Giving time for those matters that pass between
A bachelor-man and a girl of eighteen,
And a moment beside for her womanish airs,
We find him ascending the sleep-walker's stairs.
With gentlest tread, as if ever before
He had practised his steps on a sick-chamber floor,
His handkerchief-parcel, conveniently small,
He laid on a chair, with the knots tow'rd the wall.
The maiden insisting on taking his hat,
He enter'd the room where the sleep-walker sat:
A neat-looking woman, and fair to behold,
And (climax of qualities) not at all old.
Her accents and manner were wondrously sweet,
As she kindly invited his taking a seat,
And sweetly she said what she had to say
Of the weather and wind, in a diffident way.
And then he presented himself by his name,
And hinted the matter about which he came;
He harp'd upon science, and physic, and food,
Incidentally hoping he did not intrude,
And then, (what all orators well understand,)
Digress'd to the subject directly in hand.
What was it the sister spoke low in her ear,
It was plain she alone was intended to hear.
But little the medical gentleman cared,
Commencing a speech he had ready prepar'd.
'This aura-magnetica-making,' said he
Is a process as simple as A B C,
And very agreeable, certainly, where
The patient is female, and passably fair:
You hold her hand gently, and look in her eye,
Succeeding the better, the harder you try;[5]
Then paw her all over, it comes to you pat,
Precisely like stroking the back of a cat.[6]
And now it is holiday-time with the mind,
It hastens to leave the poor body behind;
As mischievous urchins escape to the street,
The pedagogue slumb'ring unmov'd in his seat.
Hereafter, no 'wishing-cap' ever can be
Invented to rival the bonnet de nuit.
But though I account myself fully au fait
At dismissing the soul in a technical way,
(Being funnily call'd by a patient of mine,
A forwarding agent for Charon's old line,)
I own that it never came into my head
To try to converse with it after it fled;
It might be unpleasant; particular folks
Object to all species of practical jokes;
And one might, with reason, resent being made,
From a person of substance, an unreal shade.
However, I think we had better prepare
For one live spirit-walking—another affair.
The patient appears well inclin'd to repose,
Or rather, already beginning to doze.'
He sat himself opposite, look'd in her eye,
Put his hand in his pocket, and stifled a sigh.
A striking resemblance there was in the face,
To one that occasion'd his first-love case.
Ah, doctor! that love thou wert better forget,
With symptoms recurring, comes over thee yet.
'Be still!' said he, boldly! 'nay madam, don't start,
The caution was private—address'd to my heart.'
He went through the process; ten minutes expir'd,
The process was tedious, the doctor was tir'd;
He hinted that opium, one or two grains,
Had been quite as speedy, and saved him his pains.
The patient, at this, to the doctor's surprise,
Look'd sweetly upon him, and—sleep seal'd her eyes.
'I'll take the arm-chair, to be more at my ease,
And then let us travel, as fast as you please;
Can you tell me what lies at the head of your stairs?'
(He thought he should take her thus unawares;)
She said, without any demurrage at all,
'A handkerchief-parcel, the knots tow'rd the wall;
Beside it, a beaver; it's brim is wide,
And an old piece of paper is stuck inside.'
A very round oath the physician swore,
''Twas the self-same hat that he always wore:
No mortal could see through a six-inch wall—
An angel undoubtedly whisper'd it all.'
'You flatter,' the sister said, with a sigh,
'I never did tell her, I'm sure—not I!'
'The bundle contains,' said the spirit, 'a shirt;
Your name and a number are mark'd on the skirt.'
The doctor said nothing; it came to his mind
That he had such an one, but had left it behind:
He marvel'd a woman could tell to a hair,
Not only what was, but what should have been there!
'If you've no objections,' ('I have not,' said she,)
'We'll go to my house, and see, what we can see;
I hope you'll go too, Miss—it is not too far;
Beside, you have only to set where you are.
The spirit, (how pleasant soever the road,)
Will find 'the more music, the lighter the load!'
But the sister assured him that no one, except
Himself, could affect her, so long as she slept;[7]
'She could not distinguish a word that I said,
Though loud as the trumpet that summons the dead.'
'That's true,' said the spirit, 'for talk as she may,
I'm not a whit wiser for all she can say;[8]
But I'm at your door, and have given a knock,
And some one is turning the key in the lock.'
'That's odd:' said the doctor; 'I can't recollect
When turning the key would have any effect;
The lock is a patent one, made with such skill,
It never yet work'd, and I fear never will.
But why should we wait till they open the door?
Let's fly to my study, it's on the first floor!'
'How nice!' said the spirit; 'you get all the sun,
With two pretty windows——' 'There is but one.'
'But one?' said the walker—'ah, that's very true;
A somnambulist sees twice as plainly as you;
But truly I'm certain, your fortunate wife
Must lead a most exquisite sort of a life.'
'But then I am single;' 'I know it,' said she;
'I mean, if you had one, how happy she'd be!'
So sweetly she said it, he look'd at her long,
The likeness was striking—each moment more strong.
Alas! poor practitioner, look to thy heart;
A treacherous weapon is Love's little dart!
END OF PART TWO.
[OUR BIRTH-DAYS.]
The anniversary of our birth-days is always an interesting period, and should be noticed accordingly. Each of such days is a mile-stone on the road of life, reminding us of the rapid rate at which we have been advancing on its journey, and approaching its close. It is true that in life's morning, these mile-stones appear to be farther apart than they do in later years; still, they are days of hope and promise. Thousands are then rejoicing that they are one year nearer to the boasting age of twenty-one, when a young man feels himself lord of his own actions, and glories in his liberty. To thousands of the fairer part of creation, these annual monitors are welcome, as harbingers of the day when they shall shine in the ball-room or circles of fashion; attract all eyes, and command all attention; or perhaps fasten some silken chain around the heart of an individual admirer, and lead him in delightful captivity. To other thousands of the same sex, the anniversary will tell a tale of sadness; of departed hours and departed charms; of withered roses and withered hopes; when the looking-glass has lost its magic power, and speaks nothing save in the plain language of unwelcome truth and soberness. Thousands are reminded that many of the intervals, between one mile-stone and another were distinguished by lovely landscapes and countless beauties; by health and enjoyment—by joy and gladness of heart. To thousands of others, such intervals have been gloomy and cheerless; without the consolations of friendship, the comforts of society, or the flattering promises of hope. Surrounding prospects have only increased the gloom of the mind, and made the heart sick.
Yet in all these recollections, we may find instruction and nourishment for our better feelings. If our course has been checkered with good and evil, we may profit by tracing consequences to their proper causes; and thus learn how many miscalled misfortunes are the offspring of folly, or imprudence, or wrong; the natural results of our own wanderings from the path of innocence and duty; or else have been so fortunate as to have discovered by experience, that our happiness and duty are intimately connected, and that wisdom's ways are always ways of pleasantness and peace. In both cases, this annual review of the days and years that have taken their farewell of us, will be salutary in its effect, and teach us the value of virtuous resolutions of amendment, when we have gone astray, and the peaceful feelings and sweet anticipations of those whose desire it is to preserve their moral health in the bowers of innocence and purity, and amid the green pastures and still waters of life.