, ; 
 
 §m*& 
 
 mm 
 
 BHg 
 
 
 M 
 
 
 -" ; - 
 
 '■"•■"■.-■>.■ 
 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 TS I *oi - — 
 ©|np, inp^rig^i 3§a. 
 
 Shelf .A^ ^ 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
AIRS FROM ARCADY 
 AND ELSEWHERE. 
 
AIRS FROM ARCADY 
 
 AND ELSEWHERE. 
 
 H. C/BUNNER. 
 
 A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 
 
 A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread, and Thou 
 
 Beside me singing in the Wilderness — 
 Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow / 
 
 — Omar Khayy<lm. 
 
 NEW-YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS. 
 1884. " 
 
75 iz 6i 
 
 Copyright ', 1884, by Charles Scribner' s Sons. 
 
TO e BT{^U^T>E e ]i {MATTHEWS: 
 
 *BY THE HEtA^TH. 
 
 The night is late ; your fire is whitening fast ', 
 Our speech has silent spaces, and is low ; 
 Yet there is much to say before I go — 
 
 And much is left unsaid, dear friend, at last. 
 
 Yet something may be said. This fading fire 
 Was ?iever cold for me ; and never cold 
 Has been the welcoming glance I knew of old — 
 
 Warm with a friendship usage could not tire. 
 
 The kindly hand has never failed me yet, 
 And ?iruer yet has failed the cheering word ; 
 Nor ever went Perplexity unheard, 
 
 But ever was by thoughtful Counsel met. 
 
 The plans we made, the hopes we nursed, have fed 
 These friendly embers with a genial fire. 
 Not till my spirit ceases to aspire 
 
 Shall their kind light within my heart be dead. 
 
 Take these, the gathered songs of striving years, 
 And many fledged and warmed beside your hearth ; 
 Not for whatever they may have of worth — 
 
 A simpler tie, perchance, my work endears. 
 
 With them this wish : that when your days shall close, 
 Life, a well-used and well-contented guest, 
 May gently press the hand I oft have p?-essed, 
 
 And leave you by Loves fire to calm repose. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dedication — J. B. M. ......... v 
 
 iARCA<DIA. 
 
 The Way to Arcady 3 
 
 O Honey of Hymettus Hill 8 
 
 Daphnis 9 
 
 The Hour of Shadows n 
 
 Robin's Song 12 
 
 A Lost Child 14 
 
 C PHILISTIA. 
 
 Da Capo 19 
 
 Gone 22 
 
 Just a Love-Letter 23 
 
 She was a Beauty 27 
 
 Candor 28 
 
 ** Accepted " 30 
 
 vii 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 BOHEMIA. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Pitcher of Mignonette 35 
 
 Poetry and the Poet 36 
 
 Yes? 38 
 
 A Poem in the Programme 40 
 
 Betrothed 41 
 
 Dead in Bohemia — Irwin Russell 46 
 
 ELSEWHERE. 
 
 Holiday Home 49 
 
 Forfeits 50 
 
 In School Hours 51 
 
 The Wail of the " Personally Conducted " . . . 55 
 
 A Campaign Torch 57 
 
 Home, Sweet Home, with Variations. I. ... 60 
 
 II. — Swinburne 61 
 
 III. — Bret Harte 63 
 
 IV. — Horace — Austin Dobson 66 
 
 V. — Goldsmith — Pope 67 
 
 VI. — Walt Whitman 68 
 
 ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 Forty 77 
 
 Strong as Death 80 
 
 Deaf 82 
 
 Les Morts vont Vite 83 
 
 Disaster 84 
 
 September 86 
 
 viii 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Then 87 
 
 The Appeal to Harold 88 
 
 To a Dead Woman 91 
 
 The Old Flag 92 
 
 From a Counting-House 94 
 
 To a Hyacinth Plucked for Decoration Day . . .95 
 
 Longfellow 96 
 
 For the First Page of the Album 98 
 
 Farewell to Salvini 99 
 
 On Reading a Poet's First Book: 100 
 
 Feminine 102 
 
 Redemption 103 
 
 Triumph 104 
 
 To Her 106 
 
 Notes 
 
 107 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
THE WAY TO ARCADY. 
 
 /~^\H, what 's the way to Aready, 
 
 y^y To A ready, to Arcady ; 
 Oh, what 's the way to A ready, 
 Where all the leaves are merry f 
 
 Oh, what 's the way to Arcady ? 
 The spring is rustling in the tree — 
 The tree the wind is blowing through - 
 
 It sets the blossoms flickering white. 
 I knew not skies could burn so blue 
 
 Nor any breezes blow so light. 
 They blow an old-time way for me, 
 Across the world to Arcady. 
 
 Oh, what 's the way to Arcady ? 
 
 Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, 
 
 Quit mocking of the song-bird's note. 
 
 3 
 
^ARCADIA. 
 
 How have you heart for any tune, 
 You with the wayworn russet shoon ? 
 Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, 
 Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. 
 I'll brim it well with pieces red, 
 If you will tell the way to tread. 
 
 Oh, I am bound for Arcady, 
 And if you but keep pace with me 
 You tread the way to Arcady. 
 
 And where away lies Arcady, 
 
 And how long yet may the journey be ? 
 
 Ah, that (quoth he) / do not know — 
 Across the clover and the snow — 
 Across the frost, across the flowers — 
 Through summer seconds and winter hours. 
 I 've trod the way my whole life long, 
 
 And know not now where it may be j 
 My guide is but the stir to song, 
 That tells me I can not go wrong, 
 
 Or clear or dark the pathway be 
 
 Upon the road to Arcady. 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 But how shall I do who can not sing ? 
 
 I was wont to sing, once on a time 
 
 There is never an echo now to ring 
 
 Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme. 
 
 3 T is strange you cannot sing (quoth he), 
 The folk all sing in Arcady. 
 
 But how may he find Arcady 
 Who hath nor youth nor melody? 
 
 What, know yon not, old man (quoth he)- 
 Your hair is white, your face is wise — 
 That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes 
 
 Who hopes to see fair Arcady ? 
 
 No gold can buy you entrance there ; 
 
 But beggared Love may go all bare — 
 
 No wisdom won with wearhiess ; 
 
 But Love goes in with Folly's dress — 
 
 No fame that wit could ever win ; 
 
 But only Love may lead Love in 
 To Arcady, to Arcady. 
 
 Ah, woe is me, through all my days 
 Wisdom and wealth I both have got, 
 
 And fame and name, and great men's praise; 
 But Love, ah, Love ! I have it not. 
 
 5 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 There was a time, when life was new — 
 But far away, and half forgot — 
 
 I only know her eyes were blue ; 
 But Love — I fear I knew it not. 
 
 We did not wed, for lack of gold, 
 
 And she is dead, and I am old. 
 
 All things have come since then to me, 
 
 Save Love, ah, Love ! and Arcady. 
 
 Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he), 
 My way f s for Love and Arcady. 
 
 But you, you fare alone, like me ; 
 
 The gray is likewise in your hair. 
 
 What love have you to lead you there, 
 To Arcady, to Arcady? 
 
 Ah, 7io, not lonely do I fare ; 
 
 My trite co7npanion 's Monory. 
 With Love he fills the Spring-ti?ne air; 
 
 With Love he clothes the Wmter tree. 
 Oh, past this poor horizon's bound 
 
 My song goes straight to one who stands - 
 Her face all gladdening at the sound — 
 
 To lead me to the Spring-green lands, 
 To wander with enlacing hands. 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 The songs within my breast that stir 
 
 Are all of her, are all of her. 
 
 My maid is dead long years (quoth he), 
 
 She waits for me in A ready. 
 
 Oh, yon *s the way to Arcady, 
 
 To Arcady, to A ready; 
 Oh, yon } s the way to A ready, 
 
 Where all the leaves are merry. 
 
O HONEY OF HYMETTUS HILL. 
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 {Dobsori's Variatio7i. ] 
 
 O HONEY of Hymettus Hill, 
 Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste, 
 Wert here for the soft amorous bill 
 Of Aphrodite's courser placed? 
 
 Thy musky scent what virginal chaste 
 Blossom was ravished to distill, 
 O honey of Hymettus Hill, 
 
 Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste ? 
 
 What upturned calyx drank its fill 
 
 When ran the draught divine to waste, 
 
 That her white hands were doomed to spill — 
 Sweet Hebe, fallen and disgraced — 
 
 O honey of Hymettus Hill, 
 
 Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste ? 
 
DAPHNIS. 
 
 ERE the spring comes, we will go 
 Where belated lines of snow 
 Lie in wreathlets chilly bright 
 Round the wind-flowers pink and white, 
 Trembling even as you, my own, 
 In my arms about you thrown ; 
 Where pale sheets of ice-like glass 
 Fleck the marshland's greejiing grass, 
 Where beneath the budding trees 
 Dead leaves wait for April's breeze — 
 Chloe, Chloe, we will wander 
 Hither, thither, here and yonder. 
 Seeing you, the jealous Spring 
 Sure will haste a laggard wing, 
 
 Though the upland plains are snowy, 
 Though the snow is on the plain — 
 
 Chloe \ Chloe, Chloe, Chloe/ 
 But she answers not again. 
 
 9 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 II. 
 
