The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 06, No. 33, July, 1860

Such is an outline of our subject. The science itself is by no means systematized. Many things are taken for granted which may yet be disproved. If, says Humboldt, we perceive a want of connection in the phenomena of certain sciences, we may anticipate the revelation of new facts, whose importance will probably be commensurate with the attention directed to other branches of study. What we want is a larger class of observers, and not only those who are professional persons, but those who would commune with Nature, and seek to invigorate their minds by the acquisition of new ideas, and a recourse to rich and pure sources of enjoyment.

But more than this. It is a requirement of the present age, says the same authority, that there should be an equal appreciation of all branches of mathematical and physical science; for the material wealth and the growing prosperity of nations are principally based upon a more enlightened employment of the products and forces of Nature.

Much attention has of late years been paid to this subject. Many distinguished men in Europe have connected their great reputations indissolubly with it, and it is absolutely true that more persons are engaged in a common effort to promote this science than any other of our time. In Paris there is a large and flourishing society where the most brilliant of its savans combine their efforts. In London, that which was established in 1850 has met with remarkable success, and a most unexpected crowd of supporters. The finest instruments, the most accurate observations, and entire uniformity of purpose have been the result. In Germany, equal zeal prevails among its naturalists. There are more than eight hundred stations throughout the world where regular observations are made, and upwards of three hundred and sixty of them are in the United States. The Smithsonian Institution has been also a wise patron of this science, by its numerous publications, its lucid directions for observing meteorological changes, and the bestowal of standard instruments in large numbers to efficient and well-placed observers. By a recent arrangement, a portion of this work is to be performed by the Patent Office.

Observation, and accuracy in observation, are the foundation of this science. The results are compared to the leaves of a book, which will some day be arranged and bound together in one volume. The instruments in use are delicate, ingenious, and indispensable. Their history, uses, and importance would be topic enough for a separate article.

While at the first view Meteorology may appear to occupy but a limited sphere, upon a closer examination it will be found to embrace almost all the sciences, and to be commensurate with Nature itself. It is continually influencing us, by its agencies appealing to our senses, ministering to our wants, and governing our conduct.

Its influence upon its votaries is equally remarkable; for, as a rule, they are distinguished among the learned, their characters are in harmony with their pursuits, and they are recognized everywhere for disinterestedness, philanthropy, and public and private virtue. While Mental Philosophy, has made but little progress since the times of Plato, and the world is but little better for scholastic disputations, Natural Science has civilized man, elevated his condition, increased the circle of his exertions, and, by the development of some of its simplest principles, united the intelligent, the learned, the enterprising, and the virtuous of all nations into a recognized and a noble brotherhood.

TREASURE-TROVE

Once, the Castle of Chalus, crownedWith sullen battlements, stood and frownedOn the sullen plain around it;But Richard of England came one day,And the Castle of Chalus passed awayIn such a rapid and sure decayNo modern yet has found it.Who has not heard of the Lion KingWho made the harps of the minstrels ring?Oh, well they might imagine itHard for chivalry's ranks to showA knight more gallant to face a foe,With a firmer lance or a heavier blow,Than Richard I. Plantagenet;Or gayer withal: for he loved his joke,As well as he loved, with slashing stroke,The haughtiest helm to hack at:Wine or blood he laughingly poured;'Twas a lightsome word or a heavy sword,As he found a foe or a festive board,With a skull or a joke to crack at.Yet some their candid belief avow,That, if Richard lived in England now,And his lot were only a common one,He ne'er had meddled with kings or states,But might have been a bruiser of patesAnd champion now of the "heavy weights,"–A first-rate "Fighting Phenomenon."A vassal bound in peace and warTo Richard I. was Vidomar,–A noble as proud and needyAs ever before that monarch bowed,But not so needy and not so proudAs the monarch himself was greedy.Vicomte was he of the Limousin,Where stones were thick