Chapter 6

I saw him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said-- Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago-- That he had a Roman nose And his cheek was like a rose In the snow;

But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back And a melancholy crack In his laugh.

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.

AS SEEN AT SEVENTY.

I was a little over twenty years old when I wrote "The Last Leaf." The world was a garden to me then; it is a churchyard now. And yet those are not bitter or scalding tears that fall from my eyes upon "mossy marbles."

The young who left my side early in my life's journey are still with me in the unchanged freshness and beauty of youth. Those who have long kept company with me live on after their seeming departure, were it only by the mere force of habit; their images are all around me, as if every surface had been a sensitive film that photographed them; their voices echo about me as if they had been recorded on those unforgotten cylinders which bring back to us the tones and accents that have imprinted them as the extinct animals left their tracks on the hardened sand.

The melancholy of old age has a divine tenderness in it, which only the sad experience of life can lend a sad soul.

The Gridiron.

BY SAMUEL LOVER.

Samuel Lover was born in Dublin in 1797. As a novelist he was one of the most popular of the period in which he lived. He is acknowledged to have written the best Irish peasant sketches and the best Irish peasant songs in the language. Lover was the son of a Dublin stock-broker, who attempted to prepare his son for that business. At the age of seventeen, however, the boy turned his back on the office, and, with his scanty savings, he took up the study of art. Three years later he began to win success as a painter of miniatures. An admirable miniature of Paganini painted by Lover excited so much attention in London that the young artist was induced to go to the metropolis. There he spent a considerable part of his time in literary work.

"The Gridiron" was one of his first productions. His three-volume novel, "Rory O'More," appeared in 1836. This was dramatized and met with such success that its versatile author for a time devoted himself to playwriting. He also wrote the words and music of several operettas. As a song writer he now became one of the most popular in the United Kingdom.

On the day that Victoria was crowned Queen of England she was escorted to Buckingham Palace to the strains of "Rory O'More." His most popular novel was "Handy Andy." Lover visited the United States in 1846. He died in 1868. Besides his literary talent, he possessed a high degree of musical ability. Among Samuel Lover's descendants is Victor Herbert, the well-known musical director and composer.

A certain old gentleman in the west of Ireland, whose love of the ridiculous quite equaled his taste for claret and fox-hunting, was wont, upon certain festive occasions, when opportunity offered, to amuse his friends by drawing out one of his servants who was exceedingly fond of what he termed his "thravels," and in whom a good deal of whim, some queer stories, and, perhaps more than all, long and faithful services, had established a right of loquacity.

He was one of those few trusty and privileged domestics, who, if his master unheedingly uttered a rash thing in a fit of passion, would venture to set him right.

If the squire said, "I'll turn that rascal off," my friend Pat would say, "throth you won't, sir"; and Pat was always right, for if any altercation arose upon the subject-matter in hand, he was sure to throw in some good reason, either from former service--general good conduct--or the delinquent's "wife and childher," that always turned the scale.

But I am digressing. On such merry meetings as I have alluded to, the master, after making certain "approaches," as a military man would say, as the preparatory steps in laying siege to some extravaganza of his servant, might, perchance, assail Pat thus:

"By the by, Sir John" (addressing a distinguished guest), "Pat has a very curious story, which something you told me to-day reminds me of. You remember, Pat" (turning to the man, evidently pleased at the notice paid to himself)--"you remember that queer adventure you had in France?"

"Throth I do, sir," grins forth Pat.

"What!" exclaims Sir John, in feigned surprise. "Was Pat ever in France?"

"Indeed he was," cries mine host; and Pat adds, "Ay, and farther, plase your honor."

"I assure you, Sir John," continues mine host, "Pat told me a story once that surprised me very much, respecting the ignorance of the French."

"Indeed!" said the baronet. "Really, I always supposed the French to be a most accomplished people."

"Throth, then, they're not, sir," interrupts Pat.

"Oh, by no means," adds mine host, shaking his head emphatically.

"I believe, Pat, 'twas when you were crossing the Atlantic?" says the master, turning to Pat with a seductive air, and leading into the "full and true account"--(for Pat had thought fit to visit North Amerikay, for "a raison he had," in the autumn of the year ninety-eight).

