Part 11 (2/2)
There is a silence and a sadness Within the marble mansion now; Some have wild eyes that threaten madness, Some think of ”kicking up a row.”
Judge M*ll*r will not yet believe That you have ventured to bereave The city and its hall of him: He has in his own fine way stated, ”The fact must be substantiated,”
Before he'll move a single limb.
He deems it cursed hard to yield The laurel won in every field Through sixteen years of party war, And to be seen at noon no more, Enjoying at his office door The luxury of a tenth segar.
Judge Warner says that, when he's gone, You'll miss the true Dogberry breed; And Christian swears that you have done A most UN-Christian deed.
How could you have the heart to strike From place the peerless Pierre Van Wyck?
And the twin colonels, Haines and Pell, Squire Fessenden, and Sheriff Bell; M*rr*ll, a justice and a wise one, And Ned M'Laughlin the exciseman; The two health officers, believers In Clinton and contagious fevers; The keeper of the city's treasures, The sealer of her weights and measures, The harbour-master, her best bower Cable in party's stormy hour; Ten auctioneers, three bank directors, And Mott and Duffy, the inspectors Of whiskey and of flour?
It was but yesterday they stood All (ex-officio) great and good.
But by the tomahawk struck down Of party and of W*lt*r B*wne, Where are they now? With shapes of air, The caravan of things that were, Journeying to their nameless home, Like Mecca's pilgrims from her tomb; With the lost Pleiad; with the wars Of Agamemnon's ancestors; With their own years of joy and grief, Spring's bud, and autumn's faded leaf; With birds that round their cradles flew; With winds that in their boyhood blew; With last night's dream and last night's dew.
Yes, they are gone; alas! each one of them; Departed--every mother's son of them.
Yet often, at the close of day, When thoughts are wing'd and wandering, they Come with the memory of the past, Like sunset clouds along the mind, Reflecting, as they're flitting fast In their wild hues of shade and light, All that was beautiful and bright In golden moments left behind.
TO * * * * *.
Dear ***, I am writing, not _to_ you, but _at_ you, For the feet of you tourists have no resting-place; But wherever with this the mail-pigeon may catch you, May she find you with gayety's smile on your face; Whether chasing a snipe at the Falls of Cohoes, Or chased by the snakes upon Anthony's Nose; Whether wandering, at Catskill, from Hotel to Clove, Making sketches, or speeches, puns, poems, or love; Or in old Saratoga's unknown fountain-land, Threading groves of enchantment, half bushes, half sand; Whether dancing on Sundays, at Lebanon Springs, With those Madame Hutins of religion, the Shakers; Or, on Tuesdays, with maidens who seek wedding rings At b.a.l.l.ston, as taught by mammas and match-makers; Whether sailing St. Lawrence, with unbroken neck, From her thousand green isles to her castled Quebec; Or sketching Niagara, pencil on knee (The giant of waters, our country's pet lion), Or dipp'd at Long Branch, in the real salt sea, With a cork for a dolphin, a c.o.c.kney Arion; Whether roaming earth, ocean, or even the air, Like Dan O'Rourke's eagle--good luck to you there.
For myself, as you'll see by the date of my letter, I'm in town, but of that fact the least said the better; For 'tis vain to deny (though the city o'erflows With well-dressed men and women, whom n.o.body knows) That one rarely sees persons whose nod is an honour, A lady with fas.h.i.+on's own impress upon her; Or a gentleman bless'd with the courage to say, Like Morris (the Prince Regent's friend, in his day), ”Let others in sweet shady solitudes dwell, Oh! give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall.”
Apropos--our friend A. chanced this morning to meet The accomplish'd Miss B. as he pa.s.s'd Contoit's Garden, Both in town in July!--he cross'd over the street, And she enter'd the rouge-shop of Mrs. St. Martin.
Resolved not to look at another known face, Through Leonard and Church streets she walked to Park Place, And he turn'd from Broadway into Catharine-lane, And coursed, to avoid her, through alley and by-street, Till they met, as the devil would have it, again, Face to face, near the pump at the corner of Dey-st.
Yet, as most of ”The Fas.h.i.+on” are journeying now, With the brown hues of summer on cheek and on brow, The few ”_gens comme il faut_” who are lingering here, Are, like fruits out of season, more welcome and dear.
Like ”the last rose of summer, left blooming alone,”
Or the last snows of winter, pure ice of _haut ton_, Unmelted, undimm'd by the sun's brightest ray, And, like diamonds, making night's darkness seem day.
One meets them in groups, that Canova might fancy, At our new lounge at evening, the _Opera Francais_, In nines like the Muses, in threes like the Graces, Green spots in a desert of commonplace faces.
The Queen, Mrs. Adams, goes there sweetly dress'd In a beautiful bonnet, all golden and flowery: While the King, Mr. Bonaparte, smiles on Celeste, Heloise, and Hutin, from his box at the Bowery.
For news, Parry still the North Sea is exploring, And the Grand Turk has taken, they say, the Acropolis, And we, in Swamp Place, have discover'd, in boring, A mineral spring to refine the metropolis.
The day we discover'd it was, by-the-way, In the life of the c.o.c.kneys, a glorious day.
For we all had been taught, by tradition and reading, That to gain what admits us to levees of kings, The gentleness, courtesy, grace of high breeding, The only sure way was to ”visit the Springs.”
So the whole city visited Swamp Spring _en ma.s.se_, From attorney to sweep, from physician to paviour, To drink of cold water at sixpence a gla.s.s, And learn true politeness and genteel behaviour.
Though the crowd was immense till the hour of departure, No gentleman's feelings were hurt in the rush, Save a grocer's, who lost his proof-gla.s.s and bung-starter, And a chimney sweep's, robb'd of his sc.r.a.per and brush.
They linger'd till sunset and twilight had come, Then, wearied in limb, but much polish'd in manners, The sovereign people moved gracefully home, In the beauty and pride of ”an army with banners.”
As to politics--Adams and Clinton yet live, And reign, we presume, as we never have miss'd 'em, And woollens and Webster continue to thrive Under something they call the American System.
If you're anxious to know what the country is doing, Whether ruin'd already or going to ruin, And who her next president will be, please heaven, Read the letters of Jackson, the speeches of Clay, All the party newspapers, three columns a day, And Blunt's Annual Register, year 'twenty-seven.
<script>