and crops were thin,And profits small and slow to come in.But slow and sure, the father's plan, didNot suit the son. Sire lived close-handed;Became, not rich, but very landed.The only debt that ever he madeWas Nature's debt, and that he paidAbout the time of the Third Crusade,–A time when the fashion was fully setBy Richard of running in tilts and debt,When plumes were high and prudence low,And every knight felt bound to "goThe pace," and just like Richard do,By running his purse and a Paynim through.Yet do not suppose that VidomarWas ever a knight in the Holy War:For Richard many a Saracen's headHad lopped before the old Count was dead;And Richard was home from Palestine,Home from the dungeon of Tiernstein,And many a Christian corpse had made,Ere the time in which the story is laid.But the fashion he set became so strong,That Vidomar was hurried along,And did as many a peer has doneOn reaching a title and twenty-one,And met the fate that will meet a peerWho lives in state on nothing a year.Deserted by all, except some Jews,Holding old post-obits and IOUs,Who hunted him up and hunted him down,He left Limoges, the capital town,For his country castle Chalus,(As spendthrift lords to Boulogne repair,To give their estates a chance to air,)And went to turning fallows;At least, he ordered it, (much the same,)And went himself in pursuit of gameOr any rural pleasure,Till one fine day, as he rode away,A serf came running behind to sayThey'd found a crock of treasure.No more he thought of hawk or hound,But spurred to the spot, and there he found,Beyond his boldest thoughts,A sum to set him afloat again,–The leading figure, 'twas very plain,Was followed by several 0s.Oh, who can tell of the schemes that flewThrough his head, as the treasure met his view,And he knew that again his note was good?He may have felt as a debtor wouldWho has dodged a dogging dun,Or a bank-cashier in his hour of dreadWith brokers behind and breakers ahead,Or a blood with his last "upon the red,"–And each expecting a run.What should he do? 'Twas very trueThat all of his debts were overdue;But the "real- whole-souled" must use their goldTo run new scores,–not to pay off old.That night he lay till the break of day,The doubtful question solving:Himself in his bed, and that in his head,He kept by turns revolving.That selfsame day, not very farFrom the country castle of Vidomar,The king had been progressing:A courtly phrase, when the king was outOn a chivalrous bender; any routeAs good as another: what aboutWere little good in guessing.That night, as he sat and drank, he frowned,While courtiers moodily stood around,All wondering what the journey meant,Till a scout reported, "Treasure found!"–With a rap that made the glasses bound,He swore, "By Arthur's table round,I'll have another tournament!"No more, as he sat and drank, he frowned,Or courtiers moodily stood around,But all were singing, drinking;And louder than all the songs he led,And louder he said, "Ho! pass the red!"Till he went to bed with a ring in his headThat seemed like gold a- chinking.'Twere wrong to infer from what you're readThat Richard awoke with an aching head;For nerves like his resistedWith wonderful ease what we might deemEnough to stagger a Polypheme,And his spirits would never more than seemA trifle too much "assisted."And yet in the morn no fumes were there,And his eyes were bright,–almost as a pairOf eyes that you and I know;For his head, the best authorities write,(See the Story of Tuck,) was always rightAnd sound as ever after a nightOf "Pellite curas vino!"As soon as the light broke into his tent,Without delay for a herald he sent,And bade him don his tabard,And away to the Count to say, "By lawThat gold was the king's: unless he sawThe same ere noon, his sword he would drawAnd throw away the scabbard."An hour, for his morning exercise,He swayed that sword of wondrous size,–'Twas called his great "persuader";Then a mace of steel he smote in two,–A feat which the king would often do,Since Saladin wondered at that coupWhen he met our stout crusader.A trifle for him: he "trained to light,"–Grown lazy now: but his appetite,On the whole, was satisfactory,–As the vanishing viands, warm and cold,Most amply proved, ere, minus the gold,The herald returned and trembling toldHow the Count had proved refractory:Had owned it true that his serfs had foundA treasure buried somewhere in the ground,–Perhaps not strictly a nugget:Though none but Norman lawyers choseTo count it tort, if the finders "froze"To treasure-trove,–especially thoseWho held the land where they dug it,–For quits he'd give up half,–down,–cash;And that, for one who had gone to smash,Was a liberal restitution:His neighbor Shent-per-Shent did sueOn a better claim, and put it through,–Recovered his suit, but not a souAt the tail of an execution.Coeur gazed around with the ominous glareOf the lion deprived of the lion's