"Yes, sir," says Pat, "the broad Atlantic," a favorite phrase of his, which he gave with a brogue as broad almost as the Atlantic itself.

"It was the time I was lost in crassin' the broad Atlantic, comin' home," began Pat, decoyed into the recital; "whin the winds began to blow, and the sae to rowl, that you'd think the Colleen Dhas (that was her name) would not have a mast left.

"Well, sure enough, the masts went by the board, at last, and the pumps was choaked (divil choak them for that same), and av coorse the wather gained an us, and throth, to be filled with water is neither good for man nor baste; and she was sinkin' fast, settlin' down, as the sailors calls it, and faith I never was good at settlin' down in my life, and I liked it then less nor ever. Accordingly we prepared for the worst, and put out the boat, and got a sack o' bishkits, and a cashk o' pork, and a kag o' wather, and a thrifle o' rum aboord, and any other little mathers we could think iv in the mortal hurry we wor in--and, faith, there was no time to be lost, for my darlint, the Colleen Dhas, went down like a lump o' lead, afore we wor many sthrokes o' the oar away from her.

"Well, we dhrifted away all that night, and next mornin' we put up a blanket an the ind av a pole as well as we could, and thin we sailed illigant, for we dar'n't show a stitch o' canvas the night before, bekase it was blowin' like bloody murther, savin' your presence, and sure it's the wondher of the world we worn't swallyed alive by the ragin' sae.

"Well, away we wint for more nor a week, and nothin' before our two good-looking eyes but the canophy iv heaven, and the wide ocean--the broad Atlantic--not a thing was to be seen but the sae and the sky; and though the sae and the sky is mighty purty things in themselves, throth they're no great things whin you've nothin' else to look at for a week together--and the barest rock in the world, so it was land, would be more welkim.

"And then, sure enough, throth, our provisions began to run low, the bishkits, and the wather, and the rum--throth that was gone first of all--God help uz!--and oh! it was thin that starvation began to stare us in the face. 'Oh, murther, murther, captain, darlint,' says I, 'I wish we could see land anywhere,' says I.

"'More power to your elbow, Paddy, my boy,' says he, 'for sitch a good wish, and, throth, it's myself wishes the same.'

"'Oh,' says I, 'that it may plaze you, sweet queen in heaven--supposing it was ony a dissolute island,' says I, 'inhabited wid Turks, sure they wouldn't be such bad Christhans as to refuse uz a bit and a sup.'

"'Whisht, whisht, Paddy,' says the captain; 'don't be talkin' bad of any one,' says he; 'you don't know how soon you may want a good word put in for yourself, if you should be called to quarthers in th' other world all of a suddent,' says he.

"'Thrue for you, captain, darlint,' says I--I called him darlint, and made free wid him, you see, bekase disthress makes uz all equal--'thrue for you, captain, jewel--God betune uz and harm, I owe no man any spite'--and, throth, that was only thruth.

"Well, the last bishkit was sarved out, and, by gor, the wather itself was all gone at last, and we passed the night mighty cowld. Well, at the brake o' day the sun riz most beautiful out o' the waves, that was as bright as silver and as clear as cryshtal.

"But it was only the more crule upon uz, for we wor beginnin' to feel terrible hungry; when all at wanst I thought I spied the land--by gor, I thought I felt my heart up in my throat in a minnit, and 'Thundher and turf, captain,' says I, 'look to leeward,' says I.

"'What for?' says he.

"'I think I see the land,' says I. So he ups with his bring-'um-near--(that's what the sailors call a spy-glass, sir), and looks out, and, sure enough, it was.

"'Hurrah!' says he, 'we're all right now; pull away, my boys,' says he.

"'Take care you're not mistaken,' says I; 'maybe it's only a fog-bank, captain, darlint,' says I.

"'Oh, no,' says he, 'it's the land in airnest.'

"'Oh, then, whereabouts in the wide world are we, captain?' says I; 'maybe it id be in Roosia or Proosia, or the Garman Oceant,' says I.

