————The flames rolled on; he would not goWithout his father's word;That father, faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.He called aloud, "Say, father, say,If yet my task be done!"He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious of his son."Speak, father!" once again he cried,"If I may yet be gone!"And but the booming shots replied,And fast the flames rolled on.Upon his brow he felt their breath,And in his waving hair,And looked from that lone post of deathIn still yet brave despair;And shouted but once more aloud,"My father! must I stay?"While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,The wreathing fires made way.They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,They caught the flag on high,And streamed above the gallant child,Like banners in the sky.There came a burst of thunder sound;The boy,—Oh! where washe?Ask of the winds, that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea,—With shroud and mast and pennon fair,That well had borne their part,—But the noblest thing that perished thereWas that young, faithful heart.FELICIA HEMANS.
————The flames rolled on; he would not goWithout his father's word;That father, faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud, "Say, father, say,If yet my task be done!"He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious of his son.
"Speak, father!" once again he cried,"If I may yet be gone!"And but the booming shots replied,And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,And in his waving hair,And looked from that lone post of deathIn still yet brave despair;
And shouted but once more aloud,"My father! must I stay?"While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,They caught the flag on high,And streamed above the gallant child,Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound;The boy,—Oh! where washe?Ask of the winds, that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea,—
With shroud and mast and pennon fair,That well had borne their part,—But the noblest thing that perished thereWas that young, faithful heart.
FELICIA HEMANS.
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.It was the schooner HesperusThat sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company.Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,That ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helm;His pipe was in his mouth;And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke, now west, now south.Then up and spake an old sailor,Had sailed the Spanish main:"I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane."Last night the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the northeast;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length."Come hither! come hither my little daughter,And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow."He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast."O father! I hear the church-bells ring;Oh say, what may it be?""'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"And he steered for the open sea."O father! I hear the sound of guns;Oh say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!""O father! I see a gleaming light!Oh say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a word—A frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be!And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waveOn the Lake of Galilee.And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTowards the reef of Norman's Woe.And ever, the fitful gusts between,A sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surfOn the rocks and the hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows;She drifted a dreary wreck;And a whooping billow swept the crew,Like icicles, from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool;But the cruel rocks they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the mast went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank—Ho! ho! the breakers roared!At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,On the billows fall and rise.Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow;Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe!HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.
It was the schooner HesperusThat sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughter,To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm;His pipe was in his mouth;And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke, now west, now south.
Then up and spake an old sailor,Had sailed the Spanish main:"I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane.
"Last night the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the northeast;The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither! come hither my little daughter,And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast.
"O father! I hear the church-bells ring;Oh say, what may it be?""'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"And he steered for the open sea.
"O father! I hear the sound of guns;Oh say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming light!Oh say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a word—A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be!And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waveOn the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTowards the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever, the fitful gusts between,A sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surfOn the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows;She drifted a dreary wreck;And a whooping billow swept the crew,Like icicles, from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool;But the cruel rocks they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the mast went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank—Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow;Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE SECOND MATE."Ho, there! Fisherman, hold your hand!Tell me, what is that far away,—There, where over the isle of sandHangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray?See! it rocks with a ghastly life,Rising and rolling through clouds of spray,Right in the midst of the breakers' strife,—Tell me what is it, Fisherman, pray?""That, good sir, was a steamer stoutAs ever paddled around Cape Race;And many's the wild and stormy boutShe had with the winds, in that self-same place;But her time was come; and at ten o'clockLast night she struck on that lonesome shore;And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock,And at dawn this morning she was no more.""Come, as you seem to know, good man,The terrible fate of this gallant ship,Tell me about her all that you can;And here's my flask to moisten your lip.Tell me how many she had aboard,—Wives, and husbands, and lovers true,—How did it fare with her human hoard?Lost she many, or lost she few?""Master, I may not drink of your flask,Already too moist I feel my lip;But I'm ready to do what else you ask,And spin you my yarn about the ship.'Twas ten o'clock, as I said, last night,When she struck the breakers and went ashore;And scarce had broken the morning's lightWhen she sank in twelve feet of water or more."But long ere this they knew her doom,And the captain called all hands to prayer;And solemnly over the ocean's boomTheir orisons wailed on the troublous air.And round about the vessel there roseTall plumes of spray as white as snow,Like angels in their ascension clothes,Waiting for those who prayed below."So these three hundred people clungAs well as they could, to spar and rope;With a word of prayer upon every tongue,Nor on any face a glimmer of hope.But there was no blubbering weak and wild,—Of tearful faces I saw but one,A rough old salt, who cried like a child,And not for himself, but the captain's son."The captain stood on the quarter-deck,Firm but pale with trumpet in hand;Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck,Sometimes he sadly looked to land;And often he smiled to cheer the crew—But, Lord! the smile was terrible grim—Till over the quarter a huge sea flew;And that was the last they saw of him."I saw one young fellow with his bride,Standing amidships upon the wreck;His face was white as the boiling tide,And she was clinging about his neck.And I saw them try to say good-bye,But neither could hear the other speak;So they floated away through the sea to die—Shoulder to shoulder and cheek to cheek."And there was a child, but eight at best,Who went his way in a sea she shipped,All the while holding upon his breastA little pet parrot whose wings were clipped.And, as the boy and the bird went by,Swinging away on a tall wave's crest,They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry,And together the three went down to rest."And so the crew went one by one,Some with gladness, and few with fear,—Cold and hardship such work had doneThat few seemed frightened when death was near.Thus every soul on board went down,—Sailor and passenger, little and great;The last that sank was a man of my town,A capital swimmer,—the second mate.""Now, lonely fisherman, who are youThat say you saw this terrible wreck?How do I know what you say is true,When every mortal was swept from the deck?Where were you in that hour of death?How did you learn what you relate?"His answer came in an under-breath"Master, I was the second mate!"FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.
THE SECOND MATE.
"Ho, there! Fisherman, hold your hand!Tell me, what is that far away,—There, where over the isle of sandHangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray?See! it rocks with a ghastly life,Rising and rolling through clouds of spray,Right in the midst of the breakers' strife,—Tell me what is it, Fisherman, pray?"
"That, good sir, was a steamer stoutAs ever paddled around Cape Race;And many's the wild and stormy boutShe had with the winds, in that self-same place;But her time was come; and at ten o'clockLast night she struck on that lonesome shore;And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock,And at dawn this morning she was no more."
"Come, as you seem to know, good man,The terrible fate of this gallant ship,Tell me about her all that you can;And here's my flask to moisten your lip.Tell me how many she had aboard,—Wives, and husbands, and lovers true,—How did it fare with her human hoard?Lost she many, or lost she few?"
