Life of John Boyle O'Reilly — Chapter 13

As when a man along piano keysTrails a slow hand, and then with touch grown boldStrikes pealing chords, by some great master oldWoven into a gem of melodies.All full of summer and the shout of seas,—So do thy rhythmic songs my soul enfold.

First some sweet love-note, full as it can holdOf daintiness, comes like the hum of bees;Then, rising grandly, thou dost sound a chordThat rings and clamors in the heart of hearts,And dying as receding waves, departsLeaving us richer by a lusty hoardOf noble thoughts.

O poet! would that weMight strike one note like thine—but just for thee!

Why are we here, we graybeards? what is this?What Faust among us brings this old-time bliss,

This dish of dear old memories long gone by,And sets it here before us,—like that pie,That dainty dish whose every blackbird sings.Ah me! It minds us we have all been kings.

Aye, aye, we wander! we are garrulous grown!How strange—in Billy Park's—we eight alone—("Alon " is Irish for no more, to-night;'Tis better to be Irish than be right.)

Hush! OneIs absent,—he the merriest, he the youngest. WhereIs that dear friend who filled this empty chair?One vacant place! Alas, the years have sped!That gulf was bridged with rainbow and 'tis fled.Ah, boys, we can't go back! that chair forbids—But to his memory now, with brimming lids.We drink a toast,—"May he with genii dwell!"And when we go may we be loved as well.

******We have been generals, — what is now our style!Old stagers we to form new rank and file;Or have we any meaning, but to meet.Like ancient villagers, with tottering feet.Who love to sit together in the sun,With senile gossip till their day is done?

A town there was, and lo! it had a Club—A special set, each hubbier than the Hub;Selection's own survival of the fit,As rubies ere gathered from the pit,These rare one shone amid the outer hordeTill picked ad gathered for the club's bright board.

Oh! but they made a nosegay for the soul,Tied with a silken

'Twould do you good with spiritual noseTo sniff the odor of the psychic rose,Historic musk, and philosophic pea,Poetic pansy, legal rosemary;To smell the sweet infusion, pills and paint,And law, and music, shaded with a taintOf science, politics, and trade.

And soIt came to pass, they could no longer go.Until from out their brilliant rank was ledA man to stand as capstone, ruler, head.They cast their eyes around to choose them one;But closed them quick, as they had seen the sun.The faces of their fellow-members blazedTill none could look, but all stood blind and dazed.With thoughtful brows and introverted eyes;And thus it was that each one in surprise,Beheld himself the center of his sight.And wrote his own proud name from left to rightAcross his ballot, even as one inspired.

Then came the count of votes; a clerk was hiredTo sort the ballots, while the members satIn silent hope, each heart going pita-pat;Swift worked that clerk till all his work was done.Then called the vote: each member there had one!

They thanked each other for the compliment.While round the room their gloomy looks were sent.They knew that now a choice of one must come;They asked for names ; but all the crowd was dumb.At last one said: "Let's take no other test,But vote for him whom each one loves the best!"

A moment later were the ballots cast:Each wrote one name e'en swifter than the last;The votes were counted, sorted, and the clerkWas seen to smile when closing up his work."One name alone," he cried, "has here been sent,And N. S. Dodge is your first president!"

Lord! how we cheered him, and how he cheered too,The kindly soul—the childlike and the true;

The loving heart that fed the merry eye,The genial wit whose well ran never dry.Lord! how he ruled us with an iron rodThat melted into laughter with his nod!

Just hear him scold that ribald songster's note,With fun all beaming from his dear "club coat,"Just see the smiling thunder on his browAt some persistent rebel. Hear him: "NowThis club must come to order. Boys, for shame!I say there, Pascoe! I shall call your name."

Oh, dear old friend! Death could not take awayThe fragrant memory of that happy day!We speak not sadly, when we speak of you:Nay, rather smile, as you would have us do.We think you do not quite forget us here ;We feel to-night your kindred spirit near.We pray "God rest you, loving soul!" and praySuch love to have when we have passed away.Old joys, no doubt, are magnified through tearsBut God be with those unpretentious years!

