10491	----	PRACTICE BOOK LELAND POWERS SCHOOL 1909 IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT. * * * * * My gratitude to publishers who have generously permitted the reprinting of copyrighted selections, I would here publicly express. To Little, Brown & Company I am indebted for the use of the extract called "Eloquence," which is taken from a discourse by Daniel Webster; to Small, Maynard & Company for the poem "A Conservative," taken from a volume by Mrs. Gilman, entitled "In This Our World;" to the Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company for the poems by Mr. Burton; and to Longmans, Green & Company for the extracts from the works of John Ruskin. The selections from Sill and Emerson are used by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Company, publishers of their works. The quotations under the headings "Exercises for Elemental Vocal Expression" and "Exercises for Transition," with a few exceptions, are taken from "The Sixth Reader," by the late Lewis B. Monroe, and are here reprinted through the courtesy of the American Book Company. LELAND POWERS. INDEX * * * * * ACROSS THE FIELDS TO ANNE, _Richard Burton_ BROOK, THE _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ CAVALIER TUNES _Robert Browning_ I. Give a Rouse. II. Boot and Saddle. COLUMBUS _Joaquin Miller_ COMING OF ARTHUR, THE _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ CONSERVATIVE, A _Charlotte Perkins Gilman_ EACH AND ALL _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ ELAINE _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ ELOQUENCE _Daniel Webster_ EXERCISES FOR ELEMENTAL VOCAL EXPRESSION EXERCISES FOR TRANSITION FEZZIWIG BALL, THE _Charles Dickens_ FIVE LIVES _Edward Rowland Sill_ GREEN THINGS GROWING _Dinah Mulock Craik_ HERVÉ RIEL _Robert Browning_ IF WE HAD THE TIME _Richard Burton_ LADY OF SHALOTT, THE _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ LAUGHING CHORUS, A LIFE AND SONG _Sidney Lanier_ LOCHINVAR _Sir Walter Scott_ MONT BLANC BEFORE SUNRISE _S.T. Coleridge_ MY LAST DUCHESS _Robert Browning_ MY STAR _Robert Browning_ PIPPA PASSES, Extracts from _Robert Browning_ I. Day. II. The Year's at Spring. RHODORA, THE _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ RING AND THE BOOK, THE, Extract from _Robert Browning_ SCENE FROM DAVID COPPERFIELD, I. _Charles Dickens_ SCENE FROM DAVID COPPERFIELD, II. _Charles Dickens_ SCENE FROM KING HENRY IV--"Falstaff's Recruits" _William Shakespeare_ SCENE FROM THE SHAUGHRAUN _Boucicault_ SELF-RELIANCE _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ TALE, THE--From The Two Poets of Croisic _Robert Browning_ TRUE USE OF WEALTH, THE _John Ruskin_ TRUTH AT LAST _Edward Rowland Sill_ WORK _John Ruskin_ EXERCISES FOR ELEMENTAL VOCAL EXPRESSION. The exercises under each chapter have _primarily_ the characteristics of that chapter, and _secondarily_ the characteristics of the other two chapters. CHAPTER I. VITALITY. MIND ACTIVITIES DOMINATED BY A CONSCIOUSNESS OF _Power, Largeness, Freedom, Animation, Movement_. 1. "Ho! strike the flag-Staff deep, Sir Knight--ho! scatter flowers, fair maids: Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute--ho! gallants, draw your blades." * * * * * 2. "Awake, Sir King, the gates unspar! Rise up and ride both fast and far! The sea flows over bolt and bar." * * * * * 3. "I would call upon all the true sons of New England to co-operate with the laws of man and the justice of heaven." * * * * * 4. "Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane, And Volmond, emperor of Allemaine, Apparelled in magnificent attire, With retinue of many a knight and squire, On St. John's eve at vespers proudly sat, And heard the priest chant the Magnificat." * * * * * 5. "Then the master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard All around them and below The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs. And see! she stirs! She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms!" * * * * * 6. "Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind, Like an ocean flying before the wind." * * * * * 7. "The wind, one morning sprang up from sleep, Saying, 'Now for a frolic! now for a leap! Now for a madcap galloping chase! I'll make a commotion in every place!'" * * * * * 8. "O hark! O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!" * * * * * 9. "It is done! Clang of bell and roar of gun! Send the tidings up and down. How the belfries rock and reel! How the great guns, peal on peal, Fling the joy from town to town!" * * * * * 10. "O sacred forms, how proud you look! How high you lift your heads into the sky! How huge you are, how mighty and how free! Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile Makes glad--whose frown is terrible; whose forms, Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear Of awe divine." CHAPTER II. MENTALITY. MIND ACTIVITIES DOMINATED BY A CONSCIOUSNESS OF _Reflection_ OR _Processes_ OF _Thought, Clearness, Definiteness_. 1. "Beyond the street a tower,--beyond the tower a moon,--beyond the moon a star,--beyond the Star, what?" * * * * * 2. "Once more: speak clearly, if you speak at all; Carve every word before you let it fall; Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star, Try overhard to roll the British R; Do put your accents in the proper spot; Don't--let me beg you--don't say 'How?' for 'What?' And when you stick on conversation's burrs, Don't strew the pathway with those dreadful urs." * * * * * 3. "To be, or not to be; that is the question:-- Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune; Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep,-- No more:" * * * * * 4. "I should say sincerity, a deep, great, genuine sincerity, is the first characteristic of all men in any way heroic. Not the sincerity that calls itself sincere; that is ... oftenest self-conceit mainly. The great man's sincerity is of the kind he cannot speak of, is not conscious of." * * * * * 5. "_Brutus_. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius. _Lucius_. I will, my lord. (_Exit_.) _Brutus_. It must be by his death: and for my part, I know no cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crown'd:-- How that might change his nature, there's the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder; And that craves wary walking. Crown him?--That:-- And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, That at his will he may do danger with." * * * * * 6. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God." * * * * * 7. "Just in proportion as the writer's aim, consciously or unconsciously, comes to be the transcribing, not of the world, not of mere fact, but of his sense of it, he becomes an artist; his work a _fine_ art, and good art in proportion to the truth of his presentment of that sense. Truth! there can be no merit, no craft at all, without that. And further, all beauty is in the long run only _fineness_ of truth, or what we call expression, the finer accommodation of speech to that vision within." * * * * * 8. "For the Universe has three children, born at one time, which reappear, under different names, in every system of thought, whether they be called cause, operation, and effect; or, theologically, the Father, the Spirit, and the Son; but which we call here, the Knower, the Doer, and the Sayer. These stand respectively for the love of truth, for the love of good, and for the love of beauty. These three are equal. Each of these three has the power of the others latent in him, and his own patent." CHAPTER III. MORALITY. MIND ACTIVITIES DOMINATED BY A CONSCIOUSNESS OF _Purpose, Love, Harmony, Poise, Values_. 1. "My friend, if thou hadst all the artillery of Woolwich trundling at thy back in support of an unjust thing, and infinite bonfires visibly waiting ahead of thee, to blaze centuries long for thy victory on behalf of it, I would advise thee to call halt, to fling down thy baton, and say, 'In Heaven's name, No!'" * * * * * 2. "Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies;-- Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower--but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is." * * * * * 3. "Who but the locksmith could have made such music? A gleam of sun shining through the unsashed window and checkering the dark workshop with a broad patch of light fell full upon him, as though attracted by his sunny heart." * * * * * 4. "_Portia_ You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am; though for myself alone, I would not be ambitious in my wish, To wish myself much better; yet, for you, I would be trebled twenty times myself; A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich;" * * * * * 5. "Listen to the water-mill; Through the livelong day, How the clicking of its wheels Wears the hours away! Languidly the autumn wind Stirs the forest leaves, From the fields the reapers sing, Binding up their sheaves; And a proverb haunts my mind, As a spell is cast; 'The mill can never grind With the water that is past.'" * * * * * 6. "Roaming in thought over the Universe, I saw the little that is good steadily hastening towards immortality. And the vast all that is called evil I saw hastening to merge itself, and become lost and dead." * * * * * 7. "We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. "There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, are the crew? Their struggle has long been over. They have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest. Their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end." * * * * * 8. "Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar when I put out to sea; But such a tide as moving seems asleep, too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep turns again home." * * * * * 9. "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God." EXERCISES FOR TRANSITION. 1. "O, how our organ can speak with its many and wonderful voices!-- Play on the soft lute of love, blow the loud trumpet of war, Sing with the high sesquialtro, or, drawing its full diapason, Shake all the air with the grand storm of its pedals and stops." * * * * * 2. "The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry! "Ah! few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulcher." * * * * * 3. "Lo, dim in the starlight their white tents appear! Ride softly! ride slowly! the onset is near More slowly! more softly! the sentry may hear! Now fall on the foe like a tempest of flame! Strike down the false banner whose triumph were shame! Strike, strike for the true flag, for freedom and fame!" * * * * * 4. "Hush! hark! did stealing steps go by? Came not faint whispers near? No!--The wild wind hath many a sigh Amid the foliage sere." * * * * * 5. "Her giant form O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, Majestically calm, would go, Mid the deep darkness, white as snow! But gentler now the small waves glide, Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side. So stately her bearing, so proud her array, The main she will traverse for ever and aye. Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast. Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last!" * * * * * 6. "Hark! distant voices that lightly Ripple the silence deep! No; the swans that, circling nightly, Through the silver waters sweep. "See I not, there, a white shimmer? Something with pale silken shrine? No; it is the column's glimmer, 'Gainst the gloomy hedge of pine." * * * * * 7. "Hark, below the gates unbarring! Tramp of men and quick commands! ''Tis my lord come back from hunting,' And the Duchess claps her hands. "Slow and tired came the hunters; Stopped in darkness in the court. 'Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters! To the hall! What sport, what sport.' "Slow they entered with their master; In the hall they laid him down. On his coat were leaves and blood-stains, On his brow an angry frown." * * * * * 8. "Now clear, pure, hard, bright, and one by one, like to hailstones, Short words fall from his lips fast as the first of a shower,-- Now in twofold column, Spondee, Iamb, and Trochee, Unbroke, firm-set, advance, retreat, trampling along,-- Now with a sprightlier springiness, bounding in triplicate syllables, Dance the elastic Dactylics in musical cadences on; Now, their voluminous coil intertangling like huge anacondas, Roll overwhelmingly onward the sesquipedalian words." SELECTIONS. * * * * * HERVÉ RIEL. On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place, "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or quicker still, Here's the English can and will!" Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the 'Formidable' here with her twelve and eighty guns, Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound?-- Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech.) "Not a minute more to wait! Let the captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. Give the word!"--But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these A captain? A lieutenant? A mate--first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet-- A poor coasting pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese. And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel; "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, 'Twixt the offing here and Grève, where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this 'Formidable' clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor, past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave,-- Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,--and here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel. Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. "Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief." Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock. Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate, Up the English come, too late. So, the storm subsides to calm; They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" Now hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for hell! Let France, let France's king, Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips; You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Damfreville!" Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- Since the others go ashore-- Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked, and that he got--nothing more. Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris; rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore! ROBERT BROWNING. * * * * * LOCHINVAR. I. Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,-- Through all the wild border his steed was the best! And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,-- He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. II. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; He swam the Eske river where ford there was none. But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. III. So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word) "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" IV. "I long wooed your daughter--my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." V. The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lip and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar; "Now tread we a measure?" said young Lochinvar. VI. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." VII. One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung So light to the saddle before her he sprung: "She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scar; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. VIII. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee; But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? SIR WALTER SCOTT. * * * * * EXTRACTS FROM PIPPA PASSES. 1. "DAY." Day! Faster and more fast; O'er night's brim, day boils at last: Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim Where spurting and suppressed it lay, For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray, Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; But forth one wavelet, then another curled, Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. Oh Day, if I squandered a wavelet of thee, A mite of my twelve hours' treasure, The least of thy gazes or glances, (Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure) One of thy choices or one of thy chances, (Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure) --My day, if I squander such labor or leisure, Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me! ROBERT BROWNING. II. "THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING." The year's at the spring And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: God's in his heaven-- All's right with the world! ROBERT BROWNING. * * * * * THE FEZZIWIG BALL. Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice: "Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick!" A living and moving picture of Scrooge's former self, a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-prentice. "Yo ho, my boys!" said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night. Christmas eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up, before a man can say Jack Robinson! Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here!" Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug and warm and dry and bright a ball-room as you would desire to see upon a winter's night. In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin the baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particular friend, the milkman. In they all came one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them. When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to Stop the dance, cried out, "Well done!" and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter especially provided for that purpose. There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners, people who were not to be trifled with; people who _would_ dance, and had no notion of walking. But if they had been twice as many,--four times,--old Fezziwig would have been a match for them and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to _her_, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance. You couldn't have predicted, at any given time, what would become of 'em next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance,--advance and retire, turn your partner, bow and courtesy, corkscrew, thread the needle and back again to your place,--Fezziwig "cut,"--cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs. When the clock struck eleven this domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and, shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two 'prentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds, which were under a counter in the back shop. * * * * * THE BROOK. I. I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. II. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges; By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. III. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. IV. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. V. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river; For men may come, and men may go, But I go on forever. VI. I wind about and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling. VII. And here and there a foamy flake Upon me as I travel With many a silvery water-break Above the golden gravel. VIII. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers, I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. IX. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. X. I murmur, under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses, I linger by my shingly bars, I loiter round my cresses. XI. And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come, and men may go, But I go on forever. * * * * * ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. A LAUGHING CHORUS. [Used by permission, from "Nature in Verse," copyrighted, 1895, by Silver, Burdett & Company.] Oh, such a commotion under the ground When March called, "Ho, there! ho!" Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, Such whispering to and fro. And "Are you ready?" the Snowdrop asked; "'Tis time to start, you know." "Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied; "I'll follow as soon as you go." Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came Of laughter soft and low From the millions of flowers under the ground-- Yes--millions--beginning to grow. "I'll promise my blossoms," the Crocus said, "When I hear the bluebirds sing." And straight thereafter Narcissus cried, "My silver and gold I'll bring." "And ere they are dulled," another spoke, "The Hyacinth bells shall ring." And the violet only murmured, "I'm here," And sweet grew the breath of spring. Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came Of laughter soft and low From the millions of flowers under the ground-- Yes--millions--beginning to grow. Oh, the pretty, brave things! through the coldest days, Imprisoned in walls of brown, They never lost heart though the blast shriek loud, And the sleet and the hail came down, But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, Or fashioned her beautiful crown; And now they are coming to brighten the world, Still shadowed by winter's frown; And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!" In a chorus soft and low, The millions of flowers hid under the ground-- Yes--millions--beginning to grow. * * * * * CAVALIER TUNES. 1. GIVE A ROUSE. King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! Who gave me the goods that went since? Who raised me the house that sank once? Who helped me to gold I spent since? Who found me in wine you drank once? _Cho_. King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! To whom used my boy George quaff else, By the old fool's side that begot him? For whom did he cheer and laugh else, While Noll's damned troopers shot him. _Cho_. King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! II. BOOT AND SADDLE. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. _Cho_. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there, will listen and pray "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay!" _Cho_. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundhead's array: Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, _Cho_. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! I've better counsellors; what counsel they? _Cho_. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" ROBERT BROWNING. * * * * * ACROSS THE FIELDS TO ANNE. From Stratford-on-Avon a lane runs westward through the fields a mile to the little village of Shottery, in which is the cottage of Anne Hathaway, Shakespeare's sweetheart and wife. How often in the summer tide, His graver business set aside, Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed, As to the pipe of Pan Stepped blithsomely with lover's pride Across the fields to Anne! It must have been a merry mile, This summer-stroll by hedge and stile, With sweet foreknowledge all the while How sure the pathway ran To dear delights of kiss and smile, Across the fields to Anne. The silly sheep that graze to-day, I wot, they let him go his way, Nor once looked up, as who should say: "It is a seemly man." For many lads went wooing aye Across the fields to Anne. The oaks, they have a wiser look; Mayhap they whispered to the brook: "The world by him shall yet be shook, It is in nature's plan; Though now he fleets like any rook Across the fields to Anne." And I am sure, that on some hour Coquetting soft 'twixt sun and shower, He stooped and broke a daisy-flower With heart of tiny span, And bore it as a lover's dower Across the fields to Anne. While from her cottage garden-bed She plucked a jasmine's goodlihede, To scent his jerkin's brown instead; Now since that love began, What luckier swain than he who sped Across the fields to Anne? The winding path wheron I pace, The hedgerows green, the summer's grace, Are still before me face to face; Methinks I almost can Turn poet and join the singing race Across the fields to Anne! RICHARD BURTON. * * * * * GREEN THINGS GROWING. The green things growing, the green things growing, The faint sweet smell of the green things growing! I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve, Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing. Oh the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing! How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing; In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight Or the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing. I love, I love them so--my green things growing! And I think that they love me, without false showing; For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much, With the soft mute comfort of green things growing. And in the rich store of their blossoms glowing, Ten for one I take they're on me bestowing: Oh, I should like to see, if God's will it may be, Many, many a summer of my green things growing! But if I must be gathered for the angels' sowing, Sleep out of sight a while like the green things growing, Though dust to dust return, I think I'll scarcely mourn, If I may change into green things growing. DINAH MULOCK CRAIK. * * * * * THE TRUE USE OF WEALTH. 1. There is a saying which is in all good men's mouths; namely, that they are stewards or ministers of whatever talents are entrusted to them. Only, is it not a strange thing that while we more or less accept the meaning of that saying, so long as it is considered metaphorical, we never accept its meaning in its own terms? You know the lesson is given us under the form of a story about money. Money was given to the servants to make use of: the unprofitable servant dug in the earth, and hid his Lord's money. Well, we in our poetical and spiritual application of this, say that of course money doesn't mean money--it means wit, it means intellect, it means influence in high quarters, it means everything in the world except itself. 2. And do you not see what a pretty and pleasant come-off there is for most of us in this spiritual application? Of course, if we had wit, we would use it for the good of our fellow-creatures; but we haven't wit. Of course, if we had influence with the bishops, we would use it for the good of the church; but we haven't any influence with the bishops. Of course, if we had political power, we would use it for the good of the nation; but we have no political power; we have no talents entrusted to us of any sort or kind. It is true, we have a little money, but the parable can't possibly mean anything so vulgar as money; our money's our own. 3. I believe, if you think seriously of this matter, you will feel that the first and most literal application is just as necessary a one as any other--that the story does very specially mean what it says--plain money; and that the reason we don't at once believe it does so, is a sort of tacit idea that while thought, wit and intellect, and all power of birth and position, are indeed given to us, and, therefore, to be laid out for the Giver,--our wealth has not been given to us; but we have worked for it, and have a right to spend it as we choose. I think you will find that is the real substance of our understanding in this matter. Beauty, we say, is given by God--it is a talent; strength is given by God--it is a talent; but money is proper wages for our day's work--it is not a talent, it is a due. We may justly spend it on ourselves, if we have worked for it. 4. And there would be some shadow of excuse for this, were it not that the very power of making the money is itself only one of the applications of that intellect or strength which we confess to be talents. Why is one man richer than another? Because he is more industrious, more persevering, and more sagacious. Well, who made him more persevering and more sagacious than others? That power of endurance, that quickness of apprehension, that calmness of judgment, which enable him to seize opportunities that others lose, and persist in the lines of conduct in which others fail--are these not talents?--are they not, in the present state of the world, among the most distinguished and influential of mental gifts? 5. And is it not wonderful, that while we should be utterly ashamed to use a superiority of body in order to thrust our weaker companions aside from some place of advantage, we unhesitatingly use our superiorities of mind to thrust them back from whatever good that strength of mind can attain? You would be indignant if you saw a strong man walk into a theatre or lecture-room, and, calmly choosing the best place, take his feeble neighbor by the shoulder, and turn him out of it into the back seats or the street. You would be equally indignant if you saw a stout fellow thrust himself up to a table where some hungry children are being fed, and reach his arm over their heads and take their bread from them. 6. But you are not the least indignant, if, when a man has stoutness of thought and swiftness of capacity, and, instead of being long-armed only, has the much greater gift of being long-headed--you think it perfectly just that he should use his intellect to take the bread out of the mouths of all the other men in the town who are in the same trade with him; or use his breadth and sweep of sight to gather some branch of the commerce of the country into one great cobweb, of which he is himself the central spider, making every thread vibrate with the points of his claws, and commanding every avenue with the facets of his eyes. You see no injustice in this. 7. But there is injustice; and, let us trust, one of which honorable men will at no very distant period disdain to be guilty. In some degree, however, it is indeed not unjust; in some degree it is necessary and intended. It is assuredly just that idleness should be surpassed by energy; that the widest influence should be possessed by those who are best able to wield it; and that a wise man at the end of his career, should be better off than a fool. But for that reason, is the fool to be wretched, utterly crashed down, and left in all the suffering which his conduct and capacity naturally inflict? Not so. 8. What do you suppose fools were made for? That you might tread upon them, and starve them, and get the better of them in every possible way? By no means. They were made that wise people might take care of them. That is the true and plain fact concerning the relations of every strong and wise man to the world about him. He has his strength given him, not that he may crush the weak, but that he may support and guide them. In his own household he is to be the guide and the support of his children; out of his household he is still to be the father, that is, the guide and support, of the weak and the poor; not merely of the meritoriously weak and the innocently poor, but of the guilty and punishably poor; of the men who ought to have known better--of the poor who ought to be ashamed of themselves. 9. It is nothing to give pension and cottage to the widow who has lost her son; it is nothing to give food and medicine to the workman who has broken his arm, or the decrepit woman wasting in sickness. But it is something to use your time and strength in war with the waywardness and thoughtlessness of mankind to keep the erring workman in your service till you have made him an unerring one; and to direct your fellow-merchant to the opportunity which his dullness would have lost. 10. This is much; but it is yet more, when you have fully achieved the superiority which is due to you, and acquired the wealth which is the fitting reward of your sagacity, if you solemnly accept the responsibility of it, as it is the helm and guide of labor far and near. For you who have it in your hands, are in reality the pilots of the power and effort of the State. It is entrusted to you as an authority to be used for good or evil, just as completely as kingly authority was ever given to a prince, or military command to a captain. And according to the quantity of it you have in your hands, you are arbiters of the will and work of the nation; and the whole issue, whether the work of the State shall suffice for the State or not, depends upon you. 11. You may stretch out your sceptre over the heads of the laborers, and say to them, as they stoop to its waving, "Subdue this obstacle that has baffled our fathers; put away this plague that consumes our children; water these dry places, plough these desert ones, carry this food to those who are in hunger; carry this light to those who are in darkness; carry this life to those who are in death;" or on the other side you may say: "Here am I; this power is in my hand; come, build a mound here for me to be throned upon, high and wide; come, make crowns for my head, that men may see them shine from far away; come, weave tapestries for my feet, that I may tread softly on the silk and purple; come, dance before me, that I may slumber; so shall I live in joy, and die in honor." And better than such an honorable death it were, that the day had perished wherein we were born. 12. I trust that in a little while there will be few of our rich men, who, through carelessness or covetousness, thus forfeit the glorious office which is intended for their hands. I said, just now, that wealth ill-used was as the net of the spider, entangling and destroying; but wealth well-used, is as the net of the sacred Fisher who gathers souls of men out of the deep. A time will come--I do not think it is far from us--when this golden net of the world's wealth will be spread abroad as the flaming meshes of morning cloud over the sky; bearing with them the joy of the light and the dew of the morning, as well as the summons to honorable and peaceful toil. JOHN RUSKIN. * * * * * LIFE AND SONG. [This poem is taken from "The Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyrighted 1891, and published by Charles Scribner's Sons.] If life were caught by a clarionet, And a wild heart, throbbing in the reed, Should thrill its joy and trill its fret, And utter its heart in every deed, "Then would this breathing clarionet Type what the poet fain would be; For none o' the singers ever yet Has wholly lived his minstrelsy, "Or clearly sung his true, true thought, Or utterly bodied forth his life, Or out of life and song has wrought The perfect one of man and wife; "Or lived and sung, that Life and Song Might each express the other's all, Careless if life or art were long Since both were one, to stand or fall: "So that the wonder struck the crowd, Who shouted it about the land: _His song was only living aloud, His work, a singing with his hand_!" SIDNEY LANIER. * * * * * ELOQUENCE. 1. When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech farther than as it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. 2. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire to it; they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. 3. Then patriotism is eloquent; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object,--this, this is eloquence; or rather it is something greater and higher than all eloquence,--it is action, noble, sublime, god-like action. DANIEL WEBSTER. * * * * * TRUTH AT LAST. Does a man ever give up hope, I wonder,-- Face the grim fact, seeing it clear as day? When Bennen saw the snow slip, heard its thunder Low, louder, roaring round him, felt the speed Growing swifter as the avalanche hurled downward, Did he for just one heart-throb--did he indeed Know with all certainty, as they swept onward, There was the end, where the crag dropped away? Or did he think, even till they plunged and fell, Some miracle would stop them? Nay, they tell That he turned round, face forward, calm and pale, Stretching his arms out toward his native vale. As if in mute, unspeakable farewell, And so went down.--'Tis something if at last, Though only for a flash, a man may see Clear-eyed the future as he sees the past, From doubt, or fear, or hope's illusion free. EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. * * * * * WORK. 1. What is wise work, and what is foolish work? What the difference between sense and nonsense, in daily occupation? There are three tests of wise work:--that it must be honest, useful and cheerful. It is _Honest_. I hardly know anything more strange than that you recognize honesty in play, and do not in work. In your lightest games, you have always some one to see what you call "fair-play." In boxing, you must hit fair; in racing, start fair. Your English watchword is "fair-_play_," your English hatred, "foul-_play_." Did it never strike you that you wanted another watchword also, "fair-_work_," and another and bitterer hatred,--"foul-_work_"? 2. Then wise work is _Useful_. No man minds, or ought to mind, its being hard, if only it comes to something; but when it is hard and comes to nothing, when all our bees' business turns to spiders', and for honey-comb we have only resultant cobweb, blown away by the next breeze,--that is the cruel thing for the worker. Yet do we ever ask ourselves, personally, or even nationally, whether our work is coming to anything or not? 3. Then wise work is _Cheerful_, as a child's work is. Everybody in this room has been taught to pray daily, "Thy Kingdom come." Now if we hear a man swearing in the streets we think it very wrong, and say he "takes God's name in vain." But there's a twenty times worse way of taking His name in vain than that. It is to _ask God for what we don't want_. If you don't want a thing don't ask for it: such asking is the worst mockery of your King you can insult Him with. If you do not wish for His kingdom, don't pray for it. But if you do, you must do more than pray for it; you must work for it. And, to work for it, you must know what it is. 4. Observe, it is a Kingdom that is to come to us; we are not to go to it. Also it is not to come all at once, but quietly; nobody knows how. "The Kingdom of God cometh not with observation." Also, it is not to come outside of us, but in our hearts: "The Kingdom of God is within you." Now if we want to work for this Kingdom, and to bring it, and to enter into it, there's one curious condition to be first accepted. We must enter into it as children, or not at all; "Whosoever will not receive it as a little child shall not enter therein." And again, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, _for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven_." 5. Of _such_, observe. Not of children themselves, but of such as children. It is the _character_ of children we want and must gain. It is modest, faithful, loving, and because of all these characters it is cheerful. Putting its trust in its father, it is careful for nothing--being full of love to every creature, it is happy always, whether in its play or in its duty. Well, that's the great worker's character also. Taking no thought for the morrow; taking thought only for the duty of the day; knowing indeed what labor is, but not what sorrow is; and always ready for play--beautiful play. JOHN RUSKIN. * * * * * EXTRACT FROM "THE RING AND THE BOOK." Our human speech is naught, Our human testimony false, our fame And human estimation words and wind. Why take the artistic way to prove so much? Because, it is the glory and good of Art, That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine, at least. How look a brother in the face and say "Thy right is wrong, eyes hast thou, yet art blind, Thine ears are stuffed and stopped, despite their length, And, oh, the foolishness thou countest faith!" Say this as silvery as tongue can troll-- The anger of the man may be endured, The shrug, the disappointed eyes of him Are not so bad to bear--but here's the plague, That all this trouble comes of telling truth, Which truth, by when it reaches him, looks false, Seems to be just the thing it would supplant, Nor recognizable by whom it left; While falsehood would have done the work of truth. But Art,--wherein man nowise speaks to men, Only to mankind,--Art may tell a truth Obliquely, do the thing shall breed the thought, Nor wrong the thought, missing the mediate word. So may you paint your picture, twice show truth, Beyond mere imagery on the wall,-- So, note by note, bring music from your mind, Deeper than ever the Adante dived,-- So write a book shall mean, beyond the facts, Suffice the eye, and save the soul besides. * * * * * SELF-RELIANCE. 1. To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men,--that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost, and our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each, the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato and Milton is that they all set at naught books and tradition, and spoke not what men but what _they_ thought. 2. A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty. 3. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression with good-humored inflexibility then most when the whole cry of voices is on the other side. Else to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another. 4. There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better for worse as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. 5. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in the memory is not without preestablished harmony. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. 6. We but half express ourselves, and we are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents. It may be safely trusted as proportionate and of good issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his work made manifest by cowards. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no invention, no hope. 7. Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying their perception that the absolutely trustworthy was seated at their heart, working through their hands, predominating in all their being. 8. And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids in a protected corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers and benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort and advancing on Chaos and the Dark. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. * * * * * RHODORA. ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THIS FLOWER? In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. * * * * * EACH AND ALL. Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, Of thee from the hill-top looking down; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one; Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home, in his nest, at even; He sings the song, but it cheers not now, For I did not bring home the river and sky;-- He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye. The delicate shell lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid, As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;-- The gay enchantment was undone; A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth:"-- As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird;-- Beauty through my senses stole; I yielded myself to the perfect whole. RALPH WALDO EMERSON * * * * * COLUMBUS. [This poem is taken from the complete works of Joaquin Miller, copyrighted, published by the Whitaker Ray Company, San Francisco.] Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said, "Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone. Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say!" "Why, say, 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'" "My men grow mutinous by day, My men grow ghastly pale and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" "Why, you shall say at break of day, 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'" They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, now, not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas has gone. Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say"-- He said, "Sail on! sail on! and on!" They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows its teeth to-night. He curls his lips, he lies in wait With lifted teeth as if to bite! Brave Admiral, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leapt like a leaping sword, "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck-- A light! A light! A light! A light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn, He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!" JOAQUIN MILLER. * * * * * MY LAST DUCHESS. FERRARA. That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now; Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said. "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat;" such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say "Just this "Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, "Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat The Count your Master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, Sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! ROBERT BROWNING. * * * * * "THE TALE." What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time --Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head. Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where such like used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing, but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing; I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that's behind. There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, --Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss: such ears Had old judges, it appears! None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile "In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!" When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir--who had guessed Such ill luck in store?--it happed One of those same seven strings snapped. All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada"? Pooh!) --Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music--flew With its little heart on fire Lighted on the crippled lyre. So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat? Ay and, ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly,--indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet. Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one assent "Take the prize--a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument? Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F sharp!" Did the conqueror spurn the creature, Once its service done? That's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent For aiding soul development. No! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand, Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (Sir! I hope you understand!) --Said "Some record there must be Of this cricket's help to me!" So he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life-size; On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. That's the tale: its application? Somebody I know Hopes one day for reputation Through his poetry that's--Oh, All so learned and so wise And deserving of a prize! If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue's built, Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? "For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played,-- With my lyre at lowest, highest, Right alike,--one string that made 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain Never to be heard again,-- "Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered 'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat sombre drone." But you don't know music! Wherefore Keep on casting pearls To a--poet? All I care for Is--to tell him a girl's "Love" comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing. (There, enough!) ROBERT BROWNING. * * * * * MONT BLANC BEFORE SUNRISE. Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc! The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form, Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee, and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it As with a wedge. But when I look again It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity. O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,-- So sweet we know not we are listening to it,-- Thou, the mean while wast blending with my thought. Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing--there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven. Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs! all join my hymn! Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! O, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink,-- Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald--wake! O wake! and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jaggëd rocks, Forever shattered, and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy, Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam? And who commanded,--and the silence came,-- "Here let the billows stiffen and have rest?" Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain-- Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? "God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plain echo, "God!" "God!" sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome voice Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, "God!" Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth "God!" and fill the hills with praise! Thou too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast,-- Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud To rise before me,--rise, oh, ever rise! Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. S.T. COLERIDGE. * * * * * MY STAR. All that I know Of a certain star Is, it can throw (Like the angled spar) Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue, Till my friends have said They would fain see, too My star that dartles the red and the blue! Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled; They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world? Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it. ROBERT BROWNING. * * * * * A CONSERVATIVE. The garden beds I wandered by One bright and cheerful morn, When I found a new-fledged butterfly A-sitting on a thorn, A black and crimson butterfly, All doleful and forlorn. I thought that life could have no sting To infant butterflies, So I gazed on this unhappy thing With wonder and surprise, While sadly with his waving wing He wiped his weeping eyes. Said I, "What can the matter be? Why weepest thou so sore? With garden fair and sunlight free And flowers in goodly store--" But he only turned away from me And burst into a roar. Cried he, "My legs are thin and few Where once I had a swarm! Soft fuzzy fur--a joy to view-- Once kept my body warm, Before these flapping wing-things grew, To hamper and deform!" At that outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye; Said I, in scorn all burning hot, In rage and anger high, "You ignominious idiot! Those wings are made to fly!" "I do not want to fly," said he, "I only want to squirm!" And he drooped his wings dejectedly, But still his voice was firm; "I do not want to be a fly! I want to be a worm!" O yesterday of unknown lack! To-day of unknown bliss! I left my fool in red and black, The last I saw was this,-- The creature madly climbing back Into his chrysalis. CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN. * * * * * FIVE LIVES. Five mites of monads dwelt in a round drop That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun. To the naked eye they lived invisible; Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky. One was a meditative monad, called a sage; And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought: "Tradition, handed down for hours and hours, Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world, Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence, When I am very old, yon shimmering dome Come drawing down and down, till all things end?" Then with a weazen smirk he proudly felt No other mote of God had ever gained Such giant grasp of universal truth. One was a transcendental monad; thin And long and slim in the mind; and thus he mused: "Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-Souls! Made in the image"--a hoarse frog croaks from the pool-- "Hark! 'twas some god, voicing his glorious thought In thunder music! Yea, we hear their voice, And we may guess their minds from ours, their work. Some taste they have like ours, some tendency To wiggle about, and munch a trace of scum." He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone. One was a barren-minded monad, called A positivist; and he knew positively: "There is no world beyond this certain drop. Prove me another! Let the dreamers dream Of their faint gleams, and noises from without, And higher and lower; life is life enough." Then swaggering half a hair's breadth, hungrily He seized upon an atom of bug and fed. One was a tattered monad, called a poet; And with shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang: "Oh, the little female monad's lips! Oh, the little female monad's eyes! Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!" The last was a strong-minded monadess, Who dashed amid the infusoria, Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove Till the dizzy others held their breath to see. But while they led their wondrous little lives Æonian moments had gone wheeling by. The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed; A glistening film--'twas gone; the leaf was dry. The little ghost of an inaudible squeak Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone; Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged, Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still. EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. * * * * * THE COMING OF ARTHUR. [_Abridged_.] LEODOGRAN, the King of Cameliard, Had one fair daughter, and none other child; And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, Guinevere, and in her his one delight. For many a petty king ere Arthur came Ruled in this isle and, ever waging war Each upon other, wasted all the land; And still from time to time the heathen host Swarm'd over seas, and harried what was left. And so there grew great tracts of wilderness, Wherein the beast was ever more and more, But man was less and less. . . . * * * * * And thus the land of Cameliard was waste, Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein, And none or few to scare or chase the beast; So that wild dog and wolf and boar and bear Came night and day, and rooted in the fields, And wallow'd in the gardens of the King. * * * * * . . . . . And King Leodogran Groan'd for the Roman legions here again And Caesar's eagle. . . . . * * * * * He knew not whither he should turn for aid. But--for he heard of Arthur newly crown'd, . . . . . . . . . --the King Sent to him, saying, 'Arise and help us thou! For here between the man and beast we die.' And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms, But heard the call and came; and Guinevere Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass; But since he neither wore on helm or shield The golden symbol of his kinglihood, But rode, a simple knight among his knights, And many of these in richer arms than he, She saw him not, or marked not, if she saw, One among many, tho' his face was bare. But Arthur, looking downward as he past, Felt the light of her eyes into his life Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitch'd His tents beside the forest. Then he drave The heathen; after, slew the beast, and fell'd The forest, letting in the sun, and made Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight And so returned. For while he linger'd there, A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the hearts Of those great lords and barons of his realm Flashed forth and into war; for most of these, Colleaguing with a score of petty kings, Made head against him crying: "Who is he That should rule us? Who hath proven him King Uther's son?" And, Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt Travail, and throes and agonies of the life, Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere, And thinking as he rode: "Her father said That there between the man and beast they die. Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts Up to my throne and side by side with me? What happiness to reign a lonely king? * * * * * . . . . But were I join'd with her, Then might we live together as one life, And reigning with one will in everything Have power on this dark land to lighten it, And power on this dead world to make it live." * * * * * When Arthur reached a field of battle bright With pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the world Was all so clear about him that he saw The smallest rock far on the faintest hill, And even in high day the morning star. * * * * * . . . . But the Powers who walk the world, Made lightnings and great thunders over him, And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might, And mightier of his hands with every blow, And leading all his knighthood, threw the kings. * * * * * So like a painted battle the war stood Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord. * * * * * Then quickly from the foughten field he sent . . . . . . . . . Sir Bedivere . . . . . . . . . to King Leodogran, Saying, "If I in aught have served thee well, Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife." Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heart Debating--"How should I that am a king, However much he holp me at my need, Give my one daughter saving to a king, And a king's son"?--lifted his voice, and call'd A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom He trusted all things, and of him required His counsel: "Knowest thou aught of Arthur's birth?" * * * * * Then while the King debated with himself, * * * * * . . . . . there came to Cameliard, * * * * * Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent; Whom . . . . . . . . the King Made feast for, as they sat at meat: * * * * * 'Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his men Report him! Yea, but ye--think ye this king-- So many those that hate him, and so strong, So few his knights, however brave they be-- Hath body enow to hold his foeman down?' 'O King,' she cried, 'and I will tell thee: few, Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him; For I was near him when the savage yells Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur sat Crowned on the dais, and all his warriors cried, "Be thou the King, and we will work thy will Who love thee," Then the King in low deep tones, And simple words of great authority, Bound them by so straight vows to his own self That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some Were pale as at the passing of a ghost, Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one who wakes Half blinded at the coming of a light. 'But when he spake, and cheer'd his Table Round With large, divine, and comfortable words, Beyond my tongue to tell thee--I beheld From eye to eye thro' all their Order flash A momentary likeness of the King; * * * * * 'And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast wit And hundred winters are but as the hands Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 'And near him stood the Lady of the Lake, Who knew a subtler magic than his own-- Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword, Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mist Of incense curl'd about her, and her face Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom; But there was heard among the holy hymns A voice as of the waters, for she dwells Down in a deep--calm, whatsoever storms May shake the world--and when the surface rolls, Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord.' Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thought To sift his doubtings to the last, and ask'd, Fixing full eyes of question on her face, 'The swallow and the swift are near akin, But thou art closer to this noble prince, Being his own dear sister;' * * * * * . . . . . . . . 'What know I? For dark my mother was in eyes and hair, And dark in hair and eyes am I; . . . . . . yea and dark was Uther too, Wellnigh to blackness; but this king is fair Beyond the race of Britons and of men. 'But let me tell thee now another tale: * * * * * . . . . . . . . on the night When Uther in Tintagil past away Moaning and wailing for an heir, Merlin Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe, * * * * * Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps It seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof A dragon wing'd and all from stem to stern Bright with a shining people on the decks, And gone as soon as seen. . . . . . He . . . . . .watch'd the great sea fall, Wave after wave, each mightier than the last, Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame: And down the wave and in the flame was borne A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet, Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried, "The King!" * * * * * And presently thereafter follow'd calm, Free sky and stars: "And this same child," he said, "Is he who reigns." . . . . * * * * * . . . . . . And ever since the Lords Have foughten like wild beasts among themselves, So that the realm has gone to wrack; but now, This year, when Merlin--for his hour had come-- Brought Arthur forth, and sat him in the hall, Proclaiming, "Here is Uther's heir, your King," A hundred voices cried: "Away with him! No king of ours!" . . . . . * * * * * . . . . Yet Merlin thro' his craft, And while the people clamor'd for a king, Had Arthur crown'd; but after, the great lords Banded, and so brake out in open war. * * * * * . . . . and Merlin in our time Hath spoken also, . . . . . Tho' men may wound him that he will not die, But pass, again to come, and then or now Utterly smite the heathen under foot, Till these and all men hail him for their king.' . . . . . King Leodogran rejoiced, But musing 'Shall I answer yea or nay?' Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw, Dreaming a slope of land that ever grew, Field after field, up to a height, the peak Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king, Now looming, and now lost; and on the slope The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven, Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick, In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind, Stream'd to the peak, and mingled with the haze And made it thicker; while the phantom king Sent out at times a voice; and here or there Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest Slew on and burnt, crying, 'No king of ours, No son of Uther, and no king of ours;' Till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze Descended, and the solid earth became As nothing, but the king stood out in heaven, Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and sent * * * * * Back to the court of Arthur answering yea. Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he loved And honor'd most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forth And bring the Queen, and watched him from the gates: And Lancelot past away among the flowers-- For then was latter April--and return'd-- Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere. To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint, Chief of the church in Britain, and before The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King That morn was married, while in stainless white, The fair beginners of a noble time, And glorying in their vows and him, his knights Stood around him, and rejoicing in his joy. Far shone the fields of May thro' open door, The sacred altar blossom'd white with May, The sun of May descended on their King, They gazed on all earth's beauty in their Queen, Roll'd incense, and there past along the hymns A voice as of the waters, while the two Sware at the shrine of Christ a deathless love. And Arthur said, 'Behold, thy doom is mine. Let chance what will, I love thee to the death!' To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes, 'King and my Lord, I love thee to the death!' And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake: 'Reign ye, and live and love, and make the world Other, and may the Queen be one with thee, And all this Order of thy Table Round Fulfil the boundless purpose of their King!' * * * * * And Arthur's knighthood sang before the King:-- '_Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May!! Blow trumpet, the long night hath roll'd away! Blow thro' the living world--"Let the King reign_!" '_Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's realm? Flash brand and lance, fall battle-axe on helm, Fall battle-axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign_! '_Strike for the King and live! his knights have heard That God hath told the King a secret word. Fall battle-axe and flash brand! Let the King reign_! * * * * * '_Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest, The king is king, and ever wills the highest. Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign_! * * * * * '_The King will follow Christ, and we the King, In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing. Fall battle-axe, and clash brand! "Let the King reign_!" And Arthur and his knighthood for a space Were all one will, and thro' that strength the King Drew in the petty princedoms under him, Fought, and in twelve great battles overcame The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reign'd. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. * * * * * ELAINE. Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray Might strike it, and awaken her with the gleam; Then fearing rust or soilure, fashion'd for it A case of silk, and braided thereupon All the devices blazon'd on the shield In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, A border fantasy of branch and flower, And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. Nor rested thus content, but day by day Leaving her household and good father, climb'd That eastern tower, and entering barr'd the door, Stript off the case, and read the naked shield, Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms, Now made a pretty history to herself Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, And every scratch a lance had made upon it, Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh; That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle; That at Cearleon; this at Camelot; And ah, God's mercy what a stroke was there! And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but God Broke the Strong lance and roll'd his enemy down, And saved him; so she lived in fantasy. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON * * * * * THE LADY OF SHALOTT. PART I. On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The Island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes, dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly, From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot; And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott." PART II. There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market-girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two; She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights, And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed: "I am half sick of shadows" said The Lady of Shalott. PART III. A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the Golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot; And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather. The helmet and the helmet-feather Burned like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot; As often through the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra" by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She looked down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror cracked from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. PART IV. In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods are waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance-- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right-- The leaves upon her falling light-- Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot; And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Til' her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reached upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died. The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name _The Lady of Shalott_. Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. * * * * * IF WE HAD THE TIME. If I had the time to find a place And sit me down full face to face With my better self, that cannot show In my daily life that rushes so: It might be then I would see my soul Was stumbling still towards the shining goal, I might be nerved by the thought sublime,-- If I had the time! If I had the time to let my heart Speak out and take in my life a part, To look about and to stretch a hand To a comrade quartered in no-luck land; Ah, God! If I might but just sit still And hear the note of the whip-poor-will, I think that my wish with God's would rhyme-- If I had the time! If I had the time to learn from you How much for comfort my word could do; And I told you then of my sudden will To kiss your feet when I did you ill; If the tears aback of the coldness feigned Could flow, and the wrong be quite explained,-- Brothers, the souls of us all would chime, If we had the time! RICHARD BURTON. * * * * * A SCENE FROM KING HENRY IV. "FALSTAFF'S RECRUITS." _Introduction_.--Sir John Falstaff has received a commission from the King to raise a company of soldiers to fight in the King's battles. After drafting a number of well-to-do farmers, whom he knows will pay him snug sums of money rather than to serve under him, he pockets their money and proceeds to fill his company from the riff-raff of the country through which he passes. The scene is a village green before Justice Shallow's house. The Justice has received word from Sir John that he is about to visit him, and desires him to call together a number of the villagers from which recruits may be selected. These villagers are now grouped upon the green, with Justice Shallow standing near. Bardolph, Sir John Falstaff's corporal, enters and addresses Justice Shallow. _Bardolph_.--Good morrow, honest gentlemen. I beseech you, which is Justice Shallow? _Shallow_.--I am Robert Shallow, sir; a poor esquire of this county, and one of the King's justices of the peace. What is your good pleasure with me? _Bardolph_.--My captain, sir, commends him to you; my captain, Sir John Falstaff, a tall gentlemen, by heaven, and a most gallant leader. _Shallow_.--He greets me well, sir. I knew him a good backsword man. How doth the good Knight now? Look! here comes good Sir John. _(Enter Falstaff_.) Give me your good hand, give me your worship's good hand. By my troth you look well and bear your years very well; welcome, good Sir John. _Falstaff_.--I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert Shallow. Fie, this is hot weather, gentlemen. Have you provided me with half a dozen sufficient men? _Shallow_.--Marry have we, sir. _Falstaff_.--Let me see them, I beseech you. _Shallow_.--Where's the roll? Where's the roll? Where's the roll? Let me see, let me see, let me see. So, so, so, so, so, so, so; yea, marry sir.--Ralph Mouldy! Let them appear as I call; let them do so, let them do so. Let me see; where is Mouldy? _Mouldy_.--Here, an't please you. _Shallow_.--What think you, Sir John? A good limbed fellow: young, strong, and of good friends. _Falstaff_.--Is thy name Mouldy? _Mouldy_.--Yea, an't please you. _Falstaff_.--'Tis the more time thou wert used. _Shallow_.--Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i' faith! Things that are mouldy lack use; very singular good! Well said, Sir John, very well said. Shall I prick him, Sir John? _Falstaff_.--Yes, prick him. _Mouldy_.--I was pricked well enough before, an' you could have let me alone; my old dame will be undone now for one to do her husbandry and her drudgery; you need not to have pricked me; there are other men fitter to go out than I. _Shallow_.--Peace, fellow, peace! Stand aside; know you where you are? For the next, Sir John; let me see.--Simon Shadow? _Falstaff_.--Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under. He's like to be a cold soldier. _Shallow_.--Where's Shadow? _Shadow_.--Here, sir. _Falstaff_.--Shadow, whose son art thou? _Shadow_.--My mother's son, sir. _Falstaff_.--Thy mother's son! Like enough, and thy father's shadow. Prick him. Shadow will serve for summer. _Shallow_.--Thomas Wart! _Falstaff_.--Where's he? _Wart_.--Here, sir! _Falstaff_.--Is thy name Wart? _Wart_.--Yea, sir. _Falstaff_.--Thou art a very ragged wart. _Shallow_.--Ha, ha, ha! Shall I prick him down, Sir John? _Falstaff_.--It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his back and the whole frame stands upon pins; prick him no more. _Shallow_.--Ha, ha, ha! you can do it, sir; you can do it; I commend you well.--Francis Feeble. _Feeble_.--Here, sir. _Falstaff_.--What trade art thou, Feeble? _Feeble_.--I'm a woman's tailor, sir. _Falstaff_.--Well, good woman's tailor, wilt thou make as many holes in an enemy's battle as thou hast done in a woman's petticoat? _Feeble_.--I will do my good will, sir; you can have no more. _Falstaff_.--Well said, good woman's tailor! Well said, courageous Feeble! Thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove, or most magnanimous mouse. Prick me the woman's tailor well, Master Shallow; deep, Master Shallow. _Feeble_.--I would Wart might have gone, too, sir. _Falstaff_.--I would thou wert a man's tailor, that thou mightst mend him and make him fit to go. Let that suffice, most forcible Feeble. _Feeble_.--It shall suffice, sir. _Falstaff_.--I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who is next? _Shallow_.--Peter Bullcalf, o' the green. _Falstaff_.--Yea, marry, let's see Bullcalf. _Bullcalf_.--Here, sir. _Falstaff_.--Fore God, a likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf till he roar again. _Bullcalf_.--O Lord! Good my lord captain,-- _Falstaff_.--What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked? _Bullcalf_.--O Lord, sir! I'm a diseased man. _Falstaff_.--What disease hast thou? _Bullcalf_.--A terrible cold, sir, a cough, sir. _Falstaff_.--Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown. We will have away with thy cold. Is here all? _Shallow_.--Here is two more than your number. You must have but four here, sir; and so, I pray you, go in with me to dinner. _Falstaff_.--Come, I will go drink with you. (_Exit Sir John and Justice Shallow_.) _Bullcalf_.--(_Approaching Bardolph_.) Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand my friend; and here's four Harry ten shillings in French crowns for you. In very truth, sir, I'd as lief be hanged, sir, as to go; and yet for mine own part, sir, I do not care; but rather because I am unwilling, and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with my friends; else, sir, I did not care, for my own part, so much. _Bardolph_.--(_Pocketing the money_.) Go to; stand aside. _Feeble_.--By my troth, I care not. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. * * * * * A SCENE FROM DAVID COPPERFIELD. AT THE LODGINGS OF MR. AND MRS. MICAWBER. _Introduction_.--The scene opens in the lodgings of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Mr. Micawber at this time is suffering under, what he terms, "A temporary pressure of pecuniary liabilities," and is out looking for something to turn up. Mrs. Micawber is at home attending to the twins, one of which she is holding in her arms, the other is in the cradle near by, and various of the children are scattered about the floor. Mrs. Micawber has been bothered all the morning by the calling of creditors;--at last she exclaims, as she trots the babe in her arms:-- (_Mrs. Micawber_.) Well, I wonder how many more times they will be calling! However, it's their fault. If Mr. Micawber's creditors won't give him time, they must take the consequences. Oh! there is some one knocking now! I believe that's Mr. Heep's knock. It _is_ Mr. Heep! Come in, Mr. Heep. We are very glad to see you. Come right in. _Heep_.--Is Mr. Micawber in? _Mrs. Mic_.--No, Mr. Heep. Mr. Micawber has gone out. We make no stranger of you, Mr. Heep, so I don't mind telling you Mr. Micawber's affairs have reached a crisis. With the exception of a heel of Dutch cheese, which is not adapted to the wants of a young family,--and including the twins,--there is nothing to eat in the house. _Heep_.--How dreadful! (_Aside_.) The very man for my purpose. (_Explanation_. At this moment there is a noise heard on the landing. Micawber himself rushes into the room, slamming the door behind him.) _Micawber_.--(_Not seeing Heep_.) The clouds have gathered, the storm has broken, and the thunderbolt has fallen on the devoted head of Wilkins Micawber! Emma, my dear, the die is cast. All is over. Leave me in my misery! _Mrs. Mic_.--I'll never desert my Micawber! _Mic_.--In the words of the immortal Plato, "It must be so, Cato!" But no man is without a friend when he is possessed of courage and shaving materials! Emma, my love, fetch me my razors! (_Recovers himself_) sh--sh! We are not alone! (_Gayly_) Oh, Mr. Heep! Delighted to see you, my young friend! Ah, my dear young attorney-general, in prospective, if I had only known you when my troubles commenced, my creditors would have been a great deal better managed than they were! You will pardon the momentary laceration of a wounded spirit, made sensitive by a recent collision with a minion of the law,--in short, with a ribald turncock attached to the waterworks. Emma, my love, our supply of water has been cut off. Hope has sunk beneath the horizon! Bring me a pint of laudanum! _Heep_.--Mr. Micawber, would you be willing to tell me the amount of your indebtedness? _Mic_.--It is only a small matter for nutriment, beef, mutton, etc., some trifle, seven and six pence ha'penny. _Heep_.--I'll pay it for you. _Mic_.--My dear friend! You overpower me with obligation! Shall I admit the officer? (_Turns and goes to the door, opens it_.) Enter myrmidon! Hats off, in the presence of a solvent debtor and a lady. (_Heeps pays the officer and dismisses him_.) _Heep_.--Now, Mr. Micawber, I suppose you have no objection to giving me your I.O.U. for the amount. _Mic_.--Certainly not. I am always ready to put my name to any species of negotiable paper, from twenty shillings upward. Excuse me, Heep, I'll write it. (_Goes through motion of writing it on leaf of memo, book. Tears it out and hands it to Heep_.) I suppose this is renewable on the usual term? _Heep_.--Better. You can work it out. I come to offer you the position of clerk in my partner's office--the firm of Wickfield and Heep. _Mic_.--What! A clerk! Emma, my love, I believe I may have no hesitation in saying something has at last turned up! _Heep_.--You will excuse me, Mrs. Micawber, but I should like to speak a few words to your husband in private. _Mrs. Mic_.--Certainly! Wilkins, my love, go on and prosper! _Mic_.--My dear, I shall endeavor to do so to an unlimited extent! Ah, the sun has again risen--the clouds have passed--the sky is clear, and another score may be begun at the butcher's.--Heep, precede me. Emma, my love. _Au Revoir_. (_A gallant bow to Mrs. Micawber_.) * * * * * A SCENE FROM DAVID COPPERFIELD. CHARACTERS. OLD FISHERMAN PEGGOTTY, HAM PEGGOTTY, DAVID COPPERFIELD. _Introduction_.--The scene is the interior of the "Old Ark"; the time is evening. The rain is falling outside, yet inside the old ark all is snug and comfortable. The fire is burning brightly on the hearth, and Mother Gummidge sits by it knitting. Ham has gone out to fetch little Em'ly home from her work,--and the old fisherman sits smoking his evening pipe by the table near the window. They are expecting Steerforth and Copperfield in to spend the evening. Presently a knock is heard and David enters. Old Peggotty gets up to greet him. _Old Peg_.--Why! It's Mas'r Davy? Glad to see you, Mas'r Davy, you're the first of the lot! Take off that cloak of yours if it's wet and draw right up to the fire. Don't you mind Mawther Gummidge, Mas'r Davy; she's a-thinkin' of the old 'un. She allers do be thinkin of the old 'un when there's a storm a-comin' up, along of his havin' been drowned at sea. Well, now, I must go and light up accordin' to custom. (_He lights a candle and puts it on the table by the window_.) Theer we are! Theer we are! A-lighted up accordin' to custom. Now, Mas'r Davy, you're a-wonderin' what that little candle is for, ain't yer? Well, I'll tell yer. It's for my little Em'ly. You see, the path ain't o'er light or cheerful arter dark, so when I'm home here along the time that Little Em'ly comes home from her work, I allers lights the little candle and puts it there on the table in the winder, and it serves two purposes,--first, Em'ly sees it and she says: "Theer's home," and likewise, "Theer's Uncle," fur if I ain't here I never have no light showed. Theer! Now you're laughin' at me, Mas'r Davy! You're a sayin' as how I'm a babby. Well, I don't know but I am. (_Walks towards table_.) Not a babby to look at, but a babby to consider on. A babby in the form of a Sea Porky-pine. See the candle sparkle! I can hear it say--"Em'ly's lookin' at me! Little Em'ly's comin'!" Right I am for here she is! (_He goes to the door to meet her; the door opens and Ham comes staggering in_.) _Ham_.--She's gone! Her that I'd a died fur, and will die fur even now! She's gone! _Peggotty_.--Gone!! _Ham_.--Gone! She's run away! And think how she's run away when I pray my good and gracious God to strike her down dead, sooner than let her come to disgrace and shame. _Peggotty_.--Em'ly gone! I'll not believe it. I must have proof--proof. _Ham_.--Read that writin'. _Peggotty_.--No! I won't read that writin'--read it you, Mas'r Davy. Slow, please. I don't know as I can understand. _David_.--(_Reads_) "When you see this I shall be far away." _Peggotty_.--Stop theer, Mas'r Davy! Stop theer! Fur away! My Little Em'ly fur away! Well? _David_.--(_Reads_) "Never to come back again unless he brings me back a lady. Don't remember, Ham, that we were to be married, but try to think of me as if I had died long ago, and was buried somewhere. My last love and last tears for Uncle." _Peggotty_.--Who's the man? What's his name? I want to know the man's name. _Ham_.--It warn't no fault of yours, Mas'r Davy, that I know. _Peggotty_.--What! You don't mean his name's Steerforth, do you? _Ham_.--Yes! His name is Steerforth, and he's a cursed villain! _Peggotty_.--Where's my coat? Give me my coat! Help me on with it, Mas'r Davy. Now bear a hand theer with my hat. _David_.--Where are you going, Mr. Peggotty? _Peggotty_.--I'm a goin' to seek fur my little Em'ly. First, I'm going to stave in that theer boat and sink it where I'd a drownded him, as I'm a living soul; if I'd a known what he had in him! I'd a drownded him, and thought I was doin' right! Now I'm going to seek fur my Little Em'ly throughout the wide wurrety! * * * * * A SCENE FROM THE SHAUGHRAUN. _Introduction_.--This scene introduces the following characters:--Conn, the Shaughraun, a reckless, devil-may-care, true-hearted young vagabond, who is continually in a scrape from his desire to help a friend and his love of fun; his mother, Mrs. O'Kelly; his sweetheart, Moya Dolan, niece of the parish priest. It is evening. Moya is alone in the kitchen. She has just put the kettle on the fire when Mrs. O'Kelly, Conn's mother, enters. _Mrs. O'K_.--Is it yourself, Moya? I've come to see if that vagabond of mine has been around this way. _Moya_.--Why should he be here, Mrs. O'Kelly? Hasn't he a home of his own? _Mrs. O'K_.--The Shebeen is his home when he is not in jail. His father died o' drink, and Conn will go the same way. _Moya_.--I thought your husband was drowned at sea? _Mrs. O'K_.--And bless him, so he was. _Moya_.--Well, that's a quare way o' dying o' drink. _Mrs. O'K_.--The best of men he was, when he was sober--a betther never drhawed the breath o' life. _Moya_.--But you say he never was sober. _Mrs. O'K_.--Niver! An' Conn takes afther him! _Moya_.--Mother, I'm afeared I shall take afther Conn. _Mrs. O'K_.--Heaven forbid, and purtect you agin him! You a good dacent gurl, and desarve the best of husbands. _Moya_.--Them's the only ones that gets the worst. More betoken yoursilf, Mrs. O'Kelly. _Mrs. O'K_.--Conn niver did an honest day's work in his life--but dhrinkin' and fishin', an' shootin', an' sportin', and love-makin'. _Moya_.--Sure, that's how the quality pass their lives. _Mrs. O'K_.--That's it. A poor man that sports the sowl of a gintleman is called a blackguard. (_At this moment Conn appears in the doorway_.) _Conn_.--(_At left_.) Some one is talkin' about me! Ah, Moya, Darlin', come here. (_Business as if he reached out his hands to Moya as he comes forward to meet her, and passes her over to his left so he seems to stand in center between Moya on left and Mrs. O'Kelly on right_.) Was the old Mother thryin' to make little o' me? Don't you belave a word that comes out o' her! She's jealous o' me. (_Laughing as he shakes his finger at his mother_.) Yes, ye are! You're chokin' wid it this very minute! Oh, Moya darlin', she's jealous to see my two arms about ye. But she's proud o' me. Oh, she's proud o' me as an old him that's got a duck for a chicken. Howld your whist now Mother! Wipe your mouth and give me a kiss. _Mrs. O'K_.--Oh, Conn, what have you been afther? The polls have been in the cabin today about ye. They say you stole Squire Foley's horse. _Conn_.--Stole his horse! Sure the baste is safe and sound in his paddock this minute. _Mrs. O'K_.--But he says you stole it for the day to go huntin'? _Conn_.--Well, here's a purty thing, for a horse to run away wid a man's characther like this! Oh, Wurra! may I never die in sin, but this was the way of it. I was standin' by owld Foley's gate, whin I heard the cry of the hounds coming across the tail of the bog, an' there they wor, my dear, spread out like the tail of a paycock, an' the finest dog fox ye ever seen a sailin' ahead of thim up the boreen, and right across the churchyard. It was enough to raise the inhabitints out of the ground! Well, as I looked, who should come and put her head over the gate besoide me but the Squire's brown mare, small blame to her. Divil a word I said to her, nor she to me, for the hounds had lost their scent, we knew by their yelp and whine as they hunted among the gravestones. When, whist! the fox went by us. I leapt upon the gate, an' gave a shriek of a view-halloo to the whip; in a minute the pack caught the scent again, an' the whole field came roaring past. The mare lost her head entoirely and tore at the gate. "Stop," says I, "ye divil!" an' I slipt a taste of a rope over her head an' into her mouth. Now mind the cunnin' of the baste, she was quiet in a minute. "Come home, now," ses I. "aisy!" an' I threw my leg across her. Be jabbers! No sooner was I on her back than--Whoo! Holy Rocket! she was over the gate, an' tearin' afther the hounds loike mad. "Yoicks!" ses I; "Come back you thafe of the world, where you takin' me to?" as she carried me through the huntin' field, an' landed me by the soide of the masther of the hounds, Squire Foley himself. He turned the color of his leather breeches. "Mother o'Moses!" ses he, "Is that Conn, the Shaughraun, on my brown mare?" "Bad luck to me!" ses I, "It's no one else!" "You sthole my horse," ses the Squire. "That's a lie!" ses I, "for it was your horse sthole me!" _Moya_.--(_Laughing_.) And what did he say to that, Conn? _Conn_.--I couldn't stop to hear, Moya, for just then we took a stone wall together an' I left him behind in the ditch. _Mrs. O'K_.--You'll get a month in jail for this. _Conn_.--Well, it was worth it. BOUCICAULT. 
16936	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The University of Florida, The Internet Archive/Children's Library) [Illustration: COVER NATIONAL SERIES PARKER'S SECOND READER SOLD BY BOOKSELLERS GENERALLY THROUGHOUT THE UNITED STATES.] [Illustration] PARKER'S SECOND READER. NATIONAL SERIES OF SELECTIONS FOR READING; ADAPTED TO THE STANDING OF THE PUPIL. BY RICHARD G. PARKER, A.M. PRINCIPAL OF THE NORTH JOHNSON SCHOOL, BOSTON; AUTHOR OF "AIDS TO ENGLISH COMPOSITION," "OUTLINES OF GENERAL HISTORY," "THE SCHOOL COMPEND OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY," ETC. PART SECOND. DESIGNED FOR THE YOUNGER CLASSES IN SCHOOLS, ACADEMIES, &c. * * * * * "Understandest thou what thou readest?"--ACTS 6:30. * * * * * NEW YORK: A.S. BARNES & BURR, 51 & 53 JOHN STREET. SOLD BY BOOKSELLERS, GENERALLY, THROUGHOUT THE UNITED STATES. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-one, BY A.S. BARNES & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. STEREOTYPED BY HOBART & ROBBINS; NEW ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, BOSTON PREFACE. In the preparation of this volume, I have kept fresh in my recollection the immature state of the minds which I have endeavored to enlighten; and while it has been my aim to present such a succession of reading lessons as are suitable for the younger classes in our common schools and academies, I have not forgotten that the first step to be taken, in making good readers, is to open the understanding wide enough to afford a sufficient entrance for the ideas which are to be communicated by reading. Words are but sounds, by which ideas should be conveyed; and written language is of little use, if it convey but sound alone. Great pains have therefore been taken to exclude from this volume what the young scholar cannot understand, while, at the same time, it has been the aim of the author to avoid a puerile style, by which the early intellect is kept down, and its exertions are repressed. In every step and stage of its progress, the maxim "_Excelsior_" should be the aim of the youthful mind; and the hand of the teacher should be extended, not to _lift it up_, but only to _assist it in its endeavors to raise itself_. All of the labor must not be done by the teacher, nor by books. _They_ are of use only in exciting the mind to act for itself. They may, indeed, act as pioneers, but the pupil must not be _carried_ in their arms; he must perform the march himself. And herein lies the great difficulty of the teacher's task: on the one hand, to avoid the evil of leaving too little to be done by the scholar; and, on the other, to be careful that he be not required to do too much. Real difficulties should be lightened, but some labor should be permitted to remain. To make such labor attractive, and easily endured without discouragement, is the task which best shows the tact and skill of the teacher. If this volume be found useful in aiding the teacher, by doing all that should be required _from the book_, the design of the author will be accomplished. R.G.P. _Kneeland Place_, } _May, 1851._ } CONTENTS. [_The Poetical Extracts are designated by Italic Letters_] Lesson Page Preface v 1. The Author's Address to the Pupil 9 2. Same subject, continued 13 3. " " " 17 4. The Discontented Pendulum, _Jane Taylor_ 19 5. Address of the Author to the Pupil, continued 23 6. " " " " " " " concluded 26 7. How to find out the Meaning of Words, _Original_ 29 8. Same subject, continued " 31 9. " " concluded " 34 10. Words " 38 11. Definitions " 42 12. Reading and Spelling " 48 13. Importance of Learning to Spell, _Original Version_ 51 14. Demosthenes, _Original_ 53 15. Hard Words, " 57 16. Fire: a Conversation, " 63 17. Same subject, continued " 67 18. " " concluded " 73 19. The Lark and her Young Ones, _Altered from Æsop_ 79 20. Dogs, _Original_ 82 21. Same subject, concluded " 85 22. Frogs and Toads, _Bigland_ 87 23. Maida, the Scotch Greyhound, _Altered from Bigland_ 90 24. Gelert, " 94 25. Knock again _Child's Companion_ 96 26. Same subject, continued, " 98 27. " " concluded, " 100 28. Make Good Use of Time, _Emma C. Embury_ 102 29. Same subject, continued, " 107 30. " " concluded, " 111 31. Verse, or Poetry, _Original_ 116 32. _A Morning Hymn_, _Anonymous_ 121 33. _Evening Hymn_, " 122 34. _The Gardener and the Hog_, _Gay_ 123 35. _The Hare and many Friends_, " 125 36. Maxims, _Selected_ 128 37. How to be Happy, _Child at Home_ 129 38. Obedience and Disobedience, _Child's Companion_ 133 39. Obstinacy, _Lessons without Books_ 139 40. King Edward and his Bible, _L.H. Sigourney_ 144 41. What does it Mean to be Tempted? _Rose-bud_ 147 42. Same subject, continued, " 151 43. " " " " 154 44. " " concluded, " 157 45. _Mary Dow_, _H.F. Gould_ 163 46. _It Snows_, " 165 47. _The Dissatisfied Angler Boy_, " 166 48. _The Violet: a Fable_, _Children's Magazine_ 168 49. Captain John Smith, _Juvenile Miscellany_ 170 50. Same subject, continued, " 173 51 " " " " 176 52. " " concluded, " 179 53. John Ledyard, " 180 54. Same subject, concluded, " 183 55. Learning to Work, _Original_ 185 56. Same subject, continued, _Abbott_ 187 57. " " concluded, " 189 58. The Comma, _Parker's Rhetorical Reader_ 193 59. The Semicolon, " 199 60. The Colon, " 202 PARKER'S SECOND READER. LESSON I. _The Author's Address to the Pupil._ 1. I present to you, my little friend, a new book, to assist you in learning to read. I do not intend that it shall be a book full of hard words, which you do not understand. 2. I do not think it proper to require children to read what they cannot understand. I shall, therefore, show you how you may understand what is in this book, and how you may be able, with very little assistance from your teacher, to read all the hard words, not only in this book, but also in any book which you may hereafter take up. 3. But first let me repeat to you a saying, which, when I was a little boy, and went to school, my teacher used to repeat to me. He said that any one might lead a horse to the water, but no one could make him drink. The horse must do that himself. He must open his own mouth, and draw in the water, and swallow it, himself. 4. And so it is with anything which I wish to teach you. I can tell you many things which it will be useful for you to know, but I cannot open your ears and make you hear me. I cannot turn your eyes so that they will look at me when I am talking to you, that you may listen to me. That, you must do yourself; and if you do not do it, nothing that I can say to you, or do for you, will do you any good. 5. Many little boys and girls, when their teacher is talking to them, are in the habit of staring about the school-room, or looking at their fellow-pupils, or, perhaps, slyly talking to them or laughing with them, when they ought to be listening to what their teacher is saying. 6. Others, perhaps, may appear to be looking at their teacher, while, at the same time, they are thinking about tops and marbles, or kites and dolls, and other play-things, and have no more idea of what their teacher is saying to them than if he were not in the room. 7. Now, here is a little picture, from which I wish to teach you a very important lesson. The picture represents a nest, with four little birds in it. The mother bird has just been out to get some food for them. The little birds, as soon as their mother returns, begin to open their mouths wide, and the mother drops some food from her bill into the mouth of each one; and in this manner they are all fed, until they are old enough to go abroad and find food for themselves. [Illustration] 8. Now, what would these little birds do, if, when their mother brings them their food, they should keep their mouths all shut, or, perhaps, be feeling of one another with their little bills, or crowding each other out of the nest? 9. You know that they would have to go without their food; for their mother would not open their mouths for them, nor could she swallow their food for them. They must do that for themselves, or they must starve. 10. Now, in the same manner that little birds open their mouths to receive the food which their mother brings to them, little boys and girls should have their ears open to hear what their teachers say to them. 11. The little birds, as you see in the picture, have very large mouths, and they keep them wide open to receive all the food that their mother drops; so that none of their food ever falls into the nest, but all goes into their mouths, and they swallow it, and it nourishes them, and makes them grow. 12. So, also, little boys and girls should try to catch, in their ears, everything that their teacher says to them, and keep it in their minds, and be able to recollect it, by often thinking about it; and thus they will grow wise and learned, and be able to teach other little boys and girls, of their own, when they themselves grow up. 13. Now, my little friend, please to open your eyes and see what I have put into this book for you, and open your ears to hear what your kind teacher has to say to you, that your minds may grow, and that you may become wise and good children. LESSON II. _The same subject, continued._ 1. I told you, in the last lesson, that I would teach you how to understand what is in this book, and how to read the hard words that you may find in this or in any other book. 2. Now, before you can understand them, you must be able to read them; and in order that you may understand how to read them, you must take the words to pieces; that is, take a few of the letters at a time, and see whether you can read a part of the word first, and then another part, until you have read the whole of it in parts, and then you can put the parts together, and thus read the whole word. 3. Now, in order that you may understand what I mean, I will explain it to you by taking a long word to pieces, and letting you read a part of it at a time, until you have learned how to read the whole word. 4. In the next line, you may read the parts of the word all separated: Ab ra ca dab ra. Now you have read the parts of the word ab-ra-ca-dab-ra all separated, you can read them very easily together, so as to make one word, and the word will be Abracadabra. 5. This long and hard word was the name of a false god, that was worshiped many hundreds of years ago, by a people who did not know the true God, whom we worship; and they very foolishly supposed that by wearing this name, written on paper, in a certain manner, it would cure them of many diseases. 6. Here are a few more long and hard words, divided in the same manner, which you may first read by syllables, that is, one syllable at a time: Val e tu di na´ ri an. In de fat i ga bil´ i ty. Hy po chon dri´ a cal. Me temp sy cho´ sis. Hal lu ci na´ tion. Zo o no´ mi a. Ses qui pe dal´ i ty. 7. You may now read these long words as they are here presented, without a division of the syllables, as follows: valetudinarian, indefatigability, hypochondriacal, metempsychosis, hallucination, zoonomia, sesquipedality. 8. Now, you see that words which look hard, and which you find difficult to read, can be easily read, if you take the pains to divide them into parts or syllables, and not try to read the whole word at once. 9. I now propose to relate to you a little story which I read when I was a little boy, and which I think will make you remember what I have just told you about reading hard words, by first taking them to pieces, and reading a part of them at a time. 10. A father, who was dying, called his seven sons around his bed, and showed them a bundle of small sticks tied together, and asked each one to try to break all the sticks at once, without untying the bundle. [Illustration] 11. Each of the sons took the bundle of sticks, and putting it across his knee, tried with all his strength to break it; but not one of them could break the sticks, or even bend them, while they were tied together. 12. The father then directed his oldest son to untie the bundle, and to break each stick separately. As soon as the bundle was untied, each of the sons took the sticks separately, and found that they could easily break every one of them, and scatter them, in small pieces, all about the floor. 13. "Now," said the father, "I wish you, my dear sons, to learn a lesson from these sticks. So long as you are all united in love and friendship, you need fear little from any enemies; but, if you quarrel among yourselves, and do not keep together, you see by these little sticks how easily your enemies may put you down separately." 14. Now, this was a very wise father, and he taught his sons a very useful lesson with this bundle of sticks. I also wish to teach you, my little friend, whoever you are, that are reading this book, another useful lesson from the same story. 15. Hard words, especially long ones, will be difficult to you to read, unless, like the sons in the story, you untie the bundle; that is, until you take the long words apart, and read one part or syllable at a time. Thus you may learn what is meant by that wise saying, "_Divide and conquer_." LESSON III. _The same subject, continued._ 1. I have another lesson to teach you from the same story of the old man and the bundle of sticks, which I think will be very useful to you, and will make your lessons very much easier to you. 2. Whenever you have a lesson to learn, do not look at it all at once, and say, I cannot learn this long lesson; but divide it into small parts, and say to yourself, I will try to learn this first little part, and after I have learned that, I will rest two or three minutes, and then I will learn another little part, and then rest again a few minutes, and then I will learn another. 3. I think that in this way you will find study is not so hard a thing as it seemed to you at first, and you will have another explanation of that wise saying, _Divide and conquer_. 4. I will now tell you another story that I read when I was a little boy. It was called a fable. But before I tell you the story, I must tell you what a fable is. 5. A fable is a story which is not true. But, although it is not a true story, it is a very useful one, because it always teaches us a good lesson. 6. In many fables, birds and beasts are represented as speaking. Now, you know that birds and beasts cannot talk, and therefore the story, or fable, which tells us that birds and beasts, and other things, that are not alive, do talk, cannot be true. 7. But I have told you, that although fables are not true stories, they are very useful to us, because they teach us a useful lesson. This lesson that they teach is called the _moral_ of the fable; and that is always the best fable that has the best moral to it, or, in other words, that teaches us the best lesson. 8. The story, or the fable, that I promised to tell you, is in the next lesson, and I wish you, when you read it, to see whether you can find out what the lesson, or moral, is which it teaches; and whether it is at all like the story of the father and the bundle of sticks, that I told you in the last lesson. While you read it, be very careful that you do not pass over any word the meaning of which you do not know. LESSON IV. _The Discontented Pendulum._--JANE TAYLOR. [Illustration] 1. An old clock, that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped. 2. Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) changed countenance with alarm; the hands made a vain effort to continue their course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung speechless;--each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. 3. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation, when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice, protested their innocence. 4. But now a faint tick was heard below from the pendulum, who thus spoke:--"I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and I am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking." 5. Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged, that it was on the very point of _striking_. "Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands. 6. "Very good!" replied the pendulum; "it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as everybody knows, set yourself up above me,--it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You, who have had nothing to do, all the days of your life, but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen! 7. "Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backwards and forwards, year after year, as I do." 8. "As to that," said the dial, "is there not a window in your house, on purpose for you to look through?"--"For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is very dark here; and although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out at it. 9. "Besides, I am really tired of my way of life; and, if you wish, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. I happened this morning to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course of only the next twenty-four hours; perhaps some of you, above there, can give me the exact sum." 10. The minute-hand, being _quick_ at figures, presently replied, "Eighty-six thousand four hundred times." 11. "Exactly so," replied the pendulum; "well, I appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue one; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really, it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect: so, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I'll stop." 12. The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied: "Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself, should have been overcome by this sudden action. 13. "It is true, you have done a great deal of work in your time; so have we all, and are likely to do; which, although it may fatigue us to _think_ of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to _do_. Would you now do me the favor to give about half a dozen strokes, to illustrate my argument?" 14. The pendulum complied, and ticked six times in its usual pace. "Now," resumed the dial, "may I be allowed to inquire if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?" 15. "Not in the least," replied the pendulum; "it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of _millions_." 16. "Very good," replied the dial; "but recollect, that though you may _think_ of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to _execute_ but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in." 17. "That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum.--"Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, "we shall all immediately return to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed, if we stand idling thus." 18. Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of _light_ conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a red beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen window, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up, as if nothing had been the matter. 19. When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the clock, he declared that his watch had gained half an hour in the night. LESSON V. _Address of the Author to the Pupil,--continued from Lesson 3d._ 1. The fable of the old clock, which has just been read, is intended to teach us a lesson, or moral, and that is, that whenever we have anything to do, whether it be a long lesson or a piece of hard work, we must not think of it all at once, but divide the labor, and thus conquer the difficulty. 2. The pendulum was discouraged when it thought that it had to tick eighty-six thousand four hundred times in twenty-four hours; but when the dial asked it to tick half a dozen times only, the pendulum confessed that it was not fatiguing or disagreeable to do so. 3. It was only by thinking what a large number of times it had to tick in twenty-four hours, that it became fatigued. 4. Now, suppose that a little boy, or a little girl, has a hard lesson to learn, and, instead of sitting down quietly and trying to learn a little of it at a time, and after that a little more, until it is all learned, should begin to cry, and say I cannot learn all of this lesson, it is too long, or too hard, and I never can get it, that little boy, or girl, would act just as the pendulum did when it complained of the hard work it had to do. 5. But the teacher says to the little boy, Come, my dear, read over the first sentence of your lesson to me six times. The little boy reads the first sentence six times, and confesses to his teacher that it was not very hard work to do so. 6. The teacher then asks him to read it over six times more; and the little boy finds that, before he has read it to his teacher so often as the six times more, he can say it without his book before him. 7. In this way, that little boy will find, that it is not, after all, so hard work to get what he calls a hard lesson; because all that he has to do, is to read a small portion of the lesson at a time, and to repeat the reading of that small portion until he can repeat it without the book. 8. When he has done this, he can take another small portion of the lesson, and do the same with that, until, by degrees, he has learnt the whole lesson; and then he will feel happy, because he knows that his teacher, and his parents, will be pleased with him. 9. But some pupils say to themselves, when they have a lesson to learn, I do not want to study this lesson now; I will study it by and by, or to-morrow morning. 10. But, by and by, and when to-morrow comes, they feel no more disposed to study their lesson than they did when the lesson was first given to them. 11. Now, my little friend, if you wish your time at school to pass pleasantly, do not say to yourself, I will get my lesson by and by, or to-morrow, but set yourself about it immediately, learn it as quickly as you can, and I will assure you will not only make your teachers and your parents happier, but you will be much happier yourself. LESSON VI. _The Author to the Pupil._ 1. In the first lesson, I told you that I would show you how to understand what is in this book; and how you may, with very little assistance from your teacher, be able to read all the hard words that you find in any book. 2. Many little boys and girls are very fond of running out of their places in school, and going up to their teachers with a great many unnecessary questions. This always troubles the teacher, and prevents his going through with all his business in time to dismiss you at the usual hour. 3. Whenever you meet with any real difficulty, that you cannot overcome yourself without his assistance, you should watch for an opportunity when he is at leisure, and endeavor to attract his attention quietly, and without noise and bustle, so that your fellow-pupils may not be disturbed, and then respectfully and modestly ask him to assist you. 4. But if you are noisy and troublesome, and run up to him frequently with questions that, with a little thought, you could easily answer yourself, he will not be pleased with you, but will think that you wish to make trouble; and, perhaps, will appear unkind to you. 5. I will now endeavor to show you how you may understand what is in your book, so that you will have no need to be troublesome to your teacher. 6. In the first place, then, always endeavor to understand every line that you read; try to find out what it means, and, if there is any word that you have never seen or heard of before, look out the word in a dictionary, and see what the meaning of the word is; and then read the line over again, and see whether you can tell what the whole line means, when you have found out the meaning of the strange word. 7. Now, as you can understand everything best when you have an example, I will give you one, as follows. In the tenth chapter of the Acts of the Apostles, at the first verse, there are these words: 1. "There was a certain man in Cesarea, called Cornelius, a centurion of the band called the Italian band, 2. "A devout man, and one that feared God with all his house, and gave much alms to the people, and prayed to God always." 8. I suppose you know what most of the words in these verses mean, except the word _centurion_ in the first verse, and the word _alms_ in the second. 9. Now, if you look for the word _centurion_ in the dictionary, it will tell you that _centurion_ means a military officer, who commanded a hundred men. Thus you find that Cornelius was a soldier; and not only that he was a soldier, but that he was an officer, that commanded soldiers. 