Words for the Hour/A Vision of Montgomery Place
A VISION OF MONTGOMERY PLACE.
Who knocks at Dr. Wendell's door? Who waits with patient feetFor "aloes, pil et colocynth," Or "Rhubarb, tincture sweet?"
Who knocks? the many little ones In whom his home rejoices,Desert their play, and crowd to peep With eager eyes and voices.
"What if 'twere Santa Claus, arrived With weighty load of toys,With dolls for little maids' delight, And rods for rampant boys?"
Then, peering thro' the glass, they see By the uncertain light,What seems the very soul of frost Set in the silent night.
"Nay, do not fear me, little ones, I have no ill-intent;But tell Papa an Author waits And eke, a penitent."
The children to the study run, The father comes straightway;But argues, ere he draws the bolt: "Give me your name, I pray.
"You Authors are so hot of blood, So sensitive of skin,One wants one's surgeon's mittens on Before one lets you in.
"The Swan of Cambridge might you be? Or Lowell, fresh of face,Or Hillard, bringing palm-leaves from His swift Italian race?
"Or Emerson, whose teeming Muse Craved 'cantharids to eat'?""Nay, nay, undo the door, and see A woman in a sheet.
"A woman in a sheet, that looks A statue, as she stands,And proffers you a knotted scourge From softly folded hands."
"Pass hence, pale shade! dost take me for A Haynau? By the RoodI never flogged a woman yet, And know not if I could."
With fixed regard, with rigid lip, Replies the penitent:"I was the saucy 'Commonwealth'— Oh! help me to repent.
"Behind my embrasure well-braced, With every chance to hit,I made your banner, waving wide, A mark for wayward wit.
"'Twas now my turn to walk the street, In dangerous singleness,And run, as bravely as I might, The gauntlet of the press.
"And when I passed your balcony Expecting only blows,From height of vantage-ground, you stooped To whelm me with a rose.
"A rose, intense with crimson life And hidden perfume sweet—Call out your friends, and see me do My penance, in the street."
"Oh no!" the Doctor shivering cried: "The night is very cold;Step in, or on the threshold here My lesson shall be told.
"We sat as critics, in those days, High-talking, wondrous wise,—We meet as poets now, and look With more synthetic eyes.
"The critic is allowed to rule The common law of art—The poet takes his judgment from The pleading of the heart."