Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.
I was sitting with my microscope, upon my parlor rug,
With a very heavy quarto and a very lively bug;
The true bug had been organized with only two antennæ,
But the humbug in the copperplate would have them twice as many.
And I thought, like Dr. Faustus, of the emptiness of art,
How we take a fragment for the whole, and call the whole a part,
When I heard a heavy footstep that was loud enough for two,
And a man of forty entered, exclaiming,-" How d'ye do?"
He was not a ghost, my visiter, but solid flesh and bone;
He wore a Palo Alto hat, his weight was twenty stone;
(It's odd how hats expand their brims as riper years invade,
As if when life had reached its noon, it wanted them for shade!)
I lost my focus,-dropped my book,—the bug, who was a flea,
At once exploded, and commenced experiments on me.
They have a certain heartiness that frequently appals,—
Those mediæval gentlemen in semilunar smalls!
"My boy," he said—(colloquial ways,-the vast, broad-hatted man,)
"Come dine with us on Thursday next,-you must, you know you can;
We're going to have a roaring time, with lots of fun and noise,
Distinguished guests, et cetera, the Judge, and all the boys."
Not so,—I said,—my temporal bones are showing pretty clear
It's time to stop,-just look and see that hair above this ear;
My golden days are more than spent,—and, what is very strange,
If these are real silver hairs, I'm getting lots of change.
Besides-my prospects-don't you know that people won't employ
A man that wrongs his manliness by laughing like a boy?
And suspect the azure blossom that unfolds upon a shoot,
As if wisdom's old potato could not flourish at its root!
It's a very fine reflection, when you're etching out a smile
On a copperplate of faces that would stretch at least a mile,
That, what with sneers from enemies, and cheapening shrugs of friends, It will cost you all the earnings that a month of labor lends!
It's a vastly pleasing prospect, when you're screwing out a laugh
That your very next year's income is diminished by a half,
And a little boy trips barefoot that Pegasus may go,
And the baby's milk is watered that your Helicon may flow!
No; the joke has been a good one,-but I'm getting fond of quiet, And I don't like deviations from my customary diet;
So I think I will not go with you to hear the toasts and speeches, But stick to old Montgomery Place, and have some pig and peaches.
The fat man answered:-Shut your mouth, and hear the genuine creed; The true essentials of a feast are only fun and feed;
The force that wheels the planets round delights in spinning tops, And that young earthquake t'other day was great at shaking props.
I tell you what, philosopher, if all the longest heads
That ever knocked their sinciputs in stretching on their beds
Were round one great mahogany, I'd beat those fine old folks
With twenty dishes, twenty fools, and twenty clever jokes!
Why, if Columbus should be there, the company would beg
He'd show that little trick of his of balancing the egg!
Milton to Stilton would give in, and Solomon to Salmon,
And Roger Bacon be a bore, and Francis Bacon gammon !
And as for all the "patronage" of all the clowns and boors
That squint their little narrow eyes at any freak of yours,
Do leave them to your prosier friends,-such fellows ought to die
When rhubarb is so very scarce and ipecac so high!
And so I come,-like Lochinvar, to tread a single measure,
To purchase with a loaf of bread a sugar-plum of pleasure,
To enter for the cup of glass that's run for after dinner,
Which yields a single sparkling draught, then breaks and cuts the winner.
Ah, that's the way delusion comes,-a glass of old Madeira,
A pair of visual diaphragms revolved by Jane or Sarah,
And down go vows and promises without the slightest question
If eating words won't compromise the organs of digestion!
And yet, among my native shades, beside my nursing mother,
Where every stranger seems a friend, and every friend a brother,
I feel the old convivial glow (unaided) o'er me stealing,-
The warm, champagny, old-particular, brandy-punchy feeling.
We're all alike;-Vesuvius flings the scoriæ from his fountain,
But down they come in volleying rain back to the burning mountain;
We leave, like those volcanic stones, our precious Alma Mater,
But will keep dropping in again to see the dear old crater.
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 hoarded 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 his 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 wind-mill, raised the passing breeze to win,
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin;
Or, if his father lives upon the shore,
You'll see his ship, "beam-ends upon the floor,"
Full-rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch,
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 coach, an organ, or a flute;
Make you a locomotive or a clock,
Cut a canal, or build a floating-dock,
Or lead forth Beauty from a marble-block;
Make any thing, in short, for sea or shore,
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 in earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glisten,
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, pully, tube sonorous, wood, or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.
IN closest girdle, O reluctant Muse,
In scantiest skirts, and lightest-stepping shoes,
Prepare to follow Fashion's gay advance,
And thread the mazes of her motley dance;
And marking well each momentary hue,
And transient form, that meets the wondering view,
In kindred colors, gentle Muse, essay
Her Protean phases fitly to portray.
To-day she slowly drags a cumbrous trail,
And "Tom" rejoices in its length of tail;
To-morrow, changing her capricious sport,
She trims her flounces just as much too short;
To-day, right jauntily, a hat she wears
That scarce affords a shelter to her ears;
To-morrow, haply, searching long in vain,
You spy her features down a Leghorn lane;
To-day, she glides along with queenly grace,
To-morrow, ambles in a mincing pace;
To-day, erect, she loves a martial air,
And envious train-bands emulate the fair;
To-morrow, changing as her whim may serve,
"She stoops to conquer" in a "Grecian curve;"
To-day, with careful negligence arrayed,
In scanty folds of woven zephyrs made,
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