g.?
Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name So fills the nasal trump of fame.
There too stood many a noted steed Of Messenger and Morgan breed; Green horses also, not a few; Unknown as yet what they could do; And all the hacks that know so well The scourgings of the Sunday swell.
Blue are the skies of opening day; The bordering turf is green with May; The sunshine's golden gleam is thrown On sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan; The horses paw and prance and neigh, Fillies and colts like kittens play, And dance and toss their rippled manes Shining and soft as silken skeins; Wagons and gigs are ranged about, And fashion flaunts her gay turn-out; Here stands--each youthful Jehu's dream The jointed tandem, ticklish team! And there in ampler breadth expand The splendors of the four-in-hand; On faultless ties and glossy tiles The lovely bonnets beam their smiles; (The style's the man, so books avow; The style's the woman, anyhow); From flounces frothed with creamy lace Peeps out the pug-dog's smutty face, Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye, Or stares the wiry pet of Skye,-- O woman, in your hours of ease So shy with us, so free with these! "Come on! I 'll bet you two to one I 'll make him do it!" "Will you?
Done!" What was it who was bound to do?
I did not hear and can't tell you,-- Pray listen till my story's through.
Scarce noticed, back behind the rest, By cart and wagon rudely prest, The parson's lean and bony bay Stood harnessed in his one-horse shay-- Lent to his sexton for the day; (A funeral--so the sexton said; His mother's uncle's wife was dead.) Like Lazarus bid to Dives' feast, So looked the poor forlorn old beast; His coat was rough, his tail was bare, The gray was sprinkled in his hair; Sportsmen and jockeys knew him not, And yet they say he once could trot Among the fleetest of the town, Till something cracked and broke him down,-- The steed's, the statesman's, common lot! "And are we then so soon forgot ?" Ah me! I doubt if one of you Has ever heard the name "Old Blue," Whose fame through all this region rung In those old days when I was young! "Bring forth the horse!" Alas! he showed Not like the one Mazeppa rode; Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky-kneed, The wreck of what was once a steed, Lips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints; Yet not without his knowing points.
The sexton laughing in his sleeve, As if 't were all a make-believe, Led forth the horse, and as he laughed Unhitched the breeching from a shaft, Unclasped the rusty belt beneath, Drew forth the snaffle from his teeth, Slipped off his head-stall, set him free From strap and rein,--a sight to see! So worn, so lean in every limb, It can't be they are saddling him! It is! his back the pig-skin strides And flaps his lank, rheumatic sides; With look of mingled scorn and mirth They buckle round the saddle-girth; With horsey wink and saucy toss A youngster throws his leg across, And so, his rider on his back, They lead him, limping, to the track, Far up behind the starting-point, To limber out each stiffened joint.
As through the jeering crowd he past, One pitying look Old Hiram cast; "Go it, ye cripple, while ye can!" Cried out unsentimental Dan; "A Fast-Day dinner for the crows!" Budd Doble's scoffing shout arose.
Slowly, as when the walking-beam First feels the gathering head of steam, With warning cough and threatening wheeze The stiff old charger crooks his knees; At first with cautious step sedate, As if he dragged a coach of state He's not a colt; he knows full well That time is weight and sure to tell; No horse so sturdy but he fears The handicap of twenty years.
As through the throng on either hand The old horse nears the judges' stand, Beneath his jockey's feather-weight He warms a little to his gait, And now and then a step is tried That hints of something like a stride.
"Go!"-- Through his ear the summons stung As if a battle-trump had rung; The slumbering instincts long unstirred Start at the old familiar word; It thrills like flame through every limb,-- What mean his twenty years to him?
The savage blow his rider dealt Fell on his hollow flanks unfelt; The spur that pricked his staring hide Unheeded tore his bleeding side; Alike to him are spur and rein,-- He steps a five-year-old again! Before the quarter pole was past, Old Hiram said, "He's going fast." Long ere the quarter was a half, The chuckling crowd had ceased to laugh; Tighter his frightened jockey clung As in a mighty stride he swung, The gravel flying in his track, His neck stretched out, his ears laid back, His tail extended all the while Behind him like a rat-tail file! Off went a shoe,--away it spun, Shot like a bullet from a gun; The quaking jockey shapes a prayer From scraps of oaths he used to swear; He drops his whip, he drops his rein, He clutches fiercely for a mane; He'll lose his hold--he sways and reels-- He'll slide beneath those trampling heels! The knees of many a horseman quake, The flowers on many a bonnet shake, And shouts arise from left and right, "Stick on! Stick on!" "Hould tight! Hould tight!" "Cling round his neck and don't let go--" "That pace can't hold--there! steady! whoa!" But like the sable steed that bore The spectral lover of Lenore, His nostrils snorting foam and fire, No stretch his bony limbs can tire; And now the stand he rushes by, And "Stop him!--stop him!" is the cry.
