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And one while for the bed he strips,

And one, when he gets in; And, if he's restless in the night,

A little one 's no sin,

And with another little one

Eked out, will keep away Qualms, which without his nicotine

Beset him, night and day.

How blest your lot, ye little wot,

Who, if such qualms ye feel, Have resolution from all eyes

Your sufferings to conceal.

Angels ye are who not alone

So well your own griefs bear, But even for griefs imposed by us

Some patience have to spare.

We need it all, and count on you

Let us not count in vain;
Some twelve cigars per day allow,

And we will not complain;

But, in all due acknowledgment,

As often as we meet,
Whether on horseback or on foot,

In park or open street,

Out of our mouths will take cigar

Till you have clear passed by, Showing, alike, respect for you,

And magnanimity;

And he who can't so long abstain,

Or will not, if he can,
It 's not enough to call him rude,

He is not even a man.

But I, who can and will – I am

Of courtesy the star,
And, to each lady passing by,

I lower my cigar,

In sign how much I honor her,

How little for self care,
What sore privation for her sake

I 'm ready still to bear.

Deservedly is Bacchus praised,

Well earned Gambrinus' fame,
But I revere and honor more

Jean Nicot's glorious name.

Hurrah, then, for Havana mild!

For Nicot loud hurrah!
Sir, might I have a little fire ?

I thank you, sir – hurrah! [STRUVESTRASSE, DRESDEN, March 3, 1866.)


Give up your search; the world's tribes are but two, Cheaters and cheated; of which tribe are you?

(STRUVESTRASSE, DRESDEN, January 21, 1866.)

I HAD a friend, a learned friend,
Who laid upon orthography much weight;

His life came to untimely end –
Listen, and I 'll to you the tale relate.

It was in winter, and the days Were dark and dismal, and he had no fire,

Yet not the less he studied still Whether with Q or CH to spell CHOIR.

And now to Q he was inclined,
And now CH appeared to have more weight;

But etymology the scale
At last made to CH preponderate.

Rejoiced, he wrote to me same night, Telling me how his doubts were at an end,

And begging, if I knew myself,
I'd be so kind to tell a faithful friend,

What right had coLOUR to be spelled,
Or HONOUR, or even ODOUR, with an U,

U being as foreign to the root,
As, to Great Britain, king of Timbuctoo.

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He owned he once had SATIRE spelled, Once, since he was accountable, with Y,

And, an upbraiding conscience said, Had PIGSTIE perhaps twice put for PIGSTY.

I wrote him word back by the post: “Much as I honored Etymology,

'Twas not by her but Common Use Such weighty questions could decided be;

“That in orthography no rule
Of absolute right and wrong had yet been found,

And Common Use was arbitress
To furrow, with what plough she pleased, the ground:

"Puts she her edict forth that none
The ground henceforth with other plough shall dare

To till than Gallic, woe to him
Who turns one sod up with old Roman share!

“And then I begged him not to let Pigstie's false I upon his conscience press

Too heavily, for if on earth
More than in name existed righteousness,

“The wrong in PIGSTIE done to Y
Had been atoned for and made sound and whole

By the wrong in SATYRE done to I;
And he might lay that unction to his soul.”

Whether it were the winter cold
With but orthography for fire and light,

Or that he took to heart my joke,
I cannot say, but that December night,

He went for the last time to bed;
And those who thought they knew him, but did not,

Nor half his modest worth, a stone
With name and date set up to mark the spot,

Where one was laid, who had as well, And quite as conscientiously, his part

In this great tragicomedy played, As any Galileo or Descartes.

Peace to his Manes, and may I Without more circumstance my long adieu

Bid to the boards, when I have come To the last word and flourish of my cue. (STRUYESTRASSE, DRESDEN, March 8, 1866.


'Twas only long years after I left school,
I learned the difference between mad and fool,
And that, although I am of each the brother,
I 'm not exactly either one or other;
Not thorough mad, for I do not suppose
All the men in the world my deadly foes;
Nor quite a fool, for I do not pretend
That every man I meet 's my bosom friend.
The juste milieu is mine, for I know well
That every man 's my friend who has to sell
Something I want to buy, and none my foe

Save him who has no hope from me of mo'. [STRUVESTRASSE, DRESDEN, Febr., 1866.]

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