 Chloe, lo ! the Spring is here, 
 
 All the wintry walks are clear; 
 
 Prismy purple is the air 
 
 Round the branches brown and bare ; 
 
 Purple are the doubtful dyes 
 
 Of the clouds in April's skies — 
 
 Come, and make last Summer stretch 
 
 Over half a year, and fetch 
 
 Smells of rose and violet 
 
 In the barren ways to set. 
 
 See, the wood remembering misses 
 
 Sweetness of our last year's kisses. 
 
 O'er the place where once we kist 
 
 Falls a vail of rainy mist — 
 
 Tangled rain-sheets, wreathed and blowy 
 There is weeping in the rain — 
 
 Chloe, Chloe, Chloe, Chloe 7 
 Ah ! she answers not again ! 
 
THE HOUR OF SHADOWS. 1 
 
 UPON that quiet day that lies 
 Where forest branches screen the skies. 
 The spirit of the eve has laid 
 A deeper and a dreamier shade; 
 And winds that through the tree-tops blow 
 Wake not the silent gloom below, 
 
 Only the sound of far-off streams, 
 Faint as our dreams of childhood's dreams, 
 Wandering in tangled pathways crost, 
 Like woodland truants strayed and lost, 
 Their faint, complaining echoes roam, 
 Threading the forest toward their home. 
 
 O brooks, I too have gone astray, 
 
 And left my comrade on the way — 
 
 Guide me through aisles where soft you moan, 
 
 To some sad spot you know alone, 
 
 Where only leaves and nestlings stir, 
 
 And I may dream, and dream of Her. 
 
ROBIN'S SONG. 
 
 Warwickshire^ 16 — . 
 
 UP, up, my heart ! up, up, my heart, 
 This day was made for thee ! 
 For soon the hawthorn spray shall part, 
 
 And thou a face shalt see 
 That comes, O heart, O foolish heart, 
 This way to gladden thee. 
 
 The grass shows fresher on the way 
 That soon her feet shall tread — 
 
 The last year's leaflet curled and gray, 
 I could have sworn was dead, 
 
 Looks green, for lying in the way 
 I know her feet will tread. 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 What hand yon blossom curtain stirs, 
 
 More light than errant air? 
 I know the touch — 'tis hers, 'tis hers! 
 
 She parts the thicket there — 
 The flowered branch her coming stirs 
 
 Hath perfumed all the air. 
 
 The Springs of all forgotten years 
 
 Are waked to life anew — 
 Up, up, my eyes, nor fill with tears 
 
 As tender as the dew — 
 I knew her not in all those years ; 
 
 But life begins anew. 
 
 Up, up, my heart ! up, up, my heart, 
 
 This day was made for thee ! 
 Come, Wit, take on thy nimblest art, 
 
 And win Love's victory — 
 What now? Where art thou, coward heart? 
 
 Thy hour is here — and She! 
 
A LOST CHILD. 
 
 YE CRYER. 
 
 Y J ' ERE f S a reward for who HI find Love! 
 J. JL Love is a- straying 
 
 Ever since Maying, 
 Hither and yon, below, above; 
 
 All are seeking Love! 
 
 Ye HAND-BILL. 
 
 Gone astray — between the Maying 
 And the gathering of the hay, 
 
 Love, an urchin ever playing — 
 Folk are warned against his play. 
 
 How may you know him ? By the quiver, 
 By the bow he 's wont to bear. 
 
 First on your left there comes a shiver, 
 Then a twinge — the arrow's there. 
 
 14 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 By his eye of pansy color, 
 
 Deep as wounds he dealeth free ; 
 
 If its hue have faded duller, 
 'T is not that he weeps for me. 
 
 By the smile that curls his mouthlet; 
 
 By the mockery of his sigh ; 
 By his breath, a spicy South, let 
 
 Slip his lips of roses by. 
 
 By the devil in his dimple ; 
 
 By his lies that sound so true ; 
 By his shaft-sting, that no simple 
 
 Ever culled will heal for you. 
 
 By his beckonings that embolden ; 
 
 By his quick withdrawings then ; 
 By his flying hair, a golden 
 
 Light to lure the feet of men. 
 
 By the breast where ne'er a hurt '11 
 Rankle 'neath his kerchief hid — 
 
 What f you cry ; he wore a kirile f 
 Faith ! methinks the rascal did ! 
 
 15 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 Here's a reward for who HI find Love! 
 
 Love is a-straying 
 
 Ever since Maying ; 
 Hither and yon, below, above, 
 
 I am seeking Love. 
 
 Cryer: H. Bunner: ye Finder pray'd 
 
 Grub Street: t g • h t 
 
 Cry's Weddings: LO DTm & ner LU 
 
 Buryings : Loft 
 
 Childn, and right Master Corydon, 
 
 cheaplie. 
 Ye lid Knocker. Petticoat Lane. 
 
 16 
 
PHILISTIA. 
 
DA CAPO. 
 
 SHORT and sweet, and we Ve come to the end of it- 
 Our poor little love lying cold. 
 Shall no sonnet, then, ever be penned of it ? 
 
 Nor the joys and pains of it told ? 
 How fair was its face in the morning, 
 
 How close its caresses at noon, 
 How its evening grew chill without warning, 
 Unpleasantly soon ! 
 
 I can't say just how we began it — 
 
 In a blush, or a smile, or a sigh ; 
 Fate took but an instant to plan it ; 
 
 It needs but a moment to die. 
 Yet — remember that first conversation, 
 
 When the flowers you had dropped at your feet 
 I restored. The familiar quotation 
 
 Was — "Sweets to the sweet." 
 
THILIST1A. 
 
 Oh, their delicate perfume has haunted 
 My senses a whole season through. 
 
 If there was one soft charm that you wanted 
 The violets lent it to you. 
 
 I whispered you, life was but lonely : 
 A cue which you graciously took ; 
 
 And your eyes learned a look for me only — 
 A very nice look. 
 
 And sometimes your hand would touch my hand, 
 
 With a sweetly particular touch ; 
 You said many things in a sigh, and 
 
 Made a look express wondrously much. 
 We smiled for the mere sake of smiling, 
 
 And laughed for no reason but fun ; 
 Irrational joys; but beguiling — 
 And all that is done ! 
 
 We were idle, and played for a moment 
 At a game that now neither will press : 
 
 I cared not to find out what a No" meant; 
 Nor your lips to grow yielding with " Yes." 
 
 Love is done with and dead ; if there lingers 
 A faint and indefinite ghost, 
 
 It is laid with this kiss on your fingers — 
 A jest at the most. 
 
THILISTIA. 
 
 'Tis a commonplace, stale situation, 
 
 Now the curtain comes down from above 
 
 On the end of our little flirtation — 
 A travesty romance ; for Love, 
 
 If he climbed in disguise to your lattice, 
 Fell dead of the first kisses' pain : 
 
 But one thing is left us now ; that is — 
 Begin it again. 
 
GONE. 
 
 SHE stands upon the steamer's deck ; 
 The salt wind stings her cheek, goes by, 
 Comes back with kiss of foamy fleck, 
 And sets her jaunty hat awry. 
 
 I sit beside the sea-coal glow, 
 
 That with the night wanes less and less : 
 The room is dark — my heart beats slow 
 
 With silence, loss, and loneliness. 
 
JUST A LOVE-LETTER: 
 
 " ' Miss Blank — at Blank.' Jemima, let it go ! " 
 
 — Austin Dob son. 
 
 New-York, July 20, 1883. 
 
 Dear Girl : 
 
 The town goes on as though 
 
 It thought you still were in it; 
 The gilded cage seems scarce to know 
 
 That it has lost its linnet ; 
 The people come, the people pass ; 
 
 The clock keeps on a-ticking : 
 And through the basement plots of grass 
 
 Persistent weeds are pricking. 
 
 I thought 't would never come — the Spring — 
 
 Since you had left the City: 
 But on the snow-drifts lingering 
 
 At last the skies took pity, 
 Then Summer's yellow warmed the sun, 
 
 Daily decreasing distance — 
 I really don't know how 't was done 
 
 Without your kind assistance. 
 23 
 
THILISTIA. 
 
 Aunt Van, of course, still holds the fort : 
 
 I've paid the call of duty; 
 She gave me one small glass of port — 
 
 'Twas '34 and fruity. 
 The furniture was draped in gloom 
 
 Of linen brown and wrinkled ; 
 I smelt in spots about the room 
 
 The pungent camphor sprinkled. 
 
 I sat upon the sofa, where 
 
 You sat and dropped your thimble — 
 You know — you said you did n't care ; 
 
 But I was nobly nimble. 
 On hands and knees I dropped, and tried 
 
 To — well, I tried to miss it: 
 You slipped your hand down by your side- 
 
 You knew I meant to kiss it ! 
 
 Aunt Van, I fear we put to shame 
 
 Propriety and precision : 
 But, praised be Love, that kiss just came 
 
 Beyond your line of vision. 
 Dear maiden aunt ! the kiss, more sweet 
 
 Because 't is surreptitious, 
 You never stretched a hand to meet, 
 
 So dimpled, dear, delicious. 
 24 
 
THILISTIA. 
 
