how quick the days are
flitting!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v21 to v25 - Rab to Tur
" And shouldering his
stick, and scowling round at the company of scared bacchanalians,
the indignant gentleman stalked away, his boy after him.
Clive seemed rather shamefaced; but I fear the rest of the
company looked still more foolish.
"Aussi que diable venait-il faire dans cette galère? »* says
King of Corpus to Jones of Trinity: and Jones gave a shrug of
his shoulders which were smarting, perhaps; for that uplifted
cane of the colonel's had somehow fallen on the back of every
man in the room.
―――――
COLONEL NEWCOME'S DEATH.
From The Newcomes'
LIVE, and the boy sometimes with him, used to go daily to
Grey Friars, where the colonel still lay ill. After some
days the fever which had attacked him left him; but left
him so weak and enfeebled that he could only go from his bed
to the chair by his fireside. The season was exceedingly bitter;
the chamber which he inhabited was warm and spacious: it was
considered unadvisable to move him until he had attained greater
strength and till warmer weather. The medical men of the House
hoped he might rally in spring. My friend Dr. Goodenough.
came to him; he hoped too, but not with a hopeful face. A
chamber, luckily vacant, hard by the colonel's, was assigned to
his friends, where we sat when we were too many for him.
Besides his customary attendant, he had two dear and watchful
nurses, who were almost always with him,- Ethel, and Madame
de Florac who had passed many a faithful year by an old man's
*«But what the devil did he come to a place like this for? »
## p. 14709 (#283) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14709
bedside; who would have come, as to a work of religion, to any
sick couch, much more to this one, where he lay for whose life
she would once gladly have given her own.
But our colonel, we all were obliged to acknowledge, was no
more our friend of old days. He knew us again, and was good
to every one round him, as his wont was; especially, when Boy
came his old eyes lighted up with simple happiness, and with
eager trembling hands he would seek under his bedclothes, or
the pockets of his dressing-gown, for toys or cakes, which he
had caused to be purchased for his grandson. There was a little
laughing, red-cheeked, white-headed gown-boy of the school, to
whom the old man had taken a great fancy. One of the symp-
toms of his returning consciousness and recovery, as we hoped,
was his calling for this child, who pleased our friend by his arch-
ness and merry ways; and who, to the old gentleman's unfailing
delight, used to call him "Codd Colonel. " "Tell little F— that
Codd Colonel wants to see him;" and the little gown-boy was
brought to him: and the colonel would listen to him for hours,
and hear all about his lessons and his play; and prattle, almost
as childishly, about Dr. Raine and his own early school-days.
The boys of the school, it must be said, had heard the noble.
old gentleman's touching history, and had all got to know and
love him. They came every day to hear news of him; sent him
in books and papers to amuse him; and some benevolent young
souls God's blessing on all honest boys, say I-painted theat-
rical characters and sent them in to Codd Colonel's grandson.
The little fellow was made free of gown-boys, and once came
thence to his grandfather in a little gown, which delighted the
old man hugely. Boy said he would like to be a little gown-
boy; and I make no doubt, when he is old enough, his father will
get him that post, and put him under the tuition of my friend
Dr. Senior.
So weeks passed away, during which our dear old friend still
remained with us. His mind was gone at intervals, but would
rally feebly; and with his consciousness returned his love, his
simplicity, his sweetness. He would talk French with Madame
de Florac; at which time his memory appeared to awaken with
surprising vividness, his cheek flushed, and he was a youth again,
-
a youth all love and hope,—a stricken old man, with a beard
as white as snow covering the noble careworn face. At such
times he called her by her Christian name of Léonore; he
## p. 14710 (#284) ##########################################
14710
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
addressed courtly old words of regard and kindness to the aged
lady; anon he wandered in his talk, and spoke to her as if they
still were young. Now, as in those early days, his heart was
pure; no anger remained in it; no guile tainted it: only peace
and good-will dwelt in it.
Rosey's death had seemed to shock him for a while when
the unconscious little boy spoke of it. Before that circumstance,
Clive had even forborne to wear mourning, lest the news should
agitate his father. The colonel remained silent and was very
much disturbed all that day, but he never appeared to com-
prehend the fact quite; and once or twice afterward asked why
she did not come to see him? She was prevented, he supposed-
she was prevented, he said, with a look of terror; - he never
once otherwise alluded to that unlucky tyrant of his household
who had made his last years so unhappy.
The circumstance of Clive's legacy he never understood; but
more than once spoke of Barnes to Ethel, and sent his compli-
ments to him, and said he should like to shake him by the hand.
Barnes Newcome never once offered to touch that honored hand,
though his sister bore her uncle's message to him. They came
often from Bryanstone Square; Mrs. Hobson even offered to sit
with the colonel, and read to him, and brought him books for
his improvement. But her presence disturbed him; he cared not
for her books: the two nurses whom he loved faithfully watched
him; and my wife and I were admitted to him sometimes, both
of whom he honored with regard and recognition. As for F. B. ,
in order to be near his colonel, did not that good fellow take up
his lodgings in Cistercian Lane, at the Red Cow? He is one
whose errors, let us hope, shall be pardoned, quia multum amavit.
I am sure he felt ten times more joy at hearing of Clive's legacy
than if thousands had been bequeathed to himself. May good
health and good fortune speed him!
The days went on; and our hopes, raised sometimes, began to
flicker and fall. One evening the colonel left his chair for his
bed in pretty good spirits; but passed a disturbed night, and the
next morning was too weak to rise. Then he remained in his
bed, and his friends visited him there. One afternoon he asked
for his little gown-boy, and the child was brought to him, and
sat by the bed with a very awe-stricken face; and then gathered
courage, and tried to amuse him by telling him how it was a
half-holiday, and they were having a cricket match with the
## p. 14711 (#285) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
147II
St. Peter's boys in the green, and Grey Friars was in and win-
ning. The colonel quite understood about it: he would like to
see the game; he had played many a game on that green when
he was a boy. He grew excited: Clive dismissed his father's lit-
tle friend, and put a sovereign into his hand; and away he ran
to say that Codd Colonel had come into a fortune, and to buy
tarts, and to see the match out. I, curre, little white-haired gown-
boy! Heaven speed you, little friend.
After the child had gone, Thomas Newcome began to wander
more and more. He talked louder; he gave the word of com-
mand, spoke Hindustanee as if to his men. Then he spoke words
in French rapidly, seizing a hand that was near him, and crying,
"Toujours, toujours! " But it was Ethel's hand which he took.
Ethel and Clive and the nurse were in the room with him; the
nurse came to us, who were sitting in the adjoining apartment;
Madame de Florac was there with my wife and Bayham.
At the look in the woman's countenance Madame de Florac
started up.
"He is very bad; he wanders a great deal," the
nurse whispered. The French lady fell instantly on her knees,
and remained rigid in prayer.
Some time afterward Ethel came in with a scared face to our
pale group. "He is calling for you again, dear lady," she said,
going up to Madame de Florac, who was still kneeling; "and
just now he said he wanted Pendennis to take care of his boy.
He will not know you. " She hid her tears as she spoke.
She went into the room where Clive was at the bed's foot:
the old man within it talked on rapidly for a while; then again
he would sigh and be still; once more I heard him say hur-
riedly, "Take care of him when I'm in India;" and then with a
heart-rending voice he called out, "Léonore, Léonore! " She
was kneeling by his side now. The patient voice sank into faint.
murmurs; only a moan now and then announced that he was not
asleep.
At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, and
Thomas Newcome's hands outside the bed feebly beat time. And
just as the last bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone over
his face, and he lifted up his head a little, and quickly said,
«< Adsum! " and fell back. It was the word we used at school
when names were called; and lo, he, whose heart was as that of a
little child, had answered to his name, and stood in the presence
of The Master.
## p. 14712 (#286) ##########################################
14712
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
FROM THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM›
AⓇ
T PARIS, hard by the Maine barriers,
Whoever will choose to repair,
Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors
May haply fall in with old Pierre.
On the sunshiny bench of a tavern
He sits and he prates of old wars,
And moistens his pipe of tobacco
With a drink that is named after Mars.
The beer makes his tongue run the quicker,
And as long as his tap never fails,
Thus over his favorite liquor`
Old Peter will tell his old tales.
Says he, "In my life's ninety summers
Strange changes and chances I've seen,-
So here's to all gentlemen drummers
That ever have thumped on a skin.
"Brought up in the art military.
For four generations we are;
My ancestors drummed for King Harry,
The Huguenot lad of Navarre.
And as each man in life has his station
According as Fortune may fix,
While Condé was waving the baton,
My grandsire was trolling the sticks.
-
"Ah! those were the days for commanders!
What glories my grandfather won,
Ere bigots and lackeys and panders
The fortunes of France had undone!
In Germany, Flanders, and Holland,-
What foeman resisted us then?
No; my grandsire was ever victorious,-
My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne.
"The princes that day passed before us,
Our countrymen's glory and hope:
Monsieur, who was learned in Horace,
D'Artois, who could dance the tight-rope.
One night we kept guard for the Queen
At her Majesty's opera-box,
While the King, that majestical monarch,
Sat filing at home at his locks.
## p. 14713 (#287) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14713
་
"Yes, I drummed for the fair Antoinette,
And so smiling she looked and so tender,
That our officers, privates, and drummers
All vowed they would die to defend her.
But she cared not for us honest fellows,
Who fought and who bled in her wars:
She sneered at our gallant Rochambeau,
And turned Lafayette out of doors.
"Ventrebleu! then I swore great oath,
No more to such tyrants to kneel;
And so, just to keep up my drumming,
One day I drummed down the Bastille.
Ho, landlord! a stoup of fresh wine:
Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try,
And drink to the year eighty-nine
And the glorious fourth of July!
"Then bravely our cannon it thundered
As onward our patriots bore:
Our enemies were but a hundred,
And we twenty thousand or more.
They carried the news to King Louis;
He heard it as calm as you please,
And like a majestical monarch,
Kept filing his locks and his keys.
"We showed our republican courage:
We stormed and we broke the great gate in,
And we murdered the insolent governor
For daring to keep us . a-waiting.
Lambesc and his squadrons stood by;
They never stirred finger or thumb:
The saucy aristocrats trembled
As they heard the republican drum.
"Hurrah! what a storm was a-brewing
The day of our vengeance was come!
Through scenes of what carnage and ruin
Did I beat on the patriot drum!
Let's drink to the famed tenth of August:
At midnight I beat the tattoo,
And woke up the pikemen of Paris
To follow the bold Barbaroux.
B
L
## p. 14714 (#288) ##########################################
14714
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
"You all know the Place de la Concorde?
'Tis hard by the Tuileries wall;
Mid terraces, fountains, and statues,
There rises an obelisk tall.
There rises an obelisk tall,
All garnished and gilded the base is:
'Tis surely the gayest of all
Our beautiful city's gay places.
"Around it are gardens and flowers;
And the Cities of France on their thrones,
Each crowned with his circlet of flowers,
Sits watching this biggest of stones!
I love to go sit in the sun there,
The flowers and fountains to see,
And to think of the deeds that were done there
In the glorious year ninety-three.
"'Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom;
And though neither marble nor gilding
Was used in those days to adorn
Our simple republican building,-
Corbleu! but the MÈRE GUILLOTINE
Cared little for splendor or show,
So you gave her an axe and a beam,
And a plank and a basket or so.
"Awful, and proud, and erect,
Here sat our republican goddess:
Each morning her table we decked
With dainty aristocrats' bodies.
The people each day flocked around
As she sat at her meat and her wine:
'Twas always the use of our nation
To witness the sovereign dine.
"Young virgins with fair golden tresses,
Old silver-haired prelates and priests,
Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses,
Were splendidly served at her feasts.
Ventrebleu! but we pampered our ogress
With the best that our nation could bring;
And dainty she grew in her progress,
And called for the head of a King!
## p. 14715 (#289) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14715
"She called for the blood of our King,
And straight from his prison we drew him;
And to her with shouting we led him,
And took him, and bound him, and slew him.
The Monarchs of Europe against me
Have plotted a godless alliance:
I'll fling them the head of King Louis,'
She said, 'as my gage of defiance. '
"I see him, as now for a moment
Away from his jailers he broke;
And stood at the foot of the scaffold,
And lingered, and fain would have spoke.
'Ho, drummer! quick, silence yon Capet,'
Says Santerre, with a beat of your drum':
Lustily then did I tap it,
And the son of St. Louis was dumb. "
WHAT IS GREATNESS?
From The Chronicle of the Drum'
A
H, GENTLE, tender lady mine!
The winter wind blows cold and shrill:
Come, fill me one more glass of wine,
And give the silly fools their will.
And what care we for war and wrack,
How kings and heroes rise and fall?
Look yonder,* in his coffin black
There lies the greatest of them all!
To pluck him down, and keep him up,
Died many million human souls; -
'Tis twelve o'clock and time to sup:
Bid Mary heap the fire with coals.
He captured many thousand guns;
He wrote "The Great" before his name;
And dying, only left his sons
The recollection of his shame.
Though more than half the world was his,
He died without a rood his own;
*This ballad was written at Paris at the time of the second funeral of
Napoleon.
## p. 14716 (#290) ##########################################
14716
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
And borrowed from his enemies
Six foot of ground to lie upon.
He fought a thousand glorious wars,
And more than half the world was his;
And somewhere now, in yonder stars,
Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.
THE WHITE SQUALL
ON
N DECK, beneath the awning,
I dozing lay and yawning:
It was the gray of dawning,
Ere yet the sun arose;
And above the funnel's roaring,
And the fitful winds' deploring,
I heard the cabin snoring
With universal nose.
I could hear the passengers snorting,
I envied their disporting-
Vainly I was courting.
The pleasure of a doze!
So I lay, and wondered why light
Came not, and watched the twilight,
And the glimmer of the skylight,
That shot across the deck,
And the binnacle pale and steady,
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye,
And the sparks in fiery eddy
That whirled from the chimney neck.
In our jovial floating prison
There was sleep from fore to mizzen,
And never a star had risen
The hazy sky to speck.
Strange company we harbored;
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered -
Jews black, and brown, and gray:
With terror it would seize ye,
And make your souls uneasy,
To see those Rabbis greasy,
Who did naught but scratch and pray:
## p. 14717 (#291) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14717
Their dirty children puking —
Their dirty saucepans cooking-
Their dirty fingers hooking
Their swarming fleas away.
-
To starboard, Turks and Greeks were -
Whiskered and brown their cheeks were
Enormous wide their breeks were,
Their pipes did puff alway;
Each on his mat allotted
In silence smoked and squatted,
Whilst round their children trotted
In pretty, pleasant play.
He can't but smile who traces
The smiles on those brown faces,
And the pretty prattling graces
Of those small heathens gay.
And so the hours kept tolling,
And through the ocean rolling
Went the brave Iberia bowling
Before the break of day—
When A SQUALL, upon a sudden,
Came o'er the waters scudding:
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,
And the lowering thunder grumbled,
And the lightning jumped and tumbled,
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.
Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal
To the stokers whose black faces
Peer out of their bed places;
## p. 14718 (#292) ##########################################
14718
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;
And the steward jumps up, and hastens
For the necessary basins.
Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,
And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered,
As the plunging waters met them
And splashed and overset them:
And they call in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrowbones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.
And the Turkish women for'ard
Were frightened and behorror'd;
And shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutched their children;
The men sang "Allah! Illah!
Mashallah Bismillah! "
As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them,
And they called upon the Prophet,
And thought but little of it.
Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins);
And each man moaned and jabbered in
His filthy Jewish gaberdine,
In woe and lamentation,
And howling consternation.
And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;
And they crawl from bales and benches
In a hundred thousand stenches.
This was the White Squall famous,
Which latterly o'ercame us,
## p. 14719 (#293) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14719
And which all will well remember
On the 28th September;
A
When a Prussian captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)-
Came on the deck astonished,
By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, "Potztausend!
Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend! ”
And looked at Captain Lewis,
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,
And scorned the tempest's tussle.
And oft we've thought thereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel
With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gayly he fought her,
And through the hubbub brought her,
And as the tempest caught her,
Cried, "GEORGE! SOME BRANDY-AND-WATER! "
And when, its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o'er the sea,
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me.
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE
STREET there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields:
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is-
The New Street of the Little Fields.
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case:
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
## p. 14720 (#294) ##########################################
14720
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is:
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace,-
All these you eat at TERRÉ's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed a rich and savory stew 'tis ;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is, as before;
The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
IS TERRÉ still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace:
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
We enter, nothing's changed or older.
"How's Monsieur TERRÉ, waiter, pray? "
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder:
"Monsieur is dead this many a day. "-
"It is the lot of saint and sinner:
So honest TERRE'S run his race. ".
"What will Monsieur require for dinner? ».
"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? »
-
-
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer:
"Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ? » —
"Tell me a good one. "—"That I can, sir:
The Chambertin with yellow seal. "
"SO TERRÉ's gone," I say, and sink in
My old accustomed corner-place:
"He's done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse. "
## p. 14721 (#295) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14721
XXV-921
My old accustomed corner here is,
The table still is in the nook:
Ah! vanished many a busy year is
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
I'd scarce a beard upon my face;
And now, a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty-
I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There's poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James's head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we set the claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me!
how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place - but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me
There's no one now to share my cup.
**
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes:
Fill up the lonely glass and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is:
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
## p. 14722 (#296) ##########################################
14722
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
PEG OF LIMAVADDY
IDING from Coleraine
R (Famed for lovely Kitty),
Came a Cockney bound
Unto Derry city;
Weary was his soul;
Shivering and sad, he
Bumped along the road
Leads to Limavaddy.
Mountains stretched around. —
Gloomy was their tinting;
And the horse's hoofs
Made a dismal clinting;
Wind upon the heath
Howling was and piping,
On the heath and bog,
Black with many a snipe in.
Mid the bogs of black,
Silver pools were flashing,
Crows upon their sides
Pecking were and splashing.
Cockney on the car
Closer folds his plaidy,
Grumbling at the road
Leads to Limavaddy.
Through the crashing woods
Autumn brawled and blustered,
Tossing round about
Leaves the hue of mustard;
Yonder lay Lough Foyle,
Which a storm was whipping,
Covering with the mist
Lake and shores and shipping.
Up and down the hill
(Nothing could be bolder),
Horse went with a raw
Bleeding on his shoulder.
"Where are horses changed? "
Said I to the laddy
Driving on the box:
"Sir, at Limavaddy. "
## p. 14723 (#297) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14723
Limavaddy inn's
But a humble bait-house,
Where you may procure
Whisky and potatoes;
Landlord at the door
Gives a smiling welcome
To the shivering wights
Who to this hotel come.
Landlady within
Sits and knits a stocking,
With a wary foot
Baby's cradle rocking.
To the chimney nook
Having found admittance,
There I watch a pup
Playing with two kittens;
(Playing round the fire,
Which of blazing turf is,
Roaring to the pot
Which bubbles with the murphies;)
And the cradled babe
Fond the mother nursed it,
Singing it a song
As she twists the worsted!
Up and down the stair
Two more young-ones patter,—
Twins were never seen
Dirtier or fatter;
Both have mottled legs,
Both have snubby noses,
Both have Here the host
Kindly interposes:·
"Sure you must be froze
With the sleet and hail, sir:
So will you have some punch,
Or will you have some ale, sir? "
-
:-
Presently a maid
Enters with the liquor
(Half a pint of ale
Frothing in a beaker).
Gads! I didn't know
What my beating heart meant:
## p. 14724 (#298) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14724
Hebe's self, I thought,
Entered the apartment.
As she came she smiled;
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honor,
Lighted all the kitchen!
With a curtsy neat
Greeting the new-comer,
Lovely, smiling Peg
Offers me the rummer.
But my trembling hand
Up the beaker tilted,
And the glass of ale
Every drop I spilt it;
Spilt it every drop
(Dames, who read my volumes,
Pardon such a word)
On my what-d'ye-call-'ems!
Witnessing the sight
Of that dire disaster,
Out began to laugh
Misses, maid, and master;
Such a merry peal
'Specially Miss Peg's was,
(As the glass of ale
Trickling down my legs was),
That the joyful sound
Of that mingling laughter
Echoed in my ears
Many a long day after.
Such a silver peal!
In the meadows listening,
You who've heard the bells
Ringing to a christening;
You who ever heard
Caradori pretty,
Smiling like an angel,
Singing Giovinetti,'-
Fancy Peggy's laugh,
-
Sweet and clear and cheerful,
At my pantaloons
With half a pint of beer full!
## p. 14725 (#299) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
When the laugh was done,
Peg, the pretty hussy,
Moved about the room
Wonderfully busy:
Now she looks to see
If the kettle keeps hot;
Now she rubs the spoons,
Now she cleans the teapot;
Now she sets the cups
Trimly and secure;
Now she scours a pot:
And so it was I drew her.
Thus it was I drew her
Scouring of a kettle.
(Faith! her blushing cheeks
Reddened on the metal! )
Ah! but 'tis in vain
That I try to sketch it:
The pot perhaps is like,
But Peggy's face is wretched.
No! the best of lead
And of india-rubber
Never could depict
That sweet kettle-scrubber!
See her as she moves:
Scarce the ground she touches,
Airy as a fay,
Graceful as a duchess;
Bare her rounded arm,
Bare her little leg is,-
Vestris never showed
Ankles like to Peggy's.
Braided is her hair,
Soft her look and modest,
Slim her little waist
Comfortably bodiced.
This I do declare:
Happy is the laddy.
Who the heart can share
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Married if she were,
Blest would be the daddy
14725
## p. 14726 (#300) ##########################################
14726
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Of the children fair
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Beauty is not rare
In the land of Paddy,-
Fair beyond compare
Is Peg of Limavaddy.
Citizen or Squire,
Tory, Whig, or Radi-
cal would all desire
Peg of Limavaddy.
Had I Homer's fire,
Or that of Serjeant Taddy,
Meetly I'd admire.
Peg of Limavaddy.
And till I expire,
Or till I grow mad, I
Will sing unto my lyre
Peg of Limavaddy!
THE SORROWS OF WERTHER
ERTHER had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter:
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
WER
Charlotte was a married lady;
And a moral man was Werther,
And for all the wealth of Indies
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body.
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.
## p. 14727 (#301) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14727
LITTLE BILLEE
AIR Il y avait un petit navire'
THE
HERE were three sailors of Bristol city
Who took a boat and went to sea.
But first with beef and captain's biscuits
And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest he was little Billee.
Now when they got as far as the Equator
They'd nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"I am extremely hungaree. "
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,
"We've nothing left, us must eat we. "
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"With one another we shouldn't agree!
There's little Bill, he's young and tender—
We're old and tough, so let's eat he.
"O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you,
So undo the button of your chemie. "
When Bill received this information
He used his pocket-handkerchie.
"First let me say my catechism,
Which my poor mammy taught to me. "
"Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy,
While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.
So Billy went up to the main-top-gallant-mast,
And down he fell on his bended knee.
He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment
When up he jumps. "There's land I see:
"Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee;
There's the British flag a-riding at anchor
With Admiral Napier, K. C. B. "
So when they got aboard of the Admiral's,
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee:
But as for little Bill he made him
The captain of a seventy-three.
## p. 14728 (#302) ##########################################
14728
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
FROM THE PEN AND THE ALBUM ›
>
GⓇ
O BACK, my pretty little gilded tome,
To a fair mistress and a pleasant home,
Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come!
Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit,
However rude my verse, or poor my wit,
Or sad or gay my mood,-you welcome it.
Kind lady! till my last of lines is penned,
My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end,—
Whene'er I write your name, may I write friend!
Not all are so that were so in past years:
Voices familiar once, no more he hears;
Names often writ are blotted out in tears.
So be it: joys will end and tears will dry. —
Album! my master bids me wish good-by.
He'll send you to your mistress presently.
And thus with thankful heart he closes you;
Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew
So gentle, and so generous, and so true.
Nor pass the words as idle phrases by;
Stranger! I never writ a flattery.
Nor signed the page that registered a lie.
AT THE CHURCH GATE
LTHOUGH I enter not,
A
And near the sacred gate
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover:
The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,
And noise and humming:
They've hushed the minster bell;
The organ 'gins to swell:
She's coming, she's coming!
## p. 14729 (#303) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14729
My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes-she's here - she's past-
May heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly:
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.
THE MAHOGANY-TREE
HRISTMAS is here:
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,—
C
Little care we;
Little we fear
Weather without,-
Shelter about
The Mahogany-Tree.
Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom:
Night-birds are we;
Here we carouse,
Singing like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit;
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
## p. 14730 (#304) ##########################################
14730
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Life is but short;
THE
When we are gone,
Let them sing on
Round the old tree.
Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.
Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!
Drain we the cup-
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet:
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.
Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite :
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.
THE END OF THE PLAY
HE play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell:
A moment yet the actor stops,
And looks around, to say farewell.
## p. 14731 (#305) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14731
It is an irksome word and task;
And when he's laughed and said his say,
He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that's anything but gay.
One word ere yet the evening ends; –
Let's close it with a parting rhyme,
And pledge a hand to all young friends,
As fits the merry Christmas-time.
On life's wide scene you too have parts,
That Fate ere long shall bid you play:
Good-night! with honest gentle hearts
A kindly greeting go alway!
Good-night! I'd say, the griefs, the joys,
Just hinted in this mimic page,
The triumphs and defeats of boys,
Are but repeated in our age.
I'd say, your woes were not less keen,
Your hopes more vain, than those of men;
-
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen
At forty-five played o'er again.
I'd say, we suffer and we strive,
Not less nor more as men than boys;
With grizzled beards at forty-five,
As erst at twelve in corduroys.
And if, in time of sacred youth,
We learned at home to love and pray,
Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth
May never wholly pass away.
And in the world, as in the school,
I'd say, how fate may change and shift;
The prize be sometimes with the foo'
The race not always to the swift.
The strong may yield, the good may fall,
The great man be a vulgar clown,
The knave be lifted over all,
The kind cast pitilessly down.
Who knows the inscrutable design?
Blessed be he who took and gave!
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,
Be weeping at her darling's grave?
We bow to heaven that willed it so,
That darkly rules the fate of all,
## p. 14732 (#306) ##########################################
14732
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
2
That sends the respite or the blow,
That's free to give or to recall.
This crowns his feast with wine and wit:
Who brought him to that mirth and state?
His betters, see, below him sit,
Or hunger hopeless at the gate.
Who bade the mud from Dives's wheel
To spurn the rags of Lazarus ?
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,
Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.
So each shall mourn, in life's advance,
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed;
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,
And longing passion unfulfilled.
Amen! whatever fate be sent,
Pray God the heart may kindly glow.
Although the head with cares be bent,
And whitened with the winter snow.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill,
Let young and old accept their part,
And bow before the Awful Will,
And bear it with an honest heart,
Who misses or who wins the prize. -
Go, lose or conquer as you can;
But if you fail, or if you rise,
Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
A gentleman, or old or young!
(Bear kindly with my humble lays)
The sacred chorus first was sung
Upon the first of Christmas days;
The shepherds heard it overhead —
The joyful angels raised it then:
Glory to Heaven on high, it said,
And peace on earth to gentle men.
My song, save this, is little worth;
I lay the weary pen aside,
And wish you health, and love, and mirth,
As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.
As fits the holy Christmas birth,
Be this, good friends, our carol still,-
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth,
To men of gentle will.
## p. 14733 (#307) ##########################################
14733
OCTAVE THANET
(1860 ? -)
HE Arkansas and other stories of the South and West by Oc-
tave Thanet-known in private life as Miss Alice French
are part of the vital contribution to sectional American lit-
erature. She belongs with those writers in the United States who
are studying with insight and sympathy varied types of humanity;
and while producing good literature, are drawing East and West,
North and South together, by making them better known to each
other. Miss French's stories are skillful in workmanship, warm with
humanity, and very dramatic in conception
and handling. She is a realist in the best
sense; basing her fiction on close observa-
tion and understanding of the characters
she creates. She is doing for a certain part
of the Southwest what no previous author
has done so well.
—
Although Arkansas is her favorite study
ground, and Iowa is her present home,
Miss French was born about 1860 at Ando-
ver, Massachusetts; and comes of an old
New England family, which traces back to
Massachusetts Bay colonists. Her father
went West for his health, and settled in
Davenport, Iowa; keeping in touch with
the East, however, by annual visits to the Massachusetts coast and
sojourns in Boston. Alice was graduated at Andover Academy. Her
early tastes in reading were historical, and she began by writing on
social and economic themes. Her first story to attract attention was
( The Bishop's Vagabond,' in the Atlantic Monthly; a South Carolina
watering-place sketch, which contains a salient bit of characterization
humorously presented, yet with strong undercurrents of pathos and
tragedy, and which proved the forerunner of many which revealed to
her and her public the true scope and nature of her powers.
Miss French passes her winters on her plantation, Clover Bend,
on the Black River, in Arkansas; and it is there that she has made
the careful studies of the native life upon which her tales are based.
The scenery, the characters, and even the incidents, in some of her
OCTAVE THANET
## p. 14734 (#308) ##########################################
14734
OCTAVE THANET
fiction, are direct transcripts of what she has seen and heard, ideal-
ized by the artist touch. The pseudonym "Octave Thanet" is in
derivation a curious composite: the first of the two names is that of
a school room-mate, the second was discovered on the side of a pass-
ing freight-car.
Miss French's first collection of short stories was 'Knitters in the
Sun' (1884): and it has been followed by 'Expiation,' a novel (1890);
'Otto the Knight, and other Trans-Mississippi Stories' (1891); 'We
All,' another novel (1891); Stories of a Western Town' (1893); 'An
Adventure in Photography,' a practical treatise on amateur picture-
taking (1893); and 'The Missionary Sheriff,' in which the West instead
of the Southwest is depicted, -the tales being laid in Iowa and
Illinois. The author's growth, from the lurid massing of horrors in
'Expiation, an Arkansas war-tale of the most grewsome sort,- to
the later short stories, with their artistic restraint and fine sense of
balanced comedy and tragedy, has been steady in the direction of an
assured command of her material. Her fiction as a whole furnishes
an admirably vivid interpretation of a very individual and interest-
ing kind of American life. Dialect, character, and scenery are put
before the reader with force and truth; and while interest is aroused
by the fresh locale, it is held by the writer's power in story-making,
and in dramatic situations. When she shifts the scene from Arkansas
to Iowa, as in the title-story, The Missionary Sheriff,'— one of her
most enjoyable character studies, she displays the same effective
qualities. She deals with the main motives and passions of plain
men and women. Miss French is strongest in the short story; that
medium affords her talent its best expression. She is at once accu-
rate and picturesque in her descriptions. The land of the canebrake
and the cypress swamp, of the poor white, the decayed planter and
the negro, the Western town with its crude energy and strongly
marked types, are painted in a way to make it all real; yet a fine
romanticism colors Miss French's work: she has faith in the good in
rough, uncouth folk; she finds nobler traits masking in unexpected
quarters. Her interest in the great practical problems that concern
her country is illustrated in the series of Stories of Capital and
Labor,' which at the present writing stand for her latest work. Her
fiction thus satisfies the desire for truth in the literal sense, and for
that higher truth which is just as true and much more inspiring.
## p. 14735 (#309) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14735
THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF
From The Missionary Sheriff. Copyright 1897, by Harper & Brothers
HERIFF WICKLIFF leaned out of his office window, the better to
watch the boy soldiers march down the street.
The huge
SHE
pile of stone that is the presumed home of Justice for the
county, stands in the same yard with the old yellow stone jail.
The court-house is ornate and imposing, although a hundred
active chimneys daub its eaves and carvings; but the jail is as
plain as a sledge-hammer. Yet during Sheriff Wickliff's adminis
tration, while Joe Raker kept jail and Mrs. Raker was matron,
window-gardens brightened the grim walls all summer, and
chrysanthemums and roses blazoned the black bars in winter.
Above the jail the street is a pretty street, with trim cottages.
and lawns and gardens; below, the sky-lines dwindle ignobly into
shabby one and two story wooden shops devoted to the humbler
handicrafts. It is not a street favored by processions: only the
little soldiers of the Orphans' Home Company would choose to
tramp over its unkempt macadam. Good reason they had, too;
since thus they passed the sheriff's office, and it was the sheriff
who had given most of the money for their uniforms, and their
drums and fifes outright.
A voice at the sheriff's elbow caused him to turn.
"Well, Amos," said his deputy with Western familiarity, "get-
ting the interest on your money? "
Wickliff smiled as he unbent his great frame: he was six feet
two inches in height, with bones and thews to match his stat-
ure. A stiff black mustache, curving about his mouth and lift-
ing as he smiled, made his white teeth look the whiter. One of
the upper teeth was crooked. That angle had come in an ugly
fight (when he was a special officer and detective) in the Chicago
stock-yards; he having to hold a mob at bay, single-handed, to
save the life of a wounded policeman. The scar seaming his jaw
and neck belonged to the time that he captured a notorious gang
of train robbers. He brought the robbers in—that is, he brought
their bodies; and "That scar was worth three thousand dollars
to me," he was wont to say. In point of fact it was worth more;
because he had invested the money so advantageously, that thanks
to it and the savings which he had been able to add, in spite
of his free hand, he was now become a man of property.
The
## p. 14736 (#310) ##########################################
14736
OCTAVE THANET
sheriff's high cheek-bones, straight hair (black as a dead coal),
and narrow black eyes, were the arguments for a general belief
that an Indian ancestor lurked somewhere in the foliage of his
genealogical tree. All that people really knew about him was
that his mother died when he was a baby, and his father about
the same time was killed in battle, leaving their only child to
drift from one reluctant protector to another, until he brought
up in the Soldiers' Orphans' Home of the State. If the sheriff's
eyes were Indian, Indians may have very gentle eyes. He turned
them now on the deputy with a smile.
"Well, Joe, what's up? " said he.
stick, and scowling round at the company of scared bacchanalians,
the indignant gentleman stalked away, his boy after him.
Clive seemed rather shamefaced; but I fear the rest of the
company looked still more foolish.
"Aussi que diable venait-il faire dans cette galère? »* says
King of Corpus to Jones of Trinity: and Jones gave a shrug of
his shoulders which were smarting, perhaps; for that uplifted
cane of the colonel's had somehow fallen on the back of every
man in the room.
―――――
COLONEL NEWCOME'S DEATH.
From The Newcomes'
LIVE, and the boy sometimes with him, used to go daily to
Grey Friars, where the colonel still lay ill. After some
days the fever which had attacked him left him; but left
him so weak and enfeebled that he could only go from his bed
to the chair by his fireside. The season was exceedingly bitter;
the chamber which he inhabited was warm and spacious: it was
considered unadvisable to move him until he had attained greater
strength and till warmer weather. The medical men of the House
hoped he might rally in spring. My friend Dr. Goodenough.
came to him; he hoped too, but not with a hopeful face. A
chamber, luckily vacant, hard by the colonel's, was assigned to
his friends, where we sat when we were too many for him.
Besides his customary attendant, he had two dear and watchful
nurses, who were almost always with him,- Ethel, and Madame
de Florac who had passed many a faithful year by an old man's
*«But what the devil did he come to a place like this for? »
## p. 14709 (#283) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14709
bedside; who would have come, as to a work of religion, to any
sick couch, much more to this one, where he lay for whose life
she would once gladly have given her own.
But our colonel, we all were obliged to acknowledge, was no
more our friend of old days. He knew us again, and was good
to every one round him, as his wont was; especially, when Boy
came his old eyes lighted up with simple happiness, and with
eager trembling hands he would seek under his bedclothes, or
the pockets of his dressing-gown, for toys or cakes, which he
had caused to be purchased for his grandson. There was a little
laughing, red-cheeked, white-headed gown-boy of the school, to
whom the old man had taken a great fancy. One of the symp-
toms of his returning consciousness and recovery, as we hoped,
was his calling for this child, who pleased our friend by his arch-
ness and merry ways; and who, to the old gentleman's unfailing
delight, used to call him "Codd Colonel. " "Tell little F— that
Codd Colonel wants to see him;" and the little gown-boy was
brought to him: and the colonel would listen to him for hours,
and hear all about his lessons and his play; and prattle, almost
as childishly, about Dr. Raine and his own early school-days.
The boys of the school, it must be said, had heard the noble.
old gentleman's touching history, and had all got to know and
love him. They came every day to hear news of him; sent him
in books and papers to amuse him; and some benevolent young
souls God's blessing on all honest boys, say I-painted theat-
rical characters and sent them in to Codd Colonel's grandson.
The little fellow was made free of gown-boys, and once came
thence to his grandfather in a little gown, which delighted the
old man hugely. Boy said he would like to be a little gown-
boy; and I make no doubt, when he is old enough, his father will
get him that post, and put him under the tuition of my friend
Dr. Senior.
So weeks passed away, during which our dear old friend still
remained with us. His mind was gone at intervals, but would
rally feebly; and with his consciousness returned his love, his
simplicity, his sweetness. He would talk French with Madame
de Florac; at which time his memory appeared to awaken with
surprising vividness, his cheek flushed, and he was a youth again,
-
a youth all love and hope,—a stricken old man, with a beard
as white as snow covering the noble careworn face. At such
times he called her by her Christian name of Léonore; he
## p. 14710 (#284) ##########################################
14710
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
addressed courtly old words of regard and kindness to the aged
lady; anon he wandered in his talk, and spoke to her as if they
still were young. Now, as in those early days, his heart was
pure; no anger remained in it; no guile tainted it: only peace
and good-will dwelt in it.
Rosey's death had seemed to shock him for a while when
the unconscious little boy spoke of it. Before that circumstance,
Clive had even forborne to wear mourning, lest the news should
agitate his father. The colonel remained silent and was very
much disturbed all that day, but he never appeared to com-
prehend the fact quite; and once or twice afterward asked why
she did not come to see him? She was prevented, he supposed-
she was prevented, he said, with a look of terror; - he never
once otherwise alluded to that unlucky tyrant of his household
who had made his last years so unhappy.
The circumstance of Clive's legacy he never understood; but
more than once spoke of Barnes to Ethel, and sent his compli-
ments to him, and said he should like to shake him by the hand.
Barnes Newcome never once offered to touch that honored hand,
though his sister bore her uncle's message to him. They came
often from Bryanstone Square; Mrs. Hobson even offered to sit
with the colonel, and read to him, and brought him books for
his improvement. But her presence disturbed him; he cared not
for her books: the two nurses whom he loved faithfully watched
him; and my wife and I were admitted to him sometimes, both
of whom he honored with regard and recognition. As for F. B. ,
in order to be near his colonel, did not that good fellow take up
his lodgings in Cistercian Lane, at the Red Cow? He is one
whose errors, let us hope, shall be pardoned, quia multum amavit.
I am sure he felt ten times more joy at hearing of Clive's legacy
than if thousands had been bequeathed to himself. May good
health and good fortune speed him!
The days went on; and our hopes, raised sometimes, began to
flicker and fall. One evening the colonel left his chair for his
bed in pretty good spirits; but passed a disturbed night, and the
next morning was too weak to rise. Then he remained in his
bed, and his friends visited him there. One afternoon he asked
for his little gown-boy, and the child was brought to him, and
sat by the bed with a very awe-stricken face; and then gathered
courage, and tried to amuse him by telling him how it was a
half-holiday, and they were having a cricket match with the
## p. 14711 (#285) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
147II
St. Peter's boys in the green, and Grey Friars was in and win-
ning. The colonel quite understood about it: he would like to
see the game; he had played many a game on that green when
he was a boy. He grew excited: Clive dismissed his father's lit-
tle friend, and put a sovereign into his hand; and away he ran
to say that Codd Colonel had come into a fortune, and to buy
tarts, and to see the match out. I, curre, little white-haired gown-
boy! Heaven speed you, little friend.
After the child had gone, Thomas Newcome began to wander
more and more. He talked louder; he gave the word of com-
mand, spoke Hindustanee as if to his men. Then he spoke words
in French rapidly, seizing a hand that was near him, and crying,
"Toujours, toujours! " But it was Ethel's hand which he took.
Ethel and Clive and the nurse were in the room with him; the
nurse came to us, who were sitting in the adjoining apartment;
Madame de Florac was there with my wife and Bayham.
At the look in the woman's countenance Madame de Florac
started up.
"He is very bad; he wanders a great deal," the
nurse whispered. The French lady fell instantly on her knees,
and remained rigid in prayer.
Some time afterward Ethel came in with a scared face to our
pale group. "He is calling for you again, dear lady," she said,
going up to Madame de Florac, who was still kneeling; "and
just now he said he wanted Pendennis to take care of his boy.
He will not know you. " She hid her tears as she spoke.
She went into the room where Clive was at the bed's foot:
the old man within it talked on rapidly for a while; then again
he would sigh and be still; once more I heard him say hur-
riedly, "Take care of him when I'm in India;" and then with a
heart-rending voice he called out, "Léonore, Léonore! " She
was kneeling by his side now. The patient voice sank into faint.
murmurs; only a moan now and then announced that he was not
asleep.
At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, and
Thomas Newcome's hands outside the bed feebly beat time. And
just as the last bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone over
his face, and he lifted up his head a little, and quickly said,
«< Adsum! " and fell back. It was the word we used at school
when names were called; and lo, he, whose heart was as that of a
little child, had answered to his name, and stood in the presence
of The Master.
## p. 14712 (#286) ##########################################
14712
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
FROM THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM›
AⓇ
T PARIS, hard by the Maine barriers,
Whoever will choose to repair,
Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors
May haply fall in with old Pierre.
On the sunshiny bench of a tavern
He sits and he prates of old wars,
And moistens his pipe of tobacco
With a drink that is named after Mars.
The beer makes his tongue run the quicker,
And as long as his tap never fails,
Thus over his favorite liquor`
Old Peter will tell his old tales.
Says he, "In my life's ninety summers
Strange changes and chances I've seen,-
So here's to all gentlemen drummers
That ever have thumped on a skin.
"Brought up in the art military.
For four generations we are;
My ancestors drummed for King Harry,
The Huguenot lad of Navarre.
And as each man in life has his station
According as Fortune may fix,
While Condé was waving the baton,
My grandsire was trolling the sticks.
-
"Ah! those were the days for commanders!
What glories my grandfather won,
Ere bigots and lackeys and panders
The fortunes of France had undone!
In Germany, Flanders, and Holland,-
What foeman resisted us then?
No; my grandsire was ever victorious,-
My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne.
"The princes that day passed before us,
Our countrymen's glory and hope:
Monsieur, who was learned in Horace,
D'Artois, who could dance the tight-rope.
One night we kept guard for the Queen
At her Majesty's opera-box,
While the King, that majestical monarch,
Sat filing at home at his locks.
## p. 14713 (#287) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14713
་
"Yes, I drummed for the fair Antoinette,
And so smiling she looked and so tender,
That our officers, privates, and drummers
All vowed they would die to defend her.
But she cared not for us honest fellows,
Who fought and who bled in her wars:
She sneered at our gallant Rochambeau,
And turned Lafayette out of doors.
"Ventrebleu! then I swore great oath,
No more to such tyrants to kneel;
And so, just to keep up my drumming,
One day I drummed down the Bastille.
Ho, landlord! a stoup of fresh wine:
Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try,
And drink to the year eighty-nine
And the glorious fourth of July!
"Then bravely our cannon it thundered
As onward our patriots bore:
Our enemies were but a hundred,
And we twenty thousand or more.
They carried the news to King Louis;
He heard it as calm as you please,
And like a majestical monarch,
Kept filing his locks and his keys.
"We showed our republican courage:
We stormed and we broke the great gate in,
And we murdered the insolent governor
For daring to keep us . a-waiting.
Lambesc and his squadrons stood by;
They never stirred finger or thumb:
The saucy aristocrats trembled
As they heard the republican drum.
"Hurrah! what a storm was a-brewing
The day of our vengeance was come!
Through scenes of what carnage and ruin
Did I beat on the patriot drum!
Let's drink to the famed tenth of August:
At midnight I beat the tattoo,
And woke up the pikemen of Paris
To follow the bold Barbaroux.
B
L
## p. 14714 (#288) ##########################################
14714
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
"You all know the Place de la Concorde?
'Tis hard by the Tuileries wall;
Mid terraces, fountains, and statues,
There rises an obelisk tall.
There rises an obelisk tall,
All garnished and gilded the base is:
'Tis surely the gayest of all
Our beautiful city's gay places.
"Around it are gardens and flowers;
And the Cities of France on their thrones,
Each crowned with his circlet of flowers,
Sits watching this biggest of stones!
I love to go sit in the sun there,
The flowers and fountains to see,
And to think of the deeds that were done there
In the glorious year ninety-three.
"'Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom;
And though neither marble nor gilding
Was used in those days to adorn
Our simple republican building,-
Corbleu! but the MÈRE GUILLOTINE
Cared little for splendor or show,
So you gave her an axe and a beam,
And a plank and a basket or so.
"Awful, and proud, and erect,
Here sat our republican goddess:
Each morning her table we decked
With dainty aristocrats' bodies.
The people each day flocked around
As she sat at her meat and her wine:
'Twas always the use of our nation
To witness the sovereign dine.
"Young virgins with fair golden tresses,
Old silver-haired prelates and priests,
Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses,
Were splendidly served at her feasts.
Ventrebleu! but we pampered our ogress
With the best that our nation could bring;
And dainty she grew in her progress,
And called for the head of a King!
## p. 14715 (#289) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14715
"She called for the blood of our King,
And straight from his prison we drew him;
And to her with shouting we led him,
And took him, and bound him, and slew him.
The Monarchs of Europe against me
Have plotted a godless alliance:
I'll fling them the head of King Louis,'
She said, 'as my gage of defiance. '
"I see him, as now for a moment
Away from his jailers he broke;
And stood at the foot of the scaffold,
And lingered, and fain would have spoke.
'Ho, drummer! quick, silence yon Capet,'
Says Santerre, with a beat of your drum':
Lustily then did I tap it,
And the son of St. Louis was dumb. "
WHAT IS GREATNESS?
From The Chronicle of the Drum'
A
H, GENTLE, tender lady mine!
The winter wind blows cold and shrill:
Come, fill me one more glass of wine,
And give the silly fools their will.
And what care we for war and wrack,
How kings and heroes rise and fall?
Look yonder,* in his coffin black
There lies the greatest of them all!
To pluck him down, and keep him up,
Died many million human souls; -
'Tis twelve o'clock and time to sup:
Bid Mary heap the fire with coals.
He captured many thousand guns;
He wrote "The Great" before his name;
And dying, only left his sons
The recollection of his shame.
Though more than half the world was his,
He died without a rood his own;
*This ballad was written at Paris at the time of the second funeral of
Napoleon.
## p. 14716 (#290) ##########################################
14716
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
And borrowed from his enemies
Six foot of ground to lie upon.
He fought a thousand glorious wars,
And more than half the world was his;
And somewhere now, in yonder stars,
Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.
THE WHITE SQUALL
ON
N DECK, beneath the awning,
I dozing lay and yawning:
It was the gray of dawning,
Ere yet the sun arose;
And above the funnel's roaring,
And the fitful winds' deploring,
I heard the cabin snoring
With universal nose.
I could hear the passengers snorting,
I envied their disporting-
Vainly I was courting.
The pleasure of a doze!
So I lay, and wondered why light
Came not, and watched the twilight,
And the glimmer of the skylight,
That shot across the deck,
And the binnacle pale and steady,
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye,
And the sparks in fiery eddy
That whirled from the chimney neck.
In our jovial floating prison
There was sleep from fore to mizzen,
And never a star had risen
The hazy sky to speck.
Strange company we harbored;
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered -
Jews black, and brown, and gray:
With terror it would seize ye,
And make your souls uneasy,
To see those Rabbis greasy,
Who did naught but scratch and pray:
## p. 14717 (#291) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14717
Their dirty children puking —
Their dirty saucepans cooking-
Their dirty fingers hooking
Their swarming fleas away.
-
To starboard, Turks and Greeks were -
Whiskered and brown their cheeks were
Enormous wide their breeks were,
Their pipes did puff alway;
Each on his mat allotted
In silence smoked and squatted,
Whilst round their children trotted
In pretty, pleasant play.
He can't but smile who traces
The smiles on those brown faces,
And the pretty prattling graces
Of those small heathens gay.
And so the hours kept tolling,
And through the ocean rolling
Went the brave Iberia bowling
Before the break of day—
When A SQUALL, upon a sudden,
Came o'er the waters scudding:
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,
And the lowering thunder grumbled,
And the lightning jumped and tumbled,
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.
Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal
To the stokers whose black faces
Peer out of their bed places;
## p. 14718 (#292) ##########################################
14718
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;
And the steward jumps up, and hastens
For the necessary basins.
Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,
And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered,
As the plunging waters met them
And splashed and overset them:
And they call in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrowbones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.
And the Turkish women for'ard
Were frightened and behorror'd;
And shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutched their children;
The men sang "Allah! Illah!
Mashallah Bismillah! "
As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them,
And they called upon the Prophet,
And thought but little of it.
Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins);
And each man moaned and jabbered in
His filthy Jewish gaberdine,
In woe and lamentation,
And howling consternation.
And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;
And they crawl from bales and benches
In a hundred thousand stenches.
This was the White Squall famous,
Which latterly o'ercame us,
## p. 14719 (#293) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14719
And which all will well remember
On the 28th September;
A
When a Prussian captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)-
Came on the deck astonished,
By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, "Potztausend!
Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend! ”
And looked at Captain Lewis,
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,
And scorned the tempest's tussle.
And oft we've thought thereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel
With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gayly he fought her,
And through the hubbub brought her,
And as the tempest caught her,
Cried, "GEORGE! SOME BRANDY-AND-WATER! "
And when, its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o'er the sea,
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me.
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE
STREET there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields:
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is-
The New Street of the Little Fields.
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case:
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
## p. 14720 (#294) ##########################################
14720
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is:
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace,-
All these you eat at TERRÉ's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed a rich and savory stew 'tis ;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is, as before;
The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
IS TERRÉ still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace:
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
We enter, nothing's changed or older.
"How's Monsieur TERRÉ, waiter, pray? "
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder:
"Monsieur is dead this many a day. "-
"It is the lot of saint and sinner:
So honest TERRE'S run his race. ".
"What will Monsieur require for dinner? ».
"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? »
-
-
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer:
"Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ? » —
"Tell me a good one. "—"That I can, sir:
The Chambertin with yellow seal. "
"SO TERRÉ's gone," I say, and sink in
My old accustomed corner-place:
"He's done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse. "
## p. 14721 (#295) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14721
XXV-921
My old accustomed corner here is,
The table still is in the nook:
Ah! vanished many a busy year is
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
I'd scarce a beard upon my face;
And now, a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty-
I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There's poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James's head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we set the claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me!
how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place - but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me
There's no one now to share my cup.
**
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes:
Fill up the lonely glass and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is:
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
## p. 14722 (#296) ##########################################
14722
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
PEG OF LIMAVADDY
IDING from Coleraine
R (Famed for lovely Kitty),
Came a Cockney bound
Unto Derry city;
Weary was his soul;
Shivering and sad, he
Bumped along the road
Leads to Limavaddy.
Mountains stretched around. —
Gloomy was their tinting;
And the horse's hoofs
Made a dismal clinting;
Wind upon the heath
Howling was and piping,
On the heath and bog,
Black with many a snipe in.
Mid the bogs of black,
Silver pools were flashing,
Crows upon their sides
Pecking were and splashing.
Cockney on the car
Closer folds his plaidy,
Grumbling at the road
Leads to Limavaddy.
Through the crashing woods
Autumn brawled and blustered,
Tossing round about
Leaves the hue of mustard;
Yonder lay Lough Foyle,
Which a storm was whipping,
Covering with the mist
Lake and shores and shipping.
Up and down the hill
(Nothing could be bolder),
Horse went with a raw
Bleeding on his shoulder.
"Where are horses changed? "
Said I to the laddy
Driving on the box:
"Sir, at Limavaddy. "
## p. 14723 (#297) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14723
Limavaddy inn's
But a humble bait-house,
Where you may procure
Whisky and potatoes;
Landlord at the door
Gives a smiling welcome
To the shivering wights
Who to this hotel come.
Landlady within
Sits and knits a stocking,
With a wary foot
Baby's cradle rocking.
To the chimney nook
Having found admittance,
There I watch a pup
Playing with two kittens;
(Playing round the fire,
Which of blazing turf is,
Roaring to the pot
Which bubbles with the murphies;)
And the cradled babe
Fond the mother nursed it,
Singing it a song
As she twists the worsted!
Up and down the stair
Two more young-ones patter,—
Twins were never seen
Dirtier or fatter;
Both have mottled legs,
Both have snubby noses,
Both have Here the host
Kindly interposes:·
"Sure you must be froze
With the sleet and hail, sir:
So will you have some punch,
Or will you have some ale, sir? "
-
:-
Presently a maid
Enters with the liquor
(Half a pint of ale
Frothing in a beaker).
Gads! I didn't know
What my beating heart meant:
## p. 14724 (#298) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14724
Hebe's self, I thought,
Entered the apartment.
As she came she smiled;
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honor,
Lighted all the kitchen!
With a curtsy neat
Greeting the new-comer,
Lovely, smiling Peg
Offers me the rummer.
But my trembling hand
Up the beaker tilted,
And the glass of ale
Every drop I spilt it;
Spilt it every drop
(Dames, who read my volumes,
Pardon such a word)
On my what-d'ye-call-'ems!
Witnessing the sight
Of that dire disaster,
Out began to laugh
Misses, maid, and master;
Such a merry peal
'Specially Miss Peg's was,
(As the glass of ale
Trickling down my legs was),
That the joyful sound
Of that mingling laughter
Echoed in my ears
Many a long day after.
Such a silver peal!
In the meadows listening,
You who've heard the bells
Ringing to a christening;
You who ever heard
Caradori pretty,
Smiling like an angel,
Singing Giovinetti,'-
Fancy Peggy's laugh,
-
Sweet and clear and cheerful,
At my pantaloons
With half a pint of beer full!
## p. 14725 (#299) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
When the laugh was done,
Peg, the pretty hussy,
Moved about the room
Wonderfully busy:
Now she looks to see
If the kettle keeps hot;
Now she rubs the spoons,
Now she cleans the teapot;
Now she sets the cups
Trimly and secure;
Now she scours a pot:
And so it was I drew her.
Thus it was I drew her
Scouring of a kettle.
(Faith! her blushing cheeks
Reddened on the metal! )
Ah! but 'tis in vain
That I try to sketch it:
The pot perhaps is like,
But Peggy's face is wretched.
No! the best of lead
And of india-rubber
Never could depict
That sweet kettle-scrubber!
See her as she moves:
Scarce the ground she touches,
Airy as a fay,
Graceful as a duchess;
Bare her rounded arm,
Bare her little leg is,-
Vestris never showed
Ankles like to Peggy's.
Braided is her hair,
Soft her look and modest,
Slim her little waist
Comfortably bodiced.
This I do declare:
Happy is the laddy.
Who the heart can share
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Married if she were,
Blest would be the daddy
14725
## p. 14726 (#300) ##########################################
14726
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Of the children fair
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Beauty is not rare
In the land of Paddy,-
Fair beyond compare
Is Peg of Limavaddy.
Citizen or Squire,
Tory, Whig, or Radi-
cal would all desire
Peg of Limavaddy.
Had I Homer's fire,
Or that of Serjeant Taddy,
Meetly I'd admire.
Peg of Limavaddy.
And till I expire,
Or till I grow mad, I
Will sing unto my lyre
Peg of Limavaddy!
THE SORROWS OF WERTHER
ERTHER had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter:
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
WER
Charlotte was a married lady;
And a moral man was Werther,
And for all the wealth of Indies
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body.
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.
## p. 14727 (#301) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14727
LITTLE BILLEE
AIR Il y avait un petit navire'
THE
HERE were three sailors of Bristol city
Who took a boat and went to sea.
But first with beef and captain's biscuits
And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest he was little Billee.
Now when they got as far as the Equator
They'd nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"I am extremely hungaree. "
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,
"We've nothing left, us must eat we. "
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"With one another we shouldn't agree!
There's little Bill, he's young and tender—
We're old and tough, so let's eat he.
"O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you,
So undo the button of your chemie. "
When Bill received this information
He used his pocket-handkerchie.
"First let me say my catechism,
Which my poor mammy taught to me. "
"Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy,
While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.
So Billy went up to the main-top-gallant-mast,
And down he fell on his bended knee.
He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment
When up he jumps. "There's land I see:
"Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee;
There's the British flag a-riding at anchor
With Admiral Napier, K. C. B. "
So when they got aboard of the Admiral's,
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee:
But as for little Bill he made him
The captain of a seventy-three.
## p. 14728 (#302) ##########################################
14728
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
FROM THE PEN AND THE ALBUM ›
>
GⓇ
O BACK, my pretty little gilded tome,
To a fair mistress and a pleasant home,
Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come!
Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit,
However rude my verse, or poor my wit,
Or sad or gay my mood,-you welcome it.
Kind lady! till my last of lines is penned,
My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end,—
Whene'er I write your name, may I write friend!
Not all are so that were so in past years:
Voices familiar once, no more he hears;
Names often writ are blotted out in tears.
So be it: joys will end and tears will dry. —
Album! my master bids me wish good-by.
He'll send you to your mistress presently.
And thus with thankful heart he closes you;
Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew
So gentle, and so generous, and so true.
Nor pass the words as idle phrases by;
Stranger! I never writ a flattery.
Nor signed the page that registered a lie.
AT THE CHURCH GATE
LTHOUGH I enter not,
A
And near the sacred gate
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover:
The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,
And noise and humming:
They've hushed the minster bell;
The organ 'gins to swell:
She's coming, she's coming!
## p. 14729 (#303) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14729
My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes-she's here - she's past-
May heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly:
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.
THE MAHOGANY-TREE
HRISTMAS is here:
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,—
C
Little care we;
Little we fear
Weather without,-
Shelter about
The Mahogany-Tree.
Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom:
Night-birds are we;
Here we carouse,
Singing like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit;
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
## p. 14730 (#304) ##########################################
14730
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Life is but short;
THE
When we are gone,
Let them sing on
Round the old tree.
Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.
Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!
Drain we the cup-
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet:
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.
Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite :
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.
THE END OF THE PLAY
HE play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell:
A moment yet the actor stops,
And looks around, to say farewell.
## p. 14731 (#305) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14731
It is an irksome word and task;
And when he's laughed and said his say,
He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that's anything but gay.
One word ere yet the evening ends; –
Let's close it with a parting rhyme,
And pledge a hand to all young friends,
As fits the merry Christmas-time.
On life's wide scene you too have parts,
That Fate ere long shall bid you play:
Good-night! with honest gentle hearts
A kindly greeting go alway!
Good-night! I'd say, the griefs, the joys,
Just hinted in this mimic page,
The triumphs and defeats of boys,
Are but repeated in our age.
I'd say, your woes were not less keen,
Your hopes more vain, than those of men;
-
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen
At forty-five played o'er again.
I'd say, we suffer and we strive,
Not less nor more as men than boys;
With grizzled beards at forty-five,
As erst at twelve in corduroys.
And if, in time of sacred youth,
We learned at home to love and pray,
Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth
May never wholly pass away.
And in the world, as in the school,
I'd say, how fate may change and shift;
The prize be sometimes with the foo'
The race not always to the swift.
The strong may yield, the good may fall,
The great man be a vulgar clown,
The knave be lifted over all,
The kind cast pitilessly down.
Who knows the inscrutable design?
Blessed be he who took and gave!
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,
Be weeping at her darling's grave?
We bow to heaven that willed it so,
That darkly rules the fate of all,
## p. 14732 (#306) ##########################################
14732
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
2
That sends the respite or the blow,
That's free to give or to recall.
This crowns his feast with wine and wit:
Who brought him to that mirth and state?
His betters, see, below him sit,
Or hunger hopeless at the gate.
Who bade the mud from Dives's wheel
To spurn the rags of Lazarus ?
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,
Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.
So each shall mourn, in life's advance,
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed;
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,
And longing passion unfulfilled.
Amen! whatever fate be sent,
Pray God the heart may kindly glow.
Although the head with cares be bent,
And whitened with the winter snow.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill,
Let young and old accept their part,
And bow before the Awful Will,
And bear it with an honest heart,
Who misses or who wins the prize. -
Go, lose or conquer as you can;
But if you fail, or if you rise,
Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
A gentleman, or old or young!
(Bear kindly with my humble lays)
The sacred chorus first was sung
Upon the first of Christmas days;
The shepherds heard it overhead —
The joyful angels raised it then:
Glory to Heaven on high, it said,
And peace on earth to gentle men.
My song, save this, is little worth;
I lay the weary pen aside,
And wish you health, and love, and mirth,
As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.
As fits the holy Christmas birth,
Be this, good friends, our carol still,-
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth,
To men of gentle will.
## p. 14733 (#307) ##########################################
14733
OCTAVE THANET
(1860 ? -)
HE Arkansas and other stories of the South and West by Oc-
tave Thanet-known in private life as Miss Alice French
are part of the vital contribution to sectional American lit-
erature. She belongs with those writers in the United States who
are studying with insight and sympathy varied types of humanity;
and while producing good literature, are drawing East and West,
North and South together, by making them better known to each
other. Miss French's stories are skillful in workmanship, warm with
humanity, and very dramatic in conception
and handling. She is a realist in the best
sense; basing her fiction on close observa-
tion and understanding of the characters
she creates. She is doing for a certain part
of the Southwest what no previous author
has done so well.
—
Although Arkansas is her favorite study
ground, and Iowa is her present home,
Miss French was born about 1860 at Ando-
ver, Massachusetts; and comes of an old
New England family, which traces back to
Massachusetts Bay colonists. Her father
went West for his health, and settled in
Davenport, Iowa; keeping in touch with
the East, however, by annual visits to the Massachusetts coast and
sojourns in Boston. Alice was graduated at Andover Academy. Her
early tastes in reading were historical, and she began by writing on
social and economic themes. Her first story to attract attention was
( The Bishop's Vagabond,' in the Atlantic Monthly; a South Carolina
watering-place sketch, which contains a salient bit of characterization
humorously presented, yet with strong undercurrents of pathos and
tragedy, and which proved the forerunner of many which revealed to
her and her public the true scope and nature of her powers.
Miss French passes her winters on her plantation, Clover Bend,
on the Black River, in Arkansas; and it is there that she has made
the careful studies of the native life upon which her tales are based.
The scenery, the characters, and even the incidents, in some of her
OCTAVE THANET
## p. 14734 (#308) ##########################################
14734
OCTAVE THANET
fiction, are direct transcripts of what she has seen and heard, ideal-
ized by the artist touch. The pseudonym "Octave Thanet" is in
derivation a curious composite: the first of the two names is that of
a school room-mate, the second was discovered on the side of a pass-
ing freight-car.
Miss French's first collection of short stories was 'Knitters in the
Sun' (1884): and it has been followed by 'Expiation,' a novel (1890);
'Otto the Knight, and other Trans-Mississippi Stories' (1891); 'We
All,' another novel (1891); Stories of a Western Town' (1893); 'An
Adventure in Photography,' a practical treatise on amateur picture-
taking (1893); and 'The Missionary Sheriff,' in which the West instead
of the Southwest is depicted, -the tales being laid in Iowa and
Illinois. The author's growth, from the lurid massing of horrors in
'Expiation, an Arkansas war-tale of the most grewsome sort,- to
the later short stories, with their artistic restraint and fine sense of
balanced comedy and tragedy, has been steady in the direction of an
assured command of her material. Her fiction as a whole furnishes
an admirably vivid interpretation of a very individual and interest-
ing kind of American life. Dialect, character, and scenery are put
before the reader with force and truth; and while interest is aroused
by the fresh locale, it is held by the writer's power in story-making,
and in dramatic situations. When she shifts the scene from Arkansas
to Iowa, as in the title-story, The Missionary Sheriff,'— one of her
most enjoyable character studies, she displays the same effective
qualities. She deals with the main motives and passions of plain
men and women. Miss French is strongest in the short story; that
medium affords her talent its best expression. She is at once accu-
rate and picturesque in her descriptions. The land of the canebrake
and the cypress swamp, of the poor white, the decayed planter and
the negro, the Western town with its crude energy and strongly
marked types, are painted in a way to make it all real; yet a fine
romanticism colors Miss French's work: she has faith in the good in
rough, uncouth folk; she finds nobler traits masking in unexpected
quarters. Her interest in the great practical problems that concern
her country is illustrated in the series of Stories of Capital and
Labor,' which at the present writing stand for her latest work. Her
fiction thus satisfies the desire for truth in the literal sense, and for
that higher truth which is just as true and much more inspiring.
## p. 14735 (#309) ##########################################
OCTAVE THANET
14735
THE MISSIONARY SHERIFF
From The Missionary Sheriff. Copyright 1897, by Harper & Brothers
HERIFF WICKLIFF leaned out of his office window, the better to
watch the boy soldiers march down the street.
The huge
SHE
pile of stone that is the presumed home of Justice for the
county, stands in the same yard with the old yellow stone jail.
The court-house is ornate and imposing, although a hundred
active chimneys daub its eaves and carvings; but the jail is as
plain as a sledge-hammer. Yet during Sheriff Wickliff's adminis
tration, while Joe Raker kept jail and Mrs. Raker was matron,
window-gardens brightened the grim walls all summer, and
chrysanthemums and roses blazoned the black bars in winter.
Above the jail the street is a pretty street, with trim cottages.
and lawns and gardens; below, the sky-lines dwindle ignobly into
shabby one and two story wooden shops devoted to the humbler
handicrafts. It is not a street favored by processions: only the
little soldiers of the Orphans' Home Company would choose to
tramp over its unkempt macadam. Good reason they had, too;
since thus they passed the sheriff's office, and it was the sheriff
who had given most of the money for their uniforms, and their
drums and fifes outright.
A voice at the sheriff's elbow caused him to turn.
"Well, Amos," said his deputy with Western familiarity, "get-
ting the interest on your money? "
Wickliff smiled as he unbent his great frame: he was six feet
two inches in height, with bones and thews to match his stat-
ure. A stiff black mustache, curving about his mouth and lift-
ing as he smiled, made his white teeth look the whiter. One of
the upper teeth was crooked. That angle had come in an ugly
fight (when he was a special officer and detective) in the Chicago
stock-yards; he having to hold a mob at bay, single-handed, to
save the life of a wounded policeman. The scar seaming his jaw
and neck belonged to the time that he captured a notorious gang
of train robbers. He brought the robbers in—that is, he brought
their bodies; and "That scar was worth three thousand dollars
to me," he was wont to say. In point of fact it was worth more;
because he had invested the money so advantageously, that thanks
to it and the savings which he had been able to add, in spite
of his free hand, he was now become a man of property.
The
## p. 14736 (#310) ##########################################
14736
OCTAVE THANET
sheriff's high cheek-bones, straight hair (black as a dead coal),
and narrow black eyes, were the arguments for a general belief
that an Indian ancestor lurked somewhere in the foliage of his
genealogical tree. All that people really knew about him was
that his mother died when he was a baby, and his father about
the same time was killed in battle, leaving their only child to
drift from one reluctant protector to another, until he brought
up in the Soldiers' Orphans' Home of the State. If the sheriff's
eyes were Indian, Indians may have very gentle eyes. He turned
them now on the deputy with a smile.
"Well, Joe, what's up? " said he.
