A POOR YOUNG MAN.
“NOT WISELY
BUT TOO WELL.”He was an innocent youth, undergoing initiation into the mysteries of compounding and weighing out sugars, teas, and spices at a West-End grocery. A Spruce Street damsel did the cruel deed. She visited the establishment several times in reference to some shares of stock, and her passing glance sank into his soul. His deep, poetic nature demanded an outlet for the sacred fire. Ætna will burst; Vesuvius will explode. Ætna and Vesuvius were but parlor matches compared to him.
The evening succeeding the lady’s third visit to the grocery, a package, neatly done up in brown paper, was left at her residence by a youth who vanished upon the instant. The lady untied the bundle, and discovered an A. No. 1 salted codfish. The following lines, on pink initial note (slightly greased), were fastened to its tail by a blue ribbon:—
“My love is boundless as the ocean,
Deep as its waters my devotion.
This cod, sweet maid, is salt—
Salt is the ocean too;
By logical analogy, therefore, this fish will prove
Type of my love for you.”
Next evening, about the same time, another package arrived, with another poetic sentiment in the same handwriting:—
“I send a can of salmon soused,
’Tis sweetness in the sour;
O, would your smile the salmon was,
In my forlorn soused hour!”
The lady was somewhat puzzled, though gratified. Her father was somewhat puzzled, though not gratified. Their quandary was not lessened upon receiving a third delicate present the next evening.
“I offer my love two pounds of chipped beef,
’Twill be nice for her breakfast or sup;
O the love in my heart’s not at all like the beef—
For, sweet maid, that can never dry up!”
“Can’t never dry up, eh?” said the old man the following evening, as he pulled on his thickest boots, and took up a commanding position on the front-door step. “Can’t never dry up, eh?—we’ll see.”
But the mysterious messenger flanked him by ringing at the back gate.
“Sweet maid, sweet maid, O pray accept
This jar of pickled onions;
They’ll tell thee of the tears I’ve wept,
And sighs vent by the ton-ions.
They’re round, too, like the planet Earth;
Like earth, my love’s complete;
May this to sweetest thoughts give birth,
When of them you shall eat.”
Another evening came; the old gentleman was again upon the step; the family butcher was sauntering carelessly by the back gate. Alas! in place of the youth, ’twas the grocer himself who called. The butcher did not know him; he obeyed instructions. On the day of the unfortunate man’s funeral these lines were read; they were found in his pocket, and explain the cause of his inopportune visit:—
“Sweet maid, sweet maid, I had a clerk,
A taking youth was he;
I’ve sent him up to Cherry Hill,
The bill—I bring to thee.”
We will dwell no longer upon this mournful episode, but return to our main subject.
The ladies of the various ward committees did not confine their efforts to canvassing. They worked afghans that nobody wanted, and slippers that nobody could use; purchased desks that wouldn’t open, and pocket-books that wouldn’t shut, and raffled them off at prices as fancy as the goods themselves. They appeared in amateur theatricals and variety shows. Every ward had its ROMEO AND
JULIET.Romeo and its Juliet; every precinct its Lady Macbeth and Wellington De Boots. Their acting was wonderful and awe-inspiring. Audiences gazed upon them in public with dumb amaze, and wept in private, they knew not why. People began to look upon tickets for amateur performances as Japanese officials regard a polite invitation to “Hari Kari.” Call-boys and scene-shifters at regular theatres set up for luminaries. The demoralization of the drama was complete.
But all these things were mere side dishes, to be mentioned incidentally in connection with the combined efforts, viz.:—
“The Great National Tea Party,”
“The Greater International Tea Party,” and
“The Greatest Patent Loan Office Exhibition.”
It is with a feeling of profound diffidence that we allude to them.