 I sought the Park last Saturday ; 
 
 I found the Drive deserted ; 
 The water-trough beside the way 
 
 Sad and superfluous spurted. 
 I stood where Humboldt guards the gate 
 
 Bronze, bumptious, stained and streaky — 
 There sat a sparrow on his pate, 
 
 A sparrow chirp and cheeky. 
 
 Ten months ago ! ten months ago ! — 
 
 It seems a happy second, 
 Against a life-time lone and slow, 
 
 By Love's wild time-piece reckoned — 
 You smiled, by Aunt's protecting side, 
 
 Where thick the drags were massing, 
 On one young man who did n't ride, 
 
 But stood and watched you passing. 
 
 I haunt Purssell's — to his amaze — 
 
 Not that I care to eat there ; 
 But for the dear clandestine days 
 
 When we two had to meet there. 
 Oh, blessed is that baker's bake, 
 
 Past cavil and past question; 
 I ate a bun for your sweet sake, 
 
 And Memory helped Digestion. 
 
THILISTIA. 
 
 The Norths are at their Newport ranch ; 
 
 Van Brunt has gone to Venice ; 
 Loomis invites me to the Branch, 
 
 And lures me with lawn-tennis. 
 
 bustling barracks by the sea ! 
 O spiles, canals, and islands ! 
 
 Your varied charms are naught to me — 
 My heart is in the Highlands ! 
 
 My paper trembles in the breeze 
 
 That all too faintly flutters 
 Among the dusty city trees, 
 
 And through my half-closed shutters : 
 A northern captive in the town, 
 
 Its native vigor deadened, 
 
 1 hope that, as it wandered down, 
 Your dear pale cheek it reddened. 
 
 I '11 write no more. A vis-a-vis 
 
 In halcyon vacation 
 Will sure afford a much more free 
 
 Mode of communication ; 
 1 1 m tantalized and cribbed and checked 
 
 In making love by letter : 
 I know a style more brief, direct — 
 
 And generally better ! 
 26 
 
SHE WAS A BEAUTY. 
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 SHE was a beauty in the days 
 When Madison was President : 
 And quite coquettish in her ways — 
 On conquests of the heart intent. 
 
 Grandpapa, on his right knee bent, 
 Wooed her in stiff, old-fashioned phrase — 
 She was a beauty in the days 
 
 When Madison was President. 
 
 And when your roses where hers went 
 Shall go, my Rose, who date from Hayes, 
 
 I hope you '11 wear her sweet content 
 Of whom tradition lightly says : 
 She was a beauty in the days 
 
 When Madison was President. 
 
 27 
 
CANDOR. 
 
 OCTOBER— A WOOD. 
 
 " T KNOW what you 're going to say," she said, 
 1 And she stood up looking uncommonly tall; 
 
 " You are going to speak of the hectic Fall, 
 And say you 're sorry the summer 's dead. 
 And no other summer was like it, you know, 
 And can I imagine what made it so? 
 Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said. 
 
 " I know what you 're going to say," she said; 
 " You are going to ask if I forget 
 
 That day in June when the woods were wet, 
 And you carried me" — here she dropped her head- 
 " Over the creek; you are going to say, 
 
 Do I remember that horrid day. 
 Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said. 
 
 " I know what you 're going to say," she said; 
 " You are going to say that since that time 
 You have rather tended to run to rhyme, 
 
THILISTIA. 
 
 And " — her clear glance fell and her cheek grew red — 
 " And have I noticed your tone was queer? — 
 
 Why, everybody has seen it here ! — 
 Now, aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said. 
 
 " I know what you 're going to say," I said; 
 
 " You 're going to say you 've been much annoyed, 
 
 And I 'm short of tact — you will say devoid — 
 And I 'm clumsy and awkward, and call me Ted, 
 And I bear abuse like a dear old lamb, 
 And you '11 have me, anyway, just as I am. 
 Now are n't you, honestly ? " 
 
 " Ye-es," she said. 
 
"ACCEPTED." 
 
 WE were walking home from meeting, in the calm 
 old country street, 
 Where only a glimmer of moonlight through the arch 
 of the elms came down, 
 And wakening the twinkling shadows that played with 
 her little feet — 
 Playing hide-and-seek with the little feet that peeped 
 from beneath her gown. 
 
 There are things that a girl should n't think, and cer- 
 tainly should n't say — 
 But when she says them to you, the difference it 
 makes is queer. 
 And the touch of her hand on my sleeve seemed to ask, 
 
 in a soft, shy way : 
 " Can't you put your arm around me, or is n't it dark 
 enough here ? " 
 
 30 
 
THILISTIA. 
 
 A man does n't let that chance slip by him beyond 
 recall ; 
 But I felt that it would n't do, after much con- 
 sidering — 
 Her parents were just ahead, which did n't concern me 
 at all — 
 But her younger brother behind us — ah, that was a 
 different thing! 
 
 We reached the dear old homestead the moon made 
 tenderly white, 
 And stood on the broad front porch, and all of them 
 lingered to chat 
 Of how the soprano had sung and the parson had 
 preached that night, 
 And how the widow was out in another scandalous 
 hat. 
 
 A look of appeal from me, and a wonderful glance from 
 her, 
 And we slipped away from the crowd, unnoticed and 
 swift and still — 
 I think 't was the flower-beds I crossed ; but I did n't 
 care if it were — 
 And she went back through the house, and we met 
 at the window-sill. 
 
 31 
 
THILISTIA. 
 
 At the window around the corner, with never a soul to see ! — 
 And I stood on the grass below, and she bent down 
 from above, 
 And the honeysuckles were round us as she stretched 
 her arms to me, 
 And our lips met there in a new, new kiss ■ — our be- 
 trothal gift from Love. 
 
 32 
 
BOHEMIA 
 
A PITCHER OF MIGNONETTE. 
 
 TRIOLET. 
 
 A PITCHER of mignonette, 
 In a tenement's highest casement : 
 Queer sort of flower-pot — yet 
 That pitcher of mignonette 
 Is a garden in heaven set, 
 
 To the little sick child in the basement - 
 The pitcher of mignonette, 
 
 In the tenement's highest casement. 
 
 35 
 
POETRY AND THE POET. 
 
 [A SONNET.] 
 (Found on the Poet's desk.) 
 
 WEARY, I open wide the antique pane 
 I ope to the air 
 I ope to 
 I open to the air the antique pane 
 
 ( beyond ? ") 
 And gaze I > the thrift - sown fields of 
 
 ( across ) 
 
 wheat, [commonplace ?] 
 
 A-shimmering green in breezes born of heat ; 
 
 And lo ! 
 
 And high 
 
 C a? } 
 
 And my soul's eyes behold < > billowy main 
 
 ( the ) 
 
 Whose further shore is Greece strain 
 
 again 
 
 vain 
 
 [Arcadia — mythological allusion. — Mem.: Lempriere.] 
 
 I see thee, Atalanta, vestal fleet, 
 
 36 
 
"BOHEMIA. 
 
 And look ! with doves low-fluttering round her feet, 
 
 fields of ? ) 
 bowing 
 
 Comes Venus through the golden < 
 
 grain 
 
 (Heard by the Poet's neighbor. ) 
 
 Venus be bothered — it 's Virginia Dix ! 
 
 (Pound on the Poet's door.) 
 
 37 
 
YES? 
 
 IS it true, then, my girl, that you mean it — 
 The word spoken yesterday night? 
 Does that hour seem so sweet now between it 
 
 And this has come day's sober light ? 
 Have you woke from a moment of rapture 
 
 To remember, regret and repent, 
 And to hate, perchance, him who has trapped your 
 Unthinking consent ? 
 
 Who was he, last evening — this fellow 
 
 Whose audacity lent him a charm ? 
 Have you promised to wed Pulchinello ? 
 
 For life taken Figaro's arm ? 
 Will you have the Court fool of the papers — 
 
 The clown in the journalists' ring, 
 Who earns his scant bread by his capers, 
 
 To be your heart's king ? 
 
 ^8 
 
"BOHEMIA. 
 
 When we met quite by chance at the theater, 
 
 And I saw you home under the moon, 
 I 'd no thought, love, that mischief would be at her 
 
 Tricks with my tongue quite so soon ; 
 That I should forget fate and fortune 
 
 Make a difference 'twixt Sevres and delf — 
 That I 'd have the calm nerve to importune 
 
 You, sweet, for yourself. 
 
 It 's appalling, by Jove, the audacious 
 
 Effrontery of that request ! 
 But you — you grew suddenly gracious, 
 
 And hid your sweet face on my breast. 
 Why you did it I cannot conjecture : 
 
 I surprised you, poor child, I dare say, 
 Or perhaps — does the moonlight affect your 
 
 Head often that way 
 
 You 're released ! With some wooer replace me 
 
 More worthy to be your life's light ; 
 From the tablet of memory efface me, 
 
 If you don't mean your Yes of last night c 
 But — unless you are anxious to see me a 
 
 Wreck of the pipe and the cup 
 In my birthplace and grave-yard, Bohemia — 
 
 Love, don't give me up ! 
 
 39 
 
A POEM IN THE PROGRAMME. 
 
 A THOUSAND fans are fretting the hot air; 
 Soft swells the music of the interlude 
 Above the murmurous hum of talk subdued ; 
 But from the noise withdrawn and from the glare, 
 Deep in the shadowy box your coiled hair 
 
 Gleams golden-bright, with diamonds bedewed ; 
 Your head is bent ; I know your dark eyes brood 
 On the poor sheet of paper you hold there, 
 That quotes my verses — and I see no more 
 That bald-head Plutus by your side. 
 
