Travel

From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.

NOVEMBER 1, 18--.

It's quite the thing to "travel" nowadays
(Although I do not think it always pays),
And see if distant ground in general looks
As mentioned in the papers and in books.
I find, in sifting what few facts I know,
Three ways of realizing things are so:
First, when you're told them in such trusty shape
That square belief isn't easy to escape.
(There's lots of people--this town wouldn't hold them--
Who don't know much excepting what is told them.)
Second, what you've put on some mental shelf,
By having seen and understood yourself.
(How well we know things witnessed, largely lies
On how much brain there is behind our eyes.)
The third way is the surest and the best
(Though sometimes painful, it must be confessed):
It's where a truth has whipped the earth with you,
Until you feel, from head to foot, 'tis true.
I think, sometimes, when all is said and done,
Feeling is all the senses joined in one.

We're going to travel!--not so very far
As our new friends, the Fitzcumnoodles, are,
Who cannot read their social title's clear
Unless they ride twelve thousand miles a year,
(I told them, with a philosophic smile,
That travelling shouldn't be measured by the mile.)
But we shall take a little trip, to-morrow,
With some spare time that wife's contrived to borrow,
To where George Washington laid out a town
That several centuries won't see tumbled down!
A city which, with all the sneaking sinners
That come down there to steal their daily dinners,
And all the human insects hovering nigh,
Such as swarm thick wherever good things lie,
And spite of all the bad weeds growing round,
Has always some good folks upon the ground,
And will be head-piece of the greatest nation
That ever helped spruce up the Lord's plantation.

The Fitzcumnoodles, through their daughter Maud,
Inform us that we ought to go abroad;
The Clancdenancies, we have lately learned,
From an extended trip have just returned;
And so my eldest daughter, Isabel,
Who knows Miss Clanc, etc., very well,
Called on her in the progress of a walk,
And had a pleasant little travel-talk;
And after coming home misspent her time
In putting what she heard there into rhyme
And--lost it--not by accident, I fear;
I'll paste the "conversation" right in here:

WASHINGTON, November 3, 18--.

We're travelling, and we're here! and what a town!
I own, it picks me up and sets me down!
I thought I had some idea of the place,
And what its corporation lines embrace;
I'd read the county papers every week,
Which seldom failed "From Washington" to speak;
I'd travelled through these streets by photograph,
And, with Imagination for a staff,
Had wandered round, in little trips disjointed,
Even where the artist's brass gun has not pointed;
And so I said, "Though I wouldn't like to miss it,
'Twill be a good deal like a second visit."

But 'tisn't an easy perpetrated scheme
To prophesy how anything will seem.
This city's new to me--I do not doubt it--
As if I'd never heard a word about it!
There's something in these white-clothed buildings' glare,
And something even in the very air,
And in the great variety of faces,
Bearing the ear-marks of a thousand places,
And in that monument that reaches high--
The farthest stone has climbed into the sky,
And in that dome, whose kingly size and height
Contrive, where'er you are, to keep in sight--
From these, and several hundred other things
This nation's lead-horse city at you flings,
You feel as if you'd stepped, through many a mile,
Into another planet for a while!

But men too weary to hold up their heads
Are apt to bless the man who first made beds;
Then, having found one, and reclined within it,
Forget about him in just half a minute.
So I'll let Morpheus (who is at me winking)
Do the remainder of this evening's thinking.

From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.

From Farmer Harrington's Note-book.

NOVEMBER 5, 18--.

Went to Mount Vernon; and I wouldn't have lost
That trip, for fifteen hundred times its cost!
Those farm-lands sleeping in the autumn sun;
The house HE slept in when his work was done;
The trees he planted with his own brave hand,
That set out Freedom's trees all o'er the land:
The humble tomb he lies in, which--like me--
Pilgrims from all the world have come to see:
These look up in one's eyes and sadly smile,
And preach a funeral sermon all the while!
Even the river-boats upon their way
Toll bells, as if he'd died that very day!
And through it all this precept may be traced:
The noblest men are simplest in their taste.

I've read how grand, Napoleon's tomb is made,
And all the surface-honors to him paid;
But I don't think the people that come there
Bring any heartfelt sympathy to spare;
While every true-brained patriot, night and morn,
Thanks God for letting Washington be born!

While I was standing, hat off, at the tomb,
A youth approached, three-quarters made of bloom;
And with his hat perched on his close-sheared head,
And smoking a small white cigar, he said:
"Sirrh, would you kindly just enlighten me
As to where Gawge cut down the cherry-tree?"
Said I, "Young man, just please at once disgorge
The fool-idea of calling that man 'George;'
His body, mind, and soul were firmly set
Higher, no doubt, than you will ever get.
He isn't the man, though lying dead, 'tis true,
When friends are near, to be half-named by you.
Take off your hat, and bow; if you rebel,
I'll get a cherry switch and trounce you well."

He looked at me a moment in surprise,
And mutiny stood foremost in his eyes;
But I was quite indignant, and could feel
The blood of Bunker Hill all through me steal.
I said, "One minute more will be allowed;"
The fine young man took off his hat, and bowed.

Irreverence is the fashion, nowadays,
And shows itself in good and evil ways;
Its mission is legitimate and clear
In cases where there's nothing to revere;
But they who use it must be judgment-fixed,
And not get reverend and unreverend mixed.

From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.

Through these broad streets do I fly--
Furlongs and miles I defy,
Till the "magnificent distance"
Vanishes out of existence.
Let me with pencil prolong
Strains of the Bicycler's Song:

From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.

NOVEMBER 20, 18--.

It's quite a show, and strikes me a good deal--
How many ride around here on a wheel;
The streets are graded very smooth and nice,
And make this town the wheelman's paradise.
A brother-farmer--neighbor, once, to me--
Who's down here, like myself, to hear and see,
Told me, last night, before we "doused the glim,"
How a young wheel-chap got the start of him.
'Twould skip my memory, maybe, if I'd let it;
I'll put it down here so I sha'n't forget it.

NOVEMBER 21, 18--.

Went into Congress for a little spell,
Where everything seemed going pretty well;
But all through boyhood's easy-moulding day
I'd heard so much of Webster and of Clay,
That, though they had been dead for many a year,
I thought at least by proxy they'd appear.
It was a disappointment, I declare:
Daniel or Henry--neither one was there!

NEW YORK, January 1, 18--.

Got back from several cities; and it looks
As if the things we've seen would fill ten books!
Some time I'll write our wanderings to and fro;
It's a large job: I'll have to take it slow.