Vice, vice, vice, vice!—and 'tisn't all clear and free,
Where any one can take a look and see,
And then decide, immediate, on the spot,
Whether he'll buy his soul-farm there or not;
It's scattered round about so 'mongst the good,
Folks can't entirely shun it when they would.
Much better to escape it we'd be able,
If 'twas obliged to carry 'round a label
(It always does, some time before it ages,
But not enough so in its early stages).
My mind was led around about this way,
By a well-dressed young man I met to-day,
Who strove to twist some money out of me,
But had, instead, a first-class lecture free.
My cousin, Abdiel Stebbins, large and good,
Inclined to do even better than he should,
And with a heart that gets him into scrapes
Of a most strange variety of shapes,
But who, before they've run a fatal course,
Always gets out of them by sheer main force,
Wrote me two letters, several years ago,
Which I have kept, with no intent to show,
But simply to read over now and then
As part of my text-book entitled "Men."
I think I'll get my cousin's wail by letter,
And paste it here where I can find it better.
[FARMER STEBBINS ON THE BOWERY.]
Dear Cousin John:
We got here safe—my worthy wife an' me,
An' then I looked the village through to see what I could see:
I rode upon the cur'us track with stations all up-stairs;
I walked through Wall Street all its length, an' saw no bulls or bears;
I patronized a red-nosed chap with manners very queer,
Who hadn't had a thing to eat for somethin' like a year;
I saw the road commissioners to work upon a bridge
A million times as large as that we built at Tompkins' Ridge—
(I'm told that they are makin' it, though maybe that's all fun,
To use the coming century, an' hope to get it done)—
When who should up an' grasp my hand, with face of genuine joy,
But Cousin Jeroboam Jones, my cousin's oldest boy!
I had not seen him years an' years—no wonder he looked strange;
His face an' form in some respects had undergone a change;
But then there wasn't a chance of doubt that that was him, because,
If not, how should he ever know that I was who I was?
We brushed our old acquaintance up, an' soon was at our ease,
A wanderin' all about the place, as cozy as you please.
It's nicer far, in foreign towns, than 'tis to be alone,
To walk with one whose blood proceeds from sources near your own;
A sim'lar temp'rature of heart, a sort of family ease,
Enables you to work your tongue as lib'ral as you please;
And so I found myself quite soon uncommonly at home,
Describin' all my business through to Cousin Jerobo'm.