"Master, I may not drink of your flask,Already too moist I feel my lip;But I'm ready to do what else you ask,And spin you my yarn about the ship.'Twas ten o'clock, as I said, last night,When she struck the breakers and went ashore;And scarce had broken the morning's lightWhen she sank in twelve feet of water or more.
"But long ere this they knew her doom,And the captain called all hands to prayer;And solemnly over the ocean's boomTheir orisons wailed on the troublous air.And round about the vessel there roseTall plumes of spray as white as snow,Like angels in their ascension clothes,Waiting for those who prayed below.
"So these three hundred people clungAs well as they could, to spar and rope;With a word of prayer upon every tongue,Nor on any face a glimmer of hope.But there was no blubbering weak and wild,—Of tearful faces I saw but one,A rough old salt, who cried like a child,And not for himself, but the captain's son.
"The captain stood on the quarter-deck,Firm but pale with trumpet in hand;Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck,Sometimes he sadly looked to land;And often he smiled to cheer the crew—But, Lord! the smile was terrible grim—Till over the quarter a huge sea flew;And that was the last they saw of him.
"I saw one young fellow with his bride,Standing amidships upon the wreck;His face was white as the boiling tide,And she was clinging about his neck.And I saw them try to say good-bye,But neither could hear the other speak;So they floated away through the sea to die—Shoulder to shoulder and cheek to cheek.
"And there was a child, but eight at best,Who went his way in a sea she shipped,All the while holding upon his breastA little pet parrot whose wings were clipped.And, as the boy and the bird went by,Swinging away on a tall wave's crest,They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry,And together the three went down to rest.
"And so the crew went one by one,Some with gladness, and few with fear,—Cold and hardship such work had doneThat few seemed frightened when death was near.Thus every soul on board went down,—Sailor and passenger, little and great;The last that sank was a man of my town,A capital swimmer,—the second mate."
"Now, lonely fisherman, who are youThat say you saw this terrible wreck?How do I know what you say is true,When every mortal was swept from the deck?Where were you in that hour of death?How did you learn what you relate?"His answer came in an under-breath"Master, I was the second mate!"
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.
A SEA STORYSilence. A while agoShrieks went up piercingly;But now is the ship gone down;Good ship, well manned, was she.There's a raft that's a chance of life for one,This day upon the sea.A chance for one of twoYoung, strong, are he and he,Just in the manhood prime,The comelier, verily,For the wrestle with wind and weather and wave,In the life upon the sea.
A SEA STORY
Silence. A while agoShrieks went up piercingly;But now is the ship gone down;Good ship, well manned, was she.There's a raft that's a chance of life for one,This day upon the sea.
A chance for one of twoYoung, strong, are he and he,Just in the manhood prime,The comelier, verily,For the wrestle with wind and weather and wave,In the life upon the sea.
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
After a life-photograph bySarony,New York.————
One of them has a wifeAnd little children three;Two that can toddle and lisp,And a suckling on the knee:Naked they'll go, and hunger sore,If he be lost at sea.One has a dream of home,A dream that well may be:He never has breathed it yet;She never has known it, she.But some one will be sick at heartIf he be lost at sea."Wife and kids at home!—Wife, kids, nor home has he!—Give us a chance, Bill!" Then,"All right, Jem!" QuietlyA man gives up his life for a man,This day upon the sea.EMILY HENRIETTA HICKEY.
One of them has a wifeAnd little children three;Two that can toddle and lisp,And a suckling on the knee:Naked they'll go, and hunger sore,If he be lost at sea.
One has a dream of home,A dream that well may be:He never has breathed it yet;She never has known it, she.But some one will be sick at heartIf he be lost at sea.
"Wife and kids at home!—Wife, kids, nor home has he!—Give us a chance, Bill!" Then,"All right, Jem!" QuietlyA man gives up his life for a man,This day upon the sea.
EMILY HENRIETTA HICKEY.
I.WOMAN.————WOMAN.
I.WOMAN.————WOMAN.
When Eve broughtwoeto all mankindOld Adam called herwo-man;But when shewooedwith love so kind,He then pronounced herwoo-man.But now, with folly and with pride,Their husbands' pockets trimming,The women are so full ofwhimsThat men pronounce themwimmen!ANONYMOUS.
When Eve broughtwoeto all mankindOld Adam called herwo-man;But when shewooedwith love so kind,He then pronounced herwoo-man.But now, with folly and with pride,Their husbands' pockets trimming,The women are so full ofwhimsThat men pronounce themwimmen!
ANONYMOUS.
THE WOMEN FO'K.[2]O, sairly may I rue the dayI fancied first the womenkind;For aye sinsyne I ne'er can haeAe quiet thought or peace o' mind!They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my e'e,An' teased an' flattered me at will,But aye for a' their witcherye,The pawky things I lo'e them still.O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k!But they hae been the wreck o' me;O weary fa' the women fo'k,For they winna let a body be!I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell,I've studied them wi' a' my skill,I've lo'd them better than mysell,I've tried again to like them ill.Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,To comprehend what nae man can;When he has done what man can do,He'll end at last where he began.O the women fo'k, etc.That they hae gentle forms an' meet,A man wi' half a look may see;An gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet,An' waving curls aboon the bree;An' smiles as soft as the young rosebud,And een sae pawky, bright, an' rare,Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd,—But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!O the women fo'k, etc.Even but this night nae farther gane,The date is neither lost nor lang,I tak ye witness ilka ane,How fell they fought, and fairly dang.Their point they've carried right or wrang,Without a reason, rhyme, or law,An' forced a man to sing a sang,That ne'er could sing a verse ava.O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k!But they hae been the wreck o' me;O weary fa' the women fo'k,For they winna let a body be!JAMES HOGG.
THE WOMEN FO'K.[2]
O, sairly may I rue the dayI fancied first the womenkind;For aye sinsyne I ne'er can haeAe quiet thought or peace o' mind!They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my e'e,An' teased an' flattered me at will,But aye for a' their witcherye,The pawky things I lo'e them still.
O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k!But they hae been the wreck o' me;O weary fa' the women fo'k,For they winna let a body be!
I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell,I've studied them wi' a' my skill,I've lo'd them better than mysell,I've tried again to like them ill.Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,To comprehend what nae man can;When he has done what man can do,He'll end at last where he began.O the women fo'k, etc.
That they hae gentle forms an' meet,A man wi' half a look may see;An gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet,An' waving curls aboon the bree;An' smiles as soft as the young rosebud,And een sae pawky, bright, an' rare,Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd,—But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!O the women fo'k, etc.
Even but this night nae farther gane,The date is neither lost nor lang,I tak ye witness ilka ane,How fell they fought, and fairly dang.Their point they've carried right or wrang,Without a reason, rhyme, or law,An' forced a man to sing a sang,That ne'er could sing a verse ava.
O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k!But they hae been the wreck o' me;O weary fa' the women fo'k,For they winna let a body be!
