The American Union Speaker Part 67

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B., "Here one of us must fall, And, like St. Paul's Cathedral now, Be doomed to have a ball.

"I do confess I did attach Misconduct to your name!

If I withdraw the charge, will then Your ramrod do the same?"

Said Mr. B., "I do agree;-- But think of Honor's courts,-- If we go off without a shot, There will be strange reports.

"But look! the morning now is bright, Though cloudy it begun; Why can't we aim above as if We had called out the sun?"

So up into the harmless air Their bullets they did send; And may all other duels have That upshot in the end.

T. Hood.

CCCLVII.

MUSIC FOR THE MILLION.

Amongst the great inventions of this age, Which every other century surpa.s.ses, Is one,--just now the rage,-- Called "Singing for all cla.s.ses,"

That now, alas! have no more ear than a.s.ses, To learn to warble like the birds in June-- In time and tune, Correct as clocks, and musical as gla.s.ses!

Whether this grand harmonic scheme Will ever get beyond a dream, And tend to British happiness and glory May be no, and may be yes, Is more than I pretend to guess-- However here's my story.

In one of those small, quiet streets, Where business retreats,

To shun the daily bustle and the noise The shoppy Strand enjoys, But land, joint-companies, and life-insurance Find past endurance-- In one of these back streets, to peace so dear, The other day a ragged wight Began to sing with all his might, "I have a silent sorrow here!"

Heard in that quiet place, Devoted to a still and studious race, The noise was quite appalling!

To seek a fitting simile, and spin it, Appropriate to his calling, His voice had all Lablache's body, in it; But oh! the scientific tone it lacked, And was in fact Only a forty-boatswain power of bawling!

'T was said indeed for want of vocal nous The stage had banished him when he 'tempted it, For though his voice completely filled the house, It also emptied it.

However, there he stools Vociferous--a ragged don!

And with his iron pipes laid on-- A row to all the neighborhood.

In vain were sashes closed, And doors against the persevering Stentor; Though brick and gla.s.s, and solid oak opposed, The intruding voice would enter, Heedless of ceremonial or decorum, Den, office, parlor, study, and sanctorum; Where clients and attorneys, rogues and fools, Ladies, and masters who attend the schools, Clerks, agents all provided with their tools, Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools, With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em-- How it did bore 'em!

Louder and louder still, The fellow sang with horrible good-will, Curses, both loud and deep, his sole gratuities, From scribes bewildered, making many a flaw, In deeds of law They had to draw; With dreadful incongruities In posting legers, making up accounts, To large amounts, Or casting up annuities-- Stunned by that voice so loud and hoa.r.s.e, Against whose overwhelming force No invoice stood a chance, of course!

From room to room, from floor to floor, From Number One to Twenty-four, The nuisance bellowed; till all patience lost, Down came Miss Frost, Expostulating at her open door-- "Peace, monster, peace!

Where is the new police?

I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray, Do n't stand there bawling, fellow, don't!

You really send my serious thoughts astray, Do--there's a dear, good man--do, go away."

Says he, "I won't!"

The spinster pulled her door to with a slam, That sounded like a wooden d--n; For so some moral people, strictly loth To swear in words, however up, Will crash a curse in setting down a cup, Or through a door-post vent a banging oath,-- In fad, this sort of physical transgression Is really no more difficult to trace, Than in a given face A very bad expression.

However in she went Leaving the subject of her discontent To Mr. Jones's clerk at Number Ten; Who throwing up the sash, With accents rash, Thus hailed the most vociferous of men; "Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant; I cannot write a sentence--no one can't!

So pack up your trumps,-- And stir your stumps."

Says he "I shan't!"

Down went the sash, As if devoted to "eternal smash."

(Another ill.u.s.tration Of acted imprecation,) While close at hand, uncomfortably near, The independent voice, so loud and strong, And clanging like a gong, Roared out again the everlasting song, "I have a silent sorrow here!"

The thing was hard to stand!

The music-master could not stand it, But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand, As savage as a bandit, Made up directly to the tattered man, And thus in broken sentences began: "Com--com--I say!

You go away!

Into two parts my head you split-- My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit, When I do play-- You have no business in a place so still!

Can you not come another day?"

Says he, "I will."

"No--no--you scream and bawl!

You must not come at all!

You have no right, by rights, to beg- You have not one off leg-- You ought to work--you have not some complaint-- You are not cripple in your back or bones-- Your voice is strong enough to break some stones"-- Says he, "It ain't."

"I say you ought to labor!

You are in a young case, You have not sixty years upon your face, To come and beg your neighbor-- And discompose his music with a noise More worse than twenty boys-- Look what a street it is for quiet!

No cart to make a riot, No coach, no horses, no postillion: If you will sing, I say, it is not just To sing so loud."

Says he, "I must!

I'm singing for the million!"

T. Hood.

CCCLVIII.

ODE T0 MY BOY, AGED THREE YEARS.

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin-- (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestruck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air-- (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy!

There goes my ink.)

Thou cherub, but of earth; Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!) With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life-- (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John!

Toss the light ball--bestride the stick-- (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as the star,-- (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,-- (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above.) T. Hood.

CCCLIX.