Sivut kuvina

Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,

(This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings.

3. No, thank you, sir, I never drink.
Roger and I are exceedingly moral.
Aren't we Roger? see him wink.

Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty too—see him nod his head.
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk;
He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water and chalk.

4. The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect,
(Here's to you, sir) even of my dog.
But he sticks by through thick and thin,
And this old coat with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

5. There isn't another creature living,

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable, thankless master.
No, sir! see him wag his tail and grin—
By George! it makes my old eyes water-
That is, there is something in this gin

That chokes a fellow, but no matter.

6. We'll have some music if you are willing,

And Roger here (what a plague a cough is, sir) Shall march a little. Start, you villain!

Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer!

'Bout face! attention! take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms you see.) Now hold your

Cap, while the gentlemen give a trifle
To aid a poor old patriot soldier.

7. March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence;

Now tell how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance,
Five yelps, that's five-he's mighty knowing;
The night's before us, fill the glasses;
Quick, sir! I'm ill, my brain is going;
Some brandy! thank you; there it passes.

8. Why not reform? That's easily said.

But I've gone through such wretched treatment,
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform,

And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out Heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.

9. Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love; but I took to drink;
The same old story, you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features-
You needn't laugh, sir, I was not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures;
I was one of your handsome men.-

10. If you had seen her, so fair, so young,
Whose head was happy on this breast;
I sung

If you could have heard the songs

When the wine went round, you would'nt have guess'd

That ever I, sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog.

11. She's married since, a parson's wife,

"Twas better for her that we should part; Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.

I have seen her? Once! I was weak and spent
On the dusty road; a carriage stopped,
But little she dreamed as on she went

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped.

12. You've set me talking, sir, I'm sorry;
It makes me wild to think of the change.
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? You find it strange?
I had a mother so proud of me,

'Twas well she died before. Do you know
If the happy spirits in Heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?

13. Another glass, and strong to deaden

This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing, in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could,
No doubt remembering things that were:

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself a sober, respectable cur.

14. I'm better now; that glass was warming.
You rascal limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.

Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drinkThe sooner the better for Roger and me.




Gulian Crommelin Verplanck was born in the city of New York, in 1786, and graduated at Columbia College at the early age of fifteen. He studied for the bar, was admitted, and spent several years in European travel. He was, on his return, engaged in politics, and served eight years as a member of Congress. For the forty years preceding his death, Mr. Verplanck was Vice-Chancellor of the University of New York. He was the first American who distinguished himself in the difficult walk of Shakspearean criticism. He is best known by his learned discourses delivered on many public occasions. He died in 1870.

HERE is one other influence more powerful than that of

schoolmaster, in molding character,

The forms of a free

and but one. It is that of the MOTHER. government, the provision of wise legislation, the schemes of the statesman, the sacrifices of the patriot, are as nothing compared with this. If the future citizens of our republic are to be worthy of their rich inheritance, they must be made so principally through the virtue and intelligence of their mothers. It is in the school of maternal tenderness that the kind affections must be first roused and made habitual-the early sentiment of piety awakened and rightly directed the sense of duty and moral responsibility unfolded and enlightened.

2. But next in rank and in efficacy to that pure and holy source of moral influence is that of the schoolmaster. It is powerful already. What would it be if in every one of those school districts, which we now count by annually increasing thousands, there were to be found one teacher, well-informed without pedantry, religious without bigotry or fanaticism, proud and fond of his profession, and honored in the discharge of its duties!

3. How wide would be the intellectual, the moral influence of such a body of men! Many such we have already among us -men humbly wise and obscurely useful; whom poverty cannot depress, nor neglect degrade. But to raise up a body of such men, as numerous as the wants and dignity of the coun

try demand, their labors must be fitly remunerated, and themselves and their calling cherished and honored.

4. The schoolmaster's occupation is laborious and ungrateful; its rewards are scanty and precarious. He may indeed be, and he ought to be, animated by the consciousness of doing good-that best of all consolations-that noblest of all motives. But that, too, must be often clouded by doubt and uncertainty. Obscure and inglorious as his daily occupation may appear to learned pride or worldly ambition, yet to be truly successful and happy, he must be animated by the spirit of the same great principles which inspired the most illustrious benefactors of mankind.

5. If he bring to his task high talent and rich acquirements, he must be content to look into distant years for the proof that his labors have not been wasted-that the good seed which he daily scatters abroad does not fall on stony ground and wither away, or among thorns to be choked by the cares, the delusions, or the vices of the world. He must solace his

toils with the same prophetic faith that enabled the greatest of modern philosophers, amidst the neglect or contempt of his own times, to regard himself as sowing the seeds of truth for posterity and the care of Heaven.

6. He must arm himself against disappointment and mortification with a portion of that same noble confidence which soothed the greatest of modern poets when weighed down by care and danger, by poverty, old age, and blindness, still

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7. He must know, and he must love to teach his pupils, not the meager elements of knowledge, but the secret and the use of their own intellectual strength, exciting and enabling them hereafter to raise for themselves the veil which covers the majestic form of Truth. He must feel deeply the reverence due to the youthful mind fraught with mighty though undeveloped energies and affections, and mysterious and eter

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