For a time in early manhood Mr. Rudulph was engaged in merchandising in Elkton, and subsequently became the first agent of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company in that town, which office he held from the time the company commenced business in 1837, until 1840 or ’41, when he removed to Memphis, Tennessee, where in 1847 he published a small volume of 247 pages entitled “Every Man’s Book; or, the Road to Heaven Staked Out; being a Collection of Holy Proofs Alphabetically Arranged as a Text Book for Preachers and Laymen of all Denominations.” Mr. Rudulph was a Universalist, and the object of the book was to inculcate the tenets of that denomination.
Mr. Rudulph remained in Memphis for a few years and subsequently removed to Izard county, Arkansas, where he died a short time before the commencement of the war of the rebellion. He was a voluminous writer, and the author of a large number of fugitive poems, many of which are said to have been quite humorous and possessed of much literary merit. Very few of his poems have been preserved, which is much regretted for the reason that it is highly probable that those extant do not fully set forth the poetical ability of their author. The following poems except the one entitled “Thoughts on the Death of his grandchild Fanny,” were published in The Elkton Courier nearly half a century ago.
[The Surprise.]
At twilight one ev’ning, a poor old man,
Whose tattered cloak had once seen better days,
(That now were dwindled to the shortest span:)
Whose rimless, crownless hat provoked the gaze
Of saucy urchins and of grown-up boys:
Whose hoary locks should e’er protect from scorn,
One who had ceased to court earth’s fading joys,—
Knock’d at a door, thus lonely and forlorn.
A pilgrim’s staff supported his frail form,
Whilst tremblingly he waited at the door;
And feeble tho’ he seemed, he feared not harm,
For ’neath his cloak a trusty sword he bore.
A menial came, and thus he spoke:—‘Away!
Old man, away! seek not to enter here:
We feed none such as you: so hence! I say:—
Perhaps across the street you’ll better fare.’
In broken accents now the pilgrim plead—
‘Friend, I have journeyed far; from lands abroad;
And bear a message from the absent dead,
To one who dwells in this august abode.
Thy mistress,—fair Beatrice,—dwells she here?
If so, quick, bring me to her instantly;
For I have speech that fits her private ear
Forthwith: none else my words shall hear but she.’
Now, ushered thro’ the spacious hall, he passed
Into a gorgeous room, where sat alone,
Beatrice fair; who, on the pilgrim cast
Inquiring looks, and scarce suppressed a groan.
‘Be seated, aged father;’ thus she said:
‘And tell me whence you are, and why you seek
A private conf’rence with a lonely maid
Whose sorrows chase the color from her cheek.
‘If true it is, from distant lands you come,
Mayhap from Palestine you wend your way;
If so, be silent, be forever dumb,
Or else, in joyful accents, quickly say,
That all is well with one most dear to me,
Who, two long years ago, forsook his home,
And now forgets his vows of constancy,
For bloody wars in distant lands to roam.’
As if to dash a tear, he bends his head,
And sighing, thus the weary pilgrim speaks:
‘Alas! my words are few,—thy friend is dead!’—
As monumental marble pale, she shrieks,
And falls into the aged pilgrim’s arms;
Who, justly filled with terror and dismay,
In speechless wonder, gazed upon her charms,
As, inwardly he seemed to curse the day.
But, slowly she revives—when, quick as light,
His cloak and wig are instantly thrown by—
And what is that that greets her ’wildered sight?
Ah! whose fond gaze now meets her longing eye?—
Her own dear Alfred, from the wars returned,
Had chosen thus to steal upon his love:—
And whilst his kisses on her cheek now burned,
He vow’d to her, he never more would rove.