Chapter 9

I spare the picture, how a man appears Who's been asleep a score or two of years; You all have seen it to perfection done By Joe Van Wink--I mean Rip Jefferson. Well, so it was; old Rip at last came back, Claimed his old wife--the present widow Mac---- Had his old sign regilded, and began To practise physic on the same old plan. Some weeks went by--it was not long to wait-- And "please to call" grew frequent on the slate. He had, in fact, an ancient, mildewed air, A long gray beard, a plenteous lack of hair,-- The musty look that always recommends Your good old Doctor to his ailing friends. --Talk of your science! after all is said There's nothing like a bare and shiny head; Age lends the graces that are sure to please; Folks want their Doctors mouldy, like their cheese.

So Rip began to look at people's tongues And thump their briskets (called it "sound their lungs"), Brushed up his knowledge smartly as he could, Read in old Cullen and in Doctor Good. The town was healthy; for a month or two He gave the sexton little work to do.

About the time when dog-day heats begin, The summer's usual maladies set in; With autumn evenings dysentery came, And dusky typhoid lit his smouldering flame; The blacksmith ailed, the carpenter was down, And half the children sickened in the town. The sexton's face grew shorter than before-- The sexton's wife a brand-new bonnet wore-- Things looked quite serious--Death had got a grip On old and young, in spite of Doctor Rip.

And now the Squire was taken with a chill-- Wife gave "hot-drops"--at night an Indian pill; Next morning, feverish--bedtime, getting worse-- Out of his head--began to rave and curse; The Doctor sent for--double quick he came _Ant. Tart. gran. duo_, and repeat the same If no et cetera. Third day--nothing new; Percussed his thorax till 't was black and blue-- Lung-fever threatening--something of the sort-- Out with the lancet--let him bleed--a quart-- Ten leeches next--then blisters to his side; Ten grains of calomel; just then he died.

The Deacon next required the Doctor's care-- Took cold by sitting in a draught of air-- Pains in the back, but what the matter is Not quite so clear,--wife calls it "rheumatiz." Rubs back with flannel--gives him something hot-- "Ah!" says the Deacon, "that goes nigh the spot." Next day a rigor--"Run, my little man, And say the Deacon sends for Doctor Van." The Doctor came--percussion as before, Thumping and banging till his ribs were sore-- "Right side the flattest"--then more vigorous raps-- "Fever--that's certain--pleurisy, perhaps. A quart of blood will ease the pain, no doubt, Ten leeches next will help to suck it out, Then clap a blister on the painful part-- But first two grains of _Antimonium Tart_. Last with a dose of cleansing calomel Unload the portal system--(that sounds well!)"

But when the selfsame remedies were tried, As all the village knew, the Squire had died;

The neighbors hinted. "This will never do; He's killed the Squire--he'll kill the Deacon too."

Now when a doctor's patients are perplexed, A consultation comes in order next-- You know what that is? In a certain place Meet certain doctors to discuss a case And other matters, such as weather, crops, Potatoes, pumpkins, lager-beer, and hops. For what's the use?--there 's little to be said, Nine times in ten your man's as good as dead; At best a talk (the secret to disclose) Where three men guess and sometimes one man knows.

The counsel summoned came without delay-- Young Doctor Green and shrewd old Doctor Gray-- They heard the story--"Bleed!" says Doctor Green, "That's downright murder! cut his throat, you mean Leeches! the reptiles! Why, for pity's sake, Not try an adder or a rattlesnake? Blisters! Why bless you, they 're against the law-- It's rank assault and battery if they draw Tartrate of Antimony! shade of Luke, Stomachs turn pale at thought of such rebuke! The portal system! What's the man about? Unload your nonsense! Calomel's played out! You've been asleep--you'd better sleep away Till some one calls you."

"Stop!" says Doctor Gray-- "The story is you slept for thirty years; With brother Green, I own that it appears You must have slumbered most amazing sound; But sleep once more till thirty years come round, You'll find the lancet in its honored place, Leeches and blisters rescued from disgrace, Your drugs redeemed from fashion's passing scorn, And counted safe to give to babes unborn."

Poor sleepy Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D., A puzzled, serious, saddened man was he; Home from the Deacon's house he plodded slow And filled one bumper of "Elixir Pro." "Good-by," he faltered, "Mrs. Van, my dear! I'm going to sleep, but wake me once a year; I don't like bleaching in the frost and dew, I'll take the barn, if all the same to you. Just once a year--remember! no mistake! Cry, 'Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake!' Watch for the week in May when laylocks blow, For then the Doctors meet, and I must go."

Just once a year the Doctor's worthy dame Goes to the barn and shouts her husband's name; "Come, Rip Van Winkle!" (giving him a shake) "Rip! Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake! Laylocks in blossom! 't is the month of May-- The Doctors' meeting is this blessed day, And come what will, you know I heard you swear You'd never miss it, but be always there!"

And so it is, as every year comes round Old Rip Van Winkle here is always found. You'll quickly know him by his mildewed air, The hayseed sprinkled through his scanty hair, The lichens growing on his rusty suit-- I've seen a toadstool sprouting on his boot-- Who says I lie? Does any man presume?-- Toadstool? No matter--call it a mushroom. Where is his seat? He moves it every year; But look, you'll find him,--he is always here,-- Perhaps you'll track him by a whiff you know-- A certain flavor of "Elixir Pro."

Now, then, I give you--as you seem to think We can give toasts without a drop to drink-- Health to the mighty sleeper,--long live he! Our brother Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D.!

SONGS IN MANY KEYS

1849-1861

THE piping of our slender, peaceful reeds Whispers uncared for while the trumpets bray; Song is thin air; our hearts' exulting play Beats time but to the tread of marching deeds, Following the mighty van that Freedom leads, Her glorious standard flaming to the day! The crimsoned pavement where a hero bleeds Breathes nobler lessons than the poet's lay. Strong arms, broad breasts, brave hearts, are better worth Than strains that sing the ravished echoes dumb. Hark! 't is the loud reverberating drum Rolls o'er the prairied West, the rock-bound North The myriad-handed Future stretches forth Its shadowy palms. Behold, we come,--we come!

Turn o'er these idle leaves. Such toys as these Were not unsought for, as, in languid dreams, We lay beside our lotus-feeding streams, And nursed our fancies in forgetful ease. It matters little if they pall or please, Dropping untimely, while the sudden gleams Glare from the mustering clouds whose blackness seems Too swollen to hold its lightning from the trees. Yet, in some lull of passion, when at last These calm revolving moons that come and go-- Turning our months to years, they creep so slow-- Have brought us rest, the not unwelcome past May flutter to thee through these leaflets, cast On the wild winds that all around us blow. May 1, 1861.

AGNES

The story of Sir Harry Frankland and Agnes Surriage is told in the ballad with a very strict adhesion to the facts. These were obtained from information afforded me by the Rev. Mr. Webster, of Hopkinton, in company with whom I visited the Frankland Mansion in that town, then standing; from a very interesting Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason, of Medford; and from the manuscript diary of Sir Harry, or more properly Sir Charles Henry Frankland, now in the library of the Massachusetts Historical Society.

At the time of the visit referred to, old Julia was living, and on our return we called at the house where she resided.--[She was living June 10, 1861, when this ballad was published]--Her account is little more than paraphrased in the poem. If the incidents are treated with a certain liberality at the close of the fifth part, the essential fact that Agnes rescued Sir Harry from the ruins after the earthquake, and their subsequent marriage as related, may be accepted as literal truth. So with regard to most of the trifling details which are given; they are taken from the record. It is greatly to be regretted that the Frankland Mansion no longer exists. It was accidentally burned on the 23d of January, 1858, a year or two after the first sketch of this ballad was written. A visit to it was like stepping out of the century into the years before the Revolution. A new house, similar in plan and arrangements to the old one, has been built upon its site, and the terraces, the clump of box, and the lilacs doubtless remain to bear witness to the truth of this story.

The story, which I have told literally in rhyme, has been made the subject of a carefully studied and interesting romance by Mr. E. L. Bynner.

PART FIRST

THE KNIGHT

THE tale I tell is gospel true, As all the bookmen know, And pilgrims who have strayed to view The wrecks still left to show.

The old, old story,--fair, and young, And fond,--and not too wise,-- That matrons tell, with sharpened tongue, To maids with downcast eyes.

Ah! maidens err and matrons warn Beneath the coldest sky; Love lurks amid the tasselled corn As in the bearded rye!

But who would dream our sober sires Had learned the old world's ways, And warmed their hearths with lawless fires In Shirley's homespun days?

'T is like some poet's pictured trance His idle rhymes recite,-- This old New England-born romance Of Agnes and the Knight;

Yet, known to all the country round, Their home is standing still, Between Wachusett's lonely mound And Shawmut's threefold hill.

One hour we rumble on the rail, One half-hour guide the rein, We reach at last, o'er hill and dale, The village on the plain.

With blackening wall and mossy roof, With stained and warping floor, A stately mansion stands aloof And bars its haughty door.

This lowlier portal may be tried, That breaks the gable wall; And lo! with arches opening wide, Sir Harry Frankland's hall!

'T was in the second George's day They sought the forest shade, The knotted trunks they cleared away, The massive beams they laid,

They piled the rock-hewn chimney tall, They smoothed the terraced ground, They reared the marble-pillared wall That fenced the mansion round.

Far stretched beyond the village bound The Master's broad domain; With page and valet, horse and hound, He kept a goodly train.

And, all the midland county through, The ploughman stopped to gaze Whene'er his chariot swept in view Behind the shining bays,

With mute obeisance, grave and slow, Repaid by nod polite,-- For such the way with high and low Till after Concord fight.

Nor less to courtly circles known That graced the three-hilled town With far-off splendors of the Throne, And glimmerings from the Crown;

Wise Phipps, who held the seals of state For Shirley over sea; Brave Knowles, whose press-gang moved of late The King Street mob's decree;

And judges grave, and colonels grand, Fair dames and stately men, The mighty people of the land, The "World" of there and then.

'T was strange no Chloe's "beauteous Form," And "Eyes' celestial Blew," This Strephon of the West could warm, No Nymph his Heart subdue.

Perchance he wooed as gallants use, Whom fleeting loves enchain, But still unfettered, free to choose, Would brook no bridle-rein.

He saw the fairest of the fair, But smiled alike on all; No band his roving foot might snare, No ring his hand enthrall.

PART SECOND

THE MAIDEN

Why seeks the knight that rocky cape Beyond the Bay of Lynn? What chance his wayward course may shape To reach its village inn?

No story tells; whate'er we guess, The past lies deaf and still, But Fate, who rules to blight or bless, Can lead us where she will.

Make way! Sir Harry's coach and four, And liveried grooms that ride! They cross the ferry, touch the shore On Winnisimmet's side.

They hear the wash on Chelsea Beach,-- The level marsh they pass, Where miles on miles the desert reach Is rough with bitter grass.

The shining horses foam and pant, And now the smells begin Of fishy Swampscott, salt Nahant, And leather-scented Lynn.

Next, on their left, the slender spires And glittering vanes that crown The home of Salem's frugal sires, The old, witch-haunted town.

So onward, o'er the rugged way That runs through rocks and sand, Showered by the tempest-driven spray, From bays on either hand,

That shut between their outstretched arms The crews of Marblehead, The lords of ocean's watery farms, Who plough the waves for bread.

At last the ancient inn appears, The spreading elm below, Whose flapping sign these fifty years Has seesawed to and fro.

How fair the azure fields in sight Before the low-browed inn The tumbling billows fringe with light The crescent shore of Lynn;

Nahant thrusts outward through the waves Her arm of yellow sand, And breaks the roaring surge that braves The gauntlet on her hand;

With eddying whirl the waters lock Yon treeless mound forlorn, The sharp-winged sea-fowl's breeding-rock, That fronts the Spouting Horn;

Then free the white-sailed shallops glide, And wide the ocean smiles, Till, shoreward bent, his streams divide The two bare Misery Isles.

The master's silent signal stays The wearied cavalcade; The coachman reins his smoking bays Beneath the elm-tree's shade.

A gathering on the village green! The cocked-hats crowd to see, On legs in ancient velveteen, With buckles at the knee.

A clustering round the tavern-door Of square-toed village boys, Still wearing, as their grandsires wore, The old-world corduroys!

A scampering at the "Fountain" inn,--- A rush of great and small,-- With hurrying servants' mingled din And screaming matron's call.

Poor Agnes! with her work half done They caught her unaware; As, humbly, like a praying nun, She knelt upon the stair;

Bent o'er the steps, with lowliest mien She knelt, but not to pray,-- Her little hands must keep them clean, And wash their stains away.

A foot, an ankle, bare and white, Her girlish shapes betrayed,-- "Ha! Nymphs and Graces!" spoke the Knight; "Look up, my beauteous Maid!"

She turned,--a reddening rose in bud, Its calyx half withdrawn,-- Her cheek on fire with damasked blood Of girlhood's glowing dawn!

He searched her features through and through, As royal lovers look On lowly maidens, when they woo Without the ring and book.

"Come hither, Fair one! Here, my Sweet! Nay, prithee, look not down! Take this to shoe those little feet,"-- He tossed a silver crown.

A sudden paleness struck her brow,-- A swifter blush succeeds; It burns her cheek; it kindles now Beneath her golden beads.

She flitted, but the glittering eye Still sought the lovely face. Who was she? What, and whence? and why Doomed to such menial place?

A skipper's daughter,--so they said,-- Left orphan by the gale That cost the fleet of Marblehead And Gloucester thirty sail.

Ah! many a lonely home is found Along the Essex shore, That cheered its goodman outward bound, And sees his face no more!

"Not so," the matron whispered,--"sure No orphan girl is she,-- The Surriage folk are deadly poor Since Edward left the sea,

"And Mary, with her growing brood, Has work enough to do To find the children clothes and food With Thomas, John, and Hugh.

"This girl of Mary's, growing tall,-- (Just turned her sixteenth year,)-- To earn her bread and help them all, Would work as housemaid here."

So Agnes, with her golden beads, And naught beside as dower, Grew at the wayside with the weeds, Herself a garden-flower.

'T was strange, 't was sad,--so fresh, so fair! Thus Pity's voice began. Such grace! an angel's shape and air! The half-heard whisper ran.

For eyes could see in George's time, As now in later days, And lips could shape, in prose and rhyme, The honeyed breath of praise.

No time to woo! The train must go Long ere the sun is down, To reach, before the night-winds blow, The many-steepled town.

'T is midnight,--street and square are still; Dark roll the whispering waves That lap the piers beneath the hill Ridged thick with ancient graves.

Ah, gentle sleep! thy hand will smooth The weary couch of pain, When all thy poppies fail to soothe The lover's throbbing brain!

'T is morn,--the orange-mantled sun Breaks through the fading gray, And long and loud the Castle gun Peals o'er the glistening bay.

"Thank God 't is day!" With eager eye He hails the morning shine:-- "If art can win, or gold can buy, The maiden shall be mine!"

PART THIRD

THE CONQUEST

"Who saw this hussy when she came? What is the wench, and who?" They whisper. "Agnes--is her name? Pray what has she to do?"

The housemaids parley at the gate, The scullions on the stair, And in the footmen's grave debate The butler deigns to share.

Black Dinah, stolen when a child, And sold on Boston pier, Grown up in service, petted, spoiled, Speaks in the coachman's ear:

"What, all this household at his will? And all are yet too few? More servants, and more servants still,-- This pert young madam too!"

"_Servant!_ fine servant!" laughed aloud The man of coach and steeds; "She looks too fair, she steps too proud, This girl with golden beads!

"I tell you, you may fret and frown, And call her what you choose, You 'll find my Lady in her gown, Your Mistress in her shoes!"

Ah, gentle maidens, free from blame, God grant you never know The little whisper, loud with shame, That makes the world your foe!

Why tell the lordly flatterer's art, That won the maiden's ear,-- The fluttering of the frightened heart, The blush, the smile, the tear?

Alas! it were the saddening tale That every language knows,-- The wooing wind, the yielding sail, The sunbeam and the rose.

And now the gown of sober stuff Has changed to fair brocade, With broidered hem, and hanging cuff, And flower of silken braid;

And clasped around her blanching wrist A jewelled bracelet shines, Her flowing tresses' massive twist A glittering net confines;

And mingling with their truant wave A fretted chain is hung; But ah! the gift her mother gave,-- Its beads are all unstrung!

Her place is at the master's board, Where none disputes her claim; She walks beside the mansion's lord, His bride in all but name.

The busy tongues have ceased to talk, Or speak in softened tone, So gracious in her daily walk The angel light has shown.

No want that kindness may relieve Assails her heart in vain, The lifting of a ragged sleeve Will check her palfrey's rein.

A thoughtful calm, a quiet grace In every movement shown, Reveal her moulded for the place She may not call her own.

And, save that on her youthful brow There broods a shadowy care, No matron sealed with holy vow In all the land so fair.

PART FOURTH

THE RESCUE

A ship comes foaming up the bay, Along the pier she glides; Before her furrow melts away, A courier mounts and rides.

"Haste, Haste, post Haste!" the letters bear; "Sir Harry Frankland, These." Sad news to tell the loving pair! The knight must cross the seas.

"Alas! we part!"--the lips that spoke Lost all their rosy red, As when a crystal cup is broke, And all its wine is shed.

"Nay, droop not thus,--where'er," he cried, "I go by land or sea, My love, my life, my joy, my pride, Thy place is still by me!"

Through town and city, far and wide, Their wandering feet have strayed, From Alpine lake to ocean tide, And cold Sierra's shade.

At length they see the waters gleam Amid the fragrant bowers Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream Her belt of ancient towers.

Red is the orange on its bough, To-morrow's sun shall fling O'er Cintra's hazel-shaded brow The flush of April's wing.

The streets are loud with noisy mirth, They dance on every green; The morning's dial marks the birth Of proud Braganza's queen.

At eve beneath their pictured dome The gilded courtiers throng; The broad moidores have cheated Rome Of all her lords of song.

AH! Lisbon dreams not of the day-- Pleased with her painted scenes-- When all her towers shall slide away As now these canvas screens!

The spring has passed, the summer fled, And yet they linger still, Though autumn's rustling leaves have spread The flank of Cintra's hill.

The town has learned their Saxon name, And touched their English gold, Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame From over sea is told.

Three hours the first November dawn Has climbed with feeble ray Through mists like heavy curtains drawn Before the darkened day.

How still the muffled echoes sleep! Hark! hark! a hollow sound,-- A noise like chariots rumbling deep Beneath the solid ground.

The channel lifts, the water slides And bares its bar of sand, Anon a mountain billow strides And crashes o'er the land.

The turrets lean, the steeples reel Like masts on ocean's swell, And clash a long discordant peal, The death-doomed city's knell.

The pavement bursts, the earth upheaves Beneath the staggering town! The turrets crack--the castle cleaves-- The spires come rushing down.

Around, the lurid mountains glow With strange unearthly gleams; While black abysses gape below, Then close in jagged seams.

And all is over. Street and square In ruined heaps are piled; Ah! where is she, so frail, so fair, Amid the tumult wild?

Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street, Whose narrow gaps afford A pathway for her bleeding feet, To seek her absent lord.

A temple's broken walls arrest Her wild and wandering eyes; Beneath its shattered portal pressed, Her lord unconscious lies.

The power that living hearts obey Shall lifeless blocks withstand? Love led her footsteps where he lay,-- Love nerves her woman's hand.

One cry,--the marble shaft she grasps,-- Up heaves the ponderous stone:-- He breathes,--her fainting form he clasps,-- Her life has bought his own!

PART FIFTH

THE REWARD

How like the starless night of death Our being's brief eclipse, When faltering heart and failing breath Have bleached the fading lips!

The earth has folded like a wave, And thrice a thousand score, Clasped, shroudless, in their closing grave, The sun shall see no more!

She lives! What guerdon shall repay His debt of ransomed life? One word can charm all wrongs away,-- The sacred name of WIFE!

The love that won her girlish charms Must shield her matron fame, And write beneath the Frankland arms The village beauty's name.

Go, call the priest! no vain delay Shall dim the sacred ring! Who knows what change the passing day, The fleeting hour, may bring?

Before the holy altar bent, There kneels a goodly pair; A stately man, of high descent, A woman, passing fair.

No jewels lend the blinding sheen That meaner beauty needs, But on her bosom heaves unseen A string of golden beads.

The vow is spoke,--the prayer is said,-- And with a gentle pride The Lady Agnes lifts her head, Sir Harry Frankland's bride.

No more her faithful heart shall bear Those griefs so meekly borne,-- The passing sneer, the freezing stare, The icy look of scorn;

No more the blue-eyed English dames Their haughty lips shall curl, Whene'er a hissing whisper names The poor New England girl.

But stay!--his mother's haughty brow,-- The pride of ancient race,-- Will plighted faith, and holy vow, Win back her fond embrace?

Too well she knew the saddening tale Of love no vow had blest, That turned his blushing honors pale And stained his knightly crest.

They seek his Northern home,--alas He goes alone before;-- His own dear Agnes may not pass The proud, ancestral door.

He stood before the stately dame; He spoke; she calmly heard, But not to pity, nor to blame; She breathed no single word.

He told his love,--her faith betrayed; She heard with tearless eyes; Could she forgive the erring maid? She stared in cold surprise.