No more the roan and chestnut, the pie-bald and the grayPound their iron hoofs upon the smithy's floor;No more the gig and buggy, the buckboard and coupéStand broken down and helpless at the door.He'll pump you full of ether with an auto sorter laugh,He's fixtures ready-made to mend the fake.If your tire has collapsed he'll swell it for a half,With perhaps another dollar for a break.No more he talks of "hoss" as he stands upon the greenAnd waits the auto trav'ler on his way.He's an artist now in wind, and he's happy and serene,For he's pumping, pumping dollars all the day.
No more the roan and chestnut, the pie-bald and the grayPound their iron hoofs upon the smithy's floor;No more the gig and buggy, the buckboard and coupéStand broken down and helpless at the door.
He'll pump you full of ether with an auto sorter laugh,He's fixtures ready-made to mend the fake.If your tire has collapsed he'll swell it for a half,With perhaps another dollar for a break.
No more he talks of "hoss" as he stands upon the greenAnd waits the auto trav'ler on his way.He's an artist now in wind, and he's happy and serene,For he's pumping, pumping dollars all the day.
"Your honor," said a lawyer to the judge, "every man who knows me, knows that I am incapable of lending my aid to a mean cause."
"That's so," said his opponent, "the gentleman never lends himself to a mean cause; he always gets cash down."
Settin' on a logAn' fishin'An' watchin' the cork,An' wishin'.Jus' settin' round homeAn' sighin',Jus' settin' round home—An' lyin'.New Orleans Times-Democrat.
Settin' on a logAn' fishin'An' watchin' the cork,An' wishin'.Jus' settin' round homeAn' sighin',Jus' settin' round home—An' lyin'.
New Orleans Times-Democrat.
A thousand men can go to work at seven o'clock in the morning without the ringing of a bell, and why is it that three hundred people cannot assemble in a church without a previous ding-donging lasting half an hour?—Detroit Free Press.
Why, man, it's because they go out at seven o'clock to get money. Put a twenty-dollar gold piece in each pew every Sunday and you may sell your bell for old metal.—Louisville Courier-Journal.
I wisht 'at I'd of been here whenMy paw he was a boy;They must of been excitement then—When my paw was a boy;In school he always took the prize,He used to lick boys twice his size—I bet folks all had bulgin' eyesWhen my paw was a boy.They was a lot of wonders doneWhen my paw was a boy;How granpa must have loved his son,When my paw was a boy;He'd git the coal and chop the wood,And think up every way he couldTo always jist be sweet and good—When my paw was a boy.Then everything was in its place,When my paw was a boy;How he could rassle, jump, and race,When my paw was a boy!He never, never disobeyed;He beat in every game he played—Gee! What a record they was madeWhen my paw was a boy!I wisht 'at I'd been here whenMy paw he was a boy;They'll never be his like agen—Paw was the model boy,But still last night I heard my mawRaise up her voice and call my pawThe worst fool that she ever saw—He ought of stayed a boy!Chicago Times-Herald.
I wisht 'at I'd of been here whenMy paw he was a boy;They must of been excitement then—When my paw was a boy;In school he always took the prize,He used to lick boys twice his size—I bet folks all had bulgin' eyesWhen my paw was a boy.
They was a lot of wonders doneWhen my paw was a boy;How granpa must have loved his son,When my paw was a boy;He'd git the coal and chop the wood,And think up every way he couldTo always jist be sweet and good—When my paw was a boy.
Then everything was in its place,When my paw was a boy;How he could rassle, jump, and race,When my paw was a boy!He never, never disobeyed;He beat in every game he played—Gee! What a record they was madeWhen my paw was a boy!
I wisht 'at I'd been here whenMy paw he was a boy;They'll never be his like agen—Paw was the model boy,But still last night I heard my mawRaise up her voice and call my pawThe worst fool that she ever saw—He ought of stayed a boy!
Chicago Times-Herald.
Senator Elsberg of New York was talking in Albany about a notoriously untruthful man.
"Like all great liars," said Senator Elsberg, "he is careless. He fails to keep accurate note of all the lies he tells. Hence innumerable contradictions, innumerable stories that won't hold together."
Senator Elsberg smiled.
"The average chronic liar," he said, "has the luck of a boy I know who enlisted and went to the Philippines. This boy, whenever he wanted money, would write home from Manila something like this:
"'Dear Father—I have lost another leg in a stiff engagement, and am in hospital without means. Kindly send two hundred dollars at once.'
"To the last letter of this sort that the boy wrote home, he received the following answer:
"'Dear Son—As, according to your letters, this is the fourth leg you have lost, you ought to be accustomed to it by this time. Try and hobble along on any others you may have left.'"—Boston Herald.
All honor to him who wins the prize,The world has cried for a hundred years;But to him who tries and fails and dies,I give great glory and honor and tears.Joaquin Miller.
All honor to him who wins the prize,The world has cried for a hundred years;But to him who tries and fails and dies,I give great glory and honor and tears.
Joaquin Miller.
