A CHAPTER OF VERSE

AMONG MY PRINTS

James L. Claghorn, seated in his print-room,

What broods that winged woman strange?
That weird Knight, where rides he?

Come, Rembrandt! ha, what forms are these
Clumsy, uncouth, and poor!
This Virgin, like a peasant "Frau,"

Saint Joseph like a Boor!

Nay, pardon me, thou artist grand,
"Tis but with friends I jest,
Of all the cherished favorites here,
Rembrandt! I love thee best!

We shall not part! my gentle friends,
Time but endears us more,
Still will ye cheer, instruct, refine,

Till here my days are o'er.

Then when ye pass to stranger hands

Good fortune still befall,

"Loved, honored, cherished," may ye be,

For ye are worth it all!

NOTES ON A SERVICE AT OLD TRINITY CHURCH, NEW YORK

BY AN OUTSIDER

"Dirty streets and proud people,

High Church and low steeple."

(Dean Swift.)

EARLY forty years ago I was one of the

NEA

two tenor singers in Trinity Church. Our organist and choirmaster was Dr. Messiter, who occupied the distinguished position for thirty-one years, and who made the Trinity choir the model for choirs throughout the United States.

In those days the rector was Dr. Morgan Dix, and the other chief clergy were Dr. Ogilby and Dr. Vinton the latter being generally the preacher.

The two organists were Messiter and Morgan. I myself, being brought up a Methodist, had small sympathy with the high-church ritualism of Trinity Church, and so, one Sunday when I could not listen any longer to the sermon of Dr. Vinton, which was all about the authority of "The Church," I wrote, from my stall in the choir, the following wicked rhymes. It must be remembered that Old Trinity, being enormously rich, had none of the kindly sociability of other American churches. My verses, of which there was only one copy, were handed about among the clergy until they reached

the august rector. Dr. Dix sent for me and administered to me a sharp reprimand. He said that he would have "no such goings-on" from any employé of Trinity Church, and he confiscated my manuscript, locking it up in the vestry safe. But he could not confiscate my memory of my own lines, and here they are:

Fugue on great organ, grand hurly-burly!
Nice little boys, Dutch sextons surly,
Great men waited on, small men unheeded,
Bevies of clergy more than are needed;
Candles in daylight wasting their wicks;
Good Doctor Ogilby, learn'd Doctor Dix;
Strains Messiterian and strains Morganic,
(Litany intoned in discord satanic!)
Chords organ-ic and chorales choir-some,
Music ravishing, sermon tiresome,
Platitudes Vintonian, devout congregation,
Service of three mortal hours' duration,
"Pride, pomp and circumstance," -music again,
And the best part of all is—the last amen!

GLUMBY'S CART-HORSE

Reprinted from the "New York Tribune”

(The horse speaks)

Oats in a nosebag, hung about my head,

I'm resting now, they've shut me in my stable.
Till Glumby comes I have no whip to dread,
And now I'll say my say as I am able.

Strange creatures are my masters, weak and frail,
On their hind feet they walk, with heads held high;
And yet they master me and make me quail,
Though I could crush them as I'd crush a fly.

How well I love my friends and dread my foes,
I think of both as I stand here alone;
The kindly errand-boy who pats my nose,
Or cross-ey'd Jim who hits me with a stone.

I'm not a handsome horse, I'm not a pet,
I'm only a poor drudge that draws a cart;
I get more blows than compliments, and yet
Under my lean old ribs there beats a heart.

That good gray mare that draws the dustman's cart, I love to meet her, joy then fills my cup;

But when about to offer her my heart,

Crack goes the whip and Glumby yells "git up.”

The saucy sparrow has his liberty;

Why don't they make him work? He has no friends The cat and dog are cared for, yet they're free, But the poor horse's bondage never ends.