Part 7

X. has one good story, and with that I leave him, wishing him with all my heart that little inland farm at last which is his calenture as he paces the windy deck. One evening, when the clouds looked wild and whirling, I asked X. if it was coming on to blow. "No, I guess not," said he; "bumby the moon'll be up, and scoff away that 'ere loose stuff." His intonation set the phrase "scoff away" in quotation-marks as plain as print. So I put a query in each eye, and he went on. "Ther' was a Dutch cappen onct, an' his mate come to him in the cabin, where he sot takin' his schnapps, an' says, 'Cappen, it's agittin' thick, an' looks kin' o' squally, hedn't we's good's shorten sail?' 'Gimmy my alminick,' says the cappen. So he looks at it a spell, an' says he, 'The moon's due in less'n half an hour, an' she'll scoff away ev'ythin' clare agin.' So the mate he goes, an' bumby down he comes agin, an' says, 'Cappen, this 'ere's the allfiredest, powerfullest moon 't ever you _did_ see. She's scoffed away the main-togallants'l, an' she's to work on the foretops'l now. Guess you'd better look in the alminick agin, and fin' out when _this_ moon sets.' So the cappen thought 'twas 'bout time to go on deck. Dreadful slow them Dutch cappens be." And X. walked away, rumbling inwardly, like the rote of the sea heard afar.

THE ROAD TO A WOMAN'S HEART

BY SAM SLICK

As we approached the inn at Amherst, the Clockmaker grew uneasy. "It's pretty well on in the evening, I guess," said he, "and Marm Pugwash is as onsartin in her temper as a mornin' in April; it's all sunshine or all clouds with her, and if she's in one of her tantrums she'll stretch out her neck and hiss like a goose with a flock of goslin's. I wonder what on airth Pugwash was a-thinkin' on when he signed articles of partnership with that are woman; she's not a bad-lookin' piece of furniture, neither, and it's a proper pity sich a clever woman should carry sich a stiff upper lip. She reminds me of our old minister Joshua Hopewell's apple-trees.

"The old minister had an orchard of most particular good fruit, for he was a great hand at buddin', graftin', and what not, and the orchard (it was on the south side of the house) stretched right up to the road. Well, there were some trees hung over the fence, I never seed such bearers: the apples hung in ropes, for all the world like strings of onions, and the fruit was beautiful. Nobody touched the minister's apples, and when other folks lost their'n from the boys, his'n always hung there like bait t' a hook, but there never was so much as a nibble at 'em. So I said to him one day, 'Minister,' said I, 'how on airth do you manage to keep your fruit that's so exposed, when no one else can't do it nohow?' 'Why,' says he, 'they are dreadfully pretty fruit, ain't they?' 'I guess,' said I, 'there ain't the like on 'em in all Connecticut.' 'Well,' says he, 'I'll tell you the secret, but you needn't let on to no one about it. That are row next the fence, I grafted it myself: I took great pains to get the right kind. I sent clean up to Roxberry and away down to Squawneck Creek.' I was afeard he was a-goin' to give me day and date for every graft, bein' a terrible long-winded man in his stories; so says I, 'I know that, minister, but how do you preserve them?' 'Why, I was a-goin' to tell you,' said he, 'when you stopped me. That are outward row I grafted myself with the choicest kind I could find, and I succeeded. They are beautiful, but so etarnal sour, no human soul can eat them. Well, the boys think the old minister's graftin' has all succeeded about as well as that row, and they sarch no further. They snicker at my graftin', and I laugh in my sleeve, I guess, at their penetration.'

"Now, Marm Pugwash is like the minister's apples, very temptin' fruit to look at, but desperate sour. If Pugwash had a watery mouth when he married, I guess it's pretty puckery by this time. However, if she goes to act ugly, I'll give her a dose of 'soft sawder' that will take the frown out of her frontispiece and make her dial-plate as smooth as a lick of copal varnish. It's a pity she's such a kickin' devil, too, for she has good points,--good eye, good foot, neat pastern, fine chest, a clean set of limbs, and carries a good--But here we are. Now you'll see what 'soft sawder' will do."

When we entered the house, the travelers' room was all in darkness, and on opening the opposite door into the sitting-room we found the female part of the family extinguishing the fire for the night. Mrs. Pugwash had a broom in her hand, and was in the act (the last act of female housewifery) of sweeping the hearth. The strong flickering light of the fire, as it fell upon her tall, fine figure and beautiful face, revealed a creature worthy of the Clockmaker's comments.