Mrs. Ascum—I hear the men talking about a "temporary business slump." I wonder what that means.
Mrs. Wise—I think it simply means that they're cooking up an excuse to give their wives less money.—Philadelphia Press.
O woman! In our hours of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy the light quivering aspen made—When pain and anguish wring the brow,A ministering angel thou!
O woman! In our hours of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy the light quivering aspen made—When pain and anguish wring the brow,A ministering angel thou!
A famous statesman prided himself on his success in campaigning, when called upon to reach a man's vote through his family pride.
On one of his tours he passed through a country town when he came suddenly upon a charming group—a comely woman with a bevy of little ones about her—in a garden. He stopped short, then advanced and leaned over the front gate.
"Madam," he said in his most ingratiating way, "may I kiss these beautiful children?"
"Certainly, sir," the lady answered demurely.
"They are lovely darlings," said the campaigner after he had finished the eleventh. "I have seldom seen more beautiful babies. Are they all yours, marm?"
The lady blushed deeply.
"Of course they are—the sweetest little treasures," he went on. "From whom else, marm, could they have inherited these limpid eyes, these rosy cheeks, these profuse curls, these comely figures and these musical voices?"
The lady continued blushing.
"By the way, marm," said the statesman, "may I bother you to tell your estimable husband that ——, Republican candidate for Governor, called upon him this evening?"
"I beg your pardon," said the lady, "I have no husband."
"But these children, madam—you surely are not a widow?"
"I fear you were mistaken, sir, when you first came up. These are not my children. This is an orphan asylum!"
Exchange.
A maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love;A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye;Fair as a star when only oneIs shining in the sky.Poems of the Affections.
A maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love;A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye;Fair as a star when only oneIs shining in the sky.
Poems of the Affections.
"Johnny," said his mother severely, "some one has taken a big piece of ginger-cake out of the pantry."
Johnny blushed guiltily.
"Oh, Johnny!" she exclaimed. "I didn't think it was in you."
"It ain't, all," replied Johnny. "Part of it's in Elsie."—Philadelphia Press.
He never took a day of rest,He couldn't afford it;He never had his trousers pressed,He couldn't afford it;He never went away, care-free,To visit distant lands, to seeHow fair a place this world might be—He couldn't afford it.He never went to see a play,He couldn't afford it;His love for art he put away,He couldn't afford it;He died and left his heirs a lot,But no tall shaft proclaims the spotIn which he lies—his children thoughtThey couldn't afford it.Chicago Record-Herald.
He never took a day of rest,He couldn't afford it;He never had his trousers pressed,He couldn't afford it;He never went away, care-free,To visit distant lands, to seeHow fair a place this world might be—He couldn't afford it.
He never went to see a play,He couldn't afford it;His love for art he put away,He couldn't afford it;He died and left his heirs a lot,But no tall shaft proclaims the spotIn which he lies—his children thoughtThey couldn't afford it.
Chicago Record-Herald.
By PROSPER MÉRIMÉE.
Translated from the French for "The Scrap Book" by S. Ten Eyck Bourke.
Prosper Mérimée, whose virile pen enriched the world's literature by the creation of "Carmen," was born in 1803, in France. At the outset of his career he studied law, and until his death, in 1870, was associated with politics, occupying several posts of importance.He was an intimate friend of the Countess de Montijo, later the Empress Eugénie, and always waspersona grataat the Tuileries during the imperial régime. This fact, however, did not influence his success as a man of letters; for that he owed directly to the elegance and purity of his style, the truthfulness of his local coloring, and his forceful and versatile brain.Mérimée traveled widely, corresponding with the Paris papers. It is to one of these journeys that the fragment, "The Vision of Charles XI," is attributable. Apart from its literary excellence, it is of interest as relating an actual occurrence during the reign of that Swedish monarch.
Prosper Mérimée, whose virile pen enriched the world's literature by the creation of "Carmen," was born in 1803, in France. At the outset of his career he studied law, and until his death, in 1870, was associated with politics, occupying several posts of importance.He was an intimate friend of the Countess de Montijo, later the Empress Eugénie, and always waspersona grataat the Tuileries during the imperial régime. This fact, however, did not influence his success as a man of letters; for that he owed directly to the elegance and purity of his style, the truthfulness of his local coloring, and his forceful and versatile brain.Mérimée traveled widely, corresponding with the Paris papers. It is to one of these journeys that the fragment, "The Vision of Charles XI," is attributable. Apart from its literary excellence, it is of interest as relating an actual occurrence during the reign of that Swedish monarch.
Prosper Mérimée, whose virile pen enriched the world's literature by the creation of "Carmen," was born in 1803, in France. At the outset of his career he studied law, and until his death, in 1870, was associated with politics, occupying several posts of importance.He was an intimate friend of the Countess de Montijo, later the Empress Eugénie, and always waspersona grataat the Tuileries during the imperial régime. This fact, however, did not influence his success as a man of letters; for that he owed directly to the elegance and purity of his style, the truthfulness of his local coloring, and his forceful and versatile brain.Mérimée traveled widely, corresponding with the Paris papers. It is to one of these journeys that the fragment, "The Vision of Charles XI," is attributable. Apart from its literary excellence, it is of interest as relating an actual occurrence during the reign of that Swedish monarch.
