THIS IS IT A Prologue? Well, of course the ladies I have my doubts. No matter,- here we go! 'T is like the harper's prelude on the strings, 'The world's a stage,' as Shakespeare say. was what he meant to 15 Beats the black giant with his score of slaves. The outside world's a blunder, that is clear; The cheats are taken in the traps they laid; Join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall. Here suffering virtue ever finds relief, 30 And black-browed ruffians always come to grief. - When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech, And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach, Cries, Help, kyind Heaven!' and drops upon her knees On the green - baize,- beneath the (canvas) See to her side avenging Valor fly:- art But that one rebel,- woman's wilful heart So, just to picture what her art can do, Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, shaggy-browed, Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd. His falchion lighted with a sudden gleam, As the pike's armor flashes in the stream. He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go; 35 The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow. 'Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act,' 40 When the poor hero flounders in despair, Sobs on his neck, 'My boy! MY BOY!! The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.) 'Friend, I have struck,' the artist straight replied; 'Wait but one moment, and yourself decide.' He held his snuff-box,- Now then, if you please!' The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze, Off his head tumbled,- bowled along the floor. Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world to- 50 Bounced down the steps; - the prisoner said night Of love that conquers in disaster's spite. Ladies, attend! While woeful cares and doubt Wrong the soft passion in the world with- 55 out, Though fortune scowl, though prudence interfere, no more! Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye; We die with love, and never dream we're The prologue went off very well, as I hear. No alterations were suggested by the lady to whom it was sent, so far as I know. Sometimes people criticise the strychnine and whisky, and ratsbane and poems one sends them, and suggest all 5 For all the good wine, and we've some of it sorts of improvements. Who was that silly body that wanted Burns to alter 'Scots wha hae,' so as to lengthen the last line thus ?— 'Edward!' Chains and slavery! 10 Here is a little poem I sent a short time since to a committee for a certain celebration. I understood that it was to be a 15 festive and convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly. It seems the president of the day was what is called a 'teetotaller.' I received a note from him in the following words, containing 20 the copy subjoined, with the emendations annexed to it. Dear Sir, Your poem gives good satisfaction to the committee. The sentiments expressed with reference to liquor 25 are not, however, those generally entertained by this community. I have therefore consulted the clergyman of this place, who has made some slight changes, which he thinks will remove all objections, and 30 keep the valuable portions of the poem. Please to inform me of your charge for said poem. etc., etc. Our means are limited, etc., 'Yours with respect.' Come! fill a fresh bumper,- for why should we go logwood beer here! In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, Down, down, with the tyrant that mas ters us all! Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all! The company said I had been shabbily treated, and advised me to charge the committee double,- which I did. But as I never got my pay, I don't know that it made much difference. I am a very particular person about having all I write printed as I write it. I require to see a proof, a revise, a re-revise, and a double re-revise, or fourth-proof rectified impression of all my productions, especially verse. Manuscripts are such puzzles! Why, I was reading some lines near the end of the last number of this journal, when I came across one beginning The stream flashes by, Now as no stream had been mentioned, I was perplexed to know what it meant. It proved, on inquiry, to be only a mis-print for 'dream.' Think of it! No wonder 35 so many poets die young. I have nothing more to report at this time, except two pieces of advice I gave to the young women at table. One relates to a vulgarism of language, which I While the nectar still reddens our cups as 40 grieve to say is sometimes heard even they flow? from female lips, the other is of more serious purport, and applies to such as contemplate a change of condition,- matrimony, in fact. All at once the horse stood still, Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! 110 He's tipsy, young jackanapes! - show him the door! 'Gray temples at twenty?'- Yes! white, if we please; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze. (1858) 1858. Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! |