10. Again, if you look for the word _alms_ in your dictionary, you will find that it means money given to the poor; and thus you find that Cornelius was a very good man, and not only prayed to God, but also gave much money to assist the poor. 11. You see, then, how useful a book a dictionary is at school, and how important it is that you should have one. If your parents cannot give you a very good one, any one is better than none. 12. But if you have no dictionary, or if you cannot find the word you wish to find in the dictionary, you must then wait for a convenient time to ask your teacher, and he will always be pleased to find that you are trying to understand the words in your lesson. 13. If you have a dictionary, and do not know how to find out the words in it, ask your teacher to show you; and when he has showed you how to use it, be sure never to pass over a single word without knowing what it means. LESSON VII. _How to find out the Meaning of Words._--ORIGINAL. [Illustration] 1. Many years ago, when I lived in a small town, near the Merrimac river, a little Spanish girl came to board in the same house. 2. She could speak very well in her own language; but the people in her country speak a language very different from ours: and when she first began to speak, she heard nothing but Spanish words; and she learned no other. 3. She could not speak a word of English, and did not understand a word that was spoken to her by any of the family. 4. Her parents were very rich, but they placed her in the family, that she might learn to speak English. 5. She had no dictionary to turn to, to look out the meaning of words; and if she was hungry, she could not ask for bread, and if she was thirsty, she could not ask for water, nor milk, nor tea, for she did not know the meaning of either of the words, _water_, _tea_, nor _milk_. 6. Perhaps you would be puzzled to tell how she could learn to speak English, if she had no one to teach her, and had no dictionary to inform her about the words. 7. But it was not many days before she could say "_bread_," if she was hungry, and "_water_," if she wanted to drink; and I was very much surprised to find how soon it was, at the dinner-table, she could ask for meat, or potato, or pudding; and, at tea-time, for tea, or milk, or sugar, or butter, or bread. 8. I have no doubt that you would like to know how this little Spanish girl learned to speak all of these words. I do not intend to tell you quite yet, but I think you will find out yourself, if you will read the next lesson. LESSON VIII. _The same subject, continued._ 1. About twenty years ago, I was very ill, and, for a long time, my friends thought I never should recover. 2. By the very attentive care of my physician, and by the devoted attention of my wife, I unexpectedly grew better; and the doctor said that I must take a voyage for the recovery of my health. 3. A kind friend, who was going to the West Indies, in a vessel of his own, very generously offered to take me with him, and I gratefully accepted the offer. 4. We sailed from Boston early one morning, and were soon out of sight of the land. I was quite ill during the voyage; but fortunately the voyage was a short one, and we reached the place of our destination on the fourteenth day after we sailed. 5. The island, where we landed, was a beautiful spot; and lemons, oranges, pine-apples, and many other delicious fruits, were growing out in the open air. 6. The people who lived on this island did not speak the English language; and the family with whom I was to reside could speak only in French. 7. I observed, at dinner-time, that some of the persons at the table held out their tumblers to the servant, and said something which sounded to me like _O_. 8. I often heard this word; and every time it was spoken, _water_ was brought, or poured out, or something was done with _water_. 9. I then made up my mind that this word that I thought was O meant water; and I found out afterwards that I was right, except that I did not spell it right. 10. This I discovered by means of the Bible, from which the family used to read. 11. It was a very large one, with very large letters; and as I was very fond of hearing them read, and of looking over the book while some one was reading aloud, I noticed that whenever the reader came to the letters e, a, u, he called them O; and thus I found out that water, in their language, was called O, but was spelt e, a, u. 12. In the same manner, I found out the words, or names, which they gave to bread, and sugar, and butter, and meat, and figs, and oranges, and lemons, and pine-apples. 13. And now, perhaps, you may be able to find out how the little Spanish girl, mentioned in the last lesson, learned the meaning of English words that she had never heard until she came to live in the family where nothing but English was spoken. 14. She was obliged to listen, when any one spoke, and watch to see what was wanted; and in the same manner in which I found out the meaning of O, and what to call bread, and sugar, and butter, and meat, and figs, and oranges, and other fruits, she learned to call things by their English names. 15. But, in order to do this, she was obliged to listen very attentively, to try to remember every new name that she learned; and, by so doing, in less than a year she could talk almost as plainly as any one in the house. 16. It was very easy for her to learn the names of things, because she heard them spoken very often. Such words as _chair_, _table_, _water_, _sugar_, _cake_, _potato_, _pudding_, and other words which are the names of things she could see, she learned very quickly. 17. But such words as _come_ and _go_, or _run_ and _walk_, and the little words _to_ and _from_, and _over_ and _under_, or such words as _quickly_ and _slowly_, and many other words of the same kind, she could not learn so easily. 18. In the next lesson perhaps you will find out how she learned the meaning of these words. LESSON IX. _The same subject, continued._ [Illustration] 1. There was a small family living very near to your residence, my young friends who are reading this lesson, consisting of the father, the mother, and four young children. 2. The oldest was a boy of twelve years old, the next was a little girl of about eight, the third was another pretty little girl of six, and the youngest was an infant boy, only nine months old. 3. As you may well suppose, the baby, as he was called, was the delight, not only of the father and the mother, but also of his elder brother and his two sisters. 4. The oldest brother had a dog whose name was Guido,--an Italian name, which is pronounced as if it were spelt Gwe´do. 5. The dog had learned to love the dear little baby as much as the rest of the family; and very often, when he was lying on the floor, the baby would pull his tail, or his ears, or put his little hand into the creature's mouth, and Guido would play as gently with him as if he knew that the baby was a very tender little thing, and could not bear any rough treatment. 6. Nothing pleased the whole family, and Guido among the rest, so much, as to hear the baby try to say _papa_, and _mamma_, and _bub_, and _sis_; for he could not say _brother_, nor _sister_, nor pronounce any other words plainly. 7. The youngest sister was very fond of making him say these words; and every time the little creature repeated them to her, she would throw her arms around his little neck, and hug and kiss him with all the affectionate love her little heart could express. 8. She often used to dress her little doll as prettily as she knew how; tying its frock on one day with a pretty blue ribbon, and on another with a red one; for she had noticed, that whenever the doll was newly dressed, the dear little baby would look very steadily at it, and hold out its little arms towards it; and then she would carry it to her little brother, and say to him, "Dolly,--pretty dolly,--bub want to see dolly?" 9. One day she had dressed her doll in a very bright new dress, with very gay ribbons, and was carrying it towards her father to show it to him, when suddenly she heard the baby cry out, "Dolly!" 10. She immediately ran with delight to her little brother, holding up the doll in its new shining dress, and repeated her usual words, "Dolly,--bub want dolly?" 11. The baby, delighted, looked up in its mother's face, and laughed, and crowed, and giggled, and in its delight again repeated the word "Dolly!" 12. Pleased with her success, the little sister was unwearied in her efforts to make her little brother repeat other words; and day by day she was gratified to find the list of words which he lisped was growing in length. 13. By the unwearied endeavors of father, mother, brother and sisters, this pretty little baby, by the time that it was three years old, could speak plainly anything that was repeated to him, and had learned the names of almost everything that he saw about the house, the yard, and the street. 14. But it was observed that Guido, the dog, although he could not speak a word, had also learned the names of many things; and when George, the oldest son, told him to go and bring his ball to him, Guido would wag his tail, and go up into George's chamber, and look about the room until he had found the ball; and then he would run down the stairs, and dropping the ball at his young master's feet, look up in his face, expecting that George would throw it down for him to catch again. [Illustration] 15. The baby, however, learnt words and names much faster than Guido; for although Guido knew as much as any dog knows, yet dogs are different creatures from children, and cannot learn so much nor so fast as children can, because it has not pleased God to give them the same powers. 16. Now, perhaps you may wish to know who this interesting family were of whom I have been speaking; and you will probably be surprised to learn, that all I have told you about this little baby is true of every little baby, and that the manner that every infant is taught to speak is the same. 17. It is the same manner as that in which the little Spanish girl, mentioned in the seventh lesson, was taught to speak the English language. LESSON X. _Words._--ORIGINAL. 1. I told you, in the last lesson, how an infant child first learned to speak, when it was taught by its father and mother, and brother and sisters. 2. I intend to show you, in this lesson, how the little child learned the meaning of a great many words himself, without the assistance of any one else. 3. He was very fond of Guido, the dog, and watched everything he did, especially when his brother George was playing with him. 4. When George called Guido, and said to the dog, "_Come here_, Guido," the little boy could not help noticing that Guido _went to_ George. 5. When George's father or mother called George, and said, "Come here, George," the little child saw that George _went to_ his father, or his mother. 6. Now, nobody told the little child what George, or his father, or his mother, meant by the word _come_; but he always saw, that when any one said to another, "_Come_," that the one who was spoken to always _moved towards_ the person who called him, and in this way the little child found out what his father or his mother meant by the word _come_. 7. It was in this way, my young friend who are reading this lesson, that you, yourself, learned the meaning of most of the words that you know. 8. When you were a little child, like the infant of whom I have been speaking, you knew no more about words, or about speaking, than he did. 9. But, by hearing others speak and use words, you learned to use them yourself; and there is no word ever used, either in books or anywhere else, that you cannot find out its meaning, provided that you hear it used frequently, and by different persons. 10. I will now give you an example, to show you what I mean. I will give you a word that you probably never heard of before; and although I shall not tell you what the word means, I think you will find it out yourself, before you have read many more lines of this lesson. 11. The word _hippoi_ is the word that I shall choose, because I know that you do not know the meaning of it; but I wish you to read the following sentences in which the word is used, and I think that you will find out what _hippoi_ means, before you have read them all. 12. In California, and in Mexico, and in most parts of South America, there are many wild _hippoi_, which feed on the grass that grows wild there. 13. The Indians hunt the _hippoi_; and when they catch them, they tame them, and put bridles on their heads, and bits in their mouths, and saddles on their backs, and ride on them. 14. A carriage, with four white _hippoi_, has just passed by the window, and one of the _hippoi_ has dropped his shoe. The coachman must take him to the blacksmith, to have the shoe put on. 15. The noise which _hippoi_ make is a very strange noise, and when they make it they are said to neigh (_pronounced na_). 16. The hoofs of cows and goats and sheep and deer are cloven; that is, they are split into two parts; but the hoofs of _hippoi_ are not split or cloven, and for that reason they are called whole-hoofed animals. 17. My father has in his barn four _hippoi_. One of them is red, and has a short tail; another is white, with a few dark hairs in his mane, or long hair on the top of his neck; the third is gray, with dark spots on his body; and the fourth is perfectly black, and has a very long tail, which reaches almost to the ground. 18. Now, from these sentences, I think you will see that _hippoi_ does not mean cows, or goats, or sheep, or deer; and I do not think it necessary to tell you anything more about it, except that it is a word that was spoken by the Corinthians and the Colossians and the Ephesians, the people to whom St. Paul addressed those epistles or letters in the Bible called by their names. 19. When you have read this lesson, your teacher will probably ask you what the word _hippoi_ means; and I hope you will be able to tell him that _hippoi_ means----[here put in the English word for _hippoi_.] LESSON XI. _Definitions._ 1. In the last lesson, I gave you a word which you had not seen before, to find out the meaning of it, without looking in a dictionary. 2. I told you, in a former lesson, how the little Spanish girl found out the meaning of words which she did not know; and afterwards informed you how the infant child was taught to speak. 3. Now, I doubt not that you can speak a great many words, and know what they mean when you use them; but I do not think that you ever thought much about the way in which you learned them. 4. Perhaps you will be surprised to hear that everybody learns to talk and to use words in the same way that the little Spanish girl and the little infant learned them; that is, by hearing others use them in different ways, just as the word _hippoi_ was used in the last lesson. 5. Nobody ever told you, probably, the meaning of a great many words that you know; and yet you know them full as well, and perhaps better, than if any one had told you about them. 6. Perhaps you have a brother whose name is John, or George, or James, or a sister whose name is Mary, or Jane, or Ann, or Lucy. You have always heard them called by these names, ever since you, or they, were quite young; and have noticed that when John was called, that the one whose name is John would answer; and as each one answered when spoken to, you learnt which was John, and which was Mary, and which was Lucy. 7. So also, when a certain animal, having two large horns and a long tail, and which is milked every night and morning, passed by, you heard some one say _cow_; and in this way you learned what the word _cow_ means. 8. So also, when water falls from the sky in drops, little children hear people say it rains; and thus they find out what _rain_, means. 9. Now, when anybody asks you what any word means, although you know it very well, yet it is a very hard thing to tell what it means,--that is, to give a definition of it,--as you will see by the little story I am about to tell you. 10. A teacher, who was very anxious to make his scholars understand their lessons, once told them he had a very hard question he wished to ask them, and that he would let the one who answered the question best take the head of the class. 11. This teacher never allowed any of his pupils to speak to him without first raising his right hand above his head, to signify that the child had something to say; and when any child raised his hand in this way, if he was not busy, he called upon the child to say what he wished. 12. In this way he prevented the children from troubling him when he was busy; and in this way he also prevented them from interrupting each other, as would be the case if several of them should speak at once. 13. On the day of which I am about to speak, he said to them, Now, children, I have a very hard question to ask you, that does not require you to study, but only to think about it, in order to answer it well; and the one who gives me the best answer shall go to the head of the class. The question is this: _What is a bird?_ 14. Before they heard the question, they looked very sober, and thought their master intended to puzzle them, or to give them a long sentence to commit to memory. But as soon as they heard the question, they began to smile among themselves, and wonder how their teacher should call that a hard question. 15. A dozen hands were immediately raised, to signify that so many of the children were ready to answer it. 16. Well, John, said the teacher, your hand is up; can you tell me _what a bird is_? 17. John immediately rose, and standing on the right-hand side of his seat, said, A bird is a thing that has two legs. 18. Well, said the teacher, suppose some one should saw off two of the legs of my chair; it would then be a thing that has two legs; but it would not be a bird, would it? You see, then, that your answer is not correct. 19. I will not mention the names of the other children who raised their hands; but I will tell you what the answers were which some of them made to the questions, and what the teacher said about each of their answers. 20. One of the children said that a bird is an _animal_ with two legs. But, said the teacher, all little boys and girls, and all men and women, are animals with two legs; but they are not birds. 21. Another child said that a bird is an animal that has wings. But the teacher said there are some fishes that have wings, and that fishes are not birds. 22. A bright little girl then modestly rose and said, A bird is an animal that has legs and wings, and that flies. The teacher smiled upon her very kindly, and told her that it is true that a bird has legs and wings, and that it flies; but, said he, there is another animal, also, that has legs and wings, and that flies very fast in the air. It is called a _bat_. It flies only in the night; but it has no feathers, and therefore is not a bird. 23. Upon hearing this, another bright-eyed child very timidly rose and said, A bird is an animal that has legs, wings and feathers. Very well, said the teacher; but can you not think of anything else that a bird has, which other creatures have not? 24. The children looked at one another, wondering what their teacher could mean; and no one could think what to say, until the teacher said to them, Think a moment, and try to tell me how a bird's mouth looks. Look first at my mouth. You see I have two lips, and these two lips form my mouth. Now, tell me whether a bird has two lips; and if he has not, what he has instead of lips. 25. One of the children immediately arose and said, that a bird has no lips, but he has a bill; and that bill opens as the lips of a man do, and forms the mouth of the bird. 26. Yes, said the teacher; and now listen to me while I tell you the things you should always mention, when you are asked what a bird is,-- First, A bird is an animal. Secondly, It has two legs. Thirdly, It has two wings. Fourthly, It has feathers. Fifthly, It has a hard, glossy bill. 27. And now, said the teacher, you see that I was right when I told you that I had a hard question to ask you, when I asked What is a bird? 28. Now, if you will join all of these things which belong to a bird in the description which you give in answer to my question, What is a bird, you will then give a correct definition of a bird,--that is, you will tell exactly what a bird is, and no more, and no less. 29. A bird is an animal covered with feathers, having two legs, two wings, and a hard, glossy bill. 30. When you are asked what anything is, recollect what I have told you about a bird, and try to recall everything that you ever knew about the thing, and in this way you will be able to give a satisfactory answer. 31. This will also teach you to think, and that is one of the most important objects for which you go to school. It will enable you also to understand what you read; and you can always read those things best which you understand well. LESSON XII. _Reading and Spelling._ 1. Another important thing for which you go to school is to learn how to spell. It is not always very easy to spell, because there are so many different ways in which the same letters are pronounced in different words. 2. That you may understand what I mean, I shall give an example, to show you how many different ways the same letters are pronounced in different words; and also another example, to show you how many different ways there are of spelling the same syllable. 3. To show you, first, in how many different ways the same letters are pronounced in different words, I shall take the letters o, u, g, h. 4. The letters _o, u, g, h_, are sounded or pronounced like the letter _o_ alone, in the word _though_. The letters _o, u, g, h_, are pronounced like _uf_, in the word _tough_. 5. In the word _cough_, the letters _o, u, g, h_, are pronounced like _off_. In the words _slough_ and _plough_, the letters _o, u, g, h_, are pronounced like _ow_; and in the word _through_, they are pronounced like _ew_, or like _u_. 6. In the word _hiccough_ the letters _ough_ are pronounced like _up_--and in the word _lough_, the letters are pronounced like _lok_. 7. There are many words which end with a sound like _shun_; and this syllable is spelled in many different ways, as you will see in the following example. 8. In the words _ocean_, _motion_, _mansion_, _physician_, _halcyon_, _Parnassian_, _Christian_, and many other such words, the last syllable is pronounced as if it were spelled _shun_. 9. You see, then, that in some words a syllable sounding very much like _shun_ is spelled _cean_, as in ocean; in some it is spelled _tion_, as in nation; in some it is spelled _sion_, as in mansion; in some it is spelled _cian_, as in physician; in some it is spelled _cyon_, as in halcyon; in some it is spelled _sian_, as in Parnassian. 10. It is such things as these which make both reading and spelling very hard lessons for young children. If they think of them all at once, as the pendulum did of the eighty-six thousand times that it had to swing in twenty-four hours, it is no wonder if they feel discouraged, and say, I can't get these hard lessons. 11. But you must recollect that, as the pendulum, every time it had to swing, had a moment given it to swing in, so you also have a moment given you to learn everything in; and if you get a little at a time, you will, in the end, finish it all, if it be ever so large. 12. You have seen the workman engaged in building a brick house. He takes one brick at a time, and lays it on the mortar, smoothing the mortar with his trowel; and then he takes another brick, and another, until he has made a long row for the side of the house. 13. He then takes another brick, and lays that on the first row; and continues laying brick after brick, until the house gradually rises to its proper height. 14. Now, if the workman had said that he could never lay so many bricks, the house would never have been built; but he knew that, although he could lay but one brick at a time, yet, by continuing to lay them, one by one, the house would at last be finished. 15. There are some children, who live as much as a mile, or a half of a mile, from the school-house. If these children were told that they must step forward with first one foot and then the other, and must take three or four thousand steps, before they could reach the school-house, they would probably be very much discouraged, every morning, before they set out, and would say to their mothers, Mother, I can't go to school,--it is so far; I must put out one foot, and drag the other after it, three thousand times, before I can get there. 16. You see, then, that although it may appear to be a very hard thing to learn to read and to spell so many words as there are in large books, yet you are required to learn but a few of them at a time; and if there were twice as many as there are, you will learn them all, in time. 17. I shall tell you a story, in the next lesson, to show you how important it is to know how to spell. LESSON XIII. _Importance of Learning to Spell._--ORIGINAL VERSION. 1. A rich man, whose education had been neglected in early life, and who was, of course, very ignorant of many things which even little boys and girls among us now-a-days know very well, lived in a large house, with very handsome furniture in it. 2. He kept a carriage, and many servants, some of whom were very much better educated than he was himself. 3. This rich man had been invited out many times to dine with his neighbors; and he observed that at the dinners to which he was invited there were turkeys, and ducks, and chickens, as well as partridges, and quails, and woodcocks, together with salmon, and trout, and pickerel,--with roasted beef, and lamb, and mutton, and pork. 4. But he noticed that every one seemed to be more fond of chickens than anything else, but that they also ate of the ducks and the turkeys. 5. He, one day, determined to invite his friends to dine with him, in return for their civilities in inviting him; and he made up his mind to have an abundance of those things, in particular, of which he had observed his friends to be most fond. 6. He accordingly sent his servant to market, to buy his dinner; and, for fear the servant should make any mistake, he wrote his directions on paper, and, giving the paper, with some money, to the servant, he sent him to the market. 7. The servant took the paper and the money, and set off. Just before he reached the market, he opened the paper, to see what his master had written. 8. But his master wrote so very badly, it took him a long time to find out what was written on the paper; but, at last, he contrived to make it out, as follows: 9. "Dukes would be preferred to Turks; but Chittens would be better than either." 10. What his master meant by dukes, and turks, and chittens, he could not guess. No such things were for sale at the market, and he did not dare to return home without buying something. 11. As he could find nothing like dukes nor turks, he happened to see a poor woman carrying home a basket full of kittens. This was the most like _chittens_ of anything he could find; and not being able to get what his master had written for, he thought his master meant kittens. He therefore bought the basket of kittens, and carried them home for his master's dinner. LESSON XIV. _Demos'thenes._--ORIGINAL. 1. There lived, a great many years ago, in Athens, one of the most renowned cities of Greece, a very celebrated orator, whose name was Demos'thenes. 2. But you will not understand what an _orator_ is, until you are told that it means a person who speaks before a large number of people, to persuade them what to do, or to give them information, or good advice. 3. Thus, when a minister or clergyman preaches a good sermon, and speaks in such a manner as to please all who hear him, convincing them of their duty, and persuading them to do it, he is called an orator. 4. Demos'thenes was not a clergyman, or minister, but he spoke before large assemblies of the Athenians, and they were very much delighted to hear him. Whenever it was known that he intended to speak in public, every one was anxious to hear him. 5. Now, I wish to show you how hard he worked, and what he did, to become a great orator. 6. In the first place, then, he had a very weak voice, and could not speak loud enough to be heard by a large assembly; and, besides this, he was very much troubled with shortness of breath. These were very great discouragements, and had he not labored very hard to overcome them, he never could have succeeded. 7. To cure his shortness of breath, he used to go up and down stairs very frequently, and run up steep and uneven places; and to strengthen his voice, he often went to the sea-shore, when the waves were very noisy and violent, and talked aloud to them, so that he could hear his own voice above the noise of the waters. [Illustration] 8. He could not speak the letter _r_ plainly, but pronounced it very much as you have heard some little boys and girls pronounce it, when they say a _wed wose_ for a _red rose_, or a _wipe cherwy_ instead of a _ripe cherry_. 9. Besides this, he stammered, or stuttered, very badly. To cure himself of these faults in speaking, he used to fill his mouth full of pebbles, and try to speak with them in his mouth. 10. He had a habit, also, of making up faces, when he was trying to speak hard words; and, in order to cure himself of this, he used to practice speaking before a looking-glass, that he might see himself, and try to correct the habit. 11. To break himself of a habit he had of shrugging up his shoulders, and making himself appear hump-backed, he hung up a sword over his back, so that it might prick him, with its sharp point, whenever he did so. [Illustration] 12. He shut himself up in a cave under ground, and, in order to confine himself there to his studies, he shaved the hair off of one half of his head, so that he might be ashamed to go out among men. 13. It was in this way that this great man overcame all of his difficulties, and, at last, became one of the greatest orators that have ever lived. 14. Now, whenever you have a hard lesson to read, or to study, think of Demos'thenes, and recollect how he overcame all his difficulties, and I think you will find that you have few things to do so hard as these things which he did. 15. When your teacher requests you to put out your voice and speak loud, remember what Demos'thenes used to do to strengthen his voice, and you will find very little trouble in speaking loudly enough to be heard, if you will only try. LESSON XV. _Hard Words._ 1. In one of the former lessons, you were taught how to read long and hard words, by taking them to pieces, and reading a part of a word at a time. 2. I promised you also that this book should not be filled with hard words; but I did not promise that there should be no hard words in it. 3. Having taught you how to read hard words, I propose, in this lesson, to give you a few long words to read,--not for the purpose of understanding what they mean, but only to make you able to read such words, when you find them in any other book. 4. The best way of getting rid of all difficulties, is to learn how to overcome them, and master them; for they cease to be difficulties, when you have overcome them. 5. Demos'thenes, as I told you in the last lesson, had a very hard task to perform, before he became a great orator. You, also, can become a good scholar, if you will take pains to study your lessons, and learn them well. 6. Before you read any lesson to your teacher from this book, it is expected that you will study it over, and find out all the most difficult words, so that you may read them right off to him, without stopping to find them out, while he is waiting to hear you read them. 7. Now, here I shall place a few hard words for you to study over, to read to your teacher when you read this lesson to him; and he will probably require every one in your class to read them all aloud to him. 8. I wish you not to go up to your teacher to ask him to assist you, until you have tried yourself to read them, and find that you cannot. 9. There are some words that are not pronounced as they are spelt, as I have taught you in a former lesson. 10. Such a word as _phthisic_, which is pronounced as if it were spelled _tis´ic_, I dare say would puzzle you, if you had never seen it before; but before you go up to your teacher, to ask him any questions, you should read over the whole of your lesson, and perhaps you will find, in the lesson itself, something that will explain what puzzled you; and thus you could find it out from your book, without troubling your teacher. 11. Here are some of the long words I wish you to read. 12. Organization, Theoretical, Metaphysical, Metempsychosis, Multitudinous, Arithmetician, Metaphysician, Hyperbolical. 13. Apotheosis, Indefeasible, Feasibility, Supersaturated, Prolongation, Meridional, Ferruginous, Fastidiousness. 14. Haberdashery, Fuliginous, Exhalation, Prematurely, Depreciation, Appreciability, Resuscitate, Surreptitious, Interlocutory. 15. Sometimes the letters _a e_, and _o e_, are printed together, like one letter, as in the words Cæsar, Coelebs, and then the syllable is pronounced as if it were spelled with _e_ alone, as in the following words: 16. Diæresis, Aphæresis, OEcumenical, Æthiop, Subpoena, Encyclopædia, Phoenix, Phoebus, Æolus. 17. When there are two little dots over one of the letters, they are both to be sounded, as in the word Aërial, which is pronounced a-e-ri-al. 18. The letter _c_ is one which puzzles many young persons who are learning to read, because it is sometimes pronounced like _k_, as in the word _can_, and sometimes like _s_, as in the word _cent_; and they do not know when to pronounce it like _k_, and when to sound it like _s_. 19. But if you will recollect that _c_ is sounded like _k_ when it stands before the letters _a_, _o_, or _u_, and that it is sounded like _s_ before the letters _e_, _i_, and _y_, you will have very little trouble in reading words that have the letter _c_ in them. 20. So also the letter _g_ has two sounds, called the hard sound, and the soft sound. The hard sound is the sound given to it in the word _gone_; the soft sound is that which is heard in the word _gentle_. 21. The same rule which you have just learnt with regard to the letter _c_ applies to the letter _g_. It has its hard sound before _a_, _o_, and _u_, and its soft sound before _e_, _i_, and _y_. 22. There are, it is true, some words where this rule is not applied; but these words are very few, so that you may safely follow this rule in most words. 23. The letters _ph_ are sounded like _f_. The letters _ch_ are sounded sometimes like _k_, as in the words _loch_ and _monarch_, and sometimes like _sh_, as in the words _chaise_ and _charade_; and they have sometimes a sound which cannot be represented by any other letters, as in the words _charm_ and _chance_. 24. I suppose that you have probably learned most of these things which I have now told you in your spelling-book; but I have repeated them in this book, because I have so often found that little boys and girls are very apt to forget what they have learned. 25. If you recollect them all, it will do you no harm to read them again, but it will impress them more deeply on your memory. But if you have forgotten them, this little book will recall them to your mind, so that you will never forget them. 26. I recollect, when I was a little boy, that the letter _y_ used to trouble me very much when it began a word, and was not followed by one of the letters which are called vowels, namely, _a_, _e_, _i_, _o_, _u_. I knew how to pronounce _ya_, _ye_, _yi_, _yo_, _yu_; but one day, when I was studying a lesson in geography, I saw a word which was spelt _Y, p, r, e, s_, which puzzled me very much. 27. I knew that the letters _p, r, e, s_, would spell _pres_, but I did not know what to call the _y_. After studying it a long time, I found that the letter _y_, in that word and some others, was to be pronounced like the long _e_, and that the word was pronounced _Epres_, though it was spelled _Y, p, r, e, s_. 28. Perhaps you will be able, when you grow up, to write a book; and to tell little boys and girls who go to school, when you have grown up, how to read hard words, better than I have told you. 29. If you wish to do so, you must try to recollect what puzzles you most now, and then you will be able to inform them how to get over their difficulties and troubles at school; and when they grow up, I have no doubt that they will feel very grateful to you for the assistance you have given them. LESSON XVI. _Fire,[A]--a Conversation between a Mother and her little Daughter._ [Illustration] _Daughter._ Mother dear, you told me, the other day, that nobody knows what _light_ is, except the Great Creator. Now, can you tell me _what fire is_? _Mother._ I fear, my child, that you have asked another question which I cannot directly answer. What fire is, is known only by its effects. _Daughter._ And what are its effects, mother? _Mother._ Some of its effects are as well known to you, my dear, as they are to me; and I shall, in the first place, call to your recollection what you yourself know about _fire_, before I attempt to give you any further information in relation to it. _Daughter._ Why, mother, I am sure I do not know what fire is. _Mother._ No, Caroline, I know that you do not know what fire is; neither do I, nor does any one, except the Great Creator himself. This is one of his secrets, which, in his wisdom, he reserves for himself. But you certainly know some of the effects of fire. For instance, you know that when you have been out into the cold, you wish, on your return, to go to the fire. Now, can you tell me what you go to the fire for? _Daughter._ Why, certainly, mother; I go to the fire to warm myself. _Mother._ And how does the fire warm you, my dear? _Daughter._ Why, it sends out its heat, mother; and I hold out my hands to it, and feel the heat. _Mother._ And where does the heat come from, Caroline? _Daughter._ Why, the heat comes from the fire, mother. _Mother._ Then, my dear, you know at least one of the effects of fire. It produces, or rather sends out, heat. _Daughter._ But does not the fire make the heat, mother? _Mother._ If you had a little bird, or a mouse, in a cage, and should open the door and let it out, should you say that you _made_ the little bird, or the mouse? _Daughter._ Say that I made them, mother?--why, no; certainly not. I only let them go free. God made them. You told me that God made all things. _Mother._ Neither did the fire make the heat. It only made it free, somewhat in the same manner that you would make the bird or the mouse free, by opening the door of the cage. _Daughter._ Why, mother, is heat kept in cages, like birds or mice? _Mother._ No, my dear, not exactly in cages, like birds or mice; but a great deal closer, in a different kind of cage. _Daughter_ Why, mother, what sort of a cage can heat be kept in? _Mother._ I must answer your question, Caroline, by asking you another. When Alice makes her fire in the kitchen, how does she make it? _Daughter._ She takes some wood, or some coal, and puts under it some pine wood, which she calls kindling, and some shavings, and then takes a match and sets the shavings on fire, and very soon the fire is made. _Mother._ But does she not first do something to the match? [Illustration] _Daughter._ O, yes; I forgot to say that she lights the match first, and then sets fire to the shavings with the lighted match. _Mother._ But how does she light the match, my dear? _Daughter._ Why, mother, have you never seen her? She rubs one end of the match on the box, where there is a little piece of sand-paper, and that sets the match on fire. _Mother._ Is there any fire in the sand-paper, Caroline? _Daughter._ Why, no, mother; certainly not. _Mother._ Was there any fire in the match, before she lighted it? _Daughter._ Why, no, mother; if there had been, she would have had no need to light it. _Mother._ You see, then, that fire came when she rubbed the match against the sand-paper; and that the fire was not in the sand-paper, nor in the match. _Daughter._ Yes, mother, but I did not see where it came from. _Mother._ I am going to explain that to you, my dear, in the next lesson. FOOTNOTE: [A] This lesson, together with the two following lessons, is taken from a little book, called "Juvenile Philosophy," published by Messrs. A.S. Barnes & Co., 51 John-street, New York. It consists of nine conversations, between a little girl and her mother, on the subjects, Rain, Color, Vision or Sight, the Eye, Light, Fire, Heat and Wind. LESSON XVII. _The same subject, continued._ _Mother._ Did you ever see a person rub his hands together, when he was cold? _Daughter._ O yes, mother, a great many times. I have seen father come in from the cold, and rub his hands together, and afterwards hold them to the fire and rub them again, and then they get warm. _Mother._ And now, Caroline, take your hand and rub it quickly backwards and forwards, over that woolen table-cloth, on the table in the corner of the room, and tell me whether that will make your hand warm. _Daughter._ O, yes, dear mother; I feel it grow warmer, the faster I rub it. _Mother._ Here are two small pieces of wood. Touch them to your cheek, and tell me whether they feel warm now. _Daughter._ They do not feel warm, nor cold, mother. _Mother._ Now rub them together quickly a little while, and then touch them to your cheek. [Illustration: R] _Daughter._ O, dear, mother! they are so hot that they almost burnt my cheek. _Mother._ Yes, Caroline; and do you not recollect, when you read Robinson Crusoe, that his man Friday made a fire by rubbing two pieces of wood together? _Daughter._ O, yes, dear mother; and I have often wondered why Alice could not light her lire and the lamp in the same manner, without those matches, which have so offensive a smell. _Mother._ It is very hard work, my dear, to obtain fire by rubbing two pieces of wood together; and it would take too long a time to do it. The two pieces of wood would grow warm by a very little rubbing; but in order to make them take fire, they must be rubbed together a great while. _Daughter._ But, mother, if it takes so long a time to get fire by rubbing two pieces of wood together, why can Alice set the match on fire so easily by rubbing it once on the sand-paper? _Mother._ That is what I am about to explain to you, my dear. Here, take this piece of paper and hold it up to the lamp. _Daughter._ It has taken fire, mother. [Illustration: L] _Mother._ Now take this piece of pine wood, and hold that up to the lamp in the same manner, and see whether that will take fire too. _Daughter._ Yes, mother, it has taken fire; but I had to hold it up to the lamp much longer than I did the paper. _Mother._ Now take this piece of hard wood, and do the same with that. _Daughter._ The hard wood takes longer still to catch fire, mother. _Mother._ Yes, my child. And now I am going to make the hard wood take fire more quickly than the paper did. _Daughter._ Dear mother, how can you do it? _Mother._ I am going to show you, my dear. Here is a small phial, which contains something that looks like water. It is spirits of turpentine. I shall dip the point of the piece of hard wood into the phial, and take up a little of the spirits of turpentine. Now, Caroline, touch the point of the hard wood with the turpentine on it to the flame. _Daughter._ Why, mother, it caught fire as soon as I touched the flame with it! _Mother._ Yes, certainly; and you now see that some things, like the spirits of turpentine and the paper, take fire very readily, and others take fire with more difficulty. _Daughter._ Yes, mother; but when Alice drew the match across the sand-paper, there was no flame nor fire to touch it to. How, then, could it take fire? _Mother._ Hold this piece of paper up to the blaze of the lamp, my dear, but be careful not to touch the fire or flame of the lamp; only hold it close to the blaze. _Daughter._ Why, mother, it has taken fire! _Mother._ You see, then, that a thing will sometimes take fire when it does not touch the fire. _Daughter._ Yes, mother; but I do not understand where the fire comes from. _Mother._ The fire comes from the heat, my dear. Now, you know that heat is produced by rubbing two things together; and that some things, like the spirits of turpentine, take fire very easily, or with very little heat; and others, like the hard wood, require to be heated some time,--or, in other words, require much heat,--to make them take fire, or to burn. Some things require only as much heat to make them take fire as can be obtained by rubbing them together very quickly, like the wood which Robinson Crusoe's man Friday used. _Daughter._ But, mother, the match is made of wood,--why does that take fire so easily? _Mother._ It is true, Caroline, that the match is made of wood; but it has something at the end of it, which takes fire much more easily than the spirits of turpentine. Indeed, so easily does it take fire, that it requires only so much heat to set it on fire as can be obtained by drawing the match once across the sand-paper. _Daughter._ But, mother, matches do not always take fire. I have seen Alice rub several across the sand-paper, before she could set one on fire. _Mother._ That is true, and the reason of this is, that the matches are not all well made. Now, if I should take several pieces of hard wood and tie them together, and dip their ends into the spirits of turpentine, what would happen, if the ends of some of the pieces did not touch the spirits of turpentine, because I had not tied them together with their points all even? _Daughter._ Why, mother, some of them would take fire easily, because the points had the spirits of turpentine on them; while those which did not touch the spirits could not be lighted so easily. _Mother._ So it is, my dear, with the matches. They are all dipped into the substance which takes fire so easily; but some of the ends do not reach the substance, and do not become coated with it, and therefore they will not light more easily than the pine wood of which they are made. LESSON XVIII. _The same subject, concluded._ _Daughter._ Well, mother, I understand, now, how the match is set on fire. It is rubbed on the sand-paper, and that produces heat, and the heat sets the match on fire. But I always thought that fire makes heat, and not that heat makes fire. _Mother._ Heat does not always make fire, Caroline; for, if it did, everything would be on fire. _Daughter._ Everything on fire, mother! why, what do you mean? _Mother._ I mean, my dear, that everything contains heat. _Daughter._ Everything contains heat, mother, did you say? Why, then, is not everything warm? Some things, mother, are very cold; as ice, and snow, and that marble slab. _Mother._ Yes, my child, everything contains heat, as I shall presently show you. When Alice goes to make a fire in a cold day, she does not carry the heat with her, and put it into the fire, nor into the wood, nor the coal, does she? _Daughter._ Why, no, to be sure not, mother. _Mother._ And the heat that comes from the fire, after it is made, does not come in at the windows, nor down the chimney, does it? _Daughter._ Why, no, mother; it feels cold at the windows, and cold air comes down the chimney. _Mother._ But, after the fire is made, we feel much heat coming from the fire, do we not? _Daughter._ Why, yes, mother; that is what the fire is made for. We feel cold, and we want a fire to make us warm; and when the fire is made, it sends out heat, and makes us warm. _Mother._ Well, now, where can the heat come from? You know what fire is made from, do you not? _Daughter._ Certainly, mother; the fire is made of wood, or of coal. _Mother._ But is the wood or the coal warm before the fire is made? _Daughter._ No, mother, the wood and the coal come from the cold wood-house, or the cellar, and they are both very cold. _Mother._ And yet, the wood and the coal become very hot when they are on fire. _Daughter._ O yes, mother, so hot that we cannot touch them with our hands, and we have to take the shovel or the tongs to move them. _Mother._ And do they burn the shovel and the tongs, my dear? _Daughter._ Why, no, mother; if they did, the shovel and the tongs would be of little use in stirring the fire. _Mother._ Can you think of any reason why they do not burn the shovel and the tongs? _Daughter._ You told me, mother, that some things require a very little heat to set them on fire, and that other things require a great deal. I suppose that there was not heat enough to set them on fire; and if there had been, they would not burn, because they are made of iron. _Mother._ You are partly right, my dear, and partly wrong. They would not burn, because there was not heat enough in the fire to burn them. But there are very few things, and in fact it may be doubted whether there is anything, which will not burn, when sufficient heat is applied. But let us return to the fire: you say the heat does not come from the windows nor from the chimney, and you say, also, that the wood and the coal are both cold. Now, where can the heat come from? _Daughter._ I am sure I cannot tell, mother; will you please to tell me? _Mother._ You recollect that I told you that the rubbing of the match on the sand-paper produces a little heat, which caused the match to burn. The match was then applied to the shavings, and, as it was burning, gave out heat enough to set the shavings on fire; the shavings produced heat enough to set the pine wood, or kindling, on fire, and then the pine wood, or kindling, produced more heat, and set the wood and coal on fire. Now, there was nothing to produce the heat but the match, the shavings, the wood and the coal; and _the heat must have been in them_. The fire only served to set it free, and let it come out of the match, the wood, and the coal. _Daughter._ But, mother, how did the heat get into the wood and coal? _Mother._ It is not known, my dear, how the heat _got into_ the wood and coal, any more than how the fruit gets on to a tree. We say that it grows on the tree; but what growing is, and how it is caused, are among the secrets of God. _Daughter._ If the heat is in the wood and the coal, mother, why do we not feel it in them? They both feel cold. I cannot perceive any heat in them. _Mother._ The heat is in the wood and the coal, although you do not see it. Do you see any smoke in the wood and the coal, my dear? _Daughter._ No, mother, I do not. _Mother._ Did you never see a stick of wood fall on the hearth from the kitchen fire, and see the smoke coming from it? [Illustration] _Daughter._ O yes, mother, very often; and the smoke goes all over the room, and into my eyes, and makes the tears come into my eyes. _Mother._ And can you see the smoke in the wood before the wood is put on the fire? _Daughter._ No, mother, I am sure I cannot. _Mother._ But you are sure that the smoke comes from the wood, are you not? _Daughter._ O yes, mother; I see it coming right out of the wood. _Mother._ Then, my dear, I suppose you know that if there is something in the wood and coal, which you call _smoke_, although you cannot see it until it comes out, you can easily conceive how another thing, which we call _heat_, can be in the wood and coal, which we cannot perceive until it is made to come out. _Daughter._ O yes, mother; how wonderful it is! _Mother._ Yes, my dear, all the works of God are wonderful; and what is very surprising is, that many of his most wonderful works are so common, so continually before our eyes, that we do not deem them wonderful until we have been made to think much about them, by talking about them, as you and I have talked about the rain, and the clouds, and light, and its colors. _Daughter._ I have been thinking, mother, about Alice and the fire. You told me that the fire did not _make_ the heat, any more than I _make_ the little mouse or the bird when I open the cage door and let them out. I see now how it is. Alice brings the wood and the coal into the kitchen fireplace, and the match lets the heat out of the shavings, and the shavings let it out of the wood and the coal, until we get heat enough to make us warm. _Mother._ Yes, my dear; and there is no more heat in the room after the fire is made than there was before,--only, before the fire was made, the heat was hid, and we could not perceive it; but when the fire is made, it makes the heat come out, and makes it free, just as I make the little bird free, by opening his cage door. LESSON XIX. _The Lark and her Young Ones._--Altered from ÆSOP. 1. A lark having built her nest in a corn-field, the corn grew ripe before the young ones were able to fly. Fearing that the reapers would come to cut down the corn before she had provided a safe place for her little ones, she directed them every day, when she went out to obtain their food, to listen to what the farmers should say about reaping the corn. 2. The little birds promised their mother that they would listen very attentively, and inform her of every word they should hear. 3. She then went abroad; and on her return, the little birds said to their mother, Mother, you must take us away from here; for while you were gone we heard the farmer tell his sons to go and ask some of his neighbors to come to-morrow morning early, and help them cut down the corn. 4. Is that what he said? asked their mother. Yes, mother, said the little birds; and we are very much afraid that you cannot find a safe place for us before the farmer and his neighbors begin to cut down the corn. 5. Do not be afraid, my children, said the lark; if the former depends on his neighbors to do his work for him, we shall be safe where we are. So lie down in the nest, and give yourselves no uneasiness. 6. The next day, when the mother went out for food, she directed the little ones again to listen, and to tell her all that they should hear. 7. In the evening, when she returned, the little ones told her that the farmer's neighbors did not come to assist him on that day; and that the farmer had told his sons to go and request his friends and relations to come and assist him to cut down the corn, early in the next day morning. 8. I think, my children, said the lark, we shall still be safe here; and we will, therefore, feel no anxiety or concern to-night. 9. On the third day, the mother again charged the young larks to give her a faithful report of what was done and said, while she was absent. 10. When the old lark returned that evening, the little larks told her that the farmer had been there, with his sons, early in the morning; but, as his friends and relations had not come to assist him, he had directed his sons to bring some sharp sickles early in the next morning, and that, with their assistance, he should reap the corn himself. 11. Ah! said the mother, did he say so? Then it is time for us to prepare to be gone; for when a man begins to think seriously of doing his work himself, there is some prospect that it will be done; but if he depends on his friends, his neighbors, or his relations, no one can tell when his work will be done. 12. Now, this little story is called a Fable. It cannot be true, because birds do not and cannot speak. 13. But, although it is not true, it is a very useful little story, because it teaches us a valuable lesson: and that is, that it is best to do our own work ourselves, rather than to depend upon others to do it for us; for, if we depend upon them, they may disappoint us, but whatever we determine to do for ourselves, we can easily accomplish, if we go right to work about it. LESSON XX. _Dogs._--ORIGINAL. 1. I never knew a little boy that was not fond of a dog, and I have never seen many dogs which were not fond of little children. 2. It is not safe for little children to touch every strange dog that they see, because some dogs are naturally rather cross, and may possibly bite any one who touches them, when they do not know the persons. 3. But when a dog knows any one, and sees that his master is fond of that person, he will let such a person play with him. He is always pleased with any attentions that his master's friends bestow on him. 4. Large dogs are generally more gentle than small ones, and seldom bark so much as the little ones do. They are also more easily taught to carry bundles and baskets, and draw little carriages for children to ride in. 5. Some people are very much afraid of dogs, because they sometimes run mad. The bite of a mad dog produces a very dreadful disease, called _Hydropho'bia_. 6. This is a long and hard word, and means _a fear of water_. It is called by that name because the person who has the disease cannot bear to touch or to see water. 7. Dogs that are mad cannot bear to see water. They run from it with dreadful cries, and seem to be in very great distress. 8. Whenever, therefore, a dog will drink water, it is a pretty sure sign that he is not mad. 9. This dreadful disease very seldom affects dogs that are properly supplied with water. 10. Dogs require a great deal of water. They do not always want much at a time, and it is seldom that they drink much. But whoever keeps a dog ought always to keep water in such a place that the dog may go to it to drink, whenever he requires it. 11. A dog is a very affectionate animal, and he will permit his master, and his master's children and friends, to do a great many things to him, which he would perhaps bite others for doing. 12. There are many very interesting stories told of dogs, which show their love and fidelity to their masters, which you can read in a book called "Anecdotes of Dogs." 13. But there are a few little stories about dogs that I know, which I will tell you, that are not contained in that book. I know these stories to be true. 14. My son had a dog, whose name was Guido. He was very fond of playing in the street with the boys, early in the morning, before they went to school. 15. Guido was always very impatient to get out into the street in the morning, to join the boys in their sports; and all the boys in the street were very fond of him. 16. He used to wake very early, and go into the parlor, and seat himself in a chair by the window, to look out for the boys; and as soon as he saw a boy in the street, he would cry and whine until the servant opened the door for him to go out. 17. One very cold morning, when the frost was on the glass, so that he could not see out into the street, he applied his warm tongue to the glass, and licking from it the frost, attempted to look out. 18. But the spot which he had made clear being only large enough to admit one of his eyes, he immediately made another, just like it, in the same manner, for the other eye, by which he was enabled to enjoy the sight as usual. In the next lesson, I will tell you some other little stories of Guido, and another dog, whose name was Don, that belonged to my daughter. LESSON XXI. _The same subject, concluded._ 1. One day I went to take a walk, with a friend of mine, in the country; and Don, the dog I mentioned in the last lesson, followed us. 2. We walked to a little grove about a mile from my house, to see the grave of a beautiful little child, that was buried on the summit of a little hill, covered with pines, spruce and other evergreens. 3. While we were admiring the beauty of the spot, Don was running about the grove; and I completely lost sight of him, and supposed that he had returned home. 4. But presently I saw him at a distance, barking up a tree at a squirrel that had escaped from him. 5. As I turned to go home, I said to my friend, You see Don is away, and does not see me. I am going to drop my handkerchief here, and send him after it. 6. We had got half way home, when presently Don came bounding along, and very shortly came up to us. 7. As soon as he came up to me, I stopped, and feeling in my coat-pocket, said to him,--Don, I have lost my pocket-handkerchief,--go find it. 8. I had scarcely uttered the words before he was off. He was gone only two or three minutes, and then, returning with my handkerchief in his mouth, he dropped it at my feet. 9. Guido, the other dog, was very fond of going into the water himself; but he never would allow any one else to go in. 10. The reason was this. My little son George was one day looking over into the water, to watch the eels that were gliding through the water below, and losing his balance, he fell into the water. 11. No one was near except Guido, and he immediately jumped in after George, and, with great labor, brought him on shore, and saved him from drowning. 12. Ever since that time, Guido has been very unwilling to let any one go near the water. It seemed as if he had reasoned about it, and said to himself, It is hard work to drag a boy out of the water, but it is much easier to keep him from going in. 13. Guido was not a very large dog. He was of the breed, or kind, named Spaniel; so called because that kind of dog originally came from Hispaniola. He had long ears, curling hair, a long bushy tail, and webbed feet, like all dogs that are fond of the water. 14. Webbed feet are those in which the toes are not separated, but seem to be joined together by a thin substance, like thick skin, which enables them to swim more easily. 15. Don was a very large dog, of the Newfoundland species, a kind which is remarkable for its beauty and intelligence. LESSON XXII. _Frogs and Toads._--BIGLAND. 1. Frogs and toads resemble one another in figure, but custom and prejudice have taught us to make a very different estimate of their properties: the first is considered as perfectly harmless, while the latter is supposed to be poisonous. 2. In this respect, the toad has been treated with great injustice: it is a torpid, harmless animal, that passes the greatest part of the winter in sleep. 3. Astonishing stories have been told of toads found in the center of solid blocks of stone, and other similar situations, without the least trace of the way by which they entered, and without any possibility of their finding any kind of nutriment. 4. Toads, as well as frogs, are of a variety of species; and in the tropical climates they grow to an enormous size. It is very probable that they contribute to clear both the land and the water of many noxious reptiles of a diminutive size, which might prove exceedingly hurtful to man. 5. The toad, however, is one of the most inoffensive of all animals. We have even heard that it has sometimes been successfully applied for the cure of the cancer, the most dreadful, and one of the most fatal, of human evils. 6. Mr. Pennant has related some interesting particulars respecting a toad which was perfectly domesticated, and continued in the same spot for upwards of thirty-six years. 7. It frequented the steps before the hall-door of a gentleman's house in Devonshire; and, from receiving a regular supply of food, it became so tame as always to crawl out of its hole in an evening, when a candle was brought, and look up, as if expecting to be carried into the house. 8. A reptile so generally detested being taken into favor, excited the curiosity of every visitant; and even ladies so far conquered their natural horror and disgust as to request to see it fed. It seemed particularly fond of flesh maggots, which were kept for it in bran. 9. When these were laid upon a table, it would follow them, and, at a certain distance, would fix its eyes and remain motionless for a little while, as if preparing for the stroke, which was always instantaneous. 10. It threw out its tongue to a great distance, when the insect stuck by the glutinous matter to its lip, and was swallowed with inconceivable quickness. 11. After living under the protection of its benefactor upwards of thirty-six years, it was one day attacked by a tame raven, which wounded it so severely that it died shortly afterward. 12. The erroneous opinion of toads containing and ejecting poison has caused many cruelties to be exercised upon this harmless, and undoubtedly useful tribe. Toads have been inhumanly treated, merely because they are ugly; and frogs have been abused, because they are like them. 13. But, we are to observe, that our ideas of beauty and deformity, of which some arise from natural antipathies implanted in us for wise and good purposes, and others from custom and caprice, are of a relative nature, and peculiar to ourselves. 14. None of these relative distinctions, of great and small, beautiful or ugly, exist in the all-comprising view of the Creator of the universe: in his eyes, the toad is as pleasing an object as the canary-bird, or the bulfinch. LESSON XXIII. _Maida, the Scotch Greyhound._--Altered from BINGLEY. [Illustration] 1. A hound is a dog with long, smooth, hanging ears, and long limbs, that enable him to run very swiftly. The greyhound is not so called on account of his color, but from a word which denotes his Grecian origin. 2. The Scotch greyhound is a larger and more powerful animal than the common greyhound; and its hair, instead of being sleek and smooth, is long, stiff and bristly. It can endure great fatigue. 3. It was this dog that the Highland chieftains, in Scotland, used in former times, in their grand hunting-parties. 4. Sir Walter Scott had a very fine dog of this kind, which was given to him by his friend Macdonnel of Glengarry, the chief of one of the Highland clans. His name was Maida. 5. He was one of the finest dogs of the kind ever seen in Scotland, not only on account of his beauty and dignified appearance, but also from his extraordinary size and strength. 6. He was so remarkable in his appearance, that whenever his master brought him to the city of Edinburgh, great crowds of people collected together to see him. 7. When Sir Walter happened to travel through a strange town, Maida was usually surrounded by crowds of people, whose curiosity he indulged with great patience, until it began to be troublesome, and then he gave a single short bark, as a signal that they must trouble him no more. 8. Nothing could exceed the fidelity, obedience and attachment, of this dog to his master, whom he seldom quitted, and on whom he was a constant attendant, when traveling. 9. Maida was a remarkably high-spirited and beautiful dog, with long black ears, cheeks, back, and sides. The tip of his tail was white. His muzzle, neck, throat, breast, belly and legs, were also white. 10. The hair on his whole body and limbs was rough and shaggy, and particularly so on the neck, throat, and breast: that on the ridge of the neck he used to raise, like a lion's mane, when excited to anger. 11. His disposition was gentle and peaceable, both to men and animals; but he showed marked symptoms of anger to ill-dressed or blackguard-looking people, whom he always regarded with a suspicious eye, and whose motions he watched with the most scrupulous jealousy. 12. This fine dog probably brought on himself premature old age, by the excessive fatigue and exercise to which his natural ardor incited him; for he had the greatest pleasure in accompanying the common greyhounds; and although, from his great size and strength, he was not at all adapted for coursing, he not unfrequently turned and even ran down hares. 13. Sir Walter used to give an amusing account of an incident which befell Maida in one of his chases. "I was once riding over a field on which the reapers were at work, the stooks, or bundles of grain, being placed behind them, as is usual. 14. "Maida, having found a hare, began to chase her, to the great amusement of the spectators, as the hare turned very often and very swiftly among the stooks. At length, being hard pressed, she fairly bolted into one of them. 15. "Maida went in headlong after her, and the stook began to be much agitated in various directions; at length the sheaves tumbled down, and the hare and the dog, terrified alike at their overthrow, ran different ways, to the great amusement of the spectators." 16. Among several peculiarities which Maida possessed, one was a strong aversion to artists, arising from the frequent restraints he was subjected to in having his portrait taken, on account of his majestic appearance. 17. The instant he saw a pencil and paper produced, he prepared to beat a retreat; and, if forced to remain, he exhibited the strongest marks of displeasure. 18. Maida's bark was deep and hollow. Sometimes he amused himself with howling in a very tiresome way. When he was very fond of his friends, he used to grin, tucking up his whole lips and showing all his teeth; but this was only when he was particularly disposed to recommend himself. 19. Maida lies buried at the gate of Abbotsford, Sir Walter's country seat, which he long protected; a grave-stone is placed over him, on which is carved the figure of a dog. It bears the following inscription, as it was translated by Sir Walter: "Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore, Sleep soundly, Maida, at your master's door." LESSON XXIV. _Gelert._--BINGLEY, altered. 1. I have one more story to tell you about the Highland greyhound. It is an old Welsh story, and shows how extremely dangerous it is to indulge in anger and resentment. 2. In a village at the foot of Snowden, a mountain in Wales, there is a tradition that Llewellyn (_pronounced_ Lewel´lin), son-in-law to King John, had a residence in that neighborhood. 3. The king, it is said, had presented him with one of the finest greyhounds in England, named Gelert. In the year 1205, Llewellyn, one day, on going out to hunt, called all his dogs together; but his favorite greyhound was missing, and nowhere to be found. 4. He blew his horn as a signal for the chase, and still Gelert came not. Llewellyn was much disconcerted at the heedlessness of his favorite, but at length pursued the chase without him. For want of Gelert, the sport was limited; and getting tired, Llewellyn returned home at an early hour, when the first object that presented itself to him, at his castle gate, was Gelert, who bounded, with his usual transport, to meet his master, having his lips besmeared with blood. 5. Llewellyn gazed with surprise at the unusual appearance of his dog. On going into the apartment where he had left his infant son and heir asleep, he found the bed-clothes all in confusion, the cover rent, and stained with blood. 6. He called on his child, but no answer was made, from which he hastily concluded that the dog must have devoured him; and, giving vent to his rage, plunged his sword to the hilt in Gelert's side. 7. The noble animal fell at his feet, uttering a dying yell, which awoke the infant, who was sleeping beneath a mingled heap of the bed-clothes, while beneath the bed lay a great wolf covered with gore, which the faithful and gallant hound had destroyed. 8. Llewellyn, smitten with sorrow and remorse for the rash and frantic deed which had deprived him of so faithful an animal, caused an elegant marble monument, with an appropriate inscription, to be erected over the spot where Gelert was buried, to commemorate his fidelity and unhappy fate. The place, to this day, is called Beth-Gelert, or The Grave of the Greyhound. LESSON XXV. _Knock Again._--CHILD'S COMPANION. 1. I remember having been sent, when I was a very little boy, with a message from my father to a particular friend of his, who resided in the suburbs of the town in which my parents then lived. 2. This gentleman occupied an old-fashioned house, the door of which was approached by a broad flight of stone steps of a semi-circular form. The brass knocker was an object of much interest to me, in those days; for the whim of the maker had led him to give it the shape of an elephant's head, the trunk of the animal being the movable portion. 3. Away, then, I scampered, in great haste; and having reached the house, ran up the stone steps as usual; and, seizing the elephant's trunk, made the house reëcho to my knocking. No answer was returned. 4. At this my astonishment was considerable, as the servants, in the times I write of, were more alert and attentive than they are at present. However, I knocked a second time. Still no one came. 5. At this I was much more surprised. I looked at the house. It presented no appearance of a desertion. Some of the windows were open to admit the fresh air, for it was summer; others of them were closed. But all had the aspect of an inhabited dwelling. 6. I was greatly perplexed; and looked around, to see if any one was near who could advise me how to act. Immediately a venerable old gentleman, whom I had never seen before, came across the way, and, looking kindly in my face, advised me to knock again. 7. I did so without a moment's hesitation, and presently the door was opened, so that I had an opportunity of delivering my message. I afterward learned that the servants had been engaged in removing a heavy piece of furniture from one part of the house to the other; an operation which required their united strength, and prevented them from opening the door. LESSON XXVI. _The same subject, continued._ 1. As I was tripping lightly homeward, I passed the kind old gentleman, about half way down the street. He took me gently by the arm; and, retaining his hold, began to address me thus, as we walked on together: 2. "The incident, my little friend, which has just occurred, may be of some use to you in after life, if it be suitably improved. Young people are usually very enthusiastic in all their undertakings, and in the same proportion are very easily discouraged. 3. "Learn, then, from what has taken place this morning, to persevere in the business which you have commenced, provided it be laudable in itself; and, ten to one, you will succeed. If you do not at first obtain what you aim at, _knock again_. A door may be opened when you least expect it. 4. "In entering on the practice of a profession, engaging in trade, or what is usually called settling in the world, young people often meet with great disappointments. 5. "Friends, whom they naturally expected to employ them, not unfrequently prefer others in the same line; and even professors of religion do not seem to consider it a duty to promote the temporal interest of their brethren in the Lord. 6. "Nevertheless, industry, sobriety, and patience, are usually accompanied by the Divine blessing. Should you therefore, my little friend, ever experience disappointments of this kind, think of the brass knocker; _knock again_; be sober, be diligent, and your labors will be blessed. 7. "In the pursuit of philosophy many difficulties are encountered. These the student must expect to meet; but he must not relinquish the investigation of truth, because it seems to elude his search. He may knock at the gate of science, and apparently without being heard. But let him _knock again_, and he will find an entrance." LESSON XXVII. _The same subject, concluded._ 1. "Do you ever pray to God? I hope and trust you do. God commands and encourages us to pray to him. But he does not always answer our prayers at the time, or in the way, we expect. 2. "What then? We know that he hears them. We know that he is a gracious God, a reconciled Father in Christ. Let us _knock again_. Let us ask in faith, and, if what we ask be pleasing in his sight, he will grant it in his own good time. 3. "You know who it was that said, 'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; _knock_, and it shall be opened unto you: for every one that asketh, receiveth; and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that _knocketh_, it shall be opened.' 4. "Once more: our progress in the Divine life, even after we have wholly given ourselves to the Lord, does not always equal our wishes or expectations. We find much indwelling sin, much remaining corruption, to struggle with. 5. "But let us not despond. The grace of our Lord is sufficient for us, and his strength is made perfect in our weakness. Let us _knock again_. 6. "Let us continue, with humble confidence, to do what we know to be pleasing in our Master's sight. Let us work out our own salvation, with fear and trembling; for it is God that worketh in us both to will and to do of his good pleasure." 7. We had now reached the gate of my father's garden; and the good old gentleman, taking me kindly by the hand, bid me try to remember what he had said. He then went his way, and I saw him no more. 8. I afterward endeavored to find out who he was; but I did not succeed. His advice, however, sunk deep into my mind, and has often been of singular value to me since. 9. My disposition is naturally sanguine, and my disappointments proportionably acute. But, upon calling to mind the old mansion, the brass knocker, and my venerable counselor, I have frequently been led to _knock again_, when I might otherwise have sat down in despondency. 10. I hope that many of my readers will derive similar benefit from the perusal of this little history; for the sole end of its publication will be answered, if the young persons under whose eyes it may come be induced, at every season of doubt and perplexity, in the exercise of simple confidence in God, to _knock again_. LESSON XXVIII _Make Good Use of your Time._--EMMA C. EMBURY. [Illustration: "To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven."] 1. "My dear Anna," said Mrs. Elmore, as she bade her little girl farewell, "I shall be absent ten days; and as you have already had so many lessons from me respecting the manner of distributing your hours of amusement and study, I will only say to you, now, '_Make good use of your time_.'" 2. Anna's eyes filled with tears as the carriage drove off, and she felt very lonely when she returned to the parlor without her mother. She thought over her mother's parting words, until she felt quite proud of the confidence reposed in her, and resolved not to abuse it by neglect. 3. She accordingly took her books and sat down to her studies, as attentively as if her mother had been waiting to hear her recitation. 4. Anna was an affectionate, intelligent child. She would have made any sacrifices to please her mother, and she really loved her studies; but her one great fault was a disposition to loiter away time. 5. This her mother well knew; and after trying admonition, until she almost feared she was increasing the evil by allowing Anna to depend too much upon her guidance, she determined to test the effect of leaving her to her own responsibility. 6. For an hour after her mother's departure, Anna sat in close attention to her studies. All at once, she started up. "I am so hungry," said she, "I must go to Betty for some luncheon;--but stop--I will finish my exercise first." 7. She wrote a line or two; then throwing down her pen, petulantly exclaimed, "There! I have made two mistakes, because I was in such a hurry;--I will not finish it till I come back." 8. So away ran the little girl to her old nurse, and the next half-hour was spent in satisfying her hunger. As she was returning, with laggard step, she happened to spy, from the window, a beautiful butterfly fluttering about the rose-bushes in the garden; and, quite forgetting her unfinished exercise, away she flew in chase of the butterfly. 9. But, agile as were her movements, the insect was too nimble for her; and after an hour's race beneath the burning sun, she returned, flushed and overheated, without having succeeded in its capture. 10. Again she applied herself to her books; but study was not so easy now as it would have been a little earlier. Anna was too tired to apply her mind to her lessons; and after loitering a while over her desk, she threw herself on the sofa, and fell into a sound sleep, from which she was only awakened by a summons to dinner. 11. After dinner, Betty proposed taking her out to walk; and though conscious that she had not performed half her duties, she had not resolution enough to refuse to go. Tying on her bonnet, she took a little basket on her arm, and set out with Betty to gather wild-flowers. 12. When they reached the woods, Betty sought out a mossy seat under an old tree, and, taking her work from her pocket, began to sew as industriously as if she had been at home. 13. "O Betty!" exclaimed Anna, "how can you sit and sew, when there are so many pleasant sights and sounds around you?" 14. "I can hear the pleasant sounds, my child, without looking round to see where they come from," replied Betty; "and as for the pretty sights, though I can enjoy them as much as any one, I cannot neglect my work for them. 15. "I promised your mother to have these shirts finished when she came home, and I mean to do so."--"Dear me!" said the little girl, "I wish I had brought my book, and I might have studied my lesson here." 16. "No, no, Anna," said the old woman; "little girls can't study in the woods, with the birds singing and the grasshoppers chirping around them. Better attend to your books in-doors." 17. Betty continued her sewing; and towards sunset, when they arose to return, she had stitched a collar and a pair of wristbands, while Anna had filled her basket with flowers. 18. As they approached the village, Betty called at a poor cottage, to inquire after a sick child, and Anna was shocked at the poverty and wretchedness of the inmates. The little children were only half clothed, their faces were covered with dirt, and their rough locks seemed to bid defiance to the comb. 19. Pitying the condition of the poor little girls, Anna determined to provide them with some better clothing; and she returned home full of benevolent projects. 20. The next morning, as soon as she rose, she began to look over her wardrobe; and selecting three frocks which she had outgrown, she carried them to Betty, to alter for Mrs. Wilson's children. 21. "I shall do no such thing," said Betty; "Mrs. Wilson's children are not suffering for clothes; the weather is warm, and they are as well clad as they will be the day after they are dressed up in your finery. 22. "Mrs. Wilson is an untidy, slovenly woman; and though your mother charged me to look after her sick baby, she did not tell me to furnish new clothes for the other dirty little brats!" 23. "Well, Betty, if you don't choose to do it, I'll try it myself."--"Pretty work you'll make of it, to be sure! you will just cut the frocks to pieces, and then they will fit nobody." 24. "Well, I am determined to fix them for those poor little ragged children," said Anna; "and if you will not help me, I will get Kitty the chambermaid to do it." LESSON XXIX. _The same subject, continued._ 1. Anna found a very good assistant in the warm-hearted, thoughtless Irish girl. Kitty cut out the frocks, and Anna sat herself down to make them. 2. She found it rather tedious work, and, if she had not been afraid of Betty's ridicule, she would have been tempted to throw her task aside; but as Kitty promised to help her, as soon as her household duties were completed, Anna determined to persevere. 3. When night came, she had finished one frock, and begun another; so she went to bed quite happy, forgetting that, in her benevolent zeal, she had neglected her studies and her music, as well as her mother's plants and her own Canary-bird. 4. The next day, she again went to work at the frocks, and, with Kitty's assistance, they were completed before tea-time. Never was a child happier than Anna, when she saw the three little frocks spread out upon the bed. 5. A degree of self-satisfaction was mingled with her benevolence, and she began to think how pleased her mother would be to learn how hard she had worked in the cause of charity. She ran off for Betty to take her down to Mrs. Wilson's cottage; but she found Betty in no humor to gratify her. 6. "I'll have nothing to do with it!" said the old woman. "Kitty helped you to spoil your pretty frocks, and she may help you dress the dirty children;--they will look fine, to be sure, in your French calico dresses!" 7. Anna was too happy to mind Betty's scolding; so away she flew to find Kitty, and they set off together for Mrs. Wilson's cottage. When they arrived there, they found the children by the edge of the pond making dirt pies, while their faces and hands bore testimony to their industry. 8. Kitty stripped and washed them, though nothing but the bribe of a new frock could have induced them to submit to so unusual an operation. Anna almost danced with pleasure, when she beheld their clean faces, well-combed locks, and new dresses. [Illustration] 9. Her mother had now been three days gone, and Anna felt that she had not quite fulfilled her trust. But she satisfied herself with the thought that two days had been devoted to a charitable purpose, and she was sure her mother would think that she had made good use of that portion of her time. 10. The fourth day, she determined to make amends for past neglect, by studying double lessons. She went to her room and locked the door, resolving to perform all her duties on that day, at least. 11. She had scarcely commenced her studies, however, when she recollected that she had not watered her mother's plants since she had been gone. She threw down her books, and running into the garden, sought her little watering-pot; but it was not to be found. 12. She was sure she had put it either in the summer-house, or the tool-house, or under the piazza, or somewhere. After spending half an hour in search of it, she remembered that she had left it under the great elm-tree, in the field. 13. By this time, the sun was shining with full vigor upon the delicate plants; and, forgetting her mother's caution to water them only in the shade, she overwhelmed the parched leaves with a deluge of water, and went off quite content. 14. She then thought of her bird; and on examining his cage, found that he could reach neither the seed nor the water. So she replenished his cups, decorated his cage with fresh chickweed, treated him to a lump of sugar, and played with him until she had loitered away the best part of the morning. 15. Immediately after dinner, a little friend came to see her, and the rest of the day was consumed in dressing dolls, or arranging her baby-house. LESSON XXX. _The same subject, concluded._ 1. On the fifth day, she summoned courage enough to persevere, and actually performed every task with attention. 2. In the afternoon, Betty took her out to walk, and Anna coaxed her into a visit to Mrs. Wilson's cottage. What was her indignation, as she approached the house, to see the children again playing on the margin of the duck-pond! 3. As soon as they saw her, they ran to hide themselves, but not until she had observed that their new frocks were as dirty, and almost as ragged, as the old ones. Betty did not fail to make Anna fully sensible of her own superior wisdom. 4. "I told you so, child," said she; "I told you it was all nonsense to try to dress up those dirty creatures; much good you have done, to be sure!" Anna almost cried with vexation, as she thought of all the time and labor she had wasted upon her benevolent task, and she walked home with a heavy heart. 5. The next morning, she had scarcely risen from the breakfast-table, when Kitty came to show her a beautiful little ship, which, her brother, who was a sailor, had made for her, as a token of remembrance. [Illustration] 6. Anna was delighted with it; nothing could be more beautiful than its graceful form, its delicate rigging and snowy sails. She begged to have it set on her table, that she might see it while she was studying, and the good-natured Kitty left it with her. 7. But in vain the heedless child tried to study; her eyes and thoughts wandered perpetually to the pretty toy before her. "How I should like to see it sail!" said she to herself. The more she looked at it, the more anxious she became to see it in the water. 8. At length, taking it carefully up, she stole down stairs, and hurried across the garden to a little brook in the adjacent field. Here she launched her tiny bark; but it had scarcely touched the water, when it turned over on its side. She then recollected that she had once heard her father speak of the manner of ballasting a ship; so she hastened to gather a quantity of small stones, with which she filled the little cabin. 9. Again she intrusted her ship to the crystal streamlet; but, alas! the weight of the stones carried it straight to the bottom. There it lay in the pebbly channel, with the clear waters rippling above it, and the little girl stood aghast upon the brink. 10. She bared her arm, and attempted to reach it, but without success. At length, while making a desperate effort to regain it, she lost her balance, and fell into the water. 11. Fortunately, the water was not deep, and she soon scrambled out again; but she was thoroughly wet, and, having been very warm before the accident, she was now chilled to the heart. 12. Grasping the little ship, the cause of all the mischief, she hurried home, and creeping softly into the kitchen, sought her friend Kitty, to screen her from Betty's anger. By this time she was shivering with a violent ague, and Kitty carried her immediately to Betty. 13. Poor Anna! she was now obliged to be put to bed, and to take some of Betty's bitter herb tea, seasoned too with scolding, and all kinds of evil predictions. She felt very unhappy, and cried sadly; but repentance, in this case, came too late. 14. Her head began to ache dreadfully; her skin was parched with fever, and before the next morning she was very ill. She had taken a violent cold, which brought on an attack of scarlet fever; and when Mrs. Elmore returned, she found her little daughter stretched on a bed of sickness. 15. How did that fond mother tremble, as she watched by the bedside of her darling child, uncertain whether she would ever again lift up her head from her uneasy pillow! 16. Anna did not know her mother in the delirium of fever, and her melancholy cry of "Mother! mother! come back!--I will never be so bad again!" wrung Mrs. Elmore's heart. 17. For three weeks Anna lay between life and death; and when she was at length pronounced out of danger, she was as helpless as an infant. 18. One day, as she sat propped up by pillows, she told her mother all that had passed during her absence, and awaited her decision respecting the use she had made of her time. 19. "My dear child," said Mrs. Elinore, "I trust the past will afford a lesson you will never forget. So far from having made good use of your time, you have done harm in everything you have undertaken. 20. "Your attempts at study, instead of affording you any real instruction, have only given you habits of inattention, which you will find very difficult to overcome; for your eyes have wandered over the page, while your thoughts have been with the fool's, to the ends of the earth. 21. "Your irregular care of my plants, which you thought would serve instead of habitual attention, has been the means of destroying them as effectually as if you had allowed them to perish from total neglect. 22. "Your injudicious benevolence to the Wilsons served only to make the children envious of each other, without giving them habits of neatness, which are essential to the well-being of such a family; while it had a worse effect upon yourself, because it not only wasted your precious time, but excited in you a feeling of vanity, on account of what you considered a good action. 23. "If, instead of trusting so boldly to your good resolutions, you had entered upon your duties with an humble mind, and resolved to _try_ to do right,--if you had apportioned your time with some degree of regularity,--you might have performed all that was required of you, enjoyed all your amusements, and gratified every kindly feeling, without a single self-reproach. 24. "As it is, you feel sensible of having failed in everything,--of having exposed yourself to great peril, and subjected your mother to great anxiety, simply from your disposition to loiter, when you should labor. 25. "I trust that, in the solitude of your sick chamber, 'the still small voice' of your many wasted hours has made itself heard, and that hereafter you will not so utterly fail to make good use of your time." LESSON XXXI. _Verse, or Poetry._ 1. All the lessons in this book which you have thus far read have been in prose. I intend to give you some lessons in verse, or, as it is sometimes, but improperly called, poetry. 2. There is a great deal of difference between verse and poetry; but as this book is intended for those who are not quite old enough to understand all these differences, I shall not attempt at present to point them out to you. 3. But I wish you first to understand the difference, which you can see with your eye, between prose and verse. The lines of verse often end in what are called _rhymes_. Thus, if one line ends with the word _found_, the next line ends with a word which sounds very much like it, as _ground, round, bound, sound, hound, wound_. 4. These are called _rhymes_. Here are a few such lines. IMPROVEMENT OF TIME. "Defer not till to-morrow to be wise; To-morrow's sun to thee may never rise." BEST USE OF MONEY. "When wealth to virtuous hands is given, It blesses like the dew of Heaven; Like Heaven, it hears the orphan's cries, And wipes the tears from widow's eyes." 5. Sometimes the rhymes occur in alternate lines; that is, two lines come together which are not rhymes, and are followed by two lines to make rhymes to both, as follows: "Let the sweet work of prayer and praise Employ our youngest breath; Thus we're prepared for longer days, Or fit for early death." 6. There are some kinds of verses that do not rhyme. These are called _blank_ verse. Here is an example of blank verse: "Mark well, my child, he said; this little stream Shall teach thee charity. It is a source I never knew to fail: directed thus Be that soft stream, the fountain of thy heart. For, oh! my much-loved child, I trust thy heart Has those affections that shall bless thyself; And, flowing softly like this little rill, Cheer all that droop. The good man did not err." 7. Now, there are several things that I wish you to notice in these lines. In the first place, if you will count the syllables, you will find that there are exactly ten syllables in each line; and it is always the case, that in verse it is necessary that there should be a certain number of syllables of a certain kind. 8. What that number is, I cannot now explain to you; but you will be able to understand from a book called a grammar, which you will probably study at some future time, if you do not study it now. It is contained in that part of grammar called Prosody. 9. The next thing I wish you to notice is, that every line of verse always begins with a capital letter. 10. And thirdly you will notice, that the lines of verse are more regular in their sound than lines of prose. They have a kind of musical sound about them, which you very rarely hear, except in verse. 11. And fourthly you will notice, that some of the words are shortened by leaving out a letter, and putting in its place a mark called an _apostrophe_, which looks just like a comma, only it is placed higher up in the line, as in the following line: "Thus we're prepared for longer days." 12. In this line, if the words were written out at full length, with all their letters in them, the line would stand as follows: "Thus we are prepared for longer days." 13. But this would destroy what is called the _measure_ of the line, by putting too many syllables into it; and therefore the words _we are_ are shortened, so as to be read as one syllable, and the line is to be read as follows: "Thus weer prepared for longer days." 14. The next difference I shall point out to you between prose and verse, is that in verse the words are placed in a different order from what they would be in prose; as you will notice in the following lines: "When all thy mercies, oh my God! My rising soul surveys, Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love and praise." 15. Now, if these lines were written in prose, the words would stand in the following order: "O my God! when my rising soul surveys all thy mercies, I'm transported with the view of them, and lost in wonder, love and praise." 16. And now that I have explained to you a few of the points in which verse differs from prose, I will only add, that when you read verse, you must not stop at the end of every line, unless there is a pause or mark there; and that you must avoid reading it as if you were singing it to a tune. LESSON XXXII. _God Present Everywhere._ 1. Thou, Lord, by strictest search hast known My rising up and lying down; My secret thoughts are known to thee, Known long before conceived by me. 2. Surrounded by thy power I stand, On every side I find thy hand: O skill for human reach too high! Too dazzling bright for mortal eye! 3. From thy all-seeing Spirit, Lord, What hiding-place does earth afford? O where can I thy influence shun, Or whither from thy presence run? 4. If up to heaven I take my flight, 'Tis there thou dwell'st enthroned in light; If to the world unseen, my God, There also hast thou thine abode. 5. If I the morning's wings could gain, And fly beyond the western main; E'en there, in earth's remotest land, I still should find thy guiding hand. 6. Or, should I try to shun thy sight Beneath the sable wings of night; One glance from thee, one piercing ray, Would kindle darkness into day. 7. The veil of night is no disguise, No screen from thy all-searching eyes; Through midnight shades thou find'st thy way, As in the blazing noon, of day. 8. Thou know'st the texture of my heart, My reins, and every vital part: I'll praise thee, from whose hands I came A work of such a wondrous frame. 9. Let me acknowledge too, O God, That since this maze of life I trod, Thy thoughts of love to me surmount The power of numbers to recount. 10. Search, try, O God, my thoughts and heart, If mischief lurk in any part; Correct me where I go astray, And guide me in thy perfect way. LESSON XXXIII. _Devotion._ 1. While thee I seek, protecting Power, Be my vain wishes stilled; And may this consecrated hour With better hopes be filled. 2. Thy love the power of thought stowed, To thee my thoughts would soar: Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed, That mercy I adore. 3. In each event of life, how clear Thy ruling hand I see! Each blessing to my soul more dear, Because conferred by thee. 4. In every joy that crowns my days, In every pain I bear, My heart shall find delight in praise, Or seek relief in prayer. 5. When gladness wings my favored hour, Thy love my thoughts shall fill; Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower, My soul shall meet thy will. 6. My lifted eye, without a tear, The gathering storm shall see; My steadfast heart shall know no fear-- That heart will rest on thee. LESSON XXXIV. _The Gardener and the Hog._--GAY. 1. A gardener, of peculiar taste, On a young hog his favor placed, Who fed not with the common herd,-- His tray was to the hall preferred; He wallowed underneath the board, Or in his master's chamber snored, Who fondly stroked him every day, And taught him all the puppy's play. 2. Where'er he went, the grunting friend Ne'er failed his pleasure to attend. As on a time the loving pair Walked forth to tend the garden's care, The master thus addressed the swine: 3. "My house, my garden, all is thine: On turnips feast whene'er you please, And riot in my beans and peas; If the potato's taste delights, Or the red carrot's sweet invites, Indulge thy morn and evening hours, But let due care regard my flowers; My tulips are my garden's pride-- What vast expense these beds supplied!" 4. The hog, by chance, one morning roamed Where with new ale the vessels foamed; He munches now the steaming grains, Now with full swill the liquor drains; Intoxicating fumes arise, He reels, he rolls his winking eyes; Then, staggering, through the garden scours, And treads down painted ranks of flowers; With delving snout he turns the soil, And cools his palate with the spoil. 5. The master came,--the ruin spied. "Villain, suspend thy rage!" he cried: "Hast then, thou most ungrateful sot, My charge, my only charge, forgot? What, all my flowers?" No more he said; But gazed, and sighed, and hung his head. 6. The hog, with stuttering speech, returns:-- "Explain, sir, why your anger burns; See there, untouched, your tulips strown, For I devoured the roots alone!" 7. At this the gardener's passion grows; From oaths and threats he fell to blows; The stubborn brute the blows sustains, Assaults his leg, and tears the veins. Ah! foolish swain, too late you find That sties were for such friends designed! 8. Homeward he limps with painful pace, Reflecting thus on past disgrace: Who cherishes a brutal mate, Shall mourn the folly soon or late. LESSON XXXV. _The Hare and many Friends._--GAY. 1. A hare, who, in a civil way, Complied with everything, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. Her care was never to offend, And every creature was her friend. 2. As forth she went, at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies. 3. She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round; Till, fainting in the public way, Half dead with fear, she gasping lay. 4. What transport in her bosom grew, When first the horse appeared in view! "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight,-- To friendship every burden's light." 5. The horse replied:--"Poor honest puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus. Be comforted,--relief is near; For all your friends are in the rear." 6. She next the stately bull implored; And thus replied the mighty lord:-- "Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offense, pretend To take the freedom of a friend. Love calls me hence; a favorite cow Expects me near yon barley-mow; And when a lady's in the case, You know all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind; But see,--the goat is just behind." 7. The goat remarked her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye,-- "My back," says he, "may do you harm; The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 8. The sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears; For hounds eat sheep, as well as hares. 9. She now the trotting calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. "Shall I," says he, "of tender age, In this important care engage? Older and abler passed you by; How strong are those! how weak am I! 10. "Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offense. Excuse me, then,--you know my heart; But dearest friends, alas! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu! For see,--the hounds are just in view." 11. 'Tis thus in friendships; who depend On many, rarely find a friend. [Illustration] LESSON XXXVI. _Maxims._--SELECTED. Never delay until to-morrow what you can do to-day. Never trouble others for what you can do yourself. Never spend your money before you have it. Never buy what you do not want, because it is cheap. Pride costs more than hunger, thirst, or cold. We never repent of having eaten too little. Nothing is troublesome that we do willingly. How much pains have those evils cost us which never happened! Take things always by their smooth handle. When angry, count ten before you speak; if very angry, a hundred. Hear as little as possible spoken against others; and believe nothing of the kind, until you are absolutely forced to believe it. Always believe that if you heard what may be said on the other side of the question, a very different account of the matter might be given. Do to others what you would have them do to you. LESSON XXXVII. _How to be Happy._--CHILD AT HOME. 1. Every child must have observed how much happier and more beloved some children are than others. There are some children whom you always love to be with. They are happy themselves, and they make you happy. 2. There are others, whose society you always avoid. The very expression of their countenances produces unpleasant feelings. They seem to have no friends. 3. No person can be happy without friends. The heart is formed for love, and cannot be happy without the opportunity of giving and receiving affection. 4. But you cannot receive affection, unless you will also give it. You cannot find others to love you, unless you will also love them. Love is only to be obtained by giving love in return. Hence the importance of cultivating a cheerful and obliging disposition. You cannot be happy without it. 5. I have sometimes heard a girl say, "I know that I am very unpopular at school." Now, this is a plain confession that she is very disobliging and unamiable in her disposition. 6. If your companions do not love you, it is your own fault. They cannot help loving you, if you will be kind and friendly. If you are not loved, it is a good evidence that you do not deserve to be loved. It is true, that a sense of duty may, at times, render it necessary for you to do that which will be displeasing to your companions. 7. But, if it is seen that you have a noble spirit, that you are above selfishness, that you are willing to make sacrifices of your own personal convenience to promote the happiness of your associates, you will never be in want of friends. 8. You must not regard it as your _misfortune_ that others do not love you, but your _fault_. It is not beauty, it is not wealth, that will give you friends. Your heart must glow with kindness, if you would attract to yourself the esteem and affection of those by whom you are surrounded. 9. You are little aware how much the happiness of your whole life depends upon the cultivation of an affectionate and obliging disposition. If you will adopt the resolution that you will confer favors whenever you have an opportunity, you will certainly be surrounded by ardent friends. 10. Begin upon this principle in childhood, and act upon it through life, and you will make yourself happy, and promote the happiness of all within your influence. 11. You go to school on a cold winter morning. A bright fire is blazing upon the hearth, surrounded with boys struggling to get near it to warm themselves. After you get slightly warmed, another school-mate comes in, suffering with cold. "Here, James," you pleasantly call out to him, "I am almost warm; you may have my place." 12. As you slip aside to allow him to take your place at the fire, will he not feel that you are kind? The worst dispositioned boy in the world cannot help admiring such generosity. 13. And even though he be so ungrateful as to be unwilling to return the favor, you may depend upon it that he will be your friend as far as he is capable of friendship. If you will habitually act upon this principle, you will never want friends. 14. Suppose, some day, you were out with your companions, playing ball. After you had been playing for some time, another boy comes along. He cannot be chosen upon either side, for there is no one to match him. "Henry," you say, "you may take my place a little while, and I will rest." 15. You throw yourself down upon the grass, while Henry, fresh and vigorous, takes your bat and engages in the game. He knows that you gave up to accommodate him; and how can he help liking you for it? 16. The fact is, that neither man nor child can cultivate such a spirit of generosity and kindness, without attracting affection and esteem. 17. Look and see which of your companions have the most friends, and you will find that they are those who have this noble spirit,--who are willing to deny themselves, that they may make their associates happy. 18. This is not peculiar to childhood. It is the same in all periods of life. There is but one way to make friends; and that is, by being friendly to others. 19. Perhaps some child, who reads this, feels conscious of being disliked, and yet desires to have the affection of his companions. You ask me what you shall do. I will tell you. 20. I will give you an infallible rule. Do all in your power to make others happy. Be willing to make sacrifices of your own convenience, that you may promote the happiness of others. 21. This is the way to make friends, and the only way. When you are playing with your brothers and sisters at home, be always ready to give them more than their share of privileges. 22. Manifest an obliging disposition, and they cannot but regard you with affection. In all your intercourse with others, at home or abroad, let these feelings influence you, and you will receive a rich reward. LESSON XXXVIII. _Obedience and Disobedience._--CHILD'S COMPANION. 1. You have never disobeyed your parents, or your teachers, or any who have been placed in authority over you, without being uncomfortable and unhappy! Obedience, in a child, is one of the most necessary qualities; for it protects him from all the evils of his want of experience, and gives him the benefit of the experience of others. 2. One fine summer's day, I went to spend an afternoon at a house in the country, where some young people were enjoying a holiday. 3. They were running cheerfully up and down a meadow, covered over with yellow crocuses, and other flowers; and I looked on them with delight, while they gamboled and made posies, as they felt disposed. "Here sister with sister roamed over the mead, And brother plucked flow'rets with brother; And playmates with playmates ran on with such speed That the one tumbled over the other." 4. Now, they all had been told to keep away from the ditch at the bottom of the field; but, notwithstanding this injunction, one little urchin, of the name of Jarvis, seeing a flower in the hedge on the opposite bank, which he wished to gather, crept nearer and nearer to the ditch. 5. The closer he got to the flower, the more beautiful it appeared to be, and the stronger the temptation became to pluck it. 6. Now, what right had he to put himself in the way of temptation? The field, as I said before, was covered over with flowers; and that in the hedge was no better than the rest, only it was a forbidden flower, and when anything is forbidden it becomes, on that very account, a greater temptation to a disobedient heart. 7. Jarvis had gathered a whole handful of flowers before he saw the one growing in the hedge; but he threw all these away, so much was his mind set on getting the one which he wanted. 8. Unluckily for him, in getting down the bank, his foot slipped, and down he rolled into a bed of stinging nettles, at the bottom of the ditch, which fortunately happened to have in it but little water. 9. Jarvis screamed out with might and main, as he lay on his back; for, whichever way he turned, his cheeks and his fingers brushed against the nettles. [Illustration] 10. His cries soon brought his companions around him; but, as they were all young, they knew not how to render him assistance, on account of the stinging nettles, and the depth of the ditch. 11. I ran to the spot, and pulled up Master Jarvis in a pretty pickle, his jacket and trowsers plastered with mud, and his hands and face covered with blotches. 12. Here was the fruit of disobedience! And as it was with Jarvis, so will it be with every one who acts disobediently. 13. Whenever you feel a temptation to disobey God; to disobey his holy word; to disobey the admonitions of your own conscience; to disobey your parents, your teachers, or any in authority over you,--be sure that a punishment awaits you, if you do not resist it. 14. As you are not able to resist it in your own strength, ask God's assistance for Christ's sake, and it will not be withheld. Now, remember Jarvis, and the bed of stinging nettles! 15. The Bible tells us very plainly how much God sets his face against disobedience. "The children of Israel walked forty years in the wilderness, till all the people that were men of war, which came out of Egypt, were consumed, because they obeyed not the voice of the Lord." 16. "Let no man deceive you with vain words: for, because of these things cometh the wrath of God upon the children of disobedience." Nor is it disobedience to God that is alone hateful in his sight; for disobedience to parents is spoken of as an evil thing, too. 17. "The eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pluck it out, and the young eagles shall eat it." 18. But I cannot bear to think that you are disobedient! I would rather consider you obedient in all things, and encourage you in holding on your way, obeying the will of God, and the word of all in authority over you. "The Lord rules over sea and land, And blest indeed are they Who all his counsels understand, And his commands obey." 19. I have often been struck with the simplicity with which some children obey their parents. This tractable disposition is very amiable in a child. 