Samuel Lover's descendants is Victor Herbert, the well-known musical director and composer.
Samuel Lover was born in Dublin in 1797. As a novelist he was one of the most popular of the period in which he lived. He is acknowledged to have written the best Irish peasant sketches and the best Irish peasant songs in the language. Lover was the son of a Dublin stock-broker, who attempted to prepare his son for that business. At the age of seventeen, however, the boy turned his back on the office, and, with his scanty savings, he took up the study of art. Three years later he began to win success as a painter of miniatures. An admirable miniature of Paganini painted by Lover excited so much attention in London that the young artist was induced to go to the metropolis. There he spent a considerable part of his time in literary work."The Gridiron" was one of his first productions. His three-volume novel, "Rory O'More," appeared in 1836. This was dramatized and met with such success that its versatile author for a time devoted himself to playwriting. He also wrote the words and music of several operettas. As a song writer he now became one of the most popular in the United Kingdom.On the day that Victoria was crowned Queen of England she was escorted to Buckingham Palace to the strains of "Rory O'More." His most popular novel was "Handy Andy." Lover visited the United States in 1846. He died in 1868. Besides his literary talent, he possessed a high degree of musical ability. Among Samuel Lover's descendants is Victor Herbert, the well-known musical director and composer.
Samuel Lover was born in Dublin in 1797. As a novelist he was one of the most popular of the period in which he lived. He is acknowledged to have written the best Irish peasant sketches and the best Irish peasant songs in the language. Lover was the son of a Dublin stock-broker, who attempted to prepare his son for that business. At the age of seventeen, however, the boy turned his back on the office, and, with his scanty savings, he took up the study of art. Three years later he began to win success as a painter of miniatures. An admirable miniature of Paganini painted by Lover excited so much attention in London that the young artist was induced to go to the metropolis. There he spent a considerable part of his time in literary work."The Gridiron" was one of his first productions. His three-volume novel, "Rory O'More," appeared in 1836. This was dramatized and met with such success that its versatile author for a time devoted himself to playwriting. He also wrote the words and music of several operettas. As a song writer he now became one of the most popular in the United Kingdom.On the day that Victoria was crowned Queen of England she was escorted to Buckingham Palace to the strains of "Rory O'More." His most popular novel was "Handy Andy." Lover visited the United States in 1846. He died in 1868. Besides his literary talent, he possessed a high degree of musical ability. Among Samuel Lover's descendants is Victor Herbert, the well-known musical director and composer.
Samuel Lover was born in Dublin in 1797. As a novelist he was one of the most popular of the period in which he lived. He is acknowledged to have written the best Irish peasant sketches and the best Irish peasant songs in the language. Lover was the son of a Dublin stock-broker, who attempted to prepare his son for that business. At the age of seventeen, however, the boy turned his back on the office, and, with his scanty savings, he took up the study of art. Three years later he began to win success as a painter of miniatures. An admirable miniature of Paganini painted by Lover excited so much attention in London that the young artist was induced to go to the metropolis. There he spent a considerable part of his time in literary work.
"The Gridiron" was one of his first productions. His three-volume novel, "Rory O'More," appeared in 1836. This was dramatized and met with such success that its versatile author for a time devoted himself to playwriting. He also wrote the words and music of several operettas. As a song writer he now became one of the most popular in the United Kingdom.
On the day that Victoria was crowned Queen of England she was escorted to Buckingham Palace to the strains of "Rory O'More." His most popular novel was "Handy Andy." Lover visited the United States in 1846. He died in 1868. Besides his literary talent, he possessed a high degree of musical ability. Among Samuel Lover's descendants is Victor Herbert, the well-known musical director and composer.
A certain old gentleman in the west of Ireland, whose love of the ridiculous quite equaled his taste for claret and fox-hunting, was wont, upon certain festive occasions, when opportunity offered, to amuse his friends by drawing out one of his servants who was exceedingly fond of what he termed his "thravels," and in whom a good deal of whim, some queer stories, and, perhaps more than all, long and faithful services, had established a right of loquacity.
