And thus it is that history is writ,
And thus it is good men are slandered sore
From ever till to-day.
Some writer pastes a joke; it may remain
Safe in a corner from Time’s wind and rain
Till Time has rolled away.
So, hurrah for King Charles! and hurrah, too, for Penn!
And all such and similar excellent men!
Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!
There is a golden glory in my song
As of a picture by Carpaccio,
For it is of the early morning-time
When every man believed with tender faith
That animals could talk—oh, lovely lore!
So, lady, listen as the lay runs on.
There was a goose, and she was travelling
Across the land for her dyspepsia,
And at the noontide sat to rest herself
In a small thicket, when there came along
Two starving foxes, perishing to find
Something which was not too-too-utter-ish
To serve for dinner. And as they were wild
For want of food, it was but natural
That they should likewise be confounded cross;
Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!
And as they halted near the thicket, one
Of them observed, “If you were half as sharp
As books make out, you would not now, I’ll bet,
Be ravenous enough to gnaw the grass.”
“And if you were as big, or half as big,
As you believe you are,” snarled Number Two,
“You’d be a lion of the largest size
Minus his roar, and pluck, and dignity.”
Oh, listen, lady, as the lay runs on!
“Please to observe I want no impudence
From any fifteen-nickel quadruped
Of your peculiar shape,” snapped Number One.
“And if you give me but another note
Of your chin-music,” snarled out Number Two,
“I’ll make a wreck of you, you wretched beast,
Beyond insurance—bet your tail on that!”
Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!
“You are the champion snob of all the beasts!”
“And you the upper scum of all the frauds.”
“You are the weathercock of infamy.”
“And you the lightning-rod of falsehood’s spire.”
“You are a thief!” “Ditto.” “You lie.” “I ain’t.”
“Shut up, you goy!” And hearing this, the goose
Could bear no more, but walking from the bush,
Put on expression most benevolent,
And said, “Oh, gentlemen, for shame! for shame!
I’ll settle this dispute: in the first place
Let me remark, as an impartial friend——”
Oh, listen, lady, as the lay runs on!
But she did not remark, because they made
A rush at her and caught her by the throat,
And ate her up; and as they picked their teeth
With toothpicks made of her last pin-feathers,
The first observed, and that quite affably,
“Only a goose would ever make attempt
To settle a dispute when foxes fight”—
Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!
“And while I have a very great respect
For any peacemaker,” said Number Two,
“I would suggest that I invariably
Have found, if they be really honest folk
Who interfere with reprobates like us,
They’re always eaten up; there is, I think,
More clanship between devils any day
Than among all the angels. Interest
Binds us together, and howe’er we fight
Among ourselves to ease our bitter blood,
We do not hate each other half as much
As we do hate the good. Neighbours who fight
Can generally take most perfect care,
Not only of themselves, but of the goose
Who sticks her bill into the fuss they make.
This banquet now adjourns until it meets
Another wingéd angel of the sort
Which it has just discussed—may it be soon!”
Lady, this lyric runs no further on.
I would not say to man, “Don’t spread yourself
To win the admiration of mankind,”
Since he who never spreads can never shine,
And he who never shines is never seen,
And he who’s never seen is counted out
In the great game of life; yet what is spread
Too thin entirely, when the sun shines out
Must soon dry up and be a fly-away.
There was a man who took his daily dine
At a delightful table d’hôte, where he
Was waited on by an obedient youth,
Who, as a waiter, was a paragon
Of quick politeness. He’d apologise
If the sun shone too much, or if it rained,
And say in simple faith that he would speak
To the proprietor and have it changed,
Then vanish like an elfin fly-away.
The vulgar boarder at this table d’hôte
Was one who greatly loved to spread himself
And play the imperial before the rest;
And finding that the waiter cushioned it,
Sat down on him severely. Every time
He spoke he called him names, and said that he
Forthwith would punish him in cruel wise
Unless he tortled faster, or unless
The steak was better cooked. And then he’d swear—
Oh, death and dandelions! how he would swear!
Till all the blood of all the boarders round
Was almost turned to cherry-water ice,
And each and all wished they could fly away.
