Chapter 10

_Captain._ Because we were on the coast of the Bay of Biscay when the vessel was wrecked.

_Patrick._ Throth, I was thinkin' so myself. And now, Captain jewel, it is I that wishes we had a gridiron.

_Captain._ Why, Patrick, what puts the notion of a gridiron into your head?

_Patrick._ Because I'm starving with hunger, Captain dear.

_Captain._ Surely you do not intend to eat a gridiron, do you?

_Patrick._ Ate a gridiron; bad luck to it! no. But if we had a gridiron, we could dress a beefsteak.

_Captain._ Yes; but where's the beefsteak, Patrick?

_Patrick._ Sure, couldn't we cut it off the pork?

_Captain._ I never thought of that. You are a clever fellow, Patrick. (_Laughing._)

_Patrick._ There's many a thrue word said in joke, Captain. And now, if you will go and get the bit of pork that we saved from the rack, I'll go to the house there beyant, and ax some of them to lind me the loan of a gridiron.

_Captain._ But, Patrick, this is France, and they are all foreigners here.

_Patrick._ Well, and how do you know but I am as good a furriner myself as any o' them.

_Captain._ What do you mean, Patrick?

_Patrick._ Parley voo frongsay?

_Captain._ O, you understand French, then, is it?

_Patrick._ Throth, you may say that, Captain dear.

Captain. Well, Patrick, success to you. Be civil to the foreigners, and I'll be back with the pork in a minute. [_He goes out._

_Patrick._ Ay, sure enough, I'll be civil to them; for the Frinch are always mighty p'lite intirely, and I'll show them I know what good manners is. Indade, and here comes munseer himself, quite convaynient. (_As the Frenchman enters, Patrick takes off his hat, and making a low bow, says:_) God save you, sir, and all your children. I beg your pardon for the liberty I take, but it's only being in disthress in regard of ateing, that I make bowld to trouble ye; and if you could lind me the loan of a gridiron, I'd be intirely obleeged to ye.

_Frenchman (staring at him)._ Comment!

_Patrick._ Indade it's thrue for you. I'm tathered to paces, and God knows I look quare enough; but it's by rason of the storm that dhruve us ashore jist here, and we're all starvin'.

_Frenchman._ Je m'y t--(_pronounced_ zhe meet).

_Patrick._ Oh! not at all! by no manes! we have plenty of mate ourselves, and we'll dhress it, if you be plased jist to lind us the loan of a gridiron, sir. (_Making a low bow._)

_Frenchman (staring at him, but not understanding a word.)_

_Patrick._ I beg pardon, sir; but maybe I'm undher a mistake, but I thought I was in France, sir. An't you all furriners here? Parley voo frongsay?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur.

_Patrick._ Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, if you plase? (_The Frenchman stares more than ever, as if anxious to understand._) I know it's a liberty I take, sir; but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away; and if you plase, sir, parley voo frongsay?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur, oui.

_Patrick._ Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, sir and you'll obleege me?

_Frenchman._ Monsieur, pardon, monsieur--

_Patrick. (Angrily)._ By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress, and if it was to owld Ireland you came, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you, if you axed it, but something to put on it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain. Can't you understand your own language? (_Very slowly._) Parley--voo--frongsay--munseer?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur; oui, monsieur, mais--

_Patrick._ Then lend me the loan of a gridiron, I say, and bad scram to you.

_Frenchman (bowing and scraping)._ Monsieur, je ne l'entend--

_Patrick._ Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your long tongs! I don't want a tongs at all, at all. Can't you listen to rason?

_Frenchman._ Oui, oui, monsieur: certainement, mais--

_Patrick._ Then lind me the loan of a gridiron, and howld your prate. (_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if to say he did not understand; but Patrick, thinking he meant it as a refusal, says, in a passion:_) Bad cess to the likes o' you! Throth, if you were in my counthry, it's not that-a-way they'd use you. The curse o' the crows on you, you owld sinner! The divil another word I'll say to you. (_The Frenchman puts his hand on his heart, and tries to express compassion in his countenance._) Well, I'll give you one chance more, you old thafe! Are you a Christhian, at all, at all? Are you a furriner that all the world calls so p'lite? Bad luck to you! do you understand your mother tongue? Parley voo frongsay? (_Very loud._) Parley voo frongsay?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur, oui, oui.