He was one of those few trusty and privileged domestics, who, if his master unheedingly uttered a rash thing in a fit of passion, would venture to set him right.
If the squire said, "I'll turn that rascal off," my friend Pat would say, "throth you won't, sir"; and Pat was always right, for if any altercation arose upon the subject-matter in hand, he was sure to throw in some good reason, either from former service—general good conduct—or the delinquent's "wife and childher," that always turned the scale.
But I am digressing. On such merry meetings as I have alluded to, the master, after making certain "approaches," as a military man would say, as the preparatory steps in laying siege to some extravaganza of his servant, might, perchance, assail Pat thus:
"By the by, Sir John" (addressing a distinguished guest), "Pat has a very curious story, which something you told me to-day reminds me of. You remember, Pat" (turning to the man, evidently pleased at the notice paid to himself)—"you remember that queer adventure you had in France?"
"Throth I do, sir," grins forth Pat.
"What!" exclaims Sir John, in feigned surprise. "Was Pat ever in France?"
"Indeed he was," cries mine host; and Pat adds, "Ay, and farther, plase your honor."
"I assure you, Sir John," continues mine host, "Pat told me a story oncethat surprised me very much, respecting the ignorance of the French."
"Indeed!" said the baronet. "Really, I always supposed the French to be a most accomplished people."
"Throth, then, they're not, sir," interrupts Pat.
"Oh, by no means," adds mine host, shaking his head emphatically.
"I believe, Pat, 'twas when you were crossing the Atlantic?" says the master, turning to Pat with a seductive air, and leading into the "full and true account"—(for Pat had thought fit to visit North Amerikay, for "a raison he had," in the autumn of the year ninety-eight).
"Yes, sir," says Pat, "the broad Atlantic," a favorite phrase of his, which he gave with a brogue as broad almost as the Atlantic itself.
"It was the time I was lost in crassin' the broad Atlantic, comin' home," began Pat, decoyed into the recital; "whin the winds began to blow, and the sae to rowl, that you'd think the Colleen Dhas (that was her name) would not have a mast left.
"Well, sure enough, the masts went by the board, at last, and the pumps was choaked (divil choak them for that same), and av coorse the wather gained an us, and throth, to be filled with water is neither good for man nor baste; and she was sinkin' fast, settlin' down, as the sailors calls it, and faith I never was good at settlin' down in my life, and I liked it then less nor ever. Accordingly we prepared for the worst, and put out the boat, and got a sack o' bishkits, and a cashk o' pork, and a kag o' wather, and a thrifle o' rum aboord, and any other little mathers we could think iv in the mortal hurry we wor in—and, faith, there was no time to be lost, for my darlint, the Colleen Dhas, went down like a lump o' lead, afore we wor many sthrokes o' the oar away from her.
"Well, we dhrifted away all that night, and next mornin' we put up a blanket an the ind av a pole as well as we could, and thin we sailed illigant, for we dar'n't show a stitch o' canvas the night before, bekase it was blowin' like bloody murther, savin' your presence, and sure it's the wondher of the world we worn't swallyed alive by the ragin' sae.
"Well, away we wint for more nor a week, and nothin' before our two good-looking eyes but the canophy iv heaven, and the wide ocean—the broad Atlantic—not a thing was to be seen but the sae and the sky; and though the sae and the sky is mighty purty things in themselves, throth they're no great things whin you've nothin' else to look at for a week together—and the barest rock in the world, so it was land, would be more welkim.
"And then, sure enough, throth, our provisions began to run low, the bishkits, and the wather, and the rum—throth that was gone first of all—God help uz!—and oh! it was thin that starvation began to stare us in the face. 'Oh, murther, murther, captain, darlint,' says I, 'I wish we could see land anywhere,' says I.