 The seas 
 Sound in my ears ; I hear the rustling pines ; 
 Catch the low lisp of billows on the shore 
 Where once I lay in Knickerbockered ease 
 And read to you those then unprinted lines. 
 
 4 o 
 
BETROTHED. 
 
 HE SPEAKS. 
 
 IF when the wild and wintry weather 
 Moans baffled round your warm home nest, 
 And swoops to pluck the light foam-feather 
 From off the broad bay's heaving breast; 
 If then your fancy dim and dreamy 
 One careless moment floats to me, 
 I hope, my sweet, you may not see me 
 As others see. 
 
 Amid the crowd that glooms and glances — 
 
 A silk sea, islanded with black, 
 And vexed with local storms of dances — 
 
 I, making slow a sinuous track, 
 Bow, to the* right, to Fan or Florry, 
 
 Nod, to the left, to Nell. And she 
 Upon my arm, I should be sorry 
 You knew knew me. 
 
BOHEMIA. 
 
 The band above rolls rhythmic thunder 
 Down on the whirl and glare below; 
 
 The dusty pine-floor pulses under 
 The feet that balance to and fro. 
 
 Oh ! dream of me that ills afflict me ; 
 Or dream about me not at all; 
 
 But do not let your dream depict me 
 As at the ball. 
 
 With eyes that glisten, hands that tremble ; 
 
 With breasts that heave and cheeks that burn, 
 The gaudy groups disperse, assemble, 
 
 And melt in other groups in turn. 
 Through flush of paint and frost of powder, 
 
 I see a face or two I 've known, 
 That, rougeless, donned a carmine prouder 
 For me alone. 
 
 If this were all, or worst, the whirling 
 
 Among the other fools a fool — 
 But when I stand my whiskers twirling 
 
 Off by the lobby window cool — 
 And watch the dance where death's-heads grin to 
 
 Death's-heads, bemasked, beflowered in vain ; 
 See all — and then step reckless into 
 That dance again ! 
 
'BOHEMIA, 
 
 It were not sin to sin unthinking — 
 
 The drunken sense shall shrive the soul ; 
 
 But when, withdrawing from the drinking, 
 I stand with cursed self-control — 
 
 Ah, then, forgive me then, my pure one ! 
 Poor, pettier deeds themselves defend ; 
 
 For time and crime combine to lure one — 
 And there 's an end. 
 
 But, with hard eyes that plead no error, 
 To see my Life, sharp-waked from rest — 
 
 And then to lull the painted terror 
 To smirking slumber on my breast : 
 
 To see, beneath the rose and lily, 
 
 The black-rimmed eye, the sallow skin, 
 
 As clear as if even now the chilly 
 Gray dawn crept in. 
 
 Forgive me that ! — Who touched my shoulder ? 
 
 Oh, it was you, you ivory fan ? 
 Dark domino, with eyes no bolder 
 
 Than should belong, by rights, to Nan. 
 What 's that ? Aha, you 've caught me moping ? 
 
 Fine me a bottle for the wrong — 
 A quart with silvered shoulders sloping — 
 Well, come along ! 
 
 *& %? "j£ >£ <?r 5f5- 
 
 43 
 
"BOHEMIA. 
 
 The whirl has changed to scattered revels, 
 The glare to single scattered lights ; 
 
 A hot and fluctuant draught dishevels 
 The hair of Nancy Late-o'-Nights. 
 
 Her eyes are largish for their sockets; 
 Champagney spray her satin flecks; 
 
 And I am feeling in my pockets 
 For hat-room checks. 
 
 But, you, my fair, unconscious sleeping, 
 No dream of day disturbs you yet ; 
 
 The pale-faced star of love is peeping 
 Through morning skies all misty wet. 
 
 I leave my partner, flushed and scornful 
 Of etiquette, to seek the floor, 
 
 / fly, about that hour most mournful 
 Of twenty-four. 
 
 When dark has lulled the day benighted 
 Till dawn reveals the last caress, 
 
 And half apart they draw, affrighted 
 Each at the other's ghastliness. 
 
 When Sleep, with face as blind and ashen 
 As Death's, turns restlessly in fear, 
 
 As knowing, in some subtle fashion, 
 That morn is near. 
 
'BOHEMIA, 
 
 With crisping snow the ground is whitened; 
 
 The horses doze ; the hackmen yawn, 
 Wearily waking; reins are tightened, 
 
 The air is raw with coming dawn. 
 From the high porch I raise to Venus 
 
 (Whose pallid radiance still endures) 
 My curse. The hall-door swings between us- 
 My sleep and yours. 
 
 A thousand miles, a thousand ages 
 
 Our dawns are parted, yours and mine. 
 
 For me, by slow and and sickly stages, 
 The dull light climbs above the line. 
 
 You see, if ever dawn, surprising 
 Your slumber, sets your spirit free, 
 
 Across white plains a clear sun rising 
 Above the sea. 
 
DEAD IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL. 
 DIED IN NEW ORLEANS, DECEMBER, 1 879. 
 
 SMALL was thy share of all this world's delight, 
 And scant thy poet's crown of flowers of praise; 
 Yet ever catches quaint of quaint old days 
 Thou sang'st, and, singing, kept thy spirit bright 
 Even as to lips the winds of winter bite 
 
 Some outcast wanderer sets his flute and plays 
 Till at his feet blossom the icy ways, 
 And from the snow-drift's bitter wasting white 
 He hears the uprising carol of the lark, 
 
 Soaring from clover seas with summer ripe — 
 While freeze upon his cheek glad, foolish tears. 
 Ah ! let us hope that somewhere in thy dark, 
 Herrick's full note, and Suckling's pleasant pipe 
 Are sounding still their solace in thine ears. 
 
 46 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 47 
 
HOLIDAY HOME. 
 
 WHEN the Autumn winds nip all the hill-grasses 
 brown, 
 And sad the last breath of the Summer in town, 
 When the waves have a chill, with a spicing of salt, 
 That warms the whole blood like no mortal-brewed malt — 
 Then I slip the dull burdens of Duty's employ — 
 New London, New London, New London ahoy ! 
 
 There the latch-string is out, there 's a hand at the door, 
 There are kindliest faces so kindly before — 
 Ah, the song takes a lilt, and the words trip with joy, 
 For New London, New London, New London ahoy ! 
 
 When the Winter lies white on the roofs of the town, 
 A sound 's in my heart that no storm-wind can drown ; 
 Through the mist and the rain, and the sleet and the 
 
 snow, 
 My memory murmurs a melody low, 
 Like the swing of a song through the brain of a boy — 
 New London, New London, New London ahoy ! 
 
 49 
 
FORFEITS. 
 
 THEY sent him round the circle fair, 
 To bow before the prettiest there. 
 I 'm bound to say the choice he made 
 A creditable taste displayed; 
 Although — I can't say what it meant — 
 The little maid looked ill-content. 
 
 His task was then anew begun — 
 To kneel before the wittiest one. 
 Once more that little maid sought he, 
 And went him down upon his knee. 
 She bent her eyes upon the floor — 
 I think she thought the game a bore. 
 
 He circled then — his sweet behest 
 To kiss the one he loved the best. 
 For all she frowned, for all she chid, 
 He kissed that little maid, he did. 
 And then — though why I can't decide — 
 The little maid looked satisfied. 
 50 
 
IN SCHOOL HOURS. 
 
 A REAL ROMANCE. 2 
 
 YOU remember the moments that come 
 In a school-day afternoon : 
 When the illegitimate hum 
 
 Subsides to a drowsy swoon ? 
 When the smell of ink and slates 
 
 Grows oppressively warm and thick; 
 Sleep opens her tempting gates ; 
 And the clock has a drowsy tick ? 
 
 Forgetful of watch and rule, 
 
 The teacher has time to think 
 Of a " recess " in life's long school; 
 
 Of a time to "go out and drink" 
 At the spring where the Muse has sipped, 
 
 And laurel and bay-leaf bloom — 
 And a contraband note is slipped, 
 
 Meanwhile, across the room. 
 51 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 From a trembling hand it flies 
 
 Like a little white dove of peace ; 
 And away on its mission it hies 
 
 In an " Atlas of Ancient Greece." • 
 And the sender hides her face ; 
 
 For her eyes have a watery shine, 
 And saline deposits trace 
 
 The recent tear-drop's line. 
 
 From the dovecote side it goes 
 
 Across to the ruder half — 
 Where a large majority shows 
 
 A suppressed desire to laugh. 
 But the boy that they dare not tease 
 
 Receives the crumpled twist — 
 And the little hunchback who sees 
 
 Only shakes an impotent fist. 
 
 The boy with a fair-curled head 
 
 Smiles with a masculine scorn, 
 When the sad small note is read, 
 
 With its straggling script forlorn : 
 Charley, wy is it you wont 
 
 Forgiv me laughfing at you t 
 I wil kill my self if you dont 
 
 Honest I will for true ! " 
 
 52 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 He responds : He is pleased to find 
 
 She is wiser, at any rate. 
 He '11 be happy to ride behind 
 
 The hearse. May he ask the date ? 
 She reads — with a glittering eye, 
 
 And the look of an angered queen. 
 This were tragic at thirty. Why 
 
 Is it trivial at thirteen ? 
 