Prosper Mérimée, whose virile pen enriched the world's literature by the creation of "Carmen," was born in 1803, in France. At the outset of his career he studied law, and until his death, in 1870, was associated with politics, occupying several posts of importance.He was an intimate friend of the Countess de Montijo, later the Empress Eugénie, and always waspersona grataat the Tuileries during the imperial régime. This fact, however, did not influence his success as a man of letters; for that he owed directly to the elegance and purity of his style, the truthfulness of his local coloring, and his forceful and versatile brain.Mérimée traveled widely, corresponding with the Paris papers. It is to one of these journeys that the fragment, "The Vision of Charles XI," is attributable. Apart from its literary excellence, it is of interest as relating an actual occurrence during the reign of that Swedish monarch.
Prosper Mérimée, whose virile pen enriched the world's literature by the creation of "Carmen," was born in 1803, in France. At the outset of his career he studied law, and until his death, in 1870, was associated with politics, occupying several posts of importance.
He was an intimate friend of the Countess de Montijo, later the Empress Eugénie, and always waspersona grataat the Tuileries during the imperial régime. This fact, however, did not influence his success as a man of letters; for that he owed directly to the elegance and purity of his style, the truthfulness of his local coloring, and his forceful and versatile brain.
Mérimée traveled widely, corresponding with the Paris papers. It is to one of these journeys that the fragment, "The Vision of Charles XI," is attributable. Apart from its literary excellence, it is of interest as relating an actual occurrence during the reign of that Swedish monarch.
Visions and supernatural apparitions commonly inspire ridicule; some there are, however, so fully attested that to refuse them credence one must, to be consistent, reject the entire fabric of accumulated historical data.
An affidavit, drawn in due legal form, subscribed to by, and endorsed with the signatures of four witnesses worthy of belief—that is my guaranty for the authenticity of the occurrence which I purpose to narrate. I desire to add that the prophecy set forth in the affidavit was therein incorporated and cited before those events which, happening in our times, would seem subsequently to have wrought its fulfilment.
Charles XI, father of the famous Charles XII, was one of the most despotic, yet, withal, one of the wisest, monarchs who have reigned in Sweden.
He restricted the monstrous privileges of the nobility, abolished the power of the senate, and enacted laws in virtue of his own sole authority; in a word, he altered the constitution of the country, which before him had been oligarchic, and compelled the governing bodies—composed of the nobility, the clergy, the middle classes, and the peasants—known as the Estates, to invest him with the supreme power. He was, moreover, an enlightened man, brave, strongly attached to the Lutheran faith, inflexible in character, cold, assertive, and wholly devoid of imagination.
He had but recently lost his wife, Eleanor Ulrica. Although it was rumored that his severity toward her had hastened her end, her death had seemingly moved him more deeply than might have been expected of one so hard of heart. His humor grew more somber and taciturn than ever, and he devoted himself to his labors in behalf of his subjects with an assiduity which bespoke an imperative need of dispelling painful thoughts.
He was seated, late one autumn evening, in dressing-gown and slippers, before a huge fire, burning upon the hearth in his study. With him were his chamberlain, Count Brahe, whom he honored with his good will, and his doctor, Baumgarten, who, be it said in passing, was a man of advanced views, something of being a free-thinker and inclined to compel the world at large to doubt everything save the science of medicine. The king had summoned Baumgarten that evening to consult with him upon some indisposition of I know not what nature.
The hour waxed late, yet the king, contrary to custom, gave them no hint, by bidding them good night, that they might withdraw. With bowed head and eyes bent upon the embers, he remained buried in a profound silence, weary of his guests, yet dreading, he knew not why, to be alone.
Count Brahe, keenly aware that his presence was not sovereignly welcome, had several times expressed the fear that his majesty might stand in need of repose. A gesture from the king held him to his place.
The physician, in turn, discoursed upon the evils wrought by late hours on the constitution. Charles answered him between his teeth:
"Stay. I am not ready to sleep yet."
They strove to converse of divers matters, but each topic was exhausted with the second sentence, or, at most, the third. His majesty, it was apparent, was in one of his blackest moods, and in like circumstance a courtier's position is of the most delicate.
Count Brahe, surmising that the king's grief emanated from the regrets to which his consort's loss had given rise in his mind, gazed for a time at a portrait of the queen which hung upon the study walls, finally exclaiming, with a huge sigh:
"What a resemblance! The portrait has her very expression, so majestic, and, withal, so sweet——"
"Bah!" bruskly interrupted the king, who saw a reproach in every mention made of the queen in his presence, "the portrait flattered her. The queen was ugly."
Then, secretly ashamed of his own harshness, he rose and wandered about the room to conceal an emotion for which he blushed. He paused before a window looking upon the court. The night was dark, and the moon in her first quarter.