"'More power to your elbow, Paddy, my boy,' says he, 'for sitch a good wish, and, throth, it's myself wishes the same.'
"'Oh,' says I, 'that it may plaze you, sweet queen in heaven—supposing it was ony a dissolute island,' says I, 'inhabited wid Turks, sure they wouldn't be such bad Christhans as to refuse uz a bit and a sup.'
"'Whisht, whisht, Paddy,' says the captain; 'don't be talkin' bad of any one,' says he; 'you don't know how soon you may want a good word put in for yourself, if you should be called to quarthers in th' other world all of a suddent,' says he.
"'Thrue for you, captain, darlint,' says I—I called him darlint, and made free wid him, you see, bekase disthress makes uz all equal—'thrue for you, captain, jewel—God betune uz and harm, I owe no man any spite'—and, throth, that was only thruth.
"Well, the last bishkit was sarved out, and, by gor, the wather itself was all gone at last, and we passed the night mighty cowld. Well, at the brake o' day the sun riz most beautiful out o' the waves, that was as bright as silver and as clear as cryshtal.
"But it was only the more crule upon uz, for we wor beginnin' to feel terrible hungry; when all at wanst I thought I spied the land—by gor, I thought I felt my heart up in my throat in a minnit,and 'Thundher and turf, captain,' says I, 'look to leeward,' says I.
"'What for?' says he.
"'I think I see the land,' says I. So he ups with his bring-'um-near—(that's what the sailors call a spy-glass, sir), and looks out, and, sure enough, it was.
"'Hurrah!' says he, 'we're all right now; pull away, my boys,' says he.
"'Take care you're not mistaken,' says I; 'maybe it's only a fog-bank, captain, darlint,' says I.
"'Oh, no,' says he, 'it's the land in airnest.'
"'Oh, then, whereabouts in the wide world are we, captain?' says I; 'maybe it id be in Roosia or Proosia, or the Garman Oceant,' says I.
"'Tut, you fool,' says he—for he had that consaited way wid him—thinkin' himself cleverer nor any one else—'tut, you fool,' says he; 'that's France,' says he.
"'Tare an ouns,' says I, 'do you tell me so? And how do you know it's France it is, captain, dear,' says I.
"'Bekase this is the Bay o' Bishky we're in now,' says he.
"'Throth, I was thinkin' so myself,' says I, 'by the rowl it has; for I often heerd av it in regard o' that same;' and, throth, the likes av it I never seen before nor since, and, with the help o' God, never will.
"Well, with that my heart begun to grow light, and when I seen my life was safe, I began to grow twice hungrier nor ever—so says I, 'Captain, jewel, I wish we had a gridiron.'
"'Why, then,' says he, 'thundher and turf,' says he, 'what put a gridiron into your head?'
"'Bekase I'm starvin' with the hunger,' says I.
"'And sure, bad luck to you,' says he, 'you couldn't ate a gridiron,' says he, 'barrin' you wor a pelican o' the wildherness,' says he.
"'Ate a gridiron!' says I. 'Och, in throth, I'm not such a gommoch all out as that, anyhow. But sure if we had a gridiron we could dress a beefsteak,' says I.
"'Arrah! but where's the beefsteak?' says he.
"'Sure, couldn't we cut a slice aff the pork?' says I.
"'By gor, I never thought o' that,' says the captain. 'You're a clever fellow, Paddy,' says he, laughin'.
"'Oh, there's many a thrue word said in joke,' says I.
"'Thrue for you, Paddy,' says he.
"'Well, then,' says I, 'if you put me ashore there beyant' (for we were nearin' the land all the time), 'and sure I can ask thim for to lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I.
"'Oh, by gor, the butther's comin' out o' the stirabout in airnest, now,' says he. 'You gommoch,' says he, 'sure I towld you before that's France—and sure they're all furriners there,' says the captain.