 Trivial ! what shall eclipse 
 
 The pain of our childish woes ? 
 The rose-bud pales its lips 
 
 When a very small zephyr blows. 
 You smile, O Dian, bland, 
 
 If Endymion's glance is cold : 
 But Despair seems close at hand 
 
 To that hapless thirteen-year-old. 
 * * * * 
 
 To the teacher's ears like a dream 
 
 The school-room noises float — 
 Then a sudden bustle — a scream 
 
 From a girl — "She has cut her throat!" 
 And the poor little hunchbacked chap 
 
 From his corner leaps like a flash — 
 Has her death-like head in his lap — 
 
 And his fingers upon the gash. 
 
 53 
 
ELSEWHERE, 
 
 'T is not deep. An "eraser" blade 
 
 Was the chosen weapon of death ; 
 And the face on the boy's knee laid 
 
 Is alive with a fluttering breath. 
 But faint from the shock and fright, 
 
 She lies, too weak to be stirred, 
 Blood-stained, inky and white, 
 
 Pathetic, small, absurd. 
 
 The cruel Adonis stands 
 
 Much scared and woe-begone now ; 
 Smoothing with nervous hands 
 
 The damp hair off her brow. 
 He is penitent, through and through 
 
 And she — she is satisfied. 
 Knowing my sex as I do, 
 
 I wish I could add : She died. 
 
 54 
 
THE WAIL OF THE -PERSONALLY 
 CONDUCTED." 
 
 CHORUS HEARD ON THE DECK OF A SAGUENAY 
 STEAM-BOAT. 
 
 INTEGRAL were we, in our old existence ; 
 Separate beings, individually : 
 Now are our entities blended, fused and foundered — 
 We are one person. 
 
 We are not mortals, we are not celestials, 
 We are not birds, the upper ether cleaving, 
 We are a retrogression toward the monad : 
 We are Cook's Tourists. 
 
 All ways we follow him who holds the guide-book ; 
 All things we look at, with bedazzled optics ; 
 Sad are our hearts, because the vulgar rabble 
 Call us the Cookies. 
 
 55 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 Happy the man who, by his cheerful fireside, 
 Says to the partner of his joys and sorrows : 
 " Anna Maria, let us go to-morrow 
 Out for an airing." 
 
 Him to Manhattan, or the Beach of Brighton, 
 Gaily he hieth, or if, fate-accursed, 
 Lives he in Boston, still he may betake him 
 Daown to Nantasket. 
 
 Happy the mortal free and independent, 
 Master of the mainspring of his own volition ! 
 Look on us with the eye of sweet compassion : 
 We are Cook's Tourists. 
 
 56 
 
A CAMPAIGN TORCH. 
 
 I BLAZED like a meteor through the night 
 In the great parade of the great campaign, 
 A smoke-tailed comet of yellow light 
 
 I wavered and sputtered through wind and rain. 
 High over the surging crowd I tossed, 
 
 A beacon of battle, flickering free ; 
 And now the contest is gained and lost, 
 And victor and victim are one to me. 
 
 Ah, never again shall my dinted sides 
 
 Ring responsive when, sharp and clear, 
 Comes up from the surging human tides 
 
 The rousing sound of the party cheer. 
 Ah, never again shall my oily blaze 
 
 Blow hither and thither, and fail and flare, 
 When a thousand masculine marchers raise 
 
 Their " TlGAH i " rending the midnight air. 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 And never again shall that bright blaze sink, 
 
 When a sudden silence comes over the crowd ; 
 When procession and people, pausing, think, 
 
 And even a heart-beat seems too loud. 
 When amid the revel of fire and noise 
 
 Comes a thought of the days that were dull and dread, 
 And through these avenues marched the "Boys" 
 
 Who to-day are heroes — or heroes dead. 
 
 When the fingers that hold me grip more slack, 
 
 When the rabble ceases, a space, to rave ; 
 And men's minds travel a score years back, 
 
 And the faces I light grow suddenly grave ; 
 When only the sound of the halting feet 
 
 Like a vanishing rain-fall patters past, 
 With a muffled fall away down the street, 
 
 And the thundering music stops at last ; 
 
 When even the buncombe orator, high 
 
 On the flag-draped stand, as he looks around 
 Finds his breath come short and his throat grow dry, 
 
 While his saw-edged voice has a husky sound ; 
 Feeling, for once in his life, afraid ; 
 
 Remembering — ay, he remembered then ! 
 That statecraft is not a tricky trade, 
 
 That he deals with the honor and hopes of men. 
 58 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 No more my spirit of flame shall thrill 
 As then : no more shall it leap and play 
 
 When the moment's madness masters the will, 
 And the roaring column marches away. 
 
 ***** 
 
 No more ! By November's night-winds fanned, 
 In the gusty lee of a Bowery porch, 
 
 You may see me lighting a pea-nut stand — 
 The battered wreck of a Campaign Torch. 
 
 November, 1880. 
 
 59 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME, WITH 
 VARIATIONS. 
 
 Being Suggestions of the Various Styles in which 
 
 an Old Theme might have been Treated by 
 
 Certain Metrical Composers. 
 
 fantasia. 
 I. 
 
 The Original Theme, as John Howard Payne 
 Wrote it : 
 
 9 A /[ID pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
 
 -*■ » * Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home t 
 A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 
 Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere. 
 
 Home, Home ! Sweet, Sweet Home ! 
 There 's no place like Home ! 
 60 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ! 
 
 Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
 
 The birds singing gayly that came at my call ! 
 
 Give me them ! and the peace of mind dearer than all. 
 
 Home, Home ! Sweet, Sweet Home ! 
 There 's no place like Home ! 
 
 II. 
 
 As Algernon Charles Swinburne might have 
 Wrapped it up in Variations: 
 
 [ 5 'Mid pleasures and palaces — ] 
 
 AS sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine 
 that is drifted 
 Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze, 
 Though we wander on gusts of a god's breath shaken 
 and shifted, 
 The salt of us stings and is sore for the sobbing seas. 
 For home's sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared 
 porches. 
 Of bliss made sick for a life that is barren of bliss, 
 For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that 
 sears not nor scorches, 
 Nor elsewhere than this. 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 [An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain — ] 
 
 For here we know shall no gold thing glisten, 
 
 No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine ; 
 Nor Love lower never an ear to listen 
 
 To words that work in the heart like wine. 
 What time we are set from our land apart, 
 For pain of passion and hunger of heart, 
 Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen, 
 Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine. 
 
 [Variation: An exile from home — ] 
 
 Whether with him whose head 
 Of gods is honored, 
 With song made splendent in the sight of men — 
 Whose heart most sweetly stout, 
 From ravished France cast out, 
 Being firstly hers, was hers most wholly then — 
 Or where on shining seas like wine 
 The dove's wings draw the drooping Erycine. 
 
 [Give me my lowly lhatched cottage — ] 
 
 For Joy finds Love grow bitter, 
 And spreads his wings to quit her, 
 At thought of birds chat twitter 
 Beneath the roof-tree's straw — 
 62 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 Of birds that come for calling, 
 No fear or fright appalling, 
 When dews of dusk are falling, 
 Or daylight's draperies draw. 
 
 [ Give me thein, and the peace of mind — ] 
 
 Give me these things then back, though the giving 
 
 Be at cost of earth's garner of gold ; 
 There is no life without these worth living, 
 
 No treasure where these are not told. 
 For the heart give the hope that it knows not, 
 
 Give the balm for the burn of the breast — 
 For the soul and the mind that repose not, 
 
 O, give us a rest ! 
 
 III. 
 
 As Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have Woven 
 
 it into a Touching Tale of a Western 
 
 Gentleman in a Red Shirt : 
 
 BROWN o' San Juan, 
 Stranger, I 'm Brown. 
 Come up this mornin' from 'Frisco — 
 Be'n a-saltin' my specie-stacks down. 
 
 6 3 
 
ELSEWHERE, 
 
 Be'n a-knockin' around, 
 
 Fer a man from San Juan, 
 Putty consid'able frequent — 
 
 Jes' catch onter that streak o' the dawn 
 
 Right thar lies my home — 
 
 Right thar in the red — 
 I could slop over, stranger, in po'try 
 
 Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead. 
 
 Stranger, you freeze to this : there ain't no kinder gin- 
 palace, 
 
 Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own rancho. 
 
 Maybe it hain't no style, but the Queen in the Tower o' 
 London 
 
 Ain't got naathin' I 'd swop for that house over thar 
 on the hill-side. 
 
 Thar is my ole gal, 'n' the kids, 'n' the rest o' my live- 
 stock ; 
 
 Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there s a griddle- 
 cake br'ilin' — 
 
 For the two of us, pard — and thar, I allow, the heavens 
 
 Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality. 
 
 6 4 
 
ELSEIVHERE. 
 
 Stranger, nowhere else I don't take no satisfaction. 
 Gimme my ranch, 'n' them friendly old Shanghai 
 
 chickens — 
 I brung the original pair f'm the States in eighteen-'n'- 
 
 fifty — 
 Gimme them and the feelin' of solid domestic comfort. 
 