"'Tut, you fool,' says he--for he had that consaited way wid him--thinkin' himself cleverer nor any one else--'tut, you fool,' says he; 'that's France,' says he.

"'Tare an ouns,' says I, 'do you tell me so? And how do you know it's France it is, captain, dear,' says I.

"'Bekase this is the Bay o' Bishky we're in now,' says he.

"'Throth, I was thinkin' so myself,' says I, 'by the rowl it has; for I often heerd av it in regard o' that same;' and, throth, the likes av it I never seen before nor since, and, with the help o' God, never will.

"Well, with that my heart begun to grow light, and when I seen my life was safe, I began to grow twice hungrier nor ever--so says I, 'Captain, jewel, I wish we had a gridiron.'

"'Why, then,' says he, 'thundher and turf,' says he, 'what put a gridiron into your head?'

"'Bekase I'm starvin' with the hunger,' says I.

"'And sure, bad luck to you,' says he, 'you couldn't ate a gridiron,' says he, 'barrin' you wor a pelican o' the wildherness,' says he.

"'Ate a gridiron!' says I. 'Och, in throth, I'm not such a gommoch all out as that, anyhow. But sure if we had a gridiron we could dress a beefsteak,' says I.

"'Arrah! but where's the beefsteak?' says he.

"'Sure, couldn't we cut a slice aff the pork?' says I.

"'By gor, I never thought o' that,' says the captain. 'You're a clever fellow, Paddy,' says he, laughin'.

"'Oh, there's many a thrue word said in joke,' says I.

"'Thrue for you, Paddy,' says he.

"'Well, then,' says I, 'if you put me ashore there beyant' (for we were nearin' the land all the time), 'and sure I can ask thim for to lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I.

"'Oh, by gor, the butther's comin' out o' the stirabout in airnest, now,' says he. 'You gommoch,' says he, 'sure I towld you before that's France--and sure they're all furriners there,' says the captain.

"'Well,' says I, 'and how do you know but I'm as good a furriner myself as any o' thim?'

"'What do you mane?' says he.

"'I mane,' says I, 'what I towld you, that I'm as good a furriner myself as any o' thim.'

"'Make me sinsible,' says he.

"'By dad, maybe that's more nor me, or greater nor me, could do,' says I; and we all began to laugh at him, for I thought I'd pay him off for his bit o' consait about the Garman Oceant.

"'Lave aff your humbuggin',' says he, 'I bid you, and tell me what it is you mane at all at all.'

"'Parly-voo frongsay?' says I.

"'Oh, your humble sarvant,' says he. 'Why, by gor, you're a scholar, Paddy.'

"'Throth, you may say that,' says I.

"'Why, you're a clever fellow, Paddy,' says the captain, jeerin' like.

"'You're not the first that said that,' says I, 'whether you joke or no.'

"'Oh, but I'm in airnest,' says the captain. 'And do you tell me, Paddy,' says he, 'that you spake Frinch?'

"'Parly-voo frongsay?' says I.

"'By gor, that bangs Banagher, and all the world knows Banagher bangs the devil. I never met the likes o' you, Paddy,' says he. 'Pull away, boys, and put Paddy ashore, and maybe we won't get a good bellyfull before long.'

"So with that, it was no sooner said nor done--they pulled away and got close into shore in less than no time, and run the boat up in a little creek; and a beautiful creek it was, with a lovely white sthrand, an illigant place for ladies to bathe in the summer; and out I got, and it's stiff enough in my limbs I was afther bein' cramped up in the boat, and perished with the cowld and hunger; but I conthrived to scramble an, one way or the other, towards a little bit iv a wood that was close to the shore, and the smoke curlin' out of it, quite timpting like.

"'By the powdhers o' war, I'm all right,' says I; 'there's a house there'--and sure enough there was, and a parcel of men, women, and childher, ating their dinner round a table quite convainent. And so I wint up to the dure, and I thought I'd be very civil to thim, as I heerd the Frinch was always mighty p'lite intirely--and I thought I'd show them I knew what good manners was.

"So I took off my hat, and making a low bow, says I, 'God save all here,' says I.

