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LIII. – THE AMERICAN FLAG.
e róbe of night,
A'zore (ā'zhūr), a., sky-blue. WEL'KIN, n., the vault of heaven.
And set the stars of glory there.
Majestic monarch of the cloud,
Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
When strive the warriors of the storm,
To guard the banner of the free,
The harbingers of victory!
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
THE AMERICAN FLAG.
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
HARVARD UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
And, when the cannon-mouthings loud
And cowering foes shall sink beneath
That lovely messenger of death.
Flag of the seas ! on ocean’s wave
By angel hands to Valor given ;
And all thy hues were born in heaven,
Where breathes the foe but falls before us
J. R. DRAKE. (1795 ~ 184)
LIV. – THE HOSTESS AND THE QUACK.
BRUISE, n., a hurt on the flesh. PALE-BOT'O-MIZE, V., to let blood with Lux, v. t., to put out of joint.
a lancet. Draugut (draft), n., the quantity FĂR’RI-ER, n., one who shoes or cures drunk at once.
horses. BRAY, v. t., to beat in a mortar. GE'NUS (je’nus), n., kind ; sort.
Pronounce none, nun. Do not say swaller for swallow.
Enter Hostess and LAM-PE'DO, followed by Bal-THAZ'AR unperceived.
The latter carries a drawn sword, and overhears what is said of him.
Hostess. Doctor Lampedo, you must keep this man, if you can so contrive it, another fortnight in my house. Come, you shall not be the loser. Your bill already must be almost as long as mine is. Another fortnight, doctor. Lampedo. It can not be. The man's as well as I
Have some mercy. He has been here almost three weeks already. His accident ought not to have detained him half a day.
Host. Well, then, a week - detain him a week.
Lam. You talk now like a reasonable hostess that sometimes has a reckoning with her conscience. We may keep him a week.
Host. He still believes he has an inward bruise.
Lam. I would he had ! Or that he had slipped his shoulder-blade, or broke a leg or two (not that I bear his person any malice), or luxed an arm, or even sprained his ankle.
Host. Ay, broken any thing except his neck.
Lam. However, for a week I'll manage him. He has the constitution of a horse — but I'll manage him. A farrier should prescribe for him — but I'll manage him.
Host. Do so, doctor. Custom is scarce; but the occupant of the best room must pay a big price.
Lam. Let me - let me see. To-morrow we phlebotomize again; the next day I make him swallow my new-invented pătent draught; then I have some pills prepared; on Thursday we throw in the bark; on Friday
Balthazar (coming forward). Well, sir, on Friday — what on Friday ? Come, proceed.
Lam. Discovered !
Bal. On your knees! 'T is well. Pray, -- for your time is short.
Host. Nay, do not kill us.
Bal. You have been tried, condemned, and only wait for execution. Which shall I begin with?
Lam. The elder one, by all means.
tell me, and in a breath how many poisons you have cooked up for me.
Host. None, as I hope for mercy.
Host. No, indeed, sir. 'Tis not, I own, of the first quality, but
Bal. But what? Speak out.
Host. I always give short measure, sir, and ease my conscience that way.
Bal. Ease your conscience, indeed! I'll ease your conscience for you.
Host. Mercy, sir! The times are hard.
Bal. If, in five minutes, all things are prepared for my departure, you may yet survive.
Host. It shall be done in less time.
Bal. Away! Be speedy. (The Hostess goes out.)
There's dagger, rope, and ratsbane, in his looks!
and therefore spare me.
Bal. Why! wouldst thou have made me a thoroughfare for thy whole shop ?
Lam. Man, you know, must live.
Bal. I'll send you to the major part of them. The window, sir, is open. Come, prepare !
Lam. Pray, consider; I may hurt some one in the street.
Bal. Why, then, I 'll rattle thee to pieces in a dicebox, or grind thee in a coffee-mill to powder; for thou must sup with Pluto! So, make ready; whilst I, with this good small-sword for a lancet, let thy starved spirit out (for blood thou hast none), and nail thee to the wall, where thou shalt look like a dried beetle, with a pin stuck through him.
Lam. Consider my poor wife.
Lam. I have a wife, and three angelic babes, who, by those looks, are well-nigh fatherless.
Bal. Well, well! your wife and children shall plead for you. Come, come; the pills ! where are the pills ? Produce them.
Lam. Here is the box.
Bal. Were it Pando'ra's, and each single pill had ten diseases in it, you should take them.
Lam. What, all ?