Chapter 49

One day, while fishing on a log, He mourned his want of luck,-- When suddenly, he felt a bite, And jerking--caught a duck!

Alas! that day this fisherman Had taken too much grog; And being but a landsman, too, He could n't keep the log!

'T was all in vain with might and main He strove to reach the shore; Down, down he went, to feed the fish He'd baited oft before!

The jury gave their verdict, that 'T was nothing else but gin, That caused the fisherman to be So sadly taken in;

Though one stood out upon a whim, And said the angler's slaughter, To be exact about the fact, Was clearly gin-and-water.

The moral of this mournful tale, To all is plain and clear,-- That drinking habits bring a man Too often to his bier;

And he who scorns to "take the pledge," And keep the promise fast, May be, in spite of fate, a stiff Cold-water man, at last! J. G. Saxe.

CCCLXVII.

WHITTLING.

The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool, The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby; His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it, Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it; And, in the education of the lad, No little part that implement hath had,-- His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings A growing knowledge of material things.

Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart, His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod, its sharp explosion and rebounding wad, His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone, Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed, His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win, His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin; Or, if his father lives upon the shore, You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor," Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers stanch And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven, Ere long he'll solve you any problem given; Make any jim-crack, musical or mute, A plough, a couch, an organ or a flute; Make you a locomotive or a clock, Cut a canal, or build a floating dock, Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block;-- Make anything, in short, for sea or shore, From a child's rattle, to a seventy-four;-- Make it, said I?--Ay, when he undertakes it, He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it.

And when the thing is made, whether it be To move on earth, in air, or on the sea; Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide, Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide; Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring, Whether it be a piston or a spring, Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass, The thing designed shall surely come to pass; For, when his hand 's upon it, you may know That there's go in it, and he'll make it go. J. Pierpont.

CCCLXVIII.

HOTSPUR'S ACCOUNT OF A FOP.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners. But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped, Showed like a stubble land at harvest-home. He was perfumed like a milliner; And. 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon, He gave his nose, and took 't away again;-- And still he smiled and talked; And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He called them--untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He questioned me; among the rest, demanded My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf. I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, To be so pestered with a popinjay, Out of my grief and my impatience, Answered neglectingly, I know not what; He should, or he should not;--for he made me mad. To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman, Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!) And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise; And that it was a great pity, so it was, This villainous saltpetre should be digged Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier. This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said; And, I beseech you, let not this report Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love and your high majesty. Shakespeare.

CCCLXIX.

HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE.

Hard by a poet's attic lived a chemist, Or alchemist, who had a mighty Faith in the elixir vitæ; And, though unflattered by the dimmest Glimpse of success, kept credulously groping And grubbing in his dark vocation; Stupidly hoping To onto the art of changing metals, And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles, By mystery of transmutation.

Our starving poet took occasion To seek this conjurer's abode; Not with encomiastic ode, Of laudatory dedication, But with an offer to impart, For twenty pounds, the secret art Which should procure, without the pain Of metals, chemistry, and fire, What he so long had sought in vain, And gratify his heart's desire.

The money paid, our bard was hurried To the philosopher's sanctorum, Who, as it were sublimed and flurried Out of his chemical decorum, Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his Crucibles, retort, and furnace, And cried, as he secured the door, And carefully put to the shutter, "Now, now, the secret, I implore! For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter!"

With grave and solemn air the poet Cried: "List! O, list, for thus I show it: Let this plain truth those ingrates strike, Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave; THAT WE MAY ALL HAVE WHAT WE LIKE, SIMPLY BY LIKING WHAT WE HAVE!" Horace Smith.

CCCLXX.

THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand: "Hark ye," said he, "'tis an odd story this, About the crows!"--"I don't know what it is," Replied his friend.--"No? I'm surprised at that; Where I came from 't is the common chat; But you shall hear: an odd affair indeed! And that it happened, they are all agreed. Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short, as all the alley knows, Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows." "Impossible!"--"Nay, but it 's really true; I had it from good hands, and so may you." "From whose, I pray?" So having named the man, Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. "Sir, did you tell?"--relating the affair-- "Yes, sir, I did; and if it's worth you care, Ask Mr. Such-a-one; he told it me; But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three." Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, Whip to the third, the virtuoso went. "Sir,"--and so forth--"Why, yes; the thing is fact, Though in regard to number not exact; It was not two black crows; 't was only one; The truth of that you may depends upon, The gentleman himself told me the case." "Where may I find him?"--"Why, in such a place." Away he goes, and having found him out-- "Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt."

Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know if true what he had heard. "Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?"--"Not I!"-- "Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, And here I find at last all comes to none! Did you say nothing of a crow at all?" "Crow--crow--perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over."--"And pray, sir, what was 't?" "Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, Something that was as black, sir, as a crow." Byrom.

CCCLXXI.

HELPS TO READ.

A certain artist--I've forgot his name-- Had got, for making spectacles, a fame, Or, "helps to read," as, when they first were sold, Was writ upon his glaring sign in gold; And, for all uses to be had from glass, His were allowed by readers to surpass. There came a man into his shop one day-- "Are you the spectacle contriver, pray?" "Yes Sir," said he, "I can in that affair Contrive to please you, if you want a pair." "Can you? pray do, then." So at first he chose To place a youngish pair upon his nose; And, book produced, to see how they would fit, Asked how he liked them. "Like 'em!--not a bit." "Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try These in my hand will better suit your eye?"-- "No, but they don't."--"Well come, sir, if you please, Here is another sort; we'll e'en try these; Still somewhat more they magnify the letter, Now, sir?"--"Why, now, I'm not a bit the better."-- "No! here, take these which magnify still more,-- How do they fit"?--"Like all the rest before!" In short, they tried a whole assortment through, But all in vain, for none of them would do. The operator, much surprised to find So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind! "What sort of eyes can you have got?" said he. "Why very good ones, friend, as you may see." "Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball. Pray let me ask you Can you read at all?" "No! you great blockhead!--If I could, what need Of paying you for any 'helps to read?'" And so he left the maker in a heat, Resolved to post him for an arrant cheat. Byrom.

BOOK FOURTH.

STANDARD SELECTIONS OF DIALOGUES.

BOOK FOURTH.

STANDARD DIALOGUES.

CCCLXXII.

PRINCE ARTHUR OF BRETAGNE.

PRINCE ARTHUR--HUBERT--ATTENDANTS.

HUB. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras; when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground rush forth, And bind the boy which you shall find with me, Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch. 1 Att. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to it. [Exeunt Attendants.] Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. [Enter Arth.] Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince. Arth. As little prince (having so great a title To be more prince) as may be.--You are sad. Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. Arth. Mercy on me! Methinks nobody should be sad but I: Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, I should be merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt My uncle practices more harm to me. He is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son? No, indeed, is 't not; and I would to Heaven, I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate, He will awake my mercy, which lies dead: Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [Aside.] Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day. In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might, sit all night, and watch with you. I warrant, I love you more than you do me. Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.-- Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now, foolish rheum. [Aside.] Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.-- Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ? Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? Hub. Young boy, I must. Arth. And will you? Hub. And I will. Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at midnight held your head; And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheered up the heavy time; Saying, What lack you? and Where lies your grief? Or, What good love may I perform for you? Many a poor man's son would have lain still, And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you: But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was a crafty love, And call it cunning: do, and if you will: If Heaven be pleased that you should use me ill, Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?-- These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, So much as frown on you? Hub. I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out. Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, And quench its fiery indignation, Even in the matter of mine innocence: Nay, after that, consume away in rust, But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron? An if an angel should have come to me, And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believed him; no tongue, but Hubert's. Hub. Come forth. [Stamps.--Reënter Attendants.] Do as I bid you. Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. Arth. Alas! what need you be so boisterous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the irons angrily. Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to. Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. 1 Att. I am best pleased to be away from such a deed. [Exeunt Attendants.] Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend: He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart. Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. Arth. Is there no remedy? Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. Arth. O, Heaven! that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a meandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. Hub. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue. Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes. Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert! Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes; O, spare mine eyes, Though to no use, but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, And would not harm me. Hub. I can heat it, boy. Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief-- Being create for comfort,--to be used In undeserved extremes. See else yourself: There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, And strewed repentant ashes on his head. Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush, And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert; Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes, And, like a dog, that is compelled to fight, Snatch at his master that does tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong, Deny their office: only you do lack That mercy, which fierce fire, and iron, extends,-- Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes For all the treasure that thine uncle owes. Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out. Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while You were disguised. Hub. Peace; no more: Adieu!-- Your uncle must not know but you are dead; I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports. And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee. Arth. O, Heaven!--I thank you, Hubert. Hub. Silence: no more. Go closely in with me: Much danger do I undergo for thee. Shakespeare.

CCCLXXIII.

QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.