The Lord of Dingle Dell

 

Submitted 25 July 2011 by Larry D Christiansen

 

April 24, 1886-p. 3 under "The Lord of Dingle Dell."

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO UTAH'S BACHELOR BY ONE OF UTAH'S PLURALISTS.

Ah! Dingle Dell's a pretty place, I ween;
At least, it has a pretty jingling name.
Doubtless the verdant lawn is freely spread
With flowers sweet--a carpet soft to tread;
Birds of bright hues, with voices sweet,
Enchant the ear, within that faim'd retreat;
Stately poplars, proud and graceful, wave aloft,
Bow'd by the gale, or sway'd by breezes soft;
While, at their feet, the babbling, limped stream
Leaps on its way, reflecting suney gream;
Grand echoing crags their heads in freedom roar
With clicling sweep, to guard its treasures there;
while barnyard fowl, and fat'ning swine,
And prancing horse, and lowing kine,
And all that animate the scene
Of small homes to general, are seen;
Yes, nature's inimitable pow'rs combine,
Of Dingle Dell to make a place divine.
And yet its lord, Caersus [Caerar] like, now beareth sway
O'ver all the scope his vision doth survey,
With restless tread is ever found to roam,
As though his heart were dead to charms of home.
Home did I say--they little know whence springs its pow'r
Who think its joys can revel, one brief hour,
Where woman's wifely presence lingers not
To crown each charm that garnishes the spot.
Then, Oh, ye fair ones! let not fashion's spell
Your voices stifle, if ye fain would tell
Your heart's desire to reign as queens
O'ver Dingle Dell. But as it streams
Their waters give to freely bless the earth,
So let your loves go forth to cheer this lonesome hearth.
Now lacking but the charming grace
That ne'er can thrive where woman has no place.
It's be not treason, let me whisper in your ear
That more than one fond heart may nestle there;
And with the silken cords of wedded love
Bind fast his feet, which now so wayward rove.
For surely it is very plainly seen
That woman is his every present theme--
Tis but the shrinking of a timid heart
That yet prevents from doing manhood's part;
When once he's broken in, you may be sure
He, hymenís yoke with gladsome grace will wear. [In Greek myth. Hyman the god of marriage.]
Now, when with woman's tact, you hold full sway,
Remind him still to send his notes this way
From time to time--not yet the JOURNAL slight,
But, with his facile pen, still freely write
Of how the wives and babies fare,
Who now with him do jointly share
Natures inimitable charms divine
That she doth in sweet Dingle Dell combine.

AMP. C. [difficult to read] The Utah Journal (Logan, Utah), April 24, 1886.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lord of Dingle Dell --The Utah Journal, July 21, 1886-p. 3 under "The Lord of Dingle Dell."

He Bobs Up Serenely With His "Cask Full of Foam."

EDITOR JOURNAL:--(July 9th, noon.)

I think it was Sidney Smith who, in giving advice to writers, said, "Fill up the cask, keep it full, and no matter where and when you tap it, it will run freely." I suppose this is true, but to fill up requires efforts, such as reading, reflection or observation. One might to be able to draw from the mental cask without this trouble, and I actually believe that these are times when that cask fills up unconsciously.

I have been informed that during the rainy season in India the deadly cobra lies dormant and still in some shady and damp place, and that while in this state, the poison accumulated till the bag is ready to burst. Now why is not possible for the mind to gather material in a similar manner? I believe mine has. In my last letter to the JOURNAL I emptied the cask, as it were. It was exhausted. Since then I have done nothing but hard work. I have seen few newspapers, and looked into fewer books. I have thought principally of horses and cattle, logs and timber, debts and bad accounts, and I have observed little besides hard times and hot weather, yet in spite of all this, I feel full. I tried as if I could write you a real old-style, long-winder letter. Keep your temper, gentle reader, I only say I could do it, but do not intend to. I will merely drive the spigot in and turn, the tap ever so little.

And now, Mr. Editor, did you ever tap a keg of beer? Of course you have, but if you have not, don't wait another day, but go straight and do it; because by so doing you will see the force of my comparison. I will tell you partly how it acts, or looks rather. A keg is always very full; if they fail to fill it at the brewery it _?_ itself afterwards by turning itself into a gas factory. Well, you turn that tap a little and you hear a funny sound, next you see some substance, maybe it can hardly be called substance. It falls into your glass as light as snowflakes, or sea foam; it fills the glass; it rolls and rolls over itself, making a fuss all the while; and then it pull up over your hand and cuff and sleeve, and floor; somebody screams that you are spilling the beer; you turn the tap the other way, and straighten up and look at the glass; may you give it to somebody standing by; but most likely you take it yourself. You drink, or at least try to; a mingled feeling of disappointment and disgust spreads over the face; it won't drink; it is nothing; it is not beer; it is foam and froth. Just so will this letter be: light and foamy, and can't be any better. Perhaps I should not have written now had I not got up into this high altitude, but as the vapor condenses and the falls in rain drops when it strikes cool air on the mountain top, so does it seem to me that my vapory thoughts condense and form words that must fall.