"'Well,' says I, 'and how do you know but I'm as good a furriner myself as any o' thim?'
"'What do you mane?' says he.
"'I mane,' says I, 'what I towld you, that I'm as good a furriner myself as any o' thim.'
"'Make me sinsible,' says he.
"'By dad, maybe that's more nor me, or greater nor me, could do,' says I; and we all began to laugh at him, for I thought I'd pay him off for his bit o' consait about the Garman Oceant.
"'Lave aff your humbuggin',' says he, 'I bid you, and tell me what it is you mane at all at all.'
"'Parly-voo frongsay?' says I.
"'Oh, your humble sarvant,' says he. 'Why, by gor, you're a scholar, Paddy.'
"'Throth, you may say that,' says I.
"'Why, you're a clever fellow, Paddy,' says the captain, jeerin' like.
"'You're not the first that said that,' says I, 'whether you joke or no.'
"'Oh, but I'm in airnest,' says the captain. 'And do you tell me, Paddy,' says he, 'that you spake Frinch?'
"'Parly-voo frongsay?' says I.
"'By gor, that bangs Banagher, and all the world knows Banagher bangs the devil. I never met the likes o' you, Paddy,' says he. 'Pull away, boys, and put Paddy ashore, and maybe we won't get a good bellyfull before long.'
"So with that, it was no sooner said nor done—they pulled away and got close into shore in less than no time, and run the boat up in a little creek; and a beautiful creek it was, with a lovely white sthrand, an illigant place for ladiesto bathe in the summer; and out I got, and it's stiff enough in my limbs I was afther bein' cramped up in the boat, and perished with the cowld and hunger; but I conthrived to scramble an, one way or the other, towards a little bit iv a wood that was close to the shore, and the smoke curlin' out of it, quite timpting like.
"'By the powdhers o' war, I'm all right,' says I; 'there's a house there'—and sure enough there was, and a parcel of men, women, and childher, ating their dinner round a table quite convainent. And so I wint up to the dure, and I thought I'd be very civil to thim, as I heerd the Frinch was always mighty p'lite intirely—and I thought I'd show them I knew what good manners was.
"So I took off my hat, and making a low bow, says I, 'God save all here,' says I.
"Well, to be sure, they all stopt ating at wanst, and begun to stare at me, and faith they almost looked me out of countenance—and I thought to myself it was not good manners at all—more be token from furriners, which they call so mighty p'lite; but I never minded that, in regard of wantin' the gridiron; and so says I, 'I beg your pardon,' says I, 'for the liberty I take, but it's only bein' in disthress in regard of ating,' says I, 'that I make bowld to throuble yez, and if you could lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'I'd be intirely obleeged to ye.'
"By gor, they all stared at me twice worse nor before, and with that, says I (knowing what was in their minds), 'Indeed it's thrue for you,' says I; 'I'm tathered to pieces, and God knows I look quare enough, but it's by raison of the storm,' says I, 'which dhruv us ashore here below, and we're all starvin',' says I.
"So then they began to look at each other agin, and myself, seeing at wanst dirty thoughts was in their heads, and that they tuk me for a poor beggar comin' to crave charity—with that, says I, 'Oh! not at all,' says I, 'by no manes; we have plenty o' mate ourselves, there below, and we'll dhress it,' says I, 'if you would be plased to lind us the loan of a gridiron,' says I, makin' a low bow.
"Well, sir, with that, throth, they stared at me twice worse nor ever, and faith I began to think that maybe the captain was wrong, and that it was not France at all at all—and so says I—'I beg pardon, sir,' says I, to a fine ould man, with a head of hair as white as silver—'maybe I'm undher a mistake,' says I, 'but I thought I was in France, sir; aren't you furriners?' says I—'Parly-voo frongsay?'
"'We, munseer,' says he.
"'Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'if you plase?'