And yet this waiter had a fund reserved
Of pretty stout pugnacity and pride,
And every time the boarder called him “fool,”
Or “low-born rooster,” he would add it up
To the preceding pile of expletives,
And think it over. He did not forget
A single word. Of all the abusatives
There was not one which proved a fly-away.
At last the crisis came, when one fine day,
For some imagined fault, the boarder said
Unto the waiter, that unless he stirred
A little quicker he would bung his eye,
And take him by the legs instanter-ly
And wipe the floor with him. But with that word
He overdrew the account. That was the fly
Which overset the camel, and the drop
Which made the pail slop over. For the youth
On that let out his Injun. All at once
He turned both red and white, as fat and lean
Are seen in a beefsteak before ’tis cooked,
And blew his soul out in a fly-away.
“You misspelled copy of a gentleman
With all the meaning lost!—if you dare call
Me names again as you have often done,
I’ll bung your pallid eyes. You’ve said too much,
So now just dwindle down. I’ve always been
Obedient and polite, and served you well,
As you were never served by any one,
And all you ever gave me was abuse,
And all because you were a vulgar fool.
Now stop your noise, or I will sling you out
Of yonder window for a fly-away!”
The boarder rose as if in roaring wrath,
The waiter jerked his linen jacket off
And fairly danced about in gypsy style,
Impatient for a fight. But then the guest
As if with self-command restrained himself,
And said to the assembled company,
“There must be lines in all society
To regulate our conduct. Lines, I say,
Which separate us from the vulgar herd,
With whom we may not fight. I draw the line
At waiters.” Here he looked about the room
To be applauded; but the only sound
Which rose was that of a tremendous slap
On his own face, and then a mighty roar
Of laughter from the happy company,
For all his valour was a fly-away.
So he sat down too terrified to speak;
And then the waiter took a dripping jug
Of ice-water and poured out every drop
Upon his head, yea, water, ice, and all;
And then that boarder burst in bitter tears,
And blubbered like a boy, while all the room
Rang with redoubled laughter. Then a guest
Proposed a vote of thanks to him who had
Put down a public nuisance, and the next
Passed round a hat and took collection up
To give the waiter as a small reward
For punishing a coward. Then he rose,
And since that hour has been a fly-away.
The word to “mash,” in the sense of causing love or attracting by a glance or fascinating look, came into ordinary slang from the American stage. Thus an actress was often fined for “mashing” or smiling at men in the audience. It was introduced by the well-known gypsy family of actors, C., among whom Romany was habitually spoken. The word “masher” or “mash” means in that tongue to allure, delude, or entice. It was doubtless much aided in its popularity by its quasi-identity with the English word. A girl could be called a masher as she could be called a man-killer, or killing. But there can be no doubt as to the gypsy origin of “mash” as used on the stage. I am indebted for this information to the late well-known impresario Palmer of New York, and I made a note of it years before the term had become at all popular.
It was in the Indian summer-time, when life is tender brown,
And people in the country talk of going into town,
When the nights are crisp and cooling, though the sun is warm by day,
In the home-like town of Glasgow, in the State of Iowa;
It was in the railroad deepô of that greatly-favoured zone,
That a young man met a stranger, who was still not all unknown,
For they had run-countered casual in riding in the car,
And the latter to the previous had offered a cigar.
Now as the primal gentleman was nominated Gale,
It follows that the secondary man was Mr. Dale;
This is called poetic justice when arrangements fit in time,
And Fate allows the titles to accommodate in rhyme.
And a lovely sense of autumn seemed to warble in the air;
Boys with baskets selling peaches were vibratin’ everywhere,
While in the mellow distance folks were gettin’ in their corn,
And the biggest yellow punkins ever seen since you were born.
Now a gradual sensation emotioned this our Gale,
That he’d seldom seen so fine a man for cheek as Mr. Dale;
Yet simultaneous he felt that he was all the while
The biggest dude and cock-a-hoop within a hundred mile.