Fast spins the top! That golden time outranToo swift, too soon. And now another manTo head the board must from the board be drawn.Oh, varied choice! Some vote for brain, some brawn;Some, skill to rule; some, eloquence to speak;Some, moral excellence, some, zeal; some, cheek:That one an artist wants—a poet, this;And each proposal met with cheer and hiss—Till from the table rose a sightly head,A Jove-like dignity, white beard outspread.He spoke for hours—and while he spoke they wrote.Their choice unanimous—he got the vote!Dear Underwood! they chose him for his beard:He ruled for years, and each year more endeared.

Then came another gulf without a bridge:And who shall stretch from annual ridge to ridge?A sound was heard—the Club with searching stareBeheld a figure standing on a chair:'Twas Rogers— Henry M.; well posed he stood.Head bent, lips pursed,—a studious attitude.

No word was said; but each man wrote his name,And hailed him President with loud acclaim.He stepped him down: "You know me like a book,"He said, "I am the friend of Joseph Cook!"

While Rogers reigned the club climbed high in air;Then paused to help O'Reilly fill the chair.Selected he for neither gift nor grace,But just a make-shift for the vacant place.

Twelve months the club considered then its choice,And, like a trained Calliope, one voiceAnnounced that Alexander Young was Mayor ;They chose him for his grave, benignant air:"We want historians!" they proudly said:"The Netherlands," by Young, they had not read.Nor had he writ; but their prophetic rage.Could see the writing in him, every page!

Then grew they weary of the serious minds.As children long for candy's varied kinds.They cried: "We want a man to please the eye;A sensuous, soft, mellifluent harmony!"And all eyes centered with direct accordOn Towle, the gentle wrangler of the board.He swayed the gavel with a graceful poseAnd wore a wreath of sweet poetic prose.

Wide swings the pendulum in one brief year:The fickle-hearted Club cries: "Bring us hereA man who knows not poetry nor prose;Nor art nor grace, yet all these graceful knows;Bring us a brusque, rude gentleman of parts!"They brought in Hovey, who won all their hearts.

Next year, the Club said: "Now, we cannot choose;Goodness, we've had, and beauty, and the muse;Religion's friend and Holland's guardian, too:Go—nominate—we know not what to do."

And forth they brought a man, and cried: "Behold!A balanced virtue, neither young nor old;A pure negation, scientific, cold—Yet not too cold—caloric, just enough—Simple and pure in soul, yet up to snuff.

In mind and body,—doctor, artist, wit.Author and politician,—he, and she, and it!""Enough!" they shouted: "Harris, take the bun!"And all were sorry when his year was done.

Then with the confidence of years and looks.The Club cried gayly: "We've had lots of books,And beards, and piety, and science. Now—We want a ruler with ambrosial brow—A jovial tra-la-la! A débonnaire—A handsome blue-eyed boy with yellow hair!"

And forth stepped Babbitt, with a little laugh,And blushed to feel the gavel's rounded staff.He scored a high success—a fairy's wand.The bright good nature of our handsome blonde.

And then the Club cried: "Go; we make no test.They all are fit to rule. Give us a rest!"So went they out, committee-like, to findA likely candidate with restful mind.They found him, weeping, hand on graceful hip.Because a fly had bit a lily's lip.

They cheered him up, and bade him lift his eye:"Nay, nay," he said, "I look not at the skyOn unæsthetic week-days! Go your way;I seek a plaintive soul! Alack and well-a-day!"

They heard no more, but seized him as a prize,And bore him clubwards, heeding not his cries.Behold him now still looking in his glass.Narcissus-like, not Bacchus; and, "Alas!"He sighs betimes, "I would my lady wereSitting with me upon this weary chair!"

And so we fill the album and the mindWith jokes all simple, faces true and kind.And so the years go on and we grow old;These are our pleasant tales to be retold.These in our little life will have large place.And fool is he who wipes out jest or face.Men love too seldom in their three-score years,And each must bear his burden, dry his tears;But when the harvest smiles, let us be wiseAnd garner friends and flowery memories.