"Oh, it was thin that they stared at me as if I had siven heads; and faith myself began to feel flusthered like, and onaisy—and so, says I, making a bow and scrape agin, 'I know it's a liberty I take, sir,' says I, 'but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away, and if you plase, sir,' says I, 'Parly-voo frongsay?'
"'We, munseer,' says he, mighty sharp.
"'Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron?' says I, 'and you'll obleege me.'
"Well, sir, the old chap begun to munseer me, but the divil a bit of a gridiron he'd gie me; and so I began to think they were all neygars, for all their fine manners; and, throth, my blood began to rise, and says I, 'By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress,' says I, 'and if it was to ould Ireland you kem, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you if you ax'd it, but something to put an it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain, and cead mille failte.'
"Well, the word cead mille failte seemed to stchreck his heart, and the ould chap cocked his ear, and so I thought I'd give him another offer, and make him sinsible at last; and so says I, wanst more, quite slow, that he might undherstand—'Parly—voo—frongsay, munseer?'
"'We, munseer,' says he.
"'Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'and bad scran to you.'
"Well, bad win' to the bit of it he'd gi' me, and the ould chap begins bowin' and scrapin', and said something or other about a long tongs.
"'Phoo!—the devil sweep yourself and tongs,' says I, 'I don't want a tongs at all at all; but can't you listen to raison,' says I—'Parly-voo frongsay?'
"We, munseer.'
"'Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'and howld your prate.'
"Well, what would you think but he shook his owld noddle, as much as to say he wouldn't; and so says I, 'Bad cess to the likes o' that I ever seen—throth if you were in my country, it's not that-a-way they'd use you; the curse o' the crows on you, you ould sinner,' says I; 'the divil a longer I'll darken your dure.'
"So he seen I was vexed, and I thought, as I was turnin' away, I seen him begin to relint, and that his conscience throubled him; and says I, turnin' back, 'Well, I'll give you one chance more—you owld thief—are you a Chrishthan at all at all?—are you a furriner,' says I, 'that all the world calls so p'lite? Bad luck to you, do you undherstand your own language?—Parly-voo frongsay?' says I.
"'We, munseer,' says he.
"'Then, thundher and turf,' says I, 'will you lind me the loan of a gridiron?'
"Well, sir, the divil resave the bit of it he'd gi' me—and so with that, 'The curse o' the hungry on you, you owld negardly villain,' says I; 'the back o' my hand and the sowl o' my foot to you; that you may want a gridiron yourself yet,' says I; 'and wherever I go, high and low, rich and poor, shall hear o' you,' says I; and with that I lift them there, sir, and kem away—and in throth it's often since that I thought that it was remarkable."
WhenPolonius, addressingHamlet, asked, "What do you read, my lord?" andHamletanswered, "Words, words, words,"Poloniusdidn't pursue that particular line of inquiry any farther. If he had,Hamletmight have given him a vast deal of interesting information.
Words sometimes have a trick of expressing more than is intended by those who write or utter them. They have strange customs, too, and of these the man who interruptedHamletdoubtless had much to learn.
For instance,Poloniusmight have asked:
Grave prince, in thirty-one words how many "thats" can be grammatically inserted?
Grave prince, in thirty-one words how many "thats" can be grammatically inserted?
AndHamletmight have replied:
Fourteen: He said thatthatthat that man said was notthatthatthatone should say, but thatthatthatthatman said wasthatthatthatman should not say.
Fourteen: He said thatthatthat that man said was notthatthatthatone should say, but thatthatthatthatman said wasthatthatthatman should not say.
This reminds us of the following "says" and "saids":
Mr. B——, did you say or did you not say what I said you said? Because C—— said you said you said you never did say what I said you said. Now if you did say that you didnotsay what I said you said, then what did you say?
Mr. B——, did you say or did you not say what I said you said? Because C—— said you said you said you never did say what I said you said. Now if you did say that you didnotsay what I said you said, then what did you say?
The following is an example of that form of humor which is known as "word-twisting":
While parents pay May rents, it must be admittedThey pay rents for houses that they have not quitted;If parents pay May rents then may rents pay parentsAnd May rents and pa-rents will be voted rare "rents."
While parents pay May rents, it must be admittedThey pay rents for houses that they have not quitted;If parents pay May rents then may rents pay parentsAnd May rents and pa-rents will be voted rare "rents."
Idle minds which conscientiously seek employment are willing to take almost any odd job that comes along. Some have devoted a few hours to the formation of sentences in which each word begins and ends with the same letter. Here are a couple of samples:
A depraved tyrant seeks devoted slaves; a growing empire seeks rather loyal subjects; America, a nation, growing yearly richer, secures equitable legal exchange.
A depraved tyrant seeks devoted slaves; a growing empire seeks rather loyal subjects; America, a nation, growing yearly richer, secures equitable legal exchange.
Ships, gliding seawards, scatheless that endureHigh seas, excessive storms, that sailors dread,Experience, ere gaining destined shores,A rougher tempest grasping doomèd dead.
Ships, gliding seawards, scatheless that endureHigh seas, excessive storms, that sailors dread,Experience, ere gaining destined shores,A rougher tempest grasping doomèd dead.
A Characteristic Article from the New York "Sun" Affords a StrikingExample of the Sort of "Higher Criticism" That Is Now In Order.
The appearance of a former pugilist as a star in a Broadway theater, which for many years was the greatest temple of the Shakespearean drama in the United States, has given a serious jolt to a large number of playgoers who are loath to free themselves from the influences of old traditions.
The relations of ring and stage have been becoming more and more close in recent years, and have constituted a favorite theme for newspaper discussion. It is doubtful, however, whether it would be possible to find a better review of the situation than the following characteristic essay in dramatic criticism which appeared in the New YorkSun:
It is long since the playgoers and first-nighters of Brooklyn had such a treat as was tendered them last season by the re-appearance of that bright star in the dramatic constellation, James J. Corbett. Mr. Corbett came back to us with his new drama, "Pals," an admirable vehicle for the display of his singular dramatic talents.The fact that it was the Lenten season marred somewhat the attendance, otherwise the society folk of Brooklyn might have made it a brilliant function. Yet Mr. Corbett's welcome lacked nothing of warmth or appreciation.
It is long since the playgoers and first-nighters of Brooklyn had such a treat as was tendered them last season by the re-appearance of that bright star in the dramatic constellation, James J. Corbett. Mr. Corbett came back to us with his new drama, "Pals," an admirable vehicle for the display of his singular dramatic talents.
The fact that it was the Lenten season marred somewhat the attendance, otherwise the society folk of Brooklyn might have made it a brilliant function. Yet Mr. Corbett's welcome lacked nothing of warmth or appreciation.
Since the time when, in "The Naval Cadet," Mr. Corbett took the American Theater by storm, his art has broadened and deepened. It is an older, a more mature, dare it be said a shiftier, Corbett who returns to us. So often of late has the assertion been made that Mr. Corbett is the best actor in the pugilist division of the stage that it is time for a comparison between his art and that of those other eminent gentlemen who have left the ring for the everlasting good of the drama, Messrs. John Lawrence Sullivan, Terence McGovern, James E. Britt, and J. John Jeffries.
It is true that any comparison between the art of these five eminent artists must be superficial, and to a certain extent banal, owing to the diversity of the dramas by which they have seen fit to show forth their talents.
The stanch art, honest and straightforward as a right swing, of "Honest Hearts and Willing Hands," is not to be compared to the romantic yet often superficial "Bowery After Dark," which Mr. Terence McGovern has so ably interpreted, and neither can be compared exactly with the jarring right-cross force of Mr. Jeffries's "Davy Crockett."
