Little Masterpieces of American Wit and Humor Volume II Part 2

"'Gos.h.!.+ that's it!' interrupted Perkins, jumping up; then, recollecting himself, he sank down on the steps again, and shook with a suppressed 'Ho! ho! ho!'

"Hollins, however, drew himself up with an exasperated air.

"'Sh.e.l.ldrake,' said he, 'I pity you. I always knew your ignorance, but I thought you honest in your human character. I never suspected you of envy and malice. However, the true Reformer must expect to be misunderstood and misrepresented by meaner minds. That love which I bear to all creatures teaches me to forgive you. Without such love, all plans of progress must fail. Is it not so, Abel?'"

"Sh.e.l.ldrake could only e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e the words, 'Pity!' 'Forgive!' in his most contemptuous tone; while Mrs. Sh.e.l.ldrake, rocking violently in her chair, gave utterance to that peculiar clucking '_ts, ts, ts, ts_,'

whereby certain women express emotions too deep for words.

"Abel, roused by Hollins' question, answered, with a sudden energy,--

"Love! there is no love in the world. Where will you find it? Tell me, and I'll go there. Love! I'd like to see it! If all human hearts were like mine, we might have an Arcadia; but most men have no hearts. The world is a miserable, hollow, deceitful sh.e.l.l of vanity and hypocrisy.

No: let us give up. We were born before our time: this age is not worthy of us.'

"Hollins stared at the speaker in utter amazement. Sh.e.l.ldrake gave a long whistle, and finally gasped out,--

"'Well, what next?'

"None of us were prepared for such a sudden and complete wreck of our Arcadian scheme. The foundations had been sapped before, it is true; but we had not perceived it; and now, in two short days, the whole edifice tumbled about our ears. Though it was inevitable, we felt a shock of sorrow, and a silence fell upon us. Only that scamp of a Perkins Brown, chuckling and rubbing his boot, really rejoiced. I could have kicked him.

"We all went to bed, feeling that the charm of our Arcadian life was over.... In the first revulsion of feeling, I was perhaps unjust to my a.s.sociates. I see now, more clearly, the causes of those vagaries, which originated in a genuine aspiration, and failed from an ignorance of the true nature of Man, quite as much as from the egotism of the individuals. Other attempts at reorganizing Society were made about the same time by men of culture and experience, but in the A.C. we had neither. Our leaders had caught a few half-truths, which, in their minds, were speedly warped into errors." ...--_The Atlantic Monthly_, February, 1862.

WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.

(BORN, 1825.)

DOBBS HIS FERRY.

A Legend of the Lower Hudson.

The days were at their longest, The heat was at its strongest, When Brown, old friend and true, Wrote thus: "Dear Jack, why swelter In town when shade and shelter Are waiting here for you?

Quit Bulls and Bears and gambling, For rural sports and rambling Forsake your Wall Street tricks; Come without hesitation, Check to Dobbs' Ferry Station, We dine at half-past six."

I went,--a welcome hearty, A merry country party, A drive, and then croquet, A quiet, well-cooked dinner, Three times at billiards winner,-- The evening sped away; When Brown, the dear old joker, Cried, "Come, my worthy broker, The hour is growing late; Your room is cool and quiet, As for the bed, just try it, Breakfast at half-past eight."

I took Brown's hand, applauded His generous care, and lauded Dobbs' Ferry to the skies.

A shade came o'er his features, "We should be happy creatures, And this a paradise, But, ah! the deep disgrace is, This loveliest of places A vulgar name should blight!

But, death to Dobbs! we'll change it, If money can arrange it, So, pleasant dreams; good night!"

I could not sleep, but, raising The window, stood, moon-gazing, In fairyland a guest; "On such a night," _et cetera_-- See Shakespeare for much better a Description of the rest,-- I mused, how sweet to wander Beside the river, yonder; And then the sudden whim Seized my head to pillow On Hudson's sparkling billow, A midnight, moonlight swim!

Soon thought and soon attempted; At once my room was emptied Of its sole occupant; The roof was low, and easily, In fact, quite j.a.panese-ily, I took the downward slant, Then, without stay or stopping, My first and last eaves-dropping, By leader-pipe I sped, And through the thicket gliding, Down the steep hillside sliding, Soon reached the river's bed.

But what was my amazement,-- The fair scene from the cas.e.m.e.nt, How changed! I could not guess Where track or rails had vanished, Town, villas, station, banished,-- All was a wilderness.

Only one ancient gable, A low-roofed inn and stable, A creaking sign displayed, An antiquated wherry, Below it--"DOBBS HIS FERRY"-- In the clear moonlight swayed.

I turned, and there the craft was, Its shape 'twixt scow and raft was, Square ends, low sides, and flat, And standing close beside me, An ancient chap who eyed me, Beneath a steeple-hat; Short legs--long pipe--style very Pre-Revolutionary,-- I bow, he grimly bobs, Then, with some perturbation, By way of salutation, Says I, "How are you, Dobbs!"

He grum and silent beckoned, And I, in half a second, Scarce knowing what I did, Took the stern seat, Dobbs throwing Himself 'mids.h.i.+ps, and rowing, Swift through the stream we slid; He pulled awhile, then stopping, And both oars slowly dropping, His pipe aside he laid, Drew a long breath, and taking An att.i.tude, and shaking His fist towards sh.o.r.e, thus said:--

"Of all sharp cuts the keenest, Of all mean turns the meanest, Vilest of all vile jobs, Worse than the Cow-Boy pillagers, Are these Dobbs' Ferry villagers A going back on Dobbs!

'Twould not be more anom'lous If Rome went back on Rom'lus (Old rum-un like myself), Or Hail Columbia, played out By Southern Dixie, laid out Columbus on the shelf!

"They say 'Dobbs' ain't melodious, It's 'horrid,' 'vulgar,' 'odious,'

In all their crops it sticks; And then the worse addendum Of 'Ferry' does offend 'em More than its vile prefix.

Well, it does seem distressing, But, if I'm good at guessing, Each one of these same n.o.bs, If there was money in it, Would ferry in a minute, And change his name to Dobbs!

"That's it, they're not partic'lar, Respecting the auric'lar, At a stiff market rate; But Dobbs' especial vice is, That he keeps down the prices Of all their real estate!

A name so unattractive Keeps villa-sites inactive, And spoils the broker's jobs; They think that speculation Would rage at 'Paulding's Station,'

Which stagnates now at 'Dobbs.'

"'Paulding's!"--that's sentimental!

An old Dutch Continental, Bushwhacked up there a spell; But why he should come bl.u.s.tering Round here, and filibustering, Is more than I can tell; Sat playing for a wager, And nabbed a British major.

Well, if the plans and charts From Andre's boots he hauled out, Is his name to be bawled out Forever, round these parts?

"Guess not! His pay and bounty And mon'ment from the county Paid him off, every cent, While this snug town and station, To every generation, Shall be Dobbs' monument; Spite of all speculators And ancient-landmark traitors, Who, all along this sh.o.r.e, Are ever subst.i.tutin'

The modern, highfalutin', For the plain names of yore.

"Down there, on old Manhattan, Where land-sharks breed and fatten, They've wiped out Tubby Hook.

That famous promontory, Renowned in song and story, Which time nor tempest shook, Whose name for aye had been good, Stands newly christened 'Inwood,'

And branded with the shame Of some old rogue who pa.s.ses By dint of aliases, Afraid of his own name!

"See how they quite outrival, Plain barnyard Spuytenduyvil, By peac.o.c.k Riverdale, Which thinks all else it conquers, And over homespun Yonkers Spreads out its flaunting tail!

There's new-named Mount St. Vincent, Where each dear little inn'cent Is taught the Popish rites,-- Well, ain't it queer, wherever These saints possess the river They get the finest sites!

"They've named a place for Irving, A trifle more deserving Than your French, foreign saints, But if he has such mention, It's past my comprehension Why Dobbs should cause complaints; Wrote histories and such things, About Old Knick and Dutch things, Dolph Heyligers and Rips; But no old antiquary Like him could keep a ferry, With all his authors.h.i.+ps!

"By aid of these same showmen, Some fanciful cognomen Old Cro'nest stock might bring As high as b.u.t.ter Hill is, Which, patronized by Willis, Leaves cards now as 'Storm-King!'

Can't some poetic swell-beau Re-christen old Crum Elbow And each prosaic bluff, Bold Breakneck gently flatter, And Dunderberg bespatter, With euphony and stuff!

"'T would be a _magnum opus_ To bury old Esopus In Time's sepulchral vaults, Or in Oblivion's deep sea Submerge renowned Poughkeepsie, And also ancient Paltz; How it would give them rapture Brave Stony Point to capture, And make it face about; Bid Rhinebeck sound much smoother Than in the tongue of Luther, And wipe the Catskills out!

"Well, DOBBS is DOBBS, and faster Than pitch or mustard-plaster Shall it stick hereabouts, While Tappan Sea rolls yonder, Or round High Torn the thunder Along these ramparts shouts.

No corner-lot banditti, Or brokers from the City-- Like you--" Here Dobbs began Wildly both oars to brandish, As fierce as old Miles Standish, Or young Phil Sheridan.

Sternwards he rushed,--I, ducking, Seized both his legs, and chucking Dobbs sideways, splash he went,-- The wherry swayed, then righted, While I, somewhat excited, Over the water bent; Three times he rose, but vainly I clutched his form ungainly, He sank, while sighs and sobs Beneath the waves seemed muttered, And all the night-winds uttered In sad tones, "Dobbs! Dobbs! Dobbs!"

Just then some giant boulders Upon my head and shoulders Made sudden, fearful raids, And on my face and forehead, With din and uproar horrid, Came several Palisades; I screamed, and woke, in screaming, To see, by gaslight's gleaming, Brown's face above my bed; "Why, Jack, what is the matter?

We heard a dreadful clatter And found you on the shed!

"It's plain enough, supposing You sat there, moon-struck, dozing, Upon the window's edge, Then lost yourself, and falling, Just where we found you, sprawling, Struck the piazza ledge; A lucky hit, old fellow, Of black and blue and yellow It gives your face a touch, You saved your neck, but barely; To state the matter fairly, You took a drop too much!"

I took the train next morning, Some lumps my nose adorning, My forehead, sundry k.n.o.bs, My ideas slightly wandering, But, as I went, much pondering Upon my night with Dobbs; Brown thinks it, dear old sinner, A case of "after dinner,"

And won't believe a word, Talks of "hallucination,"