"Well, to be sure, they all stopt ating at wanst, and begun to stare at me, and faith they almost looked me out of countenance--and I thought to myself it was not good manners at all--more be token from furriners, which they call so mighty p'lite; but I never minded that, in regard of wantin' the gridiron; and so says I, 'I beg your pardon,' says I, 'for the liberty I take, but it's only bein' in disthress in regard of ating,' says I, 'that I make bowld to throuble yez, and if you could lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'I'd be intirely obleeged to ye.'

"By gor, they all stared at me twice worse nor before, and with that, says I (knowing what was in their minds), 'Indeed it's thrue for you,' says I; 'I'm tathered to pieces, and God knows I look quare enough, but it's by raison of the storm,' says I, 'which dhruv us ashore here below, and we're all starvin',' says I.

"So then they began to look at each other agin, and myself, seeing at wanst dirty thoughts was in their heads, and that they tuk me for a poor beggar comin' to crave charity--with that, says I, 'Oh! not at all,' says I, 'by no manes; we have plenty o' mate ourselves, there below, and we'll dhress it,' says I, 'if you would be plased to lind us the loan of a gridiron,' says I, makin' a low bow.

"Well, sir, with that, throth, they stared at me twice worse nor ever, and faith I began to think that maybe the captain was wrong, and that it was not France at all at all--and so says I--'I beg pardon, sir,' says I, to a fine ould man, with a head of hair as white as silver--'maybe I'm undher a mistake,' says I, 'but I thought I was in France, sir; aren't you furriners?' says I--'Parly-voo frongsay?'

"'We, munseer,' says he.

"'Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'if you plase?'

"Oh, it was thin that they stared at me as if I had siven heads; and faith myself began to feel flusthered like, and onaisy--and so, says I, making a bow and scrape agin, 'I know it's a liberty I take, sir,' says I, 'but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away, and if you plase, sir,' says I, 'Parly-voo frongsay?'

"'We, munseer,' says he, mighty sharp.

"'Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron?' says I, 'and you'll obleege me.'

"Well, sir, the old chap begun to munseer me, but the divil a bit of a gridiron he'd gie me; and so I began to think they were all neygars, for all their fine manners; and, throth, my blood began to rise, and says I, 'By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress,' says I, 'and if it was to ould Ireland you kem, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you if you ax'd it, but something to put an it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain, and cead mille failte.'

"Well, the word cead mille failte seemed to stchreck his heart, and the ould chap cocked his ear, and so I thought I'd give him another offer, and make him sinsible at last; and so says I, wanst more, quite slow, that he might undherstand--'Parly--voo--frongsay, munseer?'

"'We, munseer,' says he.

"'Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'and bad scran to you.'

"Well, bad win' to the bit of it he'd gi' me, and the ould chap begins bowin' and scrapin', and said something or other about a long tongs.

"'Phoo!--the devil sweep yourself and tongs,' says I, 'I don't want a tongs at all at all; but can't you listen to raison,' says I--'Parly-voo frongsay?'

"We, munseer.'

"'Then lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'and howld your prate.'

"Well, what would you think but he shook his owld noddle, as much as to say he wouldn't; and so says I, 'Bad cess to the likes o' that I ever seen--throth if you were in my country, it's not that-a-way they'd use you; the curse o' the crows on you, you ould sinner,' says I; 'the divil a longer I'll darken your dure.'

"So he seen I was vexed, and I thought, as I was turnin' away, I seen him begin to relint, and that his conscience throubled him; and says I, turnin' back, 'Well, I'll give you one chance more--you owld thief--are you a Chrishthan at all at all?--are you a furriner,' says I, 'that all the world calls so p'lite? Bad luck to you, do you undherstand your own language?--Parly-voo frongsay?' says I.

"'We, munseer,' says he.

"'Then, thundher and turf,' says I, 'will you lind me the loan of a gridiron?'

"Well, sir, the divil resave the bit of it he'd gi' me--and so with that, 'The curse o' the hungry on you, you owld negardly villain,' says I; 'the back o' my hand and the sowl o' my foot to you; that you may want a gridiron yourself yet,' says I; 'and wherever I go, high and low, rich and poor, shall hear o' you,' says I; and with that I lift them there, sir, and kem away--and in throth it's often since that I thought that it was remarkable."