JAMES HOGG.
OF A CERTAINE MAN.There was (not certaine when) a certaine preacher,That never learned, and yet became a teacher,Who having read in Latine thus a textOferat quidam homo, much perplext,He seemed the same with studie great to scan,In English thus,There was a certaine man.But now (quoth he), good people, note you this,He saith there was, he doth not say there is;For in these daies of ours it is most plaineOf promise, oath, word, deed, no man's certaine;Yet by my text you see it comes to passeThat surely once a certaine man there was:But yet, I think, in all your Bible no manCan finde this text,There was a certaine woman.SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.
OF A CERTAINE MAN.
There was (not certaine when) a certaine preacher,That never learned, and yet became a teacher,Who having read in Latine thus a textOferat quidam homo, much perplext,He seemed the same with studie great to scan,In English thus,There was a certaine man.But now (quoth he), good people, note you this,He saith there was, he doth not say there is;For in these daies of ours it is most plaineOf promise, oath, word, deed, no man's certaine;Yet by my text you see it comes to passeThat surely once a certaine man there was:But yet, I think, in all your Bible no manCan finde this text,There was a certaine woman.
SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.
WOMEN'S CHORUS.They're always abusing the women,As a terrible plague to men:They say we're the root of all evil,And repeat it again and again;Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed,All mischief, be what it may!And pray, then, why do you marry us,If we're all the plagues you say?And why do you take such care of us,And keep us so safe at home,And are never easy a momentIf ever we chance to roam?When you ought to be thanking heavenThat your Plague is out of the way,You all keep fussing and fretting—"Where ismyPlague to-day?"If a Plague peeps out of the window,Up go the eyes of men;If she hides, then they all keep staringUntil she looks out again.From the Greek ofARISTOPHANES.Translation ofWILLIAM COLLINS.
WOMEN'S CHORUS.
They're always abusing the women,As a terrible plague to men:They say we're the root of all evil,And repeat it again and again;Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed,All mischief, be what it may!And pray, then, why do you marry us,If we're all the plagues you say?And why do you take such care of us,And keep us so safe at home,And are never easy a momentIf ever we chance to roam?When you ought to be thanking heavenThat your Plague is out of the way,You all keep fussing and fretting—"Where ismyPlague to-day?"If a Plague peeps out of the window,Up go the eyes of men;If she hides, then they all keep staringUntil she looks out again.
From the Greek ofARISTOPHANES.Translation ofWILLIAM COLLINS.
THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG.Which way to Weinsberg? neighbor, say!'Tis sure a famous city:It must have cradled, in its day,Full many a maid of noble clay,And matrons wise and witty;And if ever marriage should happen to me,A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be.King Conrad once, historians say,Fell out with this good city;So down he came, one luckless day,—Horse, foot, dragoons,—in stern array,—And cannon,—more's the pity!Around the walls the artillery roared,And bursting bombs their fury poured.But naught the little town could scare;Then, red with indignation,He bade the herald straight repairUp to the gates, and thunder thereThe following proclamation:—"Rascals! when I your town do take,No living thing shall save its neck!"Now, when the herald's trumpet sentThese tidings through the city,To every house a death knell went;Such murder-cries the hot air rentMight move the stones to pity.Then bread grew dear, but good adviceCould not be had for any price.Then, "Woe is me!" "O misery!"What shrieks of lamentation!And "Kyrie Eleison!" criedThe pastors, and the flock replied,"Lord! save us from starvation!""Oh, woe is me, poor Corydon—My neck,—my neck! I'm gone,—I'm gone!"Yet oft, when counsel, deed, and prayerHad all proved unavailing,When hope hung trembling on a hair,How oft has woman's wit been there!—A refuge never failing;For woman's wit and Papal fraud,Of olden time, were famed abroad.A youthful dame, praised be her name!—Last night had seen her plighted,—Whether in waking hour or dream,Conceived a rare and novel scheme,Which all the town delighted;Which you, if you think otherwise,Have leave to laugh at and despise.At midnight hour, when culverinAnd gun and bomb were sleeping,Before the camp with mournful mien,The loveliest embassy were seen,All kneeling low and weeping.So sweetly, plaintively they prayed,But no reply save this was made:—"The women have free leave to go,Each with her choicest treasure;But let the knaves their husbands knowThat unto them the King will showThe weight of his displeasure."With these sad terms the lovely trainStole weeping from the camp again.But when the morning gilt the sky,What happened? Give attention:—The city gates wide open fly,And all the wives come trudging by,Each bearing—need I mention?—Her own dear husband on her back,All snugly seated in a sack!Full many a sprig of court, the jokeNot relishing, protested,And urged the King; but Conrad spoke:—"A monarch's word must not be broke!"And here the matter rested."Bravo!" he cried, "Ha, ha! Bravo!Our lady guessed it would be so."He pardoned all, and gave a ballThat night at royal quarters.The fiddles squeaked, the trumpets blew,And up and down the dancers flew,Court sprigs with city daughters.The mayor's wife—O rarest sight!—Danced with the shoemaker that night!Ah, where is Weinsberg, sir, I pray?'Tis sure a famous city:It must have cradled in its dayFull many a maid of noble clay,And matrons wise and witty;And if ever marriage should happen to me,A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be.From the German ofGOTTFRIED AUGÜST BÜRGER.Translation ofCHARLES TIMOTHY BROOKS.
THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG.
Which way to Weinsberg? neighbor, say!'Tis sure a famous city:It must have cradled, in its day,Full many a maid of noble clay,And matrons wise and witty;And if ever marriage should happen to me,A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be.
King Conrad once, historians say,Fell out with this good city;So down he came, one luckless day,—Horse, foot, dragoons,—in stern array,—And cannon,—more's the pity!Around the walls the artillery roared,And bursting bombs their fury poured.
But naught the little town could scare;Then, red with indignation,He bade the herald straight repairUp to the gates, and thunder thereThe following proclamation:—"Rascals! when I your town do take,No living thing shall save its neck!"
Now, when the herald's trumpet sentThese tidings through the city,To every house a death knell went;Such murder-cries the hot air rentMight move the stones to pity.Then bread grew dear, but good adviceCould not be had for any price.
Then, "Woe is me!" "O misery!"What shrieks of lamentation!And "Kyrie Eleison!" criedThe pastors, and the flock replied,"Lord! save us from starvation!""Oh, woe is me, poor Corydon—My neck,—my neck! I'm gone,—I'm gone!"
Yet oft, when counsel, deed, and prayerHad all proved unavailing,When hope hung trembling on a hair,How oft has woman's wit been there!—A refuge never failing;For woman's wit and Papal fraud,Of olden time, were famed abroad.
A youthful dame, praised be her name!—Last night had seen her plighted,—Whether in waking hour or dream,Conceived a rare and novel scheme,Which all the town delighted;Which you, if you think otherwise,Have leave to laugh at and despise.
At midnight hour, when culverinAnd gun and bomb were sleeping,Before the camp with mournful mien,The loveliest embassy were seen,All kneeling low and weeping.So sweetly, plaintively they prayed,But no reply save this was made:—
"The women have free leave to go,Each with her choicest treasure;But let the knaves their husbands knowThat unto them the King will showThe weight of his displeasure."With these sad terms the lovely trainStole weeping from the camp again.
But when the morning gilt the sky,What happened? Give attention:—The city gates wide open fly,And all the wives come trudging by,Each bearing—need I mention?—Her own dear husband on her back,All snugly seated in a sack!
Full many a sprig of court, the jokeNot relishing, protested,And urged the King; but Conrad spoke:—"A monarch's word must not be broke!"And here the matter rested."Bravo!" he cried, "Ha, ha! Bravo!Our lady guessed it would be so."
He pardoned all, and gave a ballThat night at royal quarters.The fiddles squeaked, the trumpets blew,And up and down the dancers flew,Court sprigs with city daughters.The mayor's wife—O rarest sight!—Danced with the shoemaker that night!
Ah, where is Weinsberg, sir, I pray?'Tis sure a famous city:It must have cradled in its dayFull many a maid of noble clay,And matrons wise and witty;And if ever marriage should happen to me,A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be.
From the German ofGOTTFRIED AUGÜST BÜRGER.Translation ofCHARLES TIMOTHY BROOKS.
SORROWS OF WERTHER.Werther had a love for CharlotteSuch as words could never utter;Would you know how first he met her?She was cutting bread and butter.Charlotte was a married lady,And a moral man was Werther,And for all the wealth of IndiesWould do nothing for to hurt her.So he sighed and pined and ogled,And his passion boiled and bubbled,Till he blew his silly brains out,And no more was by it troubled.Charlotte, having seen his bodyBorne before her on a shutter,Like a well-conducted person,Went on cutting bread and butter.WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
SORROWS OF WERTHER.
Werther had a love for CharlotteSuch as words could never utter;Would you know how first he met her?She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,And a moral man was Werther,And for all the wealth of IndiesWould do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,And his passion boiled and bubbled,Till he blew his silly brains out,And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his bodyBorne before her on a shutter,Like a well-conducted person,Went on cutting bread and butter.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.
THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.
"In the parish of St. Neots, Cornwall, is a well arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees,—withy, oak, elm, and ash,—and dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that, whether husband or wife first drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby."—FULLER.
A well there is in the West country,And a clearer one never was seen;There is not a wife in the West countryBut has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.An oak and an elm tree stand beside,And behind does an ash-tree grow,And a willow from the bank aboveDroops to the water below.A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;Pleasant it was to his eye,For from cock-crow he had been travelling,And there was not a cloud in the sky.He drank of the water so cool and clear,For thirsty and hot was he,And he sat down upon the bank,Under the willow-tree.There came a man from the neighboring townAt the well to fill his pail,On the well-side he rested it,And bade the stranger hail."Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he,"For an if thou hast a wife,The happiest draught thou hast drank this dayThat ever thou didst in thy life."Or has your good woman, if one you have,In Cornwall ever been?For an if she have, I'll venture my lifeShe has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne.""I have left a good woman who never was here,"The stranger he made reply;"But that my draught should be better for that,I pray you answer me why.""St. Keyne," quoth the countryman, "many a timeDrank of this crystal well,And before the angel summoned herShe laid on the water a spell."If the husband of this gifted wellShall drink before his wife,A happy man thenceforth is he,For he shall be master for life."But if the wife should drink of it first,Heaven help the husband then!"The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne,And drank of the waters again."You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?"He to the countryman said.But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake,And sheepishly shook his head."I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done,And left my wife in the porch.But i' faith, she had been wiser than me,For she took a bottle to church."ROBERT SOUTHEY.
A well there is in the West country,And a clearer one never was seen;There is not a wife in the West countryBut has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm tree stand beside,And behind does an ash-tree grow,And a willow from the bank aboveDroops to the water below.
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;Pleasant it was to his eye,For from cock-crow he had been travelling,And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear,For thirsty and hot was he,And he sat down upon the bank,Under the willow-tree.
There came a man from the neighboring townAt the well to fill his pail,On the well-side he rested it,And bade the stranger hail.
"Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he,"For an if thou hast a wife,The happiest draught thou hast drank this dayThat ever thou didst in thy life.
"Or has your good woman, if one you have,In Cornwall ever been?For an if she have, I'll venture my lifeShe has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne."
"I have left a good woman who never was here,"The stranger he made reply;"But that my draught should be better for that,I pray you answer me why."
"St. Keyne," quoth the countryman, "many a timeDrank of this crystal well,And before the angel summoned herShe laid on the water a spell.
"If the husband of this gifted wellShall drink before his wife,A happy man thenceforth is he,For he shall be master for life.
"But if the wife should drink of it first,Heaven help the husband then!"The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne,And drank of the waters again.
"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?"He to the countryman said.But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake,And sheepishly shook his head.
"I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done,And left my wife in the porch.But i' faith, she had been wiser than me,For she took a bottle to church."
ROBERT SOUTHEY.
BELLE OF THE BALL.Years, years ago, ere yet my dreamsHad been of being wise or witty,Ere I had done with writing themes,Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty,—Years, years ago, while all my joysWere in my fowling-piece and filly;In short, while I was yet a boy,I fell in love with Laura Lilly.I saw her at the county ball;There, when the sounds of flute and fiddleGave signal sweet in that old hallOf hands across and down the middle,Hers was the subtlest spell by farOf all that sets young hearts romancing:She was our queen, our rose, our star;And then she danced,—O Heaven! her dancing.Dark was her hair; her hand was white;Her voice was exquisitely tender;Her eyes were full of liquid light;I never saw a waist so slender;Her every look, her every smile,Shot right and left a score of arrows:I thought 'twas Venus from her isle,And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.She talked of politics or prayers,Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets,Of danglers or of dancing bears,Of battles or the last new bonnets;By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,—To me it mattered not a tittle,—If those bright lips had quoted Locke,I might have thought they murmured Little.Through sunny May, through sultry June,I loved her with a love eternal;I spoke her praises to the moon,I wrote them to the Sunday Journal.My mother laughed; I soon found outThat ancient ladies have no feeling:My father frowned; but how should goutSee any happiness in kneeling?She was the daughter of a dean,—Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;She had one brother just thirteen,Whose color was extremely hectic;Her grandmother for many a yearHad fed the parish with her bounty;Her second cousin was a peer,And lord-lieutenant of the county.But titles and the three-per-cents,And mortgages, and great relations,And India bonds, and tithes and rents,O, what are they to love's sensations?Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,—Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses;He cares as little for the stocksAs Baron Rothschild for the muses.She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach,Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading:She botanized; I envied eachYoung blossom in her boudoir fading:She warbled Handel; it was grand,—She made the Catilina jealous:She touched the organ; I could standFor hours and hours to blow the bellows.She kept an album too, at home,Well filled with all an album's glories,—Paintings of butterflies and Rome,Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories,Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter,And autographs of Prince Leeboo,And recipes for elder-water.And she was flattered, worshipped, bored;Her steps were watched, her dress was noted;Her poodle-dog was quite adored;Her sayings were extremely quoted.She laughed,—and every heart was glad,As if the taxes were abolished;She frowned,—and every look was sad,As if the opera were demolished.She smiled on many just for fun,—I knew that there was nothing in it;I was the first, the only one,Her heart had thought of for a minute.I knew it, for she told me so,In phrase which was divinely moulded;She wrote a charming hand,—and O,How sweetly all her notes were folded!Our love was most like other loves,—A little glow, a little shiver,A rosebud and a pair of gloves,And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river;Some jealousy of some one's heir,Some hopes of dying broken-hearted;A miniature, a lock of hair,The usual vows,—and then we parted.We parted: months and years rolled by;We met again four summers after.Our parting was all sob and sigh,Our meeting was all mirth and laughter!For in my heart's most secret cellThere had been many other lodgers;And she was not the ball-room's belle,But only Mrs.—Something—Rogers!WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
BELLE OF THE BALL.
Years, years ago, ere yet my dreamsHad been of being wise or witty,Ere I had done with writing themes,Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty,—Years, years ago, while all my joysWere in my fowling-piece and filly;In short, while I was yet a boy,I fell in love with Laura Lilly.
I saw her at the county ball;There, when the sounds of flute and fiddleGave signal sweet in that old hallOf hands across and down the middle,Hers was the subtlest spell by farOf all that sets young hearts romancing:She was our queen, our rose, our star;And then she danced,—O Heaven! her dancing.
Dark was her hair; her hand was white;Her voice was exquisitely tender;Her eyes were full of liquid light;I never saw a waist so slender;Her every look, her every smile,Shot right and left a score of arrows:I thought 'twas Venus from her isle,And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.
She talked of politics or prayers,Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets,Of danglers or of dancing bears,Of battles or the last new bonnets;By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,—To me it mattered not a tittle,—If those bright lips had quoted Locke,I might have thought they murmured Little.
Through sunny May, through sultry June,I loved her with a love eternal;I spoke her praises to the moon,I wrote them to the Sunday Journal.My mother laughed; I soon found outThat ancient ladies have no feeling:My father frowned; but how should goutSee any happiness in kneeling?
She was the daughter of a dean,—Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;She had one brother just thirteen,Whose color was extremely hectic;Her grandmother for many a yearHad fed the parish with her bounty;Her second cousin was a peer,And lord-lieutenant of the county.
But titles and the three-per-cents,And mortgages, and great relations,And India bonds, and tithes and rents,O, what are they to love's sensations?Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,—Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses;He cares as little for the stocksAs Baron Rothschild for the muses.
She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach,Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading:She botanized; I envied eachYoung blossom in her boudoir fading:She warbled Handel; it was grand,—She made the Catilina jealous:She touched the organ; I could standFor hours and hours to blow the bellows.
She kept an album too, at home,Well filled with all an album's glories,—Paintings of butterflies and Rome,Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories,Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter,And autographs of Prince Leeboo,And recipes for elder-water.
And she was flattered, worshipped, bored;Her steps were watched, her dress was noted;Her poodle-dog was quite adored;Her sayings were extremely quoted.She laughed,—and every heart was glad,As if the taxes were abolished;She frowned,—and every look was sad,As if the opera were demolished.
She smiled on many just for fun,—I knew that there was nothing in it;I was the first, the only one,Her heart had thought of for a minute.I knew it, for she told me so,In phrase which was divinely moulded;She wrote a charming hand,—and O,How sweetly all her notes were folded!
Our love was most like other loves,—A little glow, a little shiver,A rosebud and a pair of gloves,And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river;Some jealousy of some one's heir,Some hopes of dying broken-hearted;A miniature, a lock of hair,The usual vows,—and then we parted.
We parted: months and years rolled by;We met again four summers after.Our parting was all sob and sigh,Our meeting was all mirth and laughter!For in my heart's most secret cellThere had been many other lodgers;And she was not the ball-room's belle,But only Mrs.—Something—Rogers!
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
ECHO AND THE LOVER.Lover.Echo! mysterious nymph, declareOf what you're made, and what you are.Echo.Air!Lover.Mid airy cliffs and places high,Sweet Echo! listening love, you lie.Echo.You lie!Lover.Thou dost resuscitate dead sounds,—Hark! how my voice revives, resounds!Echo.Zounds!Lover.I'll question thee before I go,—Come, answer me more apropos!Echo.Poh! poh!Lover.Tell me, fair nymph, if e'er you sawSo sweet a girl as Phœbe Shaw.Echo.Pshaw!Lover.Say, what will turn that frisking coneyInto the toils of matrimony?Echo.Money!Lover.Has Phœbe not a heavenly brow?Is not her bosom white as snow?Echo.Ass! No!Lover.Her eyes! was ever such a pair?Are the stars brighter than they are?Echo.They are!Lover.Echo, thou liest, but can't deceive me.Echo.Leave me!Lover.But come, thou saucy, pert romancer,Who is as fair as Phœbe? Answer!Echo.Ann, sir.ANONYMOUS.
ECHO AND THE LOVER.
Lover.Echo! mysterious nymph, declareOf what you're made, and what you are.
Echo.Air!
Lover.Mid airy cliffs and places high,Sweet Echo! listening love, you lie.
Echo.You lie!
Lover.Thou dost resuscitate dead sounds,—Hark! how my voice revives, resounds!
Echo.Zounds!
Lover.I'll question thee before I go,—Come, answer me more apropos!
Echo.Poh! poh!
Lover.Tell me, fair nymph, if e'er you sawSo sweet a girl as Phœbe Shaw.
Echo.Pshaw!
Lover.Say, what will turn that frisking coneyInto the toils of matrimony?
Echo.Money!
Lover.Has Phœbe not a heavenly brow?Is not her bosom white as snow?
Echo.Ass! No!
Lover.Her eyes! was ever such a pair?Are the stars brighter than they are?
Echo.They are!
Lover.Echo, thou liest, but can't deceive me.
Echo.Leave me!
Lover.But come, thou saucy, pert romancer,Who is as fair as Phœbe? Answer!
Echo.Ann, sir.
ANONYMOUS.
ECHO.I asked of Echo, t' other day,(Whose words are few and often funny,)What to a novice she could sayOf courtship, love, and matrimony.Quoth Echo, plainly,—"Matter-o'-money!"Whom should I marry?—should it beA dashing damsel, gay and pert,A pattern of inconstancy;Or selfish, mercenary flirt?Quoth Echo, sharply,—"Nary flirt!"What if, aweary of the strifeThat long has lured the dear deceiver,She promise to amend her life,And sin no more; can I believe her?Quoth Echo, very promptly,—"Leave her!"But if some maiden with a heartOn me should venture to bestow it,Pray, should I act the wiser partTo take the treasure or forego it?Quoth Echo, with decision,—"Go it!"But what if, seemingly afraidTo bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,She vow she means to die a maid,In answer to my loving letter?Quoth Echo, rather coolly,—"Let her!"What if, in spite of her disdain,I find my heart intwined aboutWith Cupid's dear delicious chainSo closely that I can't get out?Quoth Echo, laughingly,—"Get out!"But if some maid with beauty blest,As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,Will share my labor and my restTill envious Death shall overtake her?Quoth Echo (sotto voce),—"Take her!"JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
ECHO.
I asked of Echo, t' other day,(Whose words are few and often funny,)What to a novice she could sayOf courtship, love, and matrimony.Quoth Echo, plainly,—"Matter-o'-money!"
Whom should I marry?—should it beA dashing damsel, gay and pert,A pattern of inconstancy;Or selfish, mercenary flirt?Quoth Echo, sharply,—"Nary flirt!"
What if, aweary of the strifeThat long has lured the dear deceiver,She promise to amend her life,And sin no more; can I believe her?Quoth Echo, very promptly,—"Leave her!"
But if some maiden with a heartOn me should venture to bestow it,Pray, should I act the wiser partTo take the treasure or forego it?Quoth Echo, with decision,—"Go it!"
But what if, seemingly afraidTo bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,She vow she means to die a maid,In answer to my loving letter?Quoth Echo, rather coolly,—"Let her!"
What if, in spite of her disdain,I find my heart intwined aboutWith Cupid's dear delicious chainSo closely that I can't get out?Quoth Echo, laughingly,—"Get out!"
But if some maid with beauty blest,As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,Will share my labor and my restTill envious Death shall overtake her?Quoth Echo (sotto voce),—"Take her!"
JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
"NOTHING TO WEAR."Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square,Has made three separate journeys to Paris,And her father assures me, each time she was there,That she and her friend Mrs. Harris(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history,But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery)Spent six consecutive weeks without stoppingIn one continuous round of shopping,—Shopping alone, and shopping together,At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather,For all manner of things that a woman can putOn the crown of her head or the sole of her foot,Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist,Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced,Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,In front or behind, above or below;For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls;Dresses for breakfasts and dinners and balls;Dresses to sit in and stand in and walk in;Dresses to dance in and flirt in and talk in;Dresses in which to do nothing at all;Dresses for Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall;All of them different in color and shape,Silk, muslin, and lace, velvet, satin, and crape,Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material,Quite as expensive and much more ethereal;In short, for all things that could ever be thought of,Or milliner,modiste, or tradesman be bought of,From ten-thousand-francs robe to twenty-sous frills;In all quarters of Paris, and to every store,While McFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore,They footed the streets, and he footed the bills!The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Arago,Formed, McFlimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo,Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest,Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest,Which did not appear on the ship's manifest,But for which the ladies themselves manifestedSuch particular interest, that they investedTheir own proper persons in layers and rowsOf muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes,Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those;Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties,Gavegood-byeto the ship, andgo-byto the duties.Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt,Miss Flora had grown so enormously stoutFor an actual belle and a possible bride;But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out,And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside,Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-House sentry,Had entered the port without any entry,And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the dayThis merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway,This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square,The last time we met was in utter despair,Because she had nothing whatever to wear!Nothing to wear!Now, as this is a true ditty,I do not assert—this, you know, is between us—That she's in a state of absolute nudity,Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus;But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare,When, at the same moment, she had on a dressWhich cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less,And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess,That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear!I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora'sTwo hundred and fifty or sixty adorers,I had just been selected as he who should throw allThe rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowalOn myself after twenty or thirty rejections,Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections,"And that rather decayed, but well-known work of art,Which Miss Flora persisted in styling her "heart."So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted,Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove,But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted,Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love,Without any romance or raptures or sighs,Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes,Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions,It was one of the quietest business transactions,With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any,And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany.On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss,She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis,And by way of putting me quite at my ease,"You know, I'm to polka as much as I please,And flirt when I like,—now, stop, don't you speak,—And you must not come here more than twice in the week,Or talk to me either at party or ball,But always be ready to come when I call;So don't prose to me about duty and stuff,If we don't break this off, there will be time enoughFor that sort of thing; but the bargain must beThat, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free,For this is a kind of engagement, you see,Which is binding on you but not binding on me."Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey and gained her,With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her,I had, as I thought, a contingent remainderAt least in the property, and the best rightTo appear as its escort by day and by night;And it being the week of theStuckups'grand ball,—Their cards had been out a fortnight or so,And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe,—I considered it only my duty to call,And see if Miss Flora intended to go.I found her,—as ladies are apt to be found,When the time intervening between the first soundOf the bell and the visitor's entry is shorterThan usual,—I found; I won't say—I caught her,Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaningTo see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning.She turned as I entered,—"Why, Harry, you sinner,I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!""So I did," I replied; "but the dinner is swallowedAnd digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more,So being relieved from that duty, I followedInclination, which led me, you see, to your door;And now will your ladyship so condescendAs just to inform me if you intendYour beauty and graces and presence to lend(All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow)To theStuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?"The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air,And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry,mon cher,I should like above all things to go with you there,But really and truly—I've nothing to wear.""Nothing to wear! go just as you are;Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far,I engage, the most bright and particular starOn the Stuckup horizon—" I stopped—for her eye,Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery,Opened on me at once a most terrible batteryOf scorn and amazement. She made no reply,But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose—That pure Grecian feature—as much as to say,"How absurd that any sane man should supposeThat a lady would go to a ball in the clothes,No matter how fine, that she wears every day!"So I ventured again: "Wear your crimson brocade"(Second turn-up of nose)—"That's too dark by a shade.""Your blue silk"—"That's too heavy." "Your pink"—"That's too light.""Wear tulle over satin"—"I can't endure white.""Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch"—"I haven't a thread of point-lace to match.""Your brownmoire antique"—"Yes, and look like a Quaker.""The pearl-colored"—"I would, but that plaguey dressmakerHas had it a week." "Then that exquisite lilacIn which you would melt the heart of a Shylock"(Here the nose took again the same elevation)—"I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation.""Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike itAs morecomme il faut"—"Yes, but, dear me! that leanSophronia Stuckup has got one just like it,And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen.""Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine,That superbpoint d'aiguille, that imperial green,That zephyr-like tarlatan, that richgrenadine"—"Not one of all which is fit to be seen,"Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed."Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushedOpposition, "that gorgeoustoilettewhich you sportedIn Paris last spring, at the grand presentation,When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation;And by all the grand court were so very much courted."The end of the nose was portentously tipped up,And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation,As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation,"I have worn it three times at the least calculation,And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!"Here Iripped outsomething, perhaps rather rash,Quite innocent, though; but, to use an expressionMore striking than classic, it "settled my hash,"And proved very soon the last act of our session."Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceilingDoesn't fall down and crush you—you men have no feeling;You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures,Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers,Your silly pretence—why, what a mere guess it is!Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities?I have told you and showed you I've nothing to wear,And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care,But you do not believe me"—(here the nose went still higher)—I suppose, if you dared, you would call me a liar.Our engagement is ended, sir—yes, on the spot;You're a brute, and a monster, and—I don't know what."I mildly suggested the words—Hottentot,Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief,As gentle expletives which might give relief;But this only proved as a spark to the powder,And the storm I had raised came faster and louder;It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailedInterjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failedTo express the abusive, and then its arrearsWere brought up all at once by a torrent of tears,And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs-Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too,Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo,In lieu of expressing the feelings which layQuite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say;Then, without going through the form of a bow,Found myself in the entry—I hardly knew how,—On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square,At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair;Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze,And said to myself, as I lit my cigar,"Supposing a man had the wealth of the CzarOf the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days,On the whole, do you think he would have much to spare,If he married a woman with nothing to wear?"Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruitedAbroad in society, I've institutedA course of inquiry, extensive and thorough,On this vital subject, and find, to my horror,That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising,But that there exists the greatest distressIn our female community, solely arisingFrom this unsupplied destitution of dress,Whose unfortunate victims are filling the airWith the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear."Researches in some of the "Upper Ten" districtsReveal the most painful and startling statistics,Of which let me mention only a few:In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue,Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two,Who have been three whole weeks without anything newIn the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurchAre unable to go to ball, concert, or church.In another large mansion, near the same place,Was found a deplorable, heart-rending caseOf entire destitution of Brussels point-lace.In a neighboring block there was found, in three calls,Total want, long continued, of camel's-hair shawls;And a suffering family, whose case exhibitsThe most pressing need of real ermine tippets;One deserving young lady almost unableTo survive for the want of a new Russian sable;Still another, whose tortures have been most terrificEver since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific,In which were engulfed, not friend or relation(For whose fate she perhaps might have found consolation,Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation),But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collarsEver sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars,And all as to style mostrecherchéand rare,The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear,And renders her life so drear and dyspepticThat she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic;For she touchingly says that this sort of griefCannot find in Religion the slightest relief,And Philosophy has not a maxim to spareFor the victim of such overwhelming despair.But the saddest by far of all these sad featuresIs the cruelty practised upon the poor creaturesBy husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons,Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamondsBy their wives and their daughters, and leave them for daysUnsupplied with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets,Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance,And deride their demands as useless extravagance.One case of a bride was brought to my view,Too sad for belief, but, alas! 't was too true,Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon,To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon.The consequence was, that when she got there,At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear,And when she proposed to finish the seasonAt Newport, the monster refused out and out,For his infamous conduct alleging no reason,Except that the waters were good for his gout;Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course,And proceedings are now going on for divorce.But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtainFrom these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certainHas here been disclosed to stir up the pityOf every benevolent heart in the city,And spur up Humanity into a canterTo rush and relieve these sad cases instanter.Won't somebody, moved by this touching description,Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription?Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid isSo needed at once by these indigent ladies,Take charge of the matter? Or won't Peter CooperThe corner-stone lay of some new splendid super-Structure, like that which to-day links his nameIn the Union unending of Honor and Fame;And found a new charity just for the careOf these unhappy women with nothing to wear,Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claimed,TheLaying-outHospital well might be named?Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers,Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters?Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses,And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses,For poor womankind, won't some venturesome loverA new California somewhere discover?O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny dayPlease trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,And temples of Trade which tower on each side,To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and GuiltTheir children have gathered, their city have built;Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair;Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stairTo the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold.See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet,All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swellFrom the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor;Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell,As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door;Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare—Spoiled children of Fashion—you've nothing to wear!And O, if perchance there should be a sphereWhere all is made right which so puzzles us here,Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of TimeFade and die in the light of that region sublime,Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,Unscreened by its trappings and shows and pretence,Must be clothed for the life and the service above,With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear!WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.
"NOTHING TO WEAR."
Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square,Has made three separate journeys to Paris,And her father assures me, each time she was there,That she and her friend Mrs. Harris(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history,But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery)Spent six consecutive weeks without stoppingIn one continuous round of shopping,—Shopping alone, and shopping together,At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather,For all manner of things that a woman can putOn the crown of her head or the sole of her foot,Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist,Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced,Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,In front or behind, above or below;For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls;Dresses for breakfasts and dinners and balls;Dresses to sit in and stand in and walk in;Dresses to dance in and flirt in and talk in;Dresses in which to do nothing at all;Dresses for Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall;All of them different in color and shape,Silk, muslin, and lace, velvet, satin, and crape,Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material,Quite as expensive and much more ethereal;In short, for all things that could ever be thought of,Or milliner,modiste, or tradesman be bought of,From ten-thousand-francs robe to twenty-sous frills;In all quarters of Paris, and to every store,While McFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore,They footed the streets, and he footed the bills!
The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Arago,Formed, McFlimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo,Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest,Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest,Which did not appear on the ship's manifest,But for which the ladies themselves manifestedSuch particular interest, that they investedTheir own proper persons in layers and rowsOf muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes,Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those;Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties,Gavegood-byeto the ship, andgo-byto the duties.Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt,Miss Flora had grown so enormously stoutFor an actual belle and a possible bride;But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out,And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside,Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-House sentry,Had entered the port without any entry,
And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the dayThis merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway,This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square,The last time we met was in utter despair,Because she had nothing whatever to wear!
Nothing to wear!Now, as this is a true ditty,I do not assert—this, you know, is between us—That she's in a state of absolute nudity,Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus;But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare,When, at the same moment, she had on a dressWhich cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less,And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess,That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear!
I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora'sTwo hundred and fifty or sixty adorers,I had just been selected as he who should throw allThe rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowalOn myself after twenty or thirty rejections,Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections,"And that rather decayed, but well-known work of art,Which Miss Flora persisted in styling her "heart."So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted,Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove,But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted,Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love,Without any romance or raptures or sighs,Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes,Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions,It was one of the quietest business transactions,With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any,And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany.On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss,She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis,And by way of putting me quite at my ease,"You know, I'm to polka as much as I please,And flirt when I like,—now, stop, don't you speak,—And you must not come here more than twice in the week,Or talk to me either at party or ball,But always be ready to come when I call;So don't prose to me about duty and stuff,If we don't break this off, there will be time enoughFor that sort of thing; but the bargain must beThat, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free,For this is a kind of engagement, you see,Which is binding on you but not binding on me."
Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey and gained her,With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her,I had, as I thought, a contingent remainderAt least in the property, and the best rightTo appear as its escort by day and by night;And it being the week of theStuckups'grand ball,—Their cards had been out a fortnight or so,And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe,—I considered it only my duty to call,And see if Miss Flora intended to go.I found her,—as ladies are apt to be found,When the time intervening between the first soundOf the bell and the visitor's entry is shorterThan usual,—I found; I won't say—I caught her,Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaningTo see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning.She turned as I entered,—"Why, Harry, you sinner,I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!""So I did," I replied; "but the dinner is swallowedAnd digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more,So being relieved from that duty, I followedInclination, which led me, you see, to your door;And now will your ladyship so condescendAs just to inform me if you intendYour beauty and graces and presence to lend(All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow)To theStuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?"The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air,And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry,mon cher,I should like above all things to go with you there,But really and truly—I've nothing to wear.""Nothing to wear! go just as you are;Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far,I engage, the most bright and particular starOn the Stuckup horizon—" I stopped—for her eye,Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery,Opened on me at once a most terrible batteryOf scorn and amazement. She made no reply,But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose—That pure Grecian feature—as much as to say,"How absurd that any sane man should supposeThat a lady would go to a ball in the clothes,No matter how fine, that she wears every day!"
So I ventured again: "Wear your crimson brocade"(Second turn-up of nose)—"That's too dark by a shade.""Your blue silk"—"That's too heavy." "Your pink"—"That's too light.""Wear tulle over satin"—"I can't endure white.""Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch"—"I haven't a thread of point-lace to match.""Your brownmoire antique"—"Yes, and look like a Quaker.""The pearl-colored"—"I would, but that plaguey dressmakerHas had it a week." "Then that exquisite lilacIn which you would melt the heart of a Shylock"(Here the nose took again the same elevation)—"I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation.""Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike itAs morecomme il faut"—"Yes, but, dear me! that leanSophronia Stuckup has got one just like it,And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen.""Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine,That superbpoint d'aiguille, that imperial green,That zephyr-like tarlatan, that richgrenadine"—"Not one of all which is fit to be seen,"Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed."Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushedOpposition, "that gorgeoustoilettewhich you sportedIn Paris last spring, at the grand presentation,When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation;And by all the grand court were so very much courted."The end of the nose was portentously tipped up,And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation,As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation,"I have worn it three times at the least calculation,And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!"Here Iripped outsomething, perhaps rather rash,Quite innocent, though; but, to use an expressionMore striking than classic, it "settled my hash,"And proved very soon the last act of our session."Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceilingDoesn't fall down and crush you—you men have no feeling;You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures,Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers,Your silly pretence—why, what a mere guess it is!Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities?I have told you and showed you I've nothing to wear,And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care,But you do not believe me"—(here the nose went still higher)—I suppose, if you dared, you would call me a liar.Our engagement is ended, sir—yes, on the spot;You're a brute, and a monster, and—I don't know what."I mildly suggested the words—Hottentot,Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief,As gentle expletives which might give relief;But this only proved as a spark to the powder,And the storm I had raised came faster and louder;It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailedInterjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failedTo express the abusive, and then its arrearsWere brought up all at once by a torrent of tears,And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs-Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.
Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too,Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo,In lieu of expressing the feelings which layQuite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say;Then, without going through the form of a bow,Found myself in the entry—I hardly knew how,—On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square,At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair;Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze,And said to myself, as I lit my cigar,"Supposing a man had the wealth of the CzarOf the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days,On the whole, do you think he would have much to spare,If he married a woman with nothing to wear?"
Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruitedAbroad in society, I've institutedA course of inquiry, extensive and thorough,On this vital subject, and find, to my horror,That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising,But that there exists the greatest distressIn our female community, solely arisingFrom this unsupplied destitution of dress,Whose unfortunate victims are filling the airWith the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear."Researches in some of the "Upper Ten" districtsReveal the most painful and startling statistics,Of which let me mention only a few:In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue,Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two,Who have been three whole weeks without anything newIn the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurchAre unable to go to ball, concert, or church.In another large mansion, near the same place,Was found a deplorable, heart-rending caseOf entire destitution of Brussels point-lace.In a neighboring block there was found, in three calls,Total want, long continued, of camel's-hair shawls;And a suffering family, whose case exhibitsThe most pressing need of real ermine tippets;One deserving young lady almost unableTo survive for the want of a new Russian sable;Still another, whose tortures have been most terrificEver since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific,In which were engulfed, not friend or relation(For whose fate she perhaps might have found consolation,Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation),But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collarsEver sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars,And all as to style mostrecherchéand rare,The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear,And renders her life so drear and dyspepticThat she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic;For she touchingly says that this sort of griefCannot find in Religion the slightest relief,And Philosophy has not a maxim to spareFor the victim of such overwhelming despair.But the saddest by far of all these sad featuresIs the cruelty practised upon the poor creaturesBy husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons,Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamondsBy their wives and their daughters, and leave them for daysUnsupplied with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets,Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance,And deride their demands as useless extravagance.One case of a bride was brought to my view,Too sad for belief, but, alas! 't was too true,Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon,To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon.The consequence was, that when she got there,At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear,And when she proposed to finish the seasonAt Newport, the monster refused out and out,For his infamous conduct alleging no reason,Except that the waters were good for his gout;Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course,And proceedings are now going on for divorce.
But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtainFrom these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certainHas here been disclosed to stir up the pityOf every benevolent heart in the city,And spur up Humanity into a canterTo rush and relieve these sad cases instanter.Won't somebody, moved by this touching description,Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription?Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid isSo needed at once by these indigent ladies,Take charge of the matter? Or won't Peter CooperThe corner-stone lay of some new splendid super-Structure, like that which to-day links his nameIn the Union unending of Honor and Fame;And found a new charity just for the careOf these unhappy women with nothing to wear,Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claimed,TheLaying-outHospital well might be named?Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers,Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters?Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses,And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses,For poor womankind, won't some venturesome loverA new California somewhere discover?
O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny dayPlease trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,And temples of Trade which tower on each side,To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and GuiltTheir children have gathered, their city have built;Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair;Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stairTo the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold.See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet,All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swellFrom the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor;Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell,As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door;Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare—Spoiled children of Fashion—you've nothing to wear!
And O, if perchance there should be a sphereWhere all is made right which so puzzles us here,Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of TimeFade and die in the light of that region sublime,Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,Unscreened by its trappings and shows and pretence,Must be clothed for the life and the service above,With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear!
WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.