“Now listen, Fanny Willoughby,
To what I cannot keep,
My days ye rob of happiness,
My nights ye rob of sleep;
And if ye don’t relent, why I
Believe you will me kill;
For passion must have vent, and I
Will kill myself I will.”
’Twas thus, when love had made me mad
For Fanny Willoughby,
I told my tale, half gay, half sad,
To Fanny Willoughby;
And Fanny look’d as maiden would
When love her heart did burn,
And Fanny sigh’d as maiden should,
And murmur’d a return.
And so I woo’d Fan Willoughby—
A maiden like a dove,
And so I won Fan Willoughby—
The maiden of my love;
And though sad years have pass’d since that,
And she is in the sky,
I never, never can forget
Sweet Fanny Willoughby.
*
CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MAN.
No. 1.
The first time I left Droneville, was for the purpose of joining the Junior Class in Yale College. Having received letters of introduction to Dr. ——, I was ushered by his misjudged kindness, with all my awkwardness upon me, into the very center of fashionable life. Fashionable life! what a variety of blunders, of ludicrous mistakes, of embarrassing scenes, rise up at the very phrase, mingled with the uproarious laughter of young men, and the suppressed titter of young ladies, the mere memory of which is sufficient to drive distracted a sensitive man. To my miserable, rustic education, I am indebted for a great share of my calamities. Before relating my experience in the world of fashion, I will attempt to convey to my readers an idea of some of the peculiarities of Droneville people.
In one of the western counties of Massachusetts, is situated the village of Droneville—the Rip Van Winkle of the state—the very focus of stupidity. Droneville people are a century behind the rest of the world. One would imagine that old Time had pitched them out of his car in 1700, while he has been driving on the rest of the world like Jehu. Without the least scruple, they use those rank provincialisms, which would make the most legitimate Yankee tongue of other parts, feel “considerably streaked.” Droneville people are opposed to all your modern refinements in education. “We are satisfied with the language of our fathers, without bringing it to the test of any of your grammar rules.” As a necessary consequence, the king’s English is murdered by them without the least mercy. Double comparatives and superlatives dance through their conversation in an intricate maze of the sublimest obscurity. To Droneville people I was indebted for my pure, classical dialect, which was so extremely pleasing that I never addressed a polite speech to a young lady, without making her giggle in spite of her most vigorous efforts. “Hisen” and “hern,” “yourn” and “theirn,” and such phrases, might be expected as a matter of course; but Droneville people are no common Yankees; they have words and expressions which are perfectly unique. “Chirk” is a favorite of theirs. If you enquire respecting some invalid who is convalescing, the answer is, “he is more chirk.” A young Miss of Droneville, (for whom, by the way, I always had a sneaking partiality,) once replied to a question as to her mother’s health—an old bedridden dame of eighty, “Why, she is not very chirk, but more chirker than she has been; all our folks appear more chirker than they really feel, in order to chirk her up.” “Comper” is another of their expressions. Any fracas or tumult, like the Calethump of Christmas eve memory, would be styled by them a “comper.” Their language is certainly original:
“Mrs. Doublechin, what is the matter with your good man?”
“I don’t hardly know, ‘Squire, he seems to be kinder fevery and kinder aguery.”