Stand back! he 's only just begun-- He's having out three heats in one! "Don't rush in front! he'll smash your brains; But follow up and grab the reins!" Old Hiram spoke.

Dan Pfeiffer heard, And sprang impatient at the word; Budd Doble started on his bay, Old Hiram followed on his gray, And off they spring, and round they go, The fast ones doing "all they know." Look! twice they follow at his heels, As round the circling course he wheels, And whirls with him that clinging boy Like Hector round the walls of Troy; Still on, and on, the third time round They're tailing off! they're losing ground! Budd Doble's nag begins to fail! Dan Pfeiffer's sorrel whisks his tail! And see! in spite of whip and shout, Old Hiram's mare is giving out! Now for the finish! at the turn, The old horse--all the rest astern-- Comes swinging in, with easy trot; By Jove! he's distanced all the lot! That trot no mortal could explain; Some said, "Old Dutchman come again!" Some took his time,--at least they tried, But what it was could none decide; One said he couldn't understand What happened to his second hand; One said 2.10; that could n't be-- More like two twenty-two or three; Old Hiram settled it at last; "The time was two--too dee-vel-ish fast!" The parson's horse had won the bet; It cost him something of a sweat; Back in the one-horse shay he went; The parson wondered what it meant, And murmured, with a mild surprise And pleasant twinkle of the eyes, That funeral must have been a trick, Or corpses drive at double-quick; I should n't wonder, I declare, If brother--Jehu--made the prayer! And this is all I have to say About that tough old trotting bay, Huddup! Huddup! G'lang! Good day! Moral for which this tale is told A horse can trot, for all he 's old.
AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH" "While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall." FULL sevenscore years our city's pride-- The comely Southern spire-- Has cast its shadow, and defied The storm, the foe, the fire; Sad is the sight our eyes behold; Woe to the three-hilled town, When through the land the tale is told-- "The brave 'Old South' is down!" Let darkness blot the starless dawn That hears our children tell, "Here rose the walls, now wrecked and gone, Our fathers loved so well; Here, while his brethren stood aloof, The herald's blast was blown That shook St.Stephen's pillared roof And rocked King George's throne! "The home-bound wanderer of the main Looked from his deck afar, To where the gilded, glittering vane Shone like the evening star, And pilgrim feet from every clime The floor with reverence trod, Where holy memories made sublime The shrine of Freedom's God!" The darkened skies, alas! have seen Our monarch tree laid low, And spread in ruins o'er the green, But Nature struck the blow; No scheming thrift its downfall planned, It felt no edge of steel, No soulless hireling raised his hand The deadly stroke to deal.
In bridal garlands, pale and mute, Still pleads the storied tower; These are the blossoms, but the fruit Awaits the golden shower; The spire still greets the morning sun,-- Say, shall it stand or fall?
Help, ere the spoiler has begun! Help, each, and God help all! THE FIRST FAN READ AT A MEETING OF THE BOSTON BRIC-A-BRAC CLUB, FEBRUARY 21, 1877 WHEN rose the cry "Great Pan is dead!" And Jove's high palace closed its portal, The fallen gods, before they fled, Sold out their frippery to a mortal.
"To whom ?" you ask.

I ask of you.
The answer hardly needs suggestion; Of course it was the Wandering Jew,-- How could you put me such a question?
A purple robe, a little worn, The Thunderer deigned himself to offer; The bearded wanderer laughed in scorn,-- You know he always was a scoffer.
"Vife shillins! 't is a monstrous price; Say two and six and further talk shun." "Take it," cried Jove; "we can't be nice,-- 'T would fetch twice that at Leonard's auction." The ice was broken; up they came, All sharp for bargains, god and goddess, Each ready with the price to name For robe or head-dress, scarf or bodice.
First Juno, out of temper, too,-- Her queenly forehead somewhat cloudy; Then Pallas in her stockings blue, Imposing, but a little dowdy.
The scowling queen of heaven unrolled Before the Jew a threadbare turban "Three shillings." "One.

'T will suit some old Terrific feminine suburban." But as for Pallas,--how to tell In seemly phrase a fact so shocking?
She pointed,--pray excuse me,--well, She pointed to her azure stocking.
