Rip Van Winkle. Canto II.

So thirty years had passed—­but not a word
In all that time of Rip was ever heard;
The world wagged on—­it never does go back—­
The widow Van was now the widow Mac——­
France was an Empire—­Andrew J. was dead,
And Abraham L. was reigning in his stead.
Four murderous years had passed in savage strife,
Yet still the rebel held his bloody knife.

—­At last one morning—­who forgets the day
When the black cloud of war dissolved away
The joyous tidings spread o’er land and sea,
Rebellion done for!  Grant has captured Lee!
Up every flagstaff sprang the Stars and Stripes—­
Out rushed the Extras wild with mammoth types—­
Down went the laborer’s hod, the school-boy’s book—­
“Hooraw!” he cried, “the rebel army’s took!”
Ah! what a time! the folks all mad with joy
Each fond, pale mother thinking of her boy;
Old gray-haired fathers meeting—­“Have—­you—­heard?”
And then a choke—­and not another word;
Sisters all smiling—­maidens, not less dear,
In trembling poise between a smile and tear;
Poor Bridget thinking how she ’ll stuff the plums
In that big cake for Johnny when he comes;
Cripples afoot; rheumatics on the jump;
Old girls so loving they could hug the pump;
Guns going bang! from every fort and ship;
They banged so loud at last they wakened Rip.

I spare the picture, how a man appears
Who’s been asleep a score or two of years;
You all have seen it to perfection done
By Joe Van Wink—­I mean Rip Jefferson.
Well, so it was; old Rip at last came back,
Claimed his old wife—­the present widow Mac——­
Had his old sign regilded, and began
To practise physic on the same old plan.
Some weeks went by—­it was not long to wait—­
And “please to call” grew frequent on the slate.
He had, in fact, an ancient, mildewed air,
A long gray beard, a plenteous lack of hair,—­
The musty look that always recommends
Your good old Doctor to his ailing friends.
—­Talk of your science! after all is said
There’s nothing like a bare and shiny head;
Age lends the graces that are sure to please;
Folks want their Doctors mouldy, like their cheese.

So Rip began to look at people’s tongues
And thump their briskets (called it “sound their lungs"),
Brushed up his knowledge smartly as he could,
Read in old Cullen and in Doctor Good.
The town was healthy; for a month or two
He gave the sexton little work to do.

About the time when dog-day heats begin,
The summer’s usual maladies set in;
With autumn evenings dysentery came,
And dusky typhoid lit his smouldering flame;
The blacksmith ailed, the carpenter was down,
And half the children sickened in the town.
The sexton’s face grew shorter than before—­
The sexton’s wife a brand-new bonnet wore—­
Things looked quite serious—­Death had got a grip
On old and young, in spite of Doctor Rip.

And now the Squire was taken with a chill—­
Wife gave “hot-drops”—­at night an Indian pill;
Next morning, feverish—­bedtime, getting worse—­
Out of his head—­began to rave and curse;
The Doctor sent for—­double quick he came
Ant.  Tart. gran. duo, and repeat the same
If no et cetera.  Third day—­nothing new;
Percussed his thorax till ’t was black and blue—­
Lung-fever threatening—­something of the sort—­
Out with the lancet—­let him bleed—­a quart—­
Ten leeches next—­then blisters to his side;
Ten grains of calomel; just then he died.

The Deacon next required the Doctor’s care—­
Took cold by sitting in a draught of air—­
Pains in the back, but what the matter is
Not quite so clear,—­wife calls it “rheumatiz.”
Rubs back with flannel—­gives him something hot—­
“Ah!” says the Deacon, “that goes nigh the spot.”
Next day a rigor—­“Run, my little man,
And say the Deacon sends for Doctor Van.”
The Doctor came—­percussion as before,
Thumping and banging till his ribs were sore—­
“Right side the flattest”—­then more vigorous raps—­
“Fever—­that’s certain—­pleurisy, perhaps.
A quart of blood will ease the pain, no doubt,
Ten leeches next will help to suck it out,
Then clap a blister on the painful part—­
But first two grains of Antimonium Tart.
Last with a dose of cleansing calomel
Unload the portal system—­(that sounds well!)”

But when the selfsame remedies were tried,
As all the village knew, the Squire had died;

The neighbors hinted.  “This will never do;
He’s killed the Squire—­he’ll kill the Deacon too.”

Now when a doctor’s patients are perplexed,
A consultation comes in order next—­
You know what that is?  In a certain place
Meet certain doctors to discuss a case
And other matters, such as weather, crops,
Potatoes, pumpkins, lager-beer, and hops.
For what’s the use?—­there ’s little to be said,
Nine times in ten your man’s as good as dead;
At best a talk (the secret to disclose)
Where three men guess and sometimes one man knows.

The counsel summoned came without delay—­
Young Doctor Green and shrewd old Doctor Gray—­
They heard the story—­“Bleed!” says Doctor Green,
“That’s downright murder! cut his throat, you mean
Leeches! the reptiles!  Why, for pity’s sake,
Not try an adder or a rattlesnake?
Blisters!  Why bless you, they ’re against the law—­
It’s rank assault and battery if they draw
Tartrate of Antimony! shade of Luke,
Stomachs turn pale at thought of such rebuke!
The portal system!  What’s the man about?
Unload your nonsense!  Calomel’s played out!
You’ve been asleep—­you’d better sleep away
Till some one calls you.”

“Stop!” says Doctor Gray—­
“The story is you slept for thirty years;
With brother Green, I own that it appears
You must have slumbered most amazing sound;
But sleep once more till thirty years come round,
You’ll find the lancet in its honored place,
Leeches and blisters rescued from disgrace,
Your drugs redeemed from fashion’s passing scorn,
And counted safe to give to babes unborn.”

Poor sleepy Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D.,
A puzzled, serious, saddened man was he;
Home from the Deacon’s house he plodded slow
And filled one bumper of “Elixir Pro.”
“Good-by,” he faltered, “Mrs. Van, my dear!
I’m going to sleep, but wake me once a year;
I don’t like bleaching in the frost and dew,
I’ll take the barn, if all the same to you.
Just once a year—­remember! no mistake!
Cry, ‘Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake!’
Watch for the week in May when laylocks blow,
For then the Doctors meet, and I must go.”

Just once a year the Doctor’s worthy dame
Goes to the barn and shouts her husband’s name;
“Come, Rip Van Winkle!” (giving him a shake)
“Rip!  Rip Van Winkle! time for you to wake!
Laylocks in blossom! ’t is the month of May—­
The Doctors’ meeting is this blessed day,
And come what will, you know I heard you swear
You’d never miss it, but be always there!”

And so it is, as every year comes round
Old Rip Van Winkle here is always found.
You’ll quickly know him by his mildewed air,
The hayseed sprinkled through his scanty hair,
The lichens growing on his rusty suit—­
I’ve seen a toadstool sprouting on his boot—­
Who says I lie?  Does any man presume?—­
Toadstool?  No matter—­call it a mushroom.
Where is his seat?  He moves it every year;
But look, you’ll find him,—­he is always here,—­
Perhaps you’ll track him by a whiff you know—­
A certain flavor of “Elixir Pro.”

Now, then, I give you—­as you seem to think
We can give toasts without a drop to drink—­
Health to the mighty sleeper,—­long live he!
Our brother Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D.!