My friends the Marstons took me home again, and in another week I left Chicago.
Before I left the office, however, I noticed the policeman who had arrested me sitting on the rail of the partition, smoking a cigar.
“Young man,” said he, “you’re the wrong man, eh?”
“Yes.”
“No right to take you, then?”
“Not a bit.”
“Then—by golly! I’d make ’em pay for it.”
I begin to think that policeman was right, and that when people take the wrong man out of the wrong ship, they should be made to pay for it in every case.
“TAKEN FROM LIFE.”
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I know quite well just now it’s all the rage
(Especially upon the minor stage)
To bend the knee to “woman’s heavenly beauty,”
And prate about her eyes and not her duty.
But, oh, ye men, ye men, if ye but knew
How “lovely woman” really laughs at you
When all her sterling virtues you ignore
And all her petty vanities adore;
When trashy compliments you think must please her,
Though eight times out of ten they only tease her,
’Tis very like you’ll find to your surprise
The real women “worshipping” despise.
A woman true, to empty air will scatter
Man’s fulsome words that crawl and lie and flatter,
Content to be what Heaven’s wisdom made her,
And fly the bending fools who but degrade her;
Who make her eyes “bright stars,” or “gems of flame,”
And find for every grace some sickly name;
No “diamonds” shine in her laughing eyes,
Nor “purest blue of heaven’s azure skies;”
No “rosebuds” fair her “fairy cheeks” adorn,
Nor “ruddy mantle of the bashful morn;”
Cheeks simply blushing with the wind’s caresses,
Eyes bright, and sometimes “silky-looking tresses;”
Lips that may sometimes kisses “half invite,”
But not “like Cupid’s bow”—that simile’s too trite.
She knows that Heaven never meant
An “angel” should on earth be sent;
Such impious flattery she scorns,
And woman’s proper sphere adorns.
This is the helpmate that will please a true man,
No “angel,” but a simple, loving woman.
No “goddess” she, and well, right well, she knows it,
In every daily act of life she shows it;
A “goddess” cook! the thought is far too cruel,
Fancy a “goddess” making water-gruel!
A “goddess” hashing up cold legs of mutton!
A “goddess” sewing on a stray shirt-button!
Nay, nay, a true-soul’d woman well affords
To rise above such worship and such words.
Happy, if loved where she herself loves best,
She’ll live and love, and go without the rest;
The angel’s crown on earth she’ll cheerfully resign,
Content if, duty done, she wins a crown divine.