Yonder to the East and way below me lies Bear Lake, and there towards the West, other the rugged mountains, lies Cache Valley, for which place I am bound. But the horses are tested, and I must proceed on my way.

(July 10th--morning)--Still in the mountains, and have been here all night. I should tell you why I am here. Yesterday afternoon a fellow was driving down Logan Canyon, his thoughts may have been on the horses, but I fear not, as he look absent-minded. Without a word of warning, the king bolt broke in two; the box and hind wheel refused to proceed, and the front wheels declined to stop. The driver, who had a firm hold of the lines, did not know what to do for a moment, but it was a moment only; the horses had made up their minds to leave immediately, and to lose no time; quick as lightning the driver remembered that he had to turn a two-third summersault, and at it he went. He made it exactly; alighted partly all over in the dust, through which he plowed a rod or more; his hand gripped the lines with a grip that was meant to hold, and would have held, had not the lines parted company and said good-bye, on either side. A race was started here between the wheels and horses; it was won by the horses; but it was decided that it was only because they had the start, and that the wheels ran as fast as long as t he race lasted. My first thought was, there runs an time to waste for the want of a reporter; but as I gathered myself up and shook the juiceless mud from my hair and sprang for the horses, I said, why not play both item and report, which you see I am doing now. You should have seen those horses run and those two wheels bound. One wild jolt was in and I must candidly admit that I felt a little concerned about things.

How did they stop? Well, it was as if by a miracle, but as you do not go much on miracles I will Not tell it. A wheel burst a bolt broke, a few horses less and a camp in the mountains last night, was the result of the runaway, nothing more. The last meant only a sweet night's sleep by the beautiful stream of water; the next has but gone the load that years have taken, and the first two made only a number of mechanics, at their shops, smile as they repaired the damages.

I may was well string this out from Saturday up to date. I was warned against going to Hyrum, but I court danger on hot days, and dare and defy both old bachelors and old maids. When the sun was low I left Logan for that city and arrived in time to see folks going towards the school house. I heard there was a meeting to elect a School Trustee, and I went over. The sport set in shortly after the rules of the house being suspended. One of the voters began entering complains against the Trustees, letters and documents were read and time dragged its weary length along until at 11 o'clock, matters stood just where they started, and then they re-elected the man who time was up.

The lamentable lack of interest displayed in election matters here in Logan and other places were only too apparent in Hyrum. Out of a population of nearly 2000 people, only about 40 voters were present. But more on this subject some other time.

Have you heard anything said about the heat lately, such as: "Is this hot enough for you?" or "Gosh, ain't it hot?" Remarks like these are getting too stale, and in place of making matters better, makes them worse. Men should be fined for making hot remarks on days like these. I think this would cool them.

I went to Smithfield a few days ago. I suppose I need not tell why I went; it might have been business and it may be that recollections of the fine time I had up there last spring was the cause of it. No matter, I went--went in a cart a friend let me have. I did not intend staying there at night, but I did stay. A young man persuaded me to go visiting. We called on the Mayor. Everybody has a right to call on the Mayor of a city, he is supposed to keep open house. If he dont [sic- don't], Jas. Mack's house is a fine place to call it; it is shaded from the sun by beautiful trees, and is cooled by one of the nicest streams of the mountains running past it. There were other callers at the Mayors, young men too, and they were there for cause. Well, I made no noise going into that town, I sent no word that I would be there, but news will spread when certain men travel. I had just shook the Mayor by the hand and we were discussing the weighty duties that has to be borne by the head of a city government, when to my astonishment, beautiful strains of music began to stream in through the windows and open doors, filling us all with mingled wonder and delight. Of course I felt highly honored by the attention shown by the Smithfield brass band. We listened to the sweet strains, and when they died away I wiped my forehead before stepping upon the balcony to address the band and multitude when to my surprise I found they were off, way off,

[a line or more was cut off when microfilmed, then picked up as follows]

declare the boys of the brass band to have good lungs. I came back and as I see by to-day's paper that Frank Larson is on his way to Bear Lake I have better to off.

F. L.

LOGAN, July 15, 1886--The Utah Journal (Logan, Utah), July 21, 1886.

 

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