The American Union Speaker Part 70

And keep the promise fast, May be, in spite of fate, a stiff Cold-water man, at last!

J. G. Saxe.

CCCLXVII.

WHITTLING.

The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool, The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby; His h.o.a.rded cents he gladly gives to get it, Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it; And, in the education of the lad, No little part that implement hath had,-- His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings A growing knowledge of material things.

Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart, His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod, its sharp explosion and rebounding wad, His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone, Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed, His windmill, raised the pa.s.sing breeze to win, His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin; Or, if his father lives upon the sh.o.r.e, You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"

Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers stanch And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven, Ere long he'll solve you any problem given; Make any jim-crack, musical or mute, A plough, a couch, an organ or a flute; Make you a locomotive or a clock, Cut a ca.n.a.l, or build a floating dock, Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block;-- Make anything, in short, for sea or sh.o.r.e, From a child's rattle, to a seventy-four;-- Make it, said I?--Ay, when he undertakes it, He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it.

And when the thing is made, whether it be To move on earth, in air, or on the sea; Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide, Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide; Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring, Whether it be a piston or a spring, Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or bra.s.s, The thing designed shall surely come to pa.s.s; For, when his hand 's upon it, you may know That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.

J. Pierpont.

CCCLXVIII.

HOTSPUR'S ACCOUNT OF A FOP.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners.

But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped, Showed like a stubble land at harvest-home.

He was perfumed like a milliner; And. 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon, He gave his nose, and took 't away again;-- And still he smiled and talked; And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He called them--untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his n.o.bility.

With many holiday and lady terms He questioned me; among the rest, demanded My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, To be so pestered with a popinjay, Out of my grief and my impatience, Answered neglectingly, I know not what; He should, or he should not;--for he made me mad.

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman, Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (G.o.d save the mark!) And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise; And that it was a great pity, so it was, This villainous saltpetre should be digged Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said; And, I beseech you, let not this report Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

Shakespeare.

CCCLXIX.

HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE.

Hard by a poet's attic lived a chemist, Or alchemist, who had a mighty Faith in the elixir vitae; And, though unflattered by the dimmest Glimpse of success, kept credulously groping And grubbing in his dark vocation; Stupidly hoping To onto the art of changing metals, And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles, By mystery of trans.m.u.tation.

Our starving poet took occasion To seek this conjurer's abode; Not with encomiastic ode, Of laudatory dedication, But with an offer to impart, For twenty pounds, the secret art Which should procure, without the pain Of metals, chemistry, and fire, What he so long had sought in vain, And gratify his heart's desire.

The money paid, our bard was hurried To the philosopher's sanctorum, Who, as it were sublimed and flurried Out of his chemical decorum, Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his Crucibles, retort, and furnace, And cried, as he secured the door, And carefully put to the shutter, "Now, now, the secret, I implore!

For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter!"

With grave and solemn air the poet Cried: "List! O, list, for thus I show it: Let this plain truth those ingrates strike, Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave; THAT WE MAY ALL HAVE WHAT WE LIKE, SIMPLY BY LIKING WHAT WE HAVE!"

Horace Smith.

CCCLXX.

THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand: "Hark ye," said he, "'tis an odd story this, About the crows!"--"I don't know what it is,"

Replied his friend.--"No? I'm surprised at that; Where I came from 't is the common chat; But you shall hear: an odd affair indeed!

And that it happened, they are all agreed.

Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short, as all the alley knows, Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows."

"Impossible!"--"Nay, but it 's really true; I had it from good hands, and so may you."

"From whose, I pray?" So having named the man, Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran.

"Sir, did you tell?"--relating the affair-- "Yes, sir, I did; and if it's worth you care, Ask Mr. Such-a-one; he told it me; But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three."

Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, Whip to the third, the virtuoso went.

"Sir,"--and so forth--"Why, yes; the thing is fact, Though in regard to number not exact; It was not two black crows; 't was only one; The truth of that you may depends upon, The gentleman himself told me the case."

"Where may I find him?"--"Why, in such a place."

Away he goes, and having found him out-- "Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt."

Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know if true what he had heard.

"Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?"--"Not I!"-- "Bless me! how people propagate a lie!

Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, And here I find at last all comes to none!

Did you say nothing of a crow at all?"

"Crow--crow--perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over."--"And pray, sir, what was 't?"

"Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, Something that was as black, sir, as a crow."

Byrom.

CCCLXXI.

HELPS TO READ.

A certain artist--I've forgot his name-- Had got, for making spectacles, a fame, Or, "helps to read," as, when they first were sold, Was writ upon his glaring sign in gold; And, for all uses to be had from gla.s.s, His were allowed by readers to surpa.s.s.

There came a man into his shop one day-- "Are you the spectacle contriver, pray?"

"Yes Sir," said he, "I can in that affair Contrive to please you, if you want a pair."

"Can you? pray do, then." So at first he chose To place a youngish pair upon his nose; And, book produced, to see how they would fit, Asked how he liked them. "Like 'em!--not a bit."

"Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try These in my hand will better suit your eye?"-- "No, but they don't."--"Well come, sir, if you please, Here is another sort; we'll e'en try these; Still somewhat more they magnify the letter, Now, sir?"--"Why, now, I'm not a bit the better."-- "No! here, take these which magnify still more,-- How do they fit"?--"Like all the rest before!"

In short, they tried a whole a.s.sortment through, But all in vain, for none of them would do.

The operator, much surprised to find So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind!

"What sort of eyes can you have got?" said he.

"Why very good ones, friend, as you may see."

"Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball.

Pray let me ask you Can you read at all?"

"No! you great blockhead!--If I could, what need Of paying you for any 'helps to read?'"

And so he left the maker in a heat, Resolved to post him for an arrant cheat.

Byrom.

BOOK FOURTH.

STANDARD SELECTIONS OF DIALOGUES.