_Patrick._ Then, thunder and turf! will you lind me the loan of a gridiron? (_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if he did not understand; and Pat says, vehemently:_) The curse of the hungry be on you, you owld negarly villian! the back of my hand and the sowl of my fut to you! May you want a gridiron yourself yet! and wherever I go, it's high and low, rich and poor, shall hear of it, and be hanged to you!

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

This fine poem is full of points for brilliant declamation; at times there should be a flow of rapid narration, rising frequently into shouts of exultation:

Come, see the good ship's anchor forged--'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased--though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round; All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare-- Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe! It rises, roars, rends all outright--O, Vulcan, what a glow: 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright--the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swart, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing-monster slow Sinks on the anvil--all about the faces fiery grow.

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out--leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low-- A hailing fount of fire is struck at every quashing blow; The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor--a bower thick and broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road-- The low reef roaring on her lee--the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains! But courage still, brave mariners--the bower yet remains! And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high; Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing--here am I."

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time; Your blows make sweeter music far than any steeple's chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing--and let the burden be, "The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we:" Strike in, strike in--the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.

Our anchor must soon change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor must soon change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the "Heave-away!" and the sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go--far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cast was cast. O, trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

O, broad-armed diver of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? The good ship weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line; And, night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play. O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, once leagued in patriot band! O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron sides would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the sea!

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for love of father-land-- Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave-- O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!

LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON.

AND THE RIDDLE HE MADE THERE.

One of the many popular delusions wespecting the Bwitish swell is the supposition that he leads an independent life,--goes to bed when he likes, gets up when he likes, d-dwesses how he likes, and dines when he pleases.

The public are gwossly deceived on this point. A weal swell is as m-much under authowity as a p-poor devil of a pwivate in the marines, a clerk in a government office, or a f-forth-form boy at Eton. Now I come under the demon--demonima--(no,--thop,--what is the word?)--dom--denom--d-denomination, that 'th it--I come under the d-denomination of a swell--(in--in fact--a _howwid_ swell--some of my friends call me, but _that'th_ only their flattewy), and I assure you a f-fellah in that capacity is so much westained by rules of f-fashion, that he can scarcely call his eyeglath his own. A swell, I take it, is a fellah who t-takes care that he swells as well as swells who swell as well as he, (there's thuch lot of thwelling in that thentence,--ha, ha!--it's what you might c-call a busting definition). What I mean is, that a f-fellah is obliged to do certain things at certain times of the year, whether he likes 'em or no. For instance, in the season I've got to go to a lot of balls and dwums and tea-fights in town, that I don't care a bit about, and show myself in the Park wegularly evewy afternoon; and latht month I had to victimize mythelf down in the countwy,--shooting (a bwutal sort of amusement, by the way). Well, about the end of October evewy one goes to Bwighton, n-no one knowth why,--that'th the betht of it,--and so I had to go too,--that's the wortht of it,--ha, ha!

Not that it's such a b-bad place after all,--I d-dare say if I hadn't _had_ to go I should have gone all the same, for what is a f-fellah to do who ith n't much of a sportsman just about this time? There 'th n-nothing particular going on in London. Evewything is b-beathly dull; so I thought I would just run down on the Southeastern Wailway to be--ha, ha!--Bwightoned up a bit. (Come, th-that's not bad for an impromptu!)

B-Bwighton was invented in the year 1784, by his Woyal Highness George P-Pwince of Wales,--the author of the shoebuckle, the stand-up collar (a b-beathly inconvenient and cut-throat thort of a machine), and a lot of other exthploded things. He built the Pavilion down there, which looks like a lot of petrified onions from Bwobdinag clapped down upon a guard-house. There'th a jolly sort of garden attached to the building, in which the b-band plays twice a week, and evewy one turns in there about four o'clock, so I went too (n-not _too_ o'clock, you know, but f-four o'clock). I--I'm vewy fond of m-martial music, mythelf. I like the dwums and the t-twombones, and the ophicleides, and all those sort of inshtwuments,--yeth, ethpethelly the bwass ones,--they're so vewy exthpiring, they are. Thtop though, ith it expiring or _p-per_thpiring?--n-neither of 'em sound quite right. Oh! I have it now, it--it's _in_thspiring,--that'th what it is, because the f-fellahs _bweathe into them_!