"Good evening, marm," said Mr. Slick. "How do you do? and how's Mr. Pugwash?" "He!" said she: "why, he's been abed this hour. You don't expect to disturb him this time of night, I hope?" "Oh, no," said Mr. Slick, "certainly not, and I am sorry to have disturbed you, but we got detained longer than we expected; I am sorry that--" "So am I," said she, "but if Mr. Pugwash will keep an inn when he has no occasion to, his family can't expect no rest."

Here the Clockmaker, seeing the storm gathering, stooped down suddenly, and, staring intently, held out his hand and exclaimed: "Well, if that ain't a beautiful child! Come here, my little man, and shake hands along with me. Well, I declare, if that are little feller ain't the finest child I ever seed. What, not abed yet? Ah, you rogue, where did you get them are pretty rosy cheeks? Stole them from mama, eh? Well, I wish my old mother could see that child, it is such a treat. In our country," said he, turning to me, "the children are all as pale as chalk or as yaller as an orange. Lord! that are little feller would be a show in our country. Come to me, my man." Here the "soft sawder" began to operate. Mrs. Pugwash said, in a milder tone than we had yet heard, "Go, my dear, to the gentleman; go, dear." Mr. Slick kissed him, asked him if he would go to the States along with him, told him all the little girls would fall in love with him, for they didn't see such a beautiful face once in a month of Sundays. "Black eyes,--let me see,--ah, mama's eyes, too, and black hair also; as I am alive, you are mama's own boy, the very image of mama." "Do be seated, gentlemen," said Mrs. Pugwash. "Sally, make a fire in the next room." "She ought to be proud of you," he continued. "Well, if I live to return here, I must paint your face, and have it put on my clocks, and our folks will buy the clocks for the sake of the face. Did you ever see," said he, again addressing me, "such a likeness between one human and another, as between this beautiful little boy and his mother?" "I am sure you have had no supper," said Mrs. Pugwash to me; "you must be hungry, and weary, too. I will get you a cup of tea." "I am sorry to give you so much trouble," said I. "Not the least trouble in the world," she replied; "on the contrary, a pleasure."

We were then shown into the next room, where the fire was now blazing up, but Mr. Slick protested he could not proceed without the little boy, and lingered behind to ascertain his age, and concluded by asking the child if he had any aunts that looked like mama.

As the door closed Mr. Slick said, "It's a pity she don't go well in gear. The difficulty with those critters is to git them to start: arter that there is no trouble with them, if you don't check 'em too short. If you do they'll stop again, run back and kick like mad, and then Old Nick himself wouldn't start 'em. Pugwash, I guess, don't understand the natur' of the crittur; she'll never go kind in harness for him. _When I see a child_," said the Clockmaker, "_I always feel safe with these women-folk; for I have always found that the road to a woman's heart lies through her child_."

"You seem," said I, "to understand the female heart so well, I make no doubt you are a general favorite among the fair sex." "Any man," he replied, "that understands horses has a pretty considerable fair knowledge of women, for they are jist alike in temper, and require the very identical same treatment. _Encourage the timid ones, be gentle and steady with the fractious, but lather the sulky ones like blazes._

"People talk an everlastin' sight of nonsense about wine, women and horses. I've bought and sold 'em all, I've traded in all of them, and I tell you there ain't one in a thousand that knows a grain about either on 'em. You hear folks say, Oh, such a man is an ugly-grained critter, he'll break his wife's heart; jist as if a woman's heart was as brittle as a pipe-stalk. The female heart, as far as my experience goes, is jist like a new india-rubber shoe: you may pull and pull at it till it stretches out a yard long, and then let go, and it will fly right back to its old shape. Their hearts are made of stout leather, I tell you; there's a plaguy sight of wear in 'em.

"I never knowed but one case of a broken heart, and that was in t'other sex, one Washington Banks. He was a sneezer. He was tall enough to spit down on the heads of your grenadiers, and near about high enough to wade across Charlestown River, and as strong as a tow-boat. I guess he was somewhat less than a foot longer than the moral law and catechism, too. He was a perfect pictur' of a man; you couldn't fault him in no

## particular, he was so just a made critter; folks used to run to the

winder when he passed, and say, 'There goes Washington Banks; beant he lovely!' I do believe there wasn't a gal in the Lowell factories that warn't in love with him. Sometimes, at intermission, on Sabbath-days, when they all came out together (an amazin' handsom' sight, too, near about a whole congregation of young gals), Banks used to say, 'I vow, young ladies, I wish I had five hundred arms to reciprocate one with each of you; but I reckon I have a heart big enough for you all; it's a whopper, you may depend, and every mite and morsel of it at your service.' 'Well, how you do act, Mr. Banks!' half a thousand little clipper-clapper tongues would say, all at the same time, and their dear little eyes sparklin' like so many stars twinklin' of a frosty night.