As those who observe Mr. Corbett practising his now abandoned profession of pugilism have remarked, he is characteristically lacking in repose of manner. In this, he is distinctly inferior to Mr. J. Lawrence Sullivan. John L.—on the stage—was all repose. Alas for that word was! How those lines, so simply yet so earnestly spoken, ring yet in the ears of old playgoers:
"To hell with the man that strikes a woman!" [Biff!]
In the more delicate and lightsome passages, Corbett's admirers declare he shines supreme; yet, after all, is he as funny as Terry McGovern? Take his delivery of these lines when he is rebuked by the sub-heroine for using too much slang:
"Oh, I'm onto the slang all right, and I'm going to cut it out!"
Mr. Corbett's delivery of these lines is certainly humorous, more humorous than he knows; yet has it the genuine comic force of the acting of James EdwardBritt, an artist little known to the stage of the Atlantic coast, when, in his drama, "Jimmie Britt the Frisco Boy," he conquers the comic Chinaman in a burlesque boxing bout by slapping him with the end of his pig-tail?
There is considerable dramatic force in Mr. Corbett's delivery of the lines:
"There's my hand, Ned. If you can take it honestly, here goes—if not, you are no pal of mine!"
Yet, after all, would it not be better if, instead of standing on guard when he delivered them, he accompanied them with a side step and a right shift on the solar plexus, as does Terence McGovern when he delivers that famous climax:
"Unhand her, or I'll knock your block off—see?" [Bing!]
Or by a clinch followed by a short-arm jolt and an uppercut, as does Mr. J. John Jeffries in that most intense of all climaxes in the pugilistic drama:
"Carry the woman away? Not while Davy Crockett has a punch up his sleeve!" [Slap! Thud!]
To summarize, therefore, Mr. Sullivan was a conscientious, two-handed actor with a great punch; Mr. Terence McGovern and Mr. J. Edward Britt have a clear delivery and a great straight left; Mr. Robert Fitzsimmons—an artist for whose peculiar intensity there has been no room in this brief and necessarily superficial summary—an awkward stage presence, but a fine short-arm jab that has been known to put the villain to sleep six times in one act; Mr. Jeffries, a left hook to the body which always brings home the money, and Mr. Corbett, a comic intensity and great foot work.
A word about the drama which Mr. Corbett had chosen last season. The author of "Pals" violated all conventionalities by failing to have the hero meet the unknown in the last act. He has, however, done one great service to the drama and to an eminent university. Never before has the atmosphere of Harvard been caught for the stage. The first act of "Pals" takes place at Harvard, and presents a haunting picture of college life. From it we learn that the following are characteristic features of life in the great center of learning at Cambridge:
The 'varsity football captain and the champion hammer-thrower, who are described as the most popular men in college, and so rich that they can't count it, live in a boarding-house, in which the landlady's daughter dusts off the champagne bottles which they keep on the sideboard and is sought as wife by the star boarders.
When the "lady friends" of the inmates come to visit the rooms they go in to dinner arm in arm with the landlady's daughter.
After the 'varsity game with Yale, in which Harvard has scored a great victory, the 'varsity football captain comes back to the boarding-house for dinner, remarking mildly that he is tired, and, after dusting off the sleeves of his jersey, goes in to dinner with the ladies in his football suit.
The freshmen sports wear silk hats and sack suits to the annual Yale-Harvard game.
These shadowings of dear old college scenes brought tears to the eyes of the many Harvard alumni who made part of the brilliant first night assemblage.
For weeks Jersey City had looked forward with a pleasurable thrill to the appearance of that eminent artist, J. John Jeffries, in his series of dramatic recitals. The pleasure had not been without a tinge of jealous triumph totally unbefitting the social season; for Jersey City, that modest home of the arts, was the first community on the Atlantic coast to extend to Mr. Jeffries in "Davy Crockett" the welcome which must have been as new wine to the true artist he is.