That weminds me of a widdle I made down there (I--I've taken to widdles lately, and weally it'th a vewy harmleth thort of a way of getting thwough the morning, and it amuthes two f-fellahs at onth, because if--if you athk a fellah a widdle, and he can't guess it, you can have a jolly good laugh at _him_, and--if he--if he _doth_ guess it, he--I mean you--no--that is the widdle--stop, I--I'm getting confuthed,--where wath I? Oh! I know. If--if he _doth_ guess it.... however it ithn't vewy likely he would--so what's the good of thupposing impwobabilities?) Well, thith was the widdle I made,--I thed to Sloper (Sloper's a fwiend of mine,--a vewy gook thort of fellah Sloper is,--I d-don't know exactly what his pwofession would be called, but hith uncle got him into a b-berth where he gets f-five hundred a year,--f-for doing nothing--s-somewhere--I forget where--but I--I know he does it),--I said to Sloper, "Why is that f-fellah with the b-bassooon l-like his own instrument?" and Sloper said, "How--how the dooth should I know?" (Ha, ha!--I thought he'd give it up!) So I said to Sloper, "Why, b-because they both get _blown_--in _time_!" _You_ thee the joke, of course, but I don't think Sloper did, thomhow; all he thed was, "V-vewy mild, Dundreary,"--and t-tho--it was mild--thertainly, _f-for October_, but I d-don't thee why a f-fellah should go making wemarks about the weather instead of laughing at m-my widdle.

In this pwomenade that I was speaking of, you see such a lot of thtunning girls evewy afternoon,--dwessed twemendous swells, and looking like--yes, by Jove! l-like angels in cwinoline,--there 'th no other word for it. There are two or thwee always _will_ l-laugh, somehow, when I meet them,--they do now _weally_. I--I almost fancy they wegard me with intewest. I mutht athk Sloper if he can get me an introduction. Who knowth? pwaps I might make an impwession,--I'll twy,--I--I've got a little converthathional power,--and _theveral_ new wethcoats.

Bwighton is filling fast now. You see dwoves of ladies evewy day on horseback, widing about in all diwections. By the way, I--I muthn't forget to mention that I met those two girls that always laugh when they thee me, at a tea-fight. One of 'em--the young one--told me, when I was intwoduced to her,--in--in confidence, mind,--that she had often heard of me and of my _widdles_. Tho you thee I'm getting quite a weputathun that way. The other morning, at Mutton's, she wath ch-chaffing me again, and begging me to tell her the latetht thing in widdles. Now, I hadn't heard any mythelf for thome time, tho I couldn't give her any _vewy_ great novelty, but a fwiend of mine made one latht theason which I thought wather neat, tho I athked her, When ith a jar not a jar? Thingularly enough, the moment she heard thith widdle she burtht out laughing behind her pocket-handkerchief!

"Good gwacious! what'th the matter?" said I. "Have you ever heard it before?"

"Never," she said emphatically, "in that form; do, _please_ tell me the answer."

So I told her,--When it ith a door! Upon which she--she went off again in hystewics. I--I--I never _did_ see such a girl for laughing. I know it's a good widdle, but I didn't think it would have such an effect as _that_.

By the way, Sloper told me afterwards that he thought _he_ had heard the widdle before, somewhere, but it was put in a different way. He said it was: When ith a door not a door?--and the answer, When it ith ajar!

I--I've been thinking over the matter lately, and though I dare thay it--d-don't much matter which way the question is put, still--pwaps the last f-form is the betht. It--it seems to me to _wead_ better. What do you think?

Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on the Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New--Newfoundland dog, and he inthpired me--the dog, you know, not the fellah,--he wath a lunatic. I'm keeping the widdle, but I don't mind telling _you_.

Why does a dog waggle hith tail? Give it up? I think motht fellahs will give that up!

You thee, the dog waggles hith tail becauth the dog's stwonger than the tail. If he wath n't, the tail would waggle the dog!

Ye-th,--that 'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I thall athtonish those two girls thome of these days.

THE VOICES AT THE THRONE.

T. WESTWOOD.

A little child, A little meek-faced, quiet village child, Sat singing by her cottage door at eve A low, sweet sabbath song. No human ear Caught the faint melody,--no human eye Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed The oft-repeated burden of the hymn, "Praise God! Praise God!"

A seraph by the throne In full glory stood. With eager hand He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood Of harmony on the celestial air Welled forth, unceasing. There with a great voice, He sang the "Holy, holy evermore, Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courts Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies, Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned With vehement adoration.

Higher yet Rose the majestic anthem, without pause, Higher, with rich magnificence of sound, To its full strength; and still the infinite heavens Rang with the "Holy, holy evermore!" Till, trembling with excessive awe and love, Each sceptred spirit sank before the Throne With a mute hallelujah.