share,–A look there was no mistaking,–A look which the courtiers never sawWithout a sudden desire to drawAway from the sweep of the lion's pawBefore their bones were aching.He caught the herald,–'twas by the slackOf garments below and behind his back,–Then twirled him round for a minute;And when at last he let him free,He shied him at a neighboring tree,A distance of thirty yards and three,And lodged him handsomely in it:Then seized his ponderous battle-axe,And bade his followers mount their hacks,With a look on his countenance so stern,So little of fun, so full of fight,That, when he came in the Count's full sight,In something of haste and more of fright,The Count rode out of the postern;And crowding leagues from his angry liege,He left his castle to storm or siege,–His poor beef-eaters to hold out,Or save themselves as well as they could,Or be food for crows: what noble shouldWaste thought on such? As a noble would,He prudently smuggled the gold out.In the feudal days, in the good old timesOf feudal virtues and feudal crimes,A point of honor they'd make in it,Though sure in the end their flag must fall,To show stout fight and never to callA truce till they saw a hole in the wallOr a larder without any steak in it.The fight began. Shouts filled the air,–"St. George!" "St. Denis!"–as here and thereThe shock of the battle shifted;There were catapult-shots and shots by hand,Ladders with desperate climbers manned,Rams and rocks, hot lead, and sandOn the heads of the climbers sifted.But the sturdy churls would not give way,Though Richard in person rushed to the frayWith all of his rash proclivityFor knocks; till, despairing of knightly fameIn doughty deeds for a doubtful claim,The hero of Jaffa changed his gameTo a masterly inactivity.He stretched his lines in a circle round,And pitched his tent on a rising groundFor general supervisionOf both the hostile camps, while heCould join with Blondel in minstrel glee,Or drink, or dice with Marcadee,And they-– consume provision.To starve a garrison day by dayYou may not think a chivalrous wayTo take a fortification.The story is dull: by way of relief,I make a digression, very brief,And leave the "ins" to swallow their beef,The "outs" their mortification.Many there were in Richard's trainMore known to fame and of higher degree,But none that suited his fickle veinSo well as Blondel and Marcadee.Blondel had grown from a minstrel-boyTo a very romantic troubadourWhose soul was music, whose song was joy,Whose only motto was Vive l'amour!In lady's bower, in lordly hall,From the king himself to the poorest clown,A joyous welcome he had from all,And Care in his presence forgot to frown.Sadly romantic, fantastic and vain,His heart for his head still made amends;For he never sang a malicious strain.And never was known to fail his friends.Who but he, when the captive king,By a brother betrayed, was left to rot,Would have gone disguised to seek and sing,Till he heard his tale and the tidings brought?Little the listening sentries dreamed,As they watched the king and a minstrel play,That what but an idle rhyming seemedWould rouse all England another day!'Twas the timely aid of a friend in need,And, seldom as Richard felt the powerOf a service past, he remembered the deedAnd cherished him ever from that hour:He made him his bard, with nought to doBut court the ladies and court the Nine,And every day bring something newTo sing for the revellers over their wine;With once a year a pipe of Sherry,A suit of clothes, and a haunch of venison,To make himself and his fellows merry,–The salary now of Alfred Tennyson.Marcadee was a stout Brabançon,With conscience weak and muscles strong,Who roamed about from clime to clime,The side of virtue or yet of crimeReady to take in a regular wayFor any leader and regular pay;Who trusted steel, and thought it oddTo fear the Devil or honor God.His forte was not in the field alone,He was no common fighter,For in all accomplishments he shone,–At least, in all the lighter.To lance or lute alike au fait,With grasp now firm, now light,He flourished this to knightly lay,And that to lay a knight.Ready in fashion to lead the ton,In the battle-field his men,He danced like a Zephyr, and, harness on,Could walk his mile in ten.And Nature gave him such a frame,His tailor such a fit,That, whether a head or a heart his aim,He always made a hit.Wherever he went, the ladies dearWould very soon adore him,And, quite of course, the lords would sneer,–But never sneer before him!Perhaps it fared with the ladies worseThan it fared with their gallants;For he broke a vow with as slight remorseAs he ever broke a lance.Thus, tilting here and jilting there,He fought a foe or he fooled a fair,But little recking how;So deadly smooth, so cruel and vain,He might have made a capital Cain,Or a splendid dandy now.In short, if you looked o'er land and sea,From London to the Niger,You certainly