"Well, when I last seed him he was all skin and bone, like a horse turned out to die. He was teetotally defleshed, a mere walkin' skeleton. 'I am dreadful sorry,' says I, 'to see you, Banks, lookin' so peaked. Why, you look like a sick turkey-hen, all legs! What on airth ails you?' 'I'm dyin', says he, '_of a broken heart_.' 'What!' I says I, 'have the gals been jiltin' you?' 'No, no,' says he; 'I beant such a fool as that, neither.' 'Well,' says I, 'have you made a bad speculation?' 'No,' says he, shakin' his head, 'I hope I have too much clear grit in me to take on so bad for that.' 'What under the sun is it, then?' said I. 'Why,' says he, 'I made a bet the fore part of the summer with Leftenant Oby Knowles that I could shoulder the best bower of the Constitution frigate. I won my bet, _but the anchor was so etarnal heavy that it broke my heart_.' Sure enough, he did die that very fall; and he was the only instance I ever heard tell of a _broken heart_."

ICARUS

BY JOHN G. SAXE

I

All modern themes of poesy are spun so very fine, That now the most amusing muse, _e gratia_, such as mine, Is often forced to cut the thread that strings our recent rhymes, And try the stronger staple of the good old classic times.

II

There lived and flourished long ago, in famous Athens town, One _Dædalus_, a carpenter of genius and renown; ('Twas he who with an _auger_ taught mechanics how to _bore_,-- An art which the philosophers monopolized before.)

III

His only son was _Icarus_, a most precocious lad, The pride of Mrs. Dædalus, the image of his dad; And while he yet was in his teens such progress he had made, He'd got above his father's size, and much above his trade.

IV

Now _Dædalus_, the carpenter, had made a pair of wings, Contrived of wood and feathers and a cunning set of springs, By means of which the wearer could ascend to any height, And sail about among the clouds as easy as a kite!

V

"O father," said young _Icarus_, "how I should like to fly! And go like you where all is blue along the upper sky; How very charming it would be above the moon to climb, And scamper through the Zodiac, and have a high old time!

VI

"Oh wouldn't it be jolly, though,--to stop at all the inns; To take a luncheon at 'The Crab,' and tipple at 'The Twins'; And, just for fun and fancy, while careering through the air, To kiss the _Virgin_, tease the _Ram_, and bait the biggest _Bear_?

VII

"O father, please to let me go!" was still the urchin's cry; "I'll be extremely careful, sir, and won't go _very_ high; Oh if this little pleasure-trip you only will allow, I promise to be back again in time to fetch the cow!"

VIII

"You're rather young," said Dædalus, "to tempt the upper air; But take the wings, and mind your eye with very special care; And keep at least a thousand miles below the nearest star; Young lads, when out upon a lark, are apt to go too far!"

IX

He took the wings--that foolish boy--without the least dismay; His father stuck 'em on with wax, and so he soared away; Up, up he rises, like a bird, and not a moment stops Until he's fairly out of sight beyond the mountain-tops!

X

And still he flies--away--away; it seems the merest fun; No marvel he is getting bold, and aiming at the sun; No marvel he forgets his sire; it isn't very odd That one so far above the earth should think himself a god!

XI

Already, in his silly pride, he's gone too far aloft; The heat begins to scorch his wings; the wax is waxing soft; Down--down he goes!--Alas!--next day poor Icarus was found Afloat upon the Ægean Sea, extremely damp and drowned!

L'ENVOI

The moral of this mournful tale is plain enough to all:-- Don't get above your proper sphere, or you may chance to fall; Remember, too, that borrowed plumes are most uncertain things; And never try to scale the sky with other people's wings!

VIVE LA BAGATELLE

("_Swift's Cheerful Creed_")

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD

A bumper to the jolly Dean Who, in "Augustan" times, Made merriment for fat and lean In jocund prose and rhymes! Ah, but he drove a pranksome quill! With quips he wove a spell; His creed--he cried it with a will-- Was "_Vive la bagatelle!_"

Oh, there were reckless jesters then! And when a man was hit, He quick returned the stroke again With trenchant blade of wit. 'Twas parry, thrust, and counter-thrust That round the board befell; They quaffed the wine and crunched the crust With "_Vive la bagatelle!_"

How rang the genial laugh of Gay At Pope's defiant ire! How Parnell's sallies brought in play The rapier wit of Prior! And how o'er all the banter's shift-- The laughter's fall and swell-- Upleaped the great guffaw of Swift, With "_Vive la bagatelle!_"

O moralist, frown not so dark, Purse not thy lip severe; 'T will warm the heart if ye but hark The mirth of "yester year." To-day we wear too grave a face; We slave,--we buy and sell; Forget a while mad Mammon's race In "_Vive la bagatelle!_"

A STACCATO TO O LE LUPE

BY BLISS CARMAN

O Le Lupe, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find: In _The Bookman_ for September, in a manner most unkind, There appears a half-page picture, makes me think I've lost my mind.

