페이지 이미지
PDF
ePub

and here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished into his state-room. “And by Jove,” said Phillips, we did not see him for two months again. And I had to make up some beggarly story to that English surgeon why I did not return his Walter Scott to him."

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

[From Marco Bozzaris.)
COME to the bridal-chamber, Death!

Come to the mother's when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath;

Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine:
And thou art terrible—the tear,
The groan, the kuell, the pall, the bier;
And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought-
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought-

Come in her crowning hour—and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,

Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee—there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb;
But sbe remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said,
At palace couch and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate and checks her tears.

And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will by their pilgrim-circled hearth

Talk of thy doom without a sigh:
For thou art Freedom's now and Fame's,
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

GREEN be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,

Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,

From eyes unused to weep,
And long where thou art lying

Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven

Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth ;

And I, who woke each morrow

To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,

Whose weal and woe were thine

It should be mine to braid it

Around thy faded brow;
But I've in vaiu essayed it,

And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE.

(From Lecture on the Mormons.) BROTHER KIMBALL is a gay and festive cuss, of some seventy summers, or some'er's there about. He has one thousand head of cattle and a hundred head of wives. He says they are awful eaters.

Mr. Kimball had a son, a lovely young man, who was married to ten interesting wives. But one day while he was absent from home these ten wives went out walking with a handsome young man, which so enraged Mr. Kimball's son- —which made Mr. Kimball's son so jealous--that he shot himself with a horse-pistol.

The doctor who attended him-a very scientific man-informed me that the bullet entered the parallelogram of his diaphragmatic thorax, superinducing hemorrhage in the outer cuticle of his basilicon thaumaturgist. It killed him. I should have thought it would.

(Soft Music.) I hope this sad end will be a warning to all young wives who go out walking with handsome young men. Mr. Kimball's son is now no more. He sleeps beneath the cypress, the myrtle, and the willow. The music is a dirge by the eminent pianist for Mr. Kimball's son. He died by request.

I regret to say that efforts were made to make a Mormon of me while I was in Utah.

It was leap-year when I was there, and seventeen young widows, the wives of a deceased Mornion, offered me their hearts and hands. I called on them one day, and, taking their soft white hands in mine, which made eighteen hands altogether, I found them in tears, and I said, “Why is this thus ? What is the reason of this thusness ? "

They hove a sigh-seventeen sighs of different size. They said:
“O, soon thou wilt be gonested away!”
I told them that when I got ready to leave a place I wentested.
They said, “ Doth not like us ? "
I said, “I doth–I doth."

I also said, “I hope your intentions are honorable, as I am a lone child, my parents being far-far away.”

Then they said, "Wilt not marry us ?"
I said, “O, no, it cannot was ! ”

Again they asked me to marry them, and again I declined, when they cried,

“O, cruel man! this is too much! O, too much!” I told them that it was on account of the mucliness that I declined. ...

(Pointing to Panorama.) A more cheerful view of the desert.

The wild snow-storms have left us and we have thrown our wolf-skin overcoats aside. Certain tribes of far-western Indians bury their distinguished dead by placing them high in air and covering them with valuable furs. That is a very fair representation of those mid-air tombs. Those animals are horses. I know they are, because my artist says so. I had the picture two years before I discovered the fact. The artist came to me about six months ago and said, “It is useless to disguise it from you any longer, they are horses."

It was while crossing this desert that I was surrounded by a band of Ute Indians. They were splendidly mounted. They were dressed in beaverskins, and they were armed with rifles, knives, and pistols. What could I do? What could a poor old orphan do? I'm a brave

The day before the battle of Bull's Run I stood in the highway while the bullets—those dreadful messengers of death- 1-were passing all around me thickly-in wagons-on their way to the battle-field. But there were too many of these Injuns. There were forty of them, and only one of me, and so I said :

“Great chief, I surrender.”

man.

His name was Wocky-bocky. He dismounted and approached me. I saw his tomahawk glisten in the morning sunlight. Fire was in his eye. Wocky-bocky came very close

(Pointing to Panorama) to me and seized me by the hair of my head. He mingled his swarthy fingers with my golden tresses, and he rubbed his dreadful tomahawk across my lily-white face. He said:

** Torsha arrah darrah mishky bookshean!”
I told him he was right.
Wocky-bocky again rubbed his tomahawk across my face, and said:
“ Wink-lo-loo-boo ! "

Says I, “Mr. Wocky-bocky,” says I, “Wocky, I have thought so for years, and so's all our family.”

He told me I must go to the tent of the Strong Heart and eat raw dog. It don't agree with me. I prefer simple food. I prefer pork-pie, because then I know what I'm eating. But as raw dog was all they proposed to give to me I had to eat it or starve. So at the expiration of two days I seized a tin plate and went to the chief's daughter, and I said to her in a silvery voice-in a kind of German-silvery voice-I said:

"Sweet child of the forest, the pale-face wants his dog."

There was nothing but his paws. I had paused too long—which reminds me that time passes—a way which time has. I was told in my youth to seize opportunity. I once tried to seize one. He was rich; he had diamonds on.

As I seized him he knocked me down. Since then I have learned that he who seizes opportunity sees the penitentiary.

SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS.

THE JUMPING FRoG OF CALAVERAS County. “ WELL, there was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley in the winter of '49, or may be it was the spring of '50-I don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume warn't finished when he first come to the camp. But any way, he was the curiousest man about, always betting on any thing that turned up you ever see, if he could get any body to bet on the other side; and if he couldn't he'd change sides. Any way that suited the other side would suit him any way just so's he got a bet he was satisfied. But

« 이전계속 »