it—"DOBBS HIS FERRY"— In the clear moonlight swayed. I turned, and there the craft was, Its shape 'twixt scow and raft was, Square ends, low sides, and flat, And standing close beside me, An ancient chap who eyed me, Beneath a steeple-hat; Short legs—long pipe—style very Pre-Revolutionary— I bow, he grimly bobs, Then, with some perturbation, By way of salutation, Says I, "How are you, Dobbs!" He grum and silent beckoned, And I, in half a second, Scarce knowing what I did, Took the stern seat, Dobbs throwing Himself 'midships, and rowing, Swift through the stream we slid; He pulled awhile, then stopping, And both oars slowly dropping, His pipe aside he laid, Drew a long breath, and taking An attitude, and shaking His fist towards shore, thus said:— "Of all sharp cuts the keenest, Of all mean turns the meanest, Vilest of all vile jobs, Worse than the Cow-Boy pillagers, Are these Dobbs' Ferry villagers A going back on Dobbs! 'Twould not be more anom'lous If Rome went back on Rom'lus (Old rum-un like myself), Or Hail Columbia, played out By Southern Dixie, laid out Columbus on the shelf! "They say 'Dobbs' ain't melodious, It's 'horrid,' 'vulgar,' 'odious,' In all their crops it sticks; And then the worse addendum Of 'Ferry' does offend 'em More than its vile prefix. Well, it does seem distressing, But, if I'm good at guessing, Each one of these same nobs, If there was money in it, Would ferry in a minute, And change his name to Dobbs! "That's it, they're not partic'lar, Respecting the auric'lar, At a stiff market rate; But Dobbs' especial vice is, That he keeps down the prices Of all their real estate! A name so unattractive Keeps villa-sites inactive, And spoils the broker's jobs; They think that speculation Would rage at 'Paulding's Station,' Which stagnates now at 'Dobbs.' "'Paulding's!"—that's sentimental! An old Dutch Continental, Bushwhacked up there a spell; But why he should come blustering Round here, and filibustering, Is more than I can tell; Sat playing for a wager, And nabbed a British major. Well, if the plans and charts From Andre's boots he hauled out, Is his name to be bawled out Forever, round these parts? "Guess not! His pay and bounty And mon'ment from the county Paid him off, every cent, While this snug town and station, To every generation, Shall be Dobbs' monument; Spite of all speculators And ancient-landmark traitors, Who, all along this shore, Are ever substitutin' The modern, highfalutin', For the plain names of yore. "Down there, on old Manhattan, Where land-sharks breed and fatten, They've wiped out Tubby Hook. That famous promontory, Renowned in song and story, Which time nor tempest shook, Whose name for aye had been good, Stands newly christened 'Inwood,' And branded with the shame Of some old rogue who passes By dint of aliases, Afraid of his own name! "See how they quite outrival, Plain barnyard Spuytenduyvil, By peacock Riverdale, Which thinks all else it conquers, And over homespun Yonkers Spreads out its flaunting tail! There's new-named Mount St. Vincent, Where each dear little inn'cent Is taught the Popish rites— Well, ain't it queer, wherever These saints possess the river They get the finest sites! "They've named a place for Irving, A trifle more deserving Than your French, foreign saints, But if he has such mention, It's past my comprehension Why Dobbs should cause complaints; Wrote histories and such things, About Old Knick and Dutch things, Dolph Heyligers and Rips; But no old antiquary Like him could keep a ferry, With all his authorships! "By aid of these same showmen, Some fanciful cognomen Old Cro'nest stock might bring As high as Butter Hill is, Which, patronized by Willis, Leaves cards now as 'Storm-King!' Can't some poetic swell-beau Re-christen old Crum Elbow And each prosaic bluff, Bold Breakneck gently flatter, And Dunderberg bespatter, With euphony and stuff! "'T would be a magnum opus To bury old Esopus In Time's sepulchral vaults, Or in Oblivion's deep sea Submerge renowned Poughkeepsie, And also ancient Paltz; How it would give them rapture Brave Stony Point to capture, And make it face about; Bid Rhinebeck sound much smoother Than in the tongue of Luther, And wipe the Catskills out! "Well, DOBBS is DOBBS, and faster Than pitch or mustard-plaster Shall it stick hereabouts, While Tappan Sea rolls yonder, Or round High Torn the thunder Along these ramparts shouts. No corner-lot banditti, Or brokers from the City— Like you—" Here Dobbs began Wildly both oars to brandish, As fierce as old Miles Standish, Or young Phil Sheridan. Sternwards he rushed—I, ducking, Seized both his legs, and chucking Dobbs sideways, splash he went— The wherry swayed, then righted, While I, somewhat excited, Over the water bent; Three times he rose, but vainly I clutched his form ungainly, He sank, while sighs and sobs Beneath the waves seemed muttered, And all the night-winds uttered In sad tones, "Dobbs! Dobbs! Dobbs!" Just then some giant boulders Upon my head and shoulders Made sudden, fearful raids, And on my face and forehead, With din and uproar horrid, Came several Palisades; I screamed, and woke, in screaming, To see, by gaslight's gleaming, Brown's face above my bed; "Why, Jack, what is the matter? We heard a dreadful clatter And found you on the shed! "It's plain enough, supposing You sat there, moon-struck, dozing, Upon the window's edge, Then lost yourself, and falling, Just where we found you, sprawling, Struck the piazza ledge; A lucky hit, old fellow, Of black and blue and yellow It gives your face a touch, You saved your neck, but barely; To state the matter fairly, You took a drop too much!" I took the train next morning, Some lumps my nose adorning, My forehead, sundry knobs, My ideas slightly wandering, But, as I went, much pondering Upon my night with Dobbs; Brown thinks it, dear old sinner, A case of "after dinner," And won't believe a word, Talks of "hallucination," "Laws of association," And calls my tale "absurd." Perhaps it is, but never, Say I, should we dissever Old places and old names; Guard the old landmarks truly, On the old altars duly Keep bright the ancient flames. For me the face of Nature, No luckless nomenclature Of grace or beauty robs; No, when of town I weary, I'll make a strike in Erie, And buy a place at DOBBS! —Poems.
Father Higgins was not the kind of divine who easily finds preferment in the Catholic Church, or who would be apt to make a shining mark in any other.
Fat and red-faced and pudding-headed was Father Higgins; uncommonly in the way of good eating, and now and then disposed for good drinking; as lazy as he dared be, ignorant enough for a hermit, and simple enough for a monk. His chief excellence lay in his kindliness of heart, which would doubtless have made him very serviceable and comfortable to his fellow-men, had it not been for his indolence, his spare intellectual gifts, and perhaps a little leaven of selfishness.
Such as he was, however, Father Higgins had no small "consate" of himself, and sometimes thought that even a bishopric would not be "beyant his desarts." He pleased himself with imagining how finely he would fill an episcopal chair, what apostolic labors he would accomplish in his diocese, what swarms of heretics or pagans he would convert, what a self-sacrificing and heroic life he would lead, and what a saintly name he would leave. One day, or to speak with a precision worthy of this true history, one evening, he became a bishop.
It happened on this wise. Father Higgins had ventured to treat himself to a spectacle. He had attended, for the first time in his life, an exhibition of legerdemain; this one being given by that celebrated master of the black-art, Professor Heller. He had seen the professor change turnips into gold watches, draw a dozen live pigeons in succession out of an empty box, send rings into ladies' handkerchiefs at the other end of the hall, catch a bullet out of an exploded pistol in his hand, and perform other marvels equally irrational and disturbing. From this raree-show Father Higgins had gone home feeling that he had witnessed something about as unearthly as he was likely to be confronted with in the next world.
For an hour or more he sat in his elbow-chair, puzzling over the professor's "diviltries," and crossing
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