But even then, While the ecstatic song was at its height, Stole in an alien voice,--a voice that seemed To float, float upward from some world afar,-- A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet! That blended with the spirits' rushing strain, Even as a fountain's music, with the roll Of the reverberate thunder.

Loving smiles Lit up the beauty of each angel's face At that new utterance, smiles of joy that grew More joyous yet, as ever and anon Was heard the simple burden of the hymn, "Praise God! praise God!"

And when the seraph's song Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre Silence hung brooding,--when the eternal courts Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime, Still through the abysmal space that wandering voice Came floating upward from its world afar, Still murmured sweet on the celestial air, "Praise God! praise God!"

MY FRIEND'S SECRET.

I found my friend in his easy chair, With his heart and his head undisturbed by a care; The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from his lips, His face like the moon in a semi-eclipse; His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose, And his chair tilted back to a classical pose.

I marvelled much such contentment to see-- The secret whereof I begged he'd give me. He puffed away with re-animate zest, As though with an added jollity blest. "I'll tell you, my friend," said he, in a pause, "What is the very 'identical' cause.

"Don't fret!--Let this be the first rule of your life;-- Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife; Let everything happen as happen it may, Be cool as a cucumber every day; If favourite of fortune or a thing of its spite, Keep calm, and believe that all is just right.

"If you're blown up abroad or scolded at home, Just make up your mind to let it all come: If people revile you or pile on offence, 'Twill not make any odds a century hence. For all the reviling that malice can fling, A little philosophy softens the sting.

"Run never in debt, but pay as you go; A man free from debt feels a heaven below; He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun, And ranks 'mid the favoured as A No. 1. It needs a great effort the spirit to brace 'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face.

"And this one resolve you should cherish like gold, --It has ever my life and endeavour controlled,-- If fortune assail, and worst comes to worst, And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst, Be resolved, if disaster your plans circumvent, That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent."

There was Bunsby's deep wisdom revealed in his tone, Though its depth was hard to fathom I own; "For how can I fail," I said to myself, "If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?" Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light, But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right; And herein give out, as my earnest intent, Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent.

VAIN REGRETS.

A seedy old beggar asked alms of me As he sat 'neath the shade of a wayside tree. He was beggared in purse and beggared in soul, And his voice betrayed a pitiful dole, As he sang a song, to a dismal pitch, With the burden, "IF THINGS WAS ONLY SICH!"

"If things was only sich," said he, "You should see what a wonderful man I'd be; No beggar I, by the wayside thrown, But I'd live in a palace and millions own, And men would court me if I were rich-- As I'd be if things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he, "I'd be lord of the land and lord of the sea; I would have a throne and be a king, And rule the roast with a mighty swing-- I'd make a place in Fame's bright niche; I'd do it if things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he, "Rare wines I'd quaff from the far countree, I'd cloth myself in dazzling garb, I'd mount the back of the costly barb, And none should ask me wherefore or which-- Did it chance that things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he, "I'd love the fairest and they'd love me; Yon dame, with a smile that warms my heart, Might have borne with me life's better part, But lost to me, here in poverty's ditch, What were mine if things was only sich."

Thus the old beggar moodily sung, And his eyes dropped tears as his hands he wrung. I could but pity to hear him berate, In dolorous tones the decrees of Fate, That laid on his back its iron switch, While he cried, "If things was only sich."

"If things was only sich!"--e'en all Might the past in sad review recall; But little the use and little the gain, Exhuming the bones of buried pain, And whether we're poor or whether we're rich, We'll say not, "If things was only sich."

ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.

E.L. BEERS.

The opening verses should be given in a low, almost plaintive tone; when the flag is seen, the exclamations should be ejaculated with spirit and rapturous delight. Care should be taken not to give the negro _patois_ too broad, or it may prove a defect; where properly spoken it is really a beauty:

"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey-- Massa won't be with you long; And I fain would hear the south wind Bring once more the sound to me, Of the wavelets softly breaking On the shores of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur As they still the story tell, How no vessels float the banner That I've loved so long and well. I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and stripes on sloop and shallop Sailing up the Tennessee;

"And, Pompey, while old Massa's waiting For Death's last dispatch to come, If that exiled starry banner Should come proudly sailing home. You shall greet it slave no longer-- Voice and hand shall both be free That shout and point to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee."

"Massa's berry kind to Pompey; But old darkey's happy here. Where he's tended corn and cotton For dese many a long gone year. Over yonder, Missis' sleeping-- No one tends her grave like me: Mebbe she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee.