City Ballads Part 16

So through the present it lingers, Shed from His bountiful fingers; So unto these it is given-- Types of the angels in Heaven.

TRAVEL.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

NOVEMBER 1, 18--.

It's quite the thing to "travel" nowadays (Although I do not think it _always_ pays), And see if distant ground in general looks As mentioned in the papers and in books.

I find, in sifting what few facts I know, Three ways of realizing things are so: First, when you're told them in such trusty shape That square belief isn't easy to escape.

(There's lots of people--this town wouldn't hold them-- Who don't know much excepting what is told them.) Second, what you've put on some mental shelf, By having seen and understood yourself.

(How well we know things witnessed, largely lies On how much brain there is behind our eyes.) The third way is the surest and the best (Though sometimes painful, it must be confessed): It's where a truth has whipped the earth with you, Until you _feel_, from head to foot, 'tis true.

I think, sometimes, when all is said and done, Feeling is all the senses joined in one.

_We're_ going to travel!--not so very far As our new friends, the Fitzc.u.mnoodles, are, Who cannot read their social t.i.tle's clear Unless they ride twelve thousand miles a year, (I told them, with a philosophic smile, That travelling shouldn't be measured by the mile.) But we shall take a little trip, to-morrow, With some spare time that wife's contrived to borrow, To where George Was.h.i.+ngton laid out a town That several centuries won't see tumbled down!

A city which, with all the sneaking sinners That come down there to steal their daily dinners, And all the human insects hovering nigh, Such as swarm thick wherever good things lie, And spite of all the bad weeds growing round, Has always _some_ good folks upon the ground, And will be head-piece of the greatest nation That ever helped spruce up the Lord's plantation.

The Fitzc.u.mnoodles, through their daughter Maud, Inform us that we ought to go abroad; The Clancdenancies, we have lately learned, From an extended trip have just returned; And so my eldest daughter, Isabel, Who knows Miss Clanc, etc., very well, Called on her in the progress of a walk, And had a pleasant little travel-talk; And after coming home misspent her time In putting what she heard there into rhyme And--lost it--not by accident, I fear; I'll paste the "conversation" right in here:

HER TOUR.

Yes, we've been travelling, my dear, Three months, or such a matter, And it's a blessing to get clear Of all the clash and clatter!

Ah! when I look the guide-book through, And see each queer place in there, 'Tis hard to make it seem quite true That I myself have been there!

Our voyage? Oh, of course 'twas gay-- Delightful! splendid! glorious!

We spurned the sh.o.r.e--we sped away-- We rode the waves victorious.

The first mate's mustache was so grand!

The ocean sweet, though stormy (I was so sick I could not stand, But papa saw it for me).

At Queenstown we saw land once more-- Ground never looked so pretty!

We took a steam-car near the sh.o.r.e For some light-sounding city.

A very ordinary stone We had to kiss at Blarney; The beggars wouldn't let us alone That half-day at Killarney!

The Giants' Causeway? 'Tis arranged With no regard to science; It must somehow of late have changed-- At least we saw no giants.

Some little funny scrubs of folks Sold pictures, and were merry; The men were full of yarns and jokes, The women barefoot--very.

Old Scotland? Yes, all in our power We did there to be thorough; We stopped in Glasgow one whole hour, Then straight to "Edin_borough_."

At Abbotsford we made a stay Of half an hour precisely.

(The ruins all along the way Were ruined very nicely.)

We "did" a mountain in the rain, And left the others undone, Then took the "Flying Scotchman" train.

And came by night to London.

Long tunnels somewhere on the line Made sound and darkness deeper; No; English scenery is not fine, Viewed from a Pullman sleeper.

Oh, Paris! Paris! Paris! 'tis No wonder, dear, that you go So far into the ecstasies About that Victor Hugo!

He paints the city, high and low, With faithful pen and ready (I think, my dear, I ought to know-- We drove there two hours steady).

Through Switzerland by train. Yes, I Enjoyed it, in a measure; But still the mountains are too high To see with any pleasure.

Their tops--they made my neck quite stiff, Just stretching up to view them; And folks are very foolish if They clamber clear up to them!

Rome, Venice, Naples, and the Rhine?

We did them--do not doubt it; This guide-book here is very fine-- 'Twill tell you all about it.

We've saved up Asia till next year, If business gets unravelled; What! going? Come again; and, dear, I will not seem so travelled.

WAs.h.i.+NGTON, _November 3, 18--._

_We're_ travelling, and we're here! and what a town!

I own, it picks me up and sets me down!

I thought I had some idea of the place, And what its corporation lines embrace; I'd read the county papers every week, Which seldom failed "From Was.h.i.+ngton" to speak; I'd travelled through these streets by photograph, And, with Imagination for a staff, Had wandered round, in little trips disjointed, Even where the artist's bra.s.s gun has not pointed; And so I said, "Though I wouldn't like to miss it, 'Twill be a good deal like a second visit."

But 'tisn't an easy perpetrated scheme To prophesy how anything will seem.

This city's new to me--I do not doubt it-- As if I'd never heard a word about it!

There's something in these white-clothed buildings' glare, And something even in the very air, And in the great variety of faces, Bearing the ear-marks of a thousand places, And in that monument that reaches high-- The farthest stone has climbed into the sky, And in that dome, whose kingly size and height Contrive, where'er you are, to keep in sight-- From these, and several hundred other things This nation's lead-horse city at you flings, You feel as if you'd stepped, through many a mile, Into another planet for a while!

But men too weary to hold up their heads Are apt to bless the man[7] who first made beds; Then, having found one, and reclined within it, Forget about him in just half a minute.

So I'll let Morpheus (who is at me winking) Do the remainder of this evening's thinking.

[7] Or woman--let due praise to her be paid; A bed is never made until 'tis _made_.

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

AT THE SUMMIT OF THE WAs.h.i.+NGTON MONUMENT.

Look North! A white-clad city fills This valley to its sloping hills; Here gleams the modest house of white, The statesman's longed-for, dizzy height.

Beyond, a pledge of love to one Who in two lands was Freedom's son-- The holder of an endless debt-- Our nation's brother, Lafayette.

But yonder lines of costly homes And bristling spires and swelling domes, And far away the spreading farms Where thrift displays substantial charms, And hamlets creeping out of sight, And cities full of wealth and might, Must own the fatherhood of him Whose glory Time can never dim.

All who can reckon Freedom's worth Would write across this whole broad earth, With pen dipped in the golden sun, The magic name of Was.h.i.+ngton!

If we can keep the rules he gave This land he more than fought to save, Our future fame will glisten forth Grand as the winter-lighted North!

[Ill.u.s.tration: FROM THE MONUMENT.]

Look South!--where, in its coat of gray, The broad Potomac creeps away, And seeks the blue of distant skies; But pauses where the great chief lies Within his humble, hallowed tomb, Amid Mount Vernon's deathless bloom.

As glides this stream, great corse, past thee, First to the bay, and then the sea, So flowed thy life to rural rest, Ere thou wast Heaven's eternal guest.

Oh strong, high man! whose patriot heart Climbed from all common greeds apart; To whom men's selfish ways were small, As from this tower, serenely tall (Built that all years thy fame may know), Men look while creeping there below!

How weak was power to thy clear gaze, Builder of nations joined in one, Kindler of splendors still to blaze, Finder of glories just begun!

Live on, great sleeper! as this stone, Highest from earth that man has known, So shall be ranked thy solid worth, Highest of heroes on the earth!

Happy, secure, and cherished name, Love is the pillar of thy fame; Thy praise comes from each patriot's mouth, Warm as the sunbeams of the South!