20. It was no longer ago than last week, that, in crossing a field, I overtook three children: one, a little girl of about five years old, was on the foot-path, and, just as I came up, her brother called her to him, where he was in the field. 21. "No, William," said the little maid; "my mother told me not to go off the foot-path, and it would be very wicked to disobey my mother." 22. I caught the little creature up in my arms; and having a small neat book in my pocket, suitable for a child, I gave it to her, and told her to remember that the reason why I gave it was, that she had been obedient to her mother. "Though cares on cares in parent hearts be piled, Great is that blessing--an obedient child!" 23. Without obedience there can be no order. The man must obey his master, the maid her mistress, and the scholar his teacher. If you attend a Sunday-school, whatever class you are in, be obedient to your instructors, or you will make but little progress. By obedience you will learn faster, secure the respect of those about you, and set a proper example to those younger than yourself. 24. If you are in a place of work, be obedient to your employer. Those make the best masters and mistresses who have been the most obedient servants; for the discharge of one duty disposes us to perform another. 25. The best way to qualify yourselves to act well when grown up, is to act well while you are children. LESSON XXXIX. _Obstinacy._--LESSONS WITHOUT BOOKS. 1. There is a certain fault which almost all children have in a greater or less degree. It is called by different names; sometimes it is termed wilfulness, sometimes pertinacity, and sometimes it receives the still harsher name of obstinacy. 2. Almost all our faults are owing to the perversion or abuse of propensities originally good; and perseverance, when carried too far, or expended upon unworthy objects, becomes a troublesome infirmity. 3. Louisa and Emily had both something of this infirmity, but differing both in degree and in its mode of operation. 4. What are called _little things_ did not trouble Emily at all; and, on the contrary, they troubled Louisa very much. 5. But, when anything did seem peculiarly desirable to Emily,--when she set her heart upon having her own way,--she carried her perseverance to a degree which deserved to be called obstinacy. 6. She could _give up_, as children term it, with less effort, and more grace, than most others; but if anything determined her not to give up, she was immovable. 7. "You are almost always in the right," my daughter, her father once said to her, "and Heaven preserve you from error; for when you once fall into it, you will be too apt to persevere." 8. It happened, at one time, that she and Louisa were having some nice sun-bonnets made. Emily went for them at the time when they were to be finished, and finding only one completed, immediately appropriated it to herself, because she was really in greater need of it than Louisa, who had one that answered her purpose very well. 9. Louisa resented this, because that, being the eldest, she considered herself as having the first right; but Emily could not be persuaded to give up, although Louisa's equanimity was very much disturbed on that account. 10. If it had been proposed to her beforehand to let Louisa have the bonnet voluntarily, she would not have hesitated, for she was not selfish; but when Louisa claimed it as a right, she resisted. 11. Her mother afterwards told her that she should always avoid irritating the peculiar humors of her companions. "You," said she, "would not have minded waiting for the other bonnet a day or two, but to Louisa it was quite a serious evil." 12. And here let me remark upon the proneness which all children have to magnify the importance of little things. A strife often arises among them, about just nothing at all, from a mere spirit of competition. [Illustration] 13. One says, "This is my seat." Another, who would not else have thought of desiring that particular seat, immediately regards it in the light of a prize, and exclaims, "No, I meant to have that seat; and I had it just before you took it." 14. Half a dozen claimants will appear directly, and perhaps get into a serious quarrel; whereas, had the reply been, in the first instance, "Very well, let it be your seat," there would have been an end to the matter. 15. But to return to Louisa. She magnified a thousand little things, of every day occurrence, in such a manner as proved a very serious inconvenience to herself. 16. She wished to have her potato sliced, but never mashed. She could not bear to see a door open a single moment; and, even if she were at her meals, and the closet door happened to stand ajar, she would jump up and fly to shut it, with the speed of lightning. 17. She could not _endure_ the feeling of gloves; nor could she any better endure to have her hat tied. Her aunt bore with all these follies a while, and then deliberately resolved to counteract them. 18. Louisa at first thought this was very hard and unreasonable. "Why can't I have my potato sliced, Aunt Cleaveland?" said she; "what hurt can it do? And why can't I shut the door when it is open? is there any harm in that?" 19. "Not at all, my dear, in the thing itself," Mrs. Cleaveland replied; "but there is a great deal of evil in having your tranquillity disturbed by things of such small moment. 20. "If you allow yourself to be distressed by trifles now, how will you bear the real trials of life, which you must inevitably sustain, sooner or later? 21. "By and by, you will find out that your suffering from these sources is all imaginary, and then you will thank me for having restrained you. 22. "Now, here is this nice dish of mashed potatoes, which we have every day. If such a little hungry girl as you are, since you have breathed our healthy mountain air, cannot eat it, and with relish too, I am greatly mistaken; and, in process of time, I have no doubt you will cease to observe whether the door is open or shut." 23. On the first day of trial, Louisa just tasted the potato, and left the whole of it upon her plate. Her aunt took no notice of this. The next day, Louisa came in to dinner after a long walk, and was very hungry. 24. There was but one dish of meat upon the table, and it was of a kind which she did not much like; so, forgetting all her repugnance to mashed potato, she ate it very heartily. 25. Mrs. Cleaveland, however, forbore to take any notice of this change; and it was not until after several weeks had elapsed, and Louisa had ceased to think of the distinction between sliced potato and mashed potato, that her aunt reminded her of the importance which she had formerly attached to the former. 26. "Now, my dear Louisa," said Mrs. Cleaveland, "since you find the task is not so very difficult as you apprehended, promise me that you will try to cure yourself of all these little infirmities; for such I must term them. 27. "There is so much real suffering in life, that it is a pity to have any which is merely imaginary; and though, while you are a little girl, living with indulgent friends, your whims might all be gratified, a constant and uniform regard to them will be impossible by and by, when you are old enough to mingle with the world." LESSON XL. _King Edward and his Bible._--MRS. L.H. SIGOURNEY. 1. I will tell you a little story about a young and good king. He was king of England more than two hundred and eighty years ago. His name was Edward, and, because there had been five kings before him of the name of Edward, he was called Edward the Sixth. 2. He was only nine years old when he began to reign. He was early taught to be good, by pious teachers, and he loved to do what they told him would please God. He had a great reverence for the Bible, which he knew contained the words of his Father in heaven. [Illustration] 3. Once, when he was quite a young child, he was playing with some children about his own age. He wished much to reach something which was above his head. To assist him, they laid a large, thick book in a chair, for him to step on. Just as he was putting his foot upon it, he discovered it to be the Bible. 4. Drawing back, he took it in his arms, kissed it, and returned it to its place. Turning to his little playmates, he said, with a serious face,--"Shall I dare to tread under my feet that which God has commanded me to keep in my heart?" 5. This pious king never forgot his prayers. Though the people with whom he lived were continually anxious to amuse him, and show him some new thing, they never could induce him to omit his daily devotions. 6. One day he heard that one of his teachers was sick. Immediately, he retired to pray for him. Coming from his prayers, he said, with a cheerful countenance, "I think there is hope that he will recover. I have this morning earnestly begged of God to spare him to us." 7. After his teacher became well, he was told of this; and he very much loved the young king for remembering him in his prayers. 8. Edward the Sixth died when he was sixteen years old. He was beloved by all, for his goodness and piety. His mind was calm and serene in his sickness. 9. If you are not tired of my story, I will tell you part of a prayer which he used often to say, when on his dying bed. 10. "My Lord God, if thou wilt deliver me from this miserable life, take me among thy chosen. Yet not my will, but thy will, be done. Lord, I commit my spirit unto thee. Thou knowest how happy it were for me to be with thee. Yet, if thou shouldst send me life and health, grant that I may truly serve thee." 11. Children, you should do like King Edward, reverence your Bible, and love to pray to God. LESSON XLI. _What does it Mean to be Tempted._--M.H., IN THE ROSE-BUD. 1. "Mother," said little Frank, "I wish you would tell me what it means to be tempted. I heard you say, the other day, that people are tempted to do many wicked things;--pray tell me, mother, if such a little boy as I am is ever tempted?" 2. "Yes, my child, every day you live; and when I have told you what temptation is, I think you will confess that you have not only been tempted, but often yielded to temptation. 3. "To be tempted, means to be drawn by the offer of present pleasure to do what is wrong. There are many kinds of temptation, and I think you will understand me better if I give you an instance. 4. "You know, my dear Frank, that both your father and I have forbidden your going to the pond where your cousin Henry was drowned, because we think it very dangerous for you to venture there. But you also know that the other day you went, and suffered severely afterward for your disobedience." 5. "Yes, mother," said Frank; "but then I should not have gone, if William Brown had not showed me his pretty ship, just as I was coming out of school, and asked me to go see him launch it; and oh, mother, if you had only seen it! 6. "It had masts and sails, just like a _real_ ship; and on the deck a little man, which William called the captain. And then, when it was on the water, it sailed along so sweetly!--the pond was as smooth as a looking-glass, so that we could see two little ships all the time. 7. "I didn't think of disobeying you, mother; I only thought of the pretty ship, and that there could be no harm in seeing William sail it."--"The harm, my dear son (as you call it)," said his mother, "was not in sailing the boat,--this is an innocent pleasure in itself; but it was doing it after it had been forbidden by your parents, that made it wrong. 8. "The temptation to disobedience came in the form of a little ship. You were drawn by it to the pond, the forbidden spot. You saw it sail gayly off, and stood on the bank delighted." 9. "But, mother," interrupted Frank, "I shouldn't have got into the water and muddied my clothes, if the little ship hadn't got tangled in the weeds; and the boys all shouted, Clear her! Clear her! and I couldn't help stepping in, I was so near; and my foot slipped, and I fell in." 10. "Yes," said his mother, "and but for assistance of your play-fellows, you might have been drowned. But God, whose eye was upon you all the while, saw fit to spare you; and how thankful you ought to be that he did not take you away in your disobedience! 11. "You now see how you were tempted, first to go with William Brown to the pond, and then to step into the water; which shows how one temptation leads to another. But did not something within you, my son, tell you, while there, that you were doing wrong to disobey your parents?" 12. "No, mother; I do not recollect that it did. I'm sure I did not think a word about it till I was alone in bed, and was asking my heavenly Father to take care of me. Then something seemed to say, 'Frank, you have done wrong to-day.' 13. "And I felt how wicked I had been, and could not ask God to forgive me till I had confessed all to you. I knew you were away when I came home, and I thought you hadn't returned. 14. "I was so unhappy that I called Betsy, and told her how I felt. She told me it was an accident, and no matter at all; that she had taken care of my clothes, and she believed you would never know anything about it. 15. "But all this was no comfort to me; the something within would not be quiet. If it had spoken to me in the same way when I first saw the little ship, I think I should not have gone to the pond." 16. "Frank," said his mother, "this something within, which is conscience, did then speak, but you did not listen to its voice. The voice of temptation was louder, and you obeyed it, just as you followed some noisy boys, the other day, though I was calling to you, 'Frank, come back.' 17. "I spoke louder than usual, and at any other time you would have heard my voice; but you were too much attracted by the boys to listen to me. 18. "Temptation makes us deaf to the voice within; and yielding to temptation, as you see, my son, leads us into sin; and this is why we pray, in the Lord's prayer, 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,' which is sin, for there is no greater evil than sin. 19. "It is to keep us from this great evil that God has given us this voice within, to warn us not to follow temptation, though the sin appear but a trifling one, and though it hold out the promise of pleasure, as the little ship did." LESSON XLII. _The same subject, continued._ 1. "I will name some of the temptations to which little boys are a good deal exposed, and yield to without thinking, and sometimes without knowing to what they may lead. 2. "Sometimes the temptation to steal comes in the form of some beautiful fruit; perhaps in his father's garden, which he has been forbidden to touch; or perhaps in an orchard far from the eye of the owner, where he might take it without fear of being seen; and he says to himself, 'No one will ever know it; I will take only a few.' 3. "But does he forget that the eye of God is upon him, and does he not hear the voice of conscience saying, 'Thou shalt not steal!' He would shudder to be called a thief; but taking what does not belong to us, be it ever so small a thing, is stealing. 4. "And when detected, he is tempted to lie, to conceal his fault and avoid punishment; and here again we see how one sin leads to another. The temptations to cruelty are many. Sometimes they appear in the form of a bird's nest, placed by a fond and loving mother on the high bough of a tree, to secure her young brood from danger. 5. "The boy, in his rambles in the woods, sees the nest, climbs the tree, and, though the little birds are too feeble to fly, and the anxious mother flutters round, as if to entreat the cruel boy to spare her little ones, he is unmindful of her tenderness, and, thinking only of his prize, bears it off to his companions, who enjoy it with him. 6. "Here is a sinful feeling indulged, which, if not subdued, may lead to murder. I wish you to remember, my dear boy, that it is by allowing ourselves to commit little sins that we become great sinners. 7. "You would be frightened if you could have placed before you a picture of the course of sin. You would exclaim, What a monster!--he must never come near me,--it is dangerous even to look on him! Let me entreat you, then, my son, to guard against temptation. [Illustration] 8. "If you say to temptation, as you would to a wicked companion, who had often led you into mischief, 'Go away; I do not like your company,' temptation, though for a while it may plead to be indulged, will soon do as the wicked companion would, if often sent away with such a reproof, discontinue to come; or, if found in your company, will not harm you; for conscience, like a good friend, will be ever near; and your blessed Saviour, who has promised to help those who are tempted, will assist you to overcome temptation. 9. "I hope now you understand what it means to be tempted."--"I think I do, mother," said Frank, "and I thank you for telling me so much about temptation. I shall never again repeat the Lord's prayer without thinking what it means, and I hope God will keep me from the great evil of sin." He then kissed his mother, and she promised to tell him, some other time, how we are tempted by sinful thoughts. LESSON XLIII. _The same, subject, continued._ [Illustration] 1. It was not long after Frank had the conversation with his mother upon the temptation to sinful actions, that he claimed her promise to tell him how we may be tempted to sinful thoughts. 2. It was Sunday evening. Frank and his mother were sitting alone together at a window which opened upon a flower-garden, rich in the hues with which God has seen fit to adorn this beautiful part of creation. 3. "You have been at church to-day, my son," said his mother; "and to my eye you did nothing offensive, for you sat still during the sermon, and appeared engaged with your book during the prayers. 4. "I saw only the _outward_ part; but remember there was an eye of infinite purity looking upon your heart, and seeing the thoughts that were passing there. You only can tell if they were fit to meet that eye." 5. Frank looked down; for, like most children, he was not apt to examine either his thoughts or motives, but was well satisfied if he gained the approbation of his parents. 6. His mother, seeing he was struggling to disclose something, said, "You are an honest boy, Frank, and do not, I trust, wish to conceal the truth from your mother. If you have received my approbation for correct conduct, you certainly cannot enjoy it, if you feel that it is not deserved." 7. "That is what troubles me, mother," said Frank; "for, while I was sitting so still, and you thought I was attending to the sermon, I was all the while watching a pretty little dog, that was running from pew to pew, trying to find his master; and when he got on the pulpit step, and rolled off, I came so near laughing that I was obliged to put my handkerchief to my mouth, and make believe to cough. 8. "I kept my eye upon him till church was done, and thought, if I could see him at the door, I would try to make him follow me home, and keep him. 9. "I feel now, mother, that all this was very wrong, and that these naughty thoughts tempted me to break God's holy Sabbath." 10. "I am glad you feel this, my son; for, besides being sinful to desire to have the little dog, which was coveting what belonged to another, the time and place in which you indulged the thought was the breaking of that commandment which says, 'Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.'" 11. "But, mother," asked Frank, impatiently, "how shall I keep these thoughts out? They come before I know it. Sometimes a boy has a new suit of clothes on, and I cannot help looking at him; and sometimes the girls will play with their gloves, and tie and untie their bonnets; and sometimes the little children get to sleep, and I can't help watching them, to see if they will not slip off the seat. 12. "I think, mother, if we did not sit in the gallery, I shouldn't see so many things to tempt me to wicked thoughts in church." 13. "If I really believed this myself, Frank, I should think it important to change our seat: but the mischief does not lie here; it is in your heart. 14. "If this were right, and you really loved God and his service, the thought of his presence would keep out these troublesome intruders; not altogether, my son, for the best of people are sometimes subject to wandering thoughts; but it is a temptation which they overcome, by turning their attention immediately to the services, and by taking their eyes from the object that drew away their thoughts from God." LESSON XLIV. _The same subject, concluded._ 1. "If some great king, who loved his people, and was continually giving them some good things, should appoint a day when he would meet his subjects, rich and poor, young and old, and should declare to them how they may best please him; and a person should be appointed to read to them, from a book he had himself written, directions for their conduct; and that, as a reward for obedience, should promise they should be admitted to his palace, where nothing that could trouble them should ever be allowed to enter--" 2. "Why, mother," exclaimed Frank, "I should so admire to see a king, that I should be willing to do everything he required; and should be afraid, all the time, of doing something he did not like, while in his presence. I should keep looking at him all the time, to see if he were pleased;--but go on, mother." 3. "Well, my son, suppose this great person, who is also good, should keep a book in which he noted down all your actions, and even looks; and, on a certain day which he had appointed, and which was known to himself, should call together a great multitude of people, his friends and yours, and should read to them all that he had written there,--do you think you would be careless or indifferent what was written against your name?" 4. "O no, mother! I should be so anxious that I should want to hide myself, for fear something should be read that I should be ashamed of,--something very bad. But, mother, no king ever did this, that you know of. If he did, pray tell me more about him; and if his subjects were not all good and obedient." 5. "I have heard of a king, my son, who has done more than this; but not an earthly king. Earthly kings are limited in their power; for they are but men. But the king of whom I speak is the Lord of the whole earth." 6. "Do you mean God, mother?"--"I do, my son. You have told me how you should behave in the presence of an earthly king on the day he should appoint to meet his people; and would you treat with less reverence and respect him who is the King of kings and Lord of lords? 7. "Can you, on entering his house, say, 'The Lord is in his holy temple,' and feel no desire to meet him there; but allow any trifle that meets your eye to carry your thoughts away? Do you, when his holy book is read, feel no desire to hear the directions he has given to lead you to your heavenly home? 8. "And when the petitions are sent up imploring his blessings, and asking his forgiveness, have you none to offer? Are you so blest as to have nothing to ask, and so good as to need no forgiveness? 9. "O my son, be careful how you neglect these gracious privileges! And when his ministers, whom he has appointed to declare his will,--to instruct you out of his word,--preach to you from the sacred pulpit, will you turn a deaf ear, and lose their instructions, and at the same time displease your heavenly Father? 10. "This great and powerful king is also your father and friend. He loves you more than any earthly friend. He is willing to hear all your petitions, and is even more ready to give than we are to ask. He has appointed one day in seven in which to meet us, and this is the Sabbath, about the keeping of which we are now talking. 11. "And he has also appointed a day in which he will judge the world, from the book which he has kept of our accounts. 12. "On that day there will be assembled a great multitude, which no man can number, out of every kindred and tongue; great and small, good and bad. You and I will be there, my son. 13. "There will be the minister and his people, the Sunday-school teacher and his scholars, all to receive either the sentence, 'Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world,' or, 'Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting punishment.'" 14. Frank was moved by this representation of the consequences of his neglect of the duties he owed his heavenly Father, and said, "O, how sad it would be, how dreadful, if, on that day I should be sent to dwell forever where God is not, and where you and father are not!" 15. "Dreadful, indeed, my son, would be such a separation; and when you think of this, let it make you more earnest to serve and please God; for Jesus Christ, who came upon earth once to die for us all, and will come again to judge the earth, has gone to prepare mansions in heaven for those who love him, that they may dwell with him forever in perfect happiness. 16. "Let us now, my son, pray to our heavenly Father to prepare us for this blessedness, that where he is, there we may be also." Frank and his mother knelt together, and offered up the following prayer:-- PRAYER FOR GOOD THOUGHTS. 17. Almighty and most merciful Father! teach us thy will, that we may know how to please thee. Put good thoughts into our hearts, and right words into our lips, that our services may be such as thou wilt please to accept. 18. Forgive, we pray thee, the sins we have committed this day, in thought, word, or deed, and make us truly sorry on account of them. Help us to love thee more, and serve thee better, for the time to come. [Illustration] 19. Bless all our friends, and make them thy friends. Make us a household serving thee, that after this life is over, we may all meet in heaven. 20. O then, great Shepherd, who neither slumberest nor sleepest, take us under thy protection this night; and when the cheerful light of day again returns, lead us forth in thy fold, and keep us from every temptation that will draw us away from thee. 21. May our peaceful slumbers remind us of the sleep of death; and, on the morning of the resurrection, wilt thou clothe us in the righteousness of Christ, and receive us to dwell with him in life everlasting! Amen. LESSON XLV. _Mary Dow._--H.F. GOULD. 1. "Come in, little stranger," I said, As she tapped at my half-opened door, While the blanket pinned over her head Just reached to the basket she bore. 2. A look full of innocence fell From her modest and pretty blue eye, As she said, "I have matches to sell, And hope you are willing to buy. 3. "A penny a bunch is the price; I think you'll not find it too much; They're tied up so even and nice, And ready to light with a touch." 4. I asked, "What's your name, little girl?" "'Tis Mary," said she,--"Mary Dow," And carelessly tossed off a curl, That played o'er her delicate brow. 5. "My father was lost in the deep,-- The ship never got to the shore; And mother is sad, and will weep, When she hears the wind blow and sea roar. 6. "She sits there at home, without food, Beside our poor sick Willie's bed; She paid all her money for wood, And so I sell matches for bread. 7. "For every time that she tries Some things she'd be paid for to make, And lays down the baby, it cries, And that makes my sick brother wake. 8. "I'd go to the yard and get chips, But, then, it would make me too sad, To see men there building the ships, And think they had made one so bad. 9. "I've one other gown, and, with care, We think it may decently pass, With my bonnet that's put by to wear To meeting and Sunday-school class. 10. "I love to go there, where I'm taught, Of One who's so wise and so good, He knows every action and thought, And gives e'en the raven his food. 11. "For He, I am sure, who can take Such fatherly care of a bird, Will never forget or forsake The children who trust to his word. 12. "And now, if I only can sell The matches I brought out to-day, I think I shall do very well, And mother'll rejoice at the pay." 13. "Fly home, little bird," then I thought, "Fly home, full of joy, to your nest!" For I took all the matches she brought, And Mary may tell you the rest. LESSON XLVI. _It Snows._--H.F. GOULD. 1. It snows! it snows! from out the sky, The feathered flakes, how fast they fly! Like little birds, that don't know why They're on the chase, from place to place, While neither can the other trace. It snows! it snows! a merry play Is o'er us, on this heavy day! 2. As dancers in an airy hall, That hasn't room to hold them all, While some keep up and others fall, The atoms shift; then, thick and swift, They drive along to form the drift, That, weaving up, so dazzling white, Is rising like a wall of light. 3. But now the wind comes whistling loud, To snatch and waft it, as a cloud, Or giant phantom in a shroud; It spreads, it curls, it mounts and whirls, At length a mighty wing unfurls, And then, away! but where, none knows, Or ever will.--It snows! it snows! 4. To-morrow will the storm be done; Then out will come the golden sun, And we shall see, upon the run Before his beams, in sparkling streams, What now a curtain o'er him seems. And thus with life it ever goes, 'Tis shade and shine!--It snows! it snows! LESSON XLVII. _The Dissatisfied Angler Boy._--H.F. GOULD. [Illustration] 1. I'm sorry they let me go down to the brook, I'm sorry they gave me the line and the hook, And I wish I had stayed at home with my book. I'm sure 'twas no pleasure to see That poor, little, harmless, suffering thing, Silently writhe at the end of the string; Or to hold the pole, while I felt him swing In torture, and all for me! 2. 'Twas a beautiful speckled and glossy trout, And when from the water I drew him out On the grassy bank, as he floundered about, It made me shivering cold, To think I had caused so much needless pain; And I tried to relieve him, but all in vain; O! never, as long as I live, again May I such a sight behold! 3. O, what would I give once more to see The brisk little swimmer alive and free, And darting about, as he used to be, Unhurt, in his native brook! 'Tis strange how people can love to play, By taking innocent lives away; I wish I had stayed at home to-day, With sister, and read my book. LESSON XLVIII. _The Violet: a Fable._--CHILDREN'S MAGAZINE. 1. Down in a humble dell A modest violet chanced to dwell Remote from gayer flowers; Its days were passed in simple ease, It sipped the dew and kissed the breeze, Nor thought of happier hours. 2. Long lived it in this quiet way, Till, on a hot and sultry day About the midst of June, It chanced to spy a lady fair, All dressed in satins rich and rare, Come walking by, at noon. 3. And thus the silly flower began:-- "I much should like to live with man, And other flowers to see;-- Why is it (for I cannot tell) That I forever here should dwell, Where there is none but me?" 4. While thus it spoke, the lady stopped To pick up something she had dropped, And there the flower she spied; And soon she plucked it from its bed, Just shook the dew-drop from its head, And placed it at her side. 5. Soon at the lady's splendid home The violet found that she was come, For all was bright and gay: And then upon the mantel-shelf, With many a flower beside herself, Was placed, without delay. 6. And oh, how glad and proud was she In such a splendid place to be!-- But short was her delight; For rose and lily turned away, And would not deign a word to say To such a country wight. 7. She passed the day in much disgrace, And wished that she might change her place, And be at home again: She sighed for her own mossy bed, Where she might rest her aching head; But now to wish were vain. 8. Next morn, the housemaid, passing by, Just chanced the little flower to spy, And then, without delay, She rudely seized its tender stalk, And threw it in the gravel walk, And left it to decay. 9. And thus it mourned,--"O silly flower, To wish to leave its native bower! Was it for this I sighed? O, had I more contented been, And lived unnoticed and unseen, I might not thus have died!" 10. Nor let this lesson be forgot: Remain contented with the lot That Providence decrees. Contentment is a richer gem Than sparkles in a diadem, And gives us greater ease. LESSON XLIX. _Captain John Smith._--JUVENILE MISCELLANY. 1. The adventures of this singular man are so various, and so very extraordinary, that the detail of them seems more like romance than true history. He was born in Lincolnshire, England, and was left an orphan at an early age. 2. His love of adventure displayed itself while he was yet a school-boy. He sold his satchel, books and clothes, and went over to France, without the knowledge of his guardians. 3. Afterward, he served as a soldier in the Netherlands for several years. At the end of his campaign, he returned to England, where he recovered a small portion of the estate left him by his deceased father. 4. This money enabled him to resume his travels under more favorable auspices, at the age of seventeen. He again went to France, and embarked at Marseilles (_pronounced_ Mar-sales´), with some pious pilgrims, bound to Italy. 5. During this voyage a violent tempest threatened destruction to the vessel; and poor Smith being the suspected cause of the impending danger was thrown, without mercy, into the sea. [Illustration] 6. He saved himself by his great expertness in swimming; and soon after went on board another vessel, bound to Alexandria, where he entered into the service of the Emperor of Austria, against the Turks. 7. His bravery, and great ingenuity in all the stratagems of war, soon made him famous, and obtained for him the command of two hundred and fifty horsemen. 8. At the siege of Regal, the Ottomans sent a challenge, purporting that Lord Turbisha, to amuse the ladies, would fight with any captain among the Austrian troops. Smith accepted the challenge. 9. Flags of truce were exchanged between the two armies, and crowds of fair dames and fearless men assembled to witness the combat. Lord Turbisha entered the field well mounted and armed. 10. On his shoulders were fixed two large wings made of eagles' feathers, set in silver, and richly ornamented with gold and precious stones. A janizary, or Turkish soldier, bore his lance before him, and another followed, leading a horse superbly caparisoned. 11. Smith came upon the ground with less parade. A flourish of trumpets preceded him, and his lance was supported by a single page. 12. The Turk fell at the first charge, and Smith returned to his army in triumph. This so enraged one of the friends of the slain that he sent a challenge to Smith, offering him his head, his horse and his armor, if he dared come and take them. 13. The challenge was accepted, and the combatants came upon the ground with nearly the same ceremony and splendor. Their lances broke at the first charge, without doing injury to either; but, at the second onset, the Turk was wounded, thrown from his horse, and killed. LESSON L. _The same subject, continued._ 1. The Christian army were at this time anxious to finish erecting some fortifications, and were very willing to amuse their enemies in this way. They therefore persuaded Captain Smith to send a challenge in his turn, offering his head, in payment for the two he had won, to any one who had skill and strength enough to take it. 2. The offer was accepted; and a third Turk tried his fortune with the bold adventurer. This time Captain Smith was nearly unhorsed; but, by his dexterity and judgment, he recovered himself, and soon returned to the camp victorious. 3. These warlike deeds met with much applause; and the prince gave him a coat of arms, signed with the royal seal, representing three Turk's heads on a white field. 4. Not long after this, Captain Smith was left wounded on the field of battle,--was taken prisoner by the Turks,--and sent as a slave to a noble lady in the interior of the country. 5. He could speak Italian well, and his fair mistress was very fond of that language. She listened to accounts of his bravery, his adventures, and his misfortunes, with deepening interest; and finally sent him to her brother, a powerful bashaw, with a request that he should be treated with much kindness. 6. The proud officer was angry that his sister should trouble herself about a vile European slave; and, instead of attending to her request, he caused him to be loaded with irons, and abused in the most shameful manner. 7. During the long and tedious period of his slavery, he suffered as much as it is possible for man to endure; but at length he killed his tyrannical master, and, with great peril, escaped through the deserts into Russia. 8. His romantic genius would not long allow him to remain easy. He could not be happy unless he was engaged in daring and adventurous actions. He no sooner heard of an expedition to Virginia, under the command of Christopher Newport, than he resolved to join it. 9. He arrived in this country with the first emigrants, who settled in Jamestown, April 26, 1607. It is said this infant settlement must have perished, had it not been for the courage and ingenuity of Captain Smith. [Illustration] 10. Once they were all nearly dying with hunger, and the savages utterly refused to sell them any food. In this extremity, Smith stole the Indian idol, Okee, which was made of skins stuffed with moss, and would not return it until the Indians sold them as much corn as they wanted. LESSON LI. _The same subject, continued._ 1. The colony were once in imminent danger of losing their brave and intelligent friend. While exploring the source of the Chickahominy river, he imprudently left his companions, and, while alone, was seen and pursued by a party of savages. He retreated fighting, killed three Indians with his own hand, and probably would have regained his boat in safety, had he not accidentally plunged into a miry hole, from which he could not extricate himself. 2. By this accident, he was taken prisoner; and the Indians would have tortured him, and put him to death, according to their cruel customs, had not his ever-ready wit come to his aid. 3. He showed them a small ivory compass, which he had with him, and, by signs, explained many wonderful things to them, till his enemies were inspired with a most profound respect, and resolved not to kill the extraordinary man without consulting their chief. 4. He was, accordingly, brought into the presence of the king, Powhatan, who received him in a robe of raccoon skins, and seated on a kind of throne, with two beautiful young daughters at his side. After a long consultation, he was condemned to die. 5. Two large stones were brought, his head laid upon one of them, and the war-clubs raised to strike the deadly blow. At this moment, Pocahontas, the king's favorite daughter, sprang forward, threw herself between him and the executioners, and by her entreaties saved his life. 6. Powhatan promised him that he should return to Jamestown, if the English would give him a certain quantity of ammunition and trinkets. Smith agreed to obtain them, provided a messenger would carry a leaf to his companions. On this leaf he briefly stated what must be sent. 7. Powhatan had never heard of writing;--he laughed at the idea that a leaf could speak, and regarded the whole as an imposition on the part of the prisoner. 8. When, however, the messenger returned with the promised ransom, he regarded Smith as nothing less than a wizard, and gladly allowed him to depart. It seemed to be the fate of this singular man to excite a powerful interest wherever he went. 9. Pocahontas had such a deep attachment for him, that, in 1609, when only fourteen years old, she stole away from her tribe, and, during a most dreary night, walked to Jamestown, to tell him that her father had formed the design of cutting off the whole English settlement. 10. Thus she a second time saved his life, at the hazard of her own. This charming Indian girl did not meet with all the gratitude she deserved. 11. Before 1612, Captain Smith received a wound, which made it necessary for him to go to England, for surgical aid; and after his departure a copper kettle was offered to any Indian who would bring Pocahontas to the English settlement. 12. She was, accordingly, stolen from her father, and carried prisoner to Jamestown. Powhatan offered five hundred bushels of corn as a ransom for his darling child. 13. Before the negotiation was finished, an Englishman of good character, by the name of Thomas Rolfe, became attached to Pocahontas, and they were soon after married, with the king's consent. 14. This event secured peace to the English for many years. The Indian bride became a Christian, and was baptized. LESSON LII. _The same subject, concluded._ 1. In 1616, Pocahontas went to England with her husband,--was introduced at court, and received great attention. 2. King James is said to have been very indignant that any of his subjects should have dared to marry a princess; but Captain Smith has been accused, perhaps falsely, of being sufficiently cold and selfish to blush for his acquaintance with the generous North American savage. 3. Pocahontas never returned to her native country. She died at Gravesend, in 1617, just as she was about to embark for America. 4. She left one son, Thomas Rolfe; and from his daughter are descended several people of high rank in Virginia, among whom was the celebrated John Randolph of Roanoke. 5. Smith had many adventures, after his wound obliged him to leave Jamestown. He visited this country again; made a voyage to the Summer Isles; fought with pirates; joined the French against the Spaniards; and was adrift, in a little boat, alone, on the stormy sea, during a night so tempestuous that thirteen French ships were wrecked, near the Isle of Re; yet he was saved. 6. He died in London, in 1631, in the fifty-second year of his age, after having published his singular adventures in Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. LESSON LIII. _John Ledyard._--JUVENILE MISCELLANY. 1. Few men have done so much, in a short life, as John Ledyard. When he was a mere boy, he built a canoe with his own hands, and descended Connecticut river alone and unassisted. 2. He enlisted as a soldier, at Gibraltar; and afterwards, in the humble character of corporal of the marines, he sailed round the world with the celebrated Captain Cook. 3. After his return to England, he formed the bold design of traversing the northern parts of Europe and Asia, crossing Behring's Straits, and examining the whole of North America, from east to west. 4. Sir Joseph Banks, famous for his generosity to men of enterprise, furnished him with money for the undertaking. He expended nearly all of it in purchasing sea stores; and these, most unluckily, were all seized by a custom-house officer, on account of some articles which the English law forbade to be exported. 5. Poor Ledyard was now left in utter poverty; but he was a resolute man, and he would not be discouraged. With only ten guineas in his purse, he attempted to _walk_ over the greater part of three continents. 6. He walked through Denmark and Sweden, and attempted to cross the great Gulf of Bothnia, on his way to Siberia; but when he reached the middle of that inland sea, he found the water was not frozen, and he was obliged to foot it back to Stockholm. 7. He then traveled round the head of the gulf, and descended to St. Petersburg. Here he was soon discovered to be a man of talents and activity; and though he was without money, and absolutely destitute of stockings and shoes, he was treated with great attention. 8. The Portuguese ambassador invited him to dine, and was so much pleased with him, that he used his influence to obtain for him a free passage in the government wagons, then going to Irkutsk, in Siberia, at the command of the Empress Katharine. 9. He went from this place to Yakutz, and there awaited the opening of the spring, full of the animating hope of soon completing his wearisome journey. But misfortune seemed to follow him wherever he went. 10. The empress could not believe that any man in his senses was traveling through the ice and snows of uncivilized Siberia, merely for the sake of seeing the country and the people. 11. She imagined that he was an English spy, sent there merely for the purpose of prying into the state of her empire and her government. She therefore employed two Russian soldiers to seize him, and convey him out of her dominions. 12. Taken, he knew not why, and obliged to go off without his clothes, his money, or his papers, he was seated in one of the strange-looking sledges used in those northern deserts, and carried through Tartary and White Russia, to the frontiers of Poland. 13. Covered with dirty rags, worn out with hardships, sick almost unto death, without friends and without money, he begged his way to Konigsberg, in Prussia. LESSON LIV. _The same subject, concluded._ 1. In this hour of deep distress, he found a person willing to take his draft for five guineas on the Royal Society of England. With this assistance, he arrived in the land of our forefathers. 2. He immediately applied to his ever-ready friend, Sir Joseph Banks, for employment. Sir Joseph, knowing that nothing suited him better than perilous adventures, told him that a company had just been formed, for the purpose of penetrating into the interior of Africa, and discovering the source of the river Niger. 3. Burning sands, savage negroes, venomous serpents, all the frightful animals of the torrid zone, could not alarm the intrepid soul of Ledyard. He immediately expressed his desire to go. 4. When the map was spread before him, and his dangerous journey pointed out, he promptly exclaimed, "I will go to-morrow morning." 5. The gentleman smiled at his eagerness, and gladly intrusted him with an expedition in which suffering and peril were certain, and success extremely doubtful. He left London on the 30th of June, 1788, and arrived in Grand Cairo on the 19th of August. 6. There he spent his time to great advantage, in searching for and deciphering the various wonders of that ancient and once learned land. 7. His letters from Egypt were delightful. They showed much enthusiasm, united with the most patient and laborious exertion. The company formed great hopes concerning his discoveries in Senaar, and awaited letters from that country with much anxiety. 8. But, alas! he never reached there. He was seized with a violent illness at Cairo; died, and was decently buried beside the English who had ended their days in that celebrated city. 9. We should never read accounts of great or good men without learning some profitable lesson. If we cannot, like Ledyard, defend Gibraltar, sail round the world with Captain Cook, project trading voyages to the north-west coast, study Egyptian hieroglyph´ics, and traverse the dreary northern zone on foot,--we can, at least, learn from him the important lesson of _perseverance_. 10. The boy who perseveringly pores over a hard lesson, and who will not give up an intricate problem until he has studied it out, forms a habit, which, in after life, will make him a great man; and he who resolutely struggles against his own indolence, violent temper, or any other bad propensity, will most assuredly be a good one. LESSON LV. _Learning to Work._--ORIGINAL. 1. A few years ago, several little volumes were published, called "_The Rollo Books_," which are full of interesting stories about a little boy of that name. They were written by a gentleman whose name is Abbott. 2. They are not only interesting, but also very instructive books; and no little boy or girl can read them, without learning many very useful lessons from them. They are not only useful to young persons, but their parents, also, have derived many useful hints from them, in the management of their children. 3. The following little story is taken from one of them, called "_Rollo at Work_;" and I hope that my little friends who read this story at school will also read it at home to their parents, because it will be both interesting and useful to them. 4. The story begins, by telling us that Rollo's father had set him at work in the barn, with a box full of nails, directing him to pick them all over, and to put all those that were alike by themselves. 5. Rollo began very willingly at first, but soon grew tired of the work, and left it unfinished. The remainder of the story will be found in the following lessons, in Mr. Abbott's own words. LESSON LVI. _The same subject, continued._--ABBOTT. 1. That evening, when Rollo was just going to bed, his father took him up in his lap, and told him he had concluded what to do. 2. "You see it is very necessary," said he, "that you should have the power of confining yourself steadily and patiently to a single employment, even if it does not amuse you. 3. "I have to do that, and all people have to do it; and you must learn to do it, or you will grow up indolent and useless. You cannot do it now, it is very plain. 4. "If I set you to doing anything, you go on as long as the novelty and the amusement last; and then your patience is gone, and you contrive every possible excuse for getting away from your task. 5. "Now, I am going to give you one hour's work to do, every forenoon and afternoon. I shall give you such things to do as are perfectly plain and easy, so that you will have no excuse for neglecting your work, or leaving it. 6. "But yet I shall choose such things as will afford you no amusement; for my wish is that you should learn to work, not play." 7. "But, father," said Rollo, "you told me there was pleasure in work, the other day. But how can there be any pleasure in it, if you choose such things as have no amusement in them, at all?" 8. "The pleasure of working," said his father, "is not the fun of doing amusing things, but the satisfaction and solid happiness of being faithful in duty, and accomplishing some useful purpose. 9. "For example, if I were to lose my pocket-book on the road, and should tell you to walk back a mile, and look carefully all the way, until you found it, and if you did it faithfully and carefully, you would find a kind of satisfaction in doing it; and when you found the pocket-book, and brought it back to me, you would enjoy a high degree of happiness. Should not you?" 10. "Why, yes, sir, I should," said Rollo.--"And, yet, there would be no amusement in it. You might, perhaps, the next day, go over the same road, catching butterflies; that would be amusement. Now, the pleasure you would enjoy in looking for the pocket-book would be the solid satisfaction of useful work. 11. "The pleasure of catching butterflies would be the amusement of play. Now, the difficulty is, with you, that you have scarcely any idea, yet, of the first. 12. "You are all the time looking for the other; that is, the amusement. You begin to work, when I give you anything to do; but if you do not find amusement in it, you soon give it up. But if you would only persevere, you would find, at length, a solid satisfaction, that would be worth a great deal more." 13. Rollo sat still, and listened; but his father saw, from his looks, that he was not much interested in what he was saying; and he perceived that it was not at all probable that so small a boy could be reasoned into liking work. 14. In fact, it was rather hard for Rollo to understand all that his father said; and still harder for him to feel the force of it. He began to grow sleepy, and so his father let him go to bed. LESSON LVII. _The same subject, concluded._ [Illustration] 1. The next day, his father gave him his work. He was to begin at ten o'clock, and work till eleven, gathering beans in the garden. 2. His father went out with him, and waited to see how long it took him to gather half a pint, and then calculated how many he could gather in an hour, if he was industrious. Rollo knew that if he failed now he should be punished in some way, although his father did not say anything about punishment. 3. When he was set at work, the day before, about the nails, he was making an experiment, as it were, and he did not expect to be actually punished, if he failed; but now he knew that he was under orders, and must obey. 4. So he worked very diligently, and when his father came out, at the end of the hour, he found that Rollo had got rather more beans than he had expected. Rollo was much gratified to see his father pleased; and he carried in his large basket full of beans to show his mother, with great pleasure. 5. Then he went to play, and enjoyed himself very highly. The next morning, his father said to him,--"Well, Rollo, you did very well yesterday; but doing right once is a very different thing from forming a habit of doing right. I can hardly expect you will succeed as well to-day; or, if you should to-day, that you will to-morrow." 6. Rollo thought he should. His work was to pick up all the loose stones in the road, and carry them, in a basket, to a great heap of stones behind the barn. 7. But he was not quite faithful. His father observed him playing several times. He did not speak to him, however, until the hour was over; and then he called him in. 8. "Rollo," said he, "you have failed to-day. You have not been very idle, but have not been industrious; and the punishment which I have concluded to try first is, to give you only bread and water for dinner." 9. So, when dinner-time came, and the family sat down to the good beef-steak and apple-pie which was upon the table, Rollo knew that he was not to come. He felt very unhappy, but he did not cry. 10. His father called him, and cut off a good slice of bread, and put into his hands, and told him he might go and eat it on the steps of the back door. "If you should be thirsty," he added, "you may ask Mary to give you some water." 11. Rollo took the bread, and went out, and took his solitary seat on the stone step leading into the back yard; and, in spite of all his efforts to prevent it, the tears would come into his eyes. 12. He thought of his guilt in disobeying his father, and he felt unhappy to think that his father and mother were seated together at their pleasant table, and that he could not come, because he had been an undutiful son. He determined that he would never be unfaithful in his work again. 13. He went on, after this, several days, very well. His father gave him various kinds of work to do, and he began, at last, to find a considerable degree of satisfaction in doing it. 14. He found, particularly, that he enjoyed himself a great deal more after his work than before; and, whenever he saw what he had done, it gave him pleasure. 15. After he had picked up the loose stones before the house, for instance, he drove his hoop about there with unusual satisfaction; enjoying the neat and tidy appearance of the road much more than he would have done, if Jonas had cleared it. In fact, in the course of a month, Rollo became quite a faithful and efficient little workman. [Illustration] LESSON LVIII. _The Comma._ THE COMMA is a mark like this =,= When you come to a comma in reading, you must generally make a short pause. Sometimes you must use the falling inflection of the voice, when you come to a comma; and sometimes you must keep your voice suspended, as if some one had stopped you before you had read all that you intended. The general rule, when you come to a comma, is, to stop just long enough to count one. EXAMPLES. Diligence, industry, and proper improvement of time, are material duties of the young. He is generous, just, charitable, and humane. By wisdom, by art, by the united strength of a civil community, men have been enabled to subdue the whole race of lions, bears, and serpents. [Sometimes a comma must be read like a question.] Do you pretend to sit as high in school as Anthony? Did you read as correctly, articulate as distinctly, speak as loudly, or behave as well, as he? Did he recite his lesson correctly, read audibly, and appear to understand what he read? Was his copy written neatly, his letters made handsomely, and did no blot appear on his book? Was his wealth stored fraudfully, the spoil of orphans wronged, and widows who had none to plead their rights? Have not you, too, gone about the earth like an evil genius, blasting the fair fruits of peace and industry? Is that a map which you have before you, with the leaves blotted with ink? Will you say that your time is your own, and that you have a right to employ it in the manner you please? [Sometimes a comma is to be read like a period, with the falling inflection of the voice.] The teacher directed him to take his seat, to study his lesson, and to pass no more time in idleness. It is said by unbelievers that religion is dull, unsocial, uncharitable, enthusiastic, a damper of human joy, a morose intruder upon human pleasure. Charles has brought his pen instead of his pencil, his paper instead of his slate, his grammar instead of his arithmetic. Perhaps you have mistaken sobriety for dullness, equanimity for moroseness, disinclination to bad company for aversion to society, abhorrence of vice for uncharitableness, and piety for enthusiasm. Henry was careless, thoughtless, heedless, and inattentive. [Sometimes the comma is to be read like an exclamation.] O, how can you destroy those beautiful things which your father procured for you! that beautiful top, those polished marbles, that excellent ball, and that beautiful painted kite,--oh, how can you destroy them, and expect that he will buy you new ones! O, how canst thou renounce the boundless store of charms that Nature to her votary yields! the warbling woodland, the resounding shore, the pomp of groves, the garniture of fields, all that the genial ray of morning gilds, and all that echoes to the song of even, all that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, and all the dread magnificence of heaven, oh, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven! [Sometimes the comma, and other marks, are to be read without any pause or inflection of the voice.] You see, boys, what a fine school-room we have, in which you can pursue your studies. You see, my son, this wide and large firmament over our heads, where the sun and moon, and all the stars, appear in their turns. Therefore, my child, fear, and worship, and love God. He that can read as well as you can, James, need not be ashamed to read aloud. He that can make the multitude laugh and weep as you can, Mr. Shakspeare, need not fear scholars. [Sometimes the pause of a comma must be made where there is no pause in your book. Spaces are left, in the following sentences, where the pause is proper.] James was very much delighted with the picture which he saw. The Europeans were hardly less amazed at the scene now before them. The inhabitants were entirely naked. Their black hair, long and curled, floated upon their shoulders, or was bound in tresses around their head. Persons of reflection and sensibility contemplate with interest the scenes of nature. The succession and contrast of the seasons give scope to that care and foresight, diligence and industry, which are essential to the dignity and enjoyment of human beings. [The pupil may read the following sentences; but before reading them, he may tell after what word the pause should be made. The pause is not printed in the sentences, but it must be made when reading them. And here it may be observed, that the comma is more frequently used to point out the grammatical divisions of a sentence than to indicate a rest or cessation of the voice. Good reading depends much upon skill and judgment in making those pauses which the sense of the sentence dictates, but which are not noted in the book; and the sooner the pupil is taught to make them, with proper discrimination, the surer and the more rapid will be his progress in the art of reading.] While they were at their silent meal a horseman came galloping to the door, and, with a loud voice, called out that he had been sent express with a letter to Gilbert Ainslee. The golden head that was wont to rise at that part of the table was now wanting. For even though absent from school I shall get the lesson. For even though dead I will control the trophies of the capitol. It is now two hundred years since attempts have been made to civilize the North American savage. Doing well has something more in it than the fulfilling of a duty. You will expect me to say something of the lonely records of the former races that inhabited this country. There is no virtue without a characteristic beauty to make it particularly loved by the good, and to make the bad ashamed of their neglect of it. A sacrifice was never yet offered to a principle, that was not made up to us by self-approval, and the consideration of what our degradation would have been had we done otherwise. The following story has been handed down by family tradition for more than a century. The succession and contrast of the seasons give scope to that care and foresight, diligence and industry, which are essential to the dignity and enjoyment of human beings, whose happiness is connected with the exertion of their faculties. A lion of the largest size measures from eight to nine feet from the muzzle to the origin of the tail, which last is of itself about four feet long. The height of the larger specimens is four or five feet. The following anecdote will show with what obstinate perseverance pack-horses have been known to preserve the line of their order. Good-morning to you, Charles! Whose book is that which you have under your arm? A benison upon thee, gentle huntsman! Whose towers are these that overlook the wood? The incidents of the last few days have been such as will probably never again be witnessed by the people of America, and such as were never before witnessed by any nation under heaven. To the memory of Andre his country has erected the most magnificent monuments, and bestowed on his family the highest honors and most liberal rewards. To the memory of Hale not a stone has been erected, and the traveler asks in vain for the place of his long sleep. LESSON LIX. _The Semicolon._ THE SEMICOLON is made by a comma placed under a period, thus =;= When you come to a semicolon, you must generally make a pause twice as long as you would make at a comma. Sometimes you must keep the voice suspended when you come to a semicolon, as in the following: EXAMPLES. That God whom you see me daily worship; whom I daily call upon to bless both you and me, and all mankind; whose wondrous acts are recorded in those Scriptures which you constantly read; that God who created the heaven and the earth is your Father and Friend. My son, as you have been used to look to me in all your actions, and have been afraid to do anything unless you first knew my will; so let it now be a rule of your life to look up to God in all your actions. [Sometimes you must use the falling inflection of the voice when you come to a semicolon, as in the following:] EXAMPLES. Let your dress be sober, clean, and modest; not to set off the beauty of your person, but to declare the sobriety of your mind; that your outward garb may resemble the inward plainness and simplicity of your heart. In meat and drink, observe the rules of Christian temperance and sobriety; consider your body only as the servant and minister of your soul; and only so nourish it, as it may best perform an humble and obedient service. Condescend to all the weakness and infirmities of your fellow-creatures; cover their frailties; love their excellences; encourage their virtues; relieve their wants; rejoice in their prosperity; compassionate their distress; receive their friendship; overlook their unkindness; forgive their malice; be a servant of servants; and condescend to do the lowest offices for the lowest of mankind. [The semicolon is sometimes used for a question, and sometimes as an exclamation.] EXAMPLES. Hast thou not set at defiance my authority; violated the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring the persons and properties of thy fellow-subjects? O, it was impious; it was unmanly; it was poor and pitiful! Have not you too gone about the earth like an evil genius; blasting the fair fruits of peace and industry; plundering, ravaging, killing, without law, without justice, merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion? What a glorious monument of human invention, that has thus triumphed over wind and wave; has brought the ends of the earth in communion; has established an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south; diffused the light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the human race, between which Nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier! LESSON LX. _The Colon._ THE COLON consists of two periods placed one above the other, thus =:= Sometimes the passage ending with a colon is to be read with the voice suspended; but it should generally be read with the falling inflection of the voice. The general rule, when you come to a colon, is to stop just long enough to count three; or three times as long as you are directed to pause at a comma. EXAMPLES. Law and order are forgotten: violence and rapine are abroad: the golden cords of society are loosed. The temples are profaned: the soldier's curse resounds in the house of God: the marble pavement is trampled by iron hoofs: horses neigh beside the altar. Blue wreaths of smoke ascend through the trees, and betray the half-hidden cottage: the eye contemplates well-thatched ricks, and barns bursting with plenty: the peasant laughs at the approach of winter. [The following passages ending with a colon are to be read with the voice suspended:] Do not flatter yourselves with the hope of perfect happiness: there is no such thing in the world. A boy at school is by no means at liberty to read what books he pleases: he must give attention to those which contain his lessons; so that, when he is called upon to recite, he may be ready, fluent, and accurate, in repeating the portion assigned him. As we perceive the shadow to have moved along the dial, but did not perceive its moving; and it appears that the grass has grown, though nobody ever saw it grow: so the advances we make in knowledge, as they consist of such minute steps, are perceivable only by the distance gone over. When the proud steed shall know why man restrains his fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; when the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, is now a victim, and now Egypt's god: then shall man's pride and dullness comprehend his actions', passions', being's use and end. Jehovah, God of hosts, hath sworn, saying: Surely, as I have devised, so shall it be; and as I have purposed, so shall it stand. George, you must not laugh at me; I will not bear it. You forget what you are about when you ridicule me: I know more than you do about the lessons. I never heard a word about it before, said George, yesterday: who told you about it, Charles? I never heard one word of it before, said my uncle Toby, hastily: how came he there, Trim? Thou shalt pronounce this parable upon the King of Babylon; and shalt say: How hath the oppressor ceased? It is not only in the sacred fane that homage should be paid to the Most High: there is a temple, one not made with hands; the vaulted firmament: far in the woods, almost beyond the sound of city-chime, at intervals heard through the breezeless air. THE END. [Illustration: List of textbooks] Transcriber's Notes: To retain the flavor of this schoolbook, the Transcriber has left all grammar errors in tact. Any exceptions are noted below. Page vii: Opening bracket added to first sentence. [_The Poetical Extracts Page 131: Period added: generosity. Page 139: Period added: she was immovable. Page 150: Period added: 18. Page 154: Period added: The same, subject, continued. Page 165: Word "might" changed to "mighty" due to space in poem and poem's scheme. Page 202: Word "curse" is presumed: "...curse resounds in the ..." 
4942	----	EVOLUTION OF EXPRESSION BY CHARLES WESLEY EMERSON FOUNDER OF EMERSON COLLEGE OF ORATORY, BOSTON A COMPILATION OF SELECTIONS ILLUSTRATING THE FOUR STAGES OF DEVELOPMENT IN ART AS APPLIED TO ORATORY IN FOUR VOLUMES, WITH KEY TO EACH CHAPTER THIRTY-THIRD EDITION VOLUME I--REVISED TO MY STUDENTS Whose need has been my inspiration and whose understanding my rich reward, these volumes are affectionately DEDICATED CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION ANIMATION ANALYSIS SMOOTHNESS VOLUME FORMING THE ELEMENTS CHAPTER I. THE TEA-KETTLE AND THE CRICKET Charles Dickens THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN Robert Browning GROUP OF LYRICS: PIPPA PASSES Robert Browning THE SNOWDROP Alfred Tennyson THE THROSTLE Alfred Tennyson ONE MORNING, OH, SO EARLY Jean Ingelow FREEDOM John Ruskin A LAUGHING CHORUS THE CHEERFUL LOCKSMITH Charles Dickens HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD Robert Browning LOCHINVAR Sir Walter Scott THE POLISH WAR SONG James G. Percival CHAPTER II. THE VILLAGE PREACHER Oliver Goldsmith TO THE DAISY William Wordsworth PSALM XXIII David EXTRACT FROM EULOGY ON WENDELL PHILLIPS George William Curtis THE BROOK Alfred Tennyson OLD AUNT MARY'S James Whitcomb Riley CHILD VERSE: MY SHADOW Robert Louis Stevenson THE SWING Robert Louis Stevenson THE LAMPLIGHTER Robert Louis Stevenson WAITING John Burroughs CHAPTER III. THE REVENGE Alfred Tennyson THE OCEAN Lord Byron SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA Rev. Elijah Kellogg TELL TO HIS NATIVE MOUNTAINS, James Sheridan Knowles BATTLE HYMN Karl Theodor Korner SELF-RELIANCE Ralph Waldo Emerson ADAMS AND JEFFERSON Daniel Webster THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW Alfred Tennyson SONNETS: KEATS WORDSWORTH MILTON ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY Robert Burns CHAPTER IV. HAMLET TO THE PLAYERS William Shakespeare THE BOY AND THE ANGEL Robert Browning SPEECH AND SILENCE Thomas Carlyle THE RICH MAN AND THE POOR MAN Khemnitzer GATHERING OF THE FAIRIES Joseph Rodman Drake THE SONG OF THE RAIN Spectator HEARTY READING Sidney Smith IVRY Lord Macaulay THE DAFFODILS William Wordsworth CHEERFULNESS J. H. Friswell APRIL IN THE HILLS Archibald Lampman INTRODUCTION. Teach me, then, To fashion worlds in little, making form, As God does, one with spirit,--be the priest Who makes God into bread to feed the world. --Richard Hovey. The revised edition of the "Evolution of Expression" is issued in response to frequent requests from teachers and students for a formulation of those principles upon which natural methods in the teaching of expression are based. It is hoped that the brief explanatory text introducing each chapter may aid teacher and pupil to avoid arbitrary standards and haphazard efforts, substituting in their place, psychological law. Growth in expression is not a matter of chance; the teacher who understands nature's laws and rests upon them, setting no limit to the potentialities of his pupil, waits not in vain for results. No printed text, however, can take the place of a discerning teacher. A knowledge of the philosophy of education in expression avails little without the ability to create the genial atmosphere conducive to the development of the student. The teacher is the gardener, his service--his full service--is to surround the young plant with favorable conditions of light and soil and atmosphere; then stand out of its way while it unfolds its full blossom and final fruitage. The tendency of modern education is towards the discovery and perfection of methods. The thought of leading educators is turned from the what to the how; to the development of systems of progressive steps through which the pupil may be led to a realization of himself. This trend is best shown in the multiplicity and excellence of recent pedagogical treatises and in the appearance of carefully graded and progressive text-books. The ancients believed that their heroes were born of gods and goddesses. They knew of no means by which the mind could be developed to the compass of greatness. The ancient theory to account for greatness was preternatural birth; the modern theory is evolution. To-day the interest of the child is awakened, his mind is aroused, and then led onward in regular steps. The study of all forms of art, so far as methods are concerned, should be progressive. For correct guidance in our search for the best methods, we must understand the order of the development of the human mind. A child, before he arrives at an age where he can be taught definitely, is simply a little palpitating mass of animation. Soon he begins to show an attraction toward surrounding objects. Next he begins to show a greater attraction for some things than for others. His hands clutch at and retain certain objects. He now enters the period of development where he makes selections, and thus is born the power of choice. Objects which, at first, appeared to him as a mass now begin to stand out clearly one from another; to become more and more differentiated, while the child begins to separate and to compare. Thus the brain of the child passes through the successive stages from simple animation to attraction, to selection or choice, to separation or analysis. This principle of evolution, operating along the same lines, is found in the race as in the individual. In all man's work he has but recorded his own life or evolution. All history, all religions, all governments, all forms of art bring their testimony to this truth, and in each the scholar may find these successive stages of development. In the age of Phidias the art of sculpture reached its maturity. No race and no people have ever surpassed the consummate achievements of that period. But this perfection was the result of a process of evolution. There had been graduated steps, and those same steps must to-day be taken in the education of the artist. Art had passed into its second period before authentic Greek history began. The first stage was shown in that nation so justly called the "Mother of Arts and Sciences." In Egypt we find probably the first real manifestations of mind in art forms. They are colossal exhibitions of energy, such as the Temple of Thebes, seven hundred feet in length, statues seventy feet tall, monuments rearing their heads almost five hundred feet in air. "Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous Of which the very ruins are tremendous." To Assyria we turn in our search for the next step in the progress of art. Here we find the artists making melodramatic efforts to attract the attention and fascinate the mind with weird and incongruous shapes of mongrel brutes and hydraheaded monsters. Finding art at this point, the Greeks, true to their race instinct, at once began to evolve from it higher forms. They soon awoke to the perception that beauty itself is the true principle of fascination. Reducing their new theory to practise, the Greek artists turned their attention to perfecting the details of the art they had borrowed. To works originally repellant from their very crudeness, they supplied finish and perfection of the parts. The ideal was still before them; the grotesque monsters might fascinate the beholder, but, however skilfully executed, however perfected in finish, the impression produced was but transitory, and failed to satisfy the craving of the soul Beauty was found to be the only abiding source of satisfaction. As the conceptions of the past no longer satisfied the criterion which their own minds had embraced, the Greek artists sought in nature herself for models of that beauty, which, when placed in art forms, should be a joy forever. The monsters of antiquity disappeared, and in their places, came attempts to faithfully copy nature. To be sure, some specimens of the art era from which the Greeks had just emerged appeared at much later periods of their history; but these creations, as in the case of the Centaur, were usually representations of what were believed to be historical facts, rather than fantastic creations designed by the artist to startle the beholder. The Greek still gratified his passion for beauty of detail, while he was pursuing his new-born purpose of copying nature. It was not long before he found that nature, however skilfully copied, could be perfectly mirrored to the eye of the beholder only when presented as she appears to the mind of man. This discovery budded and blossomed into the consummate flower of true art, the fourth or suggestive era, which reached its acme in the work of Phidias and his contemporaries. Every creation was the expression of some state of mind. Everything was made as it appeared to the eye of the poet, not as it might seem to the man of no sentiment. The impression of the poetic mind found its expression in art, and now the statues think, fear, hate, love. The same general laws which have governed the rise of sculpture, underlie the evolution of all forms of art. It is the purpose of the present writing to hint at, rather than to trace, the four stages of development in painting, music, and literature. To follow the steps of progress in painting is somewhat more difficult than to trace the evolution of sculpture or architecture, on account of the perishable nature of the materials. Music has unfolded with the unfolding of the human mind, from the startling sounds of the savage,--exhibitions of pure energy,--through efforts at fascination by the medium of weird and unnatural combinations, and through attempts to reproduce natural sounds, ever upward till it breathes the very spirit of nature in a Haydn or a Beethoven. We may follow the growth of the English drama through the same process, from its dawning in the fantastic miracle plays with their paraphernalia of heaven and hell, of gods, devils, angels, and demons, to the creations' of "the thousand-souled Shakespeare." In religion we see the same phases--from the worship of life itself, of natural phenomena, through the panorama of deities friendly and deities unfriendly, of gods many and of devils many, until the human mind grasps the conception of Unity in deity, and bows in worship before an Infinite Being of Love and Providence. In the history of government is written the same tale of evolution, from manifestations of brute energy, seeking gratification in subjugation for its own sake,--from the government typified by the iron heel,--to the government which, seeking the education and protection of all the people becomes a school rather than a system of restraint. Therefore the race, in its march from savagery to civilization, may be considered as one man, showing, first, animation; next, manifesting his objects of attraction; third, displaying his purposes; and finally putting forth his wisdom in obedience to the true, the beautiful, and the good. These principles of natural evolution have been applied by the writer to the study of oratory. The orator must illustrate in his art the same steps of progress which govern the growth of other arts. He may have developed the power of the painter, the sculptor, the musician, yet if he would unfold the art of the rhetorician, he must pass through the progressive gradations that have marked the education of his powers in other departments. In a single lifetime he may attain the highest art expression, yet he cannot escape the necessity of cultivating his powers by the same process of evolution which the race needed centuries to pass through. It remains for the teacher, therefore, to so arrange the methods of study as to enable the pupil to pursue the natural order of education. In all things he must stimulate and not repress normal growth. There is an old notion sometimes found among theoretical educators that the mind of a child is like a piece of paper upon which anything may be written; a mould of clay upon which any impression may be made; a block of stone in which the teacher, like the famous sculptor of old, sees, in his poetic vision, an angel, and then chips and hacks until that angel stands revealed. The theory is absurdly and dangerously fallacious. Paper and clay are not living organisms; the orator is not the statue chiselled from the rough stone of human nature, or, if the teacher succeeds in so far perverting nature as to hack and trim a human organism into the semblance of a statue, the product of his work will stand forth a living illustration of the difference between the genuine and the spurious. The stone has no life. Life must be breathed into it, and the sculptor may breathe into it such life as he chooses. The gardener, on the other hand, must obey the laws of the life of the plant he nurtures. He must so direct the forces of nature as to help its inherent tendencies. A certain line of growth is written in the structure of every species of plant. The plant may be hindered or perverted in its development; it may be killed, but it cannot be made to grow into the form of another plant. The progress of the human mind can be illustrated only by that which is vital, not by anything mechanical. Mind reacts upon whatever is given to it according to the divine laws of its own organism. The human mind, like the plant, must exhibit vitality in abundance before it finds a higher and more complex manifestation. The unskilled teacher, instead of inviting out the young pupil along the line of his own organism, may, at the outset, paralyze the unfolding mind by ill-advised dictation. There can be no true teaching which does not involve growing, and growing in the way intended by nature. The teacher must be something more than a critic. The critic establishes criteria, protects the public, and, in a measure, educates the public taste. When he is able to teach others how to reach true criteria he becomes a teacher. Until he can do this he has no place in the class room. It will be observed that the four volumes of the "Evolution of Expression" recognize the four general stages of man's development: Volume I., representing the period when the individual is engrossed with subjects or objects as a Whole, and his passion for life is expressed through rude energy, size--the Colossal; Volume II., when he delights in so presenting The Parts to which he has been attracted, as to make them Effective in attracting the attention of others; Volume III., when his appreciation of the use or Service of the Parts carries him beyond the melodramatic to the Realistic; and Volume IV., in which his dawning perception of that higher service resulting from the truthful Relationship of the Parts leads him beyond realism to idealism, the Suggestive. In choosing the selections for this and the accompanying volumes, the aim has been to preserve the natural oneness between the study of literature and that of expression, and to encourage the appreciation of this unity in the minds of teacher and student. It may be said that the greatest of the world's literature was written for the ear, not for the eye, and its noblest influence is felt only when it is adequately voiced by an intelligent and sympathetic reader. It is the object of these volumes to foster in the student a keener and deeper appreciation of the truth and beauty of great prose and verse, and at the same time to enrich his own and other lives by cultivating the power of expressing the glories which are opened to his vision. The arrangement of the selections is for the purpose of teaching the art of reading according to the steps of natural evolution hinted at in the foregoing pages, and in a way which experience has found most prolific in practical results. While no effort has been made to search for novelties, great care has been taken to secure selections which, while of pure literary merit, are especially adapted for drill in the several steps of progress in reading. The power developed in the student through carefully directed drill on these selections will enable him to illuminate whatever other literature he may care to interpret. The arrangement of the selections in small divisions or paragraphs has been made for convenience in the work of the class room. The "Evolution of Expression" does not offer art criteria by which the work of an orator is to be measured; it presents rather a system of education by which one may attain the plane of art in expression. The teacher or student who desires a formulation of laws which afford a standard of art criticism is referred to the four volumes of "The Perfective Laws of Art," the text-book succeeding the "Evolution of Expression." The author wishes to express his sincere gratitude to George N. Morang & Co., to Bobbs-Merrill Company, and to Houghton, Mifflin & Co., for their courtesy in allowing him to reprint in this volume selections from their publications. THE WHOLE. THE COLOSSAL PERIOD. The body is one and hath many members, and all the members of that one body, being many, are one body.--ST. PAUL. How good is man's life, the mere living! How fit to employ All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy! --BROWNING. CHAPTER I. ANIMATION. (NOTE.--Let the teacher and student remember that the headings of the chapters name effects rather than causes, signs rather than things signified. They are not, therefore, objects of thought for the student while practising; they are finger points for the teacher; the criteria by which he measures his pupil's development.) Reading is a communication of thought; a transference of ideas from one mind to other minds so as to influence their thinking in a definite manner. The process is distinctively communicative, involving two parties, speaker and audience, equally indispensable. As well might the student of manual training attempt his work without materials, to paint without paper or canvas, carve without wood or stone, model without clay, as the student of expression to read or speak without an audience. For this reason in all his private practice as well as class drill, the student should hold in mind an audience to whom he directs his attention. The office of the teacher is to hold constantly before the pupil these two mental concepts, his thought and his audience, or his thought in relation to his audience. The pupil must be taught to respond to the author's thought as to his own, and at the same time he must be inspired with the desire to give that thought to others. In his endeavor to awaken other minds his own will be quickened. This mental quickening reports itself in animation of voice and manner. Herein is illustrated a fundamental law of development; what we earnestly attempt to do for another that we actually do for ourselves. The constant endeavor of the teacher, therefore, must be to inspire the pupil to serve his audience through truth, the truth of his discourse. His attempt to gain the attention of his hearers and to concentrate their minds on this truth will secure such concentration of his own mind as will stimulate his interest, and interest is always vital. Let no one mistake loudness for animation. A whisper may be more vital, more animated than a shout. The slightest quiver of a muscle may reveal greater intensity of thought than the most violent gesticulation. Yet since freedom and abandon of the agents of expression are necessary to their perfect service, let the teacher invite that freedom and abandon without fear of sacrificing good taste. He is not to be regarded as an artist yet; nor is it now profitable to measure him by the criteria of art. Let the form of his expression be as crude as it may, only let it be born of the thought. The student is learning to think on his feet; and the act of mental concentration upon his author's thought in relation to his audience is not at first a simple task. Do not hurry him in his development. Remember that expression to be truthful, must be spontaneous. The teacher needs only to hold the right objects of thought before the pupil's mind, then stand aside and let him grow in nature's own way. No thought of the HOW should be allowed to enter the student's mind while he is speaking, it is only the WHAT that concerns him. Form is born of spirit; the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life. The requirement of the present chapter is met when the student is able to fix the attention of those who listen upon the central idea or theme of the selection. The WHOLE or unit of thought should be held before the pupil's mind, and by him, before the mind of the audience, attention not yet being directed specifically to PARTS. ANALYSIS. The basis of intelligent vocal interpretation of literature is careful analysis. One cannot express shades of meaning that are not in the mind; until one clearly perceives the motives and relationships of the selection, he cannot reflect them to others. Too much cannot be said upon the importance of thorough thought and study of a selection previous to any effort toward expression. It is needless to explain that one cannot give what he does not possess; and it is equally self-evident that one gains by giving. Long and thoughtful quiescent concentration should precede the concentration of mind while speaking. The author's words are like a gold mine which must be searched by thorough digging for the nuggets of thought beneath. The pupil must live with his author, see through his eyes, think with his intellect, feel with his heart, and choose with his will, picturing to himself every scene, putting himself in the place of every character described. Like every organism every true work of art has organic unity; it represents a unit of thought, the WHOLE, made up of essential PARTS. Each part is a part of the whole, because in its own way it reflects the whole. The perfect unity of an organism or of a work of art results from the service rendered by each part to every other part. Here, then, is the logical order of analysis: first, the WHOLE or unit of thought; second, the PARTS; third, the SERVICE, OR THE USE OF THE PARTS; fourth, the RELATIONSHIP OF THE PARTS which is the highest service and results in revelation. In determining this higher service we are reconstructing our whole from the unit of the selection to the revelation of truth resulting from the relationship of parts; the analysis must culminate in synthesis, else it would defeat its purpose. The end of literature, as in other forms of art, is revelation. The end of analysis is to lead to the perception of this revelation. In the earlier stages of development the pupil's attention should not be directed toward minute analysis. At this period his mind is engrossed with the principal thought or unit of the composition,--the dominant theme which is developed in every organic literary composition. Let his mind rest upon this until he lives in the spirit of the theme through a passion for reflecting it to others. Inasmuch as an attempt to define always limits, it is a question how far it will be profitable to formulate definite statements of the whole, parts, etc. Written expression, as well as oral, is individual. Each pupil may have a different formulation. Inasmuch, however, as every author is possessed by a definite purpose, we may suggest, for the guidance of the student, a tentative analysis of a selection which may aid him in reflecting its truth to an audience. It is hoped that this brief study of one selection from each chapter may be acceptable as a working basis, a hint of the logical method of procedure rather than an arbitrary model. The elaboration of these principles is without limit and must be left to the teacher. It is the purpose here to give only simple statements intended to be suggestive rather than final. Example: "The Cheerful Locksmith." (Page 46.) The Unit, or Whole for working basis: The character of the Cheerful Locksmith. The Parts: (a) The sound he makes. Paragraphs 1, 2, 3, 7. (6) His personal appearance. Paragraph 4. (c) The appearance of objects around him. Paragraphs 5, 6. The Service of the Parts: (a) Serves the Whole by engaging the interest at once in the Cheerful Locksmith, whom it introduces, and whose nature it reflects. (b) Serves by presenting a definite picture of him, radiating cheer. (c) Serves by revealing further his cheerful personality through its effect upon surrounding objects. The Relationship of the Parts: (a) Foreshadows (b) and (c). (b) Fulfils the expectation awakened in (a) and helps to prepare the mind for (c). (c) Is a natural outgrowth from (a) and (b). Synthesis: The revelation of truth through these relationships gives us a "New Whole" which maybe stated thus: The spirit of cheerfulness, radiating from the Locksmith's personality and expressed through his work, is reflected by all around him. The above analysis is suggested as a guide for study. A tentative analysis of each selection might be offered here; but it is better that the student develop his own powers of discrimination by doing this preliminary work himself, directed, as far as necessary, by the teacher. However, it is not essential that a formal analysis of every selection be made; indeed, as has been already implied, minute analysis may even defeat the end of these opening chapters. The question of formal analysis may be left to the discretion of the teacher, who must determine how far it serves his purpose in each individual instance. The criterion of Chapter I. does not demand an interpretation based upon the complete analysis given above, which is intended as an illustration of all analysis; if all the relationships suggested above be reflected through an oral reading of "The Cheerful Locksmith," the reader has attained the steps of development embodied in Volume IV. However, in drill on the selections in Volume I., the teacher should never think of limiting the pupil to the significance of that volume; every student should be encouraged to reflect as much of the truth, literal and suggestive, as his degree of discernment and of freedom will allow. The immediate aim of drill on "The Cheerful Locksmith" should be a hearty response to the spirit of the Whole, however much beyond that may be achieved. The student must be inspired by an ardent desire to awaken the interest of his audience in "The Cheerful Locksmith," as does one who through introductory remarks presents the "speaker of the evening." It is to be thoughtfully noted that all the selections in this and the three succeeding chapters have been chosen for their easy adaptability to use in the first natural period of art-- expression, the Colossal period. They are selections with an easily distinguishable theme. Throughout these chapters the mind of the student should be engaged with the motif of the selection as it first catches the mind. Nothing in later study can make up for the loss of the first glow, the undefined answering response to the animating spirit of a writer's message. His differentiated meanings, his elaborations of theme for the purpose of increased force, intensity or suggestion are but useless lumber to a mind that has not throbbed in sympathy, scarce knowing why. It is just here that almost all teaching in both literature and its expression fails; there is not enough browsing--knee-deep, waist- deep,--for the pure joy of it. CHAPTER II. SMOOTHNESS. At first, the student may find it difficult to concentrate the minds of his hearers upon his theme steadily and continuously. His ability to do this may come spasmodically. This irregular mental activity reports itself in unevenness of delivery; life appears in gleams not in steady shining. But with continued effort to concentrate other minds upon his subject, this unevenness gives place to ease in delivery, to smoothness of voice. Continuity of thought impels smoothness of expression. When a thought is held steadily in the mind of the pupil, together with a dominating purpose to communicate that thought to others, the tones of his voice become evenly sustained and smooth. Smoothness may be said to result from a sense of oneness with the audience. So long as there is a gulf between the speaker and audience, there is conscious and apparent effort in the address. It is a growing love, a vital sympathy with the audience that manifests itself in smoothness. This second step grows in natural sequence out of the first. Out of the abundance of life comes sweetness. In all the successive steps of the pupil's evolution, he is constantly to add, never to discard or lay aside any power previously gained. Rather than outgrow it, he will grow in it. All that he will outgrow will be his faults, his mannerisms, his limitations. As he gains freedom, transcending limitations, his mannerisms will fall away from him; he need never be made conscious that he has had them. Analysis. Example, "The Village Preacher." The Unit, or Working Whole: A village preacher who radiates the spirit of love. The student's endeavor must be to reflect continuously the overflowing love of the preacher's nature, which blessed all with whom he came in contact. The audience should feel the presence of the great-hearted man throughout the reading of the entire selection, even when he is not described. For instance, he may be foreshadowed in the introduction. CHAPTER III. VOLUME. Out of the effort toward continued concentration is born the perception of values. Dwelling upon the thought and striving to hold it steadily in the minds of those who listen, the pupil begins to perceive its greater value, and to realize that the expression of this value will aid him in holding the attention of his audience. His will becomes more definitely aroused. Feeling his new power, he should be inspired to direct it definitely toward his hearers. This new element of will directed through the perception of value expresses itself in the added quality called volume of voice. Here, as everywhere, the discernment of the teacher must be relied upon to detect the difference between true and mechanical expression. Failure on the part of the pupil to perceive what is desired may lead him to offer, as a counterfeit of volume, force or loudness. Volume of voice, free from both, is the expression of the growing appreciation of values. Analysis. Example: "Spartacus to the Gladiators." The Unit, or Whole: The personality of Spartacus revealed through his effort to inspire his fellows with the spirit of liberty. The theme which Spartacus presents is of universal value--the spirit of liberty, dear to all mankind. This value must be realized by the student, who must make the effort of Spartacus his own effort, throughout the entire selection. The value of the theme must be behind every spoken word, felt, if not uttered. CHAPTER IV. FORMING THE ELEMENTS. The life manifested in the three previous chapters now begins to take more definite thought form. The intellect seeing more clearly, appeals to the intellects of those who listen that they may think with greater sharpness and distinctness the thoughts presented. By aiming to present these thoughts so as to be clearly understood, distinctness and precision of utterance are gained. The elements of speech become more perfectly and beautifully chiseled. Thus keener thinking and greater care in presentation serve in forming the elements and perfecting the articulation, which need not be made a matter of mechanical drill. Careless enunciation, which so mars the beauty of a speaker's discourse, is usually due to careless thinking. Clear speaking comes from clear thinking. Exceptional cases of long confirmed bad habits, faultily trained ears, or defects in the vocal apparatus, sometimes make technical drill to meet individual cases, a necessary supplement to the persistent practice in earnest revelation of thought. But in ordinary cases the speaker's endeavor to impress his hearers with the parts which make up his discourse will result, in due time, in accurate, distinct articulation. With continued practice this perfection of speech will become habitual. Spirit moulds form; this law cannot be overemphasized. In this new stage of the pupil's development, as always, the desired result proceeds as an effect from an inner psychological cause; it is a natural and spontaneous outgrowth, rather than a dull and lifeless form. Analysis. Example: "The Song of the Rain." UNIT, OR WHOLE: The beneficence of rain after a drought. Here the student should hold the attention of the audience upon the distinct features of the picture presented. He should make his hearers see and enjoy the rain and appreciate the response of nature and of people to its refreshing influence. CHAPTER I ANIMATION. THE TEA-KETTLE AND THE CRICKET. 1. It appeared as if there were a sort of match, or trial of skill, you must understand, between the kettle and the cricket. And this is what led to it, and how it came about. 2. The kettle was aggravating and obstinate. It wouldn't allow itself to be adjusted on the top bar; it wouldn't hear of accommodating itself kindly to the knobs of coal; it would lean forward with a drunken air, and dribble--a very idiot of a kettle --on the hearth. It was quarrelsome, and hissed and sputtered morosely at the fire. 3. To sum up all, the lid, resisting Mrs. Peerybingle's fingers, first of all turned topsy-turvy, and then, with an ingenious pertinacity deserving of a better cause, dived sideways in, down to the very bottom of the kettle; and the hull of the Royal George has never made half of the monstrous resistance in coming out of the water which the lid of the kettle employed against Mrs. Peerybingle before she got it up again. 4. It looked sullen and pig-headed enough, even then, carrying its handle with an air of defiance, and cocking its spout pertly and mockingly at Mrs. Peerybingle, as if it said, "i won't boil. Nothing shall induce me!" 5. But Mrs. Peerybingle, with restored good-humor, dusted her chubby little hands against each other, and sat down before the kettle laughing. Meantime the jolly blaze uprose and fell, flashing and gleaming on the little haymaker at the top of the Dutch clock, until one might have thought he stood stock still before the Moorish palace, and nothing was in motion but the flame. 6. Now it was, observe, that the kettle began to spend the evening. Now it was that the kettle, growing mellow and musical, began to have irrepressible gurglings in the throat, and to indulge in short vocal snorts, which it checked in the bud, as if it hadn't quite made up its mind yet to be good company. Now it was that, after two or three such vain attempts to stifle its convivial sentiments, it threw off all moroseness, all reserve, and burst into a stream of song so cozy and hilarious as never maudlin nightingale yet formed the least idea of. 7. So plain, too! Bless you, you might have understood it like a book; better than some books you and I could name, perhaps. With its warm breath gushing forth in a light cloud, which merrily and gracefully ascended a few feet, then hung about the chimney corner, as its own domestic heaven, it trolled its song with that strong energy of cheerfulness that its iron body hummed and stirred upon the fire; and the lid itself, the recently rebellious lid--such is the influence of a bright example--performed a sort of jig, and clattered like a deaf and dumb young cymbal that had never known the use of its twin brother. 8. That this song of the kettle's was a song of invitation and welcome to somebody out of doors, to somebody at that moment coming on towards the snug, small home and the crisp fire, there is no doubt whatever. Mrs. Peerybingle knew it perfectly, as she sat musing before the hearth. 9. "It's a dark night," sang the kettle, "and the rotten leaves are lying by the way, and above all is mist and darkness, and below all is mire and clay, and there's only one relief in all the sad and murky air; and I don't know that it is one, for its nothing but a glare of deep and angry crimson, where the sun and wind together set a brand upon the clouds, for being guilty of such weather; and the widest open country is a long, dull streak of black; and there's hoar-frost on the finger-post, and thaw upon the track; and the ice isn't water, and the water isn't free; and you couldn't say that anything is what it ought to be; but he's coming, coming, coming!--" 10. And here, if you like, the cricket did chime in with chirrup, chirrup, chirrup of such magnitude, by way of chorus, with a voice so astoundingly disproportionate to its size, as compared with the kettle (size, you couldn't see it!)--that if it had then and there burst itself, like an overcharged gun, if it had fallen a victim on the spot, and chirruped its little body into fifty pieces, it would have seemed a natural and inevitable consequence, for which it had expressly labored. 11. The kettle had had the last of its solo performances. It persevered with undiminished ardor; but the cricket took first fiddle, and kept it. Good heaven, how it chirped! Its shrill, sharp, piercing voice resounded through the house, and seemed to twinkle in the outer darkness like a star. 12. There was an indescribable little thrill and tremble in it, at its loudest, which suggested its being carried off its legs, and made to leap again, by its own intense enthusiasm. Yet they went very well together, the cricket and the kettle. The burden of the song was still the same; and louder, louder, louder still they sang it in their emulation. 13. There was all the excitement of a race about it. Chirp, chirp, chirp! cricket a mile ahead. Hum, hum, hum--m--m! kettle making play in the distance, like a great top. Chirp, chirp, chirp! cricket round the corner. Hum, hum, hum-m-m! kettle sticking to him in his own way; no idea of giving in. Chirp, chirp, chirp, cricket fresher than ever. Hum, hum, hum-m-m! kettle slow and steady. Chirp, chirp, chirp! cricket going in to finish him. Hum, hum, hum-m-m! kettle not to be finished. 14. Until at last they got so jumbled together, in the hurry- scurry, helter-skelter of the match, that whether the kettle chirped and the cricket hummed, or the cricket chirped and the kettle hummed, or they both chirped and both hummed, it would have taken a clearer head than yours or mine to have decided with certainty. 15. Of this there is no doubt; that the kettle and the cricket, at one and the same moment, and by some power of amalgamation best known to themselves, sent each his fireside song of comfort streaming into a ray of the candle that shone out through the window, and a long way down the lane. And this light, bursting on a certain person, who, on the instant, approached towards it through the gloom, expressed the whole thing to him literally in a twinkling, and cried, "Welcome home, old fellow! welcome home, my boy!" This end attained, the kettle, being dead beat, boiled over, and was taken off the fire. CHARLES DICKENS. THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. I. Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin was a pity. II. Rats! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. III. At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking; "Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation,--shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry, civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking, To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" IV. At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. An hour they sat in council. At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; I wish I were a mile hence. It's easy to bid one rack one's brain, I'm sure my poor head aches again, I scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap. "Bless us!" cried the Mayor, "what's that? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat." V. "Come in," the Mayor cried, looking bigger; And in did come the strangest figure; His queer long coat from heels to head Was half of yellow and half of red. And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light, loose hair, yet swarthy skin-- No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in, There was no guessing his kith or kin; And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. VI. Quoth one, "It's as my great-grand-sire, Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tomb-stone." He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, After me so as you never saw. VII. "And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm,-- The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper,-- And people call me the Pied Piper; Yet," said he, "poor Piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham Last June from his huge swarm of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats; And, as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats, Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!" was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and corporation. VIII. Into the street the piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling, And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling, And out of the houses the rats came tumbling,-- Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,-- Followed the piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished. IX. You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "get long poles, Poke out the nests, and block up the holes. Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats." When suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market place, With, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders." A thousand guilders; the Mayor looked blue And so did the Corporation, too. X. "Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. A thousand guilders? Come, take fifty." The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling. Folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe to another fashion." XI. Once more he stepped into the street And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane; And ere he blew three notes There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling, Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a barnyard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping ran merrily after The wonderful music--with shouting and laughter. XII. When, lo! as they reached the mountain's side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern were suddenly hollowed; And the piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last The door in the mountain side shut fast. Alas, alas for Hamelin! XIII. There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opens to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes the camel in! The mayor sent east, west, north, and south To offer the Piper by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But soon they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And piper and dancers were gone forever. XIV. And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it the Pied Piper's Street-- Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor. And opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away; And there it stands to this very day. ROBERT BROWNING. GROUP OF LYRICS. PIPPA PASSES. The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in his heaven-- All's right with the world. ROBERT BROWNING. THE SNOWDROP. Many, many welcomes February fair-maid, Ever as of old time, Solitary firstling, Coming in the cold time, Prophet of the gay time, Prophet of the May time, Prophet of the roses, Many, many welcomes February fair-maid! ALFRED TENNYSON. THE THROSTLE. I. "Summer is coming, summer is coming. I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again," Yes, my wild little Poet. II. Sing the new year in under the blue. Last year you sang it as gladly. "New, new, new, new!" Is it then so new That you should carol so madly? III. "Love again, song again, nest again, young again," Never a prophet so crazy! And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, See, there is hardly a daisy. IV. "Here again, here, here, here, happy year O warble unchidden, unbidden! Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, And all the winters are hidden. ALFRED TENNYSON ONE MORNING, OH! SO EARLY! I. One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease; 'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!" And the lark sang, "Give us glory!" And the dove said, "Give us peace!" II. Then I listened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove; When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!" When the wren sang, "Give us beauty!" She made answer, "Give us love!" III. Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved; Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase, And my prayer goes up, "Oh, give us, crowned in youth with marriage glory, Give for all our life's dear story, Give us love, and give us peace!" JEAN INGELOW. FREEDOM. 1. No quality of Art has been more powerful in its influence on public mind; none is more frequently the subject of popular praise, or the end of vulgar effort, than what we call "Freedom." It is necessary to determine the justice or injustice of this popular praise. 2. Try to draw a circle with the "free" hand, and with a single line. You cannot do it if your hand trembles, nor if it hesitates, nor if it is unmanageable, nor if it is in the common sense of the word "free." So far from being free, it must be under a control as absolute and accurate as if it were fastened to an inflexible bar of steel. And yet it must move, under this necessary control, with perfect, untormented serenity of ease. 3. I believe we can nowhere find a better type of a perfectly free creature than in the common house-fly. Nor free only, but brave; and irreverent to a degree which I think no human republican could by any philosophy exalt himself to. There is no courtesy in him; he does not care whether it is king or clown whom he teases; and in every step of his swift mechanical march, and in every pause of his resolute observation, there is one and the same expression of perfect egotism, perfect independence and self-confidence, and conviction of the world's having been made for flies. 4. Strike at him with your hand, and to him, the mechanical fact and external aspect of the matter is, what to you it would be if an acre of red clay, ten feet thick, tore itself up from the ground in one massive field, hovered over you in the air for a second, and came crashing down with an aim. That is the external aspect of it; the inner aspect, to his fly's mind, is of a quite natural and unimportant occurrence--one of the momentary conditions of his active life. He steps out of the way of your hand, and alights on the back of it. 5. You cannot terrify him, nor govern him, nor persuade him, nor convince him. He has his own positive opinion on all matters; not an unwise one, usually, for his own ends; and will ask no advice of yours. He has no work to do--no tyrannical instinct to obey. The earthworm has his digging; the bee her gathering and building; the spider her cunning network; the ant her treasury and accounts. All these are comparatively slaves, or people of vulgar business. 6. But your fly, free in the air, free in the chamber--a black incarnation of caprice, wandering, investigating, flitting, flirting, feasting at his will, with rich variety of choice in feast, from the heaped sweets in the grocer's window to those of the butcher's back yard, and from the galled place on your cab- horse's back, to the brown spot in the road, from which, as the hoof disturbs him, he rises with angry republican buzz--what freedom is like his? 7. Indeed, the first point we have all to determine is not how free we are, but what kind of creatures we are. It is of small importance to any of us whether we get liberty; but of the greatest that we deserve it. Whether we can win it, fate must determine; but that we will be worthy of it we may ourselves determine; and the sorrowfulest fate of all that we can suffer is to have it WITHOUT deserving it. 8. I have hardly patience to hold my pen and go on writing, as I remember the infinite follies of modern thought in this matter, centered in the notion that liberty is good for a man, irrespectively of the use he is likely to make of it. Folly unfathomable! unspeakable! You will send your child, will you, into a room where the table is loaded with sweet wine and fruit-- some poisoned, some not?--you will say to him, "Choose freely, my little child! It is so good for you to have freedom of choice; it forms your character--your individuality! If you take the wrong cup or the wrong berry, you will die before the day is over, but you will have acquired the dignity of a Free child." 9. You think that puts the case too sharply? I tell you, lover of liberty, there is no choice offered to you, but it is similarly between life and death. There is no act, nor option of act, possible, but the wrong deed or option has poison in it which will stay in your veins thereafter forever. Never more to all eternity can you be as you might have been had you not done that--chosen that. 10. You have "formed your character," forsooth! No; if you have chosen ill, you have De-formed it, and that forever! In some choices it had been better for you that a red-hot iron bar struck you aside, scarred and helpless, than that you had so chosen. "You will know better next time!" No. Next time will never come. Next time the choice will be in quite another aspect--between quite different things,--you, weaker than you were by the evil into which you have fallen; it, more doubtful than it was, by the increased dimness of your sight. No one ever gets wiser by doing wrong, nor stronger. You will get wiser and stronger only by doing right, whether forced or not; the prime, the one need is to do THAT, under whatever compulsion, until you can do it without compulsion. And then you are a Man. 11. "What!" a wayward youth might perhaps answer, incredulously, "no one ever gets wiser by doing wrong? Shall I not know the world best by trying the wrong of it, and repenting? Have I not, even as it is, learned much by many of my errors?" Indeed, the effort by which partially you recovered yourself was precious: that part of your thought by which you discerned the error was precious. What wisdom and strength you kept, and rightly used, are rewarded; and in the pain and the repentance, and in the acquaintance with the aspects of folly and sin, you have learned SOMETHING; how much less than you would have learned in right paths can never be told, but that it IS less is certain. 12. Your liberty of choice has simply destroyed for you so much life and strength, never regainable. It is true, you now know the habits of swine, and the taste of husks; do you think your father could not have taught you to know better habits and pleasanter tastes, if you had stayed in his house; and that the knowledge you have lost would not have been more, as well as sweeter, than that you have gained? But "it so forms my individuality to be free!" Your individuality was given you by God, and in your race, and if you have any to speak of, you will want no liberty. 13. In fine, the arguments for liberty may in general be summed in a few very simple forms, as follows: Misguiding is mischievous: therefore guiding is. If the blind lead the blind, both fall into the ditch: therefore, nobody should lead anybody. Lambs and fawns should be left free in the fields; much more bears and wolves. If a man's gun and shot are his own, he may fire in any direction he pleases. A fence across a road is inconvenient; much more one at the side of it. Babes should not be swaddled with their hands bound down to their sides: therefore they should be thrown out to roll in the kennels naked. 14. None of these arguments are good, and the practical issues of them are worse. For there are certain eternal laws for human conduct which are quite clearly discernible by human reason. So far as these are discovered and obeyed, by whatever machinery or authority the obedience is procured, there follow life and strength. So far as they are disobeyed, by whatever good intention the disobedience is brought about, there follow ruin and sorrow. 15. The first duty of every man in the world is to find his true master, and, for his own good, submit to him; and to find his true inferior, and, for that inferior's good, conquer him. The punishment is sure, if we either refuse the reverence, or are too cowardly and indolent to enforce the compulsion. A base nation crucifies or poisons its wise men, and lets its fools rave and rot in its streets. A wise nation obeys the one, restrains the other, and cherishes all. JOHN RUSKIN. A LAUGHING CHORUS. I. Oh, such a commotion under the ground When March called "Ho, there! ho!" Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, Such whispering to and fro. And "Are you ready?" the Snowdrop asked; "'Tis time to start, you know." "Almost, my dear, "the Scilla replied; "I'll follow as soon as you go." Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came Of laughter soft and low From the millions of flowers under the ground-- Yes--millions--beginning to grow. II. "I'll promise my blossoms," the Crocus said, "When I hear the bluebirds sing." And straight thereafter Narcissus cried, "My silver and gold I'll bring." "And ere they are dulled," another spoke, "The Hyacinth bells shall ring." And the Violet only murmured, "I'm here," And sweet grew the air of spring. Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came Of laughter soft and low From the millions of flowers under the ground-- Yes--millions--beginning to grow. III. Oh, the pretty, brave things! through the coldest days, Imprisoned in walls of brown, They never lost heart, though the blast shrieked loud, And the sleet and the hail came down, But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, Or fashioned her beautiful crown; And now they are coming to brighten the world, Still shadowed by winter's frown; And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!" In a chorus soft and low, The millions of flowers hid under the ground-- Yes--millions--beginning to grow. Yes--millions--beginning to grow. THE CHEERFUL LOCKSMITH. 1. From the workshop of the Golden Key there issued forth a tinkling sound, so merry and good-humored that it suggested the idea of some one working blithely, and made quite pleasant music. Tink, tink, tink--clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of the streets' harsher noises, as though it said, "I don't care; nothing puts me out; I am resolved to be happy." 2. Women scolded, children squalled, heavy carts went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from the lungs of hawkers; still it struck in again, no higher, no lower, no louder, no softer; not thrusting itself on people's notice a bit the more for having been outdone by louder sounds--tink, tink, tink, tink, tink. 3. It was a perfect embodiment of the still, small voice, free from all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind. Foot-passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger near it; neighbors who had got up splenetic that morning, felt good-humor stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite sprightly; mothers danced their babies to its ringing;--still the same magical tink, tink, tink came gaily from the workshop of the Golden Key. 4. Who but the locksmith could have made such music? A gleam of sun, shining through the unsashed window and checkering the dark workshop with a broad patch of light, fell full upon him, as though attracted by his sunny heart. There he stood working at his anvil, his face radiant with exercise and gladness, his sleeves turned up, his wig pushed off his shining forehead--the easiest, freest, happiest man in all the world. 5. Beside him sat a sleek cat, purring and winking in the light, and falling every now and then into an idle doze, as from excess of comfort. The very locks that hung around had something jovial in their rust, and seemed like gouty gentlemen of hearty natures, disposed to joke on their infirmities. 6. There was nothing surly or severe in the whole scene. It seemed impossible that any of the innumerable keys could fit a churlish strong-box or a prison door. Storehouses of good things, rooms where there were fires, books, gossip, and cheering laughter-- these were their proper sphere of action. Places of distrust, and cruelty, and restraint they would have quadruple-locked forever. 7. Tink, tink, tink. No man who hammered on at a dull, monotonous duty could have brought such cheerful notes from steel and iron; none but a chirping, healthy, honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of everything and felt kindly towards everybody, could have done it for an instant. He might have been a coppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat in a jolting wagon, full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would have brought some harmony out of it. CHARLES DICKENS. HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD. Oh, to be in England now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now! And after April, when May follows And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! EOBEBT BKOWNING. LOCHINVAR. I. Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,-- Through all the wide border his steed was the best! And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,-- He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. II. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; He swam the Eske river where ford there was none. But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. III. So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" IV. "I long wooed your daughter--my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." V. The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar; "Now tread we a measure?" said young Lochinvar. VI. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." VII. One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung: "She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scar; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. VIII. There was mounting'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee; But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? SIR WALTER SCOTT. POLISH WAR SONG. I. Freedom calls you! Quick, be ready,-- Rouse ye in the name of God,-- Onward, onward, strong and steady,-- Dash to earth the oppressor's rod. Freedom calls, ye brave! Rise and spurn the name of slave. II. Grasp the sword!--its edge is keen, Seize the gun!--its ball is true: Sweep your land from tyrant clean,-- Haste, and scour it through and through! Onward, onward! Freedom cries, Rush to arms,--the tyrant flies. III. By the souls of patriots gone, Wake,--arise,--your fetters break, Kosciusko bids you on,-- Sobieski cries awake! Rise, and front the despot czar, Rise, and dare the unequal war. IV. Freedom calls you! Quick, be ready,-- Think of what your sires have been, Onward, onward! strong and steady, Drive the tyrant to his den. On, and let the watchword be, Country, home, and liberty! JAMES G. PERCIVAL. CHAPTER II. SMOOTHNESS. THE VILLAGE PREACHER. I. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingled notes came softened from below; The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; The watchdog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,-- These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. II. Near yonder copse where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place. Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. III. His house was known to all the vagrant train; He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire and talked the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. IV. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt his new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. V. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. VI. At church with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; E'en children followed, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. VII. His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed; Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven: As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm; Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. TO THE DAISY. I. With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which Love makes for thee! II. Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit and play with similes, Loose types of things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising; And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame As is the humour of the game, While I am gazing. III. A nun demure, of lowly port; Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations; A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seems to suit thee best, Thy appellations. IV. A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy, That thought comes next--and instantly The freak is over, The shape will vanish, and behold! A silver shield with boss of gold That spreads itself, some faery bold In fight to cover. V. I see thee glittering from afar-- And then thou art a pretty star, Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;-- May peace come never to his nest Who shall reprove thee! VI. Sweet Flower! for by that name at last When all my reveries are past I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent Creature! That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature! WILLIAM WOBDSWORTH. PSALM XXIII. 1. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. 2. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 3. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runueth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. EXTRACT FROM EULOGY ON WENDELL PHILLIPS. 1. Like other gently nurtured Boston boys, Phillips began the study of law; and, as it proceeded, doubtless the sirens sang to him, as to the noble youth of every country and time. If, musing over Coke and Blackstone, in the full consciousness of ample powers and of fortunate opportunities, he sometimes forecast the future, he doubtless saw himself succeeding Fisher Ames, and Harrison Gray Otis, and Daniel Webster, rising from the bar to the Legislature, from the Legislature to the Senate, from the Senate-- who knew whither?--the idol of society, the applauded orator, the brilliant champion of the elegant repose and the cultivated conservatism of Massachusetts. 2. The delight of social ease, the refined enjoyment of taste in letters and art, opulent leisure, professional distinction, gratified ambition--all these came and whispered to the young student. And it is the force that can tranquilly put aside such blandishments with a smile, and accept alienation, outlawry, ignominy, and apparent defeat, if need be, no less than the courage which grapples with poverty and outward hardship and climbs over them to worldly prosperity, which is the test of the finest manhood. Only he who fully knows the worth of what he renounces gains the true blessing of renunciation. 3. When he first spoke at Faneuil Hall some of the most renowned American orators were still in their prime. Webster and Clay were in the Senate, Choate at the bar, Edward Everett upon the academic platform. From all these orators Phillips differed more than they differed from each other. Behind Webster, and Everett, and Clay there was always a great organized party or an entrenched conservatism of feeling and opinion. They spoke accepted views. They moved with masses of men, and were sure of the applause of party spirit, of political tradition, and of established institutions. Phillips stood alone. 4. With no party behind him and appealing against established order and acknowledged tradition, his speech was necessarily a popular appeal for a strange and unwelcome cause, and the condition of its success was that it should both charm and rouse the hearer, while, under cover of the fascination, the orator unfolded his argument and urged his plea. This condition the genius of the orator instinctively perceived, and it determined the character of his discourse. 5. He faced his audience with a tranquil mien and a beaming aspect that was never dimmed. He spoke, and in the measured cadence of his quiet voice there was intense feeling, but no declamation, no passionate appeal, no superficial and feigned emotion. It was simple colloquy--a gentleman conversing. Unconsciously and surely, the ear and heart were charmed. How was it done? Ah! how did Mozart do it, how Raphael? The secret of the rose's sweetness, of the bird's ecstacy, of the sunset's glory--that is the secret of genius and of eloquence. 6. What was heard, what was seen, was the form of noble manhood, the courteous and self-possessed tone, the flow of modulated speech, sparkling with matchless richness of illustration, with apt illusion, and happy anecdote, and historic parallel, with wit and pitiless invective, with melodious pathos, with stinging satire, with crackling epigram and limpid humor, like the bright ripples that play around the sure and steady prow of the resistless ship. The divine energy of his conviction utterly possessed him, and his "Pure and eloquent blood Spoke in his cheek, and so distinctly wrought That one might almost say his body thought." 7. Phillips cherished profound faith in the people, and because he cherished it he never flattered the mob, nor hung upon its neck, nor pandered to its passion, nor suffered its foaming hate or its exulting enthusiasm to touch the calm poise of his regnant soul. He moved in solitary majesty, and if from his smooth speech a lightning flash of satire or of scorn struck a cherished lie, or an honored character, or a dogma of the party creed, and the crowd burst into a furious tempest of dissent, he beat it into silence with uncompromising iteration. If it tried to drown his voice, he turned to the reporters, and over the raging tumult calmly said, "Howl on, I speak to 30,000,000 here." 8. There was another power in his speech sharper than in the speech of any other American orator,--an unsparing invective. The abolition appeal was essentially iconoclastic, and the method of a reformer at close quarters with a mighty system of wrong cannot be measured by the standards of cool and polite debate. Phillips did not shrink from the sternest denunciation, or ridicule or scorn, of those who seemed to him recreant to freedom and humanity. The idols of a purely conventional virtue he delighted to shatter, because no public enemy seemed to him more deadly than the American who made moral cowardice respectable. 9. He knew that his ruthless words closed to him homes of friendship and hearts of sympathy. He saw the amazement, he heard the condemnation; but, like the great apostle preaching Christ, he knew only humanity and humanity crucified. Tongue of the dumb, eyes of the blind, feet of the impotent, his voice alone, among the voices that were everywhere heard and heeded, was sent by God to challenge every word, or look, or deed that seemed to him possibly to palliate oppression or to comfort the oppressor. 10. I am not here to declare that the judgment of Wendell Phillips was always sound, nor his estimate of men always just, nor his policy always approved by the event. I am not here to eulogize the mortal, but the immortal. 11. The plain house in which he lived--severely plain, because the welfare of the suffering and the slave were preferred to book, and picture, and every fair device of art; the house to which the north star led the trembling fugitive, and which the unfortunate and the friendless knew--the radiant figure passing swiftly through these streets, plain as the house from which it came, regal with, a royalty beyond that of kings--the ceaseless charity untold--the strong, sustaining heart--the sacred domestic affection that must not here be named--the eloquence which, like the song of Orpheus, will fade from living memory into a doubtful tale--the surrender of ambition, the consecration of a life hidden with God in sympathy with man--these, all these, will live among your immortal traditions, heroic even in your heroic story. 12. But not yours alone. As years go by, and only the large outlines of lofty American characters and careers remain, the wide republic will confess the benediction of a life like this, and gladly own that if with perfect faith, and hope assured, America would still stand and "bid the distant generations hail," the inspiration of her national life must be the sublime moral courage, the all-embracing humanity, the spotless integrity, the absolutely unselfish devotion of great powers to great public ends, which were the glory of Wendell Phillips. GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. THE BROOK. I. I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. II. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges; By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. III. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. IV. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. V. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come, and men may go, But I go on for ever. VI. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling. VII. And here and there a foamy flake Upon me as I travel, With many a silvery water-break Above the golden gravel. VIII. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers, I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. IX. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. X. I murmur, under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses, I linger by my shingly bars, I loiter round my cresses. XI. And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. ALFRED TENNYSON. OLD AUNT MARY'S. Wasn't it pleasant, O, brother mine, In those old days of the lost sunshine Of youth--when the Saturday's chores were through, And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen, too, And we went visiting, "me and you," Out to Old Aunt Mary's? It all comes back so clear to-day! Though I am as bald as you are gray-- Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, We patter along in the dust again, As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, Out to Old Aunt Mary's! We cross the pasture, and through the wood Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood, Where the hammering "red-heads" hopped awry, And the buzzard "raised" in the "clearing" sky, And lolled and circled, as we went by Out to Old Aunt Mary's. And then in the dust of the road again; And the teams we met, and the countrymen; And the long highway, with sunshine spread As thick as butter on country bread, Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead Out to Old Aunt Mary's. Why, I see her now in the open door, Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er The clapboard roof!--And her face--ah, me! Wasn't it good for a boy to see Out to Old Aunt Mary's? And, O, my brother, so far away, This is to tell you she waits to-day To welcome us:--Aunt Mary fell Asleep this morning, whispering, "Tell The boys to come!" And all is well Out to Old Aunt Mary's. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. CHILD VERSE. MY SHADOW. I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- Not at all like proper children which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! One morning very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me, and was fast asleep in bed. THE SWING. How do you like to go up in a swing, Up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing Ever a child can do! Up in the air and over the wall, Till I can see so wide, Rivers and trees and cattle and all Over the country side. Till I look down on the garden green, Down on the roof so brown-- Up in the air I go flying again, Up in the air and down! THE LAMPLIGHTER. My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky; It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by; For every night at teatime and before you take your seat, With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street. Now Tom would be a driver, and Maria go to sea, And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be; But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do, O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you! For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more; And Oh, before you hurry by with ladder and with light, O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night! ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. WAITING. Serene, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For lo! my own shall come to me. I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace? I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face, Asleep, awake, by night or day, The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny. What matter if I stand alone? I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner up its fruit of tears. The waters know their own, and draw The brook that springs in yonder height; So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight. The stars come nightly to the sky; The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, Can keep my own away from me. JOHN BURROUGHS. CHAPTER III. VOLUME. THE REVENGE. A BALLAD OF THE FLEET. I. At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnance, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty- three!" Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty- three?" II. Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." III. So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. IV. He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. "Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." V. Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. VI. Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. VII. And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all. VIII. But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land. IX. And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle- thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. For some were sunk and many were shattered, and so could fight us no more-- God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? X. For he said "Fight on! fight on!" Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said "Fight on! fight on!" XI. And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting, So they watch'd what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die--does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!" XII. And the gunner said "Ay, ay," but the seaman made reply: "We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow." And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. XIII. And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: "I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!" And he fell upon their decks, and he died. XIV. And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE OCEAN. I. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore; There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. II. Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean--roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin--his control Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. III. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals; The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war,-- These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. IV. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-- Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage,--what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts;--not so thou, Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play- Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-- Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. V. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime-- The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. VI. And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sport was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me Were a delight; and if thy freshening sea Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear; For I was, as it were, a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here. LORD BYRON. SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA. 1. Ye call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who for twelve long years has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad Empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say it. If there be three of all your company dare face me on the bloody sand, let them come on. 2. And yet I was not always thus,--a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men. My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. 3. One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I know not why, and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. 4. That very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war horse--the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling! Today I killed a man in the arena; and, when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend! He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died;--the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph! 5. I told the praetor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the praetor drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said, "Let the carrion rot! There are no noble men but Romans." 6. And so, fellow gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs! O Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe;--to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled! 7. Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he has tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours,--and a dainty meal for him ye will be! 8. If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher's knife! If ye are men, follow me! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and then do bloody word, as did your sires at old Thermopylae! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master's lash? O comrades! warriors! Thracians! if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle. REV. ELIJAH KELLOGG. TELL TO HIS NATIVE MOUNTAINS. I. Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again! I hold to you the hands you first beheld, To show they still are free. Methinks I hear A spirit in your echoes answer me, And bid your tenant welcome home again! II. O sacred forms, how proud you look! How high you lift your heads into the sky! How huge you are! how mighty and how free! How do you look, for all your bared brows, More gorgeously majestical than kings Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine. III. Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile Makes glad--whose frown is terrible; whose forms, Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear Of awe divine; whose subject never kneels In mockery, because it is your boast To keep him free! IV. Ye guards of liberty, I'm with you once again! I call to you With all my voice! I hold my hands to you To show they still are free. I rush to you As though I could embrace you! V. The hour Will soon be here. Oh, when will Liberty Once more be here? Scaling yonder peak, I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow, O'er the abyss his broad-expanded wings Lay calm and motionless upon the air As if he floated there without their aid, By the sole act of his unlorded will, That buoyed him proudly up. VI. Instinctively I bent my bow; yet kept he rounding still His airy circle, as in the delight Of measuring the ample range beneath And round about; absorbed, he heeded not The death that threatened him. I could not shoot. 'Twas liberty. I turned my bow aside, And let him soar away. JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. BATTLE HYMN. I. Father of earth and heaven! I call thy name! Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll; My eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame; Father, sustain an untried soldier's soul! Or life or death, whatever be the goal That crowns or closes round this struggling hour, Thou knowest, if ever from my spirit stole One deeper prayer,'twas that no cloud might lower On my young fame! Oh, hear, God of eternal power! II. God! thou art merciful--the wintry storm, The cloud that pours the thunder from its womb, But show the sterner grandeur of thy form; The lightnings glancing through the midnight gloom, To Faith's raised eye as calm, as lovely come, As splendors of the autumnal evening star, As roses shaken by the breeze's plume, When like cool incense comes the dewy air, And on the golden wave the sunset burns afar. III. God! thou art mighty!--at thy footstool bound, Lie gazing to thee Chance, and Life, and Death; Nor in the Angel-circle flaming round, Nor in the million worlds that blaze beneath Is one that can withstand thy wrath's hot breath-- Woe in thy frown--in thy smile, victory! Hear my last prayer--I ask no mortal wreath; Let but these eyes my rescued country see, Then take my spirit, All-Omnipotent, to thee. IV. Now for the fight--now for the cannon-peal-- Forward--through blood and toil, and cloud and fire! Glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel, The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire; They shake--like broken waves their squares retire,-- On, them, hussars!--now give them rein and heel; Think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire:-- Earth cries for blood--in thunder on them wheel! This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph seal. KARL THEODORE KORNER. SELF-RELIANCE. 1. To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men,--that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost, and our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each, the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato and Milton is that they set at naught books and traditions, and spoke not what men, but what THEY thought. 2. A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty. 3. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression with good-humored inflexibility then most when the whole cry of voices is on the other side. Else to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another. 4. There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better for worse as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. 5. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in the memory is not without pre- established harmony. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. 6. We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents. It may be safely trusted as proportionate and of good issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his work made manifest by cowards. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no invention, no hope. 7. Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying their perception that the Eternal was stirring at their heart, working through their hands, predominating in all their being. 8. And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids pinched in a corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers and benefactors, pious aspirants to be noble clay under the Almighty effort, let us advance on Chaos and the Dark. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. 1. Adams and Jefferson, I have said, are no more. As human beings, indeed, they are no more. They are no more, as in 1776, bold and fearless advocates of independence; no more, as on subsequent periods, the head of the government; no more, as we have recently seen them, aged and venerable objects of admiration and regard. They are no more. They are dead. 2. But how little is there of the great and good which can die? To their country they yet live, and live forever. They live in all that perpetuates the remembrance of men on earth; in the recorded proofs of their own great actions, in the offspring of their intellect, in the deep engraved lines of public gratitude, and in the respect and homage of mankind. They live in their example; and they live, emphatically, and will live, in the influence which their lives and efforts, their principles and opinions, now exercise, and will continue to exercise, on the affairs of men, not only in their own country, but throughout the civilized world. 3. A superior and commanding human intellect, a truly great man,-- when heaven vouchsafes so rare a gift,--is not a temporary flame, burning bright for awhile, and then expiring, giving place to returning darkness. It is rather a spark of fervent heat, as well as radiant light, with power to enkindle the common mass of human mind; so that, when it glimmers in its own decay, and finally goes out in death, no night follows; but it leaves the world all light, all on fire, from the potent contact of its own spirit. 4. Bacon died; but the human understanding, roused by the torch of his miraculous mind to a perception of the true philosophy and the just mode of inquiring after truth, has kept on its course successfully and gloriously. Newton died; yet the courses of the spheres are still known, and they yet move on, in the orbits which he saw and described for them, in the infinity of space. 5. No two men now live--perhaps it may be doubted whether any two men have ever lived in one age,--who, more than those we now commemorate, have impressed their own sentiments, in regard to politics and government, on mankind; infused their own opinions more deeply into the opinions of others; or given a more lasting direction to the current of human thought. Their work doth not perish with them. The tree which they assisted to plant will flourish, although they water it and protect it no longer; for it has struck its roots deep; it has sent them to the very center; no storm, not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it; its branches spread wide; they stretch their protecting arms broader and broader, and its top is destined to reach the heavens. 6. We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. No age will come, in which the American Revolution will appear less than it is--one of the greatest events in human history. No age will come, in which in it will cease to be seen and felt, on either continent, that a mighty step, a great advance, not only in American affairs, but in human affairs, was made on the 4th of July, 1776. And no age will come, we trust, so ignorant, or so unjust, as not to see and acknowledge the efficient agency of these we now honor, in producing that momentous event. DANIEL WEBSTER. THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. I. Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle cry! Never with mightier glory than when we had reared thee on high, Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege at Lucknow-- Shot through the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised thee anew, And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. II. Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives-- Women and children among us--God help them, our children and wives! Hold it we might--and for fifteen days or for twenty at most. "Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his post!" Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the best of the brave; Cold were his brows when we kissed him--we laid him that night in his grave. III. "Every man die at his post!" and there hailed on our houses and halls Death from their rifle bullets, and death from their cannon balls, Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight barricade, Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we stoopt to the spade, Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell, Striking the hospital wall, crashing through it, their shot and their shell, IV. Death--for their spies were among us, their marksman were told of our best, So that the brute bullet broke through the brain that could think for the rest; Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain at our feet-- Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us round; Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a street, Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace-- and death in the ground! V. Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! down, down! and creep through the hole, Keep the revolver in hand! You can hear him--the murderous mole. Quiet! ah! quiet--wait till the point of the pickaxe be through! Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than before-- Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. VI. Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced on a day, Soon as the blast of that underground thunder-clap echoed away, Dark through the smoke and the sulphur, like so many fiends in their hell-- Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell-- Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemies fell. VII. What have they done? where is it? Out yonder. Guard the Redan! Storm at the Water-gate, storm at the Bailey-gate! storm, and it ran Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drowned by the tide-- So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who shall escape? Kill or be killed, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers and men. VIII. Ready! take aim at their leaders--their masses are gapped with our grape-- Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging forward again, Flying and foiled at the last by the handful they could not subdue; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. IX. Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and in limb, Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure, Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on him-- Still, could we watch at all points? We were every day fewer and fewer. X. There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that passed-- "Children and wives--if the tigers leap into the folds unawares, Every man die at his post--and the foe may outlive us at last, Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into theirs." XI. Roar upon roar--in a moment two mines, by the enemy sprung, Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. Riflemen, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be as true. Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank fusilades; Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung, Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with hand grenades--, And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. XII. Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out-tore Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more. Riflemen, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the sun-- One has leapt up on the breach, crying out, "Follow me, follow me!" Mark him--he falls! then another, and him, too, and down goes he. XIII. Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but that the traitors had won? Boardings, and raftings, and doors--an embrasure; make way for the gun! Now, double charge it with grape! It is charged, and we fire, and they run. Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due. Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few, Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote them, and slew-- That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew. XIV. Hark! cannonade! fusilade! is it true that was told by the scout? Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell mutineers? Surely, the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears! All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout; Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers. XV. Forth from their holes and their hidings our women and children come out, Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good fusileers, Kissing the war-hardened hand of the Highlander wet with their tears. Dance to the pibroch! saved! we are saved! is it you? is it you? Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing of Heaven! "Hold it for fifteen days!" we have held it for eighty- seven! And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England blew. ALFRED TENNYSON. SONNETS. To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,--an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently. J. KEATS. The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn, Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide. Doth God exact day labor, light deny'd, I fondly ask? but patience to prevent That murmur soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait. JOHN MILTON. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise; I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith; I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. ELIZABETH BARRETT BBOWNING. IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY. I. Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea-stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that. II. What though on hamely fare we dine. Wear hodden gray and a' that, Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man, for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that! III. Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that; The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that! IV. A king can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he maunna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that. V. Then let us pray that come it may-- As come it will for a' that-- That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth May bear the gree, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. ROBERT BURNS. CHAPTER IV. FORMING THE ELEMENTS. HAMLET TO THE PLAYERS. 1. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. 2. Oh, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig- pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows, and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it. 3. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. 4. Now this, overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one, must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh, there be players, that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, Pagan, nor man, have so strutted, and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. Morning, evening, noon and night, "Praise God!" sang Theocrite. Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned. Hard he labored, long and well; O'er his work the boy's curls fell. But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, "Praise God!" II. Then back again his curls he threw, And cheerful turned to work anew. Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done; I doubt not thou art heard, my son: As well as if thy voice to-day Were praising God, the Pope's great way. This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter's dome." III. Said Theocrite, "Would God that I Might praise him, that great way, and die!" Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone. With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day. God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night Now brings the voice of my delight." IV. Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, Spread his wings and sank to earth; Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well; And morning, evening, noon and night, Praised God in place of Theocrite. And from a boy, to youth he grew: The man put off the stripling's hue: V. The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay: And ever o'er the trade he bent, And ever lived on earth content. (He did God's will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.) God said, "A praise is in mine ear; There is no doubt in it, no fear: VI. "So sing old worlds, and so New worlds that from my footstool go. Clearer loves sound other ways; I miss my little human praise." Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell The flesh disguise, remained the cell. 'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter's dome. VII. In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallery, With his holy vestments dight, Stood the new Pope, Theocrite; And all his past career Came back upon him clear, Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, Till on his life the sickness weighed; VIII. And in his cell, when death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer: And rising from the sickness drear, He grew a priest, and now stood here. To the East with praise he turned, And on his sight the angel burned. "I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, And set thee here; I did not well, IX. "Vainly I left my angel-sphere, Vain was thy dream of many a year. Thy voice's praise seemed weak: it dropped-- Creation's chorus stopped! Go back and praise again The early way, while I remain. With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up creation's pausing strain. X. "Back to the cell and poor employ; Resume the craftsman and the boy!" Theocrite grew old at home; A new Pope dwelt at Peter's dome. One vanished as the other died: They sought God side by side. ROBERT BROWNING. SPEECH AND SILENCE. 1. He who speaks honestly cares not, needs not care, though his words be preserved to remotest time. The dishonest speaker, not he only who purposely utters falsehoods, but he who does not purposely, and with sincere heart, utter Truth, and Truth alone; who babbles he knows not what, and has clapped no bridle on his tongue, but lets it run racket, ejecting chatter and futility--is among the most indisputable malefactors omitted, or inserted, in the Criminal Calendar. 2. To him that will well consider it, idle speaking is precisely the beginning of all Hollowness, Halfness, Infidelity (want of Faithfulness); it is the genial atmosphere in which rank weeds of every kind attain the mastery over noble fruits in man's life, and utterly choke them out: one of the most crying maladies of these days, and to be testified against, and in all ways to the uttermost withstood. 3. Wise, of a wisdom far beyond our shallow depth, was that old precept, "Watch thy tongue; out of it are the issues of Life!" Man is properly an incarnated word: the word that he speaks is the man himself. Were eyes put into our head, that we might see, or that we might fancy, and plausibly pretend, we had seen? Was the tongue suspended there, that it might tell truly what we had seen, and make man the soul's brother of man; or only that it might utter vain sounds, jargon, soul-confusing, and so divide man, as by enchanting walls of Darkness, from union with man? 4. Thou who wearest that cunning, heaven-made organ, a Tongue, think well of this. Speak not, I passionately entreat thee, till thy thought have silently matured itself, till thou have other than mad and mad-making noises to emit: hold thy tongue till some meaning lie behind, to set it wagging. 5. Consider the significance of SILENCE: it is boundless, never by meditating to be exhausted, unspeakably profitable to thee! Cease that chaotic hubbub, wherein thy own soul runs to waste, to confused suicidal dislocation and stupor; out of Silence comes thy strength. "Speech is silvern, silence is golden; speech is human, silence is divine." 6. Fool! thinkest thou that because no one stands near with parchment and blacklead to note thy jargon, it therefore dies and is harmless? Nothing dies, nothing can die. No idlest word thou speakest but is a seed cast into Time, and grows through all Eternity! The Recording Angel, consider it well, is no fable, but the truest of truths: the paper tablets thou canst burn; of the "iron leaf" there is no burning. THOMAS CARLYLE. THE RICH MAN AND THE POOR MAN. I. So goes the world;--if wealthy, you may call THIS friend, THAT brother;--friends and brothers all; Though you are worthless--witless--never mind it: You may have been a stable-boy--what then? 'Tis wealth, good sir, makes HONORABLE MEN. You seek respect, no doubt, and YOU will find it. II. But if you are poor, Heaven help you! though your sire Had royal blood within him, and though you Possess the intellect of angels, too, 'Tis all in vain;--the world will ne'er inquire On such a score:--Why should it take the pains? 'Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains. III. I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever, Witty and wise:--he paid a man a visit, And no one noticed him, and no one ever Gave him a welcome. "Strange!" cried I, "whence is it?" He walked on this side, then on that, He tried to introduce a social chat; Now here, now there, in vain he tried; Some formally and freezingly replied, And some Said by their silence--"Better stay at home." IV. A rich man burst the door; As Croesus rich, I'm sure He could not pride himself upon his wit, And as for wisdom, he had none of it; He had what's better; he had wealth. What a confusion!--all stand up erect-- These crowd around to ask him of his health; These bow in HONEST duty and respect; And these arrange a sofa or a chair, And these conduct him there. "Allow me, sir, the honor;"--Then a bow Down to the earth--Is't possible to show Meet gratitude for such kind condescension? V. The poor man hung his head, And to himself he said, "This is indeed beyond my comprehension;" Then looking round, One friendly face he found, And said, "Pray tell me why is wealth preferred To wisdom?"--"That's a silly question, friend!" Replied the other--"have you never heard, A man may lend his store Of gold or silver ore, But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?" KHEMNITZER. THE GATHERING OF THE FAIRIES. I. 'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night-- The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Naught is seen in the vault on high But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue, A river of light on the welkin blue. The moon looks down on old Cro'nest; She mellows the shades on his craggy breast; And seems his huge gray form to throw In a silver cone on the waves below. His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut-bough and the cedar made, And through their clustering branches dark Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark, Like starry twinkles that momently peak Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. II. The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnished length of wavy beam In an eel-like, spiral line below; The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid. And naught is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katy-did, And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill, Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and woe, Till the morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow. III. 'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell;-- The wood-tick has kept the minutes well; He has counted them all with click and stroke Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak; And he has awakened the sentry Elve Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the Fays to their revelry; Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell-- 'Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell. "Midnight comes, and all is well! Hither, hither wing your way! 'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day!" IV. They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullein's velvet screen, Some on the backs of beetles fly From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swing in their cobweb hammocks high, And rocked about in the evening breeze; Some from the hum-bird's downy nest-- They had driven him out by elfin power, And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering rising-stars inlaid; And some had opened the four-o'clock, And stole within its purple shade. And now they throng the moonlight glade, Above--below--on every side, Their little minim forms arrayed In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride. V. They come not now to print the lea, In freak and dance around the tree, Or at the mushroom board to sup, And drink the dew from the buttercup;-- A scene of sorrow waits them now. For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow; He has loved an earthly maid, And left for her his woodland shade; He has lain upon her lip of dew, And sunned him in her eyes of blue, Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, Played in the ringlets of her hair, And, nestling on her snowy breast, Forgot the Lily-King's behest,-- For this the shadowy tribes of air To the Elfin Court must haste away!-- And now they stand expectant there, To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay. VI. The throne was reared upon the grass, Of spice-wood and of sassafras; On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell Hung the burnished canopy, And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell Of the tulip's crimson drapery. The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, On his brow the crown imperial shone, The prisoner Fay was at his feet, And his Peers were ranged around the throne. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. THE SONG OF THE RAIN. Lo! the long, slender spears, bow they quiver and flash Where the clouds send their cavalry down! Rank and file by the million the rain-lancers dash Over mountain and river and town: Thick the battle-drops fall--but they drip not in blood; The trophy of war is the green fresh bud: Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! II. The pastures lie baked, and the furrow is bare, The wells they yawn empty and dry; But a rushing of waters is heard in the air, And a rainbow leaps out in the sky. Hark! the heavy drops pelting the sycamore leaves, How they wash tha wide pavement, and sweep from the eaves! Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! III. See, the weaver throws wide his own swinging pane, The kind drops dance in on the floor; And his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet rain On the step by her half-open door; At the tune on the skylight, far over his head, Smiles their poor crippled lad on his hospital bed. Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! IV. And away, far from men, where high mountains tower, The little green mosses rejoice, And the bud-heated heather nods to the shower, And the hill-torrents lift up their voice: And the pools in the hollows mimic the fight Of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in the light; Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! V. And deep in the fir-wood below, near the plain, A single thrush pipes full and sweet, How days of clear shining will come after rain, Waving meadows, and thick growing wheat; So the voice of Hope sings, at the heart of our fears, Of the harvest that springs from a great nation's tears: Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! SPECTATOR. HEARTY READING. 1. Curiosity is a passion very favorable to the love of study, and a passion very susceptible of increase by cultivation. Sound travels so many feet in a second; and light travels so many feet in a second. Nothing more probable: but you do not care how light and sound travel. Very likely: but make yourself care; get up, shake yourself well, pretend to care, make believe to care, and very soon you will care, and care so much that you will sit for hours thinking about light and sound, and be extremely angry with any one who interrupts you in your pursuits; and tolerate no other conversation but about light and sound; and catch yourself plaguing everybody to death who approaches you, with the discussion of these subjects. 2. I am sure that a man ought to read as he would grasp a nettle: do it lightly, and you get molested; grasp it with all your strength, and you feel none of its asperities. There is nothing so horrible as languid study, when you sit looking at the clock, wishing the time was over, or that somebody would call on you and put you out of your misery. The only way to read with any efficacy is to read so heartily that dinner-time comes two hours before you expected it. 3. To sit with your Livy before you, and hear the geese cackling that saved the Capitol: and to see with your own eyes the Carthaginian sutlers gathering up the rings of the Roman knights after the battle of Cannae, and heaping them into bushels; and to be so intimately present at the actions you are reading of that when anybody knocks at the door it will take you two or three seconds to determine whether you are in your own study, or in the plains of Lombardy, looking at Hannibal's weather-beaten face, and admiring the splendor of his single eye. 4. This is the only kind of study which is not tiresome; and almost the only kind which is not useless: this is the knowledge which gets into the system, and which a man carries about and uses like his limbs, without perceiving that it is extraneous, weighty, or inconvenient. SYDNEY SMITH. IVRY. I. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through the corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy murmuring daughters; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy; For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war! Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre! II. Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears, There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. III. The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed; And he has bound a snow white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye, He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!" "And if my standard bearer fall, as fall full well he may-- For never I saw promise yet of such a bloody fray-- Press where you see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." IV. Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint-Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies--upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. V. Now God be praised, the day is ours; Mayenne hath turned his rein; D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is slain; Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, Remember Saint Bartholomew! was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry--"No Frenchman is my foe; Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre? VI. Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white-- Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine, Up with it high; unfurl it wide--that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navarre. VII. Ho! maidens of Vienna! ho! matrons of Lucerne-- Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, for whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre! LORD MACAULAY THE DAFFODILS. I. I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. II. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of the bay; Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. III. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company; I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought; IV. For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. WORDSWORTH CHEERFULNESS. 1. A cheerful man is pre-eminently a useful man. He knows that there is much misery, but that misery is not the rule of life. He sees that in every state people may be cheerful; the lambs skip, birds sing and fly joyously, puppies play, kittens are full of joy, the whole air is full of careering and rejoicing insects-- that everywhere the good outbalances the bad, and that every evil that there is has its compensating balm. 2. Then the brave man, as our German cousins say, possesses the world, whereas the melancholy man does not even possess his share of it. Exercise, or continued employment of some kind, will make a man cheerful; but sitting at home, brooding and thinking, or doing little, will bring gloom. The reaction of this feeling is wonderful. It arises from a sense of duty done, and it also enables us to do our duty. 3. Cheerful people live long in our memory. We remember joy more readily than sorrow, and always look back with tenderness on the brave and cheerful. We can all cultivate our tempers, and one of the employments of some poor mortals is to cultivate, cherish, and bring to perfection, a thoroughly bad one; but we may be certain that to do so is a very grave error and sin, which, like all others, brings its own punishment; though, unfortunately, it does not punish itself only. 4. Addison says of cheerfulness, that it lightens sickness, poverty, affliction; converts ignorance into an amiable simplicity, and renders deformity itself agreeable; and he says no more than the truth. 5. "Give us, therefore, oh! give us"--let us cry with Carlyle-- "the man who sings at his work! He will do more in the same time, --he will do it better,--he will persevere longer. One is scarcely sensible of fatigue whilst he marches to music. The very stars are said to make harmony as they revolve in their spheres. 6. "Wondrous is the strength of cheerfulness, altogether past calculation its powers of endurance. Efforts, to be permanently useful, must be uniformly joyous,--a spirit all sunshine, graceful from very gladness, beautiful because bright." 7. Such a spirit is within everybody's reach. Let us but get out into the light of things. The morbid man cries out that there is always enough wrong in the world to make a man miserable. Conceded; but wrong is ever being righted; there is always enough that is good and right to make us joyful. 8. There is ever sunshine somewhere; and the brave man will go on his way rejoicing, content to look forward if under a cloud, not bating one jot of heart or hope if for a moment cast down: honoring his occupation, whatever it may be; rendering even rags respectable by the way he wears them; and not only being happy himself, but causing the happiness of others. J. H. FRISWELL. "APRIL IN THE HILLS." I. To-day the world is wide and fair With sunny fields of lucid air, And waters dancing everywhere; The snow is almost gone; The noon is builded high with light, And over heaven's liquid height, In steady fleets serene and white, The happy clouds go on. II. The channels run, the bare earth steams, And every hollow rings and gleams With jetting falls and dashing streams; The rivers burst and fill; The fields are full of little lakes, And when the romping wind awakes The water ruffles blue and shakes, And the pines roar on the hill. III. The crows go by, a noisy throng; About the meadows all day long The shore-lark drops his brittle song; And up tihe leafless tree The nut-hatch runs, and nods, and clings; The bluebird dips with flashing wings, The robin flutes, the sparrow sings, And the swallows float and flee. IV. I break the spirit's cloudy bands, A wanderer in enchanted lands, I feel the sun upon my hands; And far from care and strife The broad earth bids me forth, I rise With lifted brow and upward eyes. I bathe my spirit in blue skies, And taste the springs of life V. I feel the tumult of new birth; I waken with the wakening earth; I match the bluebird in her mirth; And wild with wind and sun, A treasurer of immortal days, I roam the glorious world with praise, The hillsides and the woodland ways, Till the earth and I are one. ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN. 
34498	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 34498-h.htm or 34498-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/34498/34498-h/34498-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/34498/34498-h.zip) [Illustration: HENRY WARD BEECHER] EVOLUTION OF EXPRESSION by CHARLES WESLEY EMERSON Founder of Emerson College of Oratory A Compilation of Selections Illustrating the Four Stages of Development in Art As Applied to Oratory In Four Volumes, with Key to each Chapter TWENTY-EIGHTH EDITION VOLUME II--REVISED [Illustration: Expression Necessary to Evolution.] Boston: Emerson College of Oratory Publishing Department Chickering Hall, Huntington Avenue 1915 Copyrighted by C. W. Emerson 1905 The Barta Press Boston CONTENTS PAGE. SLIDE 7 VITAL SLIDE 8 SLIDE IN VOLUME 9 FORMING PICTURES 10 _Chapter I._ TACT AND TALENT _London Atlas_ 13 SHYLOCK TO ANTONIO _William Shakespeare_ 15 THE CYNIC _H. W. Beecher_ 16 GOOD BY, PROUD WORLD _R. W. Emerson_ 18 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB _Lord Byron_ 19 UNWRITTEN MUSIC _N. P. Willis_ 20 LAUS MORTIS _Frederic Lawrence Knowles_ 23 TAXATION OF THE COLONIES _Edmund Burke_ 24 MY HEART LEAPS UP _William Wordsworth_ 29 FOREST SCENE FROM AS YOU LIKE IT _William Shakespeare_ 30 _Chapter II._ THE RISING IN 1776 _T. B. Read_ 35 THE TENT-SCENE BETWEEN BRUTUS AND CASSIUS _William Shakespeare_ 39 THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR _S. Ferguson_ 43 SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS _Daniel Webster_ 48 LIFE AND SONG _Sidney Lanier_ 53 GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK _Sir Walter Scott_ 54 NUTTING _William Wordsworth_ 55 THE DODSON FAMILY _George Eliot_ 58 AFTER THE MARCH KAIN _William Wordsworth_ 66 _Chapter III._ FIRST BATTLES OF THE REVOLUTION _Edward Everett_ 67 THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM _W. C. Byrant_ 70 NATIONAL BANKRUPTCY _Mirabeau_ 73 THE LANTERN BEARERS _Robert Louis Stevenson_ 74 TARPEIA _Louise Imogen Guiney_ 78 THE BELLS _E. A. Poe_ 82 THE TEMPERANCE QUESTION _Wendell Phillips_ 86 SHERIDAN'S RIDE _T. B. Read_ 89 TO A PUPIL _Walt Whitman_ 92 _Chapter IV._ THE PICKWICKIANS ON ICE _Charles Dickens_ 93 THE REALM OF FANCY _J. Keats_ 103 THE BATTLE OF NASEBY _Lord Macaulay_ 106 THE GLORIES OF MORNING _Edward Everett_ 109 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS _O. W. Holmes_ 111 AUTUMN _H. W. Beecher_ 112 MIDSUMMER _J. T. Trowbridge_ 116 THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES _William Wordsworth_ 118 SUMMER STORM _James Russell Lowell_ 121 JAQUES' SEVEN AGES OF MAN _William Shakespeare_ 125 THE PARTS. THE ATTRACTIVE OR MELODRAMATIC PERIOD. Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with might, Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. TENNYSON. The power to detach, and to magnify by detaching, is the essence of rhetoric in the hands of the orator and the poet. This rhetoric, or power to fix the momentary eminence of an object, so remarkable in Burke, in Byron, in Carlyle--depends upon the depth of the artist's insight of that object he contemplates. EMERSON. For use of selections in this volume especial thanks are tendered Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Frederic Lawrence Knowles, Horace Traubel, Secretary Walt Whitman Fellowship, and J. T. Trowbridge. CHAPTER I. SLIDE. Thus far in the student's development, his mind has dealt chiefly with each subject as a _Whole_. Now he begins to find a new interest in showing his hearers that the discourse is made up of a series of definite _Parts_. He takes delight in fixing their attention upon each part in succession. As in crossing a brook on stones, a person poises for a moment, first on one stone, then on another, so the speaker balances the minds of his hearers, first on one thought, then another, poising for a moment on each distinct point before leaving it for the next. The teacher should now lead the pupil to attract attention to separate parts as _wholes_. We are entering the melodramatic stage, where abandon to each part is as necessary as it was in the beginning to the spirit of the whole. The pupil must see the parts and give them to others at any cost. In the history of art this step is marked by the grotesque; the pupil should be encouraged to stand out the points of thought boldly, regardless of artistic effect. This step is of vital importance in all future development, and unless emphasized now, will require constant effort hereafter. Sharp contrasts are brought strongly to bear in presenting vividly and distinctly separate points of thought. As the pupil earnestly strives to impress each point of thought, in all its new interest, his voice becomes more decidedly modulated, rising and falling in distinct intervals. Thought of each part as a whole and by contrast, together with the desire to impart it, is reported in varied inflections which add a new charm to expression. Through slides the voice of the speaker may be said to express the tune of the thought. Analysis. Example: "Tact and Talent." (Page 13.) _Unit, or Whole:_ A comparison of Tact and Talent. _Parts_: (_a_) The characteristics of Tact. _Sub-parts_: 1. Tact is infinitely resourceful. Paragraph 1, etc. 2. Tact is the power which achieves results. Paragraph 2, etc. (Other "sub-parts" may be enumerated.) (_b_) The characteristics of Talent. (A number of "sub-parts" are embodied.) The teacher should view the work of the pupil with special reference to the parts of this selection, leading him to impress these parts, or successive points of thought, upon his audience. The continued antithesis makes this selection a good one for the purpose; parts that are set in contrast easily engage the attention. CHAPTER II. VITAL SLIDE. As the mind of the pupil separates each thought from the other main thoughts of the discourse, and holds it before the minds of his hearers, he finds it more and more attractive. His endeavor to interest others deepens his own interest, and the slides in his voice report this increased concentration, in increased vitality. The pupil seeing the spirit and life of the whole in each _vital part_, or part vital to the life of the unit, desires to make each part live as a whole in the minds of the listeners. He no longer touches it with uncertain stroke; the slide has become a Vital Slide. Analysis. Example: "The Rising of 1776." (Page 35.) _Unit, or Whole_: A pastor of early Revolutionary times who makes his Sunday sermon an appeal for freedom. _Parts_: (_a_) The spirit of the times. Stanza 1. (_b_) The church and the people. Stanzas 2 and 3. (_c_) The pastor and his appeal. Stanzas 4, 5, 6 and part of 9. (_d_) The effect of the appeal. Stanzas 7, 8 and 9. Let the student's earnest endeavor be to interest his audience in these essential parts. The words which especially reveal these vital parts of the selection will be given with no uncertain stroke. If the interest of both speaker and listener is fully aroused, the slide has become a vital one. Remember always that the desired effect in the voice results from the mental concept; it is not developed mechanically, but grows out of thought. CHAPTER III. SLIDE IN VOLUME. As the mind of the student continues to dwell upon the parts of the subject as separate and distinct wholes, there is gradually developed within him an appreciation of the value of each part. Out of the effort to make each thought live in the minds of the hearers is born the desire to reveal the value of that thought. This desire is reported in the voice through Slide in Volume. The significance of the term Volume has been explained in an earlier chapter. The valuable parts that the speaker presents are expressed through inflections that suggest breadth and freedom. Each part is felt to have a value of its own, intellectual, moral, esthetic, or spiritual. Freedom of will is expressed in the voice by slide in volume, for the speaker, convinced of the truth of his thought, is learning obedience to it, and obedience is always the way to freedom. It must be remembered that the intellect determines the value of the parts. It is true that the discernment is sharpened by the sensibility; but the feelings, unguided by the thought, may be misleading. Feeling is dangerous unless controlled by thought. All sentiment must be directed to the audience "thought foremost"--the thought itself must induce the feeling. Analysis. Example: "The Bells." (Page 82.) _Unit of thought_: Varied bells, expressing varied emotion. _Parts_: (_a_) The tinkling bells of Merriment. Stanza 1. (_b_) The mellow bells of Love. Stanza 2. (_c_) The clanging bells of Terror. Stanza 3. (_d_) The tolling bells of Menace. Stanza 4. This poem is well adapted to develop power in emphasizing parts: the several parts are very distinctly differentiated, as the student must reveal through the rendering. He should strive to reveal them as graphically as the author has set them forth. Moreover, he should endeavor to make their value felt. In doing this, he will perceive the varying scale of values; some of the bells reflect great value, others less. CHAPTER IV. FORMING PICTURES. The student's persistent endeavor to impress the successive parts of his theme upon the minds in his presence will eventually lead him to see those parts in picturesque groupings. As he flashes these pictures upon the mental vision of the audience, they become clearer to his own vision. His own power of imagery is in proportion to his ability to impart this power to others. Herein lies one of the most helpful means of cultivating the imagination,--the eye of the intellect,--the basis of all sympathy. Every effort to tell a story clearly so as to impress its details upon the minds of others, every attempt to picture a landscape, a meadow, a river, a sunset vividly to others, quickens and strengthens the pupil's own imaging power. His attempt to make his listeners put themselves in the place of another, see through the eyes and from the point of view of a Wordsworth or Shakespeare, quickens his own imagination, broadens his sympathies, and develops his intellect as nothing else can. "The man of imagination has lived all lives, has enjoyed all heavens, and felt the pang of every hell." The student must continue to watch for the effect of his words in other minds. He cannot afford to be introspective while speaking, for the mind cannot be in the creative and in the critical state at the same time. The pictures, then, must be formed in the minds of the hearers; they are the only canvas upon which he can hope to paint his picturesque parts. They are the mirror in which the pictures of his thought must be reflected, as the stars are mirrored in the waters of the lake. Analysis. Example: "The Chambered Nautilus." (Page 111.) _Unit, or Whole_: The lesson of the Chambered Nautilus. _Parts_: (_a_) The Nautilus. Stanzas 1, 2. (_b_) Its method of growth. Stanza 3. (_c_) Its message to the soul. Stanzas 4, 5. Lead the pupil to present a clear picture of "the ship of pearl," of its own original environment and course of evolution, and of the beautiful figure which embodies the lesson. _CHAPTER I._ SLIDE. TACT AND TALENT. 1. Talent is something, but tact is everything. Talent is serious, sober, grave, and respectable; tact is all that, and more too. It is not a sixth sense, but it is the life of all the five. It is the open eye, the quick ear, the judging taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch; it is the interpreter of all riddles, the surmounter of all difficulties, the remover of all obstacles. It is useful in all places, and at all times; it is useful in solitude, for it shows a man his way into the world; it is useful in society, for it shows him his way through the world. 2. Talent is power, tact is skill; talent is weight, tact is momentum; talent knows what to do, tact knows how to do it; talent makes a man respectable, tact will make him respected; talent is wealth, tact is ready money. 3. For all the practical purposes of life, tact carries it against talent, ten to one. Take them to the theatre, and put them against each other on the stage, and talent shall produce you a tragedy that will scarcely live long enough to be condemned, while tact keeps the house in a roar, night after night, with its successful farces. There is no want of dramatic talent, there is no want of dramatic tact; but they are seldom together: so we have successful pieces which are not respectable, and respectable pieces which are not successful. 4. Take them to the bar, and let them shake their learned curls at each other in legal rivalry. Talent sees its way clearly, but tact is first at its journey's end. Talent has many a compliment from the bench, but tact touches fees from attorneys and clients. Talent speaks learnedly and logically, tact triumphantly. Talent makes the world wonder that it gets on no faster, tact excites astonishment that it gets on so fast. And the secret is, that tact has no weight to carry; it makes no false steps; it hits the right nail on the head; it loses no time; it takes all hints; and, by keeping its eye on the weathercock, is ready to take advantage of every wind that blows. 5. Take them into the church. Talent has always something worth hearing, tact is sure of abundance of hearers; talent may obtain a good living, tact will make one; talent gets a good name, tact a great one; talent convinces, tact converts; talent is an honor to the profession, tact gains honor from the profession. 6. Place them in the senate. Talent has the ear of the house, but tact wins its heart, and has its votes; talent is fit for employment, but tact is fitted for it. Tact has a knack of slipping into place with a sweet silence and glibness of movement, as a billiard ball insinuates itself into the pocket. It seems to know everything, without learning anything. It has served an invisible and extemporary apprenticeship; it wants no drilling; it never ranks in the awkward squad; it has no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind side. It puts on no looks of wondrous wisdom, it has no air of profundity, but plays with the details of place as dexterously as a well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the pianoforte. It has all the air of commonplace, and all the force and power of genius. LONDON ATLAS. SHYLOCK TO ANTONIO. Signor Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys and my usances: Still I have borne it with a patient shrug; For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well, then, it now appears, you need my help: Go to, then; you come to me, and you say "Shylock, we would have moneys." You say so; You that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold; moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say-- "Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?" or Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key, With bated breath and whispering humbleness, Say this-- "Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last; You spurned me such a day; another time You called me dog; and for these courtesies I'll lend you thus much moneys!" SHAKESPEARE. THE CYNIC. 1. The Cynic is one who never sees a good quality in a man, and never fails to see a bad one. He is the human owl, vigilant in darkness and blind to light, mousing for vermin, and never seeing noble game. 2. The Cynic puts all human actions into only two classes--openly bad and secretly bad. All virtue, and generosity, and disinterestedness, are merely the appearance of good, but selfish at the bottom. He holds that no man does a good thing except for profit. The effect of his conversation upon your feelings is to chill and sear them, to send you away sour and morose. 3. His criticisms and innuendoes fall indiscriminately upon every lovely thing like frost upon the flowers. If Mr. A. is pronounced a religious man, he will reply: yes, on Sundays. Mr. B. has just joined the church: certainly, the elections are coming on. The minister of the gospel is called an example of diligence: it is his trade. Such a man is generous: of other men's money. This man is obliging: to lull suspicion and cheat you. That man is upright, because he is green. 4. Thus his eye strains out every good quality, and takes in only the bad. To him religion is hypocrisy, honesty a preparation for fraud, virtue only a want of opportunity, and undeniable purity, asceticism. The livelong day he will coolly sit with sneering lip, transfixing every character that is presented. 5. It is impossible to indulge in such habitual severity of opinion upon our fellow-men, without injuring the tenderness and delicacy of our own feelings. A man will be what his most cherished feelings are. If he encourage a noble generosity, every feeling will be enriched by it; if he nurse bitter and envenomed thoughts, his own spirit will absorb the poison, and he will crawl among men as a burnished adder, whose life is mischief, and whose errand is death. 6. He who hunts for flowers will find flowers; and he who loves weeds will find weeds. Let it be remembered that no man, who is not himself morally diseased, will have a relish for disease in others. Reject, then, the morbid ambition of the Cynic, or cease to call yourself a man. H. W. BEECHER. GOOD BY, PROUD WORLD. I. Good by, proud world! I'm going home; Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine. Long through the weary crowds I roam, A river-ark on the ocean brine. Long I've been tossed like the driven foam And now, proud world, I'm going home. II. Good by to Flattery's fawning face; To Grandeur, with his wise grimace; To upstart Wealth's averted eye; To supple Office, low and high; To crowded halls, to court and street; To frozen hearts and hasting feet; To those who go and those who come; Good by, proud world! I'm going home. III. I am going to my own hearthstone, Bosomed in yon green hills alone-- A secret nook in a pleasant land, Whose groves the frolic fairies planned,-- Where arches green, the livelong day, Echo the blackbird's roundelay, And vulgar feet have never trod,-- A spot that is sacred to thought and God. IV. O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; And when I am stretched beneath the pines Where the evening star so holy shines, I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, At the sophist schools, and the learned clan; For what are they all, in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet? RALPH WALDO EMERSON. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. I. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea Where the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. II. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strewn. III. For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still. IV. And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. V. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. VI. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! LORD BYRON. UNWRITTEN MUSIC. 1. There is unwritten music. The world is full of it. I hear it every hour that I wake; and my waking sense is surpassed sometimes by my sleeping, though that is a mystery. There is no sound of simple nature that is not music. It is all God's work, and so harmony. You may mingle, and divide, and strengthen the passages of its great anthem; and it is still melody,--melody. 2. The low winds of summer blow over the waterfalls and the brooks, and bring their voices to your ear, as if their sweetness were linked by an accurate finger; yet the wind is but a fitful player; and you may go out when the tempest is up and hear the strong trees moaning as they lean before it, and the long grass hissing as it sweeps through, and its own solemn monotony over all; and the dripple of that same brook, and the waterfall's unaltered bass shall still reach you, in the intervals of its power, as much in harmony as before, and as much a part of its perfect and perpetual hymn. 3. There is no accident of nature's causing which can bring in discord. The loosened rock may fall into the abyss, and the overblown tree rush down through the branches of the wood, and the thunder peal awfully in the sky; and sudden and violent as their changes seem, their tumult goes up with the sound of wind and waters, and the exquisite ear of the musician can detect no jar. 4. I have read somewhere of a custom in the Highlands, which, in connection with the principle it involves, is exceedingly beautiful. It is believed that, to the ear of the dying (which just before death becomes always exquisitely acute,) the perfect harmony of the voices of nature is so ravishing, as to make him forget his suffering, and die gently, as in a pleasant trance. And so, when the last moment approaches, they take him from the close shieling, and bear him out into the open sky, that he may hear the familiar rushing of the streams. I can believe that is not superstition. I do not think we know how exquisitely nature's many voices are attuned to harmony and to each other. 5. The old philosopher we read of might not have been dreaming when he discovered that the order of the sky was like a scroll of written music, and that two stars (which are said to have appeared centuries after his death, in the very places he mentioned) were wanting to complete the harmony. We know how wonderful are the phenomena of color, how strangely like consummate art the strongest dyes are blended in the plumage of birds, and in the cups of flowers; so that, to the practiced eye of the painter, the harmony is inimitably perfect. 6. It is natural to suppose every part of the universe equally perfect; and it is a glorious and elevating thought, that the stars of Heaven are moving on continually to music, and that the sounds we daily listen to are but part of a melody that reaches to the very centre of God's illimitable spheres. N. P. WILLIS. LAUS MORTIS. I. Nay, why should I fear Death, Who gives us life and in exchange takes breath? He is like cordial Spring That lifts above the soil each buried thing;-- II. Like Autumn, kind and brief The frost that chills the branches, frees the leaf. Like Winter's stormy hours, That spread their fleece of snow to save the flowers. III. The loveliest of all things-- Life lends us only feet, Death gives us wings! Fearing no covert thrust, Let me walk onward armed with valiant trust. IV. Dreading no unseen knife, Across Death's threshold step from life to life! Oh, all ye frightened folk, Whether ye wear a crown or bear a yoke, V. Laid in one equal bed, When once your coverlet of grass is spread, What daybreak need you fear? The love will rule you there which guides you here! VI. Where Life, the Sower, stands, Scattering the ages from his swinging hands, Thou waitest, Reaper lone, Until the multitudinous grain hath grown. VII. Scythe-bearer, when thy blade Harvest my flesh, let me be unafraid! God's husbandman thou art! In His unwithering sheaves, oh, bind my heart. FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. TAXATION OF THE COLONIES. 1. Sir: I agree with the honorable gentleman who spoke last, that this subject is not new to this House. Very disagreeably to this House, very unfortunately to this nation, and to the peace and prosperity of this whole empire, no topic has been more familiar to us. For nine long years, session after session, we have been lashed round and round this miserable circle of occasional arguments and temporary expedients. 2. I am sure our heads must turn and our stomachs nauseate with them. We have had them in every shape. We have looked at them in every point of view. Invention is exhausted; reason is fatigued; experience has given judgment; but obstinacy is not yet conquered. 3. The act of 1767, which grants this tea-duty, sets forth in its preamble, that it was expedient to raise a revenue in America for the support of the civil government there, as well as for purposes still more extensive. About two years after this act was passed, the ministry thought it expedient to repeal five of the duties, and to leave (for reasons best known to themselves) only the sixth standing. 4. But I hear it rung continually in my ears, now and formerly,--"The preamble! what will become of the preamble if you repeal this tax?" The clerk will be so good as to turn to this act, and to read this favorite preamble. 5. "Whereas it is expedient that a revenue should be raised in your Majesty's dominions in America, for making a more certain and adequate provision for defraying the charge of the administration of justice and support of civil government in such provinces where it shall be found necessary, and towards further defraying the expenses of defending, protecting, and securing the said dominions." 6. You have heard this pompous performance. Now, where is the revenue which is to do all these mighty things? Five-sixths repealed,--abandoned,--sunk,--gone,--lost forever. Does the poor solitary tea-duty support the purposes of this preamble? Is not the supply there stated as effectually abandoned as if the tea-duty had perished in the general wreck? Here, Mr. Speaker, is a precious mockery:--a preamble without an act,--taxes granted in order to be repealed,--and the reason of the grant carefully kept up! This is raising a revenue in America! This is preserving dignity in England! 7. Never did a people suffer so much for the empty words of a preamble. It must be given up. For on what principle does it stand? This famous revenue stands, at this hour, on all the debate, as a description of revenue not as yet known in all the comprehensive (but too comprehensive!) vocabulary of finance--a preambulary tax. It is, indeed, a tax of sophistry, a tax of pedantry, a tax of disputation, a tax of war and rebellion, a tax for anything but benefit to the imposers or satisfaction to the subject. 8. Well! but whatever it is, gentlemen will force the colonists to take the teas. You will force them? Has seven years' struggle been yet able to force them? Oh, but it seems "we are in the right. The tax is trifling,--in effect rather an exoneration than an imposition; three-fourths of the duty formerly payable on teas exported to America is taken off,--the place of collection is only shifted; instead of the retention of a shilling from the drawback here, it is three-pence custom paid in America." 9. All this, sir, is very true. But this is the very folly and mischief of the act. Incredible as it may seem, you know that you have deliberately thrown away a large duty, which you held secure and quiet in your hands, for the vain hope of getting one three-fourths less, through every hazard, through certain litigation, and possibly through war. 10. Could anything be a subject of more just alarm to America, than to see you go out of the plain high-road of finance, and give up your most certain revenues and your clearest interest, merely for the sake of insulting the colonies? No man ever doubted that the commodity of tea could bear an imposition of three pence. But no commodity will bear three pence, or will bear a penny, when the general feelings of men are irritated, and two millions of people are resolved not to pay. 11. The feelings of the colonies were formerly the feelings of Great Britain. Theirs were formerly the feelings of Mr. Hampden, when called upon for the payment of twenty shillings. Would twenty shillings have ruined Mr. Hampden's fortune? No! but the payment of half twenty shillings, on the principle it was demanded, would have made him a slave. It is the weight of that preamble, of which you are so fond, and not the weight of the duty, that the Americans are unable and unwilling to bear. 12. It is, then, sir, upon the principle of this measure, and nothing else, that we are at issue. It is a principle of political expediency. Your act of 1767 asserts that it is expedient to raise a revenue in America; your act of 1769, which takes away that revenue, contradicts the act of 1767, and by something much stronger than words, asserts that it is not expedient. It is a reflection upon your wisdom to persist in a solemn parliamentary declaration of the expediency of any object, for which, at the same time, you make no provision. 13. And pray, sir, let not this circumstance escape you,--it is very material,--that the preamble of this act which we wish to repeal, is not declaratory of a right, as some gentlemen seem to argue it: it is only a recital of the expediency of a certain exercise of right supposed already to have been asserted; an exercise you are now contending for by ways and means which you confess, though they were obeyed, to be utterly insufficient for their purpose. You are, therefore, at this moment in the awkward situation of fighting for a phantom,--a quiddity,--a thing that wants not only a substance, but even a name,--for a thing which is neither abstract right nor profitable enjoyment. 14. They tell you, sir, that your dignity is tied to it. I know not how it happens, but this dignity of yours is a terrible incumbrance to you; for it has of late been ever at war with your interest, your equity, and every idea of your policy. Show the thing you contend for to be reason, show it to be common sense, show it to be the means of attaining some useful end, and then I am content to allow it what dignity you please. But what dignity is derived from the perseverance in absurdity is more than ever I could discern. 15. The honorable gentleman has said well, that this subject does not stand as it did formerly. Oh, certainly not! Every hour you continue on this ill-chosen ground, your difficulties thicken around you; and therefore my conclusion is, remove from a bad position as quickly as you can. The disgrace, and the necessity of yielding, both of them, grow upon you every hour of your delay. EDMUND BURKE. MY HEART LEAPS UP. My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began, So is it now I am a man, So be it when I shall grow old Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. WORDSWORTH. AS YOU LIKE IT. ACT III. SCENE II. _Ros._ [_Aside to Celia._] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey and under that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester? _Orl._ Very well: what would you? _Ros._ I pray you, what is't o'clock? _Orl._ You should ask me what time o' day: there's no clock in the forest. _Ros._ Then there is no true lover in the forest; else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock. _Orl._ And why not the swift foot of Time? had not that been as proper? _Ros._ By no means, sir: Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal. _Orl._ I prithee, who doth he trot withal? _Ros._ Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; if the interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years. _Orl._ Who ambles Time withal? _Ros._ With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout, for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain, the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury; these Time ambles withal. _Orl._ Who doth he galop withal? _Ros._ With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there. _Orl._ Who stays it still withal? _Ros._ With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves. _Orl._ Where dwell you, pretty youth? _Ros._ With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. _Orl._ Are you native of this place? _Ros._ As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled. _Orl._ Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so remov'd a dwelling. _Ros._ I have been told so of many: but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal. _Orl._ Can you remember any of the principal evils laid to the charge of women? _Ros._ There were none principal; they were all like one another as half-pence are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it. _Orl._ I prithee, recount some of them. _Ros._ No, I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him. _Orl._ I am he that is so love-shak'd: I pray you, tell me your remedy. _Ros._ There is none of my uncle's marks upon you: he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not prisoner. _Orl._ What were his marks? _Ros._ A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye, and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not; but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue: then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe unti'd and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation; but you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other. _Orl._ Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. _Ros._ Me believe it? you may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does: that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired? _Orl._ I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. _Ros._ But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak? _Orl._ Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. _Ros._ Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. _Orl._ Did you ever cure any so? _Ros._ Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every passion something and for no passion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cur'd him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't. _Orl._ I would not be cured, youth. _Ros._ I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo me. _Orl._ Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is. _Ros._ Go with me to it, and I'll show it you: and by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go? _Orl._ With all my heart, good youth. _Ros._ Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go? _CHAPTER II._ VITAL SLIDE. THE RISING IN 1776. I. Out of the north the wild news came, Far flashing on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies At midnight through the startled skies. And there was tumult in the air, The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And through the wide land everywhere The answering tread of hurrying feet; While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington; And Concord, roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swelled the discord of the hour. II. Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkley Manor stood; There Sunday found the rural folk, And some esteemed of gentle blood. In vain their feet with loitering tread Passed 'mid the graves where rank is naught; All could not read the lesson taught In that republic of the dead. III. How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk, The vale with peace and sunshine full Where all the happy people walk, Decked in their homespun flax and wool! Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom, And every maid with simple art, Wears on her breast, like her own heart, A bud whose depths are all perfume; While every garment's gentle stir Is breathing rose and lavender. IV. The pastor came; his snowy locks Hallowed his brow of thought and care; And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks, He led into the house of prayer. The pastor rose; the prayer was strong; The psalm was warrior David's song; The text, a few short words of might,-- "The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!" V. He spoke of wrongs too long endured, Of sacred rights to be secured; Then from his patriot tongue of flame The startling words for Freedom came. The stirring sentences he spake, Compelled the heart to glow or quake, And, rising on his theme's broad wing, And grasping in his nervous hand The imaginary battle-brand, In face of death he dared to fling Defiance to a tyrant king. VI. Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed In eloquence of attitude, Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside. And, lo! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise. VII. A moment there was awful pause,-- When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease! God's temple is the house of peace!" The other shouted, "Nay, not so, When God is with our righteous cause; His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers, That frown upon the tyrant foe; In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, There is a time to fight and pray!" VIII. And now before the open door-- The warrior priest had ordered so-- The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, Its long reverberating blow, So loud and clear, it seemed the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear. And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life; While overhead, with wild increase, Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, The great bell swung as ne'er before: It seemed as it would never cease; And every word its ardor flung From off its jubilant iron tongue Was, "WAR! WAR! WAR!" IX. "Who dares"--this was the patriot's cry, As striding from the desk he came,-- "Come out with me, in Freedom's name For her to live, for her to die?" A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices answered "I!" T. B. READ. THE TENT-SCENE BETWEEN BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. CASSIUS. That you have wronged me doth appear in this: You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein, my letters (praying on his side, Because I knew the man) were slighted off. BRUTUS. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case. CAS. At such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment. BRU. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm; To sell and mart your offices for gold, To undeservers. CAS. I an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. BRU. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. CAS. Chastisement? BRU. Remember March, the ides of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for justice's sake? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice?--What! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers;--shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes? And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. CAS. Brutus, bay not me: I'll not endure it. You forget yourself, To hedge me in: I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. BRU. Go to; you're not, Cassius. CAS. I am. BRU. I say you are not. CAS. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself: Have mind upon your health: tempt me no further. BRU. Away, slight man! CAS. Is't possible! BRU. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? CAS. Must I endure all this? BRU. All this? Ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break. Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you: for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth; yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish. CAS. Is it come to this? BRU. You say you are a better soldier; Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. CAS. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus; I said an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say better? BRU. If you did I care not. CAS. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. BRU. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him! CAS. I durst not? BRU. No. CAS. What! Durst not tempt him? BRU. For your life you durst not. CAS. Do not presume too much upon my love; I may do that I shall be sorry for. BRU. You have done that which you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats! For I am armed so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me:-- For I can raise no money by vile means: I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions; Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts; Dash him to pieces! CAS. I denied you not. BRU. You did. CAS. I did not: He was but a fool That brought my answer back.--Brutus hath rived my heart, A friend should bear a friend's infirmities; But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. BRU. I do not, till you practice them on me. CAS. You love me not. BRU. I do not like your faults. CAS. A friendly eye could never see such faults. BRU. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. CAS. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come! Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius: For Cassius is a-weary of the world-- Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from my eyes!--There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold: If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth: I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart. Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar; for I know, Then thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. BRU. Sheath your dagger; Be angry when you will, it shall have scope: Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger, as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. CAS. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him? BRU. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. CAS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand BRU. And my heart, too. CAS. O Brutus! BRU. What's the matter? CAS. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful? BRU. Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. SHAKESPEARE. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. I. Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now; The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. II. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe; It rises, roars, rends all outright--O Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright; the high sun shines not so: The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show; III. The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow Sinks on the anvil--all about the faces fiery grow-- "Hurrah!" they shout--"leap out!--leap out!" bang, bang, the sledges go. IV. Leap out, leap out, my masters! leap out and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road; The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea, the main-mast by the board; V. The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains; But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high. Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing--here am I!" VI. Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime; But while ye swing your sledges, sing, and let the burden be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we. VII. Strike in, strike in; the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery, rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave away, and the sighing seaman's cheer. VIII. In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last, A shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou had'st life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea! IX. O deep-sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plump, plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! Then deep in tanglewoods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn; To leave the subtle sworder-fish, of bony blade forlorn, And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn. X. O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line; And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play; But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave; A fisher's joy is to destroy--thine office is to save. XI. O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend; O couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst leap within the sea! XII. Give honor to their memories, who left the pleasant strand To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland-- Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave So freely for a restless bed amid the tossing wave-- O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among! S. FERGUSON. SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS. 1. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that in the beginning we aimed not at independence. But there's a divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England has driven us to arms; and, blinded to her own interest for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why, then, should we defer the Declaration? 2. Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life and his own honor? Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you not both already the prescribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws? 3. If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on or give up the war? Do we mean to submit to the measures of Parliament, Boston Port Bill, and all? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust? 4. I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall submit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting before God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives? 5. I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved you that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces raised, or to be raised, for the defence of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him. 6. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And if the war must go on, why put off longer the Declaration of Independence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct towards us has been a course of injustice and oppression. 7. Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things which now predestinates our independence, than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she would regard as the result of fortune; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, do we not as soon as possible change this from a civil to a national war? And since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory? 8. If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies; the cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these colonies, and I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. 9. Sir, the Declaration will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for the restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities held under a British king, set before them the glorious object of entire independence and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. 10. Read this Declaration at the head of the army; every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honor. Publish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls; proclaim it there; let them hear it who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon; let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out in its support. 11. Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see clearly through this day's business. You and I, indeed, may rue it. We may not live to the time when this Declaration shall be made good. We may die; die colonists; die slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously, and on the scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a free country. 12. But whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, I see the brightness of the future as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual return, they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy. 13. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it; and I leave off as I began, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment,--independence now, and INDEPENDENCE FOREVER! DANIEL WEBSTER. LIFE AND SONG. I. If life were caught by a clarionet, And a wild heart throbbing in the reed, Should thrill its joy and trill its fret, And utter its heart in every deed, II. Then would this breathing clarionet Type what the poet fain would be; For none o' the singers ever yet Has wholly lived his minstrelsy; III. Or clearly sung his true, true thought; Or utterly bodied forth his life, Or out of life and song has wrought The perfect one of man and wife; IV. Or lived and sung, that Life and Song Might each express the other's all, Careless if life or art were long Since both were one, to stand or fall. V. So that the wonder struck the crowd, Who shouted it about the land: His song was only living aloud, His work, a singing with his hand! SIDNEY LANIER. GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK. I. Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Pibroch of Donuil Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war-array, Gentles and commons. II. Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlocky. Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one. III. Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes. IV. Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended, Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, Tenant and master. V. Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Knell for the onset! SIR WALTER SCOTT. NUTTING. I. It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame-- Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,--and, in truth, More ragged than need was! II. O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene!--A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet;--or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. III. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on Forever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And--with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep-- I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. IV. Then up I rose, And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage; and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past; Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky-- Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE DODSON FAMILY. _From Mill on the Floss._ PART I. 1. The Dodsons were certainly a handsome family, and Mrs. Glegg was not the least handsome of the sisters. As she sat in Mrs. Tulliver's arm-chair, no impartial observer could have denied that for a woman of fifty she had a very comely face and figure. It is true she despised the advantages of costume, for though, as she often observed, no woman had better clothes, it was not her way to wear her new things out before her old ones. Other women, if they liked, might have their best thread-lace in every wash; but when Mrs. Glegg died, it would be found that she had better lace laid by in the right-hand drawer of her wardrobe, in the Spotted Chamber, than ever Mrs. Wooll of St. Ogg's had bought in her life, although Mrs. Wooll wore her lace before it was paid for. 2. So of her curled fronts: to look out on the week-day world from under a crisp and glossy front, would be to introduce a most dreamlike and unpleasant confusion between the sacred and the secular. Occasionally, indeed, Mrs. Glegg wore one of her third-best fronts on a week-day visit, but not at a sister's house; especially not at Mrs. Tulliver's, who, since her marriage, had hurt her sisters' feelings greatly by wearing her own hair. But Bessy was always weak! 3. So if Mrs. Glegg's front to-day was more fuzzy and lax than usual, she had a design under it: she intended the most pointed and cutting allusion to Mrs. Tulliver's bunches of blond curls, separated from each other by a due wave of smoothness on each side of the parting. Mrs. Tulliver had shed tears several times at sister Glegg's unkindness on the subject of these unmatronly curls, but the consciousness of looking the handsomer for them, naturally administered support. 4. Mrs. Glegg chose to wear her bonnet in the house to-day--untied and tilted slightly, of course--a frequent practice of hers when she was on a visit, and happened to be in a severe humor: she didn't know what draughts there might be in strange houses. For the same reason she wore a small sable tippet, which reached just to her shoulders, and was very far from meeting across her well-formed chest, while her long neck was protected by a _chevaux-de-frise_ of miscellaneous frilling. One would need to be learned in the fashions of those times to know how far in the rear of them Mrs. Glegg's slate-colored silk gown must have been; but from certain constellations of small yellow spots upon it, and a mouldy odor about it suggestive of a damp clothes-chest, it was probable that it belonged to a stratum of garments just old enough to have come recently into wear. 5. Mrs. Glegg held her large gold watch in her hand with the many-doubled chain round her fingers, and observed to Mrs. Tulliver, who had just returned from a visit to the kitchen, that whatever it might be by other people's clocks and watches, it was gone half-past twelve by hers. 6. "I don't know what ails sister Pullet," she continued. "It used to be the way in our family for one to be as early as another,--I'm sure it was so in my poor father's time,--and not for one sister to sit half an hour before the others came. But if the ways o' the family are altered, it shan't be _my_ fault--_I'll_ never be the one to come into a house when all the rest are going away. I wonder _at_ sister Deane--she used to be more like me. But if you'll take my advice, Bessy, you'll put the dinner forrard a bit, sooner than put it back, because folks are late as ought to ha' known better." 7. "Oh dear, there's no fear but what they'll be all here in time, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver, in her mild-peevish tone. "The dinner won't be ready till half-past one. But if it's long for you to wait, let me fetch you a cheesecake and a glass o' wine." "Well, Bessy!" said Mrs. Glegg, with a bitter smile, and a scarcely perceptible toss of her head, "I should ha' thought you'd known your own sister better. I never _did_ eat between meals, and I'm not going to begin. Not but what I hate that nonsense of having your dinner at half-past one, when you might have it at one. You was never brought up in that way, Bessy." 8. "Why, Jane, what can I do? Mr. Tulliver doesn't like his dinner before two o'clock, but I put it half an hour earlier because o' you." "Yes, yes, I know how it is with husbands--they're for putting everything off--they'll put the dinner off till after tea, if they've got wives as are weak enough to give in to such work; but it's a pity for you, Bessy, as you haven't got more strength o' mind. It'll be well if your children don't suffer for it. And I hope you've not gone and got a great dinner for us. A boiled joint, as you could make broth of for the kitchen," Mrs. Glegg added, in a tone of emphatic protest, "and a plain pudding, with a spoonful o' sugar, and no spice, 'ud be far more becoming." 9. With sister Glegg in this humor, there was a cheerful prospect for the day. Mrs. Tulliver never went the length of quarrelling with her, but this point of the dinner was a tender one, and not at all new, so that she could make the same answer she had often made before. "Mr. Tulliver says he always _will_ have a good dinner for his friends while he can pay for it," she said, "and he's a right to do as he likes in his own house, sister." 10. "Well, Bessy, _I_ can't leave your children enough out o' my savings, to keep 'em from ruin. And you mustn't look to having any o' Mr. Glegg's money, for it's well if I don't go first--he comes of a long-lived family; and if he was to die and leave me well for my life, he'd tie all the money up to go back to his own kin." 11. The sound of wheels while Mrs. Glegg was speaking was an interruption highly welcome to Mrs. Tulliver, who hastened out to receive sister Pullet--it must be sister Pullet, because the sound was that of a four-wheel. PART II. 1. Sister Pullet was in tears when the one-horse chaise stopped before Mrs. Tulliver's door, and it was apparently requisite that she should shed a few more before getting out, for though her husband and Mrs. Tulliver stood ready to support her, she sat still and shook her head sadly, as she looked through her tears at the vague distance. "Why, whativer is the matter, sister?" said Mrs. Tulliver. 2. There was no reply but a further shake of the head, as Mrs. Pullet slowly rose and got down from the chaise, not without casting a glance at Mr. Pullet to see that he was guarding her handsome silk dress from injury. Mr. Pullet was a small man with a high nose, small twinkling eyes, and thin lips, in a fresh-looking suit of black and a white cravat, that seemed to have been tied very tight on some higher principle than that of mere personal ease. 3. It is a pathetic sight and a striking example of the complexity introduced into the emotions by a high state of civilization--the sight of a fashionably drest female in grief. Perceiving that the tears are hurrying fast, she unpins her strings and throws them languidly backward--a touching gesture, indicative, even in the deepest gloom, of the hope in future dry moments when cap-strings will once more have a charm. 4. Mrs. Pullet brushed each doorpost with great nicety, about the latitude of her shoulders (at that period a woman was truly ridiculous to an instructed eye if she did not measure a yard and a half across the shoulders), and having done that, sent the muscles of her face in quest of fresh tears as she advanced into the parlor where Mrs. Glegg was seated. 5. "Well, sister, you're late; what's the matter?" said Mrs. Glegg, rather sharply, as they shook hands. Mrs. Pullet sat down--lifting up her mantle carefully behind, before she answered-- "She's gone. Died the day before yesterday, an' her legs was as thick as my body," she added, with deep sadness, after a pause. "They'd tapped her no end o' times, and the water--they say you might ha' swum in it, if you'd liked." 6. "Well, Sophy, it's a mercy she's gone, then, whoever she may be," said Mrs. Glegg, with the promptitude and emphasis of a mind naturally clear and decided; "but I can't think who you're talking of, for my part." "But _I_ know," said Mrs. Pullet, sighing and shaking her head; "and there isn't another such a dropsy in the parish. _I_ know as its old Mrs. Sutton o' the Twentylands." "Well, she's no kin o' yours, nor much acquaintance as I've ever heared of," said Mrs. Glegg, who always cried just as much as was proper when anything happened to her own "kin," but not on other occasions. 7. "She said to me, when I went to see her last Christmas, she said, 'Mrs. Pullet, if ever you have the dropsy, you'll think o' me.' She _did_ say so," added Mrs. Pullet, beginning to cry bitterly again; "those were her very words. And she's to be buried o' Saturday, and Pullet's bid to the funeral." "Sophy," said Mrs. Glegg, unable any longer to contain her spirit of rational remonstrance--"Sophy, I wonder _at_ you, fretting and injuring your health about people as don't belong to you. Your poor father never did so, nor your aunt Frances neither, nor any o' the family as I ever heard of. You couldn't fret no more than this, if we'd heared as our cousin Abbott had died sudden without making his will." 8. Mrs. Pullet was silent, having to finish her crying, and rather flattered than indignant at being upbraided for crying too much. "Ah!" she sighed, shaking her head at the idea that there were but few who could enter fully into her experiences. "Sister, I may as well go and take my bonnet off now. Did you see as the cap-box was put out?" she added, turning to her husband. Mr. Pullet, by an unaccountable lapse of memory, had forgotten it, and hastened out, with a stricken conscience, to remedy the omission. 9. "They'll bring it up-stairs, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver, wishing to go at once, for she was fond of going up-stairs with her sister Pullet, and looking thoroughly at her cap before she put it on her head, and discussing millinery in general. This was part of Bessy's weakness, that stirred Mrs. Glegg's sisterly compassion: Bessy went far too well drest, considering. But when Mrs. Pullet was alone with Mrs. Tulliver up-stairs, the remarks were naturally to the disadvantage of Mrs. Glegg, and they agreed, in confidence, that there was no knowing what sort of fright sister Jane would come out next. GEORGE ELIOT. AFTER THE MARCH RAIN. I. The Cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! II. Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon: There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. _CHAPTER III._ SLIDE IN VOLUME. FIRST BATTLES OF THE REVOLUTION. I. 1. We have cause for honest complacency, that when the distant citizen of our own republic, when the stranger from foreign lands, inquires for the spots where the noble blood of the Revolution began to flow, where the first battle of that great and glorious contest was fought, he is guided through the villages of Middlesex, to the plains of Lexington and Concord. It is a commemoration of our soil, to which ages, as they pass, will add dignity and interest; till the names of Lexington and Concord in the annals of freedom, will stand by the side of the most honorable names in Roman or Grecian story. 2. It was one of those great days, one of those elemental occasions in the world's affairs, when the people rise and act for themselves. Some organization and preparation had been made; but from the nature of the case, with scarce any effect on the events of that day. 3. It may be doubted whether there was an efficient order given, the whole day, to any body of men as large as a regiment. It was the people, in their first capacity, as citizens and as freemen, starting from their beds at midnight, from their firesides and from their fields, to take their own cause into their own hands. 4. Such a spectacle is the height of the moral sublime; when the want of everything is fully made up by the spirit of the cause, and the soul within stands in place of discipline, organization, and resources. In the prodigious efforts of a veteran army, beneath the dazzling splendor of their array, there is something revolting to the reflective mind. 5. The ranks are filled with the desperate, the mercenary, the depraved; an iron slavery, by the name of subordination, merges the free will of one hundred thousand men in the unqualified despotism of one; the humanity, mercy, and remorse, which scarce ever desert the individual bosom, are sounds without a meaning to that fearful, ravenous, irrational monster of prey, a mercenary army. It is hard to say who are most to be commiserated, the wretched people on whom it is let loose, or the still more wretched people whose substance has been sucked out to nourish it into strength and fury. 6. But in the efforts of the people,--of the people struggling for their rights, moving, not in organized, disciplined masses, but in their spontaneous action, man for man, and heart for heart,--there is something glorious. They can then move forward without orders, act together without combination, and brave the flaming lines of battle, without intrenchments to cover or walls to shield them. 7. No dissolute camp has worn off from the feelings of the youthful soldier the freshness of that home, where his mother and his sister sit waiting, with tearful eyes and aching hearts, to hear good news from the wars; no long service in the ranks of a conqueror has turned the veteran's heart into marble; their valor springs not from recklessness, from habit, from indifference to the preservation of a life knit by no pledges to the life of others. But in the strength and spirit of the cause alone they act, they contend, they bleed. In this they conquer. 8. The people always conquer. They always must conquer. Armies may be defeated, kings may be overthrown, and new dynasties imposed, by foreign arms, on an ignorant and slavish race, that care not in what language the covenant of their subjection runs, nor in whose name the deed of their barter and sale is made out. But the people never invade; and, when they rise against the invader, are never subdued. 9. If they are driven from the plains, they fly to the mountains. Steep rocks and everlasting hills are their castles; the tangled, pathless thicket their palisado, and God is their ally. Now he overwhelms the hosts of their enemies beneath his drifting mountains of sand; now he buries them beneath a falling atmosphere of polar snows; he lets loose his tempests on their fleets; he puts a folly into their counsels, a madness into the hearts of their leaders; and never gave, and never will give, a final triumph over a virtuous and gallant people, resolved to be free. EDWARD EVERETT. THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. I. Here are old trees--tall oaks and gnarled pines-- That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. II. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass, A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades-- Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old-- My thoughts go up the long, dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of liberty. III. O Freedom, thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses, gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. IV. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee bound, The links are shivered, and the prison walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. V. Thy birthright was not given by human hands; Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, To tend the quiet flock, and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou, by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes; and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrows on the mountain-side, Soft with the deluge. VI. Tyranny himself, Thy enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, Is later born than thou; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye, The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. VII. O, not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom, close thy lids In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, And thou must watch and combat till the day Of the new earth and heaven. VIII. But wouldst thou rest Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, These old and friendly solitudes invite Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees Were young upon the unviolated earth, And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. NATIONAL BANKRUPTCY. FROM A SPEECH BEFORE THE NATIONAL CONVENTION OF FRANCE, 1789. 1. I hear much said of patriotism, appeals to patriotism, transports of patriotism. Gentlemen, why prostitute this noble world? Is it so very magnanimous to give up a part of your income in order to save your whole property? This is very simple arithmetic; and he that hesitates, deserves contempt rather than indignation. 2. Yes, gentlemen, it is to your immediate self-interest, to your most familiar notions of prudence and policy that I now appeal. I say not to you now, as heretofore, beware how you give the world the first example of an assembled nation untrue to the public faith. 3. I ask you not, as heretofore, what right you have to freedom, or what means of maintaining it, if, at your first step in administration, you outdo in baseness all the old and corrupt governments. I tell you, that unless you prevent this catastrophe, you will all be involved in the general ruin; and that you are yourselves the persons most deeply interested in making the sacrifices which the government demands of you. 4. I exhort you, then, most earnestly, to vote these extraordinary supplies; and God grant they may prove sufficient! Vote, then, I beseech you; for, even if you doubt the expediency of the means, you know perfectly well that the supplies are necessary, and that you are incapable of raising them in any other way. Vote them at once, for the crisis does not admit of delay; and, if it occurs, we must be responsible for the consequences. 5. Beware of asking for time. Misfortune accords it never. While you are lingering, the evil day will come upon you. Why, gentlemen, it is but a few days since, that upon occasion of some foolish bustle in the Palais Royal, some ridiculous insurrection that existed nowhere but in the heads of a few weak or designing individuals, we were told with emphasis, "Catiline is at the gates of Rome, and yet we deliberate." 6. We know, gentlemen, that this was all imagination. We are far from being at Rome; nor is there any Catiline at the gates of Paris. But now are we threatened with a real danger; bankruptcy, national bankruptcy, is before you; it threatens to swallow up your persons, your property, your honor,--and yet you deliberate. MIRABEAU. THE LANTERN BEARERS. 1. These boys congregated every autumn about a certain easterly fisher-village, where they tasted in a high degree the glory of existence. The place was created seemingly on purpose for the diversion of young gentlemen. A street or two of houses, mostly red and many of them tiled; a number of fine trees clustered about the manse and the kirkyard, and turning the chief street into a shady alley; many little gardens more than usually bright with flowers; nets a-drying, and fisher-wives scolding in the backward parts; a smell of fish, a genial smell of seaweed; whiffs of blowing sand at the street corners; shops with golf-balls and bottled lollipops; such, as well as memory serves me, were the ingredients of the town. 2. These, you are to conceive posted on a spit between two sandy bays, and sparsely flanked with villas--enough for the boys to lodge in with their subsidiary parents, not enough (not yet enough) to cocknify the scene; a haven in the rocks in front: in front of that, a file of gray islets; to the left, endless links and sand wreaths, a wilderness of hiding-holes, alive with popping rabbits and soaring gulls: to the right, a range of seaward crags, one rugged brow beyond another; the ruins of a mighty and ancient fortress on the brink of one; coves between--now charmed into sunshine quiet, now whistling with wind and clamorous with bursting surges; the dens and sheltered hollows redolent of thyme and southernwood, the air at the cliff's edge brisk and clean and pungent of the sea--in front of all, the Bass Rock, tilted seaward like a doubtful bather, the surf ringing it with white, the solan-geese hanging round its summit like a great and glittering smoke. 3. This choice piece of seaboard was sacred, besides, to the wrecker; and the Bass, in the eye of fancy, still flew the colors of King James; and in the ear of fancy the arches of Tantallon still rang with horse-shoe iron, and echoed to the commands of Bell--the--Cat. 4. ... But what my memory dwells upon the most was a sport peculiar to the place, and indeed to a week or so of our two months' holiday there. Maybe it still flourishes in its native spot; for boys and their pastimes are swayed by periodic forces inscrutable to man; so that tops and marbles reappear in their due season, regular like the sun and moon; and the harmless art of knuckle-bones has seen the fall of the Roman empire and the rise of the United States. 5. It may still flourish in its native spot, but nowhere else, I am persuaded; for I tried myself to introduce it on Tweed-side, and was defeated lamentably; its charm being quite local, like a country wine that cannot be exported. 6. The idle manner of it was this: Toward the end of September, when school-time was drawing near and the nights were already black, we would begin to sally from our respective villas, each equipped with a tin bull's-eye lantern. The thing was so well known that it had worn a rut in the commerce of Great Britain; and the grocers, about the due time, began to garnish their windows with our particular brand of luminary. We wore them buckled to the waist upon a cricket belt, and over them, such was the rigour of the game, a buttoned top-coat. They smelled noisomely of blistered tin; they never burned aright, though they would always burn our fingers; their use was naught; the pleasure of them merely fanciful; and yet a boy with a bull's-eye under his top-coat asked for nothing more. 7. The fishermen used lanterns about their boats, and it was from them, I suppose, that we had got the hint; but theirs were not bull's-eyes, nor did we ever play at being fishermen. The police carried them at their belts, and we had plainly copied them in that; yet we did not pretend to be policemen. Burglars, indeed, we may have had some haunting thoughts of; and we had certainly an eye to past ages when lanterns were more common, and to certain story-books in which we had found them to figure very largely. But take it for all in all, the pleasure of the thing was substantive, and to be a boy with a bull's-eye under his top-coat was good enough for us. 8. When two of these asses met, there would be an anxious "Have you got your lantern?" and a gratified "Yes!" That was the shibboleth, and very needful too; for, as it was the rule to keep our glory contained, none could recognize a lantern bearer, unless (like the pole-cat) by the smell. Four or five would sometimes climb into the belly of a ten-man lugger, with nothing but the thwarts above them--for the cabin was usually locked, or choose out some hollow of the links where the wind might whistle overhead. There the coats would be unbuttoned and the bull's-eyes discovered; and in the chequering glimmer, under the huge windy hall of the night, and cheered by a rich steam of toasting tinware, these fortunate young gentlemen would crouch together in the cold sands of the links or on the scaly bilges of the fishing-boat, and delight themselves with inappropriate talk. 9. Woe is me that I may not give some specimens--some of their foresights of life, or deep inquiries into the rudiments of man and nature, these were so fiery and so innocent, they were so richly silly, so romantically young. But the talk at any rate was but a condiment; and these gatherings themselves only accidents in the career of the lantern bearer. The essence of this bliss was to walk by yourself in the black night; the slide shut, the top-coat buttoned; not a ray escaping, whether to conduct your footsteps or to make your glory public: a mere pillar of darkness in the dark; and all the while, deep down in the privacy of your fool's heart, to know you had a bull's-eye at your belt, and to exult and sing over the knowledge. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TARPEIA. Woe: lightly to part with one's soul as the sea with its foam! Woe to Tarpeia, Tarpeia, daughter of Rome! Lo, now it was night, with the moon looking chill as she went: It was morn when the innocent stranger strayed into the tent. The hostile Sabini were pleased, as one meshing a bird; She sang for them there in the ambush: they smiled as they heard. Her sombre hair purpled in gleams, as she leaned to the light; All day she had idled and feasted, and now it was night. The chief sat apart, heavy-browed, brooding elbow on knee; The armlets he wore were thrice royal, and wondrous to see: Exquisite artifice, work of barbaric design, Frost's fixèd mimicry; orbic imaginings fine In sevenfold coils: and in orient glimmer from them, The variform voluble swinging of gem upon gem. And the glory thereof sent fever and fire to her eye. "I had never such trinkets!" she sighed,--like a lute was her sigh. "Were they mine at the plea, were they mine for the token, all told, Now the citadel sleeps, now my father the keeper is old," "If I go by the way that I know, and thou followest hard, If yet at the touch of Tarpeia the gates be unbarred?" The chief trembled sharply for joy, then drew rein on his soul: "Of all this arm beareth I swear I will cede thee the whole." And up from the nooks of the camp, with hoarse plaudit outdealt, The bearded Sabini glanced hotly, and vowed as they knelt, Bare-stretching the wrists that bore also the glowing great boon: "Yea! surely as over us shineth the lurid low moon, "Not alone of our lord, but of each of us take what he hath! Too poor is the guerdon, if thou wilt but show us the path!" Her nostril upraised, like a fawn's on the arrowy air, She sped, in a serpentine gleam to the precipice stair. They climbed in her traces, they closed on their evil swift star: She bent to the latches, and swung the huge portal ajar. Repulsed where they passed her, half-tearful for wounded belief, "The bracelets!" she pleaded. Then faced her, the leonine chief, And answered her: "Even as I promised, maid-merchant, I do." Down from his dark shoulder the baubles he sullenly drew. "This left arm shall nothing begrudge thee. Accept. Find it sweet. Give, too, O my brothers!" The jewels he flung at her feet, The jewels hard heavy; she stooped to them, flushing with dread, But the shield he flung after: it clanged on her beautiful head. Like the Apennine bells when the villagers' warnings begin, Athwart the first lull broke the ominous din upon din; With a "Hail, benefactress!" upon her they heaped in their zeal Death: agate and iron; death: chrysoprase, beryl and steel. 'Neath the outcry of scorn, 'neath the sinewy tension and hurl, The moaning died slowly, and still they massed over the girl A mountain of shields! and the gemmy hight tangle in links, A torrent-like gush, pouring out on the grass from the chinks, Pyramidal gold! the sumptuous monument won By the deed they had loved her for, doing, and loathed her for, done. Such was the wage that they paid her, such the acclaim: All Rome was aroused with the thunder that buried her shame. On surged the Sabini to battle. O you that aspire! Tarpeia the traitor had fill of her woman's desire. Woe: lightly to part with one's soul as the sea with its foam! Woe to Tarpeia, Tarpeia, daughter of Rome! LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. THE BELLS. I. Hear the sledges with the bells-- Silver bells. What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight, Keeping, time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II. Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, All in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells, How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! III. Hear the loud alarum bells-- Brazen bells! What a tale of terror now, their turbulency tells! In the startled air of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now--now to sit, or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-- Of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! IV. Hear the tolling of the bells-- Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright With the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people--ah, the people-- They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone-- They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute nor human-- They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the pæan of the bells! And he dances, and he yells, Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the pæan of the bells-- Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells-- To the sobbing of the bells, Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, To the tolling of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells; Bells, bells, bells-- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells! E. A. POE. THE TEMPERANCE QUESTION. 1. Some men look upon this temperance cause as a whining bigotry, narrow asceticism, or a vulgar sentimentality, fit for little minds, weak women, and weaker men. On the contrary, I regard it as second only to one or two others of the primary reforms of the age, and for this reason: every race has its peculiar temptation; every clime has its specific sin. 2. The tropics and tropical races are tempted to one form of sensuality; the colder and temperate regions, and our Saxon blood, find their peculiar temptation in the stimulus of drink and food. In old times our heaven was a drunken revel. We relieve ourselves from the over-weariness of constant and exhausting toil by intoxication. Science has brought a cheap means of drunkenness within the reach of every individual. 3. National prosperity and free institutions have put into the hands of almost every workman the means of being drunk for a week on the labor of two or three hours. With that blood and that temptation, we have adopted democratic institutions, where the law has no sanctions but the purpose and virtue of the masses. The statute book rests not on bayonets, as in Europe, but on the hearts of the people. 4. A drunken people can never be the basis of a free government. It is the corner-stone neither of virtue, prosperity, nor progress. To us, therefore, the title-deeds of whose estates, and the safety of whose lives depend upon the tranquility of the streets, upon the virtue of the masses, the presence of any vice which brutalizes the average mass of mankind, and tends to make it more readily the tool of intriguing and corrupt leaders, is necessarily a stab at the very life of the nation. Against such a vice is marshalled the Temperance Reformation. 5. That my sketch is no fancy picture every one of you knows. Every one of you can glance back over your own path, and count many and many a one among those who started from the goal at your side, with equal energy and perhaps greater promise, who has found a drunkard's grave long before this. The brightness of the bar, the ornament of the pulpit, the hope and blessing and stay of many a family--you know, every one of you who has reached middle life, how often on your path you set up the warning, "Fallen before the temptations of the street!" 6. Hardly one house in this city, whether it be full and warm with all the luxury of wealth, or whether it find hard, cold maintenance by the most earnest economy; no matter which--hardly a house that does not count among sons or nephews some victim of this vice. The skeleton of this warning sits at every board. The whole world is kindred in this suffering. The country mother launches her boy with trembling upon the temptations of city life; the father trusts his daughter anxiously to the young man she has chosen, knowing what a wreck intoxication may make of the house-tree they set up. 7. Alas! how often are their worst forebodings more than fulfilled! I have known a case--probably many of you recall some almost equal to it--where one worthy woman could count father, brother, husband, and son-in-law all drunkards--no man among her near kindred, except her son, who was not a victim of this vice. Like all other appetites, this finds resolution weak when set against the constant presence of temptation. WENDELL PHILLIPS. SHERIDAN'S RIDE. I. Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan--twenty miles away! II. And wilder still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan--twenty miles away! III. But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down; And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night, Was seen to pass as with eagle flight-- As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with the utmost speed; Hills rose and fell--but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away! IV. Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like the smoke from the cannon's mouth, Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster; The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battlefield calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away! V. Under his spurning feet the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire. But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire-- He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away! VI. The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done--what to do--a glance told him both, Then striking his spurs with a muttered oath, He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzahs, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, "I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day!" VII. Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky-- The American soldier's temple of Fame,-- There, with the glorious General's name, Be it said in letters both bold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day, By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester--twenty miles away!" T. B. READ. TO A PUPIL. Is reform needed? Is it through you? The greater the reform needed, the greater the Personality you need to accomplish it. You! do you not see how it would serve to have eyes, blood, complexion, clean and sweet? Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul that when you enter the crowd an atmosphere of desire and command enters with you, and every one is impressed with your Personality? O the magnet! the flesh over and over! Go dear friend, if need be give up all else and commence to-day to inure yourself to pluck, reality, self-esteem, definiteness, elevatedness, Rest not till you rivet and publish yourself of your own Personality. WALT WHITMAN. _CHAPTER IV._ FORMING PICTURES. THE PICKWICKIANS ON ICE. 1. "Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the agreeable items of strong beer and cherry-brandy, had been done ample justice to, "what say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time." "Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen. "Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer. "You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle. 2. "Ye--yes; oh, yes!" replied Mr. Winkle. "I--am rather out of practice." "Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so much!" "Oh, it is so graceful!" said another young lady. A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was "swan-like." 3. "I should be very happy, I am sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I have no skates." This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had got a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down-stairs; whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable. 4. Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and, the fat boy and Mr. Weller having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they called a reel. 5. All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates on with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet. 6. "Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone, "off with you, and show 'em how to do it." "Stop, Sam, stop!" said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it is, Sam!" "Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up, sir." This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made, at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice. 7. "These--these--are very awkward skates, ain't they, Sam?" inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering. "I'm afeered there's an orkard gen'lm'n in 'em, sir," replied Sam. "Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. "Come; the ladies are all anxiety." "Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle with a ghastly smile, "I'm coming." "Just a-goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. "Now, sir, start off." 8. "Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. "I find I've got a couple of coats at home that I don't want, Sam. You may have them, Sam." "Thankee, Sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle hastily. "You needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it to you this afternoon, Sam." "You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Just hold me at first, Sam, will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There, that's right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too fast!" 9. Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank,-- "Sam!" "Sir?" said Mr. Weller. "Here! I want you." "Let go, sir," said Sam; "don't you hear the governor a-callin'? Let go, sir." 10. With a violent effort Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian; and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet; but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance. 11. "Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen with great anxiety. "Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard. "I wish you would let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin Allen with great eagerness. "No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly. "I really think you had better," said Mr. Allen. "Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle, "I'd rather not." "What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer. 12. Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, "Take his skates off." "No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle. "Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly. The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in silence. "Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise. 13. Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the by-standers; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words: "You're a humbug, sir." "A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting. "A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer if you wish it. An imposter, sir." With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends. 14. While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavors cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon in a very masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy sliding, which is currently denominated "knocking at the cobbler's door," and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a twopenny postman's knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide; and there was something in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could not help envying. 15. "It looks a nice warm exercise, that, doesn't it?" he inquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath by reason of the indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice. "Ah, it does, indeed," replied Wardle. "Do you slide?" "I used to do so on the gutters, when I was a boy," replied Mr. Pickwick. "Try it now," said Wardle. "Oh, do please, Mr. Pickwick!" cried all the ladies. "I should be very happy to afford you any amusement," replied Mr. Pickwick; "but I haven't done such a thing these thirty years." 16. "Pooh! pooh! nonsense!" said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the impetuosity which characterized all his proceedings. "Here! I'll keep you company; come along." And away went the good-tempered old fellow down the slide with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing. Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves, and put them in his hat, took two or three short runs, balked himself as often, and at last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of all the spectators. 17. "Keep the pot a-bilin', sir," said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely upon each other's heels, and running after each other with as much eagerness as if all their future prospects in life depended on their expedition. 18. It was the most intensely interesting thing to observe the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind gaining upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually expend the painful force which he had put on at first, and turn slowly round on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he started; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor, his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down, (which happened upon the average every third round), it was the most invigorating sight that could possibly be imagined, to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the rank with an ardor and enthusiasm which nothing could abate. 19. The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp, smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared, the water bubbled up over it, and Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief were floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody could see. 20. Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance; the males turned pale, and the females fainted; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone down, with frenzied eagerness; while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to any person who might be within hearing the clearest possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming "Fire!" with all his might and main. 21. It was at this very moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching the hole with cautious steps and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional practice,--it was at this very moment that a face, head, and shoulders emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick. 22. "Keep yourself up for an instant, for only one instant," bawled Mr. Snodgrass. "Yes--do: let me implore you--for my sake," roared Mr. Winkle, deeply affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being, that, if Mr. Pickwick had not decided to keep himself up for anybody else's sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so for his own. "Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?" said Wardle. "Yes--certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head and face, and gasping for breath. "I fell upon my back. I couldn't get on my feet at first." 23. The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible bore testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and, as the fears of the spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity of splashing and cracking and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant situation, and once more stood on dry land. 24. Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off for home, presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an hour. CHARLES DICKENS. THE REALM OF FANCY. I. Ever let the Fancy roam; Pleasure never is at home: At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Then let wingéd Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her: Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. II. O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as does its blossoming; Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, Blushing through the mist and dew, Cloys with tasting: What do then? Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear faggot blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is muffled, And the cakéd snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky. III. Sit thee there, and send abroad, With a mind self-overaw'd, Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her! She has vassals to attend her: She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost; She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward of thorny spray; All the heapéd Autumn's wealth, With a still, mysterious stealth: IV. She will mix these pleasures up Like three fit wines in a cup, And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear; Rustle of the reapéd corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn: And, in the same moment--hark! 'Tis the early April lark, Or the rooks, with busy caw, Foraging for sticks and straw. V. Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold; White-plumed lilies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; Shaded hyacinth, alway Sapphire queen of the mid-May; And every leaf, and every flower Pearléd with the self-same shower. VI. Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep Meagre from its celléd sleep; And the snake all winter-thin Cast on sunny bank its skin; Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, When the hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest; Then the hurry and alarm When the bee-hive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering, While the autumn breezes sing. VII. Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; Everything is spoilt by use: Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place? Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. VIII. Let then wingéd Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash; Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bring. --Let the wingéd Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home. J. KEATS. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY. I. Oh, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the north, With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which we tread? II. Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that ye trod; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, Who sat in the high places, and slew the saints of God. III. It was about the noon of a glorious day in June, That we saw their banner's dance, and their cuirasses shine: And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine. IV. Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, The general rode along us, to form us to the fight, When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout, Among the godless horsemen, upon the tyrant's right. V. And, hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line! For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! VI. The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks, For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. VII. They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last. VIII. Stout Skippon hath a wound; the center hath given ground; Hark! hark! What means this trampling of horsemen in our rear? Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God! 'tis he, boys. Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here. IX. Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes; Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. X. Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar; And he--he turns, he flies:--shame on those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. LORD MACAULAY. THE GLORIES OF MORNING. 1. I had occasion, a few weeks since, to take the early train from Providence to Boston; and for this purpose rose at two o'clock in the morning. Everything around was wrapt in darkness and hushed in silence, broken only by what seemed at that hour the unearthly clank and rush of the train. It was a mild, serene, midsummer's night--the sky was without a cloud--the winds were whist. The moon, then in the last quarter, had just risen, and the stars shone with a spectral lustre but little affected by her presence. Jupiter two hours high, was the herald of the day; the Pleiades, just above the horizon, shed their sweet influence in the east; Lyra sparkled near the zenith; the steady pointers, far beneath the pole, looked meekly up from the depths of the north to their sovereign. 2. Such was the glorious spectacle as I entered the train. As we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense blue of the sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest; the sister-beams of the Pleiades soon melted together; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. Hands of angels, hidden from mortal eyes, shifted the scenery of the heavens; the glories of night dissolved into the glories of dawn. 3. The blue sky now turned more softly gray; the great watch-stars shut up their holy eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance; till at length, as we reached the Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds, the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began his state. 4. I do not wonder at the superstition of the ancient Magians, who in the morning of the world went up to the hill-tops of Central Asia, and, ignorant of the true God, adored the most glorious work of his hand. But I am filled with amazement, when I am told, that, in this enlightened age and in the heart of the Christian world, there are persons who can witness this daily manifestation of the power and wisdom of the Creator, and yet say in their hearts, "There is no God." EDWARD EVERETT. THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. I. This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purple wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. II. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl,-- Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,-- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! III. Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. IV. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is borne Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: V. Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! O. W. HOLMES. AUTUMN. 1. Once more I am upon this serene hill-top! The air is very clear, very still, and very solemn or, rather, tenderly sad, in its serene brightness. It is not that moist spring air, full of the smell of wood, of the soil, and of the odor of vegetation, which warm winds bring to us from the south. 2. It is not that summer atmosphere, full of alternations of haze and fervent clearness, as if Nature were calling into life every day some influence for its myriad children; sometimes in showers, and sometimes with coercive heat upon root and leaf; and, like a universal task-master, was driving up the hours to accomplish the labors of the year. 3. No! In these autumn days there is a sense of leisure and of meditation. The sun seems to look down upon the labors of its fiery hands with complacency. Be satisfied, O seasonable Sun! Thou hast shaped an ample year, and art garnering up harvests which well may swell thy rejoicing heart with gracious gladness. 4. One who breaks off in summer, and returns in autumn to the hills, needs almost to come to a new acquaintance with the most familiar things. It is another world; or it is the old world a-masquerading; and you halt, like one scrutinizing a disguised friend, between the obvious dissemblance and the subtile likeness. 5. Southward of our front door there stood two elms, leaning their branches toward each other, forming a glorious arch of green. Now, in faint yellow, they grow attenuated and seem as if departing; they are losing their leaves and fading out of sight, as trees do in twilight. Yonder, over against that young growth of birch and evergreen, stood, all summer long, a perfect maple-tree, rounded out on every side, thick with luxuriant foliage, and dark with greenness, save when the morning sun, streaming through it, sent transparency to its very heart. 6. Now it is a tower of gorgeous red. So sober and solemn did it seem all summer, that I should think as soon to see a prophet dancing at a peasant's holiday, as it transfigured to such intense gayety! Its fellows, too, the birches and the walnuts, burn from head to foot with fires that glow but never consume. 7. But these holiday hills! Have the evening clouds, suffused with sunset, dropped down and become fixed into solid forms? Have the rainbows that followed autumn storms faded upon the mountains and left their mantles there? Yet, with all their brilliancy, how modest do they seem; how patient when bare, or burdened with winter; how cheerful when flushed with summer-green, and how modest when they lift up their wreathed and crowned heads in the resplendent days of autumn! 8. I stand alone upon the peaceful summit of this hill, and turn in every direction. The east is all a-glow; the blue north flushes all her hills with radiance; the west stands in burnished armor; the southern hills buckle the zone of the horizon together with emeralds and rubies, such as were never set in the fabled girdle of the gods! Of gazing there cannot be enough. The hunger of the eye grows by feeding. 9. Only the brotherhood of evergreens--the pine, the cedar, the spruce, and the hemlock--refuse to join this universal revel. They wear their sober green through autumn and winter, as if they were set to keep open the path of summer through the whole year, and girdle all seasons together with a clasp of endless green. 10. But in vain do they give solemn examples to the merry leaves which frolic with every breeze that runs sweet riot in the glowing shades. Gay leaves will not be counselled, but will die bright and laughing. But both together--the transfigured leaves of deciduous trees and the calm unchangeableness of evergreens--how more beautiful are they than either alone! The solemn pine brings color to the cheek of the beeches, and the scarlet and golden maples rest gracefully upon the dark foliage of the million-fingered pine. 11. Lifted far above all harm of fowler or impediment of mountain, wild fowl are steadily flying southward. The simple sight of them fills the imagination with pictures. They have all summer long called to each other from the reedy fens and wild oat-fields of the far north. Summer is already extinguished there. 12. Winter is following their track, and marching steadily toward us. The spent flowers, the seared leaves, the thinning tree-tops, the morning frost, have borne witness of a change on earth; and these caravans of the upper air confirm the tidings. Summer is gone; winter is coming! 13. The wind has risen to-day. It is not one of those gusty, playful winds that frolic with the trees. It is a wind high up in air, that moves steadily, with a solemn sound, as if it were the spirit of summer journeying past us; and, impatient of delay, it does not stoop to the earth, but touches the tops of the trees, with a murmuring sound, sighing a sad farewell and passing on. 14. Such days fill one with pleasant sadness. How sweet a pleasure is there in sadness! It is not sorrow; it is not despondency; it is not gloom! It is one of the moods of joy. At any rate I am very happy, and yet it is sober, and very sad happiness. It is the shadow of joy upon the soul! I can reason about these changes. I can cover over the dying leaves with imaginations as bright as their own hues; and, by Christian faith, transfigure the whole scene with a blessed vision of joyous dying and glorious resurrection. 15. But what then? Such thoughts glow like evening clouds, and not far beneath them are the evening twilights, into whose dusk they will soon melt away. And all communions, and all admirations, and all associations, celestial or terrene, come alike into a pensive sadness, that is even sweeter than our joy. It is the minor key of our thoughts. HENRY WARD BEECHER. MIDSUMMER. I. Around this lovely valley rise The purple hills of Paradise. O, softly on yon banks of haze Her rosy face the Summer lays! Becalmed along the azure sky, The argosies of Cloudland lie, Whose shores, with many a shining rift, Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. II. Through all the long midsummer day The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. I seek the coolest sheltered seat, Just where the field and forest meet,-- Where grow the pine trees tall and bland, The ancient oaks austere and grand, And fringy roots and pebbles fret The ripples of the rivulet. III. I watch the mowers, as they go Through the tall grass a white-sleeved row. With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring. Behind, the nimble youngsters run, And toss the thick swaths in the sun. The cattle graze, while, warm and still, Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, And bright, where summer breezes break, The green wheat crinkles like a lake. IV. The butterfly and humble bee Come to the pleasant woods with me; Quickly before me runs the quail, Her chickens skulk behind the rail; High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, And the woodpecker pecks and flits, Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, The swarming insects drone and hum, The partridge beats his throbbing drum, The squirrel leaps among the boughs, And chatters in his leafy house, The oriole flashes by; and, look! Into the mirror of the brook, Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, Two tiny feathers fall and float. V. As silently, as tenderly, The down of peace descends on me. O, this is peace! I have no need Of friend to talk, of book to read. A dear Companion here abides; Close to my thrilling heart He hides; The holy silence is His voice: I lie and listen and rejoice. J. T. TROWBRIDGE THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES. I. That way look, my Infant, lo! What a pretty baby-show! See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves--one--two--and three-- From the lofty elder-tree! II. Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round they sink Slowly, slowly: one might think, From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or Faery hither tending,-- To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute, In his wavering parachute. III. --But the Kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! First at one, and then its fellow Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now--now one-- Now they stop and there are none. What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire! IV. With a tiger-leap half-way Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again: Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjurer; Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. V. Were her antics played in the eye Of a thousand standers-by, Clapping hands with shout and stare, What would little Tabby care For the plaudits of the crowd? Over happy to be proud, Over wealthy in the treasure Of her own exceeding pleasure! VI. Such a light of gladness breaks, Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,-- Spreads with such a living grace O'er my little Dora's face; Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, That almost I could repine That your transports are not mine, That I do not wholly fare Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! And I will have my careless season Spite of melancholy reason, Will walk through life in such a way That, when time brings on decay, Now and then I may possess Hours of perfect gladsomeness. VII. --Pleased by any random toy; By a kitten's busy joy, Or an infant's laughing eye Sharing in the ecstasy; I would fare like that or this, Find my wisdom in my bliss; Keep the sprightly soul awake, And have faculties to take, Even from things by sorrow wrought, Matter for a jocund thought, Spite of care, and spite of grief, To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. SUMMER STORM. I. Untremulous in the river clear, Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge; So still the air that I can hear The slender clarion of the unseen midge; Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep, Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases, Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases, The huddling trample of a drove of sheep Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases In dust on the other side; life's emblem deep, A confused noise between two silences, Finding at last in dust precarious peace. II. On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brimming tide, Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide Wavers the long green sedge's shade from side to side; But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge, Climbs a great cloud edged with sun-whitened spray; Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge, And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway. III. Suddenly all the sky is hid As with the shutting of a lid, One by one great drops are falling Doubtful and slow, Down the pane they are crookedly crawling, And the wind breathes low; Slowly the circles widen on the river, Widen and mingle, one and all; Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver, Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall. IV. Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter, The wind is gathering in the west; The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter, Then droop to a fitful rest; Up from the stream with sluggish flap Struggles the gull and floats away; Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap, We shall not see the sun go down to-day: Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, And tramples the grass with terrified feet, The startled river turns leaden and harsh. You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat. V. Look! look! that livid flash! And instantly follows the rattling thunder, As if some cloud-crag, split asunder, Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, On the Earth, which crouches in silence under; And now a solid gray wall of rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile; For a breath's space I see the blue wood again, And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile, That seemed but now a league aloof, Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof; Against the windows the storm comes dashing, Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, The blue lightning flashes, The rapid hail clashes, The white waves are tumbling, And, in one baffled roar, Like the toothless sea mumbling A rock-bristled shore, The thunder is rumbling And crashing and crumbling,-- Will silence return never more? VI. Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still; Again, now, now, again Plashes the rain in heavy gouts, The crinkled lightning Seems ever brightening, And loud and long Again the thunder shouts His battle-song,-- One quivering flash, One wildering crash, Followed by silence dead and dull, As if the cloud, let go, Leapt bodily below To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow, And then a total lull. VII. Gone, gone, so soon! No more my half-crazed fancy there Can shape a giant in the air, No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form; The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. JAQUES' SEVEN AGES OF MAN. All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits, and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping, like snail, Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then the soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like a pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances, And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side; His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange, eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. PUBLICATIONS BY CHARLES WESLEY EMERSON Physical Culture How to attain health, strength, grace, and beauty. Bodily education without the use of apparatus. �sthetic and psycho-physical culture. Thirty-eight beautiful illustrations prepared especially for this work. A handbook for student and teacher. PRICE, postpaid, $1.50 Psycho Vox OR, THE EMERSON SYSTEM OF VOICE CULTURE The voice as the natural reporter of the individual. The relation of the proper use of the voice to the nervous system and to health. Exercises for securing freedom and proper direction of tone, and for establishing right habits in the use of the voice. PRICE, postpaid, $1.50 Philosophy of Gesture OR, EXPRESSIVE PHYSICAL CULTURE The psychological and physiological basis and teaching principles of the Emerson System of Expressive Physical Culture and Responsive Drill--Value of Art Models, �sthetic Laws of Expression explained, with illustrations drawn from classic art. "Educating the body to spontaneously express in a beautiful way the highest sentiments of the soul." PRICE, postpaid, $1.50 The Perfective Laws of Art In four volumes. A compilation of selections illustrating the sixteen perfective laws of art applied to oratory. This work is adapted to the use of all advanced students in expressive reading. PRICE PER VOLUME, postpaid, 50 Cents EMERSON COLLEGE PUBLISHING DEP'T SHIPPING HOUSE, MILLIS, MASS. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Spelling has been retained as in the original publication, including "cocknify" on page 75 and "wery" on page 96. Changes have been made as follows: Page 26 a tax of pendantry a tax of pedantry Page 60 if its long for you to wait if it's long for you to wait 
49291	----	[Illustration: (cover)] BEADLE'S DIME NATIONAL SPEAKER [Speaker Series, Number 2.] NEW YORK: BEADLE AND COMPANY, 118 WILLIAM ST. Sinclair Tousey, 121 Nassau St., N. Y. Beadle's Hand-books for Popular Use. BEADLE & CO. publish several books of more than ordinary interest and value to that class of persons who wish for aids in letter writing, for assistance in becoming acquainted with the rules and observances of society, etc., etc. They are particularly adapted to meet a great popular want of reliable and _available_ text books on their subjects, and can not fail to give perfect satisfaction. They are: BEADLE'S DIME LETTER-WRITER. (Revised and Enlarged Edition.) A PERFECT GUIDE TO ALL KINDS OF CORRESPONDENCE. Embracing chapters and directions on the following: The Art of Composition and Punctuation; the Meaning and Uses of "Style;" Letters of Business; Letters of Pleasure and Friendship; Letters of Love; Letters of Duty and Trust; Letters of Relationship; Letters of Various Occasions; Writing for the Press; Improprieties of Expression; Complete Dictionary of Foreign and Classic Phrases; Abbreviations; Poetic Quotations for Various Occasions; Proverbs from Shakspeare, etc., etc. BEADLE'S DIME BOOK OF ETIQUETTE. (Revised and Enlarged Edition.) For Both Sexes. A Guide to the Usages and Observances of Society. Embracing important chapters as follows: Entrance into Society; General Observances for Visits, etc.; Special Observances for All Occasions; the Formula of Introductions; on Dress and Ornaments; on Cleanliness and Fastidiousness; Conversation and Personal Address; Writing of Address, etc.; Balls, Evening Parties, Receptions, etc.; the Card and Chess Table, etc.; Entertainments, Dinner Parties, etc.; Etiquette of the Street; the Politeness of Business; Advice to the Working-Man; Love, Courtship and Marriage; Respect for Religion and Old Age; a Special Word to the Lady; Impolite Things; the Phrenology of Courtship; Special Word for Ladies only; Confidential Advice to Young Men; Cultivate a Taste for the Beautiful; Etiquette of Horseback Riding; the Laws of Home Etiquette; Cards of Invitation for All Occasions; the Language of Rings; Good Manners on the Ice. These works are printed in very attractive form. They are to be had of all News Agents, or can be ordered by mail, by remitting ten cents each. BEADLE & COMPANY, Publishers, 118 William St., N. Y. BEADLE'S DIME [Illustration: ONE DIME] NATIONAL SPEAKER EMBODYING GEMS OF ORATORY AND WIT, PARTICULARLY ADAPTED TO AMERICAN SCHOOLS AND FIRESIDES. REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION. NEW YORK: BEADLE AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 118 WILLIAM STREET. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, By BEADLE AND COMPANY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York. Speaker, No. 2. CONTENTS. Page. The Union and its Results, _Edward Everett_, 5 Our Country's Future, _Id._ 7 The Statesman's Labors, _Id._ 9 True Immortality, _Id._ 11 Let the Childless Weep, _Metta Victoria Victor_, 13 Our Country's Greatest Glory, _Bishop Whipple_, 15 The Union a Household, _Id._ 16 Independence Bell, 17 The Scholar's Dignity, _George E. Pugh_, 18 The Cycles of Progress, _Id._ 21 A Christmas Chant, _Alfred Domett_, 23 Stability of Christianity, _Rev. T. H. Stockton_, 24 The True Higher Law, _Id._ 25 The One Great Need, _Id._ 27 The Ship and the Bird, _Owen Meredith_, 28 Tecumseh's Speech to the Creek Warriors, 29 Territorial Expansion, _S. S. Cox_, 30 Martha Hopkins, _Phoebe Cary_, 32 The Bashful Man's Story, 35 The Matter-of-fact Man, _Anon._ 38 Rich and Poor, _Joseph Barber_, 39 Seeing the Eclipse, _Anon._ 41 Beauties of the Law, 42 Ge-lang! git-up, _New Orleans Delta_, 44 The Rats of Life, _Charles T. Congdon_, 45 The Creownin' Glory of the United States, _Knick. Mag._ 46 Three Fools, _C. H. Spurgeon_, 47 Washington, _Bocock_, 48 The Same, _Id._ 50 The Same, _Id._ 52 Our Great Inheritance, _John J. Crittenden_, 54 Eulogium on Henry Clay, _Lincoln_, 55 Ohio, _Bancroft_, 56 Oliver Hazard Perry, _Id._ 57 Our Domain, _Id._ 59 Systems of Belief, _Rev. W. H. Milburn_, 60 The Indian Chief, 62 The Independent Farmer, _W. W. Fosdick_, 63 Mrs. Grammar's Ball, _Anon._ 64 How the Money Comes, 66 The Future of the Fashions, _Punch_, 67 Loyalty to Liberty our only Hope, _Bishop Whipple_, 68 Our Country First, Last, and Always, _Id._ 69 British Influence, _John Randolph_, 70 Defense of Jefferson, _Henry Clay_, 71 National Hatreds are Barbarous, _Rufus Choate_, 72 Murder will out, _Daniel Webster_, 74 Strive for the Best, 75 Early Rising, _John G. Saxe_, 76 Deeds of Kindness, 77 Gates of Sleep, _Dr. John Henry_, 78 The Bugle, _Tennyson_, 79 A Hoodish Gem, 80 Purity of the American Struggle, _Hon. H. Wilson, 1859_, 80 Old Age, _Theodore Parker_, 81 Beautiful, and as true as Beautiful, 83 The Deluge, 84 The Worm of the Still, 85 Man's Connection with the Infinite, 87 The Language of the Eagle, 88 Washington, _S. S. Cox_, 90 America vs. England, _David Dudley Field_, 91 If we Knew, _Ruth Benton_, 94 INTRODUCTION. It is with real pleasure that this second number of the "Dime Speaker" is given to the public. The issue of the first number has been followed with such a demand as to render this additional volume quite necessary to meet the calls of teachers, students, and others. The experiment of "giving a dollar book for ten cents," which should embrace _more_ new and _adaptable_ pieces for reading and rehearsal--in prose and poetry, serious and humorous--than any single work yet offered, has, it is needless to say, proven a success in every respect; and this second number of our DIME SPEAKER is given to teachers and scholars in the full assurance of its meeting with their approbation in all respects. It will be found to include some unusually valuable and beautiful pieces for the school-stage, both in prose and verse--most of the matter being from speeches and contributions lately given to the world by the best of our living orators and writers. The effort has been to give as great variety as possible--to suit all tastes and capacities, from the child to the man. It is the purpose of the publishers to continue the series in yearly issues, thus to place in the hands of the youth of our land, at the smallest possible price, books which can not fail to expand their tastes for what is best in style and sentiment, while they shall also offer instruction and amusement, as well to the home circle as to the school-room and exhibition. BEADLE'S DIME SPEAKER, No. 2. THE UNION AND ITS RESULTS.--_Edward Everett, July 4th, 1860._ Merely to fill up the wilderness with a population provided with the ordinary institutions and carrying on the customary pursuits of civilized life--though surely no mean achievement--was, by no means, the whole of the work allotted to the United States, and thus far performed with signal activity, intelligence, and success. The founders of America and their descendants have accomplished more and better things. On the basis of a rapid geographical extension, and with the force of teeming numbers, they have, in the very infancy of their political existence, successfully aimed at higher progress in a generous civilization. The mechanical arts have been cultivated with unusual aptitude. Agriculture, manufactures, commerce, navigation, whether by sails or by steam, and the art of printing in all its forms, have been pursued with surprising skill. Great improvements have been made in all those branches of industry, and in the machinery pertaining to them, which have been eagerly adopted in Europe. A more adequate provision has been made for popular education than in almost any other country. There are more seminaries in the United States, where a respectable academical education may be obtained--more, I still mean, in proportion to the population--than in any other country except Germany. The fine arts have reached a high degree of excellence. The taste for music is rapidly spreading in town and country; and every year witnesses productions from the pencil and the chisel of American sculptors and painters, which would adorn any gallery in the world. Our Astronomers, Mathematicians, Naturalists, Chemists, Engineers, Jurists, Publicists, Historians, Poets, Novelists, and Lexicographers, have placed themselves on a level with those of the elder world. The best dictionaries of the English language since Johnson, are those published in America. Our constitutions, whether of the United States or of the separate States, exclude all public provision for the maintenance of religion, but in no part of Christendom is it more generously supported. Sacred science is pursued as diligently and the pulpit commands as high a degree of respect in the United States, as in those countries where the Church is publicly endowed; while the American Missionary operations have won the admiration of the civilized world. Nowhere, I am persuaded, are there more liberal contributions to public-spirited and charitable objects. In a word, there is no branch of the mechanical or fine arts, no department of science, exact or applied, no form of polite literature, no description of social improvement, in which, due allowance being made for the means and resources at command, the progress of the United States has not been satisfactory, and in some respects astonishing. At this moment the rivers and seas of the globe are navigated with that marvelous application of steam as a propelling power, which was first effected by Fulton. The harvests of the civilized world are gathered by American reapers; the newspapers which lead the journalism of Europe are printed on American presses; there are railroads in Europe constructed by American engineers and traveled by American locomotives; troops armed with American weapons, and ships of war built in American dockyards. In the factories of Europe there is machinery of American invention or improvement; in their observatories telescopes of American construction, and apparatus of American invention for recording the celestial phenomena. America contests with Europe the introduction into actual use of the electric telegraph, and her mode of operating it is adopted throughout the French empire. American authors in almost every department are found on the shelves of European libraries. It is true no American Homer, Virgil, Dante, Copernicus, Shakspeare, Bacon, Milton, Newton, has risen on the world. These mighty geniuses seem to be exceptions in the history of the human mind. Favorable circumstances do not produce them, nor does the absence of favorable circumstances prevent their appearance. Homer rose in the dawn of Grecian culture; Virgil flourished in the court of Augustus; Dante ushered in the birth of the new European civilization; Copernicus was reared in a Polish cloister; Shakspeare was trained in the green-room of the theater; Milton was formed while the elements of English thought and life were fermenting toward a great political and moral revolution; Newton under the profligacy of the Restoration. Ages may elapse before any country will produce a man like these, as two centuries have passed since the last-mentioned of them was born. But if it is really a matter of reproach to the United States that, in the comparatively short period of their existence as a people, they have not added another name to this illustrious list (which is equally true of all the other nations of the earth), they may proudly boast of one example of life and character, one career of disinterested service, one model, of public virtue, one type of human excellence, of which all the countries and all the ages may be searched in vain for the parallel. I need not--on this day I need not--speak the peerless name. It is stamped on your hearts, it glistens in your eyes, it is written on every page of your history, on the battle-fields of the Revolution, on the monuments of your fathers, on the portals of your capitols. It is heard in every breeze that whispers over the fields of Independent America. And he was all our own. He grew up on the soil of America; he was nurtured at her bosom. She loved and trusted him in his youth; she honored and revered him in his age; and, though she did not wait for death to canonize his name, his precious memory, with each succeeding year, has sunk more deeply into the hearts of his countrymen. OUR COUNTRY'S FUTURE.--_Edward Everett's Oration at the Webster Statue Inauguration_, 1860. What else is there, in the material system of the world, so wonderful as this concealment of the Western Hemisphere for ages behind the mighty vail of waters? How could such a secret be kept from the foundation of the world till the end of the fifteenth century? What so astonishing as the concurrence, within less than a century, of the invention of printing, the demonstration of the true system of the heavens, and this great world-discovery? What so mysterious as the dissociation of the native tribes of this continent from the civilized and civilizable races of man? What so remarkable, in political history, as the operation of the influences, now in conflict, now in harmony, under which the various nations of the old world sent their children to occupy the new; great populations silently stealing into existence; the wilderness of one century swarming in the next with millions; ascending the streams, crossing the mountains, struggling with a wild hard nature, with savage foes, with rival settlements of foreign powers, but ever onward, onward? What so propitious as this long colonial training in the school of chartered government? and then, when the fullness of time had come, what so majestic, amidst all its vicissitudes and all its trials, as the Grand Separation--mutually beneficial in its final results to both parties--the dread appeal to arms, that venerable Continental Congress, the august Declaration, the strange alliance of the oldest monarchy of Europe with the Infant Republic? And, lastly, what so worthy the admiration of men and angels as the appearance of him the expected--him the Hero--raised up to conduct the momentous conflict to its auspicious issue in the Confederation, the Union, the Constitution? Is this a theme not unworthy of the pen and the mind of Webster? Then consider the growth of the country, thus politically ushered into existence and organized under that Constitution, as delineated in his address on the laying the corner-stone of the extension of the Capitol--the thirteen colonies that accomplished the Revolution multiplied to thirty-two independent States, a single one of them exceeding in population the old thirteen; the narrow border of settlement along the coast, fenced in by France and the native tribes, expanded to the dimensions of the continent; Louisiana, Florida, Texas, New Mexico, California, Oregon--territories equal to the great monarchies of Europe--added to the Union; and the two millions of population which fired the imagination of Burke, swelled to twenty-four millions, during the lifetime of Mr. Webster, and in seven short years, which have since elapsed, increased to thirty! With these stupendous results in his own time as the unit of calculation; beholding under Providence with each decade of years, a new people, millions strong, emigrants in part from the Old World, but mainly bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh, the children of the soil, growing up to inhabit the waste places of the continent, to inherit and transmit the rights and blessings which we have received from our fathers; recognizing in the Constitution and in the Union established by it the creative influence which, as far as human agencies go, has wrought these miracles of growth and progress, and which wraps up in sacred reserve the expansive energy with which the work is to be carried on and perfected, he looked forward with patriotic aspiration to the time, when, beneath its ægis, the whole wealth of our civilization would be poured out, not only to fill up the broad interstices of settlement, if I may so express myself, in the old thirteen and their young and thriving sister States, already organized in the West, but, in the lapse of time, to found a hundred new republics in the valley of the Missouri and beyond the Rocky Mountains, till our letters and our arts, our schools and our churches, our laws and our liberties, shall be carried from the arctic circle to the tropics, "from the rising of the sun to the going down thereof." THE STATESMAN'S LABORS.--_Ibid._ This prophetic glance, not merely at the impending, but the distant future, this reliance on the fulfillment of the great design of Providence, illustrated through our whole history, to lavish upon the people of this country the accumulated blessings of all former stages of human progress, made Webster more tolerant of the tardy and irregular advances and temporary wanderings from the path of what he deemed a wise and sound policy, than those fervid spirits, who dwell exclusively in the present, and make less allowance for the gradual operation of moral influences. This was the case in reference to the great sectional controversy, which now so sharply divides and so violently agitates the country. He not only confidently anticipated, what the lapse of seven years since his decease has witnessed and is witnessing, that the newly acquired and the newly organized territories of the Union would grow up into free States; but in common with all or nearly all the statesmen of the last generation, he believed that free labor would ultimately prevail throughout the country. He thought he saw that, in the operation of the same causes which have produced this result in the Middle and Eastern States, it was visibly taking place in the States north of the cotton-growing region; and he inclined to the opinion that there also, under the influence of physical and economical causes, free labor would eventually be found more productive, and would therefore be ultimately established. For these reasons, bearing in mind, what all admit, that the complete solution of the mighty problem, which now so greatly tasks the prudence and patriotism of the wisest and best in the land, is beyond the delegated powers of the general government; that it depends, as far as the States are concerned, on their independent legislation, and that it is of all others a subject, in reference to which public opinion and public sentiment will most powerfully influence the law; that much in the lapse of time, without law, is likely to be brought about by degrees, and gradually done and permitted, as in Missouri, at the present day, while nothing is to be hoped from external interference, whether of exhortation or rebuke; that in all human affairs controlled by self-governing communities extreme opinions and extreme courses, on the one hand, generally lead to extreme opinions and extreme courses on the other; and that nothing will more contribute to the earliest practicable relief of the country from this most prolific source of conflict and estrangement, than to prevent its being introduced into our party organizations, he deprecated its being allowed to find a place among the political issues of the day, north or south, and seeking a platform on which honest and patriotic men might meet and stand, he thought he had found it, where our fathers did, in the Constitution. It is true that, in interpreting the fundamental law on this subject, a diversity of opinion between the two sections of the Union presents itself. This has ever been the case, first or last, in relation to every great question which has divided the country. It is the unfailing incident of constitutions, written or unwritten; an evil to be dealt with in good faith, by prudent and enlightened men, in both sections of the Union, seeking, as Washington sought, the public good, and giving expression to the patriotic common-sense of the people. Such, I have reason to believe, were the principles entertained by Mr. Webster; not certainly those best calculated to win a temporary popularity in any part of the Union, in times of passionate sectional agitation which, between the extremes of opinion, leaves no middle ground for moderate counsels. If any one could have found and could have trodden such ground with success, he would seem to have been qualified to do it, by his transcendent talent, his mature experience, his approved temper and calmness, and his tried patriotism. If he failed of finding such a path for himself or the country--while we thoughtfully await what time and an all-wise Providence has in store for ourselves and our children--let us remember that his attempt was the highest and the purest which can engage the thoughts of a Statesman and a Patriot: peace on earth, good-will toward men, harmony and brotherly love among the children of our common country. TRUE IMMORTALITY.--_Ibid._ It has been the custom, from the remotest antiquity, to preserve and to hand down to posterity, in bronze and in marble, the counterfeit presentment of illustrious men. * * * * * Your long rows of quarried granite may crumble to the dust; the cornfields in yonder villages, ripening to the sickle, may, like the plains of stricken Lombardy, a short time ago, be kneaded into bloody clods, by the maddening wheels of artillery; this populous city, like the old cities of Etruria and the Campagna Romana, may be desolated by the pestilence which walketh in darkness, may decay with the lapse of time, and the busy mart, which now rings with the joyous din of trade, become as lonely and still as Carthage or Tyre, as Babylon and Nineveh, but the names of the great and good shall survive the desolation and the ruin; the memory of the wise, the brave, the patriotic, shall never perish. Yes, Sparta is a wheat field; a Bavarian prince holds court at the foot of the Acropolis; the traveling virtuoso digs for marbles in the Roman Forum and beneath the ruins of the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus; but Lycurgus and Leonidas, and Miltiades and Demosthenes, and Cato and Tully "still live;" and Webster still lives, and all the great and good shall live in the heart of ages, while marble and bronze shall endure; and when marble and bronze have perished, they shall "still live" in memory so long as men shall reverence Law, and honor Patriotism, and love Liberty! That solemn event, which terminates the material existence, becomes by the sober revisions of contemporary judgment, aided by offices of respectful and affectionate commemoration, the commencement of a nobler life on earth. The wakeful eyes are closed, the feverish pulse is still, the tired and trembling limbs are relieved from their labors, and the aching head is laid to rest on the lap of its mother earth, like a play-worn child at the close of a summer's day; but all that we honored and loved in the living man begins to live again in a new and higher being of influence and fame. It was given but to a limited number to listen to the living voice of Daniel Webster, and they can never listen to it again; but the wise teachings, the grave admonitions, the patriotic exhortations which fell from his tongue will be gathered together and garnered up in the memory of millions. The cares, the toils, the sorrows; the conflicts with others, the conflicts of the fervent spirit with itself; the sad accidents of humanity, the fears of the brave, the follies of the wise, the errors of the learned; all that dashed the cup of enjoyment with bitter drops and strewed sorrowful ashes over the beauty of expectation and promise; the treacherous friend, the ungenerous rival, the mean and malignant foe; the uncharitable prejudice which withheld the just tribute of praise, the human frailty which wove sharp thorns into the wreath of solid merit--all these in ordinary cases are buried in the grave of the illustrious dead; while their brilliant talents, their deeds of benevolence and public spirit, their wise and eloquent words, their healing counsels, their generous affections, the whole man, in short, whom we revered and loved and would fain imitate, especially when his image is impressed upon our recollections by the pencil or the chisel, goes forth to the admiration of the latest posterity. _Extinctus amabitur idem._ LET THE CHILDLESS WEEP.--_Metta Victoria Victor._ The news is flying along the streets: It leaves a smile with each face it meets. The heart of London is all on fire-- Its throbbing veins beat faster and higher-- With eager triumph they beat so fast-- "The Malakoff--Malakoff falls at last!" Hark to the murmur, the shout, the yell-- "The Malakoff's fallen!"--well, 'tis well! But let the childless weep. I am faint and stunn'd by the crowd; My head aches with the tumult loud. On this step I will sit me down, Where the city palaces o'er me frown. I would these happy people could see Sights which are never absent from me; The sound of their joy to sobs might swell, They would swallow tears--well--it is well! But let the childless weep. If they could see my two young sons Shatter'd and torn by Russian guns,-- The only children God gave me--dead! With the rough earth for a dying bed. Side by side, in the trenches deep-- Perchance they would weep as I must weep. No sons of theirs on that red hill fell, And so they smile and say, "'tis well!" But let the childless weep. I know where in the cottages low Women's faces grow white with woe; Where throats are choked with tears unshed When widows' children ask for bread. I think of one whose heart has grown As cold and heavy as this stone. But cabinets never think so low As a mother's anguish, and so--and so Why let the childless weep. O Queen! your children around you sleep; Their rest at night is sweet and deep. Do you ever think of the mothers many Whose sons you required, and left not any? Do you think of young limbs bruised and crush'd And laughing voices forever hush'd? My soul with a fierce rage might swell, But grief hath all the place--'tis well! Let the childless weep. Could God have seen with prophet eye, When He piled the Malakoff hill so high, That it was to be soaked through and through With streams and streams of blood-red dew, And covered over with anguish?--no! Or He would have leveled it small and low. It is man who is haughty, fierce, and cruel-- Who heaps on his altar the living fuel! Let the childless weep. England! England! haughty and bold! You still covet what you behold; To have your own proud will and way You will make widows, thousands a day. You buy your power with human life, And the sobbing child and hopeless wife Give up their dearest at your call-- But hearts must break and towers must fall Let the childless weep. Weep? I can not weep while around Swells the victory's awful sound. The Malakoff fell,--but England's way O'er the bosoms that loved her deepest lay. Victoria's children laugh in glee!-- Does she remember mine, or me? Oh, footman, leave me this cold stone-- My sons are dead and I am alone-- The childless can not weep. OUR COUNTRY'S GREATEST GLORY.--_Bishop Whipple, of Minnesota_, 1860. The true glory of a nation is in an intelligent, honest, industrious Christian people. The civilization of a nation depends on their individual character; a constitution which is not the outgrowth of this is not worth the parchment on which it is written. You look in vain in the past for a single instance where the people have preserved their liberties after their individual character was lost. The ruler represents the people, and laws and institutions are the simple outgrowth of domestic character. It is not in the magnificence of the home of the ruler, not in the beautiful creations of art lavished on public edifices, not in costly cabinets of pictures or public libraries, not in proud monuments of achievements in battle, not in the number or wealth of its cities, that we find pledges of national glory. The ruler may gather around his palace the treasures of the world, amid a brutalized people; the senate chamber may retain its faultless proportions long after the voice of patriotism is hushed within its walls; the marble may commemorate a glory which has forever departed. Art and letters may bring no lesson to a people whose heart is dead; the only glory of a nation is in the living temple of a loyal, industrious, and upright people. The busy click of machinery, the merry ring of the anvil, the lowing of peaceful herds, and the song of the harvest home, are sweeter music than pæans of departed glory or songs of triumph in war. The vine-clad cottage of the hill-side, the cabin of the woodsman, and the rural home of the farmer are the true citadels of any country. There is a dignity in honest toil which belongs not to the display of wealth or the luxury of fashion. The man who drives the plow, or swings his ax in the forest, or with cunning fingers plies the tools of his craft, is as truly the servant of his country, as the statesman in the senate or the soldier in battle. The safety of a nation depends not on the wisdom of its statesmen or the bravery of its generals; the tongue of eloquence never saved a nation tottering to its fall; the sword of a warrior never stayed its destruction. There is a surer defense in every Christian home. I say Christian home, for I know of no glory to manhood which comes not from the cross. I know of no rights wrung from tyranny, no truth rescued from darkness and bigotry, which has not waited on a Christian civilization. Would you see the image of true glory, I would show you villages where the crown and glory of the people was in purity of character, where the children were gathered in Christian schools, where the voice of prayer goes heavenward, where the people have that most priceless gift--_faith in God_. With this as the basis, and leavened as it will be with brotherly love, there will be no danger in grappling with any evils which exist in our midst; we shall feel that we may work and bide our time, and die knowing that God will bring the victory. THE UNION A HOUSEHOLD.--_Ibid._ The great object which the statesmen of the Revolution sought, was the defense, protection, and good government of the whole, without injustice to any portion of the people. Experience had taught them that it was impossible for a great republic to grow up where its every act of public policy was liable to be thwarted by the vote of the individual States; therefore they framed an organic law at the foundation of our common government, which gave the men of Carolina and Massachusetts a name dearer than any sectional name--the name of an _American citizen_! In that conflict of opinions, by a temper of conciliation and brotherly love, by an earnest loyalty to freedom and profoundest reverence for law, they framed that constitution which has been the admiration of the world. I yield to no man in my admiration for those noble men whose names are our household words; but in this history I see the hand of God and acknowledge that our nationality was his gift and not the fruits of our fathers' wisdom. Ours is not the only nation who have sought to be free. Strong arms and stout hearts have often failed--the world is filled with the lamentations of the patriots and dirges for the dead. God always gives to a nation its birthright and its name. A nation is not a mere aggregate of households, or villages, or States--national life is something beyond the fact that individual men have banded together for mutual defense. This belonged to the savage tribes who once roamed over this goodly land. They may be strong, daring, freedom-loving men, without national life. There never was a nobler race than the people who dwelt in the fastnesses of Scotland, but their tie was only one of kindred; the family became a clan, separate clans warred with each other in murderous strife, and Scotland was a field of blood. Until the cross was firmly planted in Britain, England had no nationality--it was a land of faction until the law and providence of God became the people's guide, and then the nobler name of Saxon became a Christian name to tell of all that is manly and true. Our national life is the gift of God. No other hand could gather out of other lands millions of people of different tongues and kindred, and mold these into one mighty nation that shall receive into itself the men of every clime, and stamp on them its own mark of individuality, teaching them its language, making them its kin, and binding them as one household under its own constitution and laws. INDEPENDENCE BELL.--_July 4th_, 1776. When it was certain that the Declaration would be adopted and confirmed by the signatures of the delegates in Congress, it was determined to announce the event by ringing the old State-House bell which bore the inscription, "Proclaim liberty to the land: to all the inhabitants thereof!" and the old bellman posted his little boy at the door of the hall to await the instruction of the doorkeeper when to ring. At the word, the little patriot-scion rushed out, and, flinging up his hands, shouted "_Ring!_ RING! RING!" There was tumult in the city, In the quaint old Quaker's town, And the streets were rife with people Pacing restless up and down; People gathering at corners, Where they whisper'd each to each, And the sweat stood on their temples, With the earnestness of speech. As the bleak Atlantic currents Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, So they beat against the State-House, So they surged against the door; And the mingling of their voices Made a harmony profound, 'Till the quiet street of chestnuts Was all turbulent with sound. "Will they do it?" "Dare they do it?" "Who is speaking?" "What's the news?" "What of Adams?" "What of Sherman?" "Oh, God grant they won't refuse!" "Make some way there!" "Let me nearer!" "I am stifling!" "Stifle, then! When a nation's life's at hazard, We've no time to think of men!" So they beat against the portal, Man and woman, maid and child; And the July sun in heaven On the scene look'd down and smiled, The same sun that saw the Spartan Shed his patriot-blood in vain, Now beheld the soul of freedom All unconquer'd rise again. See! See! The dense crowd quivers Through all its lengthy line, As the boy beside the portal Looks forth to give the sign! With his small hands upward lifted, Breezes dallying with his hair, Hark! with deep, clear intonation, Breaks his young voice on the air. Hush'd the people's swelling murmur, List the boy's strong joyous cry! "_Ring!_" he shouts, "RING! _Grandpa_ _Ring!_ _Oh_, RING for _Liberty_!" And straightway, at the signal, The old bellman lifts his hand, And sends the good news, making Iron-music through the land. How they shouted! What rejoicing! How the old bell shook the air, Till the clang of freedom ruffled The calm gliding Delaware! How the bonfires and the torches Illumed the night's repose, And from the flames, like Phoenix, Fair Liberty arose! That old bell now is silent, And hush'd its iron tongue, But the spirit it awaken'd Still lives,--forever young. And while we greet the sunlight, On the fourth of each July, We'll ne'er forget the bellman, Who, twixt the earth and sky, Rung out OUR INDEPENDENCE; Which, please God, _shall never die_! THE SCHOLAR'S DIGNITY.--_Hon. George E. Pugh July 5th_, 1859. The purpose of all genuine effort, beyond the satisfaction of physical wants, should be to enlarge the compass of human sympathy and desire, to purify, elevate, ennoble the intellectual constitution of our race. God has so created us that these results can be attained by simple and even direct agencies. Man is a sympathetic being; and the full discharge of his obligation toward his own family, his friends, his neighbors, is the method by which he can best discharge his duty in other relations; toward God and his country, toward the millions of his fellow-beings now alive, and the millions who will inherit the earth in a course of ages. Hence arise man's real pleasures, and (not less) his noblest responsibilities and actions. But, as our nature is composed of appetites and passions which rightly adjusted, each with another, lift us almost to the dignity of the Godhead, but when disorganized, show us to be meaner than the brutes; so civil society, or the association of mankind pursuant to the Divine order, while capable, in its normal state, of the utmost happiness for all its members, is now disorganized and demoralized, its sweet bells of sympathy turned to discord, even its charities stained by selfishness and base pretension; its capacities for good entirely perverted to the oppression, to the cruel debasements of the multitude, and to the unjust advantage of a few. Here is the field of chivalry for him--scholar and squire who would be something more--conscious of his earnest duty, of the vast rewards which must crown success, and alive to the inspiration of all the past, the present, and the future; here is a field on which he may win the gilded spurs of knighthood, and where, with his own arm, he can truly redress the innocent, rescue the unfortunate, and reclaim even the oppressor to a recognition of the rights of the oppressed. Or, if he would choose a holier part, although less conspicuous, it may be, let him join that valiant array of pioneers which is marching now (as, in time past, it ever has marched) at the head of the generation; hewing down primeval forests of ignorance; bridging the torrents of crime; leveling mountains of doubt and difficulty; filling up quagmires of sorrow; that so, in age after age, the hosts of pilgrims from the cradle to the grave shall traverse their distance without harm, and measurably anticipate, if not realize, the beatitude of toil forever accomplished. In a true sense, the scholar is a king of the noblest power. Not his that dominion which exercises itself over the bodies of men, subduing alike their happiness and their will, making of his fellow-creatures a mere sport or convenience, but that dominion which exists by the full consent of the governed, and without which, in reality, their happiness and peace can not be secured. [Nam, uti genus hominum compositum ex anima et corpore, ita res cunctæ, studiaque omnia nostra, corporis alia, alia animi naturam sequuntur. Igitur, præclara facies, magnæ divitiæ, ad hoc vis corporis, alia hujuscemodi, omnia brevi dilabuntur; at ingenii egregia facinora, sicuti anima, immortalia sunt. Postremo, corporis et fortunæ bonorum, ut initium, finis est: omnia orta occidunt, et aucta senescunt: animus incorruptus, æternus, RECTOR HUMANI GENERIS, agit atque habet cuncta, neque ipse habetur.] The liberty of men does not stand in rebellion against the truth, nor against the truly-anointed genius of the age: Unjustly thou depravest it with the name Of servitude, to serve whom God ordains, Or Nature; God and Nature bid the same, When he who rules is worthiest, and excels Them whom he governs. This is servitude, To serve th' unwise, or him who hath rebell'd Against his worthier. THE CYCLES OF PROGRESS.--_Ibid._ The world moves in a grand cycle of days, and weeks, and months, and years, susceptible of approximation, but not of exact ascertainment. There are cycles, also, of the human understanding; or, at least, of opinions with regard to the faculties and organism of the human intellect. Locke was thought to have demonstrated, by unanswerable argument, our entire lack of innate ideas; thus demolishing the foundation upon which others had erected so many and such various theories. But now Kant has proven, by a logic far more subtle, and altogether more conclusive, that the mind acts only in certain processes, or by means of certain categories, which are the laws of its organization, and whence result conceptions or ideas not derived from experience, or observation, or confidence in others. Plato arrived at the same conclusion two thousand years ago, although he supposed these conceptions or ideas to be the _reminiscences_ of a former and superior state of intellectual existence. What has Kant accomplished, in all his philosophy, except our remission to the speculations of Plato, as enforced and illustrated by the wisdom of revealed religion? And so, in the world of moral sentiment, there must be cycles of repetition and restoration, but of restoration with _new auspices_, and informed by principles of higher and pure significance. The Age of Chivalry was an age of moral improvement, an age of sympathy and generous enterprise, after centuries of darkness, antagonism, and oppression. When scholars, therefore, shall have become true to themselves, true to the mission of their faith and labors, as against the overwhelming allurement of our time; shall have become the actual prophets, and priests, and rulers, which once they were, another Age of Chivalry will arise and dawn upon earth. It will restore us a Government paternal in character, and yet stripped of the usurpations by which government is now rendered oppressive; it will restore us a Church of pristine authority and influence, but authority and influence derived from purity in practice as well as in precept. And with these two elements so long extinct or lost--leaving mankind to all the terrors of tyranny and all the wiles of imposture--with a Church and a Government reflecting the Divine conception of men's duties toward their Creator and toward each other, will Human Society attain, at last, the summit of human perfection. Then will the original brotherhood and equality of our race be forever acknowledged; then will there be work for all, and wages for work, instead of the injustice, the crime, the misery, the wasteful disorder which fill our hearts with so much despondency and woe. This Chivalry is of magnificent design; since to the faith, to the hope, to the steadfastness of our fathers, to their moral excellence and solid greatness, will thus be united the wondrous material achievements for which we have been so distinguished--a Chivalry of splendors enhanced as well as rekindled, or splendors essentially bright, and joyous, and immortal. History tells us of republics full of promise and full of glory like our own. Such were those which clustered upon the shores of the Mediterranean, in almost the same latitude with us, and accomplished, centuries ago, their rise, their zenith, and their fall. Such were those free states and cities which braved the bleakness and inclemency of the Baltic and German coasts; and which likewise had their increase, and fullness, and extinction. These were all the children of Commerce, and followed her along the borders of the sea. Their ships explored the very ends of the world; laid the Indies under tribute; and on this remote continent, also, planted colonies and outposts of civilization. Alas! those republics and free states and cities have gone to their decay; the armed legions of Despotism tread upon their tombs, and scatter even their sacred ashes to the winds. But may our New World, which inherits their enterprise as well as their liberty, rejuvenate the nations grown old in oppression and despair, and plant upon the Eastern Continent the germs of a Civilization nobler than has yet been recognized--nobler than was ever sung by the poets, or foretold by oracles--a Civilization which shall raise up LABOR from its fallen estate, heal its infirmities, cover its nakedness, and enthrone it with honor; as the rescued maniac, by Divine compassion, was seated near the feet of our Saviour, clothed, and in his right mind! A CHRISTMAS CHANT.--_Alfred Domett._ It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea! No sound was heard of clashing wars, Peace brooded o'er the hush'd domain; Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars, Held undisturb'd their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! 'Twas in the calm and silent night! The senator of haughty Rome Impatient urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home. Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What reck'd the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago? Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor; A streak of light before him lay, Fallen through a half-shut stable-door Across his path. He paused, for naught Told what was going on within; How keen the stars, his only thought; The air, how calm, and cold, and thin, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! Oh, strange indifference! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares; The earth was still, but knew not why; The world was listening--unawares! How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever! To that still moment, none would heed, Man's doom was link'd, no more to sever, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! It is the calm and silent night! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness, charm'd and holy now; The night that erst no shame had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay, new-born, The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! STABILITY OF CHRISTIANITY.--_Rev. T. H. Stockton, House of Representatives, March 19th_, 1860. I contemplate the heaven and earth of the old world: the overrulings of Providence and changes of society there. I think of the passing away of the whole circle of ancient Mediterranean civilization. I think of the dark ages of Europe. I think of the morning of the Reformation, and the fore-gleamings of "the latter-day glory." I think of Art, and her printing-press; of Commerce, and her compass; of Science, and her globe; of Religion, and her Bible. I contemplate the opening of the heaven and earth of the New World: the overrulings of Providence and changes of society here. I think of the passing away of savage simplicities, and of the rude semblances of civilization in Mexico and Peru, and of earlier and later declensions. I think of the gracious reservation of our own inheritance for present and nobler occupancy. I think of our Revolution, and its result of Independence. I think of our first Union, first Congress, first prayer in Congress, and first Congressional order for the Bible; and of our wonderful enlargement, development, and enrichment since. And, in view of all--of the whole heaven and whole earth of the whole world; and of all changes, social and natural, past, present, and future; profoundly and unalterably assured, as I trust we all are, that the truth as it is "in Jesus" is the only stability in the universe--I feel justified, in invoking, this day, your renewal of our common and constant confession--that: Heaven and earth shall pass away, but the words of Christ shall never pass away. And, standing where we do, on the central summit of this great Confederacy, unequalled in all history for all manner of blessings,--if we did not so confess Christ; if we did not cherish the simple confidence of His primitive disciples, and hail the coming of our Lord with hosannas; if we could ignobly hold our peace,--the very statues of the Capitol "would immediately cry out;" the marble lips of Columbus, Penn, and Washington, of War and Peace, of the Pioneer, and of Freedom, would part to praise His name; and the stones of the foundation and walls, of the arcades and corridors, of the rotunda and halls, would respond to their glad and grand acclaim. From Maine to Florida, from Florida to Texas, from Texas to California, from California to Oregon, and from Oregon back to Maine; our lake States, gulf States, and ocean States; our river States, prairie States, and mountain States, all unite in confessing and blessing His name, beholding His glory, surrounding His throne, high and lifted up, and ever crying, like the six-winged seraphim, one to another, far and near, from the North and the South, from the East and the West: "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the whole earth is full of His glory!" THE TRUE HIGHER LAW.--_Ibid._ We hear much of the higher law; and the application of the phrase to civil affairs has excited great prejudice and given great offense. But, what is the higher law? It is said to be something higher than the Constitution of the United States. Can there be a law, within these United higher than the Constitution of the United States? If there can be and is such a law--what is it? I need not and will not recite inferior, questionable, and inappropriate answers here. But, is there not one unquestionable answer? Suppose it be said, that, in relation to all subjects to which it was designed to apply, and properly does apply, the Bible is a higher Law than the Constitution of the United States? Will any man, unless an utter infidel, deny this? Surely not. Waiving its practical operations, certainly, as an abstract proposition, this must be admitted as true. It may be extended, so as to include all our State constitutions, and all our Church constitutions, and all our more Social constitutions. Put them all together, magnify and boast of them as we may, not only is the Bible a higher law, but it is an infinitely higher law. For thus saith the Lord: "As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts." Therefore, also, the universal and perpetual prophetic challenge: "Oh, earth, earth, earth, hear the word of the Lord!" All human constitutions, social, ecclesiastical, and civil, are changeable, and contain provisions for change; but, the Bible is unchangeable. Instead of any provision for change, it is guarded, at all points, against change. The writer of its first five books declares in the last of the five: "Ye shall not _add_ unto the word which I command you, neither shall ye _diminish_ from it, that ye may keep the commandments of the Lord your God, which I command you." And, in like manner, the author of its last five books, declares in the last of the five: "If any man shall _add_ unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book: and if any man shall _take away_ from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from the things which are written in this book." And so Isaiah, standing midway between Moses and John, exclaims: "Lift up your eyes to the heavens, and look upon the earth beneath; for the heavens shall vanish away like smoke, and the earth shall wax old like a garment, and they that dwell therein shall die in like manner; but My salvation shall be forever, and My righteousness shall not be abolished." Therefore, it is only in accordance with the testimony of all His witnesses, that Christ Himself avers: "Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfill. For verily I say unto you, Till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all be fulfilled. Heaven and earth shall pass away, but My words shall not pass away." THE ONE GREAT NEED.--_Ibid._ Tell me, oh, tell me, what is it we need? Do we need health, or genius, or learning, or eloquence, or pleasure, or fame, or power? Do we need wealth, or rank, or office? Does any one of us need to be chaplain, or clerk, or representative, or senator, or speaker, or vice-president? an officer of the army or navy? a member or head of any department? a foreign minister? a cabinet officer? or even a successor in the line of presidents of the United States? Is such our need? Ah, no! we need salvation. What did I say in the beginning? Did I not say we need elevation? as men, Americans, and Christians, we need elevation: in our persons and families, states and churches, we need elevation. Certainly I did thus speak, and meant all I said. Oh, my Friends! All the distinctions alluded to such as we know them here, are comparatively little things. Greater things are in prospect; but these things, though they seem great, are really little. Pause, think, recall what life has taught you--what observation and experience have combined to impress most deeply upon your consciousness--and begin your review with the sad words, _after all_! After all, health is a little thing, and genius is a little thing, and learning, and eloquence, and pleasure, and fame, and power, and wealth, and rank, and office, all earthly things are little things. How little satisfaction they yield while they last, and how soon they pass away! THE SHIP AND THE BIRD.--_Owen Meredith._ Hear a song that was born in the land of my birth! The anchors are lifted, the fair ship is free, And the shout of the mariners floats in its mirth 'Twixt the light in the sky and the light on the sea. And this ship is a world. She is freighted with souls, She is freighted with merchandise; proudly she sails With the Labor that stores, and the Will that controls The gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. From the gardens of Pleasure, where reddens the rose, And the scent of the cedar is faint on the air, Past the harbors of Traffic, sublimely she goes, Man's hopes o'er the world of the waters to bear! Where the cheer from the harbors of Traffic is heard, Where the gardens of Pleasure fade fast on the sight, O'er the rose, o'er the cedar, there passes a bird; 'Tis the Paradise Bird, never known to alight. And that bird, bright and bold as a poet's desire, Roams her own native heavens, the realms of her birth, There she soars like a seraph, she shines like a fire, And her plumage hath never been sullied by earth. And the mariners greet her; there's song on each lip, For the bird of good omen, and joy in each eye, And the ship and the bird, and the bird and the ship, Together go forth over ocean and sky. Fast, fast fades the land! far the rose-gardens flee, And far fleet the harbors. In regions unknown The ship is alone on a desert of sea, And the bird in a desert of sky is alone. In those regions unknown, o'er that desert of air, Down that desert of waters--tremendous in wrath-- The storm-wind Euroclydon leaps from his lair, And cleaves through the waves of the ocean, his path. And the bird in the cloud, and the ship on the wave. Overtaken, are beaten about by wild gales, And the mariners all rush their cargo to save, Of the gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. Lo! a wonder which never before hath been heard For it never before hath been given to sight; On the ship hath descended the Paradise Bird, The Paradise Bird never known to alight! The bird which the mariners bless'd, when each lip Had a song for the omen which gladden'd each eye, The bright bird for shelter hath flown to the ship From the wrath on the sea and the wrath in the sky. But the mariners heed not the bird any more, They are felling the masts--they are furling the sails, Some are working, some weeping, and some wrangling o'er Their gold in the ingots, their silk in the bales. Souls of men are on board; wealth of man in the hold; And the storm-wind Euroclydon sweeps to his prey; And who heeds the bird? "Save the silk and the gold!" And the bird from her shelter the gust sweeps away! Poor Paradise Bird! on her lone flight once more Back again in the wake of the wind she is driven-- To be whelm'd in the storm, or above it to soar, And, if rescued from ocean, to vanish in heaven! And the ship rides the waters, and weathers the gales: From the haven she nears the rejoicing is heard. All hands are at work on the ingots, the bales, Save a child, sitting lonely, who misses--the Bird! TECUMSEH'S SPEECH TO THE CREEK WARRIORS--_Clairborn's Life of Gen. Dale._ In defiance of the white warriors of Ohio and Kentucky, I have traveled through their settlements, once our favorite hunting-grounds. No war-whoop was sounded, but there is blood on our knives. The pale faces felt the blow, but knew not whence it came. Accursed be the race that has seized on our country and made women of our warriors. Our fathers, from their tombs, reproach us as slaves and cowards. I hear them now in the wailing winds. The Muscogee was once a mighty people. The Georgians trembled at our war-whoop, and the maidens of my tribe, in the distant lakes, sung the prowess of your warriors, and sighed for their embraces. Now, your very blood is white, your tomahawks have no edge, your bows and arrows were buried with your fathers. O Muscogees! brethren of my mother, brush from your eyelids the sleep of slavery; once more strike for vengeance--once more for your country! The spirits of the mighty dead complain. The tears drop from the weeping skies. Let the white race perish! They seize your land; they corrupt your women; they trample on the ashes of your dead! Back whence they came, upon a trail of blood, they must be driven. Back! back, ay, into the great water whose accursed waves brought them to our shore! Burn their dwellings! Destroy their stock! Slay their wives and children! The red man owns the country, and the pale face must never enjoy it! War now! War forever! War upon the living! War upon the dead! Dig their very corpses from the grave. Our country must give no rest to a white man's bones. All the tribes of the North are dancing the war dance. Two mighty warriors across the seas will send us arms. Tecumseh will soon return to his country. My prophets shall tarry with you. They will stand between you and the bullets of your enemies. When the white man approaches you, the yawning earth shall swallow him up. Soon shall you see my arm of fire stretched athwart the sky. I will stamp my foot at Tippecanoe, and the very earth shall shake. TERRITORIAL EXPANSION.--_Hon. S. S. Cox, House of Representatives, March 19th_, 1860. Is there any American who wishes to consult European Powers as to the propriety or policy of our territorial expansion? Is there any one who fears a fatal blow from these Powers? We do not exist by the sufferance of Europe, but by its insufferance. We did not grow to our present greatness by its fostering care, but by its neglect, and in spite of its malevolence. We do not ask its pardon for being born, nor need we apologize to it for growing. It has endeavored to prevent even the legitimate extension of our commerce, and to confine us to our own continent. But if we can buy Cuba of Spain, it is our business with Spain. If we have to take it, it is our business with Providence. If we must save Mexico, and make its weakness our strength, we have no account to render unto Europe or its dynasties. If European Powers choose to expand their empire and energize their people, we have no protests, no arms to prevent them. England may push from India through the Himalayas to sell her calicoes to the numberless people of Asia, and divide with France the empires of India, Burmah, and China. Civilization does not lose by their expansion. Russia may push her diplomacy upon Pekin, and her armies through the Caucasus, and upon Persia and Tartary; she may even plant her Greek cross again on the mosque of St. Sophia, and take the Grecian Levant into her keeping as the head of its church and civilization. France may plant her forts and arts upon the shores of the Red Sea; complete the canalization of Suez; erect another Carthage on the shores of the Mediterranean; bind her natural limits from Mont Blanc, in Savoy, to Nice, upon the sea. Sardinia may become the nucleus of the Peninsula, and give to Italy a name and a nationality. Even Spain, proud and poor, may fight over again in Africa the romantic wars with the Morescoes, by which she educated that chivalry and adventure, which three centuries ago made her the mistress of the New World. She may demand territory of Morocco, as she has, as indemnity for the war. America has no inquiry to make, no protocol to sign. These are the movements of an active age. They indicate health, not disease--growth, not decay. They are links in the endless chain of Providence. They prove the mutability of the most imperial of human institutions; but, to the philosophic observer, they move by a law as fixed as that which makes the decay of autumn the herald of spring. They obey the same law by which the constellations change their places in the sky. Astronomers tell us that the "southern cross," which guarded the adventurer upon the Spanish main four centuries ago, and which now can be seen, the most beautiful emblem of our salvation, shining down through a Cuban and Mexican night,--just before the Christian era, glittered in our northern heavens! The same GREAT WILL, which knows no North and no South, and which is sending again, by an irreversible law, the southern cross to our northern skies, on its everlasting cycle of emigration--does it not control the revolutions of nations, and the vicissitudes of empires? The very stars in their courses are "Knights of the Golden Circle," and illustrate the record of human advancement. They are the type of that territorial expansion from which this American continent can not be exempted without annihilation. The finger of Providence points to our nation as the guiding star of this progress. Let him who would either dusk its radiancy, or make it the meteor of a moment, cast again with nicer heed our nation's horoscope. MARTHA HOPKINS.--_Phoebe Cary._ From the kitchen, Martha Hopkins, as she stood there making pies, Southward looks along the turnpike, with her hand above her eyes; Where along the distant hill-side, her yearning heifer feeds, And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds. All the air is full of noises for there isn't any school, And boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool; Blithely frisk unnumber'd chickens, cackling, for they can not laugh, Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps a little calf. Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins! tell me wherefore do ye gaze, On the ground that's being furrow'd for the planting of the maize? Tell me wherefore down the valley, ye have traced the turnpike's way Far beyond the cattle-pasture, and the brick-yard with its clay? Ah! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door-yard grass may shine, With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line, And the morning's breath of balsam, lightly brush her faded cheek-- Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak. When the summer's burning solstice on the scanty harvest glow'd, She had watch'd a man on horseback riding down the turnpike road; Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn, Till amid her tears she lost him in the shadow of the barn. Ere the supper-time was over, he had pass'd the kiln of brick, Cross'd the rushing Yellow River, and forded quite a creek, And his flat-boat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans, With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans. Therefore watches Martha Hopkins--holding in her hand the pans, When the sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man's: Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, not a door behind her jars, But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars. Often sees she men on horseback coming down the turnpike rough, But they came not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough; Well she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse he keeps, As he jogs along at leisure, with head down like a sheep's. She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his home-made coat and vest, By his socks, which were blue woolen, such as farmers wear out West; By the color of his trowsers, and his saddle which was spread, By a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed. None like he the yoke of hickory, on the unbroken ox can throw None amid his father's cornfields use like him the spade and hoe; And at all the apple-cuttings, few, indeed, the men are seen, That can dance with him the polka, touch with him the violin. He has said to Martha Hopkins, and she thinks she hears him now; For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow; When the buck-eye tree has blossom'd, and your uncle plants his corn, Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding-morn. He has invited his relations, bought a Sunday hat and gown, And he thinks he'll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in town; That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give, To sit down to the first breakfast in the cabin where they'll live. Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins! what has got you in such scrape, 'Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of her cape; Ah! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees, One man looks like another, when half-hidden by the trees. But her eager eyes rekindle, she forgets the pies and bread, As she sees a man on horseback, round the corner of the shed, Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair, 'Tis the sorrel horse that gallops, 'tis John Jackson's self that's there. THE BASHFUL MAN'S STORY.--_Charles Matthews._ Among the various good and bad qualities incident to our nature, I am unfortunately that being overstocked with the one called bashfulness; for you most know, I inherit such an extreme susceptibility of shame, that on the smallest subject of confusion, my blood rushes into my cheeks, and I appear a perfect full-blown rose; in short, I am commonly known by the appellation of "The Bashful Man." The consciousness of this unhappy failing, made me formerly avoid that social company, I should otherwise have been ambitious to appear in: till at length becoming possessed of an ample fortune, by the death of a rich old uncle, and vainly supposing that "money makes the man," I was now determined to shake off my natural timidity, and join in the gay throng: with this view I accepted of an invitation to dine with one, whose open easy manner left me no room to doubt of a cordial welcome. Sir Thomas Friendly, an intimate friend of my late uncle's, with two sons and five daughters, all grown up, and living with their mother and a maiden sister of Sir Thomas's. Conscious of my unpolished gait, I for some time took private lessons of a professor, who teaches "grown gentlemen to dance." Having by this means acquired the art of walking without tottering, and learning to make a bow, I boldly ventured to obey the baronet's invitation to a family dinner, not doubting but my new acquirements would enable me to see the ladies with tolerable intrepidity but, alas! how vain are all the hopes of theory, when unsupported by habitual practice. As I approached the house, a dinner-bell alarmed my fears, lest I had spoiled the dinner by want of punctuality; impressed with this idea, I blushed the deepest crimson, as my name was repeatedly announced by the several livery-servants, who ushered me into the library, hardly knowing what or whom I saw. At my first entrance, I summoned all my fortitude, and made my new-learnt bow to Lady Friendly; but, unfortunately, in bringing my left foot to the third position, I trod upon the gouty toe of poor Sir Thomas, who had followed close to my heels, to be the nomenclator of the family. The confusion this occasioned in me is hardly to be conceived, since none but bashful men can judge of my distress; and of that description, the number, I believe, is very small. The baronet's politeness, by degrees, dissipated my concern, and I was astonished to see how far good breeding could enable him to support his feelings, and to appear with perfect ease, after so painful an accident. The cheerfulness of her ladyship, and the familiar chat of the young ladies, insensibly led me to throw off my reserve and sheepishness, till, at length, I ventured to join in conversation, and even to start fresh subjects. The library being richly furnished with books in elegant bindings, and observing an edition of Xenophon, in sixteen volumes, which (as I had never before heard of) greatly excited my curiosity. I rose up to examine what it could be; Sir Thomas saw what I was about, and, as I suppose, willing to save me the trouble, rose to take down the book, which made me more eager to prevent him; and hastily laying my hand on the first volume, I pulled it forcibly; but, lo! instead of books, a board, which by leather and gilding had been made to look like sixteen volumes, came tumbling down, and unluckily pitched upon a Wedgewood inkstand on the table, under it. In vain did Sir Thomas assure me, there was no harm; I saw the ink streaming from an inlaid table on the Turkey carpet, and, scarce knowing what I did, I attempted to stop its progress with my cambric handkerchief. In the height of this confusion, we were informed that dinner was served up, and I with joy perceived that the bell, which at first had so alarmed my fears, was only the half-hour dinner-bell. In walking through the hall and suite of apartments to the dining-room, I had time to collect my scattered senses, and was desired to take my seat between Lady Friendly and her eldest daughter, at the table. Since the fall of the wooden Xenophon, my face had been continually burning, like a firebrand; and I was just beginning to recover myself, and to feel comfortably cool, when an unlooked-for accident rekindled all my heat and blushes. Having set my plate of soup too near the edge of the table, in bowing to Miss Dinah, who politely complimented the pattern of my waistcoat, I tumbled the whole scalding contents into my lap. In spite of an immediate supply of napkins to wipe the surface of my clothes, my black silk breeches were not stout enough to save me from the painful effects of this sudden fomentation, and for some minutes my legs and thighs seemed stewing in a boiling caldron; but recollecting how Sir Thomas had disguised his torture, when I trod upon his toe, I firmly bore my pain in silence, and sat with my lower extremities parboiled, amidst the stifled giggling of the ladies and servants. I will not relate the several blunders which I made during the first course, or the distress occasioned by my being desired to carve a fowl, or help to various dishes that stood near me, spilling a sauce-boat, and knocking down a salt-cellar; rather let me hasten to the second course, "where fresh disasters overwhelmed me quite." I had a piece of rich sweet pudding on my fork, when Miss Louisa Friendly begged to trouble me for a pigeon that stood near me. In my haste, scarcely knowing what I did, I whipped the pudding into my mouth, hot as a burning coal; it was impossible to conceal my agony--my eyes were starting from their sockets. At last, in spite of shame and resolution, I was obliged to drop the cause of my torment on my plate. Sir Thomas and the ladies all compassionated my misfortune, and each advised a different application; one recommended oil, another water, but all agreed that wine was the best for drawing out fire, and a glass of sherry was brought me from the side-board, which I snatched up with eagerness: but, oh! how shall I tell the sequel? whether the butler by accident mistook, or purposely designed to drive me mad, he gave me the strongest brandy, with which I filled my mouth, already flayed and blistered. Totally unused to ardent spirits, with my tongue, throat, and palate as raw as beef, what could I do? I could not swallow; but clapping my hands upon my mouth, the cursed liquor squirted through my nose and fingers like a fountain, over all the dishes; and I, crushed by bursts of laughter from all quarters. In vain did Sir Thomas reprimand the servants, and Lady Friendly chide her daughters; for the measure of my shame and their diversion was not yet complete. To relieve me from the intolerable state of perspiration which this accident had caused, without considering what I did, I wiped my face with that ill-fated handkerchief, which was still wet from the consequences of the fall of Xenophon, and covered all my features with streaks of ink in every direction. The baronet himself could not support this shock, but joined his lady in the general laugh; while I sprung from the table in despair, rushed out of the house, and ran home in an agony of confusion and disgrace, which the most poignant sense of guilt could have excited. Thus, without having deviated from the path of moral rectitude, I am suffering torments like a "goblin damned." The lower half of me has been almost boiled, my tongue and mouth grilled, and I bear the mark of Cain upon my forehead; yet these are but trifling considerations, to the everlasting shame which I must feel, whenever this adventure shall be mentioned. Perhaps, by your assistance, when my neighbors know how much I feel on the occasion, they will spare a bashful man, and, as I am just informed my poultice is ready, I trust you will excuse the haste in which I retire. THE MATTER-OF-FACT MAN.--_Anon._ I am what the old women call an "Odd Fish." I do nothing under heaven without a motive--never. I attempt nothing, unless I think there is a probability of my succeeding. I ask no favors when I think they are not deserved; and finally, I don't wait upon the girls when I think my attentions would be disagreeable. I am a matter-of-fact man, I am. I do every thing seriously. I once offered to attend a young lady home; I did it seriously; that is, I meant to wait on her home if she wanted me. She accepted my offer; I went home with her, and it has ever since been an enigma with me whether she wanted me or not. I bade her good night, and she said not a word. I met her next morning, and I said not a word. I met her again, and she gave me two hours' talk. It struck me as curious. She feared I was offended, she said, and could not, for the life of her, conceive why. She begged me to explain, but would not give me a chance to do so. She said she hoped I wouldn't be offended, asked me to call, and it has ever since been a mystery to me whether she wanted me or not. Once I saw a lady at her window. I thought I would call. I did. I inquired for the lady, and was told she was not at home. I expected she was, I went away thinking so. I rather think so still. I met her again--she was offended--said I had not been neighborly. She reproached me for my negligence; said she thought I had been unkind. And I've ever since wondered whether she thought so or not. A lady once said to me that she should like to be married if she could get a good, congenial husband who would make her happy, or at least try to. She was not difficult to please, she said. I said I should like to get married, too, if I could find a wife that would try to make me happy. She said Umph, and looked as if she meant what she said. She did. For when I asked her if she thought she could not be persuaded to marry me, she said she would rather be excused. I have often wondered why I excused her. A good many things of this kind have happened to me, that are doubtful, wonderful, mysterious. What is it, then, that causes doubt and mystery to attend the ways of men? It is the want of fact. This is a matter-of-fact world, and in order to act well in it, we must deal in a matter-of-fact way. RICH AND POOR.--_Joseph Barber._ "Men are born equal;" Jefferson, the Sage, Upon our history's initial page, Inscribed that dictum; But we who live in later times amend The "declaration" of our patriot friend With a _postscriptum_. We deem, like him, swart Labor's son and heir, And wealth's soft bantling, of _one earthenware_, But mark the sequel: One's meanly clothed in threadbare suit forlorn, The other flaunts in velvet, lace, and lawn; Are they then equal? Five thousand children in New York, each year, Gasp for bare life, in cellars damp and drear, 'Neath the street level. Deprived of sunshine, chill'd with vapor-blights, Say what are _their_ "inalienable rights," Social and civil? The right to starve, the right to beg, to float Among the city's scum--perchance to vote Some day as "freemen." Ah! yes, the _polls_ their sovereignty declare, Not so--in sordid chains they're oft led there By Faction's Demon. "The rich and poor are equal," says the State, But the strong laws of destiny and fate, O'erride its polity. Both have a right to _seek_ for "happiness;" But, with such different chances of success, Where's the _equality_? Here wealth like a Colossus doth bestride With legs of gold, the sorrow-troubled tide Of Want and Squallor. Nay, more, Law, Justice, oft becomes the tool Of that bright tyrant, callous, calm, and cool, Almighty Dollar! "All men are equal," where? Why, in their dust, Your worm cares little for your "upper crust!" (What impropriety!) And heaven receives alike all spirits pure, On equal terms, and heaven is therefore sure Of good society. SEEING THE ECLIPSE.--_Anon._ [To be spoken without gesture, as if the speaker were telling a friend his experience.] Did you ever see an eclipse? No? Well, you _did_ miss a sight, got up for the especial benefit of darkies, perhaps, but every white man, of good _standing_, could enjoy it--_if_ he was up. I'll tell you _my_ experience, and you may judge what you have lost by not seeing the eclipse. Well, I got up at three o'clock Wednesday morning. Looked for the sun, but couldn't find it. Concluded that I was up too early. Went to bed. Got up again at half-past five. Saw something they called the sun. Looked red. Went down town. Sun looked whiter and bright as a tin pan. Thought I would go home and get breakfast. Noticed the breakfast-room looked dark. Opened the blinds when it looked lighter. Seven o'clock. Went down town again. Sun shining very bright. Tried to look at it but couldn't. Thought I would take a glass. Took one. Smoked it. Thought that I could see better, but wasn't satisfied. Didn't see any eclipse. Eight o'clock. Took another glass, thinking it might be a better one. Smoked. Could see a patch on the sun's face. Grew bigger. Took another glass--smoked. Looked first-rate. Half-past eight. Things didn't look right, but could see something. Thought the trouble might be in the last glass. Took another. Saw the biggest kind of an eclipse. Saw the sun and moon. Took another glass and looked again. Saw two suns. Smoked and took another glass. Saw two suns and two moons. Took another glass. Five or six suns and ten or fifteen moons all mixed up and seemed to be drunk. Nine o'clock. Couldn't see much of any thing. Concluded I must be sun-struck. Thought I would go home. Saw an omnibus, and thought I would get in. Turned out to be one of Swartz's what-d'ye-call-it. Tried another, and got in. Went home in a coal cart. Think eclipses are humbugs, besides making people have headaches. THE BEAUTIES OF THE LAW. [Recited in the character of Counsellor Quirk.] Farmer A. and Farmer B. were good neighbors. Farmer A. was seized or possessed of a white bull; Farmer B. was seized or possessed of, or otherwise well entitled to, a ferry-boat. Farmer B. having made his boat fast to a post on shore, by means of a piece of hay, twisted rope-fashion, or, as we say, _vulgato vocto_, a hayband, went up to town to get his dinner, which was also very natural for a hungry man to do. In the mean time Farmer A.'s white bull came down to the town to look for his dinner, which was also very natural for a hungry bull to do; the said white bull, discovering, seeing, and spying out, some turnips in the bottom of the ferry-boat, the bull scrambled into the ferry-boat aforesaid, eat up the turnips, and, to make an end of his meal, fell to work upon the hay-band. The ferry-boat being ate from its moorings, floated down the river with the white bull in it: it struck against a rock, which beat a hole in the bottom of the boat, and tossed the bull overboard; whereupon, the owner of the bull brought his action against the boat, for running away with the bull. The owner of the boat brought his action against the bull, for running away with the boat; and thus notice of the trial was given, Bullum _versus_ Boatum--Boatum _versus_ Bullum. Now the counsel for the bull began with saying: "Your Honor, and you, Gentlemen of the Jury, we are counsel in this cause for the bull. We are indicted for running away with the boat. Now, your Honor, your Honor may have heard of running horses, but never of running bulls before. Now, your Honor, I humbly submit to your Honor, the bull could no more have run away with the boat, than a man in a coach may be said to run away with the horses; therefore, your Honor, how can an action be maintained against that which is not actionable? How can we punish what is not punishable? How can we eat what is not eatable? Or, how can we drink what is not drinkable? Or, as the law says, how can we think on what is not thinkable? Therefore, your Honor, as we are counsel in this cause for the bull, if the jury should bring the bull in guilty, the jury will be guilty of a bull." The learned counsel for the boat, in the cross-action of Bullum _versus_ Boatum, observed, that the bull should be nonsuited, because, in his declaration, he had omitted to state or specify what color he was; for thus wisely and thus learnedly spoke the counsel: "My Lord, if the bull was of no color he must be of some color; and if he was not of any color, what color could the bull be?" I overruled this motion myself, by observing the bull was a white bull, and that white is no color: besides, as I told my brethren, they should not trouble their heads to talk of color in the law, for the law can color any thing. The cause being afterwards left to a reference, upon the award, both bull and boat were acquitted, it being proved that the tide of the river carried them both away; upon which I gave it, as my opinion, that as the tide of the river carried both bull and boat away, both bull and boat had a good action against the water-bailiff. My opinion being taken, an action was issued, and, upon the traverse, this point of law arose: how, wherefore, and whether, why, when, and whatsoever, whereas, and whereby, as the boat was not a _compos mentis_ evidence, how could an oath be administered? That point was soon settled by Boatum's attorney declaring, that for his client he would swear any thing. The water-bailiff's charter was then read, taken out of the original law Latin, which set forth in their declaration, that they were carried away either by the tide of flood, or the tide of ebb, the charter of the water-bailiff was as follows: Aquæ bailiffi est magistratus in choisi, sapor omnibus, fishibus, qui haberunt finnos et scalos, claws, shells, et talos, qui surmare in freshibus, vel saltibus riveris, lakos, pondis, canalibus et well boats, sive oysteri, shrimpini, catinos, sturgeoni, shadini, herringi, crabi, snaperini, flatini, sharkus; that is, not flat-fish alone, but flats and sharps both together. But now comes the nicety of the law, the law is as nice as a new-laid egg, and not to be understood by addle-headed people. Bullum and Boatum mentioned both ebb and flood to avoid quibbling, but it being proved that they were carried away, neither by the flood, nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly upon the top of high water, they were consequently nonsuited; but such was the lenity and perfection of our laws, that upon their paying all the costs, they were allowed to begin again, _de novo_. GE-LANG! GIT UP!--_New Orleans Delta._ The drops of rain were falling fast, When up through Camp-street quickly pass'd, An omnibus, whose driver sung, In accents of the Celtic tongue-- Ge-lang! git up! His mules were lank, his whip was long; He touch'd them with a biting thong, And as they switch'd their threadbare tails, This sound the listening ear assails-- Ge-lang! git up! Along the street, on every side, Were damp ones waiting for a ride; They call'd, they yell'd, they raised a fuss, But cried the driver of the 'bus. Ge-lang! git up! "Hold on! hold on!" an old man said, And waved his hand above his head; Crack went the whip, and all could hear A sharp sound echoing on the ear-- Ge-lang! git up! "Stop, driver, stop!" a maiden call'd "Stop, stop!" a dozen voices bawl'd The driver look'd on neither side, But still in clarion voice replied-- Ge-lang! git up! Far up the street a sound was heard, And through the distance came a word That fell on many a waiting soul Like Hope's lugubrious funeral toll-- Ge-lang! git up! That night the driver went to bed; All through his troubled sleep he said The same strange words which he had flung All day from his Jehuic tongue-- Ge-lang! git up! THE RATS OF LIFE.--_Charles T. Congdon._ Rats! rats! rats! Pen-and-ink rats in their holes on high, Writing libels for fools to buy; Squabbling ever--the same old tune-- The hinted lie, or the broad lampoon! Rats whose virtue can never fail, Though each one carries his price on his tail; Some bite like scorpions--some like gnats; Know ye the names of the Editor Rats? Rats! rats! rats! Rats that the belfried churches nurse, Drearily drawling chapter and verse; Offering ever for human ills Only the barren letter that kills; Gnawing the Ark of the Covenant through, From velvet cushion to padded pew; Beating the dust to blind the flats! Know ye the names of the Reverend Rats? Rats! rats! rats! Rats in ermine holding moot, With law in parcels at prices to suit; Shaping, inventing to cover the case, Precedent musty or dictum base, Gad! how they gibber to suitors below: "If so be it thus, why then thus be it so!" _Leges non curant--verhum sat!_ Know ye the name of the Legal Rat? Rats! rats! rats! Rats in the ancient Temple of Mind-- Mumbling maggots and munching rind! Scrubbing and patching, splicing and jointing, With particles Greek and with Hebrew pointing. Proving virtue itself a sin, By a comma left out or a colon left in; Of guesses and glosses the autocrats: Know ye the names of the Learned Rats? Rats! rats! rats! By beds where the dying pant for life! How snug they stand with lancet and knife; While the vampyre tugs at the fluttering heart, How they jabber jargon of middle-aged art! Soothing pain when 'tis savage and strong By naming it something Latin and long! A grain of this and a scruple of that!-- Know ye the name of the Medical Rat? Rats! rats! rats! Rats that run in the month of May Rats of reform and right are they! Rats who believe the hottest of speeches Soonest the shame and sorrow reaches; Generous rats whose chiefest delight Is to set the order of Providence right; Lean, or hairy, or greasy, or fat, Know ye the name of the Platform Rat? Rats! rats! rats! Oh, Truth and Justice, and Common-Sense When will you drive this rat-tribe hence? Bait 'em and beat 'em! hurry 'em! skurry 'em! With satire and scorn and laughter flurry 'em! In hole and corner and cranny to hide, The Flunkey Rat, and the Rat of Pride, Selfishness, Pedantry, Cant, and all that, Till nobody hears of a single Rat! "THE CREOWNIN' GLORY OF THE UNITED STATES."--_Knickerbocker Magazine._ My Hearers:--My text ain't in Worcester's Pictorial, nor Webster's big quarto; but it is in the columns of the Bunkum Flagstaff and Independent Echo--"_Edication is the Creownin' Glory of the United'n States'n._" Thar ain't a feller in all this great and glorious Republic but has studed readin', ritin', and 'rithmetic. Thar ain't a youngster so big that you couldn't drown him in a spit-box but what has read Shakspeare's gogerphy, and knows that all the world is a stage, with two poles instead of one like a common stage; and that it keeps goin' reound and reound on its own axis, not axin' nothin' o' nobody; for "_Edication is the Creownin' Glory of the United'n States'n_." Who was it that, durin' the great and glorious Revolution, by his eloquence quenched the spirit of Toryism? An American citizen. Who was it that knocked thunder out of the clouds, and took a streak o' greased lightnin' for a tail to his kite? An American citizen. Who was it that invented the powder that will kill a cockroach, if you put a little on its tail and then tread on it? Who was it that discovered the Fat Boy, and captured the wild and ferocious _What Is It?_ An American citizen! Oh, it's a smashin' big thing to be an American citizen! King David would have been an American citizen, and the Queen of Sheba would have been naturalized, if it could a bin did; for "_Edication is the Creownin' Glory of the United'n States'n_." When you and I shall be no more; when this glorious Union shall have gone to etarnal smash; when Barnum shall have secured his last curiosity at a great expense; then will the historian dip his pen in a georgious bottle of blue-black ink, and write--"_Edication was the Creownin' Glory of the United'n States'n_." THREE FOOLS.--_C. H. Spurgeon._ I will show you three fools. One is yonder soldier, who has been wounded on the field of battle--grievously wounded, well-nigh unto death. The soldier asks him a question. Listen, and judge of his folly! What question does he ask? Does he raise his eyes with eager anxiety and inquire if the wound be mortal, if the practitioner's skill can suggest the means of healing, or if the remedies are within reach and the medicine at hand? No, nothing of the sort. Strange to tell, he asks: "Can you inform me with what sword I was wounded, and by what Russian I have been thus grievously mauled? I want," he adds, "to learn every minute particular respecting the origin of my wound." The man is delirious, his head is affected! Surely such questions at such a time are proof enough that he is bereft of his senses. There is another fool. The storm is raging, the ship is flying impetuously before the gale, the dark scud moves swiftly overhead, masts are creaking, the sails are rent to rags, and still the gathering tempest grows more fierce. Where is the captain? Is he busily engaged on the deck, is he manfully facing the danger, and skillfully suggesting means to avert it? No, sir, he has retired to his cabin; and there, with studious thoughts and crazy fancies, he is speculating on the place where this storm took its rise. "It is mysterious, this wind; no one ever yet," he says, "has been able to discover it." And so, reckless of the vessel, the lives of the passengers, and his own life, he is careful only to solve his curious question. The man is mad, sir; take the rudder from his hand; he is clean gone mad! The third fool I shall doubtless find among yourselves. You are sick and wounded with sin, you are in a storm and hurricane of Almighty vengeance, and yet the question which you would ask of me this morning would be: "Sir, what is the origin of evil?" You are mad, sir, spiritually mad; that is not the question you would ask if you were in a sane and healthy state of mind. Your question would be: "How can I get rid of the evil?" Not, "How did it come into the world?" but, "How am I to escape from it?" Not, "How is it that fire descended from heaven upon Sodom?" but, "How may I, like Lot, escape out of the city to a Zoar?" Not, "How is it that I am sick?" but, "Are there medicines that will heal me? Is there a physician to be found that can restore my soul to health?" Ah! you trifle with subtleties, while you neglect certainties. WASHINGTON.--_Hon. Thomas S. Bocock, Feb. 22d, 1860._ As certain vegetable products are the natural growth of particular soils, at particular times, so some men spring almost necessarily out of certain forms of civilization, and stand as the representatives of the times and countries in which they live. Pericles, able, accomplished, magnificent, was the representative man of Athens in the time of her highest civilization and prosperity. Richard I. was the representative man of England in the days of chivalry, and Charles II. in the days of gallantry. These men could scarcely have lived in any other age or clime. So Washington could scarcely have had his existence in any other time or country. He could no more have been an Italian of the middle ages, than Machiavelli could have been an American, or Cæsar Borgia an Englishman: no more than the Parthenon could have been a Gothic cathedral, or Westminster Abbey a Grecian temple. He was at once the offspring and the type of American civilization at his time. He was our great forest-bred cavalier, with all the high honor of his ancestral stock of De Wessingtons, with all the hardy firmness of a pioneer, and with all the kindly courtesy of his native State. Among the Adamses and Hancocks, the Lees and Henrys, the Sumpters and Rutledges of that day, he stood forth prominently as the representative man, and as the exemplar of our Revolution, just as that triplex monstrosity of Danton, Marat, and Robespierre, was the exemplar of the French. He was a man of firm adherence to principle. We fought for principle in the revolutionary struggle. He was a man of signal moderation. Such was the spirit of our contest. He had great self-control. Unlike other revolutions, ours advanced not one step beyond the point proposed. Having reached that, it subsided as easily, as gracefully, and as quietly as though the voice of Omnipotence itself had spoken to the great deep of our society, saying: "_Peace, be still._" Could he have lived in ancient days, the strains of immortal verse would have told his deeds, and fond adherents would have numbered him among the gods. Those days are past; but we have yet hearts to admire, and pens to record, and tongues to praise his private virtues and his public worth. And when century after century shall have rolled by, bearing its fruits into the bosom of the past; even when men shall look back to this time, through the haze and mist of a remote and far-off antiquity, if this shall still be a land of freemen, this day shall still be fondly cherished as the anniversary of the birth of Washington; increased reverence shall attend his character, and thickening honors shall cluster around his name. Upon this representative and similitude of the great and honored dead, which we this day put forth before the world, the winds shall blow, the rains shall fall, and the storms shall beat, but it shall stand unhurt amid them all. So shall it be with the fame of him whose image it is. The breath of unfriendly criticism may blow upon it; the storms that betoken moral or social change may break upon it; but it shall stand firmly fixed in the hearts and memories of every true and honest and liberty-loving man who inhabits our land or cherishes our institutions. The inhabitants of this city, as they behold this statue, day after day, will look upon it as the Palladium of their privileges, and the silent guardian of their prosperity. And the thousands and tens of thousands, that from every nation, kingdom, and tongue, yearly go forth to gaze upon and admire the wonders of the earth, when they shall come up to this "Mecca of the mind," shall pause with reverential awe, as they gaze upon this similitude of the mighty Washington. Year after year shall that dumb image tell its eloquent story of patriotism, devotion, and self-sacrifice; year after year shall it teach its holy lesson of duty and of faith; with generation after generation shall it plead for institutions founded in wisdom, and a country bought with blood. To the clouds and storms that gather over and break upon it, it will tell of the clouds and storms through which its great antitype did pass, in his devoted course on earth; and when the great luminary of the heavens, descending with his golden shower of beams like imperial Jove, shall wrap it in its warm embrace, it shall tell the sun that He who gave him his beams and bade him shine, has decreed that one day the darkness of eternal night shall settle on his face; but then the spirit of the mighty Washington, basking in an eternal sunlight above, shall still "A darkening universe defy, To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God." THE SAME. Think, then, of the eminent statesmen whose talents have illustrated and qualities ennobled their age and country. I will not attempt to name them; but who is there among them all who, having the wisdom always to perceive, Lad, at the same time, the sense of duty to carry out, the best interests of the country? Consider, if you please, how Richelieu lived, and how Wolsey died; and tell me, then, if these were such as Washington. I will not equal him with the Scripture patriarchs. It would be wrong so to do. What of mere mortality could equal the firmness of Moses, as he came down from Sinai, his face all glowing from the presence of his God? What could equal the faith of Abraham, as he tracked his lonely pilgrimage through the plains of Shinar, seeking a land that he knew not of? These pictures have a far-off, haze-enveloped, oriental background. They are drawn with the pencil of inspiration, and colored with the hues of heaven. I could not say that they correctly represent Washington in any phase of his character. But I will say that, in duty and in faith, he approached them more nearly than any other hero-statesman of whom I have any knowledge. I would not deal in any exaggeration, but I desire to be just. Washington may have had ambition, but it was not of that stamp that made the angels fall. He loved popularity, but not to gratify a vulgar vanity. His ambition was for his country's good. He took office to achieve a great end. When that was accomplished, he withdrew gladly to that retirement which was ever grateful to his heart, and which, in all circumstances and conditions in which he might be placed, always stretched out before him, in the future, as the calm and peaceful haven of his hopes. Had he been less a good man, he would not thus have desired retirement, for none but a good man could so love the calm delights of privacy and the pure joys of the domestic circle and the family fireside. Had he been not so much a great one, he would never have left his home. Strange decree of fate! that in this Western world, but recently known to civilization, and only partially reclaimed from the savages; over which the dull oblivion of unnumbered centuries had not yet ceased to brood; without literature, without polite arts, without settled social organization, without position among nations--that in such a land, almost unknown and utterly uncared for, there should have arisen a man who was destined to equal, in the estimation of the virtuous and the good, all ancient glory and all modern fame. The verdict of the French philosopher, Guizot, pronounced in view of his whole record, was, that "of all great men he was the most virtuous and the most fortunate--in this world God has no higher favors to bestow;" while the great English orator, jurist, and statesman, Lord Brougham, has declared that "until time shall be no more, will a test of the progress which our race has made in wisdom and virtue be derived from the veneration paid to the immortal name of Washington." THE SAME. Had Washington never lived, what would have been the result of our revolutionary struggle? Had he died immediately after the close of the war, what would have been the fate of our governmental experiment? These are speculations which it will never be allowed us, in this life, to solve. As, in the one case, we can not say that the struggle would not ultimately have ended triumphantly, so, in the other, we do not know that our present form of government would not have been successfully established. For myself, I doubt the latter proposition fully as much as the former. Under another man, as first President, the fury of party strife would have been far greater, and sectional discord much stronger. Insurrectionary movements would have been more numerous and difficult of suppression, and foreign jealousy more bold and effective. Though the ship of state may have ultimately made the port, it is certain that she would have encountered more adverse currents, and been tossed upon more tempestuous seas. The political tempest which was passing over the country at the time of his death, gives some faint idea of what might have been expected, without him, in the earlier and more unsettled state of our institutions. The immortal legacy which, in his "_Farewell Address_," he gave to the country on his final retirement, has already exhausted eulogy. The patriot heart has often kindled over it in the past, and will do so forever in the future. It will go down to the remotest posterity which shall inhabit this land of liberty, as an inestimable compend of whatever is true in wisdom, holy in patriotism, and far-seeing in statesmanship. Would that its doctrines were not only infused into every mind, but engraved upon every heart! Would that its lesson of "_equal laws_" involving equal burdens and equal benefits, equal duties and equal protection, and of strict regard for constitutional limitation in all cases, was made the basis of all our political action! Then, indeed, would party feuds and sectional animosities be allayed. A spirit of mutual respect and fraternal concord would fill the land with the fruits of peace, prosperity, and happiness. With all our fertile soil, salubrious climate, skillful industry, and enriching trade, this only is needed to usher in, amid shouts of triumph and songs of rejoicing, the political millennium of our land. Now, though withdrawn from public position, his controlling sense of duty made Washington still anxious for his country, and ready to render any service which might appear incumbent on him. So, when it seemed that a war with France was inevitable, old man as he was, enshrined as he was in the hearts of his countrymen, with nothing more of fame to attain, and nothing more of glory to covet, from a pure sense of duty, he agreed to take charge of the armies of the nation, and to imperil life, reputation, every thing, for his country's good. The occasion for his services did not arise; but the certainty that it would not was scarcely manifest, when death came to summon him to the "mansions of eternal rest." It is allowed to few men to carry on a revolution, and to see it successfully terminated in the independence of a nation. Fewer still, perhaps, are permitted to inaugurate a new government, and witness its firm establishment in the freedom of the people. Washington had the singular good fortune to do both, and to die at last at home and in the bosom of his family. Hero! Patriot! Sage! If there be one title more pure, more lofty, more noble than all others, by that title I would name him. To whom shall we liken him, or with whom shall he be compared? There is the long list of military heroes, in ancient and modern times. Let them pass in solemn procession across the stage, each bearing the light of his past life, like the solemn procession of torch-bearers in the sacred mysteries of Eleusis. Gaze on them as they pass! Great, illustrious, resplendent! There are Alexander and Hannibal, Scylla and Cæsar, Charlemagne and Marlborough, Bonaparte and Wellington. Which one of them all that has not a record marked by some weakness, or marred by some crime? Love of glory, lust of dominion, or greed of gain, is written by the pen of history upon the escutcheon of all. OUR GREAT INHERITANCE.--_John J. Crittenden, 1860._ We have the greatest country on the face of the earth. Let not our minds be so distracted by mere party strife and confusion that we shall see our government fall to pieces before our eyes, and sacrifice our country to our party instead of being ready at all times to sacrifice our party to our country. After we become the slave of party, we dare not, in the presence of any danger to the country, turn our backs to our parties, and say that we have a country that demands our services, and to it will we give them. Are we now unable to do this? Have we lost this spirit? has it gone from among us? Providence has given this great country to us. Our wise and valiant forefathers gave us liberty and established a government for us. Let us take care of it--take care of the Constitution and the Union. That is all we require. We have before us the prospect of a glory unknown to other nations--a prospect in which our land will become the glory of the earth. Neither Rome nor any of the great empires of antiquity or of modern times can compare with what we shall be at no distant day. We are now thirty millions strong, yet we have been but eighty years in existence as a free nation. From the year 1776 down to the present time, God Almighty has blessed us above all other people and all other nations. Where shall we be thirty years hence, if such prosperity attend us? A great nation of one hundred million souls, with not enough then to develop all our resources. Every man free to think, free to speak, free to act, free to work. What must this mighty freedom produce with this mighty concurrence of hearts, of heads, of hands! What navies, what armies, what cities! Let us lift ourselves to the contemplation of what our children will be. Shall we not leave them a legacy as great as that our fathers left us? Let the contemplation of the mighty destinies involved in our Confederacy engage us until we absorb the genius of this Republic and its Constitution. Let it enter into all our motives of public action, that we may no longer be the tools and slaves of parties, of party platforms, and of party conventions. EULOGIUM ON HENRY CLAY.--_Lincoln, 1852._ On the 4th day of July, 1776, the people of a few feeble and oppressed colonies of Great Britain, inhabiting a portion of the Atlantic coast of North America, publicly declared their National Independence, and made their appeal to the justice of their cause, and to the God of battles, for the maintenance of that declaration. That people were few in numbers, and without resources, save only their wise heads and stout hearts. Within the first year of that declared independence, and while its maintenance was yet problematic--while the bloody struggle between those resolute rebels and their haughty would-be masters, was still waging, of undistinguished parents, and in an obscure district of one of those colonies, Henry Clay was born. The infant nation and the infant child began the race together. For three-quarters of a century they have traveled hand in hand. They have been companions ever. The nation has passed its peril, and is free, prosperous, and powerful. The child has reached his manhood, his middle age, his old age, and is dead. In all that has concerned the nation the man ever sympathized, and now the nation mourns for the man. But do we realize that Henry Clay is dead? Who can realize that never again that majestic form shall rise in the council-chamber of his country, to beat back the storms of anarchy which may threaten, or pour the oil of peace upon the troubled billows, as they rage and menace around? Who can realize that the workings of that mighty mind have ceased--that the throbbings of that gallant heart are stilled--that the mighty sweep of that graceful arm will be felt no more, and the magic of that eloquent tongue, which spake as spake no other tongue besides, is hushed--hushed forever? Who can realize that freedom's champion--the champion of a civilized world, and of all tongues and kindred and people, has indeed fallen? Alas! in those dark hours of peril and dread which our land has experienced, and which she may be called to experience again--to whom now may her people look up for that counsel and advice, which only wisdom and experience and patriotism can give, and which only the undoubting confidence of a nation will receive? But Henry Clay is dead. His long and eventful life is closed. Our country is prosperous and powerful; but could it have been quite all it has been, and is, and is to be, without Henry Clay? Such a man the times have demanded, and such, in the Providence of God, was given us. But although his form is lifeless, his name will live and be loved and venerated in both hemispheres. For it is "One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die." OHIO.--_Bancroft's Oration at Cleveland, Sept. 10th, 1860._ Ohio rises before the world as the majestic witness to beneficent reality of the democratic principle. A commonwealth younger in years than he who addresses you, not long ago having no visible existence but in the emigrant wagons, now numbers almost as large a population as that of all England when it gave birth to Raleigh, and Bacon, and Shakspeare, and began, its continuous attempts at colonizing America. Each one of her inhabitants gladdens in the fruit of his own toil. She possesses wealth that must be computed by thousands of millions; and her frugal, industrious, and benevolent people, at once daring and prudent, unfettered in the use of their faculties, restless in enterprise, do not squander the accumulations of their industry in vain show, but ever go on to render the earth more productive, more beautiful, and more convenient to man; mastering for mechanical purposes the unwasting forces of nature; keeping exemplary good faith with their public creditors; building in half a century more churches than all England has raised since this continent was discovered; endowing and sustaining universities and other seminaries of learning. Conscious of the dynamic power of mind in action as the best of fortresses, Ohio keeps no standing army but that of her school-teachers, of whom she pays more than 20,000; she provides a library for every school-district; she counts among her citizens more than 300,000 men who can bear arms, and she has more than twice that number of children registered as students in her public schools. Here the purity of domestic morals is maintained by the virtue and dignity of woman. In the heart of the temperate zone of this continent, in the land of the corn, of wheat, and the vine, the eldest daughter of the Ordinance of 1787, already the young mother of other commonwealths, that bid fair to vie with her in beauty, rises in her loveliness and glory, crowned with cities, and challenges the admiration of the world. Hither should come the political skeptic, who, in his despair, is ready to strand the ship of state; for here he may learn how to guide it safely on the waters. Should some modern Telemachus, heir to an island empire, touch these shores, here he may observe the vitality and strength of the principle of popular power; take from the book of experience the lesson that in public affairs great and happy results follow in proportion to faith in the efficacy of that principle, and learn to rebuke ill-advised counselors who pronounce the most momentous and most certain of political truths a delusion and a failure. OLIVER HAZARD PERRY.--_Ibid._ This anniversary of the great action of Oliver Hazard Perry is set apart for inaugurating a monument to his fame. Who has not heard how gallantly, forty-seven years ago, the young hero, still weak from a wasting fever, led his squadron to battle? As if shielded by a higher power, he encountered death on his right hand, and death on his left, ever in advance, almost alone for two hours fighting his ship, till it became a wreck, so that but one of its guns could be used any longer, and more than four-fifths of his crew lay around him wounded or killed; then unharmed, standing as beseemed his spirit, he passed in a boat to the uninjured Niagara, unfurled his flag, bore down within pistol-shot of his enemy, poured into them broadsides starboard and broadsides port, and while the sun was still high above the horizon, left no office to be done but that of mercy to the vanquished. If the comparison does not seem fanciful, I will call his conduct during those eventful hours a complete lyric poem, perfect in all its parts. Though he was carried away and raised above himself by the power with which he was possessed, the passion of his inspiration was tempered by the serene self-possession of his faultless courage; his will had the winged rapidity of fiery thought, and yet observed with deliberateness the combinations of harmony and the proportions of measured order. Nor may you omit due honors to the virtues of the unrecorded dead; not as mourners who require consolation, but with a clear perception of the glory of their end. The debt of nature all must pay. To die, if need be, in defense of the country is a common obligation; it is granted to few to exchange life for a victory so full of benefits to their fellow-men. These are the disinterested, unnamed martyrs, who, without hope, or fame, or gain, gave up their lives in testimony to the all pleading love of country, and left to our statesmen the lesson to demand of others nothing but what is right, and to submit to no wrong. "We have met the enemy," were Perry's words as he reported the result of the battle. And who was that enemy? A nation speaking another tongue? A state abandoned to the caprices of despotism? A people inimical to human freedom? No! they were the nation from whom most of us sprung, using the same copious language, cherishing after their fashion the love of liberty, enjoying internally the freest government that the world had known before our own. But the external policy of their government has been less controlled by regard for right than their domestic administration; and a series of wanton aggression, upon us, useless to England, condemned by her own statesmen and judges as violations of the law of nature and the law of nations, forced into a conflict two peoples whose common sympathies should never have been disturbed. And is this aggressive system forever to be adventured by her rulers? How long is the overshadowing aristocratic element in her government to stand between the natural affections of kindred nations. OUR DOMAIN.--_Ibid._ Even now a British minister, whose past career gave hope of a greater fairness, is renewing the old system of experiments on the possible contingency of the pusillanimity, the indifference, or the ignorance of some future American administration, and disputes our boundary in the Northwest, though the words of the treaty are too plain to be perverted, and though the United States claims no more than the British secretary of state, who offered the treaty, explained as its meaning before it was signed. British soldiers are now encamped on part of our territory which bears the name of Washington. With a moderation that should have commanded respect, the United States waived their better claim to Vancouver, and even to any part of it, thinking it conducive to peace to avoid two jurisdictions on different parts of the same island; and in return for this forbearance the British Minister, yielding perhaps to some selfish clamor of a trading company, as much against British interests as against American rights, reproduces on an American island the inconvenience of divided occupation, which it was the very purpose of the treaty to avoid. If the hum of the American seaboard is in part the echo of sentiments from abroad, here the unmixed voice of America may be heard, as it pronounces that it is too late to wrest territory from the United States by prevarication, by menace, or by force. From the English dockyards it is a long voyage to San Juan; the only good land route across the continent lies south of Lake Superior; in a few years there will be three Ohios on the shores of the Pacific. It is England's interest as well as duty to give effect to the treaty as it was interpreted by her own minister to ours. Your voices on this memorable day give the instruction to our own Government to abide by the treaty faithfully, on the condition that Britain will do the same; but the treaty must bind neither party or both--must be executed in good faith or canceled. The men who honor the memory of Perry will always know how to defend the domain of their country. Has any European statesman been miscounting the strength of this nation, by substituting a reminiscence of our feeble confederation for the present efficient and almost perfect organism of the body politic? Has any foreign ruler been so foolish as to listen with credulity to the tales of impending disunion? Every man of the people of Ohio, this great central highway of national travel, will, without one exception, tell the calumniator or the unbeliever that the voices of discontent among us are but the evanescent vapor of men's breath; that our little domestic strifes are no more than momentary disturbances on the surface, easily settled among ourselves; that the love of Union has wound its cords indissolubly round the whole American people. So, then, our last word shall be for the Union. The Union will guard the fame of its defenders, and ever more protect our entire territory; it will keep alive for mankind, the beacon lights of popular liberty and power; it will dissuade nations in a state of unripeness from attempting to found republican governments before they spring up naturally by an inward law; and its mighty heart will throb with delight at every true advance in any part of the world, toward republican happiness and freedom. SYSTEMS OF BELIEF.--_Rev. W. H. Milburn, 1860._ Pleasure is right, and right is pleasure; and hence comes the system of Epicurus. Epicurus fasted because it gave him an exquisite taste and enjoyment of his meal; Epicurus slept not unduly because with his waking he found his intellect balanced and his _physique_ refreshed. He awaked and remained awake, in order that his slumber might bring him quiet and repose. Thus starting from his condition we come very naturally to the luxury of the Sybarite, where the crimson wine sparkles and obscenity riots, and where the forms of vice and beastly debauchery flourish, in the saloons, the gambling-houses, and drinking-shops of this city. In all the forms of impurity and sensuality you have the practical life of this Epicurean philosophy: virtue is pleasure; therefore, pleasure is virtue, and wherever there is wrong done to our nature, by the gratification of our animal passions; wherever God's law is degraded and man's nature reduced to the level of the brute--you have the practical exposition of the tenets of the system. Upon the other hand, the system of Zeno seems to stand in direct opposition, in antipodal relations to that of Epicurus. Virtue sufficeth, says Zeno. Virtue is the law of the universe; the universe is law, law and law only. Dead, mechanical force, iron necessity; the sweep of fatalism in its terrific circle; this, and nothing more. No pulse of pity; no heart of tenderness; no thought of God in all the sweep of imagination or circle of reason. I, man, am a microcosm, a synopsis of all the laws and facts of the universe; I am not only part and parcel of it, but an image and reflection of it; virtue is resident in the mind, and has nothing to do with pain or pleasure. Pain and pleasure are of the senses and are wholly alien to the understanding, says Zeno. I am to be master of all suffering. What care I for infirmity? I stand here the noblest being in the whole creation; may I not be master of that creation? The brutes may writhe in their ecstasy of pain, they may shriek in the fearful spasms of their suffering; but I, a man, that seem to be a mirror of creation, may I not be master of these agonies, and stand, with folded arms, disdainful of every sort of sorrow, of all pangs of pity, or tenderness, or affection? of what is called friendship, love? These things are the whimpering sentimentalities of women and children, and I have nothing to do with them. The folded arms, the clenched fist, the tightly drawn lips, be mine; and if pain become too strong for suffering there is a portal which my own hand can open; it swings apart obedient to my poignard, and suicide is my resort; therefore apathy is the perfection of human character; a deadness of sentiment, a hardihood of courage, a noble daring, a port of pride, a disdainful mien--these are what become the intellect as the master of the earth. Therefore, my brain is to be all crystal, my heart of adamant. Such is the Stoical system. In both there was much of beauty and ingenuity, of philosophical insight and depth, largeness of conception, fullness and admirableness of treatment. But they both, in common with all other systems, aside and apart from our holy faith, lacked one master-power; the great power of the heart, which appeals to the heart of the whole earth. I might convince your understanding of the propriety of Epicureanism, of the grandeur and nobleness of Stoicism; I might warm you in this direction; I might chill you in that; but when I speak to that part of your nature which is deeper and nobler than the intellect; when I come to ask the suffrage of a simple human nature, I must be armed with a sublimer word than the language of either. Take Christianity in comparison with them; it teaches that there is consistency and coherency between virtue and pleasure, but that I am to be loyal to virtue. It unites the opposite systems of Epicurus and Zeno; it takes their half-truths and solidifies and unites them in one complete full-orbed and rounded whole. THE INDIAN CHIEF. [The following poem is founded on a traditionary story which is common on the borders of the great Falls of Niagara, although differing in some unimportant particulars.] The rain fell in torrents, the thunder roll'd deep, And silenced the cataract's roar; But neither the night, nor the tempest could keep The warrior chieftain on shore. The war-shout has sounded, the stream must be cross'd Why lingers the leader afar? 'Twere better his life than his glory be lost; He never came late to the war. He seized a canoe as he sprang from the rock, But fast as the shore fled his reach, The mountain wave seem'd all his efforts to mock, And dash'd the canoe on the beach. "Great Spirit," he cried "shall the battle be given, And all but their leader be there? May this struggle land me with them or in heaven!" And he push'd with the strength of despair. He has quitted the shore, he has gained the deep; His guide is the lightning alone! But he felt not with fast, irresistible sweep, The rapids were bearing him down! But the cataract's roar with the thunder now vied; "Oh, what is the meaning of this?" He spoke, and just turn'd to the cataract's side, As the lightning flash'd down the abyss. All the might of his arm to one effort was given, At self-preservation's command; But the treacherous oar with the effort was riven, And the fragment remain'd in his hand. "Be it so," cried the warrior, taking his seat, And folding his bow to his breast; "Let the cataract shroud my pale corpse with its sheet, And its roar lull my spirit to rest. "The prospect of death with the brave I have borne, I shrink not to bear it alone; I have often faced death when the hope was forlorn, But I shrink not to face him with none." The thunder was hush'd, and the battle-field stain'd, When the sun met the war-wearied eye, But no trace of the boat, or the chieftain remain'd, Though his bow was still seen in the sky. THE INDEPENDENT FARMER.--_W. W. Fosdick._ Let sailors sing the windy deep, Let soldiers praise their armor. But in my heart this toast I'll keep, The Independent Farmer: When first the rose, in robe of green, Unfolds its crimson lining, And round his cottage porch is seen The honeysuckle twining; When banks of bloom their sweetness yield, To bees that gather honey, He drives his team across the field, Where skies are soft and sunny. The blackbird clucks behind his plow, The quail pipes loud and clearly; Yon orchard hides behind its bough The home he loves so dearly; The gray, old barn, whose doors enfold His ample store in measure, More rich than heaps of hoarded gold, A precious, blessed treasure; But yonder in the porch there stands His wife, the lovely charmer, The sweetest rose on all his lands-- The Independent Farmer. To him the spring comes dancing gay, To him the summer blushes; The autumn smiles with mellow ray, His sleep old winter hushes. He cares not how the world may move, No doubts or fears confound him; His little flock are link'd in love, And household angels round him; He trusts in God and loves his wife, Nor grief nor ill may harm her, He's nature's noble man in life-- The Independent Farmer. MRS. GRAMMAR'S BALL.--_Anon._ Mrs. Grammar she gave a ball To the nine different parts of Speech,-- To the big and the tall, To the short and the small, There were pies, plums, and puddings for each. And first, little Articles came, In a hurry to make themselves known-- Fat A, An, and The, But none of the three Could stand for a minute alone. Then Adjectives came to announce That their dear friends the Nouns were at hand. Rough, Rougher, and Roughest, Tough, Tougher, and Toughest, Fat, Merry, Good-natured, and Grand. The Nouns were, indeed, on their way-- Ten thousand and more, I should think; For each name that we utter-- Shop, Shoulder, and Shutter-- Is a Noun: Lady, Lion, and Link. The Pronouns were following fast To push the Nouns out of their places,-- I, Thou, You, and Me, We, They, He, and She, With their merry, good-humor'd old faces. Some cried out--"Make way for the Verbs!" A great crowd is coming in view-- To Bite and to Smite, And to Light and to Fight, To Be, and to Have, and to Do. The Adverbs attend on the Verbs, Behind them as footmen they run; As thus:--"To fight Badly, They run away Gladly," Shows how fighting and running were done. Prepositions came--In, By, and Near, With Conjunctions, a poor little band, As--"Either you Or me, But Neither them Nor he" They held their great friends by the hand. Then, with Hip, Hip, Hurra! Hushed Interjections uproarious-- "Oh, dear! Well-a-day!" When they saw the display, "Ha! ha!" they all shouted out, "Glorious!" But, alas, what misfortunes were nigh! While the fun and the feastings pleased each, There pounced in at once A monster--a Dunce, And confounded the Nine parts of Speech! Help, friends! to the rescue! on you For aid Noun and Article call,-- Oh, give your protection To poor Interjection, Verb, Adverb, Conjunction, and all! HOW THE MONEY COMES. Queer John has sung, how money goes, But how it comes, who knows? Who knows? Why every Yankee mother's son Can tell you how "the thing" is done. It comes by honest toil and trade; By wielding sledge and driving spade, And building ships, balloons, and drums; And that's the way the money comes. How does it come? Why, as it goes, By spinning, weaving, knitting hose, By stitching shirts and coats for Jews, Erecting churches, renting pews, And manufacturing boots and shoes; For thumps and twists, and cuts and hues, And _heads_ and _hearts_, tongues, lungs, and thumbs And that's the way the money comes. How does it come? The way is plain-- By raising cotton, corn, and _cane_; By wind and steam, lightning and rain; By guiding ships across the main; By building bridges, roads, and dams, And sweeping streets, and digging clams, With whistles, hi's! ho's! and hums! And that's the way the money comes. The money comes--how did I say? Not _always_ in an _honest_ way. It comes by _trick_ as well as toil, But how is that? why, slick as oil,-- By putting peas in coffee-bags; By swapping watches, knives, and nags, And peddling _wooden clocks_ and _plums_; And that's the way the money comes. How does it come?--wait, let me see, It very seldom comes to me; It comes by _rule_ I guess, and _seale_, Sometimes by riding on a _rail_, But oftener, that's the way it goes From silly belles and fast young beaux; It comes in big, nay, _little sums_, Ay! that's the way the money comes. THE FUTURE OF THE FASHIONS.--_Punch._ There was a time when girls wore hoops of steel, And with gray powder used to drug their hair, Bedaub'd their cheeks with rouge; white lead, or meal, Added, to stimulate complexions fair; Whereof by contrast to enhance the grace, Specks of court-plaster deck'd the female face. That fashion pass'd away, and then were worn Dresses whose skirts came scarce below the knee, With waists girt round the shoulder-blades, and scorn, Now pointed at the prior finery, When here and there some antiquated dame Still wore it, to afford her juniors game. Short waists departed; Taste awhile prevail'd Till ugly Folly's reign return'd once more, And ladies then went draggle-tail'd; And now they wear hoops also, as before. Paint, powder, patches, nasty and absurd, They'd wear as well, if France had spoke the word. Young bucks and beauties, ye who now deride The reasonable dress of other days; When time your forms shall have puffed out or dried, Then on your present portraits you will gaze, And say what dowdies, frights, and guys you were, With their more precious figures to compare. Think, if you live till you are lean or fat, Your features blurred, your eyes bedimm'd with age, Your limbs have stiffen'd; feet grown broad and flat: You may see other garments all the rage, Preposterous as even that attire Which you in mirrors now so much admire. LOYALTY TO LIBERTY OUR ONLY HOPE.--_Bishop Whipple, of Minnesota._ The love of country is the gift of God--it can not dwell in homes of sin, it has no abiding place in saloons of vice or dens of infamy, it belongs not to infidel clubs or fanatical conventions, they would tear down the sacred edifice which they have never loved; they are impatient for change, for in the seething caldron of rebellion they are brought to the surface. With nothing to lose, they have no fear of the days of terror; their only dread is in the majesty of the law. The love of country belongs to a God-fearing people; it is seen in the purity of private life, in the privacy of Christian homes, in the devotions of the closet, in the manliness of Christian character. The church is its nursing mother. Loyalty to God and to His institutions is her first and last lesson; it is the earnest cry of her loyal children "that peace and happiness, truth and justice, religion and piety may be established among us for all generations." The love of country belongs to loyal men. The power of self-government depends upon a loyal people. The protection of the nation depends not on the wisdom of its senators, not on the vigilance of its police, not on the strong arm of standing armies: but the loyalty of a united people. Other nations have equaled us in all the arts of civilization, in discoveries, in science, in skill, and in invention; they have kept even step with us and often surpassed us in philosophy and literature; they have been brave in war and wise in council; they have clustered around their homes all that art can lavish of beauty--but ripe scholarship, cunning in art, or skill in invention, never gave to the people a constitution. This is the outgrowth of a manly spirit of loyalty. It teaches men _duty_--a right manly word for right manly men. Loyalty was God's gift to our fathers; it was learned in the hard school of adversity, and by self-denial and suffering inwrought into the nation's life; it grew up in the sheltered valleys and on the rocky hillsides of New England, it was cradled in Virginia, in New York, in the Carolinas, among the patricians of Virginia; it gave to the world a Washington, and from the shop, the store, the farm, and professional life there sprung up from the people many who shared his spirit to become the founders of the Republic. OUR COUNTRY FIRST, LAST, AND ALWAYS.--_Ibid._ The first defense to any people is in the love of country. The nation is one great family, with one common interest, welfare, and destiny; a nation dwelling together in love must be a happy people. Kindness begets kindness, and love awakens love; this is that magic touch which makes the world of kin. A confederacy like ours can not be held together by the strong arm of a central government; if the band of unity is gone, such a union is no whit better than a rope of sand. The danger which besets us is not in individual sins which fasten on the body politic--we may labor with forbearance and firmness for their removal. Our danger lies in that spirit of selfishness and self-will which forgets brotherhood and God. In a nation like ours, with its countless differing interests of rival productions, its conflicts of trade and sectional rivalries of commerce, we must differ on questions of public policy; but it may be the manly difference of manly men. Never did men differ more widely than the fathers of the republic, never did earnest hearts battle with more zeal for their rival interests, nor contend more fiercely inch by inch in political struggles. Never did the rallying cry of parties take a deeper hold on its liege-men, or braver shouts of triumph herald in its victory. But there was a deeper love of country, which made the brotherhood of a nation, and a charity which more respected the opinions of those from whom they differ. The Christian patriot dare not close his eye to the evils which mar the nation; for their removal he will work and pray, but never with rash hand tear down the sacred edifice of the Constitution, because some stains deface its walls. The query may well arise whether we are not fast reaching the time when the question is not of the right or wrong of this or that legislation, the benefit of this or that public policy, but whether this or that party shall divide the spoils of office among their political camp followers. We hear of angry words and fierce invectives, of rumors of corruption, of bribery in public office; they belong to no one party, they are not ranked under any one leader; these things came because the people have lost sight, in the strifes of men for office, of that great destiny which God offers to Americans. I believe the love of country dwells in the people's hearts. The honest-hearted sons of toil will be true to the country and its constitution. That love may have slumbered for a time, but the great heart of the country _will_ be true to itself. Its love _can not_ be hedged in by the paling of any man's door-yard. It _will_ sweep away every barrier of strife, and keep us one united people. BRITISH INFLUENCE.--_John Randolph._ Imputations of British influence have been uttered against the opponents of this war. Against whom are these charges brought? Against men who, in the war of the Revolution, were in the Councils of the Nation, or fighting the battles of your country! And by whom are these charges made? By runaways, chiefly from the British dominions, since the breaking out of the French troubles. The great autocrat of all the Russias receives the homage of our high consideration. The Dey of Algiers and his divan of pirates are very civil, good sort of people, with whom we find no difficulty in maintaining the relations of peace and amity. "Turks, Jews, and Infidels,"--Melimelli or the Little Turtle,--barbarians and savages of every clime and color, are welcome to our arms. With chiefs of banditti, negro or mulatto, we can treat and can trade. Name, however, but England, and all our antipathies are up in arms against her. Against whom? Against those whose blood runs in our veins; in common with whom we claim Shakspeare, and Newton, and Chatham, for our countrymen; whose form of government is the freest on earth, our own only excepted; from whom every valuable principle of our own institutions has been borrowed,--representation, jury trial, voting the supplies, writ of habeas corpus, our whole civil and criminal jurisprudence;--against our fellow-Protestants, identified in blood, in language, in religion, with ourselves. In what school did the worthies of our land--the Washingtons, Henrys, Hancocks, Franklins, Rutledges, of America--learn those principles of civil liberty which were so nobly asserted by their wisdom and valor? American resistance to British usurpation has not been more warmly cherished by these great men and their compatriots,--not more by Washington, Hancock, and Henry,--than by Chatham, and his illustrious associates in the British Parliament. It ought to be remembered, too, that the heart of the English people was with us. It was a selfish and corrupt ministry, and their servile tools, to whom _we_ were not more opposed than _they_ were. I trust that none such may ever exist among us; for tools will never be wanting to subserve the purposes, however ruinous or wicked, of kings and ministers of state. I acknowledge the influence of a Shakspeare and a Milton upon my imagination; of a Locke, upon my understanding; of a Sidney, upon my political principles; of a Chatham, upon qualities which would to God I possessed in common with that illustrious man! of a Tillotson, a Sherlock, and a Porteus, upon my religion. This is a British influence which I can never shake off. DEFENSE OF THOMAS JEFFERSON.--_Henry Clay._ Next to the notice which the opposition has found itself called upon to bestow upon the French emperor, a distinguished citizen of Virginia, formerly President of the United States, has never for a moment failed to receive their kindest and most respectful attention. An honorable gentleman from Massachusetts, of whom I am sorry to say, it becomes necessary for me, in the course of my remarks, to take some notice, has alluded to him in a remarkable manner. Neither his retirement from public office, his eminent services, nor his advanced age, can exempt this patriot from the coarse assaults of party malevolence. No, sir! In 1801, he snatched from the rude hand of usurpation the violated Constitution of his country,--and _that_ is his crime. He preserved that instrument, in form, and substance, and spirit, a precious inheritance for generations to come,--and for _this_ he can never be forgiven. How vain and impotent is party rage, directed against such a man! He is not more elevated by his lofty residence, upon the summit of his own favorite mountain, than he is lifted, by the serenity of his mind and the consciousness of a well-spent life, above the malignant passions and bitter feelings of the day. No! his own beloved Monticello is not less moved by the storms that beat against its sides, than is this illustrious man, by the howlings of the whole British pack, let loose from the Essex kennel! When the gentleman to whom I have been compelled to allude shall have mingled his dust with that of his abused ancestors,--when he shall have been consigned to oblivion, or, if he lives at all, shall live only in the treasonable annals of a certain junto,--the name of Jefferson will be hailed with gratitude, his memory honored and cherished as the second founder of the liberties of the people, and the period of his administration will be looked back to as one of the happiest and brightest epochs of American history! NATIONAL HATREDS ARE BARBAROUS.--_Rufus Choate._ That there exists in this country an intense sentiment of nationality; a cherished energetic feeling and consciousness of our independent and separate national existence; a feeling that we have a transcendent destiny to fulfil, which we mean to fulfil; a great work to do, which we know how to do, and are able to do; a career to run, up which we hope to ascend, till we stand on the steadfast and glittering summits of the world; a feeling, that we are surrounded and attended by a noble historical group of competitors and rivals, the other nations of the earth, all of whom we hope to overtake, and even to distance;--such a sentiment as this exists, perhaps, in the character of this people. And this I do not discourage, I do not condemn. But, sir, that among these useful and beautiful sentiments, predominant among them, there exists a temper of hostility towards this one particular nation, to such a degree as to amount to a habit, a trait, a national passion,--to amount to a state of feeling which "is to be regretted," and which really threatens another war,--this I earnestly and confidently deny. I would not hear your enemy say this. Sir, the indulgence of such a sentiment by the people supposes them to have forgotten one of the counsels of Washington. Call to mind the ever seasonable wisdom of the Farewell Address: "The nation which indulges toward another an habitual hatred, or an habitual fondness, is, in some degree, a slave. It is a slave to its animosity, or to its affection, either of which is sufficient to lead it astray from its duty and its interest." No, sir! no, sir! We are above all this. Let the Highland clansman, half-naked, half-civilized, half-blinded by the peat-smoke of his cavern, have his hereditary enemy and his hereditary enmity, and keep the keen, deep, and precious hatred, set on fire of hell, alive, if he can; let the North American Indian have his, and hand it down from father to son, by Heaven knows what symbols of alligators, and rattlesnakes, and war-clubs smeared with vermilion and entwined with scarlet; let such a country as Poland,--cloven to the earth, the armed heel on the radiant forehead, her body dead, her soul incapable to die,--let her remember the "wrongs of days long past;" let the lost and wandering tribes of Israel remember theirs--the manliness and the sympathy of the world may allow or pardon this to them;--but shall America, young, free, prosperous, just setting out on the highway of heaven, "decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just begins to move in, glittering like the morning star, full of life and joy," shall she be supposed to be polluting and corroding her noble and happy heart, by moping over old stories of stamp act, and tea tax, and the firing of the Leopard upon the Chesapeake in a time of peace? No, sir! no, sir! a thousand times, no! Why, I protest I thought all that had been settled. I thought two wars had settled it all. What else was so much good blood shed for, on so many more than classical fields of Revolutionary glory? For what was so much good blood more lately shed, at Lundy's Lane, at Fort Erie, before and behind the lines at New Orleans, on the deck of the Constitution, on the deck of the Java, on the lakes, on the sea, but to settle exactly these "wrongs of past days?" And have we come back sulky and sullen from the very field of honor? For my country, I deny it. MURDER WILL OUT.--_Daniel Webster._ An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly murder, for mere pay. The fatal blow is given! and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death! It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work. He explores the wrist for the pulse. He feels for it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished. The deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder;--no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The _secret_ is his own,--and it is safe! Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds every thing as in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by men. True it is, generally speaking, that "murder will out." True it is, that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially, in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must come, and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime, the guilty soul can not keep its own secret. It is false to itself; or, rather, it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment, which it dares not acknowledge to God nor man. A vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy or assistance, either from heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him; and, like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his courage, it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without, begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstance to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles, with still greater violence, to burst forth. It _must_ be confessed;--it _will_ be confessed;--there is no refuge from confession but suicide--and suicide is confession! STRIVE FOR THE BEST. 'Tis better to give a kindly word Than ever so hard a blow, To know we have by kindness stirr'd The man who was our foe; To feel we have a good intent, Whatever he may feel-- That gentleness with us is meant To make the old wounds heal. 'Tis better to give our wealth away Than let our neighbors want, To help them in their needful day, While they are weak and gaunt; A kindly deed brings kindly thought In hamlet and in city; A little help, we have been taught, Is worth a world of pity. 'Tis better to work and slave and toil, Than lie about and rust; An idle man upon the soil Is one of the very worst. He eats the bread that others earn, And lifts his head so high, As if it was not his concern How others toil'd, or why. 'Tis better to have an humble heart, Living in faith and trust, To act an ever upward part, Remembering we are dust; To let the streams of life run past, Beloved and lovingly, Until we reach in joy at last The great eternal sea. EARLY RISING.--_John G. Saxe._ "God bless the man who first invented sleep!" So Sancho Panza said, and so say I; And bless him, also, that he didn't keep His great discovery to himself; or try To make it--as the lucky fellow might-- A close monopoly by "patent right!" Yes--bless the man who first invented sleep (I really can't avoid the iteration); But blast the man, with curses loud and deep, Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising That artificial cut-off--Early Rising! "Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," Observes some solemn, sentimental owl. Maxims like these are very cheaply said; But ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray, just inquire about the rise--and fall, And whether larks have any bed at all! The "time for honest folks to be in bed," Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he who can not keep his precious head Upon his pillow till 'tis fairly light, And so enjoys his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery; or else--he drinks! Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," said It was a glorious thing to _rise_ in season; But then he said it--lying--in his bed At 10 o'clock, A. M.--the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice. 'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake-- Awake to duty and awake to truth-- But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep, Are those we pass'd in childhood, or--asleep! 'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile, For the soft visions of the gentle night; And free at last from mortal care or guile, To live, as only in the angels' sight, In sleep's sweet realms so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only _dream_ of sin! So, let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackney'd phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried: "Served him right! it's not at all surprising-- The worm was punish'd, sir, for early rising!" DEEDS OF KINDNESS. Suppose the little cowslip Should hang its golden cup, And say: "I'm such a tiny flower, I'd better not grow up;" How many a weary traveler Would miss its fragrant smell! How many a little child would grieve To lose it from the dell! Suppose the glistening dew-drops Upon the grass should say: "What can a little dew-drop do? I'd better roll away;" The blade on which it rested, Before the day was done, Without a drop to moisten it, Would wither in the sun. Suppose the little breezes, Upon a summer's day, Should think themselves too small to cool The traveler on his way; Who would not miss the smallest And softest ones that blow, And think they made a great mistake If they were talking so? How many deeds of kindness A little child may do, Although it has so little strength, And little wisdom, too! It wants a loving spirit Much more than strength, to prove How many things a child may do For others by his love. THE GATES OF SLEEP.--_Dr. John Henry._ There are two gates of Sleep, the poet says: Of polished ivory one, of horn the other; But I, besides these gates, to blessed Sleep Three other gates have found which thus I count: First the star-spangled arch of deep midnight, When labor ceases, every sound is hush'd, And Nature, drowsy, nods upon her throne. Pale-visaged Specters round this gate keep watch, And Fears and Horrors vain, and beyond these Rest, balmy Sweat, and dim Forgetfulness, Relieved, at dawn of day, by buoyant Hope, Fresh Strength and ruddy Health and calm Composure And daring Enterprise and Self-reliance. The second gate is wreathed, sideposts and lintel, With odorous trailing hop, and poppy-stalks; The shadowy gateway paved with poppy-heads, And there, all day and night, keeps watch sick Fancy Haggard and trembling, and Delirium wild, And Impotence with drunken glistening eye, And Idiocy, and, in the background, Death. The third gate is of lead, and there sits, ever Humming her tedious tune, Monotony, Tired of herself; about her on the ground Sermons and psalms and hymns lie numerous strew'd, To the same import all, and all almost In the same words varied in form and order To cheat, if possible, the weary sense, And different seem, where difference is none. At th' opposite doorpost, on her knees, Routine Keeps turning over still the well-thumbed leaves Of the same prayer-book, reading prayers, not praying; Behind them waiting stand Conformity And Uniformity, Oneness of faith, Oneness of laws and customs, arts and manners, And Self-development's unrelenting foe, Centralization; and behind these still, Far in the portal's deepest gloom ensconced, A perfect, unimprovable Paradise Of mere, blank naught, unchangeable forever-- These, as _I_ count them, are the Gates of Sleep. THE BUGLE.--_Tennyson._ The splendor falls on castle walls, And snowy summits old in story; The long light shines across the lake, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going; Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and spar, The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing. Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky; They faint on field, or hill, or river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. A HOODISH GEM. The little snarling, caroling "babies," That break our nightly rest, Should be packed off to "Baby"-lon, To "Lapland," or to "Brest." From "Spit"-head, "Cooks" go o'er to "Greece," And while the "Miser" waits His passage to the "Guinea" coast, "Spendthrifts" are in the "Straits." "Spinsters" should to the "Needles" go, "Wine-bibbers" to "Burgundy;" "Gourmands" should lunch at "Sandwich Isles," "Wags" at the Bay of "Fun"-dy. "Bachelors" flee to the "United States," "Maids" to the "Isle of Man;" Let "Gardeners" go to "Botany" Bay, And "Shoe-blacks" to "Japan." Thus emigrate, and misplaced men Will they no longer vex us; And all who ain't provided for Had better go to "Texas." PURITY OF THE AMERICAN STRUGGLE. _By Hon. Henry Wilson. 1859._ While the exalted heroism of the illustrious men who, in the Cabinet and field, defied and baffled the whole power of the British empire, excites the admiration of mankind, the consciousness that the founders of American Independence were not allured into that deadly struggle by the lust of dominion and power, by the seductions of interest and ambition, or by the dazzling dreams of glory and renown, excites far higher and holier emotions. Theirs was not a contest of interest, of ambition or of glory,--theirs was a contest for principle, for the inherent and indefeasible rights of humanity. They accepted the bloody issues of civil war, rather than surrender the liberties of the people. When the terrific struggle began, which was not to be closed until the power of England on the North American continent was broken, they reverently "appealed to the supreme Ruler of the universe for the rectitude of their intentions;" and when it closed with the Independence of America achieved, they avowed to mankind in the sincerity of profound conviction that they "had contended for the rights of human nature." They "deduced from universal principles," in the words of the brilliant and philosophic Bancroft, "a bill of rights as old as creation and as wide as humanity." They embodied in this bill of rights, the promulgation of which made this day immortal in history, these sublime ideas: "all men are created equal;" "endowed by their creator with the inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness;" "to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed;" and "whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it." The embodiment of these ideas, these self-evident truths, which "are as old as creation, and as wide as humanity," into the organic law of Independent America, associated the names of the founders of national independence with the general cause of human liberty, development and progress. They were champions of American Independence,--they were, also, the champions of the sacred rights of human nature, and mankind proudly claims them, in the words of Mirabeau, "as the heroes of humanity." OLD AGE.--_Theodore Parker._ The old man loves the sunshine and fire--the arm-chair and the shady nook. A rude wind would jostle the full-grown apple from its bough, full ripe, full colored, too. The internal characteristics correspond. General activity is less. Salient love of new things and of persons, which hit the young man's heart, fades away. He thinks the old is better. He is not venturesome; he keeps at home. Passion once stung him into quickened life; now, that gadfly is no more buzzing in his ears. Madame de Stael finds compensation in silence for the decay of the passion that once fired her blood; heathen Socrates, seventy years old, thanks the gods that he is now free from that "ravenous beast" which has disturbed his philosophic meditations for many years. Romance is the child of passion and imagination--the sudden father that, the long-protracting mother this. Old age has little romance. Only some rare man, like Wilhelm Von Humboldt, keeps it still fresh in his bosom. In intellectual matters, the old man loves to recall the old time, to review his favorite old men--no new ones half so fair. So in Homer, Nestor, who is the oldest of the Greeks, is always talking of the olden times, before the grandfathers of the men then living had come into being; "not such as living had degenerate days." Verse-loving John Quincy Adams turns off from Byron and Shelley, and Wieland and Goethe, and returns to Pope. * * * Elder Brewster expects to hear St. Martin's and Old Hundred chanted in heaven. To him heaven comes in the long-used musical tradition. The middle-aged man looks around at the present; he hopes less and works more. The old man looks back on the field he has trod: "this is the tree I planted--this is my footstep;" and he loves his old home, his old carriage, cat, dog, staff and friend. In lands where the vine grows, I have seen an old man sit all day long, a sunny Autumn day, before his cottage-door, in a great arm-chair, his old dog lay couched at his feet, in the genial sun. The autumn winds played in the old man's venerable hairs. Above him on the wall, purpling in the sunlight, hung the full clusters of the grapes, ripening and maturing yet more. The two were just alike--the wind stirred the vine-leaves and they fell, stirred the old man's hairs and they whitened yet more--both were waiting for the spirit in them to be fully ripe. The young man looks forward--the old man looks back. How long the shadows lie in the setting sun--the steeples, a mile long, reaching across the plain, as the sun stretches out the hills in grotesque dimensions! So are the events of life in the old man's consciousness. BEAUTIFUL, AND AS TRUE AS BEAUTIFUL. [Paul Denton, a celebrated itinerant Methodist preacher and missionary, in the early days of Texas, when the State, then a Mexican province, was the outlaw's home, collected a large crowd at a barbecue where he promised there should be plenty to drink of the best of liquors. Denton did this to collect a crowd that he might preach to them. After the barbecue was over, one of the boldest told Paul that he lied. "Where is your liquor?" said he. Drawing himself up to his full height, Paul thus broke forth in a strain that remains unsurpassed:] "There--there is the liquor which God, the Eternal, brews for his children. "Not in the simmering still, over smoking fires choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded with stench of sickening odors and rank corruption doth your Father in Heaven prepare that precious essence of life, pure cold water. Both in the green shade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders and the child loves to play, there God brews it; and down, low down in the deepest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; and high up on the mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun; where hurricanes howl music; where big waves roar the chorus, sweeping the march of God--there, he brews it, that beverage of life, health-giving water. "And everywhere it is a thing of beauty; gleaming in a dew-drop; singing in the summer rain, shining in the ice-gem, till the trees seem turning to living jewels, spreading a golden vail over the setting sun; or white gauze round the midnight moon; sporting in the glacier; dancing in the hail-shower; folding bright snowy curtains softly above the wintry world, and weaving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all checkered o'er with celestial flowers by the mystic hand of refraction--still always beautiful; that blessed cold water. No poison bubbles on its brink; its foam brings not madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans weep not burning tears in its clear depths; no drunkard's shrieking from the grave curses it in words of despair! Speak out, my friends, would you exchange it for the demon's drink, alcohol?" THE DELUGE. The judgment was at hand. Before the sun Gathered tempestuous clouds, which, blackening, spread Until their blended masses overwhelmed The hemisphere of day: and, adding gloom To night's dark empire, swept from zone to zone-- Swept the vast shadow, swallowing up all light, And covering the encircled firmament As with a mighty pall! Low in the dust Bowed the affrighted nations, worshiping. Anon the o'ercharged garners of the storm Burst with their growing burden; fierce and fast Shot down the ponderous rain, a sheeted good, That slanted not before the baffled winds, But, with an arrowy and unwavering rush, Dashed hissing earthward. Soon the rivers rose, And roaring fled their channels; and calm lakes Awoke exulting from their lethargy, And poured destruction on their peaceful shores. The lightning flickered in the deluged air, And feebly through the shout of gathering waves Muttered the stifled thunder. Day nor night Ceased the descending streams; and if the gloom A little brightened when the lurid morn Rose on the starless midnight, 'twas to show The lifting up of waters. Bird and beast Forsook the flooded plains, and wearily The shivering multitudes of human doomed Toiled up before the insatiate element. Oceans were blent, and the leviathan Was borne aloft on the ascending seas To where the eagles nestled. Mountains now Were the sole landmarks, and their sides were clothed With clustering myriads, from the weltering waste Whose surges clasped them, to their topmost peaks Swathed in the stooping cloud. The hand of Death Smote millions as they climbed; yet denser grew The crowded nations, as the encroaching waves Narrowed their little world. And in that hour, Did no man aid his fellow. Love of life Was the sole instinct; and the strong-limbed son, With imprecations smote the palsied sire That clung to him for succor. Women trod With wavering steps the precipice's brow, And found no arm to grasp on the dread verge O'er which she leaned and trembled. Selfishness Sat like an incubus on every heart, Smothering the voice of Love. The giant's foot Was on the stripling's neck: and oft despair Grappled the ready steel, and kindred blood Polluted the last remnant of that earth Which God was deluging to purify. Huge monsters from the plains, whose skeletons The mildew of succeeding centuries Has failed to crumble, with unwieldy strength Crushed through the solid crowds; and fiercest birds, Beat downward by the ever-rushing rain, With blinded eyes, drenched plumes, and trailing wings, Staggered unconscious o'er the trampled prey. THE WORM OF THE STILL. I have found what the learned seemed so puzzled to tell-- The true shape of the Devil, and where is his Hell; Into serpents, of old, crept the Author of Ill, But Satan works now as a worm of the still. Of all his migrations, this last he likes best: How the arrogant reptile here raises his crest! His head winding up from the tail of his plan, Till the worm stands erect o'er the prostrated man. Here, he joys to transform, by his magical spell, The sweet milk of the Earth to an Essence of Hell; Fermented our food, and corrupted our grain, To famish the stomach and madden the brain. By his water of life, what distraction and fear; By the gloom of its light, what pale spectres appear! A Demon keeps time on his fiddle finance, While his Passions spring up in a horrible dance! Then prone on the earth, they adore in the dust, A man's baser half, raised, in room of his bust. Such orgies the nights of the drunkard display, But how black with ennui, how benighted his day! With drams it begins, and with drams must it end; A dram is his country, his mistress, his friend; Till the ossified heart hates itself at the last, And the dram nerves his hand for a death-doing blast. Mark that monster, that mother, that shame and that curse; See the child hang dead-drunk at the breast of its nurse! As it drops from her arm, mark her stupefied stare! Then she wakes with a yell, and a shriek of despair. Drink, Erin! drink deep from this crystalline round, Till the tortures of self-recollection be drowned; Till the hopes of thy heart be all stiffened to stone-- Then sit down in the dirt like a queen on her throne. No phrensy for Freedom to flash o'er the brain; Thou shalt dance to the musical clank of the chain; A crown of cheap straw shall seem rich to thine eye And peace and good order shall reign in the sky! Nor boast that no track of the viper is seen, To stain thy pure surface of Emerald green: For the Serpent will never want poison to kill, While the fat of your fields feeds the worm of the still! MAN'S CONNECTION WITH THE INFINITE. That is to every thing created pre-eminently useful, which enables it rightly and fully to perform the functions appointed to it by its Creator. Therefore, that we may determine what is chiefly useful to man, it is necessary first to determine the use of man himself. Man's use and function is to be the witness of the glory of God, and to advance that glory by his reasonable obedience and resultant happiness. Whatever enables us to fulfill this function is, in the pure and first sense of the word, useful to us. Pre-eminently, therefore, what sets the glory of God more brightly before us. But things that only help us to exist are, in a secondary and mean sense, useful, or rather, if they be looked for alone, they are useless and worse, for it would be better that we should not exist, than that we should guiltily disappoint the purposes of existence. And yet people speak in this working age, when they speak from their hearts, as if houses, and lands, and food, and raiment were alone useful; and as if sight, thought, and admiration were all profitless, so that men insolently call themselves Utilitarians, who would turn, if they had their way, themselves and their race into vegetables: men who think that the meat is more than the life, and the raiment than the body; who look to the earth as a stable, and to its fruit as fodder; vine-dressers as husbandmen, who love the corn they grind, and the grapes they crush, better than the gardens of the angels upon the slopes of Eden; hewers of wood and drawers of water, who think that the wood they hew and the water they draw, are better than the pine forests that cover the mountains like the shadow of God, and than the great rivers that move like his eternity. And so comes upon us that woe of the preacher, that, though God "hath made every thing beautiful in his time, also he hath set the world in their hearts, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end." This Nebuchadnezzar curse, that sends us to grass like oxen, seems to follow but too closely on the excess or continuance of national power and peace. In the perplexities of nations, in their struggles for existence, in their infancy, their impotence, or even their disorganization, they have higher hopes and nobler passions. Out of the suffering comes the serious mind; out of the salvation, the grateful heart; out of the endurance, the fortitude; out of the deliverance, the faith; but now, when they have learned to live under providence of laws, and with decency and justice and regard for each other, and when they have done away with violent and external sources of suffering, worse evils seem rising out of their rest--evils that vex less and mortify more, that suck the blood though they do not shed it, and ossify the heart though they do not torture it. And deep though the causes of thankfulness must be to every people at peace with others and at unity in itself, there are causes of fear also, a fear greater than the sword and sedition: that dependence on God may be forgotten, because the bread is given and the water is sure; that gratitude to him may cease, because his constancy of protection has taken the semblance of a natural law; that heavenly hope may grow faint amidst the full fruition of the world; that selfishness may take place of undemanded devotion, compassion be lost in vainglory, and love in dissimulation; that innovation may succeed to strength, apathy to patience, and the noise of jesting words and foulness of dark thoughts, to the earnest purity of the girded loins and the burning lamp.--_Ruskin._ THE LANGUAGE OF THE EAGLE. It is one of the difficulties of those who undertake to make public speeches, that sometimes they are embarrassed about the heads of their discourses; and so I am somewhat troubled at finding the inferior position of the American eagle, inasmuch as he has but one head, while the Russian eagle has two. I suppose that the explanation of this ornithological difference arises from the necessity of the Russian eagle having one head to watch over his large possessions in Asia, and the other head to look after his small property in Europe. I feel a good deal of confidence in speaking of the American eagle in contrast. I can see that if the American eagle has but one head, it embodies therein the national sentiment now prevailing, of one country and one people. It is very true that our brethren of the South--for I still call them our brethren--have been under the impression that ours was a double-headed eagle, with a Northern and a Southern head, with this distinction over the Russian; that the Southern was the larger and more important head of the two, and we are now engaged in the somewhat expensive and troublesome task of correcting that mistake in natural history. There is a good deal that is appropriate, and sometimes something that is suggestive, in these national symbols. The lion, for instance, is a very hungry beast, and the large portion of the globe which he has got into his possession shows the appropriateness of the selection of the symbol. The cock, as we know, is a very boisterous and demonstrative bird, who never does anything that he does not make a noise about. And certainly the Gallic neighbor of the English lion has never been distinguished for his modesty whenever he has accomplished any thing in arts or in arms. The eagle is a high-soaring bird, and I had better bring before you what an English poet says of him: He clasps the crag with hooked hands, Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed in an azure world he stands; The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls, He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. If the illustration had been carried further we might be content with this English authority that the eagle, as typical of Russia and of the United States, is to be armed with that thunderbolt which the Greeks thought to be the prerogative of Jupiter. The American eagle has been distinguished for the quickness of his flight; and I do not think that our bitterest enemies can ever bring against us the charge of slowness. There are some points of resemblance between the United States and Russia. Russia, like us, is made up of many nationalities: and we have had recently the most satisfactory evidence that the Russian eagle is soaring in the same quarter as we are--soaring beyond the crowing of the cock or the roaring of the lion. In conclusion, the eagle was an old symbol. The Egyptians had it; the Persians had it; the Romans, after trying four or five other animals, took it, in the time, I think, of Marius. Therefore, as it is one of the oldest illustrations of national importance, I indulge in the sentiment that, as the eagle now represents the nations of Russia and the United States, it may at least be one among the latest.--_Judge Daly, of New York._ WASHINGTON.--_S. S. Cox._ All over the world examples may be found which are lessons to us. Could you go to Naples, you will find beyond the Grotto of Phisillippo, where the soft waves of the delightful Bay make their music on the shore--the tomb of the great Latin poet--Virgil. Men from every clime go thither to pay their homage to his tomb, although two thousand years have gone since his Epic was given to the world. His tomb is still the mausoleum of Genius. It is respected, protected and honored. Some of you have seen the monuments Scotland has reared to her gifted men. Some of you have seen the tomb of Walter Scott, at Dryburg Abbey, and have not only admired its beauty and repose, but have admired the vigilant care with which it is guarded and protected. Go to Rome! Beneath St. Peter's Bascilica, you will find there the tombs of the Apostles Peter and Paul. They are guarded ever by priestly vigilance, and around them burn the ever-trimmed lamps of religious veneration. At Paris, the great Napoleon sleeps, honored in death beyond all human conquerors, in the _Hotel des Invalides_, surrounded by a hundred banners, emblems of his victories and his genius! England has her Westminster Hall, wherein is enshrined her royal line, and by a higher heritage a line of genius, from Chaucer, who sung the dawn of English verse, to Macaulay, who illustrated her history in the undying eloquence of his prose. France has her St. Denis, the last abode of her kings, and Paris has its Pantheon, in whose vaults the literary demigods are immortalized! But I pass these reminiscences by. We have a tomb which, I trust, in future, will be cared for and protected; and as long as woman is the watcher, her faith and patience will guard it with vestal vigilance. It is neither a trite nor an untrue saying, that if a man bears the blade of patriotism, woman is the jewel in its hilt. She has and ever will make that jewel shine, wherever there is a fair opportunity and an ennobling civilization. Why has this association of American women been formed? For the purpose of purchasing, preserving, reclaiming and protecting that spot we have just left, so sacred in our historic annals and in the nation's memory. It is because the man who lies there buried is not the mere hero of a novel--not the mere hero of to-day--not the mere soldier who achieved with his own sword his own fortune--not your Sultan Mohammed or Emperor Napoleon, who, with bloody ambition, created an empire on the Bosphorus or a dynasty on the Seine. The career of these heroes of the battle-field is as yonder blood-red moon, just risen above the Potomac, compared with the bright effulgence of the noonday sun, which shines with no borrowed light, as an auriole around the memory of George Washington. He can be addressed at this day, when he is so canonized in our hearts, only in the language of that poetry which has likened him to the brightest imagery which the material universe can furnish. He has been spoken of as the illustrious but lost Pleiad in our American constellation. AMERICA vs. ENGLAND.--_David Dudley Field._ It has been said that if a new dictionary were now to be published in England, another definition of neutrality would have to be given. Certain it is that much of what has taken place on the other side of the ocean during this unhappy war comports little with our previous understanding of the duties of neutrals. And yet strict neutrality between belligerents is enjoined as much by philanthropy as by national honor; for while it protects national independence it restricts the limits of war. It is thus a rule alike of justice and of prudence. It springs from principles which lie at the foundation of international law; that is to say, the independence and the equality of nations. But there is another rule which springs from the same principles, and which is as old and as strong as that of neutrality, and is sometimes confounded with it--that is, the duty of every nation to abstain from any interference with the internal concerns of another. To be neutral between two belligerents is to help neither; to make, or help to make, two belligerents out of the same nation is to interfere in its internal relations. If it be said that this is but to recognize and declare a fact, I answer that the nation itself, as it is equal and independent, is the sole judge of the fact. The relation of the different parts with each other is a domestic concern. To assume to recognize and declare relations which it does not first recognize and declare, is, equally with the violation of neutrality, a departure from that courtesy and deference which are due from one nation to another. Both depend upon that public law of the world which is as old as governments and as eternal as equity. No nation is so ancient or mighty as to be above it; none so young or weak as to be below it. Each, as it takes its place in the family of nations, assumes it in all its plenitude. These rules the Government of this country has followed at all times and under all circumstances. Whatever may have been the sympathies of our people, whatever may have been the moral aspects of the foreign wars on which they have looked, and however much they have desired the success of one party over the other, they have inflexibly refused to throw their powers into the scale, or to allow any of their citizens to violate the neutrality which the Government enjoined. From the administration of Washington to the administration of Lincoln, through all the wars of the French Republic and the French empire, through the struggles of mastery in Eastern Europe, through the great civil wars in Poland, in Hungary and in India, we have steadily asserted the policy of non-interference, and maintained it in practice. And we have never resorted to the paltry evasion of doing secretly what we professed openly to avoid. What we said we meant, and what we meant we said. We have held the obligation to be paramount and universal. We complain of England and France, first for the proclamation or profession of neutrality, and then for the violation of the neutrality thus professed. This is not the place to enter upon the reasons which justify these complaints. The loyal people of this country have made up their opinions on both these subjects. They are convinced that England and France have wronged them in both respects, and are just as strongly convinced that Russia, whose naval officers are our guests to-night, has acted differently; has done us no injury; has conformed her conduct to the solemn injunctions of the law of nations, in accounting us competent to manage our own affairs; treating the established and recognized Government of the country as the only lawful belligerent, and holding no relations whatever with the rebels. It is impossible to mistake the settled convictions of the American people. They will never forget, through all the changes of future years, that in their mortal struggle the Czar has been true to them, and in the exercise of his great office has been inflexible in his adherence to the grand and salutary principles of public law. And they will just as surely never cease to believe that the Governments of England and France have desired the disruption of the republic, and have hastened unjustly to lift the rebels into the condition of legal belligerents; have offensively professed neutrality between the lawful and the rebel forces, and, after all, have evaded that professed neutrality by every species of indirect assistance which it was possible to give short of engaging in hostilities. _These things will never be forgotten so long as Americans can read and remember. And, more than this, the men of this generation, who have smarted under these wrongs, will not rest until some of them are righted._ We see the ground fresh with graves, half of which would never have been opened but for the countenance which England and France have given to the rebellion; and, whether it shall be procured from their apprehension of the consequences, or their sense of justice, _reparation must be made, or the seed which has been sown in these three years will ripen into an iron harvest of future war, of which no man can foresee the end_. IF WE KNEW.--_By Ruth Benton._ If we knew the cares and crosses Crowding round our neighbor's way, If we knew the little losses, Sorely grievous, day by day, Would we then so often chide him For his lack of thrift and gain-- Leaving on his heart a shadow, Leaving on our life a stain? If we knew the clouds above us, Held by gentle blessings there, Would we turn away all trembling, In our blind and weak despair? Would we shrink from little shadows, Lying on the dewy grass, While 'tis only birds of Eden, Just in mercy flying past? If we knew the silent story, Quivering through the heart of pain, Would our womanhood dare doom them Back to haunts of guilt again? Life hath many a tangled crossing; Joy hath many a break of woe; And the cheeks, tear-washed, are whitest; This the blessed angels know. Let us reach in our bosoms For the key to other lives, And with love toward erring nature, Cherish good that still survives; So that when our disrobed spirits Soar to realms of light again, We may say, "Dear Father, judge us As we judged our fellow-men." * * * * * BEADLE'S Dime Biographical Library. This fine series of books has become a standard library with all who desire such books. Each issue is 100 clearly-printed pages, in clear-faced type, and contains the matter of an ordinary dollar book. The subjects chosen embrace some of the most interesting and noted characters in history. The biographies are all originally prepared expressly for this series. The list embraces the following: No. 1.--Life of GARIBALDI, the Washington of Italy. No. 2.--Life of DANIEL BOONE, the Hunter of Kentucky. No. 3.--Life of KIT CARSON, the Rocky Mountain Scout and Guide. No. 4.--Life of ANTHONY WAYNE (Mad Anthony), the Revolutionary Patriot and Indian Conqueror. No. 5.--Life of Colonel DAVID CROCKETT, the Celebrated Hunter, Wit and Patriot. No. 6.--Life of WINFIELD SCOTT, with a full account of his Brilliant Victories in Mexico. No. 7.--Life of PONTIAC, the Conspirator, the Chief of the Ottawas, together with a full account of the Celebrated Siege of Detroit. No. 8.--Life of JOHN C. FREMONT, the American Pathfinder, with a full account of his Rocky Mountain Explorations and Adventures. No. 9.--Life of JOHN PAUL JONES, the Revolutionary Naval Hero. No. 10.--Life of Marquis DE LAFAYETTE, the Man of Two Worlds. No. 11.--Life of TECUMSEH, the Shawnee Chief. No. 12.--Life of GEO. B. MCCLELLAN, Late General-in-Chief, U. S. A. No. 13.--PARSON BROWNLOW, and the Unionists of East Tennessee. MEN OF THE TIME. This series embraces fine and authentic sketches of the leading GENERALS OF THE WAR--each sketch being accompanied by a portrait. The works are very popular, and will be found available for reference and preservation. No. 1.--Generals HALLECK, POPE, SIEGEL, CORCORAN, PRENTISS, KEARNEY, HATCH, and AUGUR. No. 2.--Generals BUTLER, BANKS, BURNSIDE, BAKER, STEVENS, WILCOX, and WEBER. No. 3.--Generals HOOKER, ROSECRANS, GRANT, MCCLERNAND, and MITCHELL. BEADLE & COMPANY, Publishers, 118 William St., N. Y. BEADLE'S DIME SCHOOL SERIES. BEADLE AND COMPANY have now on their lists the following highly desirable and attractive books, prepared expressly for schools, families, etc., viz:-- SPEAKERS. Dime American Speaker, [Speaker Series No. 1,] Dime National Speaker, [ " No. 2,] Dime Patriotic Speaker, [ " No. 3,] Dime Comic Speaker, [ " No. 4.] These books are replete with choice pieces for the Schoolroom, the Exhibition, and for home declamation. They are mostly drawn from fresh sources, on a variety of public and popular themes, which renders them particularly _apropos_ to the times. DIALOGUES. Dime Dialogues, Number One, Dime Dialogues, Number Two. These volumes have been prepared with especial reference to their _availability_ in _all_ schoolrooms. They are adapted to schools with or without the furniture of a stage, and introduce a range of characters suited to scholars of every grade, both male and female. It is fair to assume that no volumes yet offered to schools, _at any price_, contain so many absolutely _available_ and useful dialogues and minor dramas, serious and comic. Dime School Melodist, (Music and Words.) This is adapted to schools of all grades and for scholars of all ages. It contains the music and words of a great many popular and beautiful melodies, with a preliminary chapter on musical instruction especially adapted to children. The MELODIST will be found very desirable and available. Price but ten cents each. Each book contains from 80 to 100 pages. For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent singly or in packages by mail, _post-paid_, on receipt of price. _Special terms made to teachers._ (h) Catalogues of Beadle's Dime Publications sent free on application. BEADLE AND COMPANY, General Dime Book Publishers, 118 William Street, New York. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Minor punctuation errors have been silently corrected. Page 14: Changed "Whese" to "Whose." (Orig: Whese sons you required, and left not any?) Page 17: Changed "xindred" to "kindred." (Orig: but their tie was only one of xindred;) Page 32: Removed duplicate "the." (Orig: Far beyond the the cattle-pasture, and the brick-yard) Page 54: Retained author's use of lowercase in second sentence: (Orig: Have we lost this spirit? has it gone from among us?) Page 59: Changed "indifferenece" to "indifference." (Orig: the indifferenece, or the ignorance of some future American) Page 60: Changed "pefect" to "perfect." (Orig: almost pefect organism of the body politic?) Page 62: Changed "soidifies" to "solidifies." (Orig: takes their half-truths and soidifies and unites them) Page 63: Changed "bongh" to "bough." (Orig: Yon orchard hides behind its bongh) Last ad: (h) represents a pointing hand symbol. 
28498	----	Transcriber's Note The Table of Contents for this issue is found at the end of the text. THE SPEAKER EDITED BY PAUL M. PEARSON No. 5 PEARSON BROTHERS PHILADELPHIA The Speaker Volume II. DECEMBER, 1906. No. 1. [Sidenote: =The Will=] In teaching public speaking the final purpose must be to train the will. Without this faculty in control all else comes to nothing. Exercises may be given for articulation, but without a determined purpose to speak distinctly little good will result. The teacher may spend himself in an effort to inspire and enthuse the student, but this is futile unless the student comes to a resolution to attain those excellencies of which the teacher has spoken. That a student may become self-reliant is the chief business of the teacher. To suggest such vital things in a way that the student will feel impelled to work them out for himself, this is the art in all teaching. To tell a student all there is to know about a subject, or to present what is said in such a way that the student thinks there is nothing more to be said, is to dwarf and stultify the mind. The inclination of most students is to depend upon the teacher with a helplessness that is as enervating as it is pitiable. Too many teachers, flattered by this attitude or possessed of a sentimental sympathy, encourage it. Thought, discretion, and courage are required to put a student on his own resources and compel him to stay there until he has acquired self-mastery. Public speaking cannot be exchanged for so much time or money. It cannot be bought or sold; it comes, if it comes at all, as the result of a wisely-directed determination. The teacher's part is to exalt, enthuse, stimulate. He must criticise, certainly, but this is generally overdone. Like some teachers of English who can never overlook a misplaced comma, whose idea of English seems to be to spell and to punctuate correctly, there are teachers of public speaking whose critical eye never sees farther than gesture, articulation, and emphasis. With this attitude toward their work, they become fault-finders rather than teachers. They nag, harrass, and suppress. The business of the teacher is to make the student see visions of beauty, truth and love, to open up to him these mighty fields that he may go in and possess them. To implant a yearning, an unquenchable, all-consuming desire to comprehend and to express the emotions of which his teacher enables him to get glimpses. [Sidenote: =The Teacher=] Exercises? Yes, all the student can stand without becoming a drone. Criticism? Yes, but no quibbling, no nagging. Criticism is something more than fault-finding. The teacher exalts his profession, ennobles his art, and begets consideration for himself when he maintains the highest standards for himself and for his students. [Sidenote: =Habit=] Learning to speak well is, like forming character, a matter of self-discipline and self-culture. A good voice is a good habit; distinct articulation is a good habit; graceful and effective gestures are a good habit. Like all good habits, these are formed by a constant exercise of the will. The teacher's part is to get the students to hear his own voice, to observe his own gestures, and listen to his own articulation. These things cannot be accomplished over night, and if attempted all at once may make the student too self-conscious; certainly this condition will result if his faults are continually insisted upon. The teacher's great opportunity is to enable the student to know himself, and to see that he is determined to develop his best self. * * * * * [Sidenote: =Sincerity=] Sincerity in art! One sometimes doubts whether it exists. Take the special field of art with which the readers of this magazine are especially concerned. How many depend upon tricks to get their effects! How many struggle mightily to gain a laugh or "a hand," neglecting the theme, the message, the spirit of that which they are professing to interpret. If that which we read is worth while, if it has anything vital in it, the effect will be stronger if the skill and personality of the speaker are kept in the background, and the audience is brought face to face with the spirit of that which has been embodied in the lines. As some readers go through their lines they seem to be saying, Listen to my voice, observe my graceful gestures; isn't this a pretty gown I have? I'll win you with my smile. Most audiences are good-natured, and enjoy to the full such small vanities; moreover, we all like to see winning smiles, beautiful gowns, and graceful gestures; but it is a pitiable misnomer to call such exhibitions reading. But the more subtle forms of insincerity in this art are even more prevalent. To exaggerate some form of emphasis, to exaggerate a gesture or facial expression, to wrest a passage from its meaning, these, and many other devices for forcing immediate approval from an audience, are grossly insincere. There is still a broader plan on which our sincerity must be judged. To present this effectively I quote at length from Bliss Carmen's recent book, "The Poetry of Life." The essay sets a high standard, but by no other can enduring work be done. The fact that a reader has many engagements, or that a teacher has many pupils is no assurance of sincerity or the high grade of his work. "Munsey's Magazine" has a larger circulation than "The Atlantic Monthly"; the one, "hack stuff," to be suffered only a few minutes while waiting for a train; the other is literature. But, to quote from Bliss Carmen. He is discussing the poetry of life, but the same general principles apply to all art: [Sidenote: =Quoting Bliss Carmen=] "As for sincerity, the poetry of life need not always be solemn, any more than life itself need not always be sober. It may be gay, witty, humorous, satirical, disbelieving, farcical, even broad and reckless, since life is all these; but it must never be insincere. Insincerity, which is not always one of the greatest sins of the moral universe, becomes in the world of art an offence of the first magnitude. Insincerity in life may be mean, despicable, and indicate a petty nature; but in art insincerity is death. A strong man may lie upon occasion, and make restitution and be forgiven, but for the artist who lies there is hardly any reparation possible, and his forgiveness is much more difficult. Art, being the embodiment of the artist's ideal, is truly the corporeal substance of his spiritual self; and that there should be any falsehood in it, any deliberate failure to present him faithfully, it is as monstrous and unnatural as it would be for a man to disavow his own flesh and bones. Here we are every one of us going through life committed and attached to our bodies; for all that we do we are held responsible; if we misbehave, the world will take it out of our hide. But here is our friend, the artist, committing his spiritual energy to his art, to an embodiment outside himself, and escaping down a by-path from all the consequences--what shall be said of him? The insincere artist is as much beyond the pale of human sympathy as the murderer. Morally he is a felon. "There is no excuse for him, either. There was no call for him to make a liar of himself, other than the most sordid of reasons, the little gain, the jingling reward of gold. For no man would ever be insincere in his art, except for pay, except to cater to some other taste than his own, and to win approval and favor by sycophancy. If he were assured of his competency in the world, and placed beyond the reach of necessitous want, how would it ever occur to him to create an insincere art? Art is so simple, so spontaneous, so dependent on the disingenuous emotion, that it can never be insincere, unless violence is done to all laws of nature and of spirit. Since art arises from the sacramental blending of the inward spirit with the outward form, any touch of insincerity in it assumes the nature of a horrible crime, a pitiable revolt against the order and eternity of the universe. [Sidenote: =Sincerity in Humor=] "It is not necessary, as I say, for art to be solemn and wholly serious-minded in order to be sincere. Comedy is quite sincere. Yet it is easy to usurp her name and play the fool for pennies, with never a ray of appreciation of her true character. Sincerity, then, is not the least averse to fun; it only requires that the fun shall be genuine and come from the heart, as it requires that every note of whatever sort shall be genuine and spring from the real personality of the writer." On Time BY JOHN MILTON. Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on thy lazy, leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace; And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain. For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd, And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd, Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; And Joy shall overtake us as a flood; When everything that is sincerely good And perfectly divine, With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine About the supreme Throne Of Him, t' whose happy-making sight alone, When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb, Then all this earthly grossness quit, Attir'd with stars, we shall forever sit, Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time. The Knight in the Wood BY E. LEICESTER WARREN. (Lord de Tabley.) The thing itself was rough and crudely done, Cut in coarse stone, spitefully placed aside As merest lumber, where the light was worst On a back staircase. Overlooked it lay In a great Roman palace crammed with art. It had no number in the list of gems Weeded away, long since pushed out and banished, Before insipid Guidos over-sweet And Dolce's rose sensationalities, And curly chirping angels, spruce as birds. And yet the motive of this thing ill-hewn And hardly seen did touch me. O, indeed, The skill-less hand that carved it had belonged To a most yearning and bewildered brain: There was such desolation in the work; And through its utter failure the thing spoke With more of human message, heart to heart, Than all these faultless, smirking, skin-deep saints, In artificial troubles picturesque, And martyred sweetly, not one curl awry.-- Listen; a clumsy knight, who rode alone Upon a stumbling jade in a great wood Belated. The poor beast, with head low-bowed Snuffing the ground. The rider leant Forward to sound the marish with his lance. The wretched rider and the hide-bound steed, You saw the place was deadly; that doomed pair, Feared to advance, feared to return.--That's all. "A Little Feminine Casabianca"[A] BY GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN. (_Arranged by Maude Herndon and Grace Kellam._) [By permission of the publishers and the author we reprint two cuttings from stories in "Emmy Lou." There are ten stories in the book, all of them excellent readings. McClure, Phillips & Co., New York.] The Primer Class according to the degree of its precocity was divided in three sections. Emmy Lou belonged to the third section. It was the last section, and she was the last one in it, though she had no idea what a section meant nor why she was in it; and Emmy Lou went on wondering what it was all about, which never would have been the case had there been a mother among the elders of the house, for mothers have a way of understanding these things. But to Emmy Lou "mother" had come to mean but a memory which faded as it came, a vague consciousness of encircling arms, of a brooding tender face, of yearning eyes; and it was only because they told her that Emmy Lou remembered how mother had gone away South, one winter, to get well. That they afterward told her it was heaven, in nowise confused Emmy Lou, because, for aught she knew, South and heaven and much else might be included in these points of the compass. Ever since then Emmy Lou had lived with three aunties and an uncle; and papa had been coming a hundred miles once a month to see her. But somehow the Primer year wore away; and the close of the first week of Emmy Lou's second year at a certain large public school found her round, chubby self, like a pink-cheeked period, ending the long line of intermingled little boys and girls making what was known, twenty-five years ago, as the First Reader Class. Her heart grew still within her at the slow, awful enunciation of the Large Lady in black bombazine who reigned over the department of the First Reader, pointing her morals with a heavy forefinger, before which Emmy Lou's eyes lowered with every aspect of conscious guilt. Nor did Emmy Lou dream that the Large Lady, whose black bombazine was the visible sign of a loss by death that had made it necessary for her to enter the school-room to earn a living, was finding the duties incident to the First Reader almost as strange and perplexing as Emmy Lou herself. Emmy Lou from the first day found herself descending steadily to the foot of the class; and there she remained until the awful day, at the close of the first week, when the Large Lady, realizing perhaps that she could no longer ignore such adherence to that lowly position, made discovery that while to Emmy Lou "d-o-g" might spell "dog" and "f-r-o-g" might spell "frog," Emmy Lou could not find either on a printed page, and further, could not tell wherein they differed when found for her; that, also, Emmy Lou made her figure 8's by adding one uncertain little o to the top of another uncertain little o; and that while Emmy Lou might copy, in smeary columns, certain cabalistic signs off the blackboard, she could not point them off in tens, hundreds, thousands, or read their numerical values, to save her little life. The Large Lady, sorely perplexed within herself as to the proper course to be pursued, in the sight of the fifty-nine other First Readers pointed a condemning forefinger at the miserable little object standing in front of her platform; and said, "You will stay after school, Emma Louise, that I may examine further into your qualifications for this grade." Now Emmy Lou had no idea what it meant--"examine further into your qualifications for this grade." It might be the form of punishment in vogue for the chastisement of the members of the First Reader. But "stay after school" she did understand, and her heart sank, and her little breast heaved. It was past the noon recess. At last the bell for dismissal had rung. The Large Lady, arms folded across her bombazine bosom, had faced the class, and with awesome solemnity had already enunciated, "Attention," and sixty little people had sat up straight, when the door opened, and a teacher from the floor above came in. At her whispered confidence, the Large Lady left the room hastily, while the strange teacher with a hurried "one-two-three, march out quietly, children," turned, and followed her. And Emmy Lou, left sitting at her desk, saw through gathering tears the line of First Readers wind around the room and file out the door, the sound of their departing footsteps along the bare corridors and down the echoing stairway coming back like a knell to her sinking heart. Then class after class from above marched past the door and on its clattering way, while voices from outside, shrill with the joy of the release, came up through the open windows in talk, in laughter, together with the patter of feet on the bricks. Then as these familiar sounds grew fewer, fainter, farther away, some belated footsteps went echoing through the building, a door slammed somewhere--then--silence. Emmy Lou waited. She wondered how long it would be. There was watermelon at home for dinner; she had seen it borne in, a great, striped promise of ripe juicy lusciousness, on the marketman's shoulder before she came to school. And here a tear, long gathering, splashed down the pink cheek. Still that awesome personage presiding over the fortunes of the First Reader failed to return. Perhaps this was "the examination into--into--" Emmy Lou could not remember what--to be left in this big, bare room with the flies droning and humming in lazy circles up near the ceiling. The forsaken desks, with a forgotten book or slate left here and there upon them, the pegs around the wall empty of hats and bonnets, the unoccupied chair upon the platform--Emmy Lou gazed at these with a sinking sensation of desolation, while tear followed tear down her chubby face. And listening to the flies and the silence, Emmy Lou began to long for even the Bombazine Presence, and dropping her quivering countenance upon her arms folded upon the desk she sobbed aloud. But the time was long, and the day was warm, and the sobs grew slower, and the breath began to come in long-drawn, quivering sighs, and the next Emmy Lou knew she was sitting upright, trembling in every limb, and some one coming up the stairs--she could hear the slow, heavy footfalls, and a moment after she saw the Man, the Recess Man, the low, black-bearded, black-browed, scowling Man, with the broom across his shoulder, reach the hallway, and make toward the open doorway of the First Reader room. Emmy Lou held her breath, stiffened her little body, and--waited. But the Man pausing to light his pipe, Emmy Lou, in the sudden respite thus afforded slid in a trembling heap beneath the desk, and on hands and knees went crawling across the floor. And as Uncle Michael came in, a moment after, broom, pan, and feather-duster in hand, the last fluttering edge of a little pink dress was disappearing into the depths of the big, empty coal-box, and its sloping lid was lowering upon a flaxen head and cowering little figure crouched within. Uncle Michael having put the room to rights, sweeping and dusting, with many a rheumatic groan in accompaniment, closed the windows, and going out, drew the door after him, and, as was his custom, locked it. Meanwhile, at Emmy Lou's home the elders wondered. But Emmy Lou did not come. And by half-past two Aunt Louise, the youngest auntie, started out to find her. But after searching the neighborhood in vain, returned home in despair. Then Aunt Cordelia sent the house boy down-town for Uncle Charlie. Just as Uncle Charlie arrived--and it was past five o'clock by then--some of the children of the neighborhood, having found a small boy living some squares off who confessed to being in the First Reader with Emmy Lou, arrived also, with the small boy in tow. "She didn't know 'dog' from 'frog' when she saw 'em," stated the small boy, with derision of superior ability, "an' teacher, she told her to stay after school. She was settin' there in her desk when school let out, Emmy Lou was." But a big girl of the neighborhood objected. "Her teacher went home the minute school was out," she declared. "Isn't the new lady, Mrs. Samuels, your teacher?" "Well, her daughter, Lettie, she's in my room, and she was sick, and her mother came up to our room and took her home. Our teacher she went down and dismissed the First Readers." "I don't care if she did," retorted the small boy. "I reckon I saw Emmy Lou settin' there when we come away." The three aunts grew pale and tearful, and wrung their hands in despair. The small boy from the First Reader, legs apart, hands in knickerbocker pockets, gazed at the crowd of irresolute elders with scornful wonder. "What you wanter do is find Uncle Michael; he keeps the keys. He went past my house a while ago, going home. He lives in Rose Lane Alley. 'Taint much outer my way, I'll take you there." And meekly they followed in his footsteps. It was dark when a motley throng of uncles, aunties, visiting lady, neighbors and children went climbing the cavernous, echoing stairway of the dark school building behind the toiling figure of the skeptical Uncle Michael, lantern in hand. "Ain't I swept over every inch of this here schoolhouse myself and carried the trash outten a dust-pan?" grumbled Uncle Michael, with what inference nobody just then stopped to inquire. Then with the air of a mistreated, aggrieved person who feels himself a victim, he paused before a certain door on the second floor, and fitted a key in its lock. "Here it is then, No. 9, to satisfy the lady," and he flung open the door. The light of Uncle Michael's lantern fell full upon the wide-eyed, terror-smitten person of Emmy Lou, in her desk, awaiting, her miserable little heart knew not what horror. "She--she told me to stay," sobbed Emmy Lou in Aunt Cordelia's arms, "and I stayed; and the Man came, and I hid in the coal-box!" [A] Copyright, 1901, 1902, by McClure, Phillips & Co. What He Got Out of It BY S. E. KISER. (From the _Chicago Record-Herald_.) He never took a day of rest, He couldn't afford it; He never had his trousers pressed, He couldn't afford it; He never went away, care-free, To visit distant lands, to see How fair a place this world might be-- He couldn't afford it. He never went to see a play, He couldn't afford it; His love for art he put away, He couldn't afford it. He died and left his heirs a lot, But no tall shaft proclaims the spot In which he lies--his children thought They couldn't afford it. The Play's the Thing[B] BY GEORGE MADDEN MARTIN. (_Arranged by Maude Herndon and Grace Kellam._) It was the day of the exhibition. Miss Carrie, teacher of the Third Reader Class, talked in deep tones--gestures meant sweeps and circles. Since the coming of Miss Carrie, the Third Reader Class lived, as it were, in the public eye, for on Fridays books were put away and the attention given to recitations and company. _No_ other class had these recitations, and the Third Reader was envied. Its members were pointed out and gazed upon, until one realized one was standing in the garish light of fame. The other readers, it seemed, longed for fame and craved publicity, and so it came about that the school was to have an exhibition with Miss Carrie's genius to plan and engineer the whole. For general material Miss Carrie drew from the whole school, but the play was for her own class alone. And this was the day of the exhibition. Hattie and Sadie and Emmy Lou stood at the gate of the school. They had spent the morning in rehearsing. At noon they had been sent home with instructions to return at half-past two. The exhibition would begin at three. "Of course," Miss Carrie had said, "you will not fail to be on time." And Miss Carrie had used her deepest tones. It was not two o'clock, and the three stood at the gate, the first to return. They were in the same piece. It was "The Play." In a play one did more than suit the part. In the play Hattie and Sadie and Emmy Lou found themselves the orphaned children of a soldier who had failed to return from the war. It was a very sad piece. Sadie had to weep, and more than once Emmy Lou had found tears in her eyes, watching her. Miss Carrie said Sadie showed histrionic talent. Emmy Lou asked Hattie about it, who said it meant tears, and Emmy Lou remembered then how tears came naturally to Sadie. When Aunt Cordelia heard they must dress to suit the part she came to see Miss Carrie, and so did the mamma of Sadie and the mamma of Hattie. "Dress them in a kind of mild mourning," Miss Carrie explained, "not too deep, or it will seem too real, and, as three little sisters, suppose we dress them alike." And now Hattie and Sadie and Emmy Lou stood at the gate ready for the play. Stiffly immaculate white dresses with beltings of black sashes, flared jauntily out above spotless white stockings and sober little slippers, while black-bound Leghorn hats shaded three anxious little countenances. By the exact center, each held a little handkerchief, black-bordered. Hattie and Sadie and Emmy Lou wore each an anxious seriousness of countenance, but it was a variant seriousness; for as the hour approached, the solemn importance of the occasion was stealing brain-ward, and Emmy Lou even began to feel glad she was a part of The Exhibition, for to have been left out would have been worse even than the moment of mounting the platform. "My grown-up brother's coming," said Hattie, "an' my mamma an' gran'ma an' the rest." "My Aunt Cordelia has invited the visiting lady next door," said Emmy Lou. But it was Sadie's hour. "Our minister's coming," said Sadie. Emmy Lou's part was to weep when Sadie wept, and to point a chubby forefinger skyward when Hattie mentioned the departure from earth of the soldier parent, and to lower that forefinger footward at Sadie's tearful allusion to an untimely grave. Emmy Lou had but one utterance, and it was brief. She was to advance one foot, stretch forth a hand and say, in the character of orphan for whom no asylum was offered, "We know not where we go." All day, Emmy Lou had been saying it at intervals of half minutes, for fear she might forget. Meanwhile, it yet lacking a moment or so of two o'clock, the orphaned heroes continued to linger at the gate, awaiting the hour. "Listen," said Hattie, "I hear music." There was a church across the street. It was a large church with high steps and a pillared portico, and its doors were open. "It's a band, and marching," said Hattie. The orphaned children hurried to the curb. A procession was turning the corner and coming toward them. On either sidewalk crowds of men and boys accompanied it. "It's a funeral," said Sadie. Hattie turned with a face of conviction. "I know. It's that big general's funeral; they're bringing him home to bury him with the soldiers." "We'll never see a thing for the crowd," despaired Sadie. Emmy Lou was gazing. "They've got plumes in their hats," she said. "Let's go over on the church steps and see it go by," said Hattie, "it's early." The orphaned children hurried across the street. They climbed the steps. At the top they turned. There were plumes and more, there were flags and swords, and a band led. But at the church, with unexpected abruptness, the band halted, turned; it fell apart, and the procession came through; it came right on through and up the steps, a line of uniforms and swords on either side from curb to pillar, and halted. Aghast, between two glittering files, the orphaned children shrank into the shadow behind a pillar, while upstreamed from the carriages below an unending line--bare-headed men and ladies bearing flowers. Behind, below, about, closing in on every side, crowded people, a sea of people. The orphaned children found themselves swept from their hiding by the crowd and unwillingly jostled forward into prominence. A frowning man, with a sword in his hand, seemed to be threatening everybody; his face was red and his voice was big, and he glittered with many buttons. All at once he caught sight of the orphaned children and threatened them vehemently. "Here," said the frowning man, "right in here," and he placed them in line. The orphaned children were appalled, and even in the face of the man cried out in protest. But the man of the sword did not hear, for the reason that he did not listen. Instead he was addressing a large and stout lady immediately behind them. "Separated from the family in the confusion, the grandchildren evidently--just see them in, please." And suddenly the orphaned children found themselves a part of the procession as grandchildren. The nature of a procession is to proceed. And the grandchildren proceeded with it. They could not help themselves. There was no time for protest, for, pushed by the crowd, which closed and swayed above their heads, and piloted by the stout lady close behind, they were swept into the church and up the aisle, and when they came again to themselves were in the inner corner of a pew near the front. The church was decked with flags. So was the Third Reader room. It was hung with flags for The Exhibition. Hattie in the corner nudged Sadie. Sadie urged Emmy Lou, who, next to the stout lady, touched her timidly. "We have to get out; we've got to say our parts." "Not now," said the lady, reassuringly; "the program is at the cemetery." Emmy Lou did not understand, and she tried to tell the lady. "S-h-," said the person, engaged with the spectacle and the crowd; "sh-h-" Abashed, Emmy Lou sat, sh-h-ed. Hattie arose. It was terrible to rise in church, and at a funeral, and the church was filled, the aisles were crowded, but Hattie rose. Hattie was a St. George, and a Dragon stood between her and The Exhibition. She pushed by Sadie, and past Emmy Lou. Hattie was slim as she was strenuous, but not even so slim a little girl as Hattie could push by the stout lady, for she filled the space. At Hattie's touch she turned. Although she looked good-natured, the size and ponderance of the lady were intimidating. She stared at Hattie; people were looking; it was in church; Hattie's face was red. "You can't get to the family," said the lady; "you couldn't move in the crowd. Besides I promised to see to you. Now be quiet," she added crossly, when Hattie would have spoken. She turned away. Hattie crept back vanquished by this Dragon. "So suitably dressed," the stout lady was saying to a lady beyond; "grandchildren, you know. Even their little handkerchiefs have black borders." The service began, and there fell on the unwilling grandchildren the submission of awe. The stout lady cried, she also punched Emmy Lou with her elbow whenever that little person moved, but finally she found courage to turn her head so she could see Sadie. Sadie was weeping into her black-bordered handkerchief, nor were they tears of histrionic talent. They were real tears. People all about were looking at her sympathetically. Such grief in a grandchild was very moving. It may have been minutes; it seemed to Emmy Lou hours, before there came a general uprising. Hattie stood up. So did Sadie and Emmy Lou. Their skirts no longer stood out jauntily; they were quite crushed and subdued. There was a wild, hunted look in Hattie's eyes. "Watch the chance!" she whispered, "and run." But it did not come. As the pews emptied, the stout lady passed Emmy Lou on, addressing some one beyond. "Hold to this one," she said, "and I'll take the other two, or they'll get tramped in the crowd." Slowly the crowd moved, and being a part of it, however unwillingly, Emmy Lou moved, too, out of the church and down the steps. Then came the crashing of the band and the roll of the carriages, and she found herself in the front row on the curb. The man with the brandishing sword was threatening violently. "One more carriage is here for the family," called the man with the sword. His glance in search for the family suddenly fell on Emmy Lou. She felt it fall. The problem solved itself for the man with the sword, and his brow cleared. "Grandchildren next," roared the threatening man. "Keep an eye on them--separated from the family," he was explaining, and in spite of their protests, a moment later the three little girls were lifted into the carriage, and as the door banged, their carriage moved with the rest up the street. "Now," said Hattie, and Hattie sprang to the farther door. It would not open. Through the carriage windows the school, with its arched doorways and windows, gazed frowningly, reproachfully. A gentleman entered the gate and went in the doorway. "It's our minister," said Sadie, weeping afresh. Then Hattie wept and so did Emmy Lou. What would The Exhibition do without them? Late that afternoon a carriage stopped at a corner upon which a school building stood. Since his charges were infantile affairs, the colored gentleman on the box thought to expedite matters and drop them at the corner nearest their homes. Descending, he flung open the door, and three little girls crept forth, three crushed little girls, three limp little girls, three little girls in a mild kind of mourning. They came forth timidly. They looked around. They hoped they might reach their homes unobserved. There was a crowd up the street. A gathering of people--many people. It seemed to be at Emmy Lou's gate. Hattie and Sadie lived farther on. "It must be a fire," said Hattie. But it wasn't. It was The Exhibition, the Principal, and Miss Carrie, and teachers and pupils, and mammas and aunties and Uncle Charlie. "An' grand'ma," said Hattie. "And the visiting lady," said Emmy Lou. "And our minister," said Sadie. The gathering of many people caught sight of them presently, and came to meet them, three little girls in mild mourning. The parents and guardians led them home. Emmy Lou was tired. At supper she nodded and mild mourning and all, suddenly she collapsed and fell asleep, her head against her chair. Uncle Charlie woke her. He stood her up on the chair, and held out his arms. "Come," he said, "Come, suit the action to the word." Emmy Lou woke suddenly, the words smiting her ears with ominous import. She thought the hour had come; it was The Exhibition. She stood stiffly, she advanced a cautious foot, her chubby hand described a careful half circle. Emmy Lou spoke her part. "We know not where we go." [B] Copyright, 1901, 1902, by McClure, Phillips & Co. The Dancing School and Dicky[C] BY JOSEPHINE DODGE DASKAM. (_Arranged by Maude Herndon and Grace Kellam._) [From "The Little God and Dicky."] [We have debated long and earnestly which of the seven stories in "The Madness of Phillip and Other Tales of Childhood" is the best public reading. As yet we have no decision; certainly six of them are among the choicest readings of child-life which may be found in American literature, where we have the real child in books. With the permission of the author and the publishers, McClure, Phillips & Co., New York, we reprint cuttings from two of these stories.] "Where are you going?" said somebody, as he slunk out toward the hat-rack. "Oh, out." "Well, see that you don't stay long. Remember what it is this afternoon." He turned like a stag at bay. "_What_ is it this afternoon?" he demanded viciously. "You know very well." "_What?_" "See that you're here, that's all. You've got to get dressed." "I will not go to that old dancing school again, and I tell you that I won't, and I won't. And I won't!" "Now, Dick, don't begin that all over again. It's so silly of you. You've got to go." "Why?" "Because it's the thing to do." "Why?" "Because you must learn to dance." "Why?" "Every nice boy learns." "Why?" "That will do, Richard. Go and find your pumps. Now, get right up from the floor, and if you scratch the Morris chair I shall speak to your father. Ain't you ashamed of yourself? Get right up--you must expect to be hurt, if you pull so. Come, Richard! Now, stop crying--a great boy like you! I am sorry I hurt your elbow, but you know very well you aren't crying for that at all. Come along!" His sister flitted by the door, her accordeon-plaited skirt held carefully from the floor, her hair in two glistening, blue-knotted pigtails. "Hurry up, Dick, or we'll be late," she called back sweetly. "Oh, you shut up, will you!" he snarled. She looked meek, and listened to his deprivation of dessert for the rest of the week with an air of love for the sinner and hatred for the sin that deceived even her older sister who was dressing her. A desperately patient monologue from the next room indicated the course of events there. "Your necktie is on the bed. No, I don't know where the blue one is--it doesn't matter; that it just as good. Yes, it is. No, you cannot. You will have to wear one. Because no one ever goes without. I don't know why. "Many a boy would be thankful and glad to have silk stockings. Nonsense, your legs are warm enough. I don't believe you. Now, Richard, how perfectly ridiculous! There is no left or right to stockings. You have no time to change. Shoes are a different thing. Well, hurry up, then. Because they are made so, I suppose. I don't know why. "Brush it more on that side--no, you can't go to the barbers. You went last week. It looks perfectly well. I cut it? Why, I don't know how to trim hair. Anyway, there isn't time now. It will have to do. Stop your scowling for goodness' sake, Dick. Have you a handkerchief? It makes no difference, you must carry one. You _ought_ to want to use it. Well, you should. Yes, they always do, whether they have colds or not. I don't know why. "Your Golden Text! The idea! No, you cannot. You can learn that Sunday before church. This is not the time to learn Golden Texts. I never saw such a child. Now take your pumps and find the plush bag. Why not? Put them right with Ruth's. That's what the bag was made for. Well, how do you want to carry them? Why, I never heard of anything so silly! You will knot the strings. I don't care if they do carry skates that way--skates are not slippers. You'd lose them. Very well, then, only hurry up. I should think you'd be ashamed to have them dangling around your neck that way. Because people never _do_ carry them so. I don't know why. "Now, here's your coat. Well, I can't help it, you have no time to hunt for them. Put your hands in your pockets--it's not far. And mind, don't run for Ruth every time. You don't take any pains with her, and you hustle her about, Miss Dorothy says. Take another little girl. Yes, you must. I shall speak to your father if you answer me in that way, Richard. Men don't dance with their sisters. Because they don't. I don't know why." He slammed the door till the piazza shook, and strode along beside his scandalized sister, the pumps flopping noisily on his shoulders. She tripped along contentedly--she liked to go. The personality capable of extracting pleasure from the hour before them baffled his comprehension, and he scowled fiercely at her, rubbing his silk stockings together at every step, to enjoy the strange smooth sensation thus produced. This gave him a bow-legged gait that distressed his sister beyond words. "I think you might stop. Everybody's looking at you! Please stop, Dick Pendleton; you're a mean old thing. I should think you'd be ashamed to carry your slippers that way. If you jump in that wet place and spatter me I shall tell papa--you _will_ care, when I tell him just the same! You're just as bad as you can be. I shan't speak with you to-day!" She pursed up her lips and maintained a determined silence. He rubbed his legs together with renewed emphasis. Acquaintances met them and passed, unconscious of anything but the sweet picture of a sister and a brother and a plush bag going dutifully and daintily to dancing school. He jumped over the threshold of the long room and aimed his cap at the head of a boy he knew, who was standing on one foot to put on a slipper. This destroyed his friend's balance, and a cheerful scuffle followed. Life assumed a more hopeful aspect. A shrill whistle called them out in two crowded bunches to the polished floor. Hoping against hope, he had clung to the beautiful thought that Miss Dorothy would be sick, that she had missed her train--but no! There she was, with her shiny high-heeled slippers, her pink skirt that puffed out like a fan, and her silver whistle on a chain. The little clicking castanets that rang out so sharply were in her hand beyond a doubt. "Ready, children! Spread out. Take your lines. First position. Now!" The large man at the piano, who always looked half asleep, thundered out the first bars of the latest waltz, and the business began. Their eyes were fixed solemnly on Miss Dorothy's pointed shoes. They slipped and slid and crossed their legs and arched their pudgy insteps; the boys breathed hard over their gleaming collars. On the right side of the hall thirty hands held out their diminutive skirts at an alluring angle. On the left, neat black legs pattered diligently through mystic evolutions. The chords rolled out slower, with dramatic pauses between; sharp clicks of the castanets rang through the hall; a line of toes rose gradually towards the horizontal, whirled more or less steadily about, crossed behind, bent low, bowed, and with a flutter of skirts resumed the first position. A little breeze of laughing admiration circled the row of mothers and aunts. "Isn't that too cunning! Just like a little ballet! Aren't they graceful, really, now!" "_One_, two, three! _One_, two three! Slide, slide, cross; _one_, two, three!" There are those who find pleasure in the aimless intricacies of the dance; self-respecting men even have been known voluntarily to frequent assemblies devoted to this nerve-racking attitudinizing futility. Among such, however, you shall seek in vain in future years for Richard Carr Pendleton. "_One_, two, three! _Reverse_, two, three!" The whistle shrilled. "Ready for the two-step, children?" A mild tolerance grew on him. If dancing must be, better the two-step than anything else. It is not an alluring dance, your two-step; it does not require temperament. Any one with a firm intention of keeping the time and a strong arm can drag a girl through it very acceptably. Dicky skirted the row of mothers and aunts cautiously. "Oh, look! Did you ever see anything so sweet?" said somebody. Involuntarily he turned. There in a corner, all by herself, a little girl was gravely performing a dance. He stared at her curiously. She was ethereally slender, brown-eyed, brown-haired, brown-skinned. A little fluffy white dress spread fan-shaped over her knees; her ankles were bird-like. Her eyes were serious, her hair hung loose. She swayed lightly; one little gloved hand held out her skirt, the other marked the time. Her performance was an apotheosis of the two-step; that metronomic dance would not have recognized itself under her treatment. Dicky admired. But the admiration of his sex is notoriously fatal to the art that attracts it. He advanced and bowed jerkily, grasped one of the loops of her sash in the back, stamped gently a moment to get the time, and the artist sank into the partner, the pirouette grew coarse to sympathize with clay. "Don't they do it well, though! See those little things near the door!" he caught as they went by, and his heart swelled with pride. "What's your name?" he asked abruptly after the dance. "Thithelia," she lisped. She was very shy. "Mine's Richard Carr Pendleton. My father's a lawyer. What's yours?" "I--I don't know!" "Pooh!" he said, grandly; "I guess you know. Don't you, really?" She shook her head. Suddenly a light dawned in her eyes. "Maybe I know," she murmured. "I gueth I know. He--he'th a really thtate!" "A really state? That isn't anything--nothing at all. A really state?" He frowned at her. Her lip quivered. She turned and ran away. "Here, come back!" he called; but she was gone. "That will do for to-day," said Miss Dorothy, presently, and they surged into the dressing-rooms, to be buttoned up and pulled out of draughts and trundled home. She was swathed carefully in a wadded silk jacket, and then enveloped in a hooded cloak; she looked like an angelic brownie. Dicky ran to her as a woman led her out to a coupé at the curb, and tugged at the ribbon of her cloak. "Where do you live? Say, where do you?" he demanded. "I--I don't know." The woman laughed. "Why, yes, you do, Cissy. Tell him directly, now." She put one tiny finger in her mouth. "I--I gueth I live on Chethnut Thtreet," he called as the door slammed and shut her in. His sister amicably offered him half the plush bag to carry, and opened a running criticism of the afternoon. "Did you ever see anybody act like that Fannie Leach? She's awfully rough. Miss Dorothy spoke to her twice--wasn't that dreadful? What made you dance all the time with Cissy Weston? She's an awful baby--a regular fraid-cat! We girls tease her just as easy--do you like her?" "She's the prettiest one there!" "Why, Dick Pendleton, she is not! She's so little--she's not half so pretty as Agnes, or--or lots of the girls. She's such a baby. She puts her finger in her mouth if anybody says anything at all. If you ask her a single thing she does like this: 'I don't know, I don't know!'" He smiled scornfully. Did he not know how she did it? "And she can't talk plain! She lisps--truly she does!" Was ever a girl so thick-headed as that sister of his! "She puts her finger in her mouth! She can't talk plain!" Alas, my sisters, it was Helen's finger that toppled over Troy, and Diane de Poitiers stammered! For two long months the little girl led him along the primrose way. The poor fellow thought it was the main road; he had yet to learn it was but a by-path. But the Little God was not through with him. That very night he reached the top of the wave. He came down to breakfast rapt and quiet. He salted his oatmeal by mistake, and never knew the difference. His sister laughed derisively, and explained his folly to him as he swallowed the last spoonful, but he only smiled kindly at her. After his egg he spoke. "I dreamed that it was dancing school. And I went. And I was the only fellow there. And what do you think? _All the little girls were Cecilia!_" They gasped. "You don't suppose he'll be a poet, do you? Or a genius, or anything?" his mother inquired anxiously. "No!" his father returned. "I should say he was more likely to be a Mormon!" [C] Copyright, 1902, by McClure, Phillips & Co. "A Model Story in the Kindergarten"[D] BY JOSEPHINE DODGE DASKAM. (_Arranged by Maude Herndon and Grace Kellam._) [From "The Madness of Philip." McClure, Phillips & Company.] It was evident that something was wrong that morning with the children of the kindergarten. Two perplexed teachers were quieting the latest outbreak and marshaling a wavering line of very little people when the youngest assistant appeared on the scene. "Miss Hunt wants to know why you're so late with them," she inquired. "She hopes nothing's wrong. Mrs. R. B. M. Smith is here to-day to visit the primary schools and kindergartens, and--" "Oh, goodness," exclaimed a teacher, abruptly, ceasing her attempted consolation of Marantha Judd. "I can't _bear_ that woman! She's always read Stanley Hall's _last_ article that proves that what he said before was wrong! Come along, Marantha, don't be a foolish little girl any longer. We shall be late for the morning exercise." Upstairs a large circle was forming under the critical scrutiny of a short, stout woman with crinkly, gray hair. This was Mrs. R. B. M. Smith, who, when the opening exercises were finished, signified her willingness to relate to the children a model story, calling the teacher's attention in advance to the almost incredible certainty that would characterize the children's anticipation of the events judiciously and psychologically selected. The arm-chairs shortly to contain so much accurate anticipation were at last arranged and the children sat decorously attentive, their faces turned curiously toward the strange lady with the fascinating plumes in her bonnet. "Nothing like animals to bring out the protective instinct--feebler dependent on the stronger," she said rapidly to the teachers, and then addressed the objects of these theories. "Now, children, I'm going to tell you a nice story--you all like stories, I'm sure." At just this moment little Richard Willetts sneezed loudly and unexpectedly to all, himself included, with the result that his ever-ready suspicion fixed upon his neighbor, Andrew Halloran, as the direct cause of the convulsion. Andrew's well-meant efforts to detach from Richard's vest the pocket-handkerchief securely fastened thereto by a large black safety-pin strengthened the latter's conviction of intended assault and battery, and he squirmed out of the circle and made a dash for the hall--the first stage in an evident homeward expedition. This broke in upon the story, and even when it got under way again there was an atmosphere of excitement quite unexplained by the tale itself. "Yesterday, children, as I came out of my yard, _what_ do you think I saw?" The elaborately concealed surprise in store was so obvious that Marantha rose to the occasion and suggested: "An el'phunt?" "Why, no! Why should I see an elephant in my yard? It wasn't _nearly_ so big as that--it was a _little_ thing!" "A fish?" ventured Eddy Brown, whose eye fell upon the aquarium in the corner. The _raconteuse_ smiled patiently. "Why, no! How could a fish, a live fish, get in my front yard?" "A dead fish?" persisted Eddy, who was never known to relinquish voluntarily an idea. "It was a little kitten," said the story-teller, decidedly. "A little white kitten. She was standing right near a great big puddle of water. And what else do you think I saw?" "Another kitten?" suggested Marantha, conservatively. "No, a big Newfoundland dog. He saw the little kitten near the water. Now cats don't like the water, do they? They don't like a wet place. What do they like?" "Mice," said Joseph Zukoffsky, abruptly. "Well, yes, they do; but there were no mice in my yard. I'm sure you know what I mean. If they don't like _water_, what do they like?" "Milk!" "They like a dry place," said Mrs. R. B. M. Smith. "Now what do you suppose the dog did?" It may be that successive failures had disheartened the listeners; it may be that the very range presented alive to the dog and them for choice dazzled their imaginations. At any rate, they made no answer. "Nobody knows what the dog did?" repeated the story-teller, encouragingly. "What would you do if you saw a little white kitten like that?" Again a silence. Then Philip remarked gloomily, "I'd pull its tail." "And what do the rest of you think?" inquired Mrs. R. B. M. Smith, pathetically. "I hope _you_ are not so cruel as that little boy." But fully half the children had seen the youngest assistant giggle at "that little boy's" answer, and with one accord came the quick response, "_I'd_ pull it too." [D] Copyright, 1902, by McClure, Phillips & Co. Fishin'? (From the _New Orleans Times-Democrat_.) Settin' on a log An' fishin' An' watchin' the cork, An' wishin'. Jus' settin' round home An' sighin', Jus' settin' round home-- An' lyin'. "Ardelia in Arcady"[E] (_Arranged by Maude Herndon and Grace Kellam._) [From "The Madness of Philip," by Josephine Dodge Daskam. McClure, Phillips & Co.] When first the young lady from the College Settlement dragged Ardelia from her degradation, she was sitting on a dirty pavement and throwing assorted refuse at an unconscious policeman. "Come here, little girl," said the young lady, invitingly. "Wouldn't you like to come with me and have a nice, cool bath?" "Naw," said Ardelia, in tones rivaling the bath in coolness. "You wouldn't? Well, wouldn't you like some bread and butter and jam?" "Wha's jam?" "Why, it's--er--marmalade. All sweet, you know." "Naw!" "I thought you might like to go on a picnic," said the young lady, helplessly. "I thought all little girls liked--" "Picnic? When?" cried Ardelia, moved instantly to interest. "I'm goin'! Is it the Dago picnic?" The young lady shuddered, and seizing the hand which she imagined to have had the least to do with the refuse, she led Ardelia away--the first stage of her journey to Arcady. Later arrayed in starched and creaking garments which had been made for a slightly smaller child, Ardelia was transported to the station, and for the first time introduced to a railroad car. She sat stiffly on the red plush seat while the young lady talked reassuringly of daisies and cows and green grass. As Ardelia had never seen any of these things, it is hardly surprising that she was somewhat unenthusiastic. "You can roll in the daisies, my dear, and pick all you want--all!" she urged eagerly. "Aw right," she answered, guardedly. The swelteringly hot day, and the rapid unaccustomed motion combined to afflict her with a strange internal anticipation of future woe. Once last summer, when she ate the liquid dregs of the ice-cream man's great tin, and fell asleep in the room where her mother was frying onions, she had experienced this same foreboding, and the climax of that dreadful day lingered yet in her memory. At last they stopped. The young lady seized her hand, and led her through the narrow aisle, down the steep steps, across the little country station platform, and Ardelia was in Arcady. A bare-legged boy in blue overalls and a wide straw hat then drove them many miles along a hot, dusty road, that wound endlessly through the parched country fields. Finally they turned into a driveway, and drew up before a gray wooden house. A spare, dark-eyed woman in a checked apron advanced to meet them. "Terrible hot to-day, ain't it?" she sighed. "I'm real glad to see you, Miss Forsythe. Won't you cool off a little before you go on? This is the little girl, I s'pose. I guess it's pretty cool to what she's accustomed to, ain't it, Delia?" "No, I thank you, Mrs. Slater. I'll go right on to the house. Now, Ardelia, here you are in the country. I'm staying with my friend in a big white house about a quarter of a mile farther on. You can't see it from here, but if you want anything you can just walk over. Day after to-morrow is the picnic I told you of. You'll see me then, anyway. Now run right out in the grass and pick all the daisies you want. Don't be afraid; no one will drive you off this grass!" The force of this was lost on Ardelia, who had never been driven off any grass whatever, but she gathered that she was expected to walk out into the thick rank growth of the unmowed side yard, and strode downward obediently. "Now pick them! Pick the daisies!" cried Miss Forsythe, excitedly. "I want to see you." Ardelia looked blank. "Huh?" she said. "Gather them. Get a bunch. Oh, you poor child! Mrs. Slater, she doesn't know how!" Miss Forsythe was deeply moved and illustrated by picking imaginary daisies on the porch. Ardelia's quick eye followed her gestures, and stooping, she scooped the heads from three daisies and started back with them. Miss Forsythe gasped. "No, no, dear! Pull them up! Take the stem, too," she explained. "Pick the whole flower." Ardelia bent over again, tugged at a thick-stemmed clover, brought it up by the roots, and laid it awkwardly on the young lady's lap. "Thank you, dear," she said, politely, "but I meant them for you. I meant you to have a bunch. Don't you want them?" "Naw," said Ardelia, decidedly. Miss Forsythe's eyes brightened suddenly. "I know what you want," she cried, "you're thirsty! Mrs. Slater, won't you get us some of your good, creamy milk? Don't you want a drink, Ardelia?" Ardelia nodded. When Mrs. Slater appeared with the foaming yellow glasses she wound her nervous little hands about the stem of the goblet and drank a deep draught. "There!" cried the young lady. "Now, how do you like real milk, Ardelia? I declare you look like another child already! You can have all you want every day--why, what's the matter?" For Ardelia was growing ghastly pale before them; her eyes turned inward, her lips tightened. A blinding horror surged from her toes upward, and the memory of the liquid ice-cream and the frying onions faded before the awful reality of her present agony. Later, as she lay limp and white on the slippery haircloth sofa in Mrs. Slater's musty parlor she heard them discussing her situation. "There was a lot of Fresh-Air children over at Mis' Simms's," her hostess explained, "and they 'most all of 'em said the milk was too strong--did you ever! Two or three of 'em was sick, like this one, but they got to love it in a little while. She will, too." Ardelia shook her head feebly. In a few minutes she was asleep. When she awoke all was dusk and shadow. She felt scared and lonely. Now that her stomach was filled and her nerves refreshed by her long sleep, she was in a condition to realize that aside from all bodily discomfort she was sad--very sad. A new, unknown depression weighed her down. It grew steadily, something was happening, something constant and mournful--what? Suddenly she knew. It was a steady, recurrent noise, a buzzing, monotonous click. Now it rose, now it fell, accentuating the silence dense about it. "Zig-a-zig! Zig-a-zig!" then a rest. "Zig-a-zig! Ziz-a-zig-a-zig!" "Wha's 'at?" she said. "That? Oh, those are katydids. I s'pose you never heard 'em, that's a fact. Kind o' cozy, I think. Don't you like 'em?" "Naw." Another long silence intervened. Mr. Slater snored, William smoked, and the monotonous clamor was uninterrupted. "Zig-a-zig! Zig-zig! Zig-a-zig-a-zig!" Slowly, against the background of this machine-like clicking, there grew other sounds, weird, unhappy, far away. "Wheep, wheep, wheep!" This was a high, thin crying. "Burrom! Burrom! Brown!" This was low and resonant and solemn. Ardelia scowled. "Wha's 'at?" she asked again. "That's the frogs. Bull-frogs and peepers. Never heard them, either, did ye? Well, that's what they are." William took his pipe out of his mouth. "Come here, sissy, 'n I'll tell y' a story," he said, lazily. Ardelia obeyed, and glancing timorously at the shadows, slipped around to his side. "Onc't they was an' ol' feller comin' 'long crosslots, late at night, an' he come to a pond, an' he kinder stopped up an' says to himself, 'Wonder how deep the ol' pond is, anyhow?' He was just a leetle--well, he'd had a drop too much, y' see--" "Had a what?" interrupted Ardelia. "He was sort o' rollin' 'round--he didn't know just what he was doin'--" "Oh! Jagged!" said Ardelia, comprehendingly. "I guess so. An' he heard a voice singin' out, 'Knee deep! Knee deep! Knee deep.'" William gave a startling imitation of the peepers; his voice was a high, shrill wail. "'Oh, well,' s' he, ''f it's just knee deep, I'll wade through,' an' he starts in. "Just then he hears a big feller singin' out, 'Better go rrround! Better gorrround! Better gorrround!' "'Lord,' says he, 'is it s' deep 's that? Well, I'll go round then.' 'N' off he starts to walk around. "'Knee deep! Knee deep! Knee deep!' says the peepers. "An' there it was. Soon's he'd start to do one thing they'd tell him another. Make up his mind he couldn't, so he stands there still, they do say, askin' 'em every night which he better do." "Stands where?" "Oh, I d' know. Out in the swamp, mebbe." Again he smoked. Time passed by. Suddenly Mr. Slater coughed and arose. "Well, guess I'll be gettin' to bed," he said. "Come on, boys. Hello, little girl! Come to visit us, hey? Mind you don't pick poison vine." Mrs. Slater led Ardelia upstairs into a little hot room, and told her to get into bed quick, for the lamp drew the mosquitoes. Ardelia kicked off her shoes and approached the bed distrustfully. It sank down with her weight and smelled hot and queer. Rolling off she stretched herself on the floor, and lay there disconsolately. At home the hurdy-gurdy was playing, the women were gossiping on every step, the lights were everywhere--the blessed fearless gas lights--and the little girls were dancing in the breeze that drew in from East River. In the morning Miss Forsythe came over to inquire after her charge's health, accompanied by another young lady. "Why, Ethel, she isn't barefoot!" she cried. "Come here, Ardelia, and take off your shoes and stockings directly. Shoes and stockings in the country! Now, you'll know what comfort is." To patter about bare-legged on the clear, safe pavement, was one thing; to venture unprotected into that waving, tripping tangle was another. Ardelia stepped cautiously upon the short grass near the house, and with jaw set felt her way into the higher growth. Suddenly she stopped; she shrieked: "Oh, gee! Oh, gee!" "What is it, Ardelia; what is it? A snake?" Mrs. Slater rushed out, seized Ardelia, half rigid with fear, and carried her to the porch. They elicited from her as she sat with feet tucked under her that something had rustled by her "down at the bottom"--that it was slippery, that she had stepped on it, and wanted to go home. "Toad," explained Mrs. Slater, briefly. "Only a little hop-toad, Delia, that wouldn't harm a baby, let alone a big girl nine years old, like you." "She's a queer child," Mrs. Slater confided to the young ladies. "Not a drop of anything will she drink but cold tea. It don't seem reasonable to give it to her all day, and I won't do it, so she has to wait till meals. She makes a face if I say milk, and the water tastes slippery, she says, and salty-like. She won't touch it. I tell her it's good well-water, but she just shakes her head. She's stubborn 's a bronze mule, that child. Just mopes around. 'S morning she asked me when did the parades go by. I told her there wa'n't any, but the circus, an' that had been already. I tried to cheer her up, sort of, with that Fresh-Air picnic of yours to-morrow, Miss Forsythe, an s'she, 'Oh, the Dago picnic,' s'she, 'will they have Tong's band?'" "She don't seem to take any int'rest in th' farm, like those Fresh-Air children, either. I showed her the hens an' the eggs, an' she said it was a lie about the hens layin' 'em. 'What d' you take me for?' s'she. The idea! Then Henry milked the cow, to show her--she wouldn't believe that, either--and with the milk streamin' down before her, what do you s'pose she said? 'You put it in!' s'she. I never should a' believed that, Miss Forsythe, if I hadn't heard it." "Oh, she'll get over it; just wait a few days. Good-bye, Ardelia. Eat a good supper." But this Ardelia did not do. Mr. Slater ate in voracious silence. William never spoke, and Mrs. Slater filled their plates without comment. Ardelia had never in her life eaten in silence. Through the open door the buzz of the katydids was beginning tentatively. In the intervals of William's gulps a faint bass note warned them from the swamp. "Better gorrround! Better gorrround!" Ardelia's nerves strained and snapped. Her eyes grew wild. "Fer Gawd's sake, talk!" she cried, sharply. "Are youse dumbies?" * * * * * The morning dawned fresh and fair; the homely barnyard noises brought a smile to Miss Forsythe's sympathetic face, as she waited for Ardelia to join her in a drive to the station. But Ardelia did not smile. At the station Miss Forsythe shook her limp little hand. "Good-bye, dear. I'll bring the other little children back with me. You'll enjoy that. Good-bye." "I'm comin', too," said Ardelia. "Why--no, dear--you wait for us. You'd only turn around and come right back, you know." "Come, back nothin'. I'm goin' home." "Why--why, Ardelia! Don't you really like it?" "Naw, it's too hot." Miss Forsythe stared. "But Ardelia, you don't want to go back to that horribly smelly street? Not truly?" "Betcher life I do!" "It's so lonely and quiet," pleaded the young lady. Ardelia shuddered. Again she seemed to hear that fiendish, mournful wailing: "Knee deep! Knee deep! Knee deep!" They rode in silence. But the jar and jolt of the engine made music in Ardelia's ears; the familiar jargon of the newsboy: "N' Yawk evening paypers! Woyld! Joynal!" was a breath from home to her little cockney heart. They pushed through the great station, they climbed the steps of the elevated track, they jingled on a cross-town car. And at a familiar corner Ardelia slipped loose her hand, uttered a grunt of joy, and Miss Forsythe looked after her in vain. She was gone. But late in the evening, when the great city turned out to breathe, and sat with opened shirt and loosened bodice on the dirty steps; when the hurdy-gurdy executed brassy scales and the lights flared in endless sparkling rows; when the trolley gongs at the corner pierced the air, and feet tapped cheerfully down the cool stone steps of the beer-shop, Ardelia, bare-footed and abandoned, nibbling at a section of bologna sausage, cake-walked insolently with a band of little girls behind a severe policeman, mocking his stolid gait, to the delight of Old Dutchy, who beamed approvingly at her prancing. "Ja, ja, you trow out your feet good. Some day we pay to see you, no? You like to get back already!" "Ja, danky slum, Dutchy," she said airily, as she sank upon her cool step, stretched her toes and sighed: "Gee! N' Yawk's the place!" [E] Copyright, 1902, by McClure, Phillips & Co. Meriel BY MARGARET HOUSTON. (From _Ainslee's Magazine_.) "Let go my hand!" (A start of quick surprise.) "How could you dare?" (A flash of angry eyes.) And yet her hand in mine all passive lies. "How rude you are!" (The rose-blush fully blown.) "I trusted you!" ('Twould melt a heart of stone.) And yet the little hand rests in mine own! Oh, dainty Meriel--little April day! However warmly pouting lips cry Nay, That little hand shall rest in mine--alway! The Old Man and "Shep" (A true story.) BY JOHN G. SCORER. It was on the morning of the second day of the new year. The mercury hovered a few degrees above zero. The winds that swept down from the North were keen and biting, and the mist-like snow fell fitfully. An old man, his once tall form bent by the burdens and sorrows of sixty odd years, his step slow and shuffling, his clothes unkempt and tattered, his long beard flowing down upon his breast, his eye still bright and in his face lingering traces of refinement, made his way along the deserted street. He was accompanied by a dog, whose long, shaggy hair indicated a blooded ancestry. So emaciated was his form that even through his shaggy coat could be seen the outline of his bony frame. The two, master and dog, hobbled into the city's out-door relief department. The dog at once curled himself up on a rug near a radiator and was soon asleep, dreaming, perchance, of other and more prosperous days, with "a virtuous kennel and plenty of food." The old man stood for a time warming his benumbed fingers at the radiator. Presently one of the clerks approached and asked him who he was and what he wanted. "I am John Owens," he replied; "and I want to go to the infirmary. I am ill, homeless and penniless." "All right, my man," said the clerk, and at once wrote out a permit. The old man took the permit, read it over carefully, and said: "It says nothing about the dog. I want one for the dog, too." "We can't give you one for the dog; we have no place out there for him. You'll have to leave him behind." "Leave my dog behind? No, sir," said the old fellow, straightening up his bent form. "He's the only friend I have in this world. Why old 'Shep' has been my only friend for the last eight years. I had money, friends and influence when he was a pup, and he had a better bed and better food then than I have had for many a year. I had my carriages once, and a man to drive them, too. I know it sounds strange, now. Sometimes it seems like a dream. But never mind. When I woke up from that dream I had only my wife Martha, my son George, and 'Shep.' Every one else turned from me. "My wife was a good, brave soul, but our reverses broke her down, and on one spring day we laid her away beneath the daisies and the myrtle. Soon after that my son George was taken from me by that stern monster, death, leaving me alone--alone, with no friend but 'Shep.' "Where do I sleep? Why, my boy, anywhere. You don't know how many warm stairways there are. 'Shep' and I do, though, and we curl up together in them when the officer on the beat isn't looking. Yes, poor fellow, he's lame; had his leg broken. He got that trying to keep me out of the way of a coal wagon two years ago, when I slipped on the icy street. "Here's your permit, mister. I won't go out there unless 'Shep' goes with me. He can't? Well, good-bye, good-bye, sir. Come on, 'Shep.' You can't stay there all day. Just as much obliged," and the two passed out into the cold again. Who Knows The Lily lifts to mine her nunlike face, But my wild heart is beating for the Rose; How can I pause to behold the Lily's grace? Shall I repent me by and by? Who knows? --_Louise Chandler Moulton_. The Negro BY BOOKER T. WASHINGTON. (Adapted from the speech delivered at the opening of the Atlanta Exposition.) One-third of the population of the South is of the negro race. No enterprise seeking the material, civil, or moral welfare of this section can disregard this element of our population and reach the highest success. I but convey to you, Mr. President and directors, the sentiment of the masses of my race when I say that in no way have the value and manhood of the American negro been more fittingly and generously recognized than by the managers of this magnificent Exposition at every stage of its progress. It is a recognition that will do more to cement the friendship of the two races than any occurrence since the dawn of our freedom. Not only this, but the opportunity here afforded will awaken among us a new era of industrial progress. Ignorant and inexperienced, it is not strange that in the first years of our new life we began at the top instead of at the bottom; that a seat in Congress or a State legislature was more sought than real estate or industrial skill; that the political convention or stump speaking had more attractions than starting a dairy farm or truck garden. A ship lost at sea for many days suddenly sighted a friendly vessel. From the mast of the unfortunate vessel was seen a signal, "Water, water; we die of thirst!" The answer from the friendly vessel at once came back, "Cast down your bucket where you are." A second time the signal, "Water, water; send us water!" ran up from the distressed vessel, and was answered, "Cast down your bucket where you are." And a third and fourth signal for water was answered, "Cast down your bucket where you are." The captain of the distressed vessel at last, heeding the injunction, cast down his bucket, and it came up full of fresh, sparkling water from the mouth of the Amazon River. To those of my race who depend on bettering their condition in a foreign land or who underestimate the importance of cultivating friendly relations with the Southern white man, who is their next-door neighbor, I would say: "Cast down your bucket where you are." Cast it down in making friends in every manly way of the people of all races by whom we are surrounded. Cast it down in agriculture, mechanics, in commerce, in domestic service, and in the professions. And in this connection it is well to bear in mind that whatever other sins the South may be called to bear, when it comes to business, pure and simple, it is in the South that the negro is given a man's chance in the commercial world, and in nothing is this Exposition more eloquent than in emphasizing this chance. Our greatest danger is that in the great leap from slavery to freedom we may overlook the fact that the masses of us are to live by the productions of our hands, and fail to keep in mind that we shall prosper in proportion as we learn to dignify and glorify common labor and put brains and skill into the common occupations of life; shall prosper in proportion as we learn to draw the line between the superficial and the substantial, the ornamental gewgaws of life and the useful. No race can prosper till it learns that there is as much dignity in tilling a field as in writing a poem. It is at the bottom of life we must begin, and not at the top. Nor should we permit our grievances to overshadow our opportunities. To those of the white race who look to the incoming of those of foreign birth and strange tongues and habits for the prosperity of the South, were I permitted I would repeat what I say to my own race, "Cast down your bucket where you are." Cast it down among the eight millions of negroes whose habits you know, whose fidelity and love you have tested in days when to have proved treacherous meant the ruin of your firesides. Cast down your bucket among these people who have, without strikes and labor wars, tilled your fields, cleared your forests, builded your railroads and cities, and brought forth treasure from the bowels of the earth, and helped make possible this magnificent representation of the progress of the South. Casting down your buckets among my people, helping and encouraging them as you are doing on these grounds, and to education of head, hand, and heart, you will find that they will buy your surplus land, make blossom the waste places in your fields, and run your factories. While doing this you can be sure in the future as in the past, that you and your families will be surrounded by the most patient, faithful, law-abiding and unresentful people that the world has seen. As we have proved our loyalty to you in the past, in nursing your children, watching by the sick-bed of your mothers and fathers, and often following them with tear-dimmed eyes to the graves, so in the future, in our humble way, we shall stand by you with a devotion that no foreigner can approach, ready to lay down our lives, if need be, in defence of yours, interlacing our industrial, commercial, civil and religious life with yours in a way that shall make the interests of both races one. In all things that are purely social we can be as separate as the fingers, yet one as the hand in all things essential to mutual progress. There is no defence or security for any of us except in the highest intelligence and development of all. If anywhere there are efforts tending to curtail the fullest growth of the negro, let these efforts be turned into stimulating, encouraging, and making him the most useful and intelligent citizen. Efforts or means so invested will pay a thousand per cent. interest. These efforts will be twice blessed--"blessing him that gives and him that takes." Nearly sixteen millions of hands will aid you in pulling the load upward, or they will pull against you the load downward. We shall constitute one-third and more of the ignorance and crime of the South, or one-third of its intelligence and progress; we shall contribute one-third to the business and industrial prosperity of the South, or we shall prove a veritable body of death, stagnating, repressing, retarding every effort to advance the body politic. The wisest among my race understand that the agitation of questions of social equality is the extremest folly, and that progress in the enjoyment of all the privileges that will come to us must be the result of severe and constant struggle rather than of artificial forcing. No race that has anything to contribute to the markets of the world is long in any degree ostracized. It is important and right that all privileges of the law be ours, but it is vastly more important that we be prepared for the exercise of these privileges. The opportunity to earn a dollar in a factory just now is worth infinitely more than the opportunity to spend a dollar in an opera-house. Here bending, as it were, over the altar that represents the struggles of your race and mine, both starting practically empty-handed three decades ago, I pledge that in your effort to work out the great and intricate problem which God has laid at the doors of the South, you shall have at all times the patient, sympathetic help of my race; only let this be constantly in mind, that, while from representations in these buildings of the product of field, of forest, of mine, of factory, letters and art, much good will come, yet far above and beyond material benefits will be that higher good, that, let us pray God, will come, in a blotting out of sectional differences and racial animosities and suspicions, in a determination to administer absolute justice, in a willing obedience among all classes to the mandates of the law. This, this, coupled with our material prosperity, will bring into our beloved South a new heaven and a new earth. The Guillotine BY VICTOR HUGO. (This is a part of the speech in defense of his son, under the circumstances set forth in the oration.) Gentlemen of the jury, if there is a culprit here, it is not my son,--it is I!--I, who for these twenty-five years have opposed capital punishment,--have contended for the inviolability of human life,--have committed this crime for which my son is now arraigned. Here I denounce my self, Mr. Advocate-General! I have committed it under all aggravated circumstances; deliberately, repeatedly, tenaciously. Yes, this old and absurd _lex taliones_--this law of blood for blood--I have combated all my life--all my life, gentlemen of the jury! And, while I have breath, I will continue to combat it, by all my efforts as a writer, by all my words and all my votes as a legislator! I declare it before the crucifix; before that Victim of the penalty of death, who sees and hears us; before that gibbet, in which, two thousand years ago, for the eternal instruction of the generations, the human law nailed the divine! In all that my son has written on the subject of capital punishment and for writing and publishing which he is now on trial--in all that he has written, he has merely proclaimed the sentiments with which, from his infancy, I have inspired him. Gentlemen jurors, the right to criticise a law, and to criticise it severely--especially a penal law--is placed beside the duty of amelioration, like the torch beside the work under the artisan's hand. The right of the journalist is as sacred, as necessary, as imprescriptible, as the right of the legislator. What are the circumstances? A man, a convict, a sentenced wretch, is dragged, on a certain morning, to one of our public squares. There he finds the scaffold! He shudders, he struggles, he refuses to die. He is young yet--only twenty-nine. Ah! I know what you will say,--"He is a murderer!" But hear me. Two officers seize him. His hands, his feet are tied. He throws off the two officers. A frightful struggle ensues. His feet, bound as they are, become entangled in the ladder. He uses the scaffold against the scaffold! The struggle is prolonged. Horror seizes the crowd! The officers,--sweat and shame on their brows,--pale, panting, terrified, despairing,--despairing with I know not what horrible despair,--shrinking under that public reprobation which ought to have visited the penalty, and spared the passive treatment, the executioner,--the officers strive savagely. The victim clings to the scaffold and shrieks for pardon. His clothes are torn,--his shoulders bloody,--still he resists. At length, after three-quarters of an hour of this monstrous effort, of this spectacle without a name, of this agony,--agony for all, be it understood,--agony for the assembled spectators as well as for the condemned man,--after this age of anguish, gentlemen of the jury, they take back the poor wretch to his prison. The People breathe again. The People, naturally merciful, hope that the man will be spared. But no,--the guillotine, though vanquished, remains standing. There it frowns all day, in the midst of a sickened population. And at night the officers, re-enforced, drag forth the wretch again, so bound that he is but an inert weight,--they drag him forth, haggard, bloody, weeping, pleading, howling for life,--calling upon God, calling upon his father and mother,--for like a very child had this man become in the prospect of death,--they drag him forth to execution. He is hoisted on the scaffold and his head falls! And then through every conscience runs a shudder. Never had legal murder appeared with an aspect so indecent, so abominable. All feel jointly implicated in the deed. It is at this very moment that from a young man's breast escapes a cry, wrung from his very heart,--a cry of pity and anguish,--a cry of horror,--a cry of humanity. And this cry you would punish! And in the face of the appalling facts which I have narrated, you would say to the guillotine, "Thou art right!" and to Pity, saintly Pity, "Thou art wrong!" Gentlemen of the jury, it cannot be! Gentlemen, I have finished. Robespierre's Last Speech BY MAXIMILIAN MARIE ISIDORE DE ROBESPIERRE. [Before his execution, Robespierre addressed the populace of Paris in part as follows:] The enemies of the Republic call me tyrant! Were I such, they would grovel at my feet. I should gorge them with gold, I should grant them immunity for their crimes, and they would be grateful. Were I such, the kings we have vanquished, far from denouncing Robespierre, would lend me their guilty support; there would be a covenant between them and me. Tyranny must have tools. But the enemies of tyranny,--whither does their path tend? To the tomb, and to immortality! What tyrant is my protector? To what faction do I belong? Yourselves! What faction since the beginning of the Revolution, has crushed and annihilated so many detected traitors? You, the people, our principles, are that faction--a faction to which I am devoted, and against which all the scoundrelism of the day is banded! The confirmation of the Republic has been my object; and I know that the Republic can be established only on the eternal basis of morality. Against me, and against those who hold kindred principles, the league is formed. My life? Oh! my life I abandon without a regret. I have seen the past; and I foresee the future. What friend of this country would wish to survive the moment when he could no longer serve it,--when he could no longer defend innocence against oppression? Wherefore should I continue in an order of things where intrigue eternally triumphs over truth; where justice is mocked; where passions the most abject, or fears the most absurd, over-ride the sacred interests of humanity? In witnessing the multitude of vices which the torrent of the Revolution has rolled in turbid communion with its civic virtues, I confess that I have sometimes feared that I should be sullied, in the eyes of posterity, by the impure neighborhood of unprincipled men, who had thrust themselves into association with the sincere friends of humanity; and I rejoice that these conspirators against my country have now, by their reckless rage, traced deep the line of demarcation between themselves and all true men. Question history, and learn how all the defenders of liberty, in all times, have been overwhelmed by calumny. But their traducers died also. The good and the bad disappear alike from the earth; but in very different conditions. O Frenchmen! O my countrymen! Let not your enemies, with their desolating doctrines, degrade your souls and enervate your virtues! No, Chaumette, no! Death is not "an eternal sleep"! Citizens, efface from the tomb that motto, graven by sacrilegious hands, which spreads over all nature a funereal crape, takes from suppressed innocence its support, and affronts the beneficent dispensation of death! Inscribe rather thereon these words: "Death is the commencement of immortality!" I leave to the oppressors of the People a terrible testament, which I proclaim with the independence befitting one whose career is so nearly ended; it is the awful truth,--"Thou shalt die!" Secession BY ALEXANDER H. STEPHENS. [Delivered at the Georgia State Convention, January, 1861.] Mr. President: This step of secession, once taken, can never be recalled, and all the baleful and withering consequences that must follow will rest on the convention for all coming time. When we and our posterity shall see our lovely South desolated by the demon of war, which this act of yours will inevitably invite and call forth; when our green fields of waving harvest shall be trodden down by the murderous soldiery and fiery car sweeping over our land; our temples of justice laid in ashes; all the horrors and desolation of war upon us; who but this convention will be held responsible for it? And who but him who shall have given his vote for this unwise and ill-timed measure, as I honestly think and believe, shall be held to strict account for this suicidal act by the present generation, and probably cursed and execrated by posterity for all coming time, for the wide and desolating ruin that will inevitably follow this act you now propose to perpetrate? Pause, I entreat you, and consider for a moment what reasons you can give that will even satisfy yourselves in calmer moments--what reasons you can give to your fellow-sufferers in the calamity that it will bring upon us. What reasons can you give to the nations of the earth to justify it? They will be calm and deliberate judges in the case; and what cause or one overt act can you name or point, on which to rest the plea of justification? What right has the North assailed? What interest of the South has been invaded? What justice has been denied? And what claim founded in justice and right has been withheld? Can either of you to-day name one governmental act of wrong, deliberately and purposely done by the government of Washington, of which the South has a right to complain? I challenge the answer. While, on the other hand, let me show the facts (and believe me, gentlemen, I am not here, the advocate of the North; but I am here the friend, the firm friend, and lover of the South and her institutions, and for this reason I speak thus plainly and faithfully, for yours, mine, and every other man's interest, the words of truth and soberness), of which I wish you to judge, and I will only state facts which are clear and undeniable, and which now stand as records authentic in the history of our country. When we of the South demanded the slave-trade, or the importation of Africans for the cultivation of our lands, did they not yield the right for twenty years? When we asked a three-fifths representation in Congress for our slaves, was it not granted? When we asked and demanded the return of any fugitive from justice, or the recovery of those persons owing labor or allegiance, was it not incorporated in the Constitution, and again ratified and strengthened by the Fugitive Slave Law of 1850? But do you reply that in many instances they have violated this compact and have not been faithful to their engagements? As individuals and local communities they may have done so; but not by the sanction of government; for that has always been true to Southern interests. Again, gentlemen, look at another act; when we have asked that more territory should be added, that we might spread the institution of slavery, have they not yielded to our demands in giving us Louisiana, Florida and Texas, out of which four States have been carved, and ample territory for four more to be added in due time, if you, by this unwise and impolitic act, do not destroy this hope, and perhaps by it lose all, and have your last slave wrenched from you by stern military rule, as South American and Mexican were; or by the vindictive decree of a universal emancipation which may reasonably be expected to follow. But, again, gentlemen, what have we to gain by this proposed change of our relation to the general government? We have always had the control of it, and can yet, if we remain in it, and are as united as we have been. We have had a majority of the Presidents chosen from the South, as well as the control and management of most of those chosen from the North. We have had sixty years of Southern Presidents to their twenty-four, thus controlling the executive department. So, of the judges of the Supreme Court, we have had eighteen from the South and but eleven from the North, although nearly four-fifths of the judicial business has arisen in the free States, yet a majority of the court has always been from the South. This we have acquired so as to guard against any interpretation of the Constitution unfavorable to us. In like manner we have been equally watchful to guard our interests in the legislative branch of government. In choosing the presiding presidents (pro tem.) of the Senate, we have had twenty-four to their eleven. Speakers of the House we have had twenty-three, and they twelve. While the majority of the representatives, from their greater population, have always been from the North, yet we have so generally secured the Speaker, because he, to a great extent, shapes and controls the legislation of the country. Nor have we had less control in every other department of the general government. Attorney-generals we have had fourteen, while the North have had but five. Foreign ministers we have had eighty-six, and they but fifty-four. While three-fourths of the business which demands diplomatic agents abroad is clearly from the free States, from their greater commercial interest, yet we have had the principal embassies, so as to secure the world-markets for our cotton, tobacco and sugar on the best possible terms. We have had a vast majority of the higher offices of both army and navy, while a larger proportion of the soldiers and sailors were drawn from the North. Equally so of clerks, auditors and comptrollers filling the executive department; the records show, for the last fifty years, that of the three thousand thus employed, we have had more than two-thirds of the same, while we have but one-third of the white population of the Republic. Again, look at another item, and one, be assured, in which we have a great and vital interest; it is that of revenue, or means of supporting government. From official documents we learn that a fraction over three-fourths of the revenue collected for the support of the government has uniformly been raised from the North. Pause now while you can, gentlemen, and contemplate carefully and candidly these important items. Look at another necessary branch of government, and learn from stern statistical facts how matters stand in that department. I mean the mail and post-office privileges that we now enjoy under the general government as it has been for years past. The expense for the transportation of the mail in the free States was, by the report of the Postmaster-General for the year 1860, a little over $13,000,000, while the income was $19,000,000. But in the slave States the transportation of the mail was $14,716,000, while the revenue from the same was $8,001,026, leaving a deficit of $6,704,974 to be supplied by the North for our accommodation, and without it we must have been entirely cut off from this most essential branch of government. Leaving out of view, for the present, the countless millions of dollars you must expend in a war with the North; with tens of thousands of your sons and brothers slain in battle and offered up as sacrifices upon the altar of your ambition--and for what, we ask again? Is it for the overthrow of the American Government, established by our common ancestry, cemented and built up by their sweat and blood, and founded on the broad principles of right, justice and humanity? And as such, I must declare here, as I have often done before, and which has been repeated by the greatest and wisest of statesmen and patriots, in this and other lands, that it is the best and freest government--the most equal in its rights, the most just in its decisions, the most lenient in its measures, and the most aspiring in its principles, to elevate the race of men, that the sun of heaven ever shone upon. Now, for you to attempt to overthrow such a government as this, under which we have lived for more than three-quarters of a century--in which we have gained our wealth, our standing as a nation, our domestic safety, while the elements of peril are around us, with peace and tranquillity accompanied with unbounded prosperity and rights unassailed--is the height of madness, folly, and wickedness, to which I neither lend my sanction nor my vote. Birds Birds are singing round my window, Tunes the sweetest ever heard, And I hang my cage there daily, But I never catch a bird. So with thoughts my brain is peopled, And they sing there all day long; But they will not fold their pinions In the little cage of song! --_Richard Henry Stoddard_. The Death of Hypatia BY CHARLES KINGSLEY. ["Hypatia was a mathematician of Alexandria, who taught her students the philosophy of Plato. Orestes, governor of Alexandria, admired the talents of Hypatia, and frequently had recourse to her for advice. He was desirous of curbing the too ardent zeal of St. Cyril, who saw in Hypatia one of the principal supports of paganism. The most fanatical followers of the bishop, in March, A.D. 415, seized upon Hypatia as she was proceeding to her school, forced her to descend from her chariot, and dragged her into a neighboring church, where she was put to death by her brutal foes. Canon Kingsley's historical romance has done much to make her name familiar to English readers" (Classical Dictionary). Raphael Aben-Ezra, a former pupil, converted to Christianity and returning to Alexandria, seeks audience with Hypatia to tell her of the Nazarene. Broken and discouraged, she still holds to her philosophy, but finally consents to hear what Raphael has to say of Christianity. It is almost time for her to lecture at the school, so she makes an appointment for Raphael the following day. She sends him from her until then with the words with which this cutting begins.] "Yes, come.... The Galilean.... If he conquers strong men, can the weak maid resist him? Come soon ... this afternoon.... My heart is breaking fast." "At the eighth hour this afternoon?" asked Raphael. "Yes.... At noon I lecture ... take my farewell, rather, forever, of the schools.... Gods! What have I to say?... And tell me about Him of Nazareth. Farewell!" "Farewell, beloved lady! At the ninth hour you shall hear of Him of Nazareth." As Raphael went down the steps into the street, a young man sprang from behind one of the pillars and seized his arm. "Aha! my young Coryphæus of pious plunderers! What do you want with me?" Philammon, for it was he, looked at him an instant, and recognized him. "Save her! for the love of God, save her!" "Whom?" "Hypatia!" "How long has her salvation been important to you, my good friend?" "For God's sake," said Philammon, "go back and warn her! She will hear you--you are rich--you used to be her friend--I know you--I have heard of you.... Oh, if you ever cared for her--if you ever felt for her a thousandth part of what I feel--go in and warn her not to stir from home!" "Of what is she to be warned?" "Of a plot--I know that there is a plot--against her among the monks and parabolani. As I lay in bed this morning in Arsenius' room they thought I was asleep--" "Arsenius? Has that venerable fanatic, then, gone the way of all monastic flesh, and turned persecutor?" "God forbid! I heard him beseeching Peter, the reader, to refrain from something, I cannot tell what; but I caught her name.... I heard Peter say, 'She that hindereth will hinder till she be taken out of the way.' And when he went out in the passage I heard him say to another, 'That thou doest, do quickly!'" "These are slender grounds, my friend." "Ah, you do not know of what these men are capable." "Do I not?" "I know the hatred which they bear her, the crimes which they attribute to her. Her house would have been attacked last night had it not been for Cyril.... And I knew Peter's tone. He spoke too gently and softly not to mean something devilish. I watched all the morning for an opportunity of escape, and here I am! Will you take my message, or see her--" "What?" "God only knows, and the devil whom they worship instead of God." Raphael hurried back into the house. "Could he see Hypatia?" She had shut herself up in her private room, strictly commanding that no visitor should be admitted.... "Where was Theon, then?" He had gone out by the canal gate half an hour before, and he hastily wrote on his tablet: "Do not despise the young monk's warning. I believe him to speak the truth. As you love yourself and your father, Hypatia, stir not out to-day." He bribed the maid to take the message up-stairs; and passed his time in the hall in warning the servants. But they would not believe him. It was true the shops were shut in some quarters, and the Museum gardens empty; people were a little frightened after yesterday. But Cyril, they had heard for certain, had threatened excommunication only last night to any Christian who broke the peace; and there had not been a monk to be seen in the streets the whole morning. And as for any harm happening to their mistress--impossible! "The very wild beasts would not tear her," said the huge negro porter, "if she were thrown into the amphitheater." Whereat the maid boxed his ears for talking of such a thing: and then, by way of mending it, declared that she knew for certain that her mistress could turn aside the lightning and call legions of spirits to fight for her with a nod.... What was to be done with such idolaters. And yet who could help liking them the better for it? At last the answer came down, in the old, graceful, studied, self-conscious handwriting: "I dread nothing. They will not dare. Did they dare now, they would have dared long ago. As for that youth--to obey or to believe his word, even to seem aware of his existence, were shame to me henceforth. Because he is insolent enough to warn me, therefore I will go. Fear not for me. You would not wish me, for the first time in my life, to fear for myself. I must follow my destiny. I must speak the words which I have to speak. Above all, I must let no Christian say that the philosopher dared less than the fanatic. If my gods are gods, then will they protect me; and if not, let your God prove His rule as seems to Him good." Raphael tore the letter to fragments.... The guards, at least, were not gone mad like the rest of the world. It wanted half an hour of the time for her lecture. In the interval he might summon force enough to crush all Alexandria. And turning suddenly, he darted out of the room and out of the house. "Stay here and stop her! Make a last appeal," cried he to Philammon, with a gesture of grief. "Drag the horses' heads down, if you can! I will be back in ten minutes." And he ran off for the nearest gate of the Museum gardens. On the other side of the gardens lay the courtyard of the palace. There were gates in plenty communicating between them. If he could but see Orestes, even alarm the guard in time!... And he hurried through the walks and alcoves, now deserted by the fearful citizens, to the nearest gate. It was fast and barricaded firmly on the outside. Terrified, he ran on to the next; it was barred also. He saw the reason in a moment, and maddened as he saw it. The guards, careless about the Museum, or reasonably fearing no danger from the Alexandrian populace to the glory and wonder of their city, or perhaps wishing wisely enough to concentrate their forces in the narrowest space, had contented themselves with cutting off all communication with the gardens. At all events, the doors leading from the Museum itself might be open. He knew them, every one. He found an entrance, hurried through well-known corridors to a postern through which he and Orestes had lounged a hundred times. It was fast. He beat upon it; but no one answered. He rushed on and tried another. No one answered there. Another--still silence and despair!... He rushed up-stairs, hoping that from a window above he might be able to call the guard. The prudent soldiers had locked and barricaded the entrances to the upper floors of the whole right wing, lest the palace court should be commanded from thence. Whither now? Back--and whither then? And his breath failed him, his throat was parched, his face burned as with the simoon wind, his legs were trembling under him. His presence of mind, usually so perfect, failed him utterly. He was baffled, netted. His brain, for the first time in his life, began to reel. He could recollect nothing but that something dreadful was to happen--and that he had to prevent it, and could not.... Where was he now? In a little by-chamber. What was that roar below?... A sea of weltering heads, thousands on thousands down into the very beach; and from their innumerable throats one mighty war-cry--"God, and the Mother of God!" Cyril's hounds were loose.... He reeled from the window, and darted frantically away again ... whither, he knew not, and never knew until his dying day. Philammon saw Raphael rush across the streets into the Museum gardens. His last words had been a command to stay where he was, and the boy obeyed him, quietly ensconced himself behind a buttress, and sat coiled up on the pavement ready for a desperate spring. There Philammmon waited a full half-hour. It seemed to him hours, day, years. And yet Raphael did not return; and yet no guards appeared. What meant that black knot of men some two hundred yards off, hanging about the mouth of the side street, just opposite the door which led to her lecture-room? He moved to watch them; they had vanished. He lay down again and waited.... There they were again. It was a suspicious post. That street ran along the back of the Cæsareum, a favorite haunt of monks, communicating by innumerable entries and back buildings with the great church itself.... He knew that something terrible was at hand. More than once he looked out from his hiding place--the knot of men were still there; ... it seemed to have increased, to draw nearer. If they found him, what would they not suspect? What did he care? He would die for her if it came to that--not that it would come to that; but still he must speak to her--he must warn her. At last, a curricle, glittering with silver, rattled round the corner and stopped opposite him. She must be coming now. The crowd had vanished. Perhaps it was, after all, a fancy of his own. No; there they were, peeping round the corner, close to the lecture-room--the hell-hounds! A slave brought out an embroidered cushion, and then Hypatia herself came forth, looking more glorious than ever; her lips set in a sad, firm smile; her eyes uplifted, inquiring, eager, and yet gentle, dimmed by some great inward awe, as if her soul were far away aloft, and face to face with God. In a moment he sprang up to her, caught her robe convulsively, threw himself on his knees before her. "Stop! Stay! You are going to destruction!" Calmly she looked down upon him. "Accomplice of witches! Would you make of Theon's daughter a traitor like yourself?" He sprang up, stepped back, and stood stupefied with shame and despair.... She believed him guilty then!... It was the will of God! The plumes of the horses were waving far down the street before he recovered himself, and rushed after her, shouting he knew not what. It was too late! A dark wave of men rushed from the ambuscade, surged up round the car, ... swept forward.... She had disappeared, and, as Philammon followed breathless, the horses galloped past him madly homeward with the empty carriage. Whither were they dragging her? To the Cæsareum, the church of God Himself? Impossible! Why thither of all places of the earth? Why did the mob, increasing momentarily by hundreds, pour down upon the beach, and return brandishing flints, shells, fragments of pottery? She was upon the church steps before he caught them up, invisible among the crowd; but he could track her by the fragments of her dress. Where were her gay pupils now? Alas! they had barricaded themselves shamefully in the Museum at the first rush which swept her from the door of the lecture-room. Cowards! He would save her. And he struggled in vain to pierce the dense mass of parabolani and monks, who, mingled with the fish-wives and dock workers, leaped and yelled around their victim. But what he could not do another and a weaker did--even the little porter. Furiously--no one knew how or whence--he burst up, as if from the ground in the thickest of the crowd, with knife, teeth and nails, like a venomous wild-cat, tearing his way toward his idol. Alas! he was torn down himself, rolled over the steps, and lay there half dead in an agony of weeping, as Philammon sprang up past him into the church. Yes! On into the church itself! Into the cool, dim shadow, with its fretted pillars, and lowering domes, and candles, and incense, and blazing altar, and great pictures looking down from the walls athwart the gorgeous gloom. And right in front, above the altar, the colossal Christ, watching unmoved from off the wall, his right hand raised to give a blessing--or a curse! On, up the nave, fresh shreds of her dress strewing the holy pavement--up the chancel steps themselves--up to the altar--right underneath the great, still Christ; and there even those hell-hounds paused.... She shook herself free from her tormentors, and, springing back, rose for one moment to her full height, naked, snow-white against the dusky mass around--shame and indignation in those wide, clear eyes, but not a stain of fear. With one hand she clasped her golden locks around her, the other long, white arm was stretched upward toward the great, still Christ, appealing--and who dare say, in vain?--from man to God. Her lips were opened to speak; but the words that should have come from them reached God's ear alone; for in an instant Peter struck her down, the dark mass closed over her again, ... and then wail on wail, long, wild, ear-piercing, rang along the vaulted roofs, and thrilled like the trumpet of avenging angels through Philammon's ears. Crushed against a pillar, unable to move in the dense mass, he pressed his hands over his ears. He could not shut out those shrieks! When would they end? What in the name of the God of mercy were they doing? Tearing her piecemeal? Yes, and worse than that. And still the shrieks rang on, and still the great Christ looked down on Philammon with that calm, intolerable eye, and would not turn away. And over his head was written in the rainbow, "I am the same, yesterday, to-day, and forever!" The same as he was in Judæa of old, Philammon? Then what are these, and in whose temple? And he covered his face with his hands and longed to die. It was over. The shrieks had died away into moans; the moans to silence. "Death Stands Above Me." Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear; Of this strange language all I know Is, there is not a word of fear. --_Walter Savage Landor_. The Tournament BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. (_Arranged by Maude Herndon._) [The scene from Ivanhoe is of the description of the grand tournament, held by Prince John Lockland, at Ashby, in which Robin Hood, under the disguise of Locksley, wins the prize for his skill in archery.] The sound of the trumpets soon recalled those spectators who had already begun to leave the field; and proclamation was made that Prince John, suddenly called by high and peremptory public duties, held himself obliged to discontinue the entertainments of the morrow's festival. Nevertheless, that, unwilling so many good yeomen should depart without a trial of skill, he was pleased to appoint them, before leaving the ground, to execute the competition of archery intended for the morrow. To the best archer a prize was to be awarded, being a bugle-horn, mounted with silver, and a silken baldric richly ornamented with a medallion of St. Hubert, the patron of sylvan sport. More than thirty yeomen at first presented themselves as competitors, but when the archers understood with whom they were to be matched, upwards to twenty withdrew themselves from the contest, unwilling to encounter the dishonor of almost certain defeat. The diminished list of competitors for sylvan fame still amounted to eight. Prince John stepped from his royal seat to view the persons of these chosen yeomen. He looked for the object of his resentment, whom he observed standing on the same spot, and with the same composed countenance which he had exhibited upon the preceding day. "Fellow," said Prince John, "I guessed by thy insolent babble thou wert no true lover of the long-bow, and I see thou darest not adventure thy skill among such merry-men as stand yonder." "Under favor, sir," replied the yeomen, "I have another reason for refraining to shoot, besides the fearing discomfiture and disgrace." "And what is thy other reason?" said Prince John. "Because I know not if these yeomen and I are used to shoot at the same marks; and because, moreover, I know not how your Grace might relish the winning of a third prize by one who has unwillingly fallen under your displeasure." "What is thy name, yeoman?" "Locksley," answered the yeoman. "Then Locksley," said Prince John, "thou shalt shoot in thy turn, when these yeomen have displayed their skill. If thou carriest the prize, I will add to it twenty nobles; but if thou losest it, thou shalt be stript of thy Lincoln green, and scourged out of the lists with bowstrings, for a wordy and insolent braggart, and if thou refusest my fair proffer, the Provost of the lists shall cut thy bowstring, break thy bow and arrows, and expel thee from the presence as a faint-hearted craven." "This is no fair chance you put on me, proud Prince, to compel me to peril myself against the best archers of Leicester and Staffordshire, under the penalty of infamy if they should overshoot me. Nevertheless, I will obey your pleasure." A target was placed at the upper end of the southern avenue which led to the lists. The contending archers took their station in turn, at the bottom of the southern access; the distance between that station and the mark allowing full distance for what was called a shot at rovers. The archers, having previously determined by lot their order of precedence, were to shoot each three shafts in succession. One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their shafts yeomanlike and bravely. Of twenty-four arrows, shot in succession, ten were fixed in the target, and the others ranged so near it, that, considering the distance of the mark, it was accounted good archery. Of the ten shafts which hit the target, two within the inner ring were shot by Hubert. "Now, Locksley," said Prince John, "wilt thou try conclusions with Hubert, or wilt thou yield up bow, baldric, and quiver, to the Provost of the sports?" "Sith it be no better, I am content to try my fortune; on condition that when I have shot two shafts at yonder mark of Hubert's, he shall be bound to shoot one at that which I propose." "That is but fair," answered Prince John, "and it shall not be refused thee. If thou beat this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle with silver pennies for thee." The former target was now removed, and a fresh one of the same size placed in its room. Hubert took his aim with great deliberation, long measuring the distance with his eye, while he held in his hand his bended bow, with the arrow placed on the string. At length he made a step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm, till the centre or grasping place was nigh level with his face, he drew his bow-string to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the centre. "You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert, or that had been a better shot." So saying, Locksley stept to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He was speaking almost at the instant that the shaft left the bow-string, yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white spot which marked the centre, than that of Hubert. "By the light of heaven!" said Prince John to Hubert, "and thou suffer that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!" "Shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be the worse for thee!" Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and not neglecting the caution which he had received from his adversary, he made the necessary allowance for a very light air of wind, which had just arisen, and shot so successfully that his arrow alighted in the very centre of the target. "A Hubert! a Hubert!" shouted the populace, more interested in a known person than in a stranger. "Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley," said the Prince with an insulting smile. "I will notch his shaft for him, however," replied Locksley. And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers. "This must be the devil, and no man of flesh and blood," whispered the yeomen to each other; "such archery was never seen since a bow was first bent in Britain." "And now," said Locksley, "I will crave your Grace's permission to plant such a mark as is used in the North Country; and welcome every brave yeoman who shall try a shot at it to win a smile from the bonny lass he loves best." He then turned to leave the lists, but returned almost instantly with a willow wand about six feet in length, perfectly straight, and rather thicker than a man's thumb. He began to peel this with great composure, observing at the same time that to ask a good woodsman to shoot at a target so broad as had hitherto been used, was to put shame upon his skill. "A child of seven years old might hit yonder target with a headless shaft, but," added he, walking deliberately to the other end of the lists, and, sticking the willow wand upright in the ground, "he that hits that rod five-score yards, I call him an archer fit to bear both bow and quiver before a king, and it were the stout King Richard himself." "My grandsire," said Hubert, "drew a good bow at the battle of Hastings, and never shot at such a mark in his life--and neither will I. I might as well shoot at the edge of our parson's whittle, or at a wheat straw, or at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I can hardly see." "Cowardly dog!" said Prince John. "Sirrah Locksley, do thou shoot; but, if thou hittest such a mark, I will say thou art the first man ever did so. Howe'er it be, thou shalt not crow over us with a mere show of superior skill." "I will do my best, no man can do more." So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the present occasion looked with attention to his weapon, and changed the string, which he thought was no longer truly round, having been a little frayed by the two former shots. He then took his aim with some deliberation, and the multitude awaited the event in breathless silence. The archer vindicated their opinion of his skill; his arrow split the willow rod against which it was aimed. A jubilee of acclamations followed; and even Prince John, in admiration of Locksley's skill, lost for an instant his dislike to his person. "These twenty nobles," he said, "which, with the bugle, thou hast fairly won, are thine own; we will make them fifty, if thou wilt take livery and service with us as a yeoman of our body guard, and be near to our person. For never did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so true an eye direct a shaft." "Pardon me, noble Prince," said Locksley, "but I have vowed, that if ever I take service, it should be with your royal brother, King Richard. These twenty nobles I leave to Hubert, who has this day drawn as brave a bow as his grandsire did at Hastings. Had his modesty not refused the trial, he would have hit the wand as well as I." Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance the bounty of the stranger; and Locksley, anxious to escape further observation, mixed with the crowd, and was seen no more. A Plea for the Old Year[F] BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. I see the smiling New Year climb the heights-- The clouds, his heralds, turn the sky to rose, And flush the whiteness of the winter snows, Till Earth is glad with Life and Life's delight. The weary Old Year died when died the night, And this newcomer, proud with triumph, shows His radiant face, and each glad subject knows The welcome monarch, born to rule aright. Yet there are graves far off that no man tends, Where lie the vanished loves and hopes and fears, The dreams that grew to be our hearts' best friends, The smiles, and, dearer than the smiles, the tears-- These were that Old Year's gifts, whom none defends, Now his strong Conqueror, the New, appears. [F] Copyright, 1899, by Little, Brown & Co. (Reprinted by permission.) Fagin's Last Day (From Oliver Twist.) BY CHARLES DICKENS. [It will be remembered that Fagin was leader of a band of thieves, and that little Oliver Twist had once been held in the Jew's school for educating criminals. Through the influence of Mr. Brownlow and some friends the kidnapped boy was rescued and the Jew brought to justice.] He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for a seat and bedstead, and casting his bloodshot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect his thoughts. After a while he began to remember a few disjointed fragments of what the judge had said, though it had seemed to him, at the time, that he could not hear a word. These gradually fell into their proper places, and by degrees suggested more; so that in a little time he had the whole almost as it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead--that was the end--to be hanged by the neck till he was dead! As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold, some of them through his means. They rose up in such quick succession that he could hardly count them. He had seen some of them die--and had joked, too, because they died with prayers upon their lips. With what a rattling noise the drop went down, and how suddenly they changed, from strong and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes! Some of them might have inhabited that very cell--sat upon that very spot. It was very dark; why didn't they bring a light? The cell had been built for many years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies--the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil. Light, light! At length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door and walls, two men appeared--one bearing a candle, which he thrust into an iron candlestick fixed against the wall; the other dragging in a mattress on which to pass the night, for the prisoner was to be left alone no more. Then came night--dark, dismal, silent night. Other watchers are glad to hear the church clock strike, for they tell of life and coming day. To the Jew they brought despair. The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one, deep, hollow sound--death! What availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning which penetrated even there to him? It was another form of knell, with mockery added to the warning. The day passed off. Day? There was no day. It was gone as soon as come; and night came on again--night so long, and yet so short; long in its dreadful silence, and short in its fleeting hours. At one time he raved and blasphemed, and at another howled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasion had come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away with curses. They renewed their charitable efforts, and he beat them off. Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And as he thought of this the day broke--Sunday. It was not until the night of this last awful day that a withering sense of his helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon his blighted soul; not that he had ever held any defined or positive hope of mercy, but that he had never been able to consider more than the dim probability of dying so soon. He had spoken little to either two men, who relieved each other in their attendance upon him; and they, for their parts, made no effort to rouse his attention. He had sat there awake, but dreaming. Now, he started up every minute, and with gasping mouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro in such a paroxysm of fear and wrath that even they--used to such sights--recoiled from him with horror. He grew so terrible, at last, in all the tortures of his evil conscience, that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeing him alone, and so the two kept watch together. He cowed down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had been wounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his capture, and his head was bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon his bloodless face; his beard was torn, and twisted into knots; his eyes shone with a terrible light; his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt him up. Eight--nine--ten. If it was not a trick to frighten him, and those were the real hours treading on each other's heels, where would he be, when they came round again? Eleven! Another struck, before the voice of the previous hour had ceased to vibrate. At eight he would be the only mourner in his own funeral train; at eleven-- Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and such unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often and too long, from the thoughts of men, never held so dread a spectacle as that. The few who lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing who was to be hung to-morrow, would have slept but ill that night if they could have seen him. From early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two and three presented themselves at the lodge-gate and inquired, with anxious faces, whether any reprieve had been received. These being answered in the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to clusters in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and showed where the scaffold would be built, and walking with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By degrees they fell off, one by one; and, for an hour in the dead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness. The space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers, painted black, had been already thrown across the road to break the pressure of the expected crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an order of admission to the prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs. They were immediately admitted into the lodge. The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision. "Good boy, Charley--well done," he mumbled; "Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver, too--quite the gentleman now--quite the--take that boy away to bed!" The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver, and whispering him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking. "Take him away to bed!" cried the Jew. "Do you hear me, some of you? He has been the--the--somehow the cause of all this. It's worth the money to bring him up to it--Bolter's throat, Bill; never mind the girl--Bolter's throat, as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off!" "Fagin," said the jailer. "That's me!" cried the Jew, falling instantly into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. "An old man, my lord; a very old, old man!" "Here," said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down--"here's somebody wants to see you--to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?" "I shan't be one long," replied the Jew, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. "Strike them all dead! what right have they to butcher me?" As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the farthest corner of the seat he demanded to know what they wanted there. "Steady," said the turnkey, still holding him down. "Now, sir, tell him what you want--quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on." "You have some papers," said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, "which were placed in your hands for better security by a man called Monks." "It's all a lie together," replied the Jew. "I haven't one--not one." "For the love of God," said Mr. Brownlow, solemnly, "do not say that now, upon the very verge of death, but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead, that Monks has confessed, that there is no hope of any further gain. Where are those papers?" "Oliver," cried the Jew, beckoning to him. "Here, here! Let me whisper to you." "I am not afraid," said Oliver, in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow's hand. "The papers," said the Jew, drawing him towards him, "are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front room. I want to talk to you, my dear; I want to talk to you." "Yes, yes," returned Oliver. "Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer--say only one, upon your knees with me, and we will talk till morning." "Outside, outside," replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. "Say I've gone to sleep--they'll believe _you_. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!" "Oh! God forgive this wretched man!" cried the boy, with a burst of tears. "That's right, that's right," said the Jew; "that'll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble as we pass the gallows, don't you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!" "Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?" inquired the turnkey. "No other question," replied Mr. Brownlow. "If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position--" "Nothing will do that, sir," replied the man, shaking his head. "You had better leave him." The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned. "Press on, press on," cried the Jew. "Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!" The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the power of desperation for an instant, and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls, and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard. A Caution to Poets. What poets feel not, when they make A pleasure in creating, The world, in its turn, will not take Pleasure in contemplating. --_Matthew Arnold_. Apollo Belvedere[G] _A Christmas Episode of the Plantation._ BY RUTH McENERY STUART. [In the same volume which contains this story there are many others that lend themselves to recitation. "Moriah's Mourning" is one of the best pieces of humor which Mrs. Stuart has written; "Christmas at the Trimbles" has proven itself a never-failing success, and "The Second Mrs. Slimm" is an excellent reading.] He was a little yellow man, with a quizzical face and sloping shoulders, and when he gave his full name, with somewhat of a flourish, as if it might hold compensations for physical shortcomings, one could hardly help smiling. And yet there was a pathos in the caricature that dissipated the smile half-way. "Yas, I'm named 'Pollo Belvedere, an' my marster gi'e me dat intitlemint on account o' my shape," he would say, with a strut, as if he were bantered. As Apollo would have told you himself, the fact that he had never married was not because he couldn't get anybody to have him, but simply that he hadn't himself been suited. Lily Washington was a beauty in her own right, and she was the belle of the plantation. She was an emotional creature, with a caustic tongue on occasion, and when it pleased her mood to look over her shoulder at one of her numerous admirers and to wither him with a look or a word, she did not hesitate to do it. For instance, when Apollo first asked her to marry him--it had been his habit to propose to her every day or so for a year or two past--she glanced at him askance from head to foot, and then she said: "Why, yas. Dat is, I s'pose, of co'se, you's de sample. I'd order a full-size by you in a minute." This was cruel, and seeing the pathetic look come into his face, she instantly repented of it, and walked home from church with him, dismissing a handsome black fellow, and saying only kind things to Apollo all the way. Of course no one took Apollo seriously as Lily's suitor, much less the chocolate maid herself. But there were other lovers. Indeed, there were all the others, for that matter, but in point of eligibility the number to be seriously regarded was reduced to about two. These were Pete Peters, a handsome griff, with just enough Indian blood to give him an air of distinction, and a French-talking mulatto, who had come up from New Orleans to repair the machinery in the sugar-house, and who was buying land in the vicinity, and drove his own sulky. Pete was less prosperous than he, but, although he worked his land on shares, he owned two mules and a saddle horse, and would be allowed to enter on a purchase of land whenever he should choose to do so. Although Pete and the New Orleans fellow, whose name was also Peter, but who was called Pierre, met constantly in a friendly enough way, they did not love each other. They both loved Lily too much for that. But they laughed good-naturedly together at Apollo and his "case," which they inquired after politely, as if it were a member of his family. "Well, 'Pollo, how's yo' case on Miss Lily comin' on?" either one would say, with a wink at the other, and Apollo would artlessly report the state of the heavens with relation to his particular star, as when he once replied to this identical question: "Well, Miss Lily was mighty obstropulous 'istiddy, but she is mo' cancelized dis mornin'." It was Pete who had asked the question, and he laughed aloud at the answer. "Mo' cancelized dis mornin', is she?" he replied. "How do you know she is?" "'Caze she lemme tote her hoe all de way up f'rom de field," answered the ingenuous Apollo. "She did, did she? An' who was walkin' by her side all dat time, I like to know?" Apollo winced a little at this, but he answered, bravely, "I don't kyah ef Pier was walkin' wid her; I was totin' her hoe, all de samee." The Christmas-eve dance in the sugar-house had been for years an annual function on the plantation. At this, since her debut, at fourteen, three Christmases before, Lily had held undisputed sway, and all her former belles amiably accepted their places as lesser lights. Lily was perfectly ravishing in her splendor at the dance this year. The white Swiss frock she wore was high in the neck, but her brown shoulders and arms shone through the thin fabric with fine effect. About her slim waist she tied a narrow ribbon of blue, and she carried a pink feather fan, and the wreath about her forehead was of lilies-of-the-valley. She had done a day's scouring for them, and they had come out of the summer hat of one of the white ladies on the coast. This insured their quality, and no doubt contributed somewhat to the quiet serenity with which she bore herself as, with her little head held like that of the Venus of Milo, she danced down the center of the room, holding her flounces in either hand, and kicking the floor until she kicked both her slippers to pieces, when she finished the figure in her stocking feet. She had a relay of slippers ready, and there was a scramble as to who should put them on; but she settled that question by making 'Pollo rise, with his fiddle in his arms, and lend her his chair for a minute while she pulled them on herself. Then she let Pete and Pierre each have one of the discarded slippers as a trophy. Lily had always danced out several pairs of slippers at the Christmas dance, but she never achieved her stocking feet in the first round until now, and she was in high glee over it. If she had been admired before, she was looked upon as a raving, tearing, beauty to-night, and so she was. Fortunately 'Pollo had his fiddling to do, and this saved him from any conspicuous folly. But he kept his eyes on her, and when she grew too ravishingly lovely to his fond vision, and he couldn't stand it a minute longer in silence, he turned to the man next him, who played the bones, and remarked, "Ef--ef anybody but Gord A'mighty had a-made anything as purty as Miss Lily, dey'd 'a' stinted it somewhar," and, watching every turn, he lent his bow to her varying moods while she tired out one dancer after another. It was the New Orleans fellow who first lost his head utterly. He had danced with her but three times, but, while she took another's hand and whizzed through the figures, he scarcely took his eyes from her, and when, at about midnight, he succeeded in getting her apart for a promenade, he poured forth his soul to her in the picturesque English of the quadroon quarter of New Orleans. "An' now, to proof to you my lorv, Ma'm'selle Leelee"--he gesticulated vigorously as he spoke--"I am geeving you wan beau-u-tiful Christmas present--I am goin' to geev you--w'at you t'ink? My borgee!" With this he turned dramatically and faced her. They were standing now under the shed outside the door in the moonlight, and, although they did not see him, Apollo stood within hearing, behind a pile of molasses barrels, where he had come "to cool off." Lily had several times been "buggy-ridin'" with Pierre in this same "borgee," and it was a very magnificent affair in her eyes. When he told her that it was to be hers she gasped. Such presents were unknown on the plantation. But Lily was a "mannerly" member of good society, if her circle was small, and she was not to be taken back by any compliment a man should pay her. She simply fanned herself, a little flurriedly perhaps, with her feather fan, as she said: "You sho' must be jokin', Mr. Pier. You cert'n'y must." But Mr. Pierre was not joking. He was never more in earnest in his life, and he told her so, and there is no telling what else he would have told her but for the fact that Mr. Pete Peters happened to come out to the shed to cool off about this time, and as he almost brushed her shoulder, it was as little as Lily could do to address a remark to him, and then, of course, he stopped and chatted awhile; and, after what appeared a reasonable interval, long enough for it not to seem that she was too much elated over it, she remarked, "An', by-de-way, Mr. Peters, I must tell you what a lovely Christmas gif' I have just received by de hand of Mr. Pier. He has jest presented me with his yaller-wheeled buggy, an' I sho' is proud of it." Then, turning to Pierre, she added, "You sho' is a mighty generous gen'leman, Mr. Pier--you cert'n'y is." Peters give Lily one startled look, but he instantly realized, from her ingenuous manner, that there was nothing back of the gift of the buggy--that is, it had been, so far as she was concerned, simply a Christmas present. Pierre had not offered himself with the gift. And if this were so, well--he reckoned he could match him. He reached forward and took Lily's fan from her hand. He hastened to do this to keep Pierre from taking it. Then, while he fanned her, he said, "Is dat so, Miss Lily, dat Mr. Pier is give you a buggy? Dat sholy is a fine Christmas gif'--it sho' is. An' sense you fin' yo'se'f possessed of a buggy, I trust you will allow me de pleasure of presentin' you wid a horse to drive in de buggy." He made a graceful bow as he spoke, a bow that would have done credit to the man from New Orleans. It was so well done, indeed, that Lily unconsciously bowed in return, as she said, with a look that savored a little of roguishness: "Oh, hursh, Mr. Peters! You des a-guyin' me--dat what you doin'." "Guyin' nothin'," said Peters, grinning broadly as he noted the expression of Pierre's face. "Ef you'll jes do me de honor to accep' of my horse, Miss Lily, I'll be de proudest gen'leman on dis plantation." At this she chuckled, and took her fan in her own hand. And then she turned to Pierre. "You sho' has set de style o' mighty expensive Christmas gif's on dis plantation, Mr. Pier--you cert'n'y has. An' I wants to thank you bofe mos' kindly--I cert'n'y does." Having heard this much, 'Pollo thought it time to come from his hiding, and he strolled leisurely out in the other direction first, but soon returned this way. And then he stopped, and, reaching over, took the feather fan--and for a few moments he had his innings. Then some one else came along and the conversation became impersonal, and one by one they all dropped off--all except 'Pollo. When the rest had gone, he and Lily found seats on the cane carrier, and they talked a while, and when a little later supper was announced, it was the proud fiddler who took her in, while Pierre and Peters stood off and politely glared at each other; and after a while Pierre must have said something, for Peters suddenly sprang at him and tumbled him out the door and rolled him over in the dirt, and they had to be separated. But presently they laughed and shook hands, and Pierre offered Pete a cigarette, and Pete took it, and gave Pierre a light--and it was all over. It was next day--Christmas morning--and the young people were standing about in groups under the China-trees in the campus, when Apollo joined them, looking unusually chipper and beaming. He was dressed in his best--Prince Albert, beaver, and all--and he sported a bright silk handkerchief tied loosely about his neck. He was altogether a delightful figure, absolutely content with himself, and apparently at peace with the world. No sooner had he joined the crowd than the fellows began chaffing him, as usual, and presently some one mentioned Lily's name and spoke of her presents. The two men who had broken the record for generosity in the history of plantation lovers were looked upon as nabobs by those of lesser means. Of course everybody knew the city fellow had started it, and they were glad that Peters had come to time and saved the dignity of the place; indeed, he was about the only one on the plantation who could have done it. As they stood talking it over, the two heroes had nothing to say, of course, and 'Pollo began rolling a cigarette--an art he had learned from the man from New Orleans. Finally, he remarked, "Yas, Miss Lily got sev'al mighty nice presents last night." At this Pierre turned, laughing, and said, "I s'pose you geeve 'er somet'ing, too, eh?" "Pity you hadn't a-give her dat silk hank'cher. Hit 'd become her a heap better'n it becomes you," Peters said, laughing. "Yas, I reckon it would," said 'Pollo; "but de fact is she gi' me dis hank'cher--an' of co'se I accepted it." "But why ain't you tellin' us what you give her?" insisted Peters. 'Pollo put the cigarette to his lips, deliberately lit it, puffed several times, and then, removing it in a leisurely way, he drawled: "Well, de fact is, I heerd Mr. Pier here give her a buggy, an'--Mr. Peters, he up an' handed over a horse,--an' so, quick as I got a chance, I des balanced my ekalub'ium an' went an' set down beside her an' ast her ef she wouldn't do me the honor to accep' of a driver, an'--an' she say yas. "You know I'm a coachman by trade. "An dat's huccome I to say she got sev'al presents las' night." And he took another puff of his cigarette. [G] From "Moriah's Mourning." Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothers. An Invalid in Lodgings BY J. M. BARRIE. Until my system collapsed, my landlady only spoke of me as her parlor. At intervals I had communicated with her through the medium of Sarah Ann, the servant, and, as her rent was due on Wednesday, could I pay my bill now? Except for these monetary transactions, my landlady and I were total strangers, and, though I sometimes fell over her children in the lobby, that led to no intimacy. Even Sarah Ann never opened her mouth to me. She brought in my tea, and left me to discover that it was there. My first day in lodgings I said "Good-morning" to Sarah Ann, and she replied, "Eh?" "Good-morning," I repeated, to which she answered contemptuously, "Oh, ay." For six months I was simply the parlor; but then I fell ill, and at once became an interesting person. Sarah Ann found me shivering on the sofa one hot day a week or more ago, beneath my rug, two coats, and some other articles. My landlady sent up some beef-tea, in which she has a faith that is pathetic, and then, to complete the cure, she appeared in person. She has proved a nice, motherly old lady, but not cheerful company. "Where do you feel it worst, sir?" she asked. I said it was bad all over, but worst in my head. "On your brow?" "No; on the back of my head." "It feels like a lump of lead?" "No; like a furnace." "That's just what I feared," she said. "It began so with him." "With whom?" "My husband. He came in one day, five years ago, complaining of his head, and in three days he was a corpse." "What?" "Don't be afraid, sir. Maybe it isn't the same thing." "Of course it isn't. Your husband, according to the story you told me when I took these rooms, died of fever." "Yes, but the fever began just in this way. It carried him off in no time. You had better see a doctor, sir. Doctor was no use in my husband's case, but it is satisfaction to have him." Here Sarah Ann, who had been listening with mouth and eyes open, suddenly burst into tears, and was led out of the room, exclaiming, "Him such a quiet gentleman, and he never flung nothing at me." Though I knew that I had only caught a nasty cold, a conviction in which the doctor confirmed me, my landlady stood out for its being just such another case as her husband's, and regaled me for hours with reminiscences of his rapid decline. If I was a little better one day, alas! he had been a little better the day before he died; and if I answered her peevishly, she told Sarah Ann that my voice was going. She brought the beef-tea up with her own hands, her countenance saying that I might as well have it, though it could not save me. Sometimes I pushed it away untasted (how I loathe beef-tea now!), when she whispered something to Sarah Ann that sent that tender-hearted maid howling once more from the room. "He's supped it all," Sarah Ann said one day, brightening. "That's a worse sign," said her mistress, "than if he hadn't took none." I lay on a sofa, pulled close to the fire, and when the doctor came, my landlady was always at his heels, Sarah Ann's dismal face showing at the door. The doctor is a personal friend of my own, and each day he said I was improving a little. "Ah, doctor!" my landlady said, reprovingly. "He does it for the best," she exclaimed to me, "but I don't hold with doctors as deceive their patients. Why don't he speak out the truth like a man? My husband were told the worst, and so he had time to reconcile himself." On one of these occasions I summoned up sufficient energy to send her out of the room; but that only made matters worse. "Poor gentleman!" I heard her say to Sarah Ann; "he is very violent to-day. I saw he were worse the moment I clapped eyes on him. Sarah Ann, I shouldn't wonder though we had to hold him down yet." About an hour afterwards she came in to ask me if I "had come more round to myself," and when I merely turned round on the sofa for reply, she said, in a loud whisper to Sarah Ann, that I "were as quiet as a lamb now." Then she stroked me and went away. So attentive was my landlady that she was a ministering angel. Yet I lay on that sofa plotting how to get her out of the room. The plan that seemed the simplest was to pretend sleep, but it was not easily carried out. Not getting any answer from me, she would approach on tiptoe and lean over the sofa, listening to hear me breathe. Convinced that I was still living, she and Sarah Ann began a conversation in whispers, of which I or the deceased husband was the subject. The husband had slept a good deal, too, and it wasn't a healthy sign. "It isn't a good sign," whispered my landlady, "though them as know no better might think it is. It shows he's getting weaker. When they takes to sleeping in the day-time, it's only because they don't have the strength to keep awake." "Oh, missus!" Sarah Ann would say. "Better face facts, Sarah Ann," replied my landlady. In the end I had generally to sit up and confess that I heard what they were saying. My landlady evidently thought this another bad sign. I discovered that my landlady held receptions in another room, where visitors came who referred to me as her "trial." When she thought me distinctly worse, she put on her bonnet and went out to disseminate the sad news. It was on one of these occasions that Sarah Ann, who had been left in charge of the children, came to me with a serious request. "Them children," she said, "want awful to see you, and I sort of promised to bring 'em in, if so you didn't mind." "But, Sarah Ann, they have seen me often, and, though I'm a good deal better, I don't feel equal to speaking to them." Sarah Ann smiled pityingly when I said I felt better, but she assured me the children only wanted to look at me. I refused her petition, but, on my ultimatum being announced to them, they set up such a roar that, to quiet them, I called them in. They came one at a time. Sophia, the eldest, came first. She looked at me very solemnly, and then said bravely that If I liked she would kiss me. As she had a piece of flannel tied round her face, and was swollen in the left cheek, I declined this honor, and she went off much relieved. Next came Tommy, who sent up a shriek as his eyes fell on me, and had to be carried off by Sarah Ann. Johnny was bolder and franker, but addressed all his remarks to Sarah Ann. First, he wanted to know if he could touch me, and, being told he could, he felt my face all over. Then, he wanted to see the "spouter." The "spouter" was a spray through which Sarah Ann blew coolness on my head, and Johnny had heard of it with interest. He refused to leave the room until he had been permitted to saturate me and my cushion. I am so much better now that even my landlady knows I am not dying. I suppose she is glad that it is so, but at the same time she resents it. There is an impression in the house that I am a fraud. They call me by my name as yet, but soon again I shall be the parlor. The Stirrup-Cup BY SIDNEY LANIER. Death, thou'rt a cordial old and rare: Look how compounded, with what care! Time got his wrinkles reaping thee Sweet herbs from all antiquity. David to thy distillage went, Keats, and Gotama excellent, Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright, And Shakespeare for a king-delight. Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt; Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt; 'Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me; I'll drink it down right smilingly. Das Krist Kindel.[H] BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night; And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my throne"-- The old split-bottomed rocker--and was musing all alone. I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door, And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor; But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a stream That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream. Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar, With the lamp-light gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star;-- And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh. And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair-- A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared, And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard. He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth, On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the hearth; And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb, I saw the fire place changing to a bright procenium. And looking there, I marveled as I saw a mimic stage Alive with little actors of a very tender age; And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked, And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when they talked. And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest dew, And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven through; And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tell Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable. And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with joy. Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy; And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstasy of glee, And bent, with dazzled faces, and with parted lips, to see. 'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double chin, And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom in; And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and reeds; As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds. And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her, That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh; And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the air Came drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer:-- _By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning o'er Galilee,-- We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee._ _Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and gone As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the dawn, And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us drawn, We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon._ _You have given us a shepherd, you have given us a guide, And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when you sent Him from your side,-- But He comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open wide To welcome His returning when His works are glorified._ _By the splendor in the Heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee,-- We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee._ Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain, Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty windowpane; And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel Who brings the world good tidings,--"It is Christmas--all is well!" [H] From "Afterwhiles." Copyright, 1898. By special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Hiram Foster's Thanksgiving Turkey BY S. E. KISER. [Of the many poems written when President McKinley was assassinated, none surpassed in sympathy and original conception the verses printed below.] See that turkey out there, mister? Ain't he big and fat and nice? Well, you couldn't buy that gobbler, not for any kind of price. Now, I'll tell you how it happened: 'Way along last spring, you know, This here turkey's mother hatched some twenty little ones or so-- Hatched 'em in the woods down yonder, and come marchin' home one day With them stringin' out behind 'er, catchin' bugs along the way. Well, my little grandson named 'em--both his folks are dead, you see, So he's come and gone to livin' with his grandma, here, and me. He give each a name to go by: one was Teddy, one was Schley, One was Sampson, one was Dewey, one was Bryan, too, but I Liked the one he called McKinley best of all the brood, somehow-- He was that there turkey yonder that's a gobblin' at you now. How them cunnin' little rascals grew and grew! Sometimes, I swear, It 'most seemed as though we seen 'em shootin' upward in the air. And McKinley was the leader and the best of all the lot, And you'd ought to seen the mother--proud of him?--I tell you what! So I says to ma and Charley--oh, three months ago at least-- That I guessed we'd keep McKinley for our own Thanksgivin' feast. Then we sold off all the others, keepin' only this one here, And I guess we won't have turkey for Thanksgivin' Day this year. Just the name we gave that gobbler makes him sacreder to me, After all the things that's happened, than I--well, somehow you see I was in his ridgement--so you'll please excuse me--I dunno-- I don't want to show my feelin's--sometimes folks can't help it, though. Hear 'im gobble now, and see him as he proudly struts away; Don't you s'pose he knows there's something in the name he bears to-day? See how all his feathers glisten--ain't he big and plump and nice? No, sir! No; you couldn't buy 'im, not for any kind of price. That there gobbler, there, that Charley gave the name McKinley to, He'll die natural--that's something turkeys mighty seldom do. The Winning of Lorna Doone (From Lorna Doone.) BY R. D. BLACKMORE. [The Doones were a band of aristocratic, but lawless, people living in the Doone Valley, from which they sallied forth to raid the neighboring farmers and travelers. John Ridd, who tells the story, while fishing one spring had followed a stream into the Doone estate. When the following scene opens he had just had a desperate struggle to save himself from the swift current of the stream, and had nearly lost his life.] When I came to myself again, my hands were full of young grass and mold, and a little girl, kneeling at my side, was rubbing my forehead tenderly with a dock-leaf and a handkerchief. "Oh, I am so glad!" she whispered, softly, as I opened my eyes and looked at her; "now you will try to be better, won't you?" I had never heard so sweet a sound as came from between her bright red lips, while there she knelt and gazed at me; neither had I ever seen anything so beautiful as the large, dark eyes intent upon me, full of pity and wonder. And then, my nature being slow, and perhaps, for that matter, heavy, I wandered with my hazy eyes down the black shower of her hair, as to my jaded gaze it seemed. Perhaps she liked my countenance, and indeed I know she did, because she said so afterward; although at that time she was too young to know what made her take to me. Thereupon I sat upright, with my little trident still in one hand, and was much afraid to speak to her, being conscious of my country brogue, lest she should cease to like me. But she clapped her hands, and made a trifling dance around my back, and came to me on the other side, as if I were a great play thing. "What is your name?" she said, as if she had every right to ask me; "and how did you come here, and what are these wet things in this great bag?" "You had better let them alone," I said; "they are loaches for my mother. But I will give you some, if you like." "Dear me, how much you think of them! Why, they are only fish. But how your feet are bleeding! Oh, I must tie them up for you. And no shoes nor stockings! Is your mother very poor, poor boy?" "No," I said, being vexed at this; "we are rich enough to buy all this great meadow, if we chose; and here my shoes and stockings be." "Why, they are quite as wet as your feet; and I cannot bear to see your feet. Oh, please to let me bandage them; I will do it very softly." "Oh, I don't think much of that," I replied; "I shall put some goose grease to them. But how you are looking at me! I never saw one like you before. My name is John Ridd. What is your name?" "Lorna Doone," she answered, in a low voice, as if afraid of it, and hanging her head so that I could see only her forehead and eyelashes; "if you please, my name is Lorna Doone, and I thought you must have known it." Young and harmless as she was, her name alone made guilt of her. Nevertheless, I could not help looking at her tenderly, and the more when her blushes turned into tears, and her tears to long, low sobs. "Don't cry," I said, "whatever you do. I am sure you have never done any harm. I will give you all my fish, Lorna, and catch some more for mother; only don't be angry with me." She flung her soft arms up in the passion of her tears, and looked at me so piteously that what did I do but kiss her. It seemed to be a very odd thing, when I came to think of it, because I hated kissing so, as all honest boys must do. But she touched my heart with a sudden delight. She gave me no encouragement, as my mother in her place would have done; nay, she even wiped her lips (which methought was rather rude of her), and drew away, and smoothed her dress, as if I had used a freedom. I, for my part, being vexed at her behavior to me, took up all my things to go, and made a fuss about it, to let her know I was going. But she did not call me back at all, as I had made sure she would do; moreover, I knew that to try the descent was almost certain death to me, and it looked as dark as pitch; and so at the mouth I turned round again, and came back to her, and said, "Lorna." "Oh, I thought you were gone," she answered; "why did you ever come here? Do you know what they would do to us if they found you here with me?" "Beat us, I dare say, very hard, or me at least. They could never beat you." "No. They would kill us both outright, and bury us here by the water; and the water often tells me that I must come to that." "But what should they kill me for?" "Because you have found the way up here, and they could never believe it. Now, please to go; oh please go. They will kill us both in a moment. Yes, I like you very much"--for I was teasing her to say it--"very much indeed, and I will call you John Ridd, if you like; only please to go, John. And when your feet are well, you know, you can come and tell me how they are." "But I tell you, Lorna, I like you very much indeed, nearly as much as Annie, and a great deal more than Lizzie. And I never saw any one like you; and I must come back again to-morrow, and so must you, to see me; and I will bring you such lots of things--there are apples still, and a thrush that I caught, with only one leg broken, and our dog has just had puppies--" "Oh dear! they won't let me have a dog. There is not a dog in the valley. They say that they are such noisy things--" "Only put your hands in mine--what little things they are, Lorna!--and I will bring you the loveliest dog; I will show you just how long he is." "Hush!" A shout came down the valley, and all my heart was trembling, like water after sunset, and Lorna's face was altered from pleasant play to terror. She shrunk to me, and looked up at me, with such a power of weakness, that I at once made up my mind to save her or die with her. A tingle went through all my bones, and I only longed for my carbine. The little girl took courage from me, and put her cheek quite close to mine. "Come with me down the water-fall. I can carry you easily, and mother will take care of you." "No, no," she cried, as I took her up; "I will tell you what to do. They are only looking for me. You see that hole, that hole there?" "Yes, I see it; but they will see me crossing the grass to get there." "Look, look!" She could hardly speak. "There is a way out from the top of it; they would kill me if I told it. Oh, here they come; I can see them." Then she began to sob aloud, being so young and unready. But I drew her behind the withy-bushes, and close down to the water, where it was quiet and shelving deep, ere it came to the lip of the chasm. Here they could not see either of us from the upper valley. Crouching in that hollow nest, as children get together in ever so little compass, I saw a dozen fierce men come down on the other side of the water, not bearing any fire-arms, but looking lax and jovial, as if they were come from riding and a dinner taken hungrily. "Queen, queen!" they were shouting, here and there, and now and then; "where the pest is our little queen gone?" "They always call me 'queen,' and I am to be queen by-and-by," Lorna whispered to me, with her soft cheek on my rough one, and her little heart beating against me; "oh, they are crossing by the timber there, and then they are sure to see us." "Stop," said I; "now I see what to do. I must get into the water, and you must go to sleep." "To be sure, yes; away in the meadow there. But how bitter cold it will be for you!" She saw in a moment the way to do it sooner than I could tell her; and there was no time to lose. "Now, mind you, never come again," she whispered over her shoulder, as she crept away with a childish twist, hiding her white front from me; "only I shall come sometimes--oh, here they are, Madonna!" Daring scarce to peep, I crept into the water, and lay down bodily in it, with my head between two blocks of stone, and some flood drift combing over me. I knew that for her sake I was bound to be brave and hide myself. She was lying beneath a rock, thirty or forty yards from me, feigning to be fast asleep, with her dress spread beautifully, and her hair drawn over her. Presently one of the great, rough men came round a corner upon her; and there he stopped and gazed a while at her fairness and her innocence. Then he caught her up in his arms, and kissed her so that I heard him; and if I had only brought my gun, I would have tried to shoot him. "Here our queen is! Here's the queen; here's the captain's daughter!" he shouted to his comrades; "fast asleep, and hearty! Now I have first claim to her; and no one else shall touch the child. Back to the bottle, all of you!" He set her dainty little form upon his great, square shoulder, and her narrow feet in one broad hand; and so in triumph marched away. II. [After this, John and Lorna met often in a secret place, where there was little chance of discovery. It was decided by the family that Lorna should be the wife of Carver Doone, the leader of the band, but as she was unwilling, and Grandfather Doone, the retiring leader, would not permit them to compel her, years went by without Carver accomplishing his purpose. Finally Lorna came no more to the trysting place, so that John suspected she had been put in a dungeon. He resolved to gain an entrance to the Doone village, and, after a desperate night adventure, succeeded.] My heart was in my mouth, as they say, when I stood in the shade of Lorna's window, and whispered her name gently. But, though the window was not very close, I might have whispered long enough before she would have answered me, frightened as she was, no doubt, by many a rude overture. And I durst not speak aloud, because I saw another watchman posted on the western cliff, and commanding all the valley. And now this man espied me against the wall of the house, and advanced against the brink and challenged me. "Who are you, there? Answer! One, two, three; and I fire at thee." The nozzle of his gun was pointed full upon me, as I could see, with the moonlight striking on the barrel; he was not more than fifty yards off, and now he began to reckon. Being almost desperate about it, I began to whistle, wondering how far I should get before I lost my windpipe; and, as luck would have it, my lips fell into that strange tune I had practiced last,--the one I heard from Charlie Doone. My mouth would scarcely frame the notes, being parched with terror; but, to my surprise, the man fell back, dropped his gun and saluted. Oh, sweetest of all sweet melodies! That tune was Carver Doone's passport (as I heard long afterward), which Charleworth Doone had imitated, for decoy of Lorna. The sentinel took me for that vile Carver, who was like enough to be prowling there, for private talk with Lorna, but not very likely to shout forth his name, if it might be avoided. The watchman, perceiving the danger, perhaps, of intruding on Carver's privacy, not only retired along the cliff, but withdrew himself to good distance. Meanwhile he had done me the kindest service; for Lorna came to the window at once to see what the cause of the shout was, and drew back the curtain timidly. Then she opened the rough lattice; and then she watched the cliff and trees; and then she sighed very sadly. "Oh, Lorna, don't you know me?" I whispered from the side, being afraid of startling her by appearing over suddenly. Quick though she was of thought, she knew me not from my whisper, and was shutting the window hastily, when I caught it back and showed myself. "John!" she cried, yet with sense enough not to speak aloud; "oh, you must be mad, John!" "As mad as a March hare," said I, "without any news of my darling. You knew I would come--of course you did." "Well, I thought, perhaps--you know; now, John, you need not eat my hand. Do you see, they have put iron bars across?" "To be sure. Do you think I should be contented even with this lovely hand, but for these vile iron bars? I will have them out before I go. Now, darling, for one moment--just the other hand, for a change, you know." So I got the other, but was not honest; for I kept them both, and felt their delicate beauty trembling as I laid them to my heart. "Oh, John, you will make me cry directly"--she had been crying long ago--"if you go on in that way. You know we can never have one another; every one is against it. Why should I make you miserable? Try not to think of me any more." "And will you try the same of me, Lorna?" "Oh yes, John; if you agree to it. At least I will try to try it." "Then you won't try anything of the sort," I cried, with great enthusiasm, for her tone was so nice and melancholy; "the only thing we will try to try is to belong to one another. And if we do our best, Lorna, God alone can prevent us." She crossed herself with one hand drawn free, as I spoke so boldly; and something swelled in her little throat, and prevented her from answering. "Now tell me," I said; "what means all this? Why are you so pent up here? Why have you given me no token? Has your grandfather turned against you? Are you in any danger?" "My poor grandfather is very ill. I fear that he will not live long. The Counselor and his son are now masters of the valley; and I dare not venture forth for fear of anything they might do to me. When I went forth to signal for you, Carver tried to seize me; but I was too quick for him. Little Gwenny is not allowed to leave the valley now, so that I could send no message. I have been so wretched, dear, lest you should think me false to you. The tyrants now make sure of me. You must watch this house both night and day, if you wish to save me. There is nothing they would shrink from, if my poor grandfather--oh, I cannot bear to think of myself, when I ought to think of him only; dying without a son to tend him or a daughter to shed a tear." "But surely he has sons enough; and a deal too many," I was going to say, but stopped myself in time. "Why do none of them come to him?" "I know not. I cannot tell. He is a very strange old man, and few have ever loved him. He was black with wrath at the Counselor this afternoon--but I must not keep you here--you are much too brave, John; and I am too selfish; there, what was that shadow?" "Nothing more than a bat, darling, come to look for his sweetheart. I will not stay long; you tremble so; and yet for that very reason how can I leave you, Lorna?" "You must--you must," she answered; "I shall die if they hurt you. I hear the old nurse moving. Grandfather is sure to send for me. Keep back from the window." However, it was only Gwenny Carfax, Lorna's little handmaid; my darling brought her to the window and presented her to me, almost laughing through her grief. "Oh, I am so glad, John; Gwenny, I am so glad you came. I have wanted long to introduce you to my 'young man,' as you call him. It is rather dark, but you can see him. I wish you to know him again, Gwenny." "Whoy!" cried Gwenny, with great amazement, standing on tiptoe to look out, and staring as if she were weighing me; "he be bigger nor any Doone! I shall knoo thee again, young man; no fear of that," she answered, nodding with an air of patronage. "Now, missis, gae on coortin', and I will gae outside and watch for 'ee." Though expressed not over-delicately, this proposal arose, no doubt, from Gwenny's sense of delicacy; and I was very thankful to her for taking her departure. "She is the best little thing in the world," said Lorna, softly, laughing, "and the queerest, and the truest. Nothing will bribe her against me. If she seems to be on the other side, never, never doubt her. Now, no more of your 'coortin',' John. I love you far too well for that. Yes, yes, ever so much! If you will take a mean advantage of me--as much as ever you like to imagine; and then you may double it after that. Only go, do go, good John; kind, dear, darling John; if you love me, go." "How can I go without settling anything?" I asked, very sensibly. "How shall I know of your danger now? Hit upon something; you are so quick. Anything you can think of; and then I will go, and not frighten you." "I have been thinking long of something," Lorna answered, rapidly, with that peculiar clearness of voice which made every syllable ring like music of a several note. "You see that tree with the seven rooks' nests, bright against the cliffs there? Can you count them from above, do you think? From a place where you would be safe, dear?" "No doubt I can; or, if I cannot, it will not take me long to find a spot whence I can do it." "Gwenny can climb like any cat. She has been up there in the summer watching the young birds day by day, and daring the boys to touch them. There are neither birds nor eggs there now, of course, and nothing doing. If you see but six rooks' nests, I am in peril, and want you. If you see but five, I am carried off by Carver." "Good God!" said I, at the mere idea, in a tone which frightened Lorna. "Fear not, John," she whispered, sadly, and my blood grew cold at it; "I have means to stop him, or at least to save myself. If you can come within one day of that man's getting hold of me, you will find me quite unharmed. After that you will find me, dead or alive, according to circumstances, but in no case such that you need blush to look at me." I only said, "God bless you, darling!" and she said the same to me, in a very low, sad voice. And then I stole below Carver's house in the shadow from the eastern cliff; and, knowing enough of the village now to satisfy all necessity, betook myself to my well-known track in returning from the valley. III. [It was not long after this that John Ridd saw the signal that Lorna was in danger. With the aid of friends he planned and successfully executed a raid upon the Doone village, and carried away Lorna to his mother's house. Subsequently the Doones attacked the house where Lorna was staying, but John Ridd and his friends were prepared to meet them, as is related in the following scene:] It was not likely that the outlaws would attack our premises until some time after the moon was risen, because it would be too dangerous to cross the flooded valleys in the darkness of the night. And, but for this consideration, I must have striven harder against the stealthy approach of slumber. But even so, it was very foolish to abandon watch, especially in such as I, who sleep like any dormouse. Moreover, I had chosen the very worst place in the world for such employment, with a goodly chance of awaking in a bed of solid fire. And so it might have been--nay, it must have been--but for Lorna's vigilance. Her light hand upon my arm awoke me, not too readily, and, leaping up, I seized my club, and prepared to knock down somebody. "Who's that?" I cried. "Stand back, I say, and let me have a fair chance at you." "Are you going to knock me down, dear John?" replied the voice I love so well. "I am sure I should never get up again, after one blow from you, John." "My darling, is it you?" I cried; "and breaking all your orders? Come back into the house at once; and nothing on your head, dear." "How could I sleep, while at any moment you might be killed beneath my window? And now is the time of real danger, for men can see to travel." I saw at once the truth of this. The moon was high and clearly lighting all the watered valleys. To sleep any longer might be death, not only to myself, but all. "The man on guard at the back of the house is fast asleep," she continued; "Gwenny, who let me out, and came with me, has heard him snoring for two hours. I think the women ought to be the watch, because they have had no traveling. Where do you suppose little Gwenny is?" "Surely not gone to Glen Doone?" I was not sure, however, for I could believe almost anything of the Cornish maiden's hardihood. "No," replied Lorna, "although she wanted even to do that. But, of course, I would not hear of it, on account of the swollen waters. But she is perched in yonder tree, which commands the Barrow Valley. She says that they are almost sure to cross the streamlet there." "What a shame," I cried, "that the men should sleep and the maidens be the soldiers! I will sit in that tree myself, and send little Gwenny back to you. Go to bed, my best and dearest; I will take good care not to sleep again." Before I had been long on duty, making the round of the ricks and the stables, and hailing Gwenny now and then from the bottom of her tree, a short, wide figure stole toward me, in and out the shadows, and I saw that it was no other than the little maid herself, and that she bore some tidings. "Ten on 'em crossed the water down yonder," said Gwenny, putting her hand to her mouth, and seeming to regard it as good news rather than otherwise; "be arl craping up by the hedgerow now. I could shutt dree on 'em from the bar of the gate, if so be I had your goon, young man." "There is no time to lose, Gwenny. Run to the house and fetch Master Stickles, and all the men while I stay here and watch the rick-yard." The robbers rode into our yard as coolly as if they had been invited, having lifted the gate from the hinges first, on account of its being fastened. Then they actually opened our stable doors, and turned our honest horses out, and put their own rogues in place of them. At this my breath was quite taken away, for we think so much of our horses. By this time I could see our troopers waiting in the shadow of the house round the corner from where the Doones were, and expecting the order to fire; but Jeremy Stickles very wisely kept them in readiness until the enemy should advance upon them. "Two of you lazy fellows go,"--it was the deep voice of Carver Doone, "and make us a light to cut their throats by. Only one thing, once again. If any man touches Lorna, I will stab him where he stands. She belongs to me. There are two other young damsels here, whom you may take away if you please. And the mother, I hear, is still comely. Now for our rights. We have borne too long the insolence of these yokels. Kill every man and every child, and burn this cursed place down." Presently two young men came toward me, bearing brands of resined hemp, kindled from Carver's lamp. The foremost of them set his torch to the rick within a yard of me, the smoke concealing me from him. I struck him with a backhanded blow on the elbow as he bent it, and I heard the bone of his arm break as clearly as ever I heard a twig snap. With a roar of pain, he fell on the ground, and his torch dropped there and singed him. The other man stood amazed at this, not having yet gained sight of me, till I caught his fire-brand from his hand, and struck it into his countenance. With that he leaped at me, but I caught him in a manner learned from early wrestling, and snapped his collar bone, as I laid him upon the top of his comrade. This little success so encouraged me that I was half inclined to advance and challenge Carver Doone to meet me; but I bore in mind that he would be apt to shoot me without ceremony; and what is the utmost of human strength against the power of powder? Moreover, I remembered my promise to sweet Lorna; and who would be left to defend her, if the rogues got rid of me? While I was hesitating thus, a blaze of fire lit up the house, and brown smoke hung around it. Six of our men had let go at the Doones, by Jeremy Stickles's order, as the villains came swaggering down in the moonlight ready for rape or murder. Two of them fell, and the rest hung back, to think at their leisure what this was. They were not used to this sort of thing; it was neither just nor courteous. Being unable any longer to contain myself, as I thought of Lorna's excitement at all this noise of firing, I ran across the yard, expecting whether they would shoot at me. However, no one shot at me; and I went up to Carver Doone, whom I knew by his size in the moonlight, and I took him by the beard and said, "Do you call yourself a man?" For a moment he was so astonished that he could not answer. None had ever dared, I suppose, to look at him in that way. And then he tried a pistol at me; but I was too quick for him. "Now, Carver, take warning," I said to him, very soberly; "you have shown yourself a fool by your contempt of me. I may not be your match in craft, but I am in manhood. You are a despicable villain. Lie low in your native muck." And with that word I laid him flat upon his back in our straw-yard by the trick of the inner heel, which he could not have resisted unless he were a wrestler. Seeing him down, the others ran, though one of them made a shot at me, and some of them got their horses before our men came up, and some went away without them. And among these last was Captain Carver, who arose while I was feeling myself (for I had a little wound), and strode away with a train of curses enough to poison the light of the moon. IV. [Through many vicissitudes and many dangers, Lorna and John spend the months following the incident just related. John learns that Lorna is, after all, not a Doone, but the daughter of a family the Doones had waylaid. John's father had also been murdered by the Doones when John was a lad at school. The following scene carries its own story:] Everything was settled smoothly and without any fear or fuss that Lorna might find end of troubles, and myself of eager waiting, with the help of Parson Bowden, and the good wishes of two counties. We heard that people meant to come for more than thirty miles around, upon excuse of seeing my stature and Lorna's beauty; but in good truth, out of sheer curiosity and the love of meddling. Dear mother arranged all the ins and outs of the way in which it was to be done; and Annie and Lizzie made such a sweeping of dresses that I scarcely knew where to place my feet, and longed for a staff to put by their gowns. Then Lorna came out of a pew half-way, in a manner which quite astonished me, and took my left hand in her right, and I prayed God that it were done with. My darling looked so glorious that I was afraid of glancing at her, yet took in all her beauty. I was afraid to look at her, except when each of us said, "I will," and then each dwelt upon the other. It is impossible for any who have not loved as I have to conceive my joy and pride when, after ring and all was done, and the parson had blessed us, Lorna turned to look at me with her glances of subtle fun subdued by this great act. Her eyes, which none on earth may ever equal or compare with, told me such a depth of comfort, yet awaiting further commune, that I was almost amazed, thoroughly as I knew them. Darling eyes, the sweetest eyes, the loveliest, the most loving eyes--the sound of a shot rang through the church, and those eyes were filled with death. Lorna fell across my knees when I was going to kiss her, a flood of blood came out upon the yellow wood of the altar steps, and at my feet lay Lorna, trying to tell me some last message out of her faithful eyes. I lifted her up, and petted her, and coaxed her, but it was no good; the only sign of life remaining was a spot of bright red blood. She sighed a long sigh on my breast, for her last farewell to life, and then she grew so cold, and cold, that I asked the time of the year. Of course I knew who had done it. There was but one man in the world, or, at any rate, in our part of it, who would have done such a thing--such a thing. I use no harsher word about it, while I leaped upon our best horse, with bridle, but no saddle, and set the head of Kickums toward the course now pointed out to me. Who showed me the course I cannot tell. I only knew that I took it. And the men fell back before me. Weapon of no sort had I. Unarmed, and wondering at my strange attire (with a bridal vest wrought by our Annie, and red with the blood of the bride), I went forth just to find out this--whether in this world there be or be not God of justice. With my vicious horse at a furious speed, I came upon Black Barrow Down, directed by some shout of men, which seemed to me but a whisper. And there, about a furlong before me, rode a man on a great black horse, and I knew that the man was Carver Doone. "Your life, or mine," I said to myself; "as the will of God may be. But we two live not upon this earth one more hour together." I knew the strength of this great man; and I knew that he was armed with a gun--if he had time to load again, after shooting my Lorna--or at any rate with pistols, and a horseman's sword, as well. Nevertheless, I had no more doubt of killing the man before me than a cook has of spitting a headless fowl. Sometimes seeing no ground beneath me, and sometimes heeding every leaf, and the crossing of the grass-blades, I followed over the long moor, reckless whether seen or not. But only once the other man turned and looked back again, and then I was beside a rock, with a reedy swamp behind me. Although he was so far before me, and riding as hard as ride he might, I saw that he had something on the horse in front of him, something which needed care, and stopped him from looking backward. In the whirling of my wits I fancied first that this was Lorna; until the scene I had been through fell across my hot brain and heart, like the drop at the close of a tragedy. Rushing there through crag and quag at utmost speed of a maddened horse, as of another's fate, calmly (as on canvas laid), the brutal deed, the piteous anguish, and the cold despair. The man turned up the gully leading from the moor to Cloven Rocks. But, as Carver entered it, he turned round and beheld me not a hundred yards behind; and I saw that he was bearing his child, little Ensie, before him. Ensie also descried me, and stretched his hands and cried to me; for the face of his father frightened him. Carver Doone, with a vile oath, thrust spurs into his flagging horse, and laid one hand on a pistol stock, whence I knew that his slung carbine has received no bullet since the one that had pierced Lorna. And a cry of triumph rose from the black depths of my heart. What cared I for pistols? I had no spurs, neither was my horse one to need the rowel; I rather held him in than urged him, for he was fresh as ever; and I knew that the black steed in front, if he breasted the steep ascent, where the track divided, must be in our reach at once. His rider knew this, and, having no room in the rocky channel to turn and fire, drew rein at the crossways sharply, and plunged into the black ravine leading to the Wizard's Slough. "Is it so?" I said to myself, with brain and head cold as iron; "though the foul fiend come from the slough to save thee, thou shalt carve it, Carver." I followed my enemy carefully, steadily, even leisurely--for I had him as in a pitfall, whence no escape might be. He thought that I feared to approach him, for he knew not where he was; and his low, disdainful laugh came back. "Laugh he who wins," thought I. A gnarled and half-starved oak, as stubborn as my own resolve, and smitten by some storm of old, hung from the crag above me. Rising from my horse's back, although I had no stirrups, I caught a limb, and tore it (like a mere wheat-awn) from the socket. Men show the rent even now with wonder--none with more wonder than myself. Carver Doone turned the corner suddenly on the black and bottomless bog; with a start of fear he reigned back his horse, and I thought he would have turned upon me. Upon this he made up his mind; and, wheeling, fired, and then rode at me. His bullet struck me somewhere, but I took no heed of that. Fearing only his escape, I laid my horse across the way, and with the limb of the oak struck full on the forehead his charging steed. Ere the slash of the sword came nigh me, man and horse rolled over, and well-nigh bore my own horse down with the power of their onset. Carver Doone was somewhat stunned, and could not arise for a moment. Meanwhile I leaped on the ground and waited, smoothing my hair back and baring my arm as though in the ring for wrestling. Then the little boy ran to me, clasped my leg, and looked up at me; and the terror in his eyes made me almost fear myself. "Ensie, dear," I said, quite gently, grieving that he should see his wicked father killed, "run up yonder round the corner, and try to find a pretty bunch of bluebells for the lady." The child obeyed me, hanging back, and looking back, and then laughing, while I prepared for business. There and then I might have killed my enemy with a single blow while he lay unconscious, but it would have been foul play. With a sudden and black scowl, the Carver gathered his mighty limbs and arose, and looked round for his weapons; but I had put them well away. Then he came to me and gazed, being wont to frighten thus young men. "I would not harm you, lad," he said, with a lofty style of sneering. "I have punished you enough, for most of your impertinence. For the rest I forgive you, because you have been good and gracious to my little son. Go and be contented." For answer I smote him on the cheek, lightly, and not to hurt him, but to make his blood leap up. I would not sully my tongue by speaking to a man like this. I think he felt that his time was come; I think that he knew from my knotted muscles and the firm arch of my breast, and the way in which I stood, but most of all from my stern blue eyes, that he had found his master. At any rate a paleness came, an ashy paleness on his cheeks, and the vast calves of his legs bowed in as if he was out of training. Seeing this, villain as he was, I offered him first chance. I stretched forth my left hand, as I do to a weaker antagonist, and I let him have the hug of me. But in this I was too generous; having forgotten my pistol-wound, and the cracking of one of my short lower ribs. Carver Doone caught me round the waist with such a grip as never yet had been laid upon me. I heard my rib go; I grasped his arm, and tore the muscle out of it (as the string comes out of an orange); then I took him by the throat, which is not allowed in wrestling, but he had snatched at mine; and now was no time of dalliance. In vain he tugged and strained, and writhed, and dashed his bleeding fist into my face, and flung himself on me with gnashing jaws. Beneath the iron of my strength--for God that day was with me--I had him helpless in two minutes, and his fiery eyes lolled out. "I will not harm thee any more," I cried, so far as I could for panting, the work being very furious. "Carver Doone, thou art beaten; own it, and thank God for it; and go thy way, and repent thyself." It was all too late. Even if he had yielded in his ravening frenzy--for his beard was like a mad dog's jowl--even if he would have owned that for the first time in his life he had found his master, it was all too late. The black bog had him by the feet; the sucking of the ground drew him on, like the thirsty lips of death. In our fury we had heeded neither wet nor dry; nor thought of earth beneath us. I myself might scarcely leap, with the last spring of o'erlabored legs, from the ingulfing grave of slime. He fell back, with his swarthy breast, like a hummock of bog-oak, standing out the quagmire; and then he tossed his arms to heaven, and they were black to the elbow, and the glare of his eyes was ghastly. I could only gaze and pant, for my strength was no more than an infant's, from the fury and the horror. Scarcely could I turn away, while, joint by joint, he sunk from sight. When the little boy came back with the bluebells, which he had managed to find, the only sign of his father left was a dark brown bubble upon a new-formed patch of blackness. But to the center of its pulpy gorge the greedy slough was heaving, and sullenly grinding its weltering jaws among the flags and sedges. With pain and ache, both of mind and body, and shame at my own fury, I heavily mounted my horse again, and looked down at the innocent Ensie. Would this playful loving child grow up like his cruel father, and end a godless life of hatred with a death of violence? He lifted his noble forehead toward me, as if to answer, "Nay, I will not"; but the words he spoke were these: "Don"--for he never could say "John"--"oh Don, I am so glad that nasty, naughty man is gone away. Take me home, Don. Take me home." It hurt me more than I can tell, even through all other grief, to take into my arms the child of the man just slain by me. But I could not leave him there till some one else might fetch him, on account of the cruel slough, and the ravens which had come hovering over the dead horse; neither could I, with my wound, tie him on my horse and walk. For now I had spent a great deal of blood, and was rather faint and weary. And it was luck for me that Kickums had lost spirit like his master, and went home as mildly as a lamb. For, when we came toward the farm, I seemed to be riding in a dream almost; and the voices of both men and women (who had hurried forth upon my track), as they met me, seemed to wander from a distant, muffling cloud. Only the thought of Lorna's death, like a heavy knell, was tolling in the belfry of my brain. When we came to the stable door I rather fell from my horse than got off; and John Fry, with a look of wonder, took Kickum's head and led him in. Into the old farmhouse I tottered, like a weanling child, with mother, in her common clothes, helping me along, yet fearing, except by stealth, to look at me. "I have killed him," was all I said, "even as he killed Lorna. Now let me see my wife, mother. She belongs to me none the less, though dead." "You cannot see her now, dear John," said Ruth Huckaback, coming forward, since no one else had the courage. "Annie is with her now, John." "What has that to do with it? Let me see my dead and pray to die." All the women fell away and whispered, and looked at me with side glances, and some sobbing, for my face was hard as flint. Ruth alone stood by me, and dropped her eyes and trembled. Then one little hand of hers stole into my great shaking palm, and the other was laid on my tattered coat; yet with her clothes she shunned my blood, while she whispered gently: "John, she is not dead. She may even be your living one yet--your wife, your home, and your happiness. But you must not see her now." Now, whether it was the light and brightness of my Lorna's nature, or the freedom from anxiety, but anyhow, one thing is certain; sure as the stars of hope above us, Lorna recovered long ere I did. The Sky The sky is a drinking-cup, That was overturned of old, And it pours in the eyes of men Its wines of airy gold. We drink that wine all day, Till the last drop is drained up, And are lighted off to bed By the jewels in the cup! --_Richard Henry Stoddard_. +----+------------------+----+ | | | | | | THE SPEAKER | | | | | | +----+------------------+----+ TABLE OF CONTENTS =NO. 1= Editorials 1-4 The Artist's Secret Olive Schreiner 5 The History Lesson from L'Aiglon Edmund Rostand 6 Dawn Paul Laurence Dunbar 11 Bill, the Lokil Editor Eugene Field 12 Arena Scene from Quo Vadis Henry Sienkiewicz 15 The Cushville Hop Ben King 21 Sonny's Christening Ruth McEnery Stuart 22 How She Went into Business Joel Chandler Harris 28 The Leadership of Educated Men George William Curtis 34 Jean Valjean and the Bishop Victor Hugo 38 Coom, Lassie, Be Good to Me Charles McIlvaine 43 A Bird in the Hand F. S. Weatherby 44 The Slow Man Ernest Poole 45 Emmy Lou George Madden Martin 49 Glory John Luther Long 53 The Rose and the Gardener Austin Dobson 57 The Cap that Fits Austin Dobson 58 The Cure's Progress Austin Dobson 60 The Philosopher in the Apple Orchard Anthony Hope 61 The Photograph Paul Laurence Dunbar 67 A Message to Garcia Elbert Hubbard 68 Lovey-Loves Ben King 69 The Fall of the House of Usher Edgar Allan Poe 70 Nini, Ninette, Ninon Frederick S. Weatherby 77 With Any Amazement Rudyard Kipling 78 One, Two, Three H. C. Bunner 83 Mr. Dooley, on the Grip 85 =NO. 2= Editorials 97-100 The Sign of the Cross Wilson Barrett 101 My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold William Wordsworth 105 "Gentlemen, the King" Robert Barr 106 The Only Way Charles Dickens 111 The New Americanism Henry Watterson 114 A Plea for Patriotism Benjamin Harrison 116 Fame Ben Jonson 117 The Independence of Cuba J. M. Thurston 118 The Children of the Poor Theodore Parker 122 Burns George William Curtis 124 A Night in Ste. Pilagie Mary H. Catherwood 127 The Call of the Wild Jack London 131 The Prisoner of Zenda Anthony Hope 135 In the Toils of the Enemy John S. Wood 139 The Advocate's First Plea George Barr McCutcheon 144 The Tell-Tale Heart Edgar Allan Poe 148 The Trial of Ben Thomas H. S. Edwards 151 Even This Shall Pass Away Theodore Tilton 155 On Milton John Dryden 156 Richelieu Bulwer Lytton 157 Flower in the Crannied Wall Lord Tennyson 161 The Burgomaster's Death (from "The Bells") 162 Jathrop Lathrop's Cow Anna Warner 167 The Hunchback Sheridan Knowles 172 Love Shakespeare 180 Last Speech of William McKinley 181 For Dear Old Yale James Langston 184 The Lance of Kanana 189 =NO. 3= Editorials 193-198 Reading Elizabeth B. Browning 198 The Shave-Store Edmund Vance Cooke 199 The Moo-Cow-Moo Edmund Vance Cooke 200 Brother Wolf and the Horned Cattle Joel Chandler Harris 201 A Summer Lullaby Eudora S. Bumstead 204 The First Nowell (Old Carol) 205 A Riddle Jonathan Swift 206 Tiny Tim (from "A Christmas Carol") Charles Dickens 207 The American Flag Joseph R. Drake 212 A Grace for a Child Robert Herrick 212 The Fairies William Allingham 213 The Rule for Birds' Nesters (Old Rhyme) 214 Queen Mab Thomas Hood 215 The Star Song Robert Herrick 216 O Little Town of Bethlehem Phillips Brooks 217 Santa Claus (Anonymous) 218 Recessional Rudyard Kipling 219 The Bonniest Bairn in a' the Warl' Robert Ford 220 The Flag Goes By Henry Holcomb Bennett 221 Pocahontas William Makepeace Thackeray 222 A Farewell Charles Kingsley 223 The Shepherd Boy Sings John Bunyan 223 Two Apple-Howling Songs (Old Rhymes) 224 A Boy's Prayer Henry Charles Beeching 224 To-day Thomas Carlyle 225 Be True Horatio Bonar 225 My Native Land Sir Walter Scott 226 Green Things Growing Dinah Maria Mulock 226 The Wonderful Country of Good-Boy Land Mary E. Blake 227 The Fir-Tree Hans Christian Andersen 229 From a Railway Carriage Robert Louis Stevenson 233 The Land of Nod Robert Louis Stevenson 234 Burns George William Curtis 124 Whole Duty of Children Robert Louis Stevenson 234 The Story of Joseph (Arranged from Genesis) 235 Auld Daddy Darkness James Ferguson 240 The Owl and the Pussy-Cat Edward Lear 241 The Angel's Whisper Samuel Lover 242 Going into Breeches Charles and Mary Lamb 243 The Lost Doll Charles Kingsley 244 Baby Corn (Unknown) 245 Who Stole the Bird's Nest? Lydia Maria Child 246 Po' Little Lamb Paul Laurence Dunbar 248 Little Brown Baby Paul Laurence Dunbar 250 An Incident of the French Camp Robert Browning 251 Lullaby of an Infant Chief Sir Walter Scott 252 Old Ironