Chapter 2

I WAS sitting with my microscope, upon my parlor rug, With a very heavy quarto and a very lively bug; The true bug had been organized with only two antennae, But the humbug in the copperplate would have them twice as many.

And I thought, like Dr. Faustus, of the emptiness of art, How we take a fragment for the whole, and call the whole a part, When I heard a heavy footstep that was loud enough for two, And a man of forty entered, exclaiming, "How d' ye do?"

He was not a ghost, my visitor, but solid flesh and bone; He wore a Palo Alto hat, his weight was twenty stone; (It's odd how hats expand their brims as riper years invade, As if when life had reached its noon it wanted them for shade!)

I lost my focus,--dropped my book,--the bug, who was a flea, At once exploded, and commenced experiments on me. They have a certain heartiness that frequently appalls,-- Those mediaeval gentlemen in semilunar smalls!

"My boy," he said, (colloquial ways,--the vast, broad-hatted man,) "Come dine with us on Thursday next,--you must, you know you can; We're going to have a roaring time, with lots of fun and noise, Distinguished guests, et cetera, the JUDGE, and all the boys."

Not so,--I said,--my temporal bones are showing pretty clear. It 's time to stop,--just look and see that hair above this ear; My golden days are more than spent,--and, what is very strange, If these are real silver hairs, I'm getting lots of change.

Besides--my prospects--don't you know that people won't employ A man that wrongs his manliness by laughing like a boy? And suspect the azure blossom that unfolds upon a shoot, As if wisdom's old potato could not flourish at its root?

It's a very fine reflection, when you 're etching out a smile On a copperplate of faces that would stretch at least a mile, That, what with sneers from enemies and cheapening shrugs of friends, It will cost you all the earnings that a month of labor lends!

It's a vastly pleasing prospect, when you're screwing out a laugh, That your very next year's income is diminished by a half, And a little boy trips barefoot that Pegasus may go, And the baby's milk is watered that your Helicon may flow!

No;--the joke has been a good one,--but I'm getting fond of quiet, And I don't like deviations from my customary diet; So I think I will not go with you to hear the toasts and speeches, But stick to old Montgomery Place, and have some pig and peaches.

The fat man answered: Shut your mouth, and hear the genuine creed; The true essentials of a feast are only fun and feed; The force that wheels the planets round delights in spinning tops, And that young earthquake t' other day was great at shaking props.

I tell you what, philosopher, if all the longest heads That ever knocked their sinciputs in stretching on their beds Were round one great mahogany, I'd beat those fine old folks With twenty dishes, twenty fools, and twenty clever jokes!

Why, if Columbus should be there, the company would beg He'd show that little trick of his of balancing the egg! Milton to Stilton would give in, and Solomon to Salmon, And Roger Bacon be a bore, and Francis Bacon gammon!

And as for all the "patronage" of all the clowns and boors That squint their little narrow eyes at any freak of yours, Do leave them to your prosier friends,--such fellows ought to die When rhubarb is so very scarce and ipecac so high!

And so I come,--like Lochinvar, to tread a single measure,-- To purchase with a loaf of bread a sugar-plum of pleasure, To enter for the cup of glass that's run for after dinner, Which yields a single sparkling draught, then breaks and cuts the winner.

Ah, that's the way delusion comes,--a glass of old Madeira, A pair of visual diaphragms revolved by Jane or Sarah, And down go vows and promises without the slightest question If eating words won't compromise the organs of digestion!

And yet, among my native shades, beside my nursing mother, Where every stranger seems a friend, and every friend a brother, I feel the old convivial glow (unaided) o'er me stealing,-- The warm, champagny, the old-particular brandy-punchy feeling.

We're all alike;--Vesuvius flings the scoriae from his fountain, But down they come in volleying rain back to the burning mountain; We leave, like those volcanic stones, our precious Alma Mater, But will keep dropping in again to see the dear old crater.

VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY, 1844

I WAS thinking last night, as I sat in the cars, With the charmingest prospect of cinders and stars, Next Thursday is--bless me!--how hard it will be, If that cannibal president calls upon me!

There is nothing on earth that he will not devour, From a tutor in seed to a freshman in flower; No sage is too gray, and no youth is too green, And you can't be too plump, though you're never too lean.

While others enlarge on the boiled and the roast, He serves a raw clergyman up with a toast, Or catches some doctor, quite tender and young, And basely insists on a bit of his tongue.

Poor victim, prepared for his classical spit, With a stuffing of praise and a basting of wit, You may twitch at your collar and wrinkle your brow, But you're up on your legs, and you're in for it now.

Oh think of your friends,--they are waiting to hear Those jokes that are thought so remarkably queer; And all the Jack Horners of metrical buns Are prying and fingering to pick out the puns.

Those thoughts which, like chickens, will always thrive best When reared by the heat of the natural nest, Will perish if hatched from their embryo dream In the mist and the glow of convivial steam.

Oh pardon me, then, if I meekly retire, With a very small flash of ethereal fire; No rubbing will kindle your Lucifer match, If the fiz does not follow the primitive scratch.

Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly the while, With your lips double--reefed in a snug little smile, I leave you two fables, both drawn from the deep,-- The shells you can drop, but the pearls you may keep.

. . . . . . . . . . .

The fish called the FLOUNDER, perhaps you may know, Has one side for use and another for show; One side for the public, a delicate brown, And one that is white, which he always keeps down.

A very young flounder, the flattest of flats, (And they 're none of them thicker than opera hats,) Was speaking more freely than charity taught Of a friend and relation that just had been caught.

"My! what an exposure! just see what a sight! I blush for my race,--he is showing his white Such spinning and wriggling,--why, what does he wish? How painfully small to respectable fish!"

Then said an Old SCULPIN,--"My freedom excuse, You're playing the cobbler with holes in your shoes; Your brown side is up,--but just wait till you're tried And you'll find that all flounders are white on one side."

. . . . . . . . . .

There's a slice near the PICKEREL'S pectoral fins, Where the thorax leaves off and the venter begins, Which his brother, survivor of fish-hooks and lines, Though fond of his family, never declines.

He loves his relations; he feels they'll be missed; But that one little tidbit he cannot resist; So your bait may be swallowed, no matter how fast, For you catch your next fish with a piece of the last.

And thus, O survivor, whose merciless fate Is to take the next hook with the president's bait, You are lost while you snatch from the end of his line The morsel he rent from this bosom of mine!

A MODEST REQUEST

COMPLIED WITH AFTER THE DINNER AT PRESIDENT EVERETT'S INAUGURATION

SCENE,--a back parlor in a certain square, Or court, or lane,--in short, no matter where; Time,--early morning, dear to simple souls Who love its sunshine and its fresh-baked rolls; Persons,--take pity on this telltale blush, That, like the AEthiop, whispers, "Hush, oh hush!"

Delightful scene! where smiling comfort broods, Nor business frets, nor anxious care intrudes; _O si sic omnia_ I were it ever so! But what is stable in this world below? _Medio e fonte_,--Virtue has her faults,-- The clearest fountains taste of Epsom salts; We snatch the cup and lift to drain it dry,-- Its central dimple holds a drowning fly Strong is the pine by Maine's ambrosial streams, But stronger augers pierce its thickest beams; No iron gate, no spiked and panelled door, Can keep out death, the postman, or the bore. Oh for a world where peace and silence reign, And blunted dulness verebrates in vain! --The door-bell jingles,--enter Richard Fox, And takes this letter from his leathern box.

"Dear Sir,-- In writing on a former day, One little matter I forgot to say; I now inform you in a single line, On Thursday next our purpose is to dine. The act of feeding, as you understand, Is but a fraction of the work in hand; Its nobler half is that ethereal meat The papers call 'the intellectual treat;' Songs, speeches, toasts, around the festive board Drowned in the juice the College pumps afford; For only water flanks our knives and forks, So, sink or float, we swim without the corks. Yours is the art, by native genius taught, To clothe in eloquence the naked thought; Yours is the skill its music to prolong Through the sweet effluence of mellifluous song; Yours the quaint trick to cram the pithy line That cracks so crisply over bubbling wine; And since success your various gifts attends, We--that is, I and all your numerous friends-- Expect from you--your single self a host-- A speech, a song, excuse me, and a toast; Nay, not to haggle on so small a claim, A few of each, or several of the same. (Signed), Yours, most truly, ________"

No! my sight must fail,-- If that ain't Judas on the largest scale! Well, this is modest;--nothing else than that? My coat? my boots? my pantaloons? my hat? My stick? my gloves? as well as all my wits, Learning and linen,--everything that fits!

Jack, said my lady, is it grog you'll try, Or punch, or toddy, if perhaps you're dry? Ah, said the sailor, though I can't refuse, You know, my lady, 't ain't for me to choose; I'll take the grog to finish off my lunch, And drink the toddy while you mix the punch.

. . . . . . . .

THE SPEECH. (The speaker, rising to be seen, Looks very red, because so very green.) I rise--I rise--with unaffected fear, (Louder!--speak louder!--who the deuce can hear?) I rise--I said--with undisguised dismay --Such are my feelings as I rise, I say Quite unprepared to face this learned throng, Already gorged with eloquence and song; Around my view are ranged on either hand The genius, wisdom, virtue of the land; "Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed" Close at my elbow stir their lemonade; Would you like Homer learn to write and speak, That bench is groaning with its weight of Greek; Behold the naturalist who in his teens Found six new species in a dish of greens; And lo, the master in a statelier walk, Whose annual ciphering takes a ton of chalk; And there the linguist, who by common roots Thro' all their nurseries tracks old Noah's shoots,-- How Shem's proud children reared the Assyrian piles, While Ham's were scattered through the Sandwich Isles!

--Fired at the thought of all the present shows, My kindling fancy down the future flows: I see the glory of the coming days O'er Time's horizon shoot its streaming rays; Near and more near the radiant morning draws In living lustre (rapturous applause); From east to west the blazing heralds run, Loosed from the chariot of the ascending sun, Through the long vista of uncounted years In cloudless splendor (three tremendous cheers). My eye prophetic, as the depths unfold, Sees a new advent of the age of gold; While o'er the scene new generations press, New heroes rise the coming time to bless,-- Not such as Homer's, who, we read in Pope, Dined without forks and never heard of soap,-- Not such as May to Marlborough Chapel brings, Lean, hungry, savage, anti-everythings, Copies of Luther in the pasteboard style,-- But genuine articles, the true Carlyle; While far on high the blazing orb shall shed Its central light on Harvard's holy head, And learning's ensigns ever float unfurled Here in the focus of the new-born world The speaker stops, and, trampling down the pause, Roars through the hall the thunder of applause, One stormy gust of long-suspended Ahs! One whirlwind chaos of insane hurrahs!

. . . . . . . .

THE SONG. But this demands a briefer line,-- A shorter muse, and not the old long Nine; Long metre answers for a common song, Though common metre does not answer long.

She came beneath the forest dome To seek its peaceful shade, An exile from her ancient home, A poor, forsaken maid; No banner, flaunting high above, No blazoned cross, she bore; One holy book of light and love Was all her worldly store.

The dark brown shadows passed away, And wider spread the green, And where the savage used to stray The rising mart was seen; So, when the laden winds had brought Their showers of golden rain, Her lap some precious gleanings caught, Like Ruth's amid the grain.

But wrath soon gathered uncontrolled Among the baser churls, To see her ankles red with gold, Her forehead white with pearls. "Who gave to thee the glittering bands That lace thine azure veins? Who bade thee lift those snow-white hands We bound in gilded chains?"

"These are the gems my children gave," The stately dame replied; "The wise, the gentle, and the brave, I nurtured at my side. If envy still your bosom stings, Take back their rims of gold; My sons will melt their wedding-rings, And give a hundred-fold!"

. . . . . . . .

THE TOAST. Oh tell me, ye who thoughtless ask Exhausted nature for a threefold task, In wit or pathos if one share remains, A safe investment for an ounce of brains! Hard is the job to launch the desperate pun, A pun-job dangerous as the Indian one. Turned by the current of some stronger wit Back from the object that you mean to hit, Like the strange missile which the Australian throws, Your verbal boomerang slaps you on the nose. One vague inflection spoils the whole with doubt, One trivial letter ruins all, left out; A knot can choke a felon into clay, A not will save him, spelt without the k; The smallest word has some unguarded spot, And danger lurks in i without a dot.

Thus great Achilles, who had shown his zeal In healing wounds, died of a wounded heel; Unhappy chief, who, when in childhood doused, Had saved his bacon had his feet been soused Accursed heel that killed a hero stout Oh, had your mother known that you were out, Death had not entered at the trifling part That still defies the small chirurgeon's art With corns and bunions,--not the glorious John, Who wrote the book we all have pondered on, But other bunions, bound in fleecy hose, To "Pilgrim's Progress" unrelenting foes!

. . . . . . . .

A HEALTH, unmingled with the reveller's wine, To him whose title is indeed divine; Truth's sleepless watchman on her midnight tower, Whose lamp burns brightest when the tempests lower. Oh, who can tell with what a leaden flight Drag the long watches of his weary night, While at his feet the hoarse and blinding gale Strews the torn wreck and bursts the fragile sail, When stars have faded, when the wave is dark, When rocks and sands embrace the foundering bark! But still he pleads with unavailing cry, Behold the light, O wanderer, look or die!

A health, fair Themis! Would the enchanted vine Wreathed its green tendrils round this cup of thine! If Learning's radiance fill thy modern court, Its glorious sunshine streams through Blackstone's port.

Lawyers are thirsty, and their clients too, Witness at least, if memory serve me true, Those old tribunals, famed for dusty suits, Where men sought justice ere they brushed their boots; And what can match, to solve a learned doubt, The warmth within that comes from "cold with-out"?

Health to the art whose glory is to give The crowning boon that makes it life to live. Ask not her home;--the rock where nature flings Her arctic lichen, last of living things; The gardens, fragrant with the orient's balm, From the low jasmine to the star-like palm, Hail her as mistress o'er the distant waves, And yield their tribute to her wandering slaves. Wherever, moistening the ungrateful soil, The tear of suffering tracks the path of toil, There, in the anguish of his fevered hours, Her gracious finger points to healing flowers; Where the lost felon steals away to die, Her soft hand waves before his closing eye; Where hunted misery finds his darkest lair, The midnight taper shows her kneeling there! VIRTUE,--the guide that men and nations own; And LAW,--the bulwark that protects her throne; And HEALTH,--to all its happiest charm that lends; These and their servants, man's untiring friends Pour the bright lymph that Heaven itself lets fall, In one fair bumper let us toast them all!

THE PARTING WORD

I MUST leave thee, lady sweet Months shall waste before we meet; Winds are fair and sails are spread, Anchors leave their ocean bed; Ere this shining day grow dark, Skies shall gird my shoreless bark. Through thy tears, O lady mine, Read thy lover's parting line.

When the first sad sun shall set, Thou shalt tear thy locks of jet; When the morning star shall rise, Thou shalt wake with weeping eyes; When the second sun goes down, Thou more tranquil shalt be grown, Taught too well that wild despair Dims thine eyes and spoils thy hair.

All the first unquiet week Thou shalt wear a smileless cheek; In the first month's second half Thou shalt once attempt to laugh; Then in Pickwick thou shalt dip, Slightly puckering round the lip, Till at last, in sorrow's spite, Samuel makes thee laugh outright.

While the first seven mornings last, Round thy chamber bolted fast Many a youth shall fume and pout, "Hang the girl, she's always out!" While the second week goes round, Vainly shall they ring and pound; When the third week shall begin, "Martha, let the creature in."

Now once more the flattering throng Round thee flock with smile and song, But thy lips, unweaned as yet, Lisp, "Oh, how can I forget!" Men and devils both contrive Traps for catching girls alive; Eve was duped, and Helen kissed,-- How, oh how can you resist?

First be careful of your fan, Trust it not to youth or man; Love has filled a pirate's sail Often with its perfumed gale. Mind your kerchief most of all, Fingers touch when kerchiefs fall; Shorter ell than mercers clip Is the space from hand to lip.

Trust not such as talk in tropes, Full of pistols, daggers, ropes; All the hemp that Russia bears Scarce would answer lovers' prayers; Never thread was spun so fine, Never spider stretched the line, Would not hold the lovers true That would really swing for you.

Fiercely some shall storm and swear, Beating breasts in black despair; Others murmur with a sigh, You must melt, or they will die: Painted words on empty lies, Grubs with wings like butterflies; Let them die, and welcome, too; Pray what better could they do?

Fare thee well: if years efface From thy heart love's burning trace, Keep, oh keep that hallowed seat From the tread of vulgar feet; If the blue lips of the sea Wait with icy kiss for me, Let not thine forget the vow, Sealed how often, Love, as now.

A SONG OF OTHER DAYS

As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet Breathes soft the Alpine rose, So through life's desert springing sweet The flower of friendship grows; And as where'er the roses grow Some rain or dew descends, 'T is nature's law that wine should flow To wet the lips of friends. Then once again, before we part, My empty glass shall ring; And he that has the warmest heart Shall loudest laugh and sing.

They say we were not born to eat; But gray-haired sages think It means, Be moderate in your meat, And partly live to drink. For baser tribes the rivers flow That know not wine or song; Man wants but little drink below, But wants that little strong. Then once again, etc.

If one bright drop is like the gem That decks a monarch's crown, One goblet holds a diadem Of rubies melted down! A fig for Caesar's blazing brow, But, like the Egyptian queen, Bid each dissolving jewel glow My thirsty lips between. Then once again, etc.

The Grecian's mound, the Roman's urn, Are silent when we call, Yet still the purple grapes return To cluster on the wall; It was a bright Immortal's head They circled with the vine, And o'er their best and bravest dead They poured the dark-red wine. Then once again, etc.

Methinks o'er every sparkling glass Young Eros waves his wings, And echoes o'er its dimples pass From dead Anacreon's strings; And, tossing round its beaded brim Their locks of floating gold, With bacchant dance and choral hymn Return the nymphs of old. Then once again, etc.

A welcome then to joy and mirth, From hearts as fresh as ours, To scatter o'er the dust of earth Their sweetly mingled flowers; 'T is Wisdom's self the cup that fills In spite of Folly's frown, And Nature, from her vine-clad hills, That rains her life-blood down! Then once again, before we part, My empty glass shall ring; And he that has the warmest heart Shall loudest laugh and sing.

SONG

FOR A TEMPERANCE DINNER TO WHICH LADIES WERE INVITED (NEW YORK MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION, NOVEMBER, 1842)

A HEALTH to dear woman! She bids us untwine, From the cup it encircles, the fast-clinging vine; But her cheek in its crystal with pleasure will glow, And mirror its bloom in the bright wave below.

A health to sweet woman! The days are no more When she watched for her lord till the revel was o'er, And smoothed the white pillow, and blushed when he came, As she pressed her cold lips on his forehead of flame.

Alas for the loved one! too spotless and fair The joys of his banquet to chasten and share; Her eye lost its light that his goblet might shine, And the rose of her cheek was dissolved in his wine.

Joy smiles in the fountain, health flows in the rills, As their ribbons of silver unwind from the hills; They breathe not the mist of the bacchanal's dream, But the lilies of innocence float on their stream.

Then a health and a welcome to woman once more! She brings us a passport that laughs at our door; It is written on crimson,--its letters are pearls,-- It is countersigned Nature.--So, room for the Girls!

A SENTIMENT

THE pledge of Friendship! it is still divine, Though watery floods have quenched its burning wine; Whatever vase the sacred drops may hold, The gourd, the shell, the cup of beaten gold, Around its brim the hand of Nature throws A garland sweeter than the banquet's rose. Bright are the blushes of the vine-wreathed bowl, Warm with the sunshine of Anacreon's soul, But dearer memories gild the tasteless wave That fainting Sidney perished as he gave. 'T is the heart's current lends the cup its glow, Whate'er the fountain whence the draught may flow,-- The diamond dew-drops sparkling through the sand, Scooped by the Arab in his sunburnt hand, Or the dark streamlet oozing from the snow, Where creep and crouch the shuddering Esquimaux; Ay, in the stream that, ere again we meet, Shall burst the pavement, glistening at our feet, And, stealing silent from its leafy hills, Thread all our alleys with its thousand rills,-- In each pale draught if generous feeling blend, And o'er the goblet friend shall smile on friend, Even cold Cochituate every heart shall warm, And genial Nature still defy reform!

A RHYMED LESSON (URANIA)

This poem was delivered before the Boston Mercantile Library Association, October 14, 1846.