The palace where the Swedish sovereigns reside to-day was not then completed, and Charles XI, who began it, dwelt at the time in the old palace, situated at the head of the Ritterholm, which overlooks Lake Moeler. It is a huge structure in the shape of a horseshoe. The king's study was located in one extremity of the horseshoe, while almost opposite was the great hall in which the Estates were convoked to receive the communications of the Crown.
The windows of this room now appeared to be brilliantly lighted.
This seemed strange to the king. He at first attributed it to a reflection from some lackey's torch. But what could he be doing at this hour in an apartment which had not been opened for a long time past?
Moreover, the glow was too vivid to proceed from a single torch. It might well be occasioned by a conflagration, but the king could see no smoke, the window-panes were intact, and not a sound disturbed the stillness of the night; every indication pointed rather to an illumination.
Charles watched the windows for a time in silence. Count Brahe reached for the bell-rope, purposing to summon a page to investigate this unaccountable brilliancy, but the king checked him.
"I will go myself to the state hall," he said.
As he finished speaking these words his companions noted the sudden pallor and the expression of religious awe which overspread his features. But his step was none the less firm as he strode from the study, the chamberlain and the doctor following, each provided with a lighted taper.
The custodian of the keys, who likewise fulfilled the duties of caretaker, had already retired. Baumgarten roused him, bidding him, in the king's name, make ready to open the state apartments.
Amazed at the unexpected summons, the man dressed hastily, and taking his keys, joined his royal master. He first unlocked the door of the long corridor leading to the main apartment, which served as an antechamber or withdrawal room. The king entered, and marveled to find the walls draped with black.
"By whose order has this been done?" Charles demanded angrily.
"Sire, no such order has come to my notice," replied the custodian, much troubled. "The last time I swept the corridor the walls were paneled with oak as usual. Those hangings certainly donot belong to your majesty's equipment."
The king, with his rapid stride, had already traversed more than two-thirds of the corridor. The count and the custodian followed closely in his wake, the doctor lagging somewhat in the rear, divided between his fear of being left alone and his dread of the unknown dangers he might incur in pursuing an adventure which began so inauspiciously.
"Go no farther, sire," implored the custodian. "On my soul, there is witchcraft within. At this hour, since the death of your gracious consort, the queen, it is said she haunts this corridor. God grant us protection!"
"Pause, sire," exclaimed the count, in turn. "Hear the disturbances in the state hall! Who knows to what peril your majesty may be exposing yourself?"
"Sire," urged Baumgarten, whose taper had been extinguished by a puff of wind, "permit me at least to summon twenty of your guards."
"We enter now," responded the king with determination. And stopping before the lofty portal he said to the custodian: "Open this door without delay."
As he spoke he kicked the paneled oak, and the sound, reverberating among the echoes of the vaulted ceiling, thundered down the corridor like the noise of a cannon-shot.
The key rattled against the lock as the custodian, who was trembling violently, sought vainly to insert it in its groove.
"An old soldier trembling!" scoffed Charles. "Come, count, let us see you open the door."
"Sire," answered the count, falling back a step, "let your majesty command me to face the cannon of the Germans or the Danes, and I will obey unflinchingly. But here you are asking me to defy all hell!"
The king wrenched the key from the custodian's shaking hand.
"I see clearly," he observed contemptuously, "that this concerns myself alone."
And before any of his attendants could prevent him he flung the heavy oaken door wide, and crossed the threshold, repeating the customary "With God's help!"
His three attendants, impelled by a curiosity stronger than their fear, and ashamed, perhaps, to abandon their sovereign, followed him.
The great hall blazed with the light of myriad torches. Heavy draperies replaced the ancient tapestries on the walls with their woven figures.
Ranged along both sides of the apartment in the same order as of yore hung the flags of Denmark, Germany, and the country of the Muscovite—trophies taken in war by the soldiers of Gustavus Adolphus. But the Swedish flags intermingled with the long array were swathed in funereal crape.
An immense concourse swarmed upon the serried rows of benches opposite the throne. The members of the four Estates, garbed in black, were there, each in his allotted place. And this multitude of gleaming visages against the somber background so dazzled the eye that not one of the four beholders could distinguish a familiar face among the throng. So is it with the actor who fails to single out, in the confused mass of the crowded audience, one person he knows.
On the raised dais of the throne, from which the king was wont to harangue the assembly, they saw a bleeding corpse invested with the royal insignia.
At the right of this gruesome specter, crown on head, scepter in hand, stood a child. At the left, an aged man, or fantom shade, leaned for support against the throne. From his shoulders trailed the ceremonial mantle worn by the ancient administrators of Sweden before Wasa made of the government a monarchy.
Grave-visaged, austere men in flowing robes of black, evidently holding the office of judges, were gathered near the throne around a table littered with folios and parchments. Between the dais and the assembled Estates the four spectators beheld an executioner's block, funereally draped, and by its side the ax.
