The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 09, No. 55, May, 1862 - Various

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cold and cheerless, while mine, amid all its failures, was full of warmth,—a reflection which, I have often observed, seems to go a great way towards making a person contented with his lot,—for he had a lovely wife, promising children, and the whole village for his friends. Yet, notwithstanding all these obstacles, I learned to look over his garden-wall with sincere joy.

      There is one provocation, however, which I cannot yet bear with equanimity, and which I do not believe I shall ever meet without at least a spasm of wrath, even if my Christian character shall ever become strong enough to preclude absolute tetanus; and I do hereby beseech all persons who would not be guilty of the sin of Jeroboam who made Israel to sin, who do not wish to have on their hands the burden of my ruined temper, to let me go quietly down into the valley of humiliation and oblivion, and not pester me, as they have hitherto done from all parts of the North-American continent, with the infuriating question, "How did you get on with your garden?"

* * * * *

      LYRICS OF THE STREET

I. THE TELEGRAMS

        Bring the hearse to the station,

          When one shall demand it, late;

        For that dark consummation

          The traveller must not wait.

        Men say not by what connivance

          He slid from his weight of woe,

        Whether sickness or weak contrivance,

          But we know him glad to go.

                  On, and on, and ever on!

                           What next?

        Nor let the priest be wanting

          With his hollow eyes of prayer,

        While the sexton wrenches, panting,

          The stone from the dismal stair.

        But call not the friends who left him,

          When Fortune and Pleasure fled;

        Mortality hath not bereft him,

          That they should confront him, dead.

                  On, and on, and ever on!

                           What next?

        Bid my mother be ready:

          We are coming home to-night:

        Let my chamber be still and shady,

          With the softened nuptial light.

        We have travelled so gayly, madly,

          No shadow hath crossed our way;

        Yet we come back like children, gladly,

          Joy-spent with our holiday.

                   On, and on, and ever on!

                            What next?

        Stop the train at the landing,

          And search every carriage through;

        Let no one escape your handing,

          None shiver or shrink from view.

        Three blood-stained guests expect him,

          Three murders oppress his soul;

        Be strained every nerve to detect him

          Who feasted, and killed, and stole.

                    On, and on, and ever on!

                             What next?

        Be rid of the notes they scattered;

          The great house is down at last;

        The image of gold is shattered,

          And never can be recast.

        The bankrupts show leaden features,

          And weary, distracted looks,

        While harpy-eyed, wolf-souled creatures

          Pry through their dishonored books.

                    On, and on, and ever on!

                             What next?

        Let him hasten, lest worse befall him,

          To look on me, ere I die:

        I will whisper one curse to appall him,

          Ere the black flood carry me by.

        His bridal? the friends forbid it;

          I have shown them his proofs of guilt:

        Let him hear, with my laugh, who did it;

          Then hurry, Death, as thou wilt!

                    On, and on, and ever on!

                             What next?

        Thus the living and dying daily

          Flash forward their wants and words,

        While still on Thought's slender railway

          Sit scathless the little birds:

        They heed not the sentence dire

          By magical hands exprest,

        And only the sun's warm fire

          Stirs softly their happy breast.

                    On, and on, and ever on!

                             God next!

      THE SOUTH BREAKER

IN TWO PARTS

      PART I

      Just a cap-full of wind, and Dan shook loose the linen, and a straight shining streak with specks of foam shot after us. The mast bent like eel-grass, and our keel was half out of the water. Faith belied her name, and clung to the sides with her ten finger-nails; but as for me, I liked it.

      "Take the stick, Georgie," said Dan, suddenly, his cheeks white. "Head her up the wind. Steady. Sight the figurehead on Pearson's loft. Here's too much sail for a frigate."

      But before the words were well uttered, the mast doubled up and coiled like a whip-lash, there was a report like the crack of doom, and half of the thing crashed short over the bows, dragging the heavy sail in the waves.

      Then there came a great laugh of thunder close above, and the black cloud dropped like a curtain round us: the squall had broken.

      "Cut it off, Dan! quick!" I cried. "Let it alone," said he, snapping together his jack-knife; "it's as good as a best bower-anchor. Now I'll take the tiller, Georgie. Strong little hand," said he, bending so that I didn't see his face. "And lucky it's good as strong. It's saved us all.—My God, Georgie! where's Faith?"

      I turned. There was no Faith in the boat. We both sprang to our feet, and so the tiller swung round and threw us broadside to the wind, and between the dragging mast and the centre-board drowning seemed too good for us.

      "You'll have to cut it off," I cried again; but he had already ripped half through the canvas and was casting it loose.

      At length he gave his arm a toss. With the next moment, I never shall forget the look of horror that froze Dan's face.

      "I've thrown her off!" he exclaimed. "I've thrown her off!"

      He reached his whole length over the

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