And if the honest truth were told, Its heel confessed the need of darning; "Gods!" low-bred Vulcan cried, "behold! There! that's what comes of too much larning!" Pale Proserpine came groping round, Her pupils dreadfully dilated With too much living underground,-- A residence quite overrated; This kerchief's what you want, I know,-- Don't cheat poor Venus of her cestus,-- You'll find it handy when you go To--you know where; it's pure asbestus.
Then Phoebus of the silverr bow, And Hebe, dimpled as a baby, And Dian with the breast of snow, Chaser and chased--and caught, it may be: One took the quiver from her back, One held the cap he spent the night in, And one a bit of bric-a-brac, Such as the gods themselves delight in.
Then Mars, the foe of human kind, Strode up and showed his suit of armor; So none at last was left behind Save Venus, the celestial charmer.
Poor Venus! What had she to sell?
For all she looked so fresh and jaunty, Her wardrobe, as I blush' to tell, Already seemed but quite too scanty.
Her gems were sold, her sandals gone,-- She always would be rash and flighty,-- Her winter garments all in pawn, Alas for charming Aphrodite.
The lady of a thousand loves, The darling of the old religion, Had only left of all the doves That drew her car one fan-tailed pigeon.
How oft upon her finger-tips He perched, afraid of Cupid's arrow, Or kissed her on the rosebud lips, Like Roman Lesbia's loving sparrow! "My bird, I want your train," she cried; "Come, don't let's have a fuss about it; I'll make it beauty's pet and pride, And you'll be better off without it.
"So vulgar! Have you noticed, pray, An earthly belle or dashing bride walk, And how her flounces track her way, Like slimy serpents on the sidewalk?
"A lover's heart it quickly cools; In mine it kindles up enough rage To wring their necks.

How can such fools Ask men to vote for woman suffrage ?" The goddess spoke, and gently stripped Her bird of every caudal feather; A strand of gold-bright hair she clipped, And bound the glossy plumes together, And lo, the Fan! for beauty's hand, The lovely queen of beauty made it; The price she named was hard to stand, But Venus smiled: the Hebrew paid it.
Jove, Juno, Venus, where are you?
Mars, Mercury, Phoebus, Neptune, Saturn?
But o'er the world the Wandering Jew Has borne the Fan's celestial pattern.
So everywhere we find the Fan,-- In lonely isles of the Pacific, In farthest China and Japan,-- Wherever suns are sudorific.
Nay, even the oily Esquimaux In summer court its cooling breezes,-- In fact, in every clime 't is so, No matter if it fries or freezes.
And since from Aphrodite's dove The pattern of the fan was given, No wonder that it breathes of love And wafts the perfumed gales of heaven! Before this new Pandora's gift In slavery woman's tyrant kept her, But now he kneels her glove to lift,-- The fan is mightier than the sceptre.
The tap it gives how arch and sly! The breath it wakes how fresh and grateful! Behind its shield how soft the sigh! The whispered tale of shame how fateful! Its empire shadows every throne And every shore that man is tost on; It rules the lords of every zone, Nay, even the bluest blood of Boston! But every one that swings to-night, Of fairest shape, from farthest region, May trace its pedigree aright To Aphrodite's fan-tailed pigeon.
TO R.B.H.
AT THE DINNER TO THE PRESIDENT, BOSTON, JUNE 26, 1877 How to address him?
awkward, it is true Call him "Great Father," as the Red Men do?
Borrow some title?
this is not the place That christens men Your Highness and Your Grace; We tried such names as these awhile, you know, But left them off a century ago.
His Majesty?
We've had enough of that Besides, that needs a crown; he wears a hat.
What if, to make the nicer ears content, We say His Honesty, the President?
Sir, we believed you honest, truthful, brave, When to your hands their precious trust we gave, And we have found you better than we knew, Braver, and not less honest, not less true! So every heart has opened, every hand Tingles with welcome, and through all the land All voices greet you in one broad acclaim, Healer of strife! Has earth a nobler name?
What phrases mean you do not need to learn; We must be civil, and they serve our turn "Your most obedient humble" means--means what?
Something the well-bred signer just is not.
Yet there are tokens, sir, you must believe; There is one language never can deceive The lover knew it when the maiden smiled; The mother knows it when she clasps her child; Voices may falter, trembling lips turn pale, Words grope and stumble; this will tell their tale Shorn of all rhetoric, bare of all pretence, But radiant, warm, with Nature's eloquence.
Look in our eyes! Your welcome waits you there,-- North, South, East, West, from all and everywhere! THE SHIP OF STATE A SENTIMENT This "sentiment" was read on the same occasion as the "Family Record," which immediately follows it.