SPINNING.
Dearest mother, let me go;
I am tired of this spinning, yet the whizzing wheel goes round,
Till my brain is dull and dizzy with its ceaseless, humming sound.
I can hear a little blue-bird, chirping sweetly in yon tree;
And he would not stay there, mother, if he were not calling me.
Oh! in pity, let me go:
I have spun the flaxen thread, until my aching fingers drop;
And my weary feet will falter, though the whizzing wheel should stop.
I can see the sunny meadow where the gayest flowers grow;
And I long to weave a garland;—dearest mother, let me go.
Nay, be patient, eager child;
Summer smiles beyond the door-way, but stern poverty is here;
We must give her faithful service, if her frown we would not fear.
Spin on cheerly, little daughter, till your needful task is done,
Then go forth with bird and blossom, at the setting of the sun.
Wait thou, also, troubled soul;
Thou may'st look beyond the river, where the white-robed angels stand;
Hear the faint, celestial music, wafted from the summer land;
But thou cans't not leave thy labor;—when thy thread is duly spun,
Thou shalt flee on flashing pinions, at the setting of the sun.
The times have been hard, reader, our friend, yet all merriment has not entirely died out, and there is still the sweet voice of music to be heard in the land. In New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and many minor cities, the Benedictine Ullmann hath been ubiquitously about, operating most vigorously, while the philosophic and courteous Gosche hath not been far distant. And they heralded Hinkley, and Borchard, and Kellogg, and all the other sweet swans of song; they drew after them the gems of the opera; there was selling of Libretti, (and in Boston, 'los-an-gers'); there was the donning of scarlet and blue striped cloaks, gay coiffures and butterflying fans; there was flirting, and fun, and gentle gayety in the New York Academy, and with the Boston Academies it was not otherwise, only that among the latter the Saxon predominateth, and the dark-eyed, music-loving children of Israel, who so abound in most opera audiences, are very rare.
What we intended to do, O reader, was to give the biography of Benedict Ullmann. Lo! here it cometh:—
Vita Sancti Benedicti.
Ullmann is about three thousand years old.
The New York Herald once called him Mephistopheles. He is not Mephistopheles, however, but the same thing, which is Ullmann. He is a spirit bearing human form. Don't forget.
King Solomon sat beneath the golden pavilion one afternoon, playing silver melodies on a gold harp. Up went the notes—the spirits of the Sephiroth bore them—even up to a premium, and the very angels stopped sewing on their white robes to hear the ravishing melody.
By his side sat the Queen of Sheba, counting out her money.
Suddenly, there was a strange vibration, a marvelous tone. The queen paused. The king smiled. The angels went on with their sewing. (According to Rabbi Abarbanel, they were knitting. This created a schism between the schools of Cracow and Cordova, which lasted four centuries.)
'Why smilest thou, Oh Solomon?'
'I smiled, my dear queen, because you and I became, just now, unwittingly, the parents of a strange being.'
'Why, Solomon—how you talk!' exclaimed the Q. of S.
'Yea, for the ring of thy gold, oh my Queen, and the last chord-tone from my harp mingled in mystical unity and made a sound unheard before on earth. And the spirit of that sound, which is of money and of music, is the spirit whereof I spoke.'
Then the queen marveled greatly at the wisdom of Solomon, and gave him a shekel. The king rung it on the table and touched his harp. Again the strange tone thrilled out loud.
'There he goes!' quoth Solomon. 'My blessing on him. And therefore the sprite is called Blessed to this day, which in Latin is Benedict.
Thus was Ullmann born, who was the first who ever sold music; and, whereas before his time music was only iron or silvern, after he took it up it became golden—very fine, and ra-ther ex-pen-sive. Howbeit, he loved music as well as money, and gave the people their money's worth, and many a jolly opera and fine tenor did he bring out: yea, had it been possible he would have engaged Don Juan Tenorio himself, so that Don Giovanni might have been produced as perfectly as possible—the Don Giovanity of vanities.
Apropos of music, there is among the novelties of the season a French 'operetta,' entitled 'Les Noces de Jeannette,' in which a very peculiar bridegroom distinguishes himself, like Christopher Strap in 'Pleasant Neighbors,' by smashing the furniture. This recalls something which we heard narrated in the opera foyer the other evening.
Some years ago, in Paris, there was a very good comedian who prided himself on being perfectly 'classic.' To be classic in France is to be elegantly conventional. No actress can be really kissed according to classic rules; the lips must be faintly smacked about three feet from her shoulder. Wills are classically written by a flourish of the pen, and classical banqueters never pretend to eat.
Now there was a humorous scene which greatly depended on much breakage of furniture; and to this scene our actor, in the opinion of the manager, did not do justice. Rolling over one tea-cup did not, according to the latter, constitute a grand smash.
The actor became irritated. 'Pa'r'r-bleu!' he exclaimed, 'you shall have a grand smash then, if you must, and no mistake.'