must have said with me,–If Richard was lion, MarcadeeMight well have been the tiger.A month went by. They lay there still,And chafed with nothing but time to kill,–A tough old foe. Observe the wayThey laid him out, as thus:–One day,–'Twas after dinner and afternoon,When the noise was over of knife and fork,And only was heard an occasional corkAnd Blondel idly thrumming a tune,–King Richard pushed the wine along,And rapped the table, and cried, "A song!Dulness I hold a shame, a sinAgainst good wine. Come, Blondel, begin!"Blondel coughed,–was "half afraid,"–Was "out last night on a serenade,And caught a cold,"–his "voice was gone,–And really, just now, his head"–"Go on!"He bowed, and swept the chords– "Brrrrang"–With a handful of notes, and thus he sang:–BLONDEL.Life is fleeting,–make it pleasant;Care for nothing but the present;For the past we leave behind us,And the future may not find us.Though we cannot shun its troubles,Care and sorrow we may banish;Though its pleasures are but bubbles,Catch the bubbles ere they vanish.There is joy we cannot measure,–Joy we may not win with treasure.When the glance of Beauty thrills us',When her love with rapture fills us,Let us seize it ere it passes;Be our motto, "Love is mighty."Fill, then, fill your brimming glasses!Fill, and drink to Aphrodite!Of course they drank with a right good will,For they never missed a chance "to fill."And yet a few, I'm sorry to own,Made side-remarks in an undertone,Like those we hear, when, nowadays,Good-natured friends, with seeming praise,Contrive to damn. In the midst of the humThey heard a loud and slashing thrum:'Twas the king: and each his breath drew inTill you might have heard a falling pin.Some little excuse, at first, he made,While over the lute his fingers strayed:–"You know my way,–as the fancies come,I improvise."–There was ink on his thumb.That morning, alone, good hours he spentIn writing despatches never sent.RICHARD.There is pleasure when bright eyes are glancingAnd Beauty is willing; but moreWhen the war-horse is gallantly prancingAnd snuffing the battle afar,–When the foe, with his banner advancing,Is sounding the clarion of war.Where the battle is deadly and gory,Where foeman 'gainst foeman is pressed,Where the path is before me to glory,Is pleasure for me, and the best.Let me live in proud chivalry's story,Or die with my lance in its rest!The plaudits followed him loud and freeAs he tossed the lute to Marcadee,Who caught it featly, bowing low,And said, "My liege, I may not knowTo improvise; but I'll give a song,The song of our camp,–we've known it long.It suits not well this tinkle and thrum,But needs to be heard with a rattling drum.Ho, there! Tambour!–He knows it well,–'The Brabançon!'–Now make it tell;Let your elbows now with a spirit wagIn the outside roll and the double drag."MARCADEE.I'm but a soldier of fortune, you see:Huzza!Glory and love,–they are nothing to me:Ha, ha!Glory's soon faded, and love is soon cold:Give me the solid, reliable gold:Hurrah for the gold!Country or king I have none, I am free:Huzza!Patriot's quarrel,– 'tis harvest for me:Ha, ha!A soldier of fortune, my creed is soon told,–I'd fight for the Devil, to pocket his gold:Hurrah for the gold!He turned to the king, as he finished the verse,And threw on the table a heavy purseWith a pair of dice; another, I trow,Still lurked incog. for a lucky throw:–"'Tis mine; 'twas thine. If the king would play,Perchance he'd find his revenge to-day.Gambling, I own, is a fault, a sin;I always repent–unless I win."Le jeu est fait. –"Well thrown! eleven!My purse is gone.–Double-six, by heaven!"At this unlucky point in the gameA herald was ushered in. He cameWith a flag of truce, commissioned to sayThe garrison now were willing to layThe keys of the castle at his feet,If he'd let them go and let them eat:They'd done their best; could do no moreThan humbly wait the fortune of warAnd Richard's word. It came in tonesThat grated harshly:–"D–n the bonesAnd double-six! Marcadee, you've won.–Take back my word to each mother's son,And tell them Richard swore it:Be the smoke of their den their funeral pall!By the Holy Tomb, I'll hang them all!They've hung out so well behind their wall,They'll hang out well before it."Then Richard laughed in his hearty way,Enjoying his joke, as a monarch may;He laughed till he ached for want of breath:If it lacked in life, it was full of death:Like many, believing the next best thingTo a joke with a point is a joke with a sting.Loud he laughed; but he laughed not longEre he leaped to the back of his charger strong,And bounded forward, axe on high,Circling the tents with his battle-cry,–"Away! away! we shall win the day:In the front of the fight you'll find me:The first to get in my spurs shall win,–My boots to the wight behind me!"