For the usual expression of his quite enormous eyes
Was that of two ripe gooseberries who’ve been decreed a prize;
Like a goose apart from berries, too—though not removed from sauce—
He conversed on lovely Woman as if he were all her boss.
Till, in fact, he stated plainly that, between his face and cash,
There was not a lady living whom he was not sure to mash;
The wealthiest, the loveliest, of families sublime,
At just a single look from him must all give in in time.
Now when our Dale had got along so far upon the strain,
They saw a Dream of Loveliness descending from the train,
A proud and queenly beauty of a transcendental face,
With gloves unto her shoulders, and the most expensive lace.
All Baltimore and New Orleans seemed centered into one,
As if their stars of beauty had been fused into a sun;
But, oh! her frosty dignity expressed a kind of glow
Like sunshine when thermometers show thirty grades below.
But it flashed a gleam of shrewdness into the head of Gale,
And with aggravatin’ humour he exclaimed to Mr. Dale,
“Since every girl’s a cricket-ball and you’re the only bat,
If you want to show you’re champion, go in and mash on that.
“I will bet a thousand dollars, and plank them on the rub,
That if you try it thither, you will catch a lofty snub.
I don’t mean but what a lady may reply to what you say,
But I bet you cannot win her into wedding in a day.”
A singular emotion enveloped Mr. Dale;
One would say he seemed confuseled, for his countenance was pale:
At first there came an angry look, and when that look did get,
He larft a wild and hollow larf, and said, “I take the debt.
“The brave deserve the lovely—every woman may be won;
What men have fixed before us may by other men be done.
You will lose your thousand dollars. For the first time in my life
I have gazed upon a woman whom I wish to make my wife.”
Like a terrier at a rabbit, with his hat upon his eyes
Mr. Dale, the awful masher, went head-longing at the prize,
Looking rather like a party simply bent to break the peace,
Mr. Gale, with smiles, expected just a yell for the police.
Oh! what are women made of? Oh! what can women be?
From Eves to Jersey Lilies what bewildering sights we see!
One listened on the instant to all the Serpent said;
The other paid attention right away to Floral Ned.
With a blow as with a hammer the intruder broke the ice,
And the proud and queenly beauty seemed to think it awful nice.
Mr. Gale, as he beheld it, with a trembling heart began
To realise he really was a most astonished man.
Shall I tell you how he wooed her? shall I tell you how he won?
How they had a hasty wedding ere the evening was done?
For when all things were considered, the fond couple thought it best—
Such things are not uncommon in the wild and rapid West.
Dale obtained the thousand dollars, and then vanished with the dream.
Gale stayed in town with sorrow, like a spoon behind the cream;
Till one morning in the paper he read, though not in rhymes,
How a certain blooming couple had been married fifty times!
How they wandered o’er the country; how the bridegroom used to bet
He would wed the girl that evening,—how he always pulled the debt;
How his eyes were large and greensome; how, in fact, to end the tale,
Their very latest victim was a fine young man named Gale.
When in a situation it always pays the best
To have your wits about you, for it helps the interest;
And a man gets so encouraged by succeedin’ when he tries,
That the more you crowd him downward, the more he’s bound to rise.
As when near Tres Alamos, while workin’ at his mine,
John Lyons, late of Tombstone, without the least design
To involve himself whatever in any kind of tricks,
Got inside an unprovided and a most unpleasant fix.
John Lyons, late of Tombstone, had but just put in a blast,
When he saw four buck Apaches approximatin’ fast
Upon their headlong horses in a rackaloose career,
And every one preceded by a long projectin’ spear:
He had planted all the powder, and was just atop the shaft,
While the foemen kept a-comin’ like as they was telegrapht.
To run was to be taken, and to stay was to be slew—
And in such a situation how-whatever could he do?
Bein’ quick upon the trigger Lyons did not stop to choose,
For a match was in his fingers, so he lighted up the fuse,
And dropped behind a boulder for to disabuse their aim,
When at him like a sheriff’s writ full dig the Injuns came.
He had timed the fuse so nicely that the ’Paches reached the rock
Exactly at the nick of the explosionary shock:
Bang! How the big rock busted as the powder gave a flare!