Of all that vast concourse of specters no single shade gave sign that the presence of Charles and the three persons who accompanied him had been observed. A confused murmur, in which the ear failed to detect any articulate sound, greeted their entrance.
Presently the oldest of the black-gowned judges—he who seemed to fulfilthe functions of president of the tribunal—rose and struck thrice with his palm upon the open folio that lay before him.
A profound hush fell instantly upon the hall. Then, through the doorway facing that which Charles had just opened, came a band of young men of prepossessing appearance, with their arms bound behind their backs. They bore themselves well, their heads raised high, their mien unabashed. Behind them stalked a robust figure, clad in a brown leather jerkin, holding the ends of the ropes which confined their hands.
The foremost of the youths, who seemed to be their leader, halted before the funereal block, and surveyed it with superb disdain. A convulsive shudder swept over the crowned cadaver at sight of the youth, and from the gaping wound the crimson blood welled afresh.
The prisoner knelt beside the block, and bent his head above it; the ax flashed aloft, and descended with a resounding crash. A sanguine river gushed from the headless trunk, losing itself in that other bloody stream; the head bounded forward, rolling across the reddened floor to the living monarch's feet, and drenched them with its uncontrolled flow.
Up to that moment surprise had held Charles mute, but this horrible spectacle restored his power of speech. Striding forward to the dais, he boldly addressed the aged administrator, repeating the prescribed formula:
"If thou art of God, speak; if thou be of that Other, leave us in peace."
In solemn tones, slowly, the fantom spoke:
"Charles! King! Not in thy reign shall his blood flow [here the voice grew less distinct] but in the reign of thy fifth successor. Wo, wo, wo to the blood of Wasa!"
As he ceased speaking the spectral forms who had participated in this astounding vision faded. In a moment they were less than painted shadows; soon they were gone; the fantastic flaming torches flickered and died, and only the light from the tapers which his attendants carried remained to illuminate the ancient mural tapestries, still faintly agitated by some ghostly breeze.
For a space there lingered in the air a murmur, melodious withal, which one of the four witnesses has compared to the rustling of the wind among the leaves, and another to the breaking of harp-strings when the harp is being tuned. But all were agreed as to the duration of the vision.
The black draperies, the severed head, the blood-stains on the flooring, all vanished as had the specters; only upon the king's slipper a crimson stain endured, which must have served him as a reminder of the night's strange happenings, had they not been too indelibly impressed upon his memory ever to be effaced.
Regaining his study, the king ordered the foregoing narrative set forth in a written statement, which he signed, as did also the three attendants who had witnessed the apparition with him.
Every precaution was taken to prevent the contents of the document from becoming public, but the marvel was none the less divulged in some unknown manner, and that during the lifetime of Charles XI. The document is still in existence, and its authenticity has remained undisputed. Its closing sentences are remarkable.
"And if that which I have narrated," says the king, "be not the exact truth, I renounce all hope of that better life which I have perchance merited by some good deeds, and above all by my zeal for the welfare of my people and the defense of the religion of my ancestors."
If one recalls the circumstances attendant upon the death of Gustavus III, and the manner of judgment passed upon his assassin, Ankerstroem, one cannot fail to note the analogy between these and the occurrences detailed in the singular prophecy.
Ankerstroem figures as the youth beheaded in the presence of the assembled Estates, the crowned and bleeding cadaver represents his victim Gustavus III, the child, his son and successor Gustavus Adolphus IV. And finally, in the aged administrator, one recognizes the Duke of Sudermania, the uncle of Gustavus Adolphus IV, who was first appointed regent, and ultimately attained to the kingship, after the dethronement of his nephew.
The Story of How Its Author Received His Inspiration, WhereHe Wrote the Famous Poem, and How VariousEditors Have Altered Its Phraseology.
Francis Scott Key wrote only one poem that entitled him to a lasting reputation, but so firmly has that one poem gripped the patriotic consciousness of the American people that its fame is assured as long as the nation continues.
Key was born in Maryland, August 9, 1780. He practised law at Frederick, Maryland, in 1801, but he subsequently removed to Washington, where he became district attorney for the District of Columbia.
When the British ascended Chesapeake Bay, in 1814, and captured Washington, General Ross and Admiral Cockburn set up headquarters in Upper Marlboro, Maryland, at the home of Dr. William Beanes, one of Key's friends. Later, Dr. Beanes was made prisoner by the British. Interesting himself in securing the release of his friend, Key planned to exchange for him a British prisoner in the hands of the Americans. President Madison approved the exchange, and directed John S. Skinner, agent for the exchange of prisoners, to accompany Key to the British commander.
General Ross consented to the exchange. He ordered, however, that Key and Skinner be detained until after the approaching attack on Baltimore. They had gone from Baltimore out to the British fleet in a vessel provided for them by order of President Madison. Now they were transferred to the British frigate Surprise, commanded by Admiral Cockburn's son, but soon afterward they were permitted to return, under guard, to their own vessel, whence they witnessed the bombardment of Fort McHenry.