 Yer parding, young man — 
 
 But this landscape a kind 
 Er flickers — I 'lew 'twuz the po'try — 
 
 I thought thet my eyes hed gone blind. 
 
 Take that pop from my belt ! 
 
 Hi, thar — gimme yer han' — 
 Or I '11 kill myself — Lizzie! — she 's left me — 
 
 Gone off with a purtier man ! 
 
 Thar, I '11 quit — the ole gal 
 
 An' the kids — run away ! 
 I be derned ! Howsomever, come in, pard — 
 
 The griddle-cake 's thar, anyway. 
 65 
 
ELSEWHERE, 
 
 IV. 
 
 As Austin Dobson might have Translated it 
 
 from Horace, if it had ever occurred 
 
 to Horace to write it : 
 
 rondeau. 
 
 Palatiis in remotis voluptates 
 Si quaeris . . . 
 
 — Flaccus, Q. FIoratius, Carmina, Lib. V: i. 
 
 AT home alone, O Nomades, 
 l\ Although Maecenas' marble frieze 
 
 Stand not between you and the sky. 
 
 Nor Persian luxury supply 
 Its rosy surfeit, find ye ease. 
 
 Tempt not the far ^gean breeze ; 
 With home-made wine and books that please, 
 To duns and bores the door deny 
 At home, alone. 
 
 Strange joys may lure. Your deities 
 Smile here alone. Oh, give me these : 
 Low eaves, where birds familiar fly, 
 And peace of mind, and, fluttering by, 
 My Lydia's graceful draperies, 
 
 At home, alone, 
 
 66 
 
ELSEV/HERE. 
 
 V. 
 
 as it might have been constructed in 1 744, 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, Writing the 
 
 First Stanza, and Alexander Pope, 
 
 at 52, the Second : 
 
 HOME ! at the word, what blissful visions rise ; 
 Lift us from earth, and draw toward the skies ! 
 'Mid mirag'd towers, or meretricious joys, 
 Although we roam, one thought the mind employs : 
 Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome, 
 Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home. 
 There, where affection warms the father's breast, 
 There is the spot of heav'n most surely blest. 
 Howe'er we search, though wandering with the wind 
 Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind, 
 Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know, 
 The light of heav'n upon our dark below. 
 
 When from our dearest hope and haven reft, 
 Delight nor dazzles, nor is luxury left, 
 We long, obedient to our nature's law, 
 To see again our hovel thatched with straw : 
 See birds that know our avenaceous store 
 Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar : 
 But, of all hopes the wanderer's soul that share, 
 His pristine peace of mind 's his final prayer. 
 
 67 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 VI. 
 
 As Walt Whitman might have Written all 
 around it : 
 
 YOU over there, young man with the guide-book, red- 
 bound, covered flexibly with red linen, 
 Come here, I want to talk with you ; I, Walt, the Man- 
 
 hattanese, citizen of these States, call you. 
 Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with 
 
 oil'd hair ; a garlicky look about him generally ; him, 
 
 too, I take in, just as I would a coyote, or a king, or a 
 
 toad-stool, or a ham-sandwich, or anything or anybody 
 
 else in the world. 
 Where are you going ? 
 You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time ; 
 
 in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good 
 
 time ; you want to see Venice. 
 Come with me. I will give you a good time ; I will give 
 
 you all the Venice you want, and most of the Paris. . 
 I, Walt, I call to you. I am all on deck ! Come and loafe 
 
 with me ! Let me tote you around by your elbow and 
 
 show you things. 
 You listen to my ophicleide ! 
 Home ! 
 
 68 
 
ELSEIVHERE. 
 
 Home, I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspir'd by 
 
 the thought of home. 
 Come in ! — take a front seat ; the jostle of the crowd not 
 
 minding ; there is room enough for all of you. 
 This is my exhibition — it is the greatest show on earth — 
 
 there is no charge for admission. 
 All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza. 
 
 i. The brown-stone house ; the father coming home 
 worried from a bad day's business ; the wife meets him 
 in the marble-pav'd vestibule ; she throws her arms 
 about him ; she presses him close to her ; she looks him 
 full in the face with affectionate eyes ; the frown from 
 his brow disappearing. 
 
 Darling, she says, Johnny has fallen down and cut his 
 head j the cook is going away, a?id the boiler leaks. 
 
 2. The mechanic's dark little third-story room, seen in a 
 flash from the Elevated Railway train ; the sewing- 
 machine in a corner ; the small cook-stove ; the whole 
 family eating cabbage around a kerosene lamp ; of the 
 clatter and roar and groaning wail of the Elevated 
 train unconscious ; of the smell of the cabbage uncon- 
 scious. 
 
 6 9 
 
ELSEWHERE, 
 
 Me, passant, in the train, of the cabbage not quite so 
 unconscious. 
 
 3. The French flat ; the small rooms, all right-angles, 
 unindividual ; the narrow halls ; the gaudy cheap 
 decorations everywhere. 
 
 The janitor and the cook exchanging compliments up and 
 down the elevator-shaft ; the refusal to send up more 
 coal, the solid splash of the water upon his head, the 
 language he sends up the shaft, the triumphant laughter 
 of the cook, to her kitchen retiring. 
 
 4. The widow's small house in the suburbs of the city ; 
 the widow's boy coining home from his first day down 
 town ; he is flushed with happiness and pride ; he is no 
 longer a school-boy, he is earning money ; he takes on 
 the airs of a man and talks learnedly of business. 
 
 5. The room in the third-class boarding-house ; the mean 
 little hard-coal fire, the slovenly Irish servant-girl mak- 
 ing it, the ashes on the hearth, the faded furniture, the 
 private provender hid away in the closet, the dreary 
 back-yard out the window; the young girl at the glass, 
 with her mouth full of hair-pins, doing up her hair to 
 go down-stairs and flirt with the young fellows in the 
 parlor. 
 
 6. The kitchen of the old farm-house ; the young convict 
 just return'd from prison — it was his first offense, and 
 the judges were lenient to him. 
 
 70 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 He is taking his first meal out of prison ; he has been re- 
 ceiv'd back, kiss'd, encourag'd to start again ; his lungs, 
 his nostrils expand with the big breaths of free air ; with 
 shame, with wonderment, with a trembling joy, his heart 
 too expanding. 
 
 The old mother busies herself about the table ; she has 
 ready for him the dishes he us'd to like ; the father sits 
 with his back to them, reading the newspaper, the news- 
 paper shaking and rustling much ; the children hang 
 wondering around the prodigal — they have been cau- 
 tion' d : Do not ask where our Jim has been ; only say you 
 are glad to see Jiint. 
 
 The elder daughter is there, pale-fac'd, quiet ; her young 
 man went back on her four years ago ; his folks would 
 not let him marry a convict's sister. She sits by the 
 window, sewing on the children's clothes, the clothes not 
 only patching up ; her hunger for children of her own 
 invisibly patching up. 
 
 The brother looks up ; he catches her eye, he fearful, 
 apologetic ; she smiles back at him, not reproachfully 
 smiling, with loving pretense of hope smiling — it is too 
 much for him; he buries his face in the folds of the 
 mother's black gown. 
 
 7. The best room of the house, on the Sabbath only 
 open'd ; the smell of horse-hair furniture and mahog- 
 any varnish ; the ornaments on the what-not in the 
 
 7 1 
 
ELSEWHERE, 
 
 corner ; the wax fruit, dusty, sunken, sagged in, con- 
 sumptive-looking, under a glass globe ; the sealing-wax 
 imitation of coral ; the cigar boxes with shells plastered 
 over ; the perforated card-board motto. 
 
 The kitchen ; the housewife sprinkling the clothes for the 
 fine ironing to-morrow — it is Third-day night, and the 
 plain things are already iron'd, now in cupboards, in 
 drawers stowed away. 
 
 The wife waiting for the husband — he is at the tavern, 
 jovial, carousing ; she, alone in the kitchen sprinkling 
 clothes — the little red wood clock with peaked top, with 
 pendulum wagging behind a pane of gayly painted glass, 
 strikes twelve. 
 
 The sound of the husband's voice on the still night air — 
 he is singing: We won't go home till morning! — 
 the wife arising, toward the wood-shed hastily going, 
 stealthily entering, the voice all the time coming nearer, 
 inebriate, chantant. 
 
 The wood-shed ; the club behind the door of the wood- 
 shed ; the wife annexing the club ; the husband ap- 
 proaching, always inebriate, chantant. 
 
 The husband passing the door of the wood-shed ; the club 
 over his head, now with his head in contact ; the sudden 
 cessation of the song ; the temperance pledge signed the 
 next morning ; the benediction of peace over the domes- 
 tic foyer temporarily resting. 
 
 72 
 
ELSEWHERE. 
 
 I sing the soothing influences of home. 
 
 You, young man, thoughtlessly wandering, with courier, 
 
 with guide-book wandering, 
 You hearken to the melody of my steam-calliope. 
 Yawp ! 
 
ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 75 
 
FORTY. 
 
 IN the heyday of my years, when I thought the world 
 was young, 
 And believed that I was old — at the very gates of Life — 
 It seemed in every song the birds of heaven sung 
 That I heard the sweet injunction: " Go get thee a 
 wife ! " 
 
 And within the breast of youth woke a secret sweet desire ; 
 
 For Love spoke in that carol his first mysterious word, 
 That to-day through ashen years kindles memory into fire, 
 
 Though the birds are dead that sang it, and the heart 
 is old that heard. 
 