* * * They have reached the moat;The draw is up, but a wooden floatIs thrust across, and onward they run;The bank is gained and the barbican won;The outer gate goes down with a crash;Through the portcullis they madly dash,And with shouts of triumph they now assailThe innermost gate. The crushing hailOf rocks and beams goes through the mass,Like the summer-hail on the summer-grass;–They falter, they waver. A stalwart formBreaks through the ranks, like a bolt in the storm:'Tis the Lion King!–"How, now, ye knaves!Do ye look for safety? Find your graves!"–One blow to the left, one blow to the right,–Two recreants fall;–no more of flight.One stride to the front, and, stroke on stroke,His curtle-axe rends the double oak.Down shower the missiles;–they fall in vain;They scatter like drops from the lion's mane.He is down,–he is up;–that right arm! how'Tis nerved with the strength of twenty, now!The barrier yields,–it shivers,–it falls."Huzza! Saint George! to the walls! to the walls!Throw the rate to the moat! cut down! spare not!No quarter! remember–Je–su! I'm shot!"On a silken pallet lying, under hangings stiff with gold,Now is Coeur-de-Lion sighing, weakly sighing, he the bold!For with riches, power, and glory now forever he must part.They have told him he is dying. Keen remorse is at his heartLife is grateful, life is glorious, with the pulses bounding highIn a warrior frame victorious: it were easy so to die.Yet to die is fearful ever; oh, how fearful, when the sumOf the past is lengthened murder,–and a fearful world to come!Where are now the wretched victims of his wrath? The deed is done.He has conquered. They have suffered. Yonder, blackening in the sun,From the battlements they're hanging. Little joy it gives to himNow to see the work of vengeance, when his eye is growing dim!One was saved,–the daring bowman who the fatal arrow sped;He was saved, but not for mercy; better numbered with the dead!Now, relenting, late repenting, Richard turns to Marcadee,Saying, "Haste, before I waver, bring the captive youth to me."He is brought, his feet in fetters, heavy shackles on his hands,And, with eye unflinching, gazing on the king, erect he stands.He is gazing not in anger, not for insult, not for show;But his soul, before its leaving, Richard's very soul would know.Death is certain,– death by torture: death for him can have no sting,If that arrow did its duty,–if he share it with the king.Were he trembling or defiant, were he less or more than bold,Once again to vengeful fury would he rouse the fiend of oldThat in Richard's breast is lurking, ready once again to spring.Dreading now that vengeful spirit, with a wavering voice, the kingQuestions impotently, wildly: "Prisoner, tell me, what of illEver I have done to thee or thine, that me thou wouldest kill?"Higher, prouder still he bears him; o'er his countenance appear,Flitting quickly, looks of wonder and of scorn: what does he hear?"And dost thou ask me, man of blood, what evil thou hast done?Hast thou so soon forgot thy vow to hang each mother's son?No! oft as thou hast broken vows, I know them to be strong,Whene'er thy pride or lust or hate has sworn to do a wrong.But churls should bow to right divine of kings, for good or ill,And bare their necks to axe or rope, if 'twere thy royal will?Ah, hadst thou, Richard, yet to learn the very meanest thingThat crawls the earth in self-defence would turn upon a king?Yet deem not 'twas the hope of life which led me to the deed:I'd freely lose a thousand lives to make thee, tyrant, bleed!–Ay! mark me well, canst thou not see somewhat of old Bertrand?My father good! my brothers dear!–all murdered by thy hand!Yes, one escaped; he saw thee strike, he saw his kindred die,And breathed a vow, a burning vow of vengeance;–it was I!I've lived; but all my life has been a memory of the slain;I've lived but to revenge them,–and I have not lived in vain!I read it in thy haggard face, the hour is drawing nighWhen power and wealth can aid thee not,–when, Richard, thou must DIE!What mean those pale, convulsive lips? What means that shrinking brow?Ha! Richard of the lion- heart, thou art a coward now!Now call thy hireling ruffians; bid them bring the cord and rack,And bid them strain these limbs of mine until the sinews crack;And bid them tear the quivering flesh, break one by one each bone;–Thou canst not break my spirit, though thou mayst compel a groan.I die, as I would live and die, the ever bold and free;And I shall die with joy, to think I've rid the world of thee."Swords are starting from their scabbards, grim and hardened warriors waitRichard's slightest word or gesture that may seal the bowman's fate.But his memory has been busy with the deeds of other times.In the eyes of wakened conscience all his glories turn to crimes,And his crimes to something monstrous; worlds were little now to giveIn atonement for the least. He cries, in anguish, "Let him live.He has reason; never treason more became a traitor bold.Youth, forgive as I forgive thee! Give