To what end will not managers go in their sordid and squalid zeal for advertising? Evidences of this tendency flamed on every hoarding in Jersey City; flaunted themselves on every fence. For the managers and press representatives had been attempting to create a false and fatuous interest in this eminent artist by advertising him as champion pugilist of the world.
What does it matter to their art that Forbes Robertson loves canaries, that Edwin Booth was fond of waffles? What does it matter how Mr. Jeffries amuses himself in his leisure hours? Yet in the large and fashionable audience which assembled at the Bijou Theater there were evidently many persons who were drawn by no other motive than a curiosity to see the champion pugilist of the world.
These made their presence felt by ejaculating in Mr. Jeffries's tender yet stalwart love passages:
"Uppercut her, Jim!" Or by crying out at that supreme moment when Mr. Jeffries defied the villain:
"Soak him, kid! Soak him!"
It may be said in defense of Jersey City that not all of this was due to the blindness of her citizens toward great art. Some of it may be laid to the incompetence of the Bijou bouncer.
"Davy Crockett," which this robust and sterling young artist had chosen as the medium of introduction to the stage of New York, is a drama which has not been seen of late on the American boards. Mr. Jeffries brings to it a freshness and a style all his own.
Right here is where the gent who has being doing falsetto pulls off his wig, shows the genuine whiskers, and strikes low G on the bass clef to show that he can do it.
You see, the villain is after the bunch of calico. She's certainly nifty. The villain has staked out his nephew to be her steady company, but the minute she trims her luscious lamps onCrockett, any dub can see that he's her candy kid.
The orchestra rips off a few yards of the "Flower Song," while Jim sinks his voice down to the solar plexus and puts her wise that she's his'n and he's her'n, only it can never be.
But in the next actDavyrescues her from the wolves by putting his biceps against the door while the property man wiggles three stuffed wolf heads through the chinks in the cabin and the gallery helps out on the howls.
But the villain drops in with the deeds that he's forged on her uncle, andDavyis foiled. And the girl has put him wise to young Lochinvar, so in the next actDavydrops in just when they're going to marry the girl.
Jim rolls up his sleeve and holds out his right and the girl hops up on it like a canary on a perch, and it's all over but the foiling of the villain and the marriage in the last act.
The girl was pretty nearly down and out in the second act, and took the count of nine, but by clinching withDavyshe managed to stay the act out. Jim's love-making was great. He never bored in so hard that there wasn't room for a breakaway, and any one could see that he was all ready to break the clinch the minute the girl loosed an uppercut.
When Jim crinkled up his forehead and looked on her with a love smile that reached the remotest boundary of his face, he looked just the way he looked at Ruhlin in the third round. But the girl didn't seem to mind. She knew he was only funning, and she cuddled right up to his solar plexus and said:
"I am your Nell, the same saucy Nell that sported among the daisies when we were a little boy and girl together." That statement made Jim look sincere.
It must be confessed that the epilogue was the most successful part of the piece. The epilogue was a more or less rapid three-round go. Mr. Yank Kennedy, an eminent pugilistic artist from California, was advertised as Mr. Jeffries's support in this scene. But the cordial welcome of New Jersey society had proved too much for the artistic temperament of Mr. Kennedy.
Mr. Hennesy of Princeton University was announced by that eminent impresario Mr. Billy Delany as Mr. Kennedy's understudy. Mr. Hennesy's acting was finished in leading and countering, but sadly deficient in guarding and side-stepping. He was entirely overshadowed by the great artist who played opposite him.
At one period of the performance the shadows grew so thick that Mr. Hennesy went down for the count of nine. It was plain, however, from the cordial, if somewhat unsteady, handshake he gave Mr. Jeffries as the curtain fell that Mr. Hennesy harbored no artistic jealousy.
The Great Events in the History of the Last One Hundred Years, Assembledso as to Present a Nutshell Record of Each Decade.
Compiled and edited forThe Scrap Book.