A LEGEND OF GOTHAM.
TERRIBLY proud was Miss MacBride,
The very personification of pride,
As she minced along in fashion's tide,
Adown Broadway-on the proper side-
When the golden sun was setting;
There was pride in the head she carried so high,
Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye,
And a world of pride in the very sigh
That her stately bosom was fretting!
O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride,
Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride,
And proud of fifty matters beside-
That wouldn't have borne dissection ;
Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk,
Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk,
Proud of "knowing cheese from chalk,"
On a very slight inspection!
Proud abroad, and proud at home,
Proud wherever she chanced to come-
When she was glad, and when she was glum ;
Proud as the head of a Saracen
Over the door of a tippling-shop!—
Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop,
* Proud as a boy with a brand-new top,"
Proud beyond comparison !
And yet the pride of Miss MacBride,
Although it had fifty hobbies to ride,
Had really no foundation;
But, like the fabrics that gossips devise-
Those single stories that often arise
And grow till they reach a four-story size-
Was merely a fancy creation!
Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high-
For Miss MacBride first opened her eye
Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky;
But pride is a curious passion—
And in talking about her wealth and worth,
She always forgot to mention her birth
To people of rank and fashion!
Of all the notable things on earth,
The queerest one is pride of birth
Among our "fierce democracie!"
A bridge across a hundred years,
Without a prop to save it from sneers-
Not even a couple of rotten peers-
A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers,
Is American aristocracy!
English and Irish, French and Spanish,
German, Italian, Dutch and Danish,
Crossing their veins until they vanish
In one conglomeration!
So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed,
No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed
In finding the circulation.
Depend upon it, my snobbish friend,
Your family thread you can't ascend,
Without good reason to apprehend
You may find it waxed, at the farther end,
By some plebeian vocation!
Or, worse than that, your boasted line
May end in a loop of stronger twine,
That plagued some worthy relation!
But Miss MacBride had something beside
Her lofty birth to nourish her pride-
For rich was the old paternal MacBride,
According to public rumor:
And he lived "up town," in a splendid square,
And kept his daughter on dainty fare,
And gave her gems that were rich and rare,
And the finest rings and things to wear,
And feathers enough to plume her.
A thriving tailor begged her hand,
But she gave "the fellow" to understand,
By a violent manual action,
She perfectly scorned the best of his clan,
And reckoned the ninth of any man
An exceedingly vulgar fraction!
Another, whose sign was the golden boot,
Was mortified with a bootless suit,
In a way that was quite appalling;
For, though a regular sutor by trade,
He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid,
Who cut him off with a saw-and bade
"The cobbler keep to his calling!"
A young attorney, of winning grace,
Was scarce allowed to "open his face,"
Ere Miss MacBride had closed his case
With true judicial celerity;
For the lawyer was poor, and "seedy" to boot,
And to say the lady discarded his suit,
Is merely a double verity!
The last of those who came to court,
Was a lively beau, of the dapper sort,
"Without any visible means of support,"
A crime by no means flagrant
In one who wears an elegant coat,
But the very point on which they vote
A ragged fellow "a vagrant!"
Now dapper Jim his courtship plied
(I wish the fact could be denied)
With an eye to the purse of the old MacBride,
And really "nothing shorter!"
For he said to himself, in his greedy lust.
"Whenever he dies-as die he must-
And yields to Heaven his vital trust,
He's very sure to 'come down with his dust,'
In behalf of his only daughter."
in wich case it smells orful, worse than lamp ile;
And wrings the bel and toles it when men dyes,
to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps paths
And for the servusses get $100 per annum,
Wich them that thinks deer, let 'em try it;
Gettin up before starlite in all wethers and
Kindlin fires when the wether is as cold
As zero, and like as not green wood for kindling
i would n't be hired to do it for no sum,
But O Sextant! there are I kermoddity
Wich's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin,
Worth more than anything except the sole of man!
i mean pewer Are, Sextant, i mean pewer are!
O it is plenty out of doors, so plenty it doant no
What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about
Scatterin leaves and bloin off men's hatts!
in short, it's jest "fre as are" out dores,
But O Sextant, in our church its scarce as buty,
Scarce as bank bills, when agints beg for mischuns,
Wich some say is purty offten (taint nothin to me,
wat I give aint nothin to nobody) but, O Sextant U shet 500 men, wimmin, and children, Speshally the latter, up in a tite place, And every 1 on em brethes in and out, and out and in. Say 50 times a minnit, or 1 million and a half breths
Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate,
I ask you-say 15 minits—and then wats to be did?
Why then you must brethe it all over agin,
And then agin, and so on till each has took it down
At least 10 times, and let it up agin, and wats more
The same individoal don't have the priviledge
of brethin his own are, and no ones else,
Each must take whatever comes to him.
O Sextant, doant you no our lungs is bellusses,
To blo the fier of life, and keep it from goin out;
and how can bellusses blo without wind?
And aint wind are? i put it to your conschens.
Are is the same to us as milk to babies,
Or water is to fish, or pendiums to clox,
Or roots and airbs unto an injun doctor,
Or little pills unto an omepath,
Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe,
What signifies who preaches if i cant brethe?
Wats Pol? Wats Pollus to sinners who are ded?
Ded for want of breth, why Sextant, when we dy
Its only coz we cant brethe no more, thats all.
And now O Sextant, let me beg of you
To let a little are into our church.
(Pewer are is sertain proper for the pews)
And do it weak days, and Sundays tew,
It aint much trouble, only make a hole
And the are will come of itself;
It luvs to come in where it can git warm)
And O how it will rouze the people up,
And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps,
And yawns and figgits, as effectooal
/ wind on the dry boans the Profit tells of.
Y Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two,
He had nothing to do,
So his lordship rang for his cabriolet.
Tiger Tim
Was clean of limb.
His boots were polished, his jacket was trim;
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,
He stood in his stockings just four foot ten: And he asked as he held the door on the swing, "Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?"
My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said,
"Malibran's dead,
Duvernay's fled,
Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead:
Tiger Tim, come tell me true,
What may a nobleman find to do?"
Tim looked up and Tim looked down, He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown, And he held up his hat and he peeped in the crown, He bit his lip, and he scratched his head, He let go the handle, and thus he said, As the door, released, behind him banged: "An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be hanged."
My Lord Tomnoddy jumped up at the news; "Run to M'Fuze,
And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues.
Rope-dancers a score
Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more: But to see a man swing
With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!"
My Lord Tomnoddy stepped into his cab-
Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab;
Through street, and through square,
His high-trotting mare,
Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air,
Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place
Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace;
She produced some alarm,
Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm, Spattering with clay
Knocking down-very much to the sweeper's dismayAn old woman who wouldn't get out of the way,
And upsetting a stall
Near Exeter Hall,
Which made all the pious Church-mission folks squall;
But eastward afar,
Through Temple Bar,
My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car;
Never heeding their squalls,
Or their calls, or their bawls,
He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls,
And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's,
Turns down the Old Bailey,
Where in front of the jail, he
Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily
Cries, "What must I fork out to-night, my trump,
For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump?"
The clock strikes twelve-it is dark midnight-
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.
The parties are met;
Lieutenant Tregooze
Is dreaming of Jews,
And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse; My Lord Tomnoddy
Has drunk all his toddy,
And just as dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.
Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,
Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks,
It seemed that the mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,
On all-save the wretch condemned to die.
Alack! that ever so fair a sun
As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such a scene of misery—
There is "punch," "cold without," 'hot within," Should gild with rays so light and free "heavy wet,"
Ale-glasses and jugs,
And rummers and mugs,
And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs, Cold fowl and cigars,
Welsh rabbits and kidneys-rare work for the jaws And very large lobsters, with very large claws; And there is M'Fuze,
And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,
All come to see a man "die in his shoes!"
The clock strikes One!
Supper is done,
And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
Singing "Jolly companions every one!"
My Lord Tomnoddy
Is drinking gin-toddy,
And laughing at every thing, and every body.
The clock strikes Two! and the clock strikes Three!
-"Who so merry, so merry as we?"
Save Captain M'Fuze,
Who is taking a snooze,
While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work,
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.
The clock strikes Four!
Round the debtor's door
Are gathered a couple of thousand or more;
As many await
At the press-yard gate,
Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight
The mob divides, and between their ranks
A wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks.
The clock strikes Five!
The Sheriffs arrive,
That dismal, dark-frowning gallows-tree!
And hark!-a sound comes, big with fate;
The clock from St. Sepulchre's towerstrikes-Eighth,
List to that low funereal bell:
It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell-
And see-from forth that opening door
They come !-He steps that threshold o'er
Who never shall tread upon threshold more.
-God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see
That pale, wan man's mute agony,
The glare of that wild, despairing eye,
Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the spirit's unknown career;
Those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again, not even in prayer;
That heaving chest!-Enough-'tis done!
The bolt has fallen !-the spirit is gone-
For weal or for woe is known but to One!-
-Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight!—Ah me!
A deed to shudder at, not to see.
Again that clock ! 'tis time, 'tis time!
The hour is past;-with its earliest chime
The chord is severed, its lifeless clay
By "dungeon villains" is borne away:
Nine! 'twas the last concluding stroke!
And then my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!
And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,
And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose:
And they stared at each other, as much as to say
"Hollo! Hollo!
Why Captain !-my Lord!-Here's the dickens to pay! The fellow's been cut down and taken away!— What's to be done?
We've missed all the fun !—
Why they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town,
And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive; We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!"
As a candle burns down in the socket, and sinks.
What was to be done?—'t was perfectly plain
That they could not well hang the man over again
What was to be done !-The man was dead!
"That the bluebird an' phoebe Are smarter 'n we be?
Nought could be done-nought could be said; So-my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!
Jest fold our hands an' see the swall. r
RICHARD HARris Barham (Thomas Ingoldsby, Esq). | An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler?
Doos the little chatterin', sassy wren,
DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE. No bigger 'n my thumb, know more than men ?
F ever there lived a Yankee lad,
Wise or otherwise, good or bad,
Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump
With flapping arms from stake or stump,
Or, spreading the tail
Of his coat for a sail,
Iake a soaring leap from post or rail,
And wonder why
And flap and flutter and wish and try-
If ever you knew a country dunce
Who didn't try that as often as once,
All I can say is, that's a sign
He never would do for a hero of mine.
An aspiring genius was D. Green:
The son of a farmer, age fourteen;
His body was long and lank and lean—
Just right for flying, as will be seen;
He had two eyes as bright as a bean,
And a freckled nose that grew between,
A little awry-for I must mention
That he had riveted his attention
Upon his wonderful invention,
Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings,
And working his face as he worked the wings,
And with every turn of gimlet and screw
Turning and screwing his mouth round too,
Till his nose seemed bent
To catch the scent,
Around some corner, of new-baked pies,
And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes
Grew puckered into a queer grimace,
That made him look very droll in the face,
And wise he must have been, to do more
Than ever a genius did before,
Excepting Dædalus of yore
And his son Icarus, who wore
Upon their backs
Those wings of wax
He had read of in the old almanacs.
Darius was clearly of the opinion
That the air is also man's dominion,
And that, with paddle or fin or pinion,
We soon or late shall navigate
The azure as now we sail the sea.
The thing looks simple enough to me;
And if you doubt it,
Hear how Darius reasoned about it.
"The birds can fly an' why can't I? Must we give in," says he with a grin,
Just show me that!
Ur prove 't the bat
Hez got more brains than's in my hat.
An' I'll back down, an' not till then!"
He argued further: "Nur I can't see
What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee,
Fur to git a livin' with, more'n to me ;-
Ain't my business
Important's his'n is?
That Icarus
Made a perty muss—
Him an' his daddy Dædalus
They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax Wouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard whacks. I'll make mine o' luther,
And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned: "But I ain't goin' to show my hand
To nummies that never can understand
The fust idee that's big an' grand."
So he kept his secret from all the rest,
Safely buttoned within his vest;
And in the loft above the shed
Himself he locks, with thimble and thread
And wax and hammer and buckles and screws
And all such things as geniuses use ;-
Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!
A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;
Some wire, and several old umbrellas;
A carriage-cover, for tail and wings;
A piece of harness; and straps and strings ;
And a big strong box,
In which he locks
These and a hundred other things.
His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke
And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk
Around the corner to see him work-
Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk,
Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk,
And boring the holes with a comical quirk
Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk.
But vainly they mounted each other's backs,
And poked through knot-holes and pried through
With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks
He plugged the knot-holes and caulked the cracks;
And a dipper of water, which one would think
He had brought up into the loft to drink
When he chanced to be dry,
Stood always nigh,
For Darius was sly!
And whenever at work he happened to spy
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