They have reproduced a window,--Doxey's window,--(I dare say In your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty times a day,) As "A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay."

There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore, And a little book of verses with its betters by the score, With three faces on the cover I believe I've seen before.

Well, here's matter for reflection, makes me wonder where I am. Here is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the black lamb. I was never out of Boston: all that I can say is, "Damn!"

Who could think, in two short summers we should cause so much remark, With no purpose but our pastime, and to make the public hark, When I soloed on _The Chap-Book_, and you answered with _The Lark_!

Do young people take much pleasure when they read that sort of thing? "Well, they buy it," answered Doxey, "and I take what it will bring. Publishers may dread extinction--not with such fads on the string.

"There is always sale for something, and demand for what is new. These young men who are so restless, and have nothing else to do, Like to think there is 'a movement,' just to keep themselves in view.

"There is nothing in Decadence but the magic of a name. People talk and papers drivel, scent a vice, and hint a shame; And all that is good for business, helps to boom my little game."

But when I sit down to reason, think to stand upon my nerve, Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve, In he comes with his "Decadence!" like a fly in my preserve.

I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now, Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow, All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your "Purple Cow."

But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard, To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard, Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard.

I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his back is turned, "Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned; Poems doubtless are immortal, where a poem can be discerned!"

How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse! How he'll wish his vogue were greater; plume himself it is no worse; Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse!

Don't I know how he will pose it; patronize our larger time; "Poor old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!" Just let me have half an hour with the nincompoop sublime!

I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear; When he least expects my presence, I'll be mumbling in his ear, "O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in Boston here.

"Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you never have been told Of the _Larks_ we used to publish, and the _Chap-Books_ that we sold? Where are all our first edition?" I feel damp and full of mould.

A GUEST AT THE LUDLOW

BY BILL NYE

We are stopping quietly here, taking our meals in our rooms mostly, and going out very little indeed. When I say we, I use the term editorially.

We notice first of all the great contrast between this and other hotels, and in several instances this one is superior. In the first place, there is a sense of absolute security when one goes to sleep here that can not be felt at a popular hotel, where burglars secrete themselves in the wardrobe during the day and steal one's pantaloons and contents at night. This is one of the compensations of life in prison.

Here the burglars go to bed at the hour that the rest of us do. We all retire at the same time, and a murderer can not sit up any later at night than the smaller or unknown criminal can.

You can get to Ludlow Street Jail by taking the Second avenue Elevated train to Grand street, and then going east two blocks, or you can fire a shotgun into a Sabbath-school.

You can pay five cents to the Elevated Railroad and get here, or you can put some other man's nickel in your own slot and come here with an attendant.

William Marcy Tweed was the contractor of Ludlow Street Jail, and here also he died. He was the son of a poor chair-maker, and was born April 3, 1823. From the chair business in 1853 to congress was the first false step. Exhilarated by the delirium of official life, and the false joys of franking his linen home every week, and having cake and preserves franked back to him at Washington, he resolved to still further taste the delights of office, and in 1857 we find him as a school commissioner.

In 1860 he became Grand Sachem of the Tammany Society, an association at that time more purely political than politically pure. As president of the board of supervisors, head of the department of public works, state senator, and Grand Sachem of Tammany, Tweed had a large and seductive influence over the city and state. The story of how he earned a scanty livelihood by stealing a million of dollars at a pop, and thus, with the most rigid economy, scraped together $20,000,000 in a few years by patient industry and smoking plug tobacco, has been frequently told.

Tweed was once placed here in Ludlow Street Jail in default of $3,000,000 bail. How few there are of us who could slap up that amount of bail if rudely gobbled on the street by the hand of the law. While riding out with the sheriff, in 1875, Tweed asked to see his wife, and said he would be back in a minute.

He came back by way of Spain, in the fall of '76, looking much improved. But the malaria and dissipation of Blackwell's Island afterward impaired his health, and having done time there, and having been arrested afterward and placed in Ludlow Street Jail, he died here April 12, 1878, leaving behind him a large, vain world, and an equally vain judgment for $6,537,117.38, to which he said he would give his attention as soon as he could get a paving contract in the sweet ultimately.