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MATRIMONY.

And that which rather thou dost fear to do,

Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear,
And chastise with the valor of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crowned withal.

The raven himself is hoarse

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctuous visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect, and it! Come, you murd'ring ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances

You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell!

That my keen knife see not the wound it makes;
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
"Hold! hold!"

To cry,

MATRIMONY.-FANNY FERN.

431

ERTAINLY, matrimony is an invention of

Well, no

matter who invented it. I'm going to try it. Here's my blue coat with the bright, brass buttons! The woman has yet to be born who can resist that; and my buff vest and neck-tie, too! may I be shot if I don't offer them both to the little Widow Pardiggle this very night. Pardiggle!" Phoebus! what a name for such a rosebud. I'll re-christen her by the euphonious name of Smith. She'll have me, of course. She wants a husband, I want a wife: there's one point already in which we perfectly agree.

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I hate preliminaries. I suppose it is unnecessary for me to begin with the amatory alphabet. With a widow, I suppose, you can skip the rudiments. Say what you've got to say, in a

432

THE KATYDID.

fraction of a second. Women grow as mischievous as Satan, if they think you are afraid of them. Do I look as if I were afraid? Just examine the growth of my whiskers. The Bearded Lady couldn't hold a candle to them (though I wonder she don't to her own). Afraid? h-m-m! I feel as if I could conquer Asia.

What the mischief ails this cravat? It must be the cold that makes my hand tremble so. There-that'll do. That's quite an inspiration. Brummel himself couldn't go beyond that. Now for the widow; bless her little round face! I'm immensely obliged to old Pardiggle for giving her a quit-claim. I'll make her as happy as a little robin. Do you think I'd bring a tear into her lovely blue eye? Do you think I'd sit, after tea, with my back to her, and my feet upon the mantel, staring up chimney for three hours together? Do you think I'd leave her blessed little side, to dangle round oyster-saloons and theatres? Do I look like a man to let a woman flatten her pretty little nose against the window-pane night after night, trying to see me reel up-street? No. Mr. and Mrs. Adam were not more beautiful in their nuptial-bower than I shall be with the Widow Pardiggle.

Refused by a widow! Who ever heard of such a thing? Well, there's one comfort: nobody'll believe it. She is not so very pretty, after all. Her eyes are too small, and her hands are rough and red-dy-not so very ready either, confound the gipsy! What amazing pretty shoulders she has! Well, who cares?

"If she be not fair to me,

What care I how fair she be?"

Ten to one, she'd have set up that wretch of a Pardiggle for my model. Who wants to be Pardiggle 2d? I am glad she didn't have me. I mean, I'm glad I didn't have her!

THE KATYDID.-O. W. HOLMES.

LOVE to hear thine earnest voice,

Wherever thou art hid,

Thou testy little dogmatist,

Thou pretty Katydid!

THE KATYDID.

Thou 'mindest me of gentlefolks,-
Old gentlefolks are they,-

Thou say'st an undisputed thing
In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid!

I know it by the trill

That quivers through thy piercing notes,
So petulant and shrill.

I think there is a knot of you
Beneath the hollow tree,—
A knot of spinster Katydids,-
Do Katydids drink tea?

Oh, tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked, too?

Did Katy love a naughty man,
Or kiss more cheeks than one?
I warrant Katy did no more
Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I'll tell you all about

My fuss with little Jane,

And Ann, with whom I used to walk

So often down the lane,

And all that tore their locks of black,

Or wet their eyes of blue,—

Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,

What did poor Katy do?

Ah, no! the living oak shall crash,

That stood for ages still,

The rock shall rend its mossy base,
And thunder down the hill,

Before the little Katydid

Shall add one word, to tell

The mystic story of the maid

Whose name she knows so well.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race!

And when the latest one

Shall fold in death her feeble wings,
Beneath the autumn sun,

433

434

ODE TO AN INFANT SON.

Then shall she raise her fainting voice,
And lift her drooping lid,

And then the child of future years
Shall learn what Katy did.

ODE TO AN INFANT SON.-HOOD.

HOU happy, happy elf!

THOU

(But, stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear)

Thou merry, laughing sprite,

With spirits, feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin; (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestruck,

Light as the singing-bird that wings the air,-
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so bright a link,

Thou idol of thy parents;-(Hang the boy!
There goes my ink.)

Thou cherub, but of earth;

Fit play-fellow for fairies, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,-

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,-
(Another tumble! That's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)

With pure heart newly stampt from nature's mint.

(Where did he learn that squint?)

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE.

435

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove,) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are these torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,)

Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,—

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose.!)
Balmy and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above.)

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE.-GEORGE ARNOLD.

TWAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,

'TWA

Tall, and slender, and sallow, and dry;
His form was bent and his gait was slow,
His long, thin hair was as white as snow;
But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye;
And he sang every night as he went to bed,
"Let us be happy down here below;

The living should live, though the dead be dead,"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

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