him freedom,–give him gold.Marcadee, be sure, obey me; 'tis the last, the dying hestOf a monarch who is sinking, sinking fast,–oh, not to rest!Haply, He above, remembering, may relieve my dark despairWith a ray of hope to light the gloom when I am suffering– there!"The captain neared the royal bedAnd humbly bowed his helmèd head,And laid his hand upon the plateThat sheathed his breast, and said, "Though lateThy mercy comes, I hold it stillMy duty to do thy royal will.If I should fail to serve thee fair,May I be doomed to suffer–there!"I've often met with a fast young friendMore ready to borrow than I to lend;I've heard smooth men in election-timeProve every creed, but their own, a crime:Perhaps, if the fast one wished to borrow,I've taken his word to pay "to-morrow";Perhaps, while Smooth explained his creed,I've thought him the man for the country's need;Perhaps I'm more of a trusting moodThan you suppose; but I think I wouldHave trusted that man of mail,If I had been the dying king,About as far as you could slingAn elephant by the tail!Good subjects then, as now, no doubt,When a king was dead, were eager to shoutIn time, "God save" the new one!One trouble was always whom to chooseAmongst the heirs; for it raised the deuseAnd ran the subject's neck in a noose,Unless he chose the true one.Another difficult task,–to judgeIf the coming king would bear a grudgeFor some old breach of concord,And take the earliest chance to sendA trusty line by a trusty friendTo give his compliments at the endOf a disagreeable strong cord.And whoever would have must seize his own.Thus a dying king was left alone,With a sad neglect of manners;Ere his breath was out, the courtiers ran,With fear or zeal for "the coming man,"In time to escape from under his ban,Or hurry under his banners.So Richard was left in a shabby wayTo Marcadee, with an abbot to prayAnd pother with "consolation,"Reminding 'twas never too late to searchFor mercy, and hinting that Mother ChurchWas never known to leave in the lurchA king with a fat donation.But the abbot was known to Richard well,As one who would smoothen the road to hell,And quite as willing to revelAs preach; and he always preached to "soothe,"With a mild regard for "the follies of youth,"–Himself, in epitome, proving the truthOf the world, the flesh, and the Devil.This was the will that Richard made:–"My body at father's feet be laid;And to Rouen (it loved me most)My heart I give; and I give my ins-Ides to the rascally Poitevins;To the abbot I give my darling–sins;And I give "–He gave up the ghost.The abbot looked grave, but never spoke.The captain laughed, gave the abbot a poke,And, without ado or lingering,"Conveyed" the personals, jewels, and gold,Omitting the formal To Have and to HoldFrom the royal finger, before it was cold,He slipped the royal finger-ring.There might have been in the eye of the lawA something which lawyers would call a flawOf title in such a conversion:But if weak in the law, he was strong in the hand,And had the "nine points."–He summoned his band,And ordered before him the archer Bertrand,Intending a little diversion.He called the cutter,–no cutter of clothes,But such as royalty kept for thoseWho happened to need correcting,–And told him that Richard, before he died,Desired to have a scalpel appliedTo the traitor there. With professional pride,The cutter began dissecting.Now Bones was born with a genius to flay:He might have ranked, had he lived to-day,As a capital taxidermist:And yet, as he tugged, they heard him say,Of all the backs that ever layBefore him in a professional way,That was of all backs the firmest.Kind reader, allow me to drop a veilIn pity; I cannot pursue the taleIn the heartless tone of the last strophe.'Tis done, and again I'll be the same.They triumphed not, if they felt no shame:No muscle quivered, no murmur came,Until the final catastrophe.The captain jested a moment, thenHe waved his hand and bowed to his menWith a single word, "Disbanded,"And galloped away with three or fourStout men-at-arms to the nearest shore,Where a gallant array not long beforeWith the king in pride had landed.He coasted around, went up the Rhine,So famous then for robbers and wine,So famous now as a ramble.The wine and the robbers still are there;But they rob you now with a bill of fare,And gentlemen bankers "on the square"Will clean you out, if you gamble.He built him a Schloss on–something-Stein,And became the first of as proud a lineAs e'er took toll on the river,When barons, perched in their castles high,On the valley would keep a watchful eye,And pounce on travellers with their cry,"The Rhine-dues! down! deliver!"And crack their crowns for any delayIn paying down. And that, by the way,About as correctly as I know,Is the origin true of an ancient phraseSo frequently heard in modern days,When a gentleman quite reluctantly pays,–I mean, "To come down with the rhino."