H. W. Longfellow.
* * * * *
A SLIP OF THE TONGUE.
It chanced one day, so I've been told
(The story is not very old),
As Will and Tom, two servants able,
Were waiting at their master's table,
Tom brought a fine fat turkey in,
The sumptuous dinner to begin:
Then Will appeared—superbly cooked,
A tongue upon the platter smoked;
When, oh! sad fate! he struck the door,
And tumbled flat upon the floor;
The servants stared, the guests looked down,
When quick uprising with a frown,
The master cried, "Sirra! I say
Begone, nor wait a single day,
You stupid cur! you've spoiled the feast,
How can another tongue be dressed!"
While thus the master stormed and roared,
Will, who with wit was somewhat stored
(For he by no means was a fool
Some Latin, too, he'd learned at school),
Said (thinking he might change disgrace
For laughter, and thus save his place),
"Oh! call me not a stupid cur,
'Twas but a lapsus linguae, sir."
"A lapsus linguae?" one guest cries,
"A pun!" another straight replies.
The joke was caught—the laugh went round;
Nor could a serious face be found.
The master, when the uproar ceased,
Finding his guests were all well pleased,
Forgave the servant's slippery feet,
And quick revoked his former threat.
Now Tom had all this time stood still;
And heard the applause bestowed on Will;
Delighted he had seen the fun
Of what his comrade late had done,
And thought, should he but do the same,
An equal share of praise he'd claim.
As soon as told the meat to fetch in,
Bolted like lightning to the kitchen,
And seizing there a leg of lamb
(I am not certain, perhaps 'twas ham,
No matter which), without delay
Off to the parlour marched away,
And stumbling as he turned him round,
Twirled joint and dish upon the ground.
For this my lord was ill-prepared;
Again the astonished servants stared.
Tom grinned—but seeing no one stir,
"Another lapsus linguae, sir!"
Loud he exclaimed. No laugh was raised.
No "clever fellow's" wit was praised.
Confounded, yet not knowing why
His wit could not one laugh supply,
And fearing lest he had mistook
The words, again thus loudly spoke
(Thinking again it might be tried):
"'Twas but a lapsus linguae," cried.
My lord, who long had quiet sat,
Now clearly saw what he was at.
In wrath this warning now he gave—
"When next thou triest, unlettered knave,
To give, as thine, another's wit,
Mind well thou knowest what's meant by it;
Nor let a lapsus linguae slip
From out thy pert assuming lip,
Till well thou knowest thy stolen song,
Nor think a leg of lamb a tongue,"
He said—and quickly from the floor
Straight kicked him through the unlucky door.
MORAL.
Let each pert coxcomb learn from this
True wit will never come amiss!
But should a borrowed phrase appear,
Derision's always in the rear.
* * * * *
THE MODERN CAIN.
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
Long ago,
When first the human heart-strings felt the touch
Of Death's cold fingers—when upon the earth
Shroudless and coffinless Death's first-born lay,
Slain by the hand of violence, the wail
Of human grief arose:—"My son, my son!
Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep;
A mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief
Are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow;
Awake and bless her with thy wonted smile."
In vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke.
His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed
A stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fled
A voice pursued him to the wilderness:
"Where is thy brother, Cain?"