The scene begun. There was a tea-table, and the irate performer gave one kick, and sent the whole concern crashing into the pit. There was a roar of applause.
('Ah! this is something like,' said the manager, rubbing his hands.)
The chairs were next attacked and broken into the completest kindling-wood, as by a madman. The manager began to look grave.
There were two tables left, a piano, and a closet. The actor stepped behind the scenes and reappeared with an axe. Bang! went the timber—crack—splinter—
'Stop!' roared the manager.
'Go on!' 'bravo!' 'go on!' roared the audience.
The stage was cleared, but the scenery still remained. And into the scenery went the actor 'like mad.' Planks and canvas came tumbling down; the manager called his assistants; the house was delirious with joy. The manager rushed on the stage; the actor kicked him over into the orchestra, and seizing the prompter's box, hurled it crashing after.
We do not know how matters were arranged, but we believe that the manager never tried afterwards to convert a classic actor to the romantic school.
The shade of Bishop Berkley would rejoice, could it read at this late date such a tribute to the merit of the once famed tar water, which he invented. But a solemn feeling steals over our heart when we remember that the hand which penned these lines now lies cold in death, and that the shades of the idealist and the poet may ere this have joined in the spirit land.
TAR WATER.
BY GEORGE W. DEWEY.
From the granite of the North,
Leapt this pure libation forth,
Cold as the rocks that restrained it;
From the glowing Southern pine,
Oozed this dark napthalian wine,
Warm as the hearts that contained it;
In a beaker they combine
In a nectar as divine
As the vintage of the Rhine,
While I pledge those friends of mine
Who are nearest, who are dearest in affection.
I have filled it to the brim;
Not a tear could ride its rim;
Not a fleck of sorrow dim
The flashing-smiles that swim
In the crystal which restores their recollection.
Floating on the pitchy wine,
Comes an odor of the brine,
Half suggesting solemn surges of the sea;
A sailor in the shrouds,
Furling sail amid the clouds;
Noisy breakers singing dirges on the lee,
To those friends upon the main,
Who have ventured once again,
In the realm which cleaves in twain
Loving hearts, that fill with pain
When the storm proclaims the terrors of December.
I will clink the beaded edge
Of the beaker, while I pledge
Safety over surf and sedge,
Foaming round the sunken ledge,
In the track of all the loved ones we remember.
And through Carolinian woods,
Ever muffled in the hoods
Of their fir-trees' aromatic evergreen,
I can hear the mellow stops,
Ever swaying in their tops,
To the playing of an organist unseen.
And the breezes bring the balm
Of the solitude and psalm,
From that indolence of calm,
In the land of pine and palm,
Over hills, and over rivers and savannas,
Till my feelings undergo
All their mortal overthrow,
In celestial strains which flow,
In a song of peace below,
From those regions where archangels sing hosannas.
A friend who has roamed in his time over the deserts and slept in Bedawee tents; one to whom the East is as a second mother, and in whose faith the Koran is necessary to really put the finishing touch to a true gentleman, sends us the following eccentric proverbs from the Arabic.
Words of Wisdom.
'A well is not to be filled with dew.'
There speaks the Arab, choice of water as of wine.
'May a deadly disease love you and Allah hate you!'
Uncle Toby, who would not have had the heart to curse a dog so, would have found the Excommunication of Ernulphus quite outdone in the desert, where cursing is perfected.
'He lays goose eggs, and expects young turkeys.'
'The dream of the cat is about mice.'
Meaning, as we say, that what is bred in the bone will not come out of the flesh. Æsop has dramatized this proverb in a pretty fable.
'The people went away; the baboons remained.'
'A rose fell to the lot of a monkey.'
Or, as the Latins said, 'Asinus ad Lyram'—'A gold ring in a sow's ear.'
'God bless him who pays visits, and short ones at that.'
'The husband of two parrots—a neck between two sticks.'
'I asked him about his father. "My uncle's name is Shayb," he replied.'
'They wanted a keeper for the pigeon-house, and gave the keys to the cat.'
'Filth fell upon dirt. "Welcome! my friend," said he.'
'Scarcer than fly-brains.'
'Gain upon dirt rather than loss upon musk.'
Musk plays a great part in the East. Even the porters in Cairo bear bags of it and are scented by it.
'When the monkey reigns, dance before him.'
This slavish proverb is thoroughly Oriental.
'They met a monkey defiling the mosque. "Dost thou not fear," quoth they, "lest God may metamorphose thee?" "I should," quoth he, "if I thought he would change me into a gazelle."'
'He fled from the rain and sat down under the water-spout.'
Or, as we say, out of the frying-pan into the fire.
Divers and sundry 'screeds' which we had hoped to lay on this present 'Editor's Table,' are unavoidably postponed until the February number, when they will make their 'positively first and last appearance.' Hoping that our own first appearance may not be without your approbation, we conclude, wishing you, reader, once more—very sincerely—the happiest of 'happy New Years.'