While a rain of stones and gravel went a-thunderin’ through the air.
It was four red Apaches who also had a rise,
And started for the hunting-grounds on horseback thro’ the skies;
Or as if they had the notion, but recalled it there and then,
For they speedily descended as four non-existent men.
John Lyons, late of Tombstone, just down behind his rock,
Escaped the influential effect of such a shock,
And examinin’ the prospect, he very plainly sees
He has worked the blast quite perfect—likewise slammed his enemies.
When narratin’ the adventure which I’ve chanted in my song,
If he terms them “blasted Injuns” no one calls his language strong—
For their hopes were surely blasted which they fondly reckoned on,
And with patent giant-powder by this Arizona John.
It was in a pleasant deepô, sequestered from the rain,
That many weary passengers were waitin’ for the train;
Piles of quite expensive baggage, many a gorgeous portmantó,
Ivory-handled umberellas made a most touristic show.
Whereunto there came a person, very humble was his mien,
Who took an observation of the interestin’ scene;
Closely scanned the umberellas, watched with joy the mighty trunks,
And observed that all the people were securin’ Pullman bunks:
Who was followed shortly after by a most unhappy tramp,
Upon whose features poverty had jounced her iron stamp;
And to make a clear impression as bees sting you while they buzz,
She had hit him rather harder than she generally does.
For he was so awful ragged, and in parts so awful bare,
That the folks were quite repulsioned to behold him begging there;
And instead of drawing currency from out their pocket-books,
They drew themselves asunder with aversionary looks.
Sternly gazed the first newcomer on the unindulgent crowd,
Then in tones which pierced the deepô he solilicussed aloud:—
“I hev trevelled o’er this cont’nent from Quebec to Bogotáw,
But setch a set of scallawags as these I never saw.
“Ye are wealthy, ye are gifted, ye have house and lands and rent,
Yet unto a suff’rin’ mortal ye will not donate a cent;
Ye expend your missionaries to the heathen and the Jew,
But there isn’t any heathen that is half as small as you.
“Ye are lucky—ye hev cheque-books and deeposits in the bank,
And ye squanderate your money on the titled folks of rank;
The onyx and the sardonyx upon your garments shine,
An’ ye drink at every dinner p’r’aps a dollar’s wuth of wine.
“Ye are goin’ for the summer to the islands by the sea,
Where it costs four dollars daily—setch is not for setch as me;
Iv’ry-handled umberellers do not come into my plan,
But I kin give a dollar to this suff’rin’ fellow-man.
“Hand-bags made of Rooshy leather are not truly at my call,
Yet in the eyes of Mussy I am richer ’en you all,
For I kin give a dollar wher’ you dare not stand a dime,
And never miss it nother, nor regret it any time.”
Sayin’ this he drew a wallet from the inner of his vest,
And gave the tramp a daddy, which it was his level best;
Other people havin’ heard him soon to charity inclined—
One giver soon makes twenty if you only get their wind.
The first who gave the dollar led the other one about,
And at every contribution he a-raised a joyful shout,
Exclaimin’ how ’twas noble to relieviate distress,
And remarkin’ that our duty is our present happiness.
Thirty dollars altogether were collected by the tramp,
When he bid ’em all good evenin’ and went out into the damp,
And was followed briefly after by the one who made the speech,
And who showed by good example how to practise as to preach.
Which soon around the corner the couple quickly met,
And the tramp produced the specie for to liquidate his debt;
And the man who did the preachin’ took his twenty of the sum,
Which you see that out of thirty left a tenner for the bum.
And the couple passed the summer at Bar Harbour with the rest,
Greatly changed in their appearance and most elegantly dressed.
Any fowl with change of feathers may a brilliant bird become:
Oh, how hard is life for many! oh, how sweet it is for some!