 I have watched my youth's blue heavens flush to angry, 
 brooding red, 
 And again the crimson palsied in a dull, unpregnant 
 gloom ; 
 I am older than some sorrows ; I have watched by Pleasure 
 dead ; 
 I have seen Hope grow immortal at the threshold of 
 the tomb. 
 
 77 
 
ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 Through the years by turns that gave me now curses, 
 now caresses, 
 I have fought a fight with Fortune wherein Love hath 
 had no part ; 
 To-day, when peace hard-conquered ripe years and weary 
 blesses, 
 Will my fortieth summer pardon twenty winters to my 
 heart ? 
 
 When the spring-tide verdure darkens to the summer's 
 deeper glories, 
 And in the thickening foliage doth the year its life renew, 
 Will to me the forests whisper once more their wind- 
 learnt stories? 
 Will the birds their message bring me from out the 
 heaven of blue ? 
 
 Will the wakened world sing for me the old enchanted 
 song — 
 Touch the underflow of love that, through all the toil 
 and strife, 
 Has only grown the stronger as the years passed lone 
 and long ? 
 Shall I learn the will of Heaven is to get me a wife ? 
 
 7 8 
 
ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 The boy's heart yearns for freedom, he walks hand-in- 
 hand with pleasure ; 
 Made bright with wine and kisses, he sees the face of Life ; 
 He would make the world a pleasaunce for a love that knows 
 not measure ; 
 But the man seeks Heaven, and finds it in the bosom 
 of his wife. 
 
 79 
 
STRONG AS DEATH. 
 
 O DEATH, when thou shalt come to me 
 From out thy dark, where she is now, 
 Come not with graveyard smell on thee, 
 Or withered roses on thy brow. 
 
 Come not, O Death, with hollow tone, 
 And soundless step, and clammy hand- 
 
 Lo, I am now no less alone 
 
 Than in thy desolate, doubtful land ; 
 
 But with that sweet and subtle scent 
 That ever clung about her (such 
 
 As with all things she brushed was blent) ; 
 And with her quick and tender touch. 
 80 
 
ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 With the dim gold that lit her hair, 
 
 Crown thyself, Death ; let fall thy tread 
 
 So light that I may dream her there, 
 And turn upon my dying bed. 
 
 And through my chilling veins shall flame 
 My love, as though beneath her breath ; 
 
 And in her voice but call my name, 
 And I will follow thee, O Death. 
 
 81 
 
DEAF. 
 
 AS to a bird's song she were listening, 
 /~V Her beautiful head is ever sidewise bent ; 
 
 Her questioning eyes lift up their depths intent — 
 She, who will never hear the wild-birds sing. 
 My words within her ears' cold chambers ring 
 
 Faint, with the city's murmurous sub-tones blent ; 
 
 Though with such sounds as suppliants may have sent 
 To high-throned goddesses, my speech takes wing. 
 
 Not for the side-poised head's appealing grace 
 I gaze, nor hair where fire in shadow lies — 
 
 For her this world's unhallowed noises base 
 Melt into silence ; not our groans, our cries, 
 
 Our curses, reach that high-removed place 
 Where dwells her spirit, innocently wise. 
 
 82 
 
LES MORTS VONT VITE. 
 
 /ES morts vont vite / Ay, for a little space 
 * We miss and mourn them, fallen from their place; 
 To take our portion in their rest are fain ; 
 But by-and-by, having wept, press on again, 
 Perchance to win their laurels in the race. 
 
 What man would find the old in the new love's face ? 
 Seek on the fresher lips the old kisses' trace ? 
 For withered roses newer blooms disdain ? 
 Les morts vont vite! 
 
 But when disease brings thee in piteous case, 
 Thou shalt thy dead recall, and thy ill grace 
 
 To them for whom remembrance plead in vain. 
 
 Then, shuddering, think, while thy bed-fellow Pain 
 Clasps thee with arms that cling like Death's embrace : 
 Les morts vont vite ! 
 
 83 
 
A 
 
 DISASTER. 
 
 ROAR of voices and a tottering town, 
 
 A dusty ruin of high walls crumbling down, 
 
 A wild, blind hurrying of men mad with fear, 
 Rushing from death to death — above, the clear, 
 
 Calm, pitiless, lurid orange of the sky, 
 Where one affrighted vulture dares to fly. 
 
 On either side an ocean's overflow ; 
 
 And fume and thunder of hid fires below. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Then, when the next morn breaks, fair, heartless, 
 
 bland, 
 The young west wind strews a dead world with sand : 
 
 Follows the broad and jagged swath where Fate 
 Has mown a thousand corpses mutilate. 
 8 4 
 
ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 And on the writhen faces bends to see 
 Unspeakable fear, defiance, agony. 
 
 Sees life's vain protest turned to impotent stone, 
 Dumbly reproachful still, and sees, alone, 
 
 Smiling in death, serene, sweet, undistressed, 
 One woman with a cancer at her breast. 
 
 85 
 
SEPTEMBER. 
 
 RONDEAU. 
 
 THE Summer's gone — how did it go? 
 And where has gone the dogwood's snow? 
 The air is sharp upon the hill, 
 And with a tinkle sharp and chill 
 The icy little brooklets flow. 
 
 What is it in the season, though, 
 Brings back the days of old, and so 
 Sets memory recalling still 
 
 The Summer 's gone ? 
 
 Why are my days so dark ? for lo ! 
 
 The maples with fresh glory glow, 
 
 Fair shimmering mists the valleys fill, 
 The keen air sets the blood a-thrill — 
 
 Ah ! now that you are gone, I know 
 
 The Summer 's gone. 
 
 86 
 
THEN. 
 
 WHEN, moved by sudden strange desires, 
 And innocent shames and sweet distress, 
 Your eyes grow large and moist, your lips 
 Pout to a kiss, while virgin fires 
 
 Run flushing to your finger tips — 
 Then I will tell you what you guess. 
 
 87 
 
THE APPEAL TO HAROLD. 3 
 
 HARO ! Haro ! 
 Judge now betwixt this woman and me, 
 
 Haro! 
 She leaves me bond, who found me free. 
 Of love and hope she hath drained me dry — 
 Yea, barren as a drought-struck sky; 
 She hath not left me tears for weeping, 
 Nor will my eyelids close in sleeping. 
 1 have gathered all my life's-blood up — 
 
 Haro! 
 She hath drunk and thrown aside the cup. 
 
ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 Shall she not give me back my days ? 
 
 Haro ! 
 I made them perfect for her praise. 
 There was no flower in all the brake 
 I found not fairer for her sake ; 
 There was no sweet thought I did not fashion 
 For aid and servant to my passion. 
 Labor and learning worthless were, 
 
 Haro! 
 Save that I made them gifts for her. 
 
 Shall she not give me back my nights ? 
 
 Haro! 
 Give me sweet sleep for brief delights ? 
 Lo, in the night's wan mid I lie, 
 And ghosts of hours that are dead go by : 
 Hours of a love that died unshriven ; 
 Of a love in change for my manhood given : 
 She caressed and slew my soul's white truth, 
 
 Haro! 
 Shall she not give me back my youth ? 
 
 Haro! Haro! 
 
 Tell thou me not of a greater judge, 
 
 Haro! 
 It is He who hath my sin in grudge. 
 Yea, from God I appeal to thee; 
 
ULTIMA THULE, 
 
 God hath not part or place for me. 
 Thou who hast sinned, judge thou my sinning : 
 I have staked my life for a woman's winning ; 
 She hath stripped me of all save remembering — 
 
 Haro ! 
 Right thou me, right thou me, Harold the King ! 
 
TO A DEAD WOMAN. 
 
 NOT a kiss in life ; but one kiss, at life's end, 
 I have set on the face of Death in trust for thee. 
 Through long years keep it fresh on thy lips, O friend ! 
 At the gate of Silence give it back to me. 
 
 91 
 
THE OLD FLAG. 
 
 OFF with your hat as the flag goes by ! 
 And let the heart have its say ; 
 You 're man enough for a tear in your eye 
 That you will not wipe away. 
 
 You 're man enough for a thrill that goes 
 
 To your very finger-tips — 
 Ay ! the lump just then in your throat that rose 
 
 Spoke more than your parted lips. 
 
 Lift up the boy on your shoulder, high, 
 
 And show him the faded shred — 
 Those stripes would be red as the sunset sky 
 
 If Death could have dyed them red. 
 
 The man that bore it with Death has lain 
 
 This twenty years and more; — 
 He died that the work should not be vain 
 
 Of the men who bore it before. 
 
 92 
 
ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 The man that bears it is bent and old, 
 And ragged his beard and gray, — 
 
 But look at his eye fire young and bold, 
 At the tune that he hears them play. 
 
 The old tune thunders through all the air, 
 And strikes right in to the heart; — 
 
 If ever it calls for you, boy, be there ! 
 Be there, and ready to start. 
 
 Off with your hat as the flag goes by ! 
 
 Uncover the youngster's head ! 
 Teach him to hold it holy and high, 
 
 For the sake of its sacred dead. 
 
 Evacuation Day, 1883. 
 
 93 
 
FROM A COUNTING-HOUSE. 
 
 THERE is an hour when first the westering sun 
 Takes on some forecast faint of future red; 
 When from the wings of weariness is shed 
 A spell upon us toilers, every one ; 
 The day's work lags a little, well-nigh done ; 
 Far dusky lofts through all the close air spread 
 A smell of eastern bales ; the old clerk's head 
 Nods by my side, heavy with dreams begun 
 In dear dead days wherein his heart is tombed. 
 But I my way to Italy have found ; 
 
 Or wander where high stars gleam coldly through 
 The Alpine skies ; or in some nest perfumed, 
 With soft Parisian luxury set round, 
 
 Hold out my arms and cry " At last ! " to yuu. 
 
 94 
 
TO A HYACINTH PLUCKED FOR 
 DECORATION DAY. 
 
 O FLOWER, plucked before the dew 
 Could wet thy thirsty petals blue — 
 Grieve not ! a dearer dew for thee 
 Shall be the tears of Memory. 
 
 95 
 
LONGFELLOW. 
 
 POET whose sunny span of fruitful years 
 Outreaches earth, whose voice within our ears 
 Grows silent — shall we mourn for thee ? Our sigh 
 Is April's breath, our grief is April's tears. 
 
 If this be dying, fair it is to die : 
 Even as a garment weariness lays by, 
 Thou layest down life to pass, as Time hath passed, 
 From wintry rigors to a Springtime sky. 
 
 Are there tears left to give thee at the last, 
 Poet of spirits crushed and hearts down-cast, 
 Loved of worn women who, when work is done, 
 Weep o'er thy page in twilights fading fast ? 
 
 9 6 
 
ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 Oh, tender-toned and tender-hearted one, 
 We give thee to the season new begun ; 
 Lay thy white head within the arms of Spring — 
 Thy song had all her shower and her sun. 
 
 Nay, let us not such sorrowful tribute bring, 
 Now that thy lark-like soul hath taken wing : 
 A grateful memory fills and more endears 
 
 The silence when a bird hath ceased to sing. 
 
 97 
 
FOR THE FIRST PAGE OF THE ALBUM. 
 
 I OPEN this to write for her 
 Within whose gates is ever Peace ; 
 Beneath whose roof the wanderer 
 
 Finds from his wayside cares release. 
 
 Her presence is in every room, 
 
 Her silent love is everywhere, 
 As pleasant as a soft perfume, 
 
 As soothing as a twilight air. 
 
 No song shall tell the friendly debt 
 My gratitude were glad to pay; 
 
 But here may other singers set 
 The half of what I fain would say. 
 
 More sweetly may their songs be made, 
 Their lines in purer cadence fall, 
 
 Yet none — yet none leaves more unsaid, 
 With truer wish to say it all. 
 
 September 10. 1883. 
 
 98 
 
FAREWELL TO SALVINI. 4 
 
 April 26th, 1883. 
 
 ALTHOUGH a curtain of the salt sea-mist 
 l May fall between the actor and our eyes — 
 Although he change for dear and softer skies 
 These that the sun has yet but coyly kissed — 
 Although the voice to which we loved to list 
 Fail ere the thunder of our plaudits dies — 
 Although he parts from us in gracious wise, 
 With grateful memory left his eulogist — 
 His best is with us still. 
 
 His perfect art 
 
 Has held us 'twixt a heart-throb and a tear — 
 
 Cheating our souls to passionate belief. 
 
 And in his greatness we have now some part — 
 
 We have been courtiers of the crownless Lear, 
 
 And partners in Othello's mighty grief. 
 
 99 
 
ON READING A POET'S FIRST BOOK. 
 
 THIS is a breath of summer wind 
 That comes — we know not how — that goes 
 As softly, — leaving us behind 
 
 Pleased with a smell of vine and rose. 
 
 Poet, shall this be all thy word ? 
 
 Blow on us with a bolder breeze ; 
 Until we rise, as having heard 
 
 The sob, the song of far-off seas. 
 
 Blow in thy shell until thou draw, 
 
 From inner whorls where still they sleep, 
 
 The notes unguessed of love and awe, 
 And all thy song grow full and deep. 
 
ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 Feeble may be the scanty phrase — 
 
 Thy dream a dream tongue never spake - 
 
 Yet shall thy note, through doubtful days, 
 Swell stronger for Endeavor's sake. 
 
 As Jacob, wrestling through the night, 
 Felt all his muscles strengthen fast 
 
 With wakening strength, and met the light 
 Blessed and strong, though overcast. 
 
FEMININE. 
 
 SHE might have known it in the earlier Spring, 
 That all my heart with vague desire was stirred ; 
 And, ere the Summer winds had taken wing, 
 I told her ; but she smiled and said no word. 
 
 The Autumn's eager hand his red gold grasped, 
 And she was silent ; till from skies grown drear 
 
 Fell soft one fine, first snow-flake, and she clasped 
 My neck and cried, " Love, we have lost a year ! " 
 
REDEMPTION. 
 
 AS to the drunkard who at morn doth wake 
 L Are the clear waters of the virgin spring 
 Wherewith he bathes his eyes that burn and sting 
 And his intolerable thirst doth slake, 
 So is the thought of thee to me, who break 
 One sober moment, sick and shuddering, 
 From all my life's unworthiness, to fling 
 Me at thy memory's feet, and for Love's sake 
 Pray that thy peace may enter in my soul. 
 
 Love, thou hast heard ! My veins more calmly flow — 
 The madness of the night is passed away — 
 Fire of false eyes, thirst of the cursed bowl — 
 I drink deep of thy purity, and lo ! 
 
 Thou hast given me new heart to meet the day. 
 
 103 
 
TRIUMPH. 
 
 THE dawn came in through the bars of the 
 blind,— 
 And the winter's dawn is gray, — 
 And said — However you cheat your mind, 
 The hours are flying away. 
 
 A ghost of a dawn, and pale and weak — 
 
 Has the sun a heart, I said, 
 To throw a morning flush on the cheek 
 
 Whence a fairer flush has fled ? 
 
 As a gray rose-leaf that is fading white 
 Was the cheek where I set my kiss ; 
 
 And on that side of the bed all night 
 Death had watched, and I on this. 
 
 I kissed her lips, they were half apart, 
 
 Yet they made no answering sign ; 
 Death's hand was on her failing heart, 
 
 And his eyes said — " She is mine." 
 104 
 
ULTIMA THULE. 
 
 I set my lips on the blue-veined lid, 
 Half- veiled by her death-damp hair; 
 
 And oh, for the violet depths it hid, 
 And the light I longed for there ! 
 
 Faint day and the fainter life awoke, 
 
 And the night was overpast ; 
 And I said — "Though never in life you spoke, 
 
 Oh, speak with a look at last ! " 
 
 For the space of a heart-beat fluttered her breath, 
 
 As a bird's wing spread to flee ; 
 She turned her weary arms to Death, 
 
 And the light of her eyes to me. 
 
TO HER. 
 
 PERCHANCE the spell that now must part 
 Our lives may yet be broken ; 
 And then your sweet unconscious heart 
 
 May know my love unspoken. 
 Perchance the jealous seal of Time 
 May break in some far season ; 
 And you will read this book of rhyme, 
 And know the rhyme's dear reason. 
 
 How long ago the song began ! 
 
 How lonely was the singer, 
 Whose mistress never thought to scan 
 
 The lines he dared to bring her ! 
 Oh, will you ever read it true, 
 
 When all the rhymes are ended — 
 How much of Hope, of Love, of You, 
 
 With every verse was blended. 
 
 Who knows? But when the bars shall fall 
 
 That set our souls asunder, 
 May you, at last, in hearing all, 
 
 Feel Love grow out of Wonder; 
 And may the song be glad as when 
 
 The boy's fresh voice commenced it ; 
 And may my heart be beating then, 
 
 To feel your own against it ! 
 1 06 
 
NOTES. 
 
 107 
 
NOTES. 
 
 >' 
 
 t " There was a vague murmur in the air of little brooks, that one might fancy had 
 lost their way in the darkness, and were whispering together how they should get 
 home." 
 
 " In the Distance," by G. P. Lathrop. 
 
 2 The only authority I have for calling this ' 'A Real Romance" 
 is the following, clipped from a stray newspaper in '77 or '78 : 
 
 "A school-girl at Bellefontaine, Ohio, offended her boy lover, and he refused to 
 speak to her. She passed a note to him, asking forgiveness, but he refused. She 
 wrote to him again, saying that she would kill herself if he did not make up ; and he 
 replied that he would be glad to go to her funeral. She then began her suicidal efforts 
 by drinking a bottle of red ink, which only made her sick. A bottle of black ink had 
 no deadlier effect. Finally, she cut her throat with a knife, but not fatally, though she 
 made a deep and dangerous gash." 
 
 3 Like the Roman citizen's right of appeal to Caesar, there was, 
 according to some authorities, a supreme right of appeal to 
 Harold of Normandy. It was invoked by crying " Haro ! Haro ! 
 Haro !" In a modified form, the legal tradition still survives, 
 I believe, in some of the Channel Islands. 
 
 4 Read at the farewell dinner to Salvini, New-York, April 
 26th, 1883. 
 
 109