By the glare of guns they could see the flag flying over the fort during the night, but before morning the firing ceased, and the two men passed a period of suspense, waiting for dawn, to see whether or not the attack had failed.
When Key discovered that the flag was still there his feelings found vent in verse. On the back of a letter he jotted down in the rough "The Star-Spangled Banner."
On his return to Baltimore, Key revised the poem and gave it to Captain Benjamin Eades, of the Twenty-Seventh Baltimore Regiment, who had it printed. Taking a copy from the press, Eades went tothe tavern next to the Holiday Street Theater—a gathering-place for actors and their congenial acquaintances. Mr. Key had directed that the words be sung to the air, "Anacreon in Heaven," composed in England by John Stafford Smith, between 1770 and 1775. The verses were first read aloud to the assembled crowd, and then Ferdinand Durang stepped upon a chair and sang them.
Key died in Baltimore, January 11, 1843. James Lick bequeathed sixty thousand dollars for a monument to his memory. This noble memorial, the work of W.W. Story, stands in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco. It is fifty-one feet high. Under a double arch is a seated figure of Key in bronze, while above all is a bronze figure of America, with an unfolded flag.
As Key wrote it, the poem varies in several lines from the versions that are sung to-day. We reprint verbatim a copy written out by Key himself for James Maher, gardener of the White House. It may be worth while to preface it with certain explanations of his phraseology:
He was describing an actual situation, and he appears to have addressed the lines directly to his companion, Mr. Skinner. The smoke of battle explains "the clouds of the fight." The line, "This blood has washed out his foul footstep's pollution," modified by later editors, was his answer to the boasts of a British officer, who declared before the bombardment that the fort would quickly be reduced.
The change of "on" to "o'er" in the common versions of the phrase "now shines on the stream" is the result of bungling editing. Key was picturing the reflection of the flag on the water.
In the author's version, here given, the words that have been changed by compilers are italicized. The references by numerals indicate the variations of other editions.
By FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.
Oh! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming.Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through theclouds of the fight,[1]O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?And the rocket's red glare—the bombs bursting in air—Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;Oh, say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,As it fitfully blows,half[2] conceals,half[2]discloses;Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,In full glory reflected, now shineson[3]the stream.'Tis the Star-Spangled Banner—oh, long may it waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!And where is thefoe that[4]so vauntingly sworeThat[5]the havoc of war and the battle's confusionA home and a countryshould[6]leave us no more?This[7]blood has washed outhis[8]foul footstep's pollution.No refuge could save the hireling and slaveFrom the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave.And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph doth waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.Oh, thus be it ever! whenfreemen[9]shall standBetweentheir[10]loved homes and the war's desolation.Blest with victory and peace, may the Heav'n rescued landPraise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.Then conquer we must when our cause it is just,And this be our motto, "In God is our trust."And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Oh! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming.Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through theclouds of the fight,[1]O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?And the rocket's red glare—the bombs bursting in air—Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;Oh, say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,As it fitfully blows,half[2] conceals,half[2]discloses;Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,In full glory reflected, now shineson[3]the stream.'Tis the Star-Spangled Banner—oh, long may it waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is thefoe that[4]so vauntingly sworeThat[5]the havoc of war and the battle's confusionA home and a countryshould[6]leave us no more?This[7]blood has washed outhis[8]foul footstep's pollution.No refuge could save the hireling and slaveFrom the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave.And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph doth waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Oh, thus be it ever! whenfreemen[9]shall standBetweentheir[10]loved homes and the war's desolation.Blest with victory and peace, may the Heav'n rescued landPraise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.Then conquer we must when our cause it is just,And this be our motto, "In God is our trust."And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
For Mr. Jas. Maher, of Washington City, from F.S. Key. Washington, June 7, 1842.
[1]"Perilous fight."—Griswold—Dana. Common version.
[1]"Perilous fight."—Griswold—Dana. Common version.
[2]"Now."—Dana.
[2]"Now."—Dana.
[3]"O'er."—Several versions.
[3]"O'er."—Several versions.
[4]"Band who."—Griswold—Dana.
[4]"Band who."—Griswold—Dana.
[5]"Mid."—Griswold—Dana.
[5]"Mid."—Griswold—Dana.
[6]"They'd."—Griswold.
[6]"They'd."—Griswold.
[7]"Their."—Griswold—Dana. Common version.
[7]"Their."—Griswold—Dana. Common version.
[8]"Their."—Griswold—Dana. Common version.
[8]"Their."—Griswold—Dana. Common version.
[9]"Freeman."—Griswold.
[9]"Freeman."—Griswold.
[10]"Our."—Griswold—Dana. Common version.
[10]"Our."—Griswold—Dana. Common version.
Samples of the Journalistic Fodder Which Is Handed Out for Daily ConsumptionAmong the Children of Nature Who Inhabit Some of theQuiet Places in the Tall Timbers.
'Lige Goudy, a well-known and popular passenger engineer, who lives at Seymour, is raising some corn this year. A few days ago a gentleman called at Mr. Goudy's house to see him, and was informed that he had gone out to look at his corn.
The gentleman went down to the field, which he found grown over with weeds of a gigantic growth, with a sickly looking stalk of corn peeping forth here and there. The gentleman looked across the field, but could not see the proprietor thereof.
Finally the man climbed upon the fence and shouted:
"Oh, 'Lige!"
To his surprise, a reply came from among the weeds near by, in the familiar voice of Mr. Goudy.
The gentleman took a second look, but could not quite locate 'Lige, and after a moment's hesitation said:
"Shake a weed, so I can tell where you are!"—Exchange.
TheBulletinis in receipt of a copy of the FayObserver. Notwithstanding the fact that it has the appearance of being printed on a cider-mill with three-penny nails for type, it is a credit to the town.—Geary (Oklahoma) Bulletin.
A correspondent of theEvening Postsays that the codfish frequents "the table-lands of the sea." The codfish no doubt does this to secure as nearly as possible a dry, bracing atmosphere. This pure air of the submarine table-lands gives to the codfish that breadth of chest and depth of lungs which we have always noticed. The glad, free smile so characteristic of the codfish is largely attributed to the exhilaration of this oceanic altitoodleum.
The correspondent further says that "the cod subsists largely on the sea cherry." Those who have not had the pleasure of seeing the codfish climb the sea cherry tree in search of food, or clubbing the fruit from the heavily laden branches with chunks of coral, have missed a very fine sight.
The codfish, when at home rambling through the submarine forests, does not wear his vest unbuttoned, as he does while loafing around the grocery stores of the United States.—Laramie (Wyoming) Boomerang.
G.B. Boswell, while trying to ride his young mule after plowing him all day, was thrown to the ground. In the accident Mr. Boswell caught his leg over the hamestick and tore his new overalls, which he paid forty-two cents for. We are glad to know that Mr. Boswell was not hurt except that he struck the funny bone of his elbow and his mule got away, which worried him, and had it not been for his Christian disposition he would probably have been a sinner in the sight of God.—Wilson (North Carolina) Times.
Ibsen's Norwegian play of "Ghosts," with one setting of scenery, no music, and three knocks with a club on the floor to raise the curtain, was presented last evening.
The play is certainly a moral hair-raiser, and the stuffing is knocked out of the decalogue at every turn.
Mrs. Alving, the leading lady, who keeps her chin high in the air, has married a moral monstrosity in the shape of a spavined rake, and hides it from the world. She wears a pleasant smile and gives society the glad hand, and finally lets go all holds when her husband gets gay with the hired girl, and gives an old tar three hundred plunks to marry her and stand the responsibility for the expected population.
Oswald, the mother's only boy, is sent to Paris to paint views for marines, andtakes kindly to the gay life of the capital, where the joy of living is the rage and families are reared in a section where a printer running a job office solely on marriage certificates would hit the poor-house with a dull thud.
Regena, the result ofMr. Alving'sattentions to the hired girl, also works in the family, and falls in love with the painter-boy on his return from Paris. They vote country life too slow, and plan to go to Paris and start a family. The doting mother gives her consent, andPastor Menders, who is throwing fits all through the play, has a spasm.
The boy, on being informed that the girl of his choice is his half-sister, throws another, his mama having also thrown a few in the other act.
Engstrand, who runs a sort of sailors' and soldiers' canteen, sets fire to an orphanage, and the boy, who has inherited a sort of mayonnaise-dressing brain from his awful dad, tears about the stage a spell, breaks some furniture, and upsets the wine. He finally takes rough-on-rats, and dies a gibbering idiot, with his mother slobbering over him and trying to figure out in her own mind that he was merely drunk and disorderly.
As a sermon on the law of heredity the play is great, but after seeing it we are glad to announce that Haverly's Minstrels will relieve the Ibsen gloom on November 6—next Monday night.—Carson (Nevada) Appeal.
When an editor dies in Kansas, this is the way they write the obituary: "The pen is silent; the scissors have been laid away to rust; the stillness of death pervades the very atmosphere where once the hoarse voice of the devil yelling 'copy' or 'what the hell's this word?' was wont to resound. The paste-pot has soured on the what-not; the cockroach is eating the composition off the roller, and the bluebottle fly is dying in the rich folds of the printer's towel."—Exchange.
A newly made widow of Geary County sent this card of thanks to theRepublicfor publication:
"I desire to thank my friends and neighbors most heartily in this manner for the united aid and cooperation during the illness and death of my late husband, who escaped from me by the hand of death on Friday last while eating breakfast. To the friends and all who contributed so willingly toward making the last moments and funeral of my husband a success I desire to remember most kindly, hoping these few lines will find them enjoying the same blessing. I have a good milch cow and roan gelding horse, five years old, which I will sell cheap. 'God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps on the sea, and rides upon the storm'; also a black-and-white shote, very low."—Junction City (Kansas) Republic.
A Card from Miss Sallie McCants.—To Whom it May Concern: The engagement which existed between Miss Sallie McCants and R.N. Jordan, of Cottageville, has been mutually dissolved, it being their aim to disappoint those who reported the news of their marriage. This will allow anxious mothers with marriageable daughters the chance of opening their doors again to this esteemed young man. Respectfully, S. McCants.—Walterboro (South Carolina) Press and Standard.
The following letter was received recently:
"Dear Sir: I hereby offer my resignashun as a subscribber to your papier, it being a pamphlet of such small konsequenc as not to benefit my family by takin it. What you need in your shete is branes & some one to russel up news and rite edytorials on live topics. No menshun has bin made in your shete of me butcherin a polen china pig weighin 369 pounds or the gapes in the chickens out this way. You ignor the fact that i bot a bran new bob sled and that I traded my blind mule and say nothin about Hi Simpkins jersey calf breaking his two front legs fallin in a well. 2 important chiverees have bin utterly ignored by your shete & a 3 column obitchury notice writ by me on the death of grandpa Henery was left out of your shete to say nothin of the alfabetical poem beginning 'A is for And and also for Ark,' writ by me darter. This is the reason why your paper is so unpopular here. If you don't want edytorials from this place and ain't goin to put up no news in your shete we don't want said shete.
"P.S.—If you print obitchury in your next i may sine again fur yure shete."—Holdenville (Indian Territory) Tribune.
The Term Which Is Now Used to Describe Persons Who Are Lacking in Mental CapacityOnce Was the Acknowledged Title of Men of ExtraordinaryWit and Understanding.
Every man "in his time plays many parts," and it often has happened that the wise man's fate has required him to play the fool. In our day, the word "fool" is used to describe a person who is wanting in judgment or general mental capacity, and when we see a representation of an old-time fool, wearing his fool's cap and bells, we are likely to regard the original as having had the characteristics of a modern circus clown.
The fact, however, is that the professional fool of two centuries ago was an altogether different sort of person. He held his position by reason of his ready wit, which, in truth, was often wisdom in disguise. Until the end of the seventeenth century, jesters, or fools, as they were usually called, were in the retinue of every king and princeling.
That the private fool existed even as late as the eighteenth century is proved by Swift's epitaph on Dicky Pearce, but the last licensed fool of England was Armstrong, court jester to James I and Charles I, who died in 1672. He lost his office and was banished from court for a too free play of wit against Archbishop Laud.
L'Angèly, his contemporary, and the last titled fool in France, was court fool to Louis XIII, and died in 1679. He was a man of gentle birth, but very poor. His biting, caustic wit, however, was so dreaded by the courtiers that he grew rich from the sums which they paid him to purchase immunity from his satire.
Ancient Greece had a class of professed fools similar to those of the Middle Ages. The Romans went a step farther and made human monstrosities of their slaves—hideous things to amuse by grotesque forms and antics their cruel masters.
The fool's business, primarily, was to amuse, but owing to the fact that he dared to tell the truth, much of an instructive nature was gathered from him by his master.
His dress varied considerably in different periods; and on his shaven head was a covering that resembled a monk's cowl, and crested with a cock's comb or with asses' ears. He wore motley, and little bells hung from various parts of his attire. He carried always a bauble, or short staff, bearing a grotesque head, sometimes the counterpart of his own.
In England, the names and sallies of many of the court jesters have been recorded, while literature makes frequent reference to them.
Prominent in the list is Will Sommers, who was court jester to Henry VIII. His effigy is at Hampton Court, and a tavern in Old Fish Street, London, once bore his name. He died in 1560.
John Heywood, who was jester to Queen Mary, was the author of numerous dramatic works and poems, and was a highly educated man.
Tarleton, famous as a clown, cannot well be omitted from the list, although he was not a licensed jester. He lived during Elizabeth's reign, but was not attached to the court nor to any nobleman. A book of his jests was published in 1611, twenty-three years after his death.
The identity of "Will," referred to as "my lord of Leicester's jesting player," never has been satisfactorily explained. Some authorities are inclined to believe that he was Will Shakespeare himself.
In France, the fantastic figure in motley lights up many dark and tragic pages of history. Triboulet, who was jester to Louis XII and Francis I, was the hero of Hugo's "Le Roi S'amuse," of Verdi's opera "Rigoletto," and appears in Rabelais' romance. His portrait was painted by Licinio, the rival of Titian.
Chicot, who was the friend as well as the jester of Henri III, has been clearly delineated by Dumas, père, in his "Dame de Monsoreau."
Finally, there is Yorick. "Alas! poor Yorick"—who was jester at the Court of Denmark, and immortalized by Shakespeare as "a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy."
The word "fool" ceases to be a term of reproach when this array of cheery fun-makers is considered, all of them bearing the title proudly and as an honor.
Remarkable Speech Delivered in 1842 by Colonel Cobb, Head Mingo of theChoctaws East of the Mississippi, When the Federal GovernmentWas Forcing the Tribe Westward.