“Great thoughts are oft expressed in fewest words,”
And I remember how long years ago,
When a great lady in her diary
Of a short visit to the Scottish land,
Recorded of a sorrowful event,
“To-day poor little Vicky, by mischance,
Sat on a wasps’ nest.” All the newspapers
Declared it was a perfect masterpiece
Of excellent conciseness. Yet I think
It was outdone by a Red Indian—
One of the Quoddy tribe—who did the same;
Since he, like “little Vicky,” also sat
Upon a seat as hot; and when he rose,
Briefly exclaimed in his vernacular:—
“H’lam-kikqu’!” and being asked what this
Might mean, responded in the English tongue:
“Heap hell!” O reader! if the soul of wit
Be brevity, this Indian was there.
“For blowing is not playing on the flute,
To do that well you must put fingers to’t.”
German Proverb.
This is a Merry Tale of Bergamo.
It chanced in Fifteen Hundred Twenty-Eight
[As I do find the fact recorded in
A pleasing book of Sixteen Thirty-Six
Entitled Scelta di Facetie—
A little yellow, quaint, italic tome,
Which looks as if it were behind the age,
And would have been black letter if it could]
That in fair Venice raged a pestilence
Whereof in time full many people died,
And among these a trusty servitor
Who blew the bellows for the organist
All in the great Cathedral of Saint Mark,
Whose billowy pavement truly seems to roll
In time and measure with the music sweet,
So perfect were the harmonies of Art
Which men imagined in the olden time.
Now as this man had died while at his work,
Even while blowing a Magnificat
All in the holy church, it was adjudged
That he almost deserved to be a saint.
And he who preached the sermon over him
Said that “his soul had risen on the notes
Of the grand anthem which he had inspired,
And having reached the Music all divine
Had softly sunk, as light is lost in light,
Into the pure Celestial.” Here he stopped.
Men were great preachers in the olden time.
It happened that a certain Giannolo,
Facchino Bergamasco, or a man
From Bergamo, a porter by his trade,
Who carried heavy burdens, yet withal
Was not o’erburdened with a load of wit,
Hearing this sermon, got it in his head—
And no great wonder either—that the late
Departed bellows-blower must have been
The Chief Musician of the Holy House;
And knowing that the man who bloweth up
A pair of bagpipes also is the one
Who plays upon the same—drew inference
That the deceased was the true organist,
And he who played thereon his humble aid,
Who only worked to keep the tune in time.
Now being smitten with a deep desire
To rise in life and also to be called
A Child of Art—with a nice salary—
And have a sermon preached o’er him when dead,
Giannolo unto the Bishop went,
And made a great entreaty to be placed
Among the holy followers of Saint Mark,
And that the aim of his ambition was
Alzare i mantici quando suonava
gli organi—that’s to say:
“To lift the bellows when the organ played.”
And as he was a stout and lusty knave
Who might be useful in a hundred ways,
They gladly took him on, so there he stayed
Blowing the bellows faithfully in time.
I ween there is not in all Italy
A man—unless he came from Bergamo—
Who could have blown an organ seven years
In the full faith that he was playing it,
And was indeed the real organist.
Yet this, in fact, unless the legend lies,
Was what befell Giannolo. By this time,
Having laid by a very handsome sum,
And being well attired though modestly,
As is becoming to a Son of Art,
He went a-visiting his native place,
Where all who were related unto him—
That is to say about one-half the town—
Did greatly marvel at his handsome clothes
And at his air of stately dignity,
But most of all when he informed them that
He was no more a porter: he had felt
Immortal longings in him to arise
Above that vulgar calling, and to soar
“ ’Mid palpitations sweet and pleasures soft,
The manifestations of that beauteous life
Diffused unseen throughout eternal Space”
Which men call Music; and that he had risen
Even to a monthly salary of ten francs,
Wherewith were many pleasing perquisites;
And that he played the organ in Saint Mark’s,
As all the world allowed, in perfect time.
Up rose a buzz of strangest wonderment,
Or, as ’tis writ, Di che restarono
Più maravigliati; for they all
Were much amazed that such a common man—
Si vile e si rozzo—such a boor—
Had risen to the pinnacle of Art
In Venice, where all Art was at its height,
And gained the crown of glory—Iddio!
“Ten francs a month besides the perquisites!”
They bowed before him with deep reverence,
Hoping he’d stay with them a little time.