TRICKS THAT WORDS MAY BE MADE TO PLAY.

Odd Jobs for Unemployed Minds in the Arrangement of Freak Sentences.

When _Polonius_, addressing _Hamlet_, asked, "What do you read, my lord?" and _Hamlet_ answered, "Words, words, words," _Polonius_ didn't pursue that particular line of inquiry any farther. If he had, _Hamlet_ might have given him a vast deal of interesting information.

Words sometimes have a trick of expressing more than is intended by those who write or utter them. They have strange customs, too, and of these the man who interrupted _Hamlet_ doubtless had much to learn.

For instance, _Polonius_ might have asked:

Grave prince, in thirty-one words how many "thats" can be grammatically inserted?

And _Hamlet_ might have replied:

Fourteen: He said that _that_ that that man said was not _that_ that _that_ one should say, but that _that_ that _that_ man said was _that_ that _that_ man should not say.

This reminds us of the following "says" and "saids":

Mr. B----, did you say or did you not say what I said you said? Because C---- said you said you said you never did say what I said you said. Now if you did say that you did _not_ say what I said you said, then what did you say?

The following is an example of that form of humor which is known as "word-twisting":

While parents pay May rents, it must be admitted They pay rents for houses that they have not quitted; If parents pay May rents then may rents pay parents And May rents and pa-rents will be voted rare "rents."

Idle minds which conscientiously seek employment are willing to take almost any odd job that comes along. Some have devoted a few hours to the formation of sentences in which each word begins and ends with the same letter. Here are a couple of samples:

A depraved tyrant seeks devoted slaves; a growing empire seeks rather loyal subjects; America, a nation, growing yearly richer, secures equitable legal exchange.

Ships, gliding seawards, scatheless that endure High seas, excessive storms, that sailors dread, Experience, ere gaining destined shores, A rougher tempest grasping doomèd dead.

Pugilism's Invasion of the Drama.

A Characteristic Article from the New York "Sun" Affords a Striking Example of the Sort of "Higher Criticism" That Is Now In Order.

The appearance of a former pugilist as a star in a Broadway theater, which for many years was the greatest temple of the Shakespearean drama in the United States, has given a serious jolt to a large number of playgoers who are loath to free themselves from the influences of old traditions.

The relations of ring and stage have been becoming more and more close in recent years, and have constituted a favorite theme for newspaper discussion. It is doubtful, however, whether it would be possible to find a better review of the situation than the following characteristic essay in dramatic criticism which appeared in the New York _Sun_:

It is long since the playgoers and first-nighters of Brooklyn had such a treat as was tendered them last season by the re-appearance of that bright star in the dramatic constellation, James J. Corbett. Mr. Corbett came back to us with his new drama, "Pals," an admirable vehicle for the display of his singular dramatic talents.

The fact that it was the Lenten season marred somewhat the attendance, otherwise the society folk of Brooklyn might have made it a brilliant function. Yet Mr. Corbett's welcome lacked nothing of warmth or appreciation.

Sacrificed Ring to the Drama.

Since the time when, in "The Naval Cadet," Mr. Corbett took the American Theater by storm, his art has broadened and deepened. It is an older, a more mature, dare it be said a shiftier, Corbett who returns to us. So often of late has the assertion been made that Mr. Corbett is the best actor in the pugilist division of the stage that it is time for a comparison between his art and that of those other eminent gentlemen who have left the ring for the everlasting good of the drama, Messrs. John Lawrence Sullivan, Terence McGovern, James E. Britt, and J. John Jeffries.

It is true that any comparison between the art of these five eminent artists must be superficial, and to a certain extent banal, owing to the diversity of the dramas by which they have seen fit to show forth their talents.

The stanch art, honest and straightforward as a right swing, of "Honest Hearts and Willing Hands," is not to be compared to the romantic yet often superficial "Bowery After Dark," which Mr. Terence McGovern has so ably interpreted, and neither can be compared exactly with the jarring right-cross force of Mr. Jeffries's "Davy Crockett."