The hunter draws a breath
In times like these, which, he will say, repays him For all care that waylays him.
(A joy beyond the tongue's expressive power)
My heart in Autumn weather-fills and thrills!
And I would rather stalk the breezy hills,
Descending to my bower
Nightly, by the sweet spirit of Peace attended,
Than pine where life is splendid.
A LEGEND OF GOTHAM.
OH, terribly proud was Miss MACBRIDE,
The very personification of pride,
As she minced along in Fashion's tide,
Adown Broadway—on the proper side—
When the golden sun was setting;
There was pride in the head she carried so high, Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye,
And a world of pride in the very sigh
That her stately bosom was fretting:
A sigh that a pair of elegant feet,
Sandalled in satin, should kiss the street-
The very same that the vulgar greet
In common leather not over
For such is the common booting;
(And Christian tears may well be shed,
That even among our gentlemen-bred
The glorious Day of Morocco is dead,
And Day and Martin are reigning instead,"
On a much inferior footing!)
Oh, terribly proud was Miss MACBRIDE,
Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride,
And proud of fifty matters beside-
That wouldn't have borne dissection; Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk, Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk, Proud of "knowing cheese from chalk," On a very slight inspection !—
Proud abroad, and proud at home,
Proud wherever she chanced to come-
When she was glad, and when she was glum,
Proud as the head of a Saracen
Over the door of a tippling-shop!
Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop,
"Proud as a boy with a bran-new top,"
Proud beyond comparison !
It seems a singular thing to say,
But her very senses led her astray
Respecting all humility;
In sooth, her dull auricular drum
Could find in humble only a "hum,"
And heard no sound of "gentle" come,
In talking about gentility.
What lowly meant she didn't know,
For she always avoided "every thing low,"
With care the most punctilious;
And, queerer still, the audible sound
Of "super-silly" she never had found
In the adjective supercilious!
The meaning of meek she never knew,
But imagined the phrase had something to do
With "Moses," a peddling German Jew,
Who, like all hawkers, the country through,
Was "a person of no position;"
And it seemed to her exceedingly plain,
If the word was really known to pertain
To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane
To a lady of high condition!
Even her graces-not her grace,
For that was in the "vocative case"-
Chilled with the touch of her icy face,
Sat very stiffly upon her;
She never confessed a favour aloud,
Like one of the simple, common crowd-
But coldly smiled, and faintly bowed,
As who should say, "You do me proud,
And do yourself an honour!"
And yet the pride of Miss MACBRIDE,
Although it had fifty hobbies to ride,
Had really no foundation;
But like the fabrics that gossips devise-
Those single stories that often arise
And grow till they reach a four-story size-
Was merely a fancy creation!
"Tis a curious fact as ever was known
In human nature, but often shown
Alike in castle and cottage,
That pride, like pigs of a certain breed,
Will manage to live and thrive on "feed"
As poor as a pauper's pottage.
That her wit should never have made her vain,
Was-like her face-sufficiently plain;
And as to her musical powers,
Although she sang until she was hoarse,
And issued notes with a banker's force,
They were just such notes as we never indorse
For any acquaintance of ours!
Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high-
For Miss MACBRIDE first opened her eye
Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky;
But pride is a curious passion-
And in talking about her wealth and worth,
She always forgot to mention her birth
To people of rank and fashion.
Of all the notable things on earth,
The queerest one is pride of birth,
Among our "fierce democracie!"
A bridge across a hundred years,
Without a prop to save it from sneers—
Not even a couple of rotten peers—
A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers,
Is American aristocracy!
English and Irish, French and Spanish,
German, Italian, Dutch, and Danish,
Crossing their veins until they vanish
In one conglomeration;
So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed,
No heraldry-HARVEY will ever succeed
In finding the circulation!
Depend upon it, my snobbish friend,
Your family thread you can't ascend,
Without good reason to apprehend
You may find it waxed at the farther end
By some plebeian vocation;
Or, worse than that, your boasted line
May end in a loop of stronger twine,
That plagued some worthy relation !
But Miss MACBRIDE had something beside
Her lofty birth to nourish her pride—
For rich was the old paternal MACBRIDE,
According to public rumour;
And he lived " up town," in a splendid square,
And kept his daughter on dainty fare,
that were rich and rare,
And the finest rings and things to wear,
And feathers enough to plume her.
An honest mechanic was JOHN MACBRIDE,
As ever an honest calling plied
Or graced an honest ditty,
For JOHN had worked, in his early day,
In "pots and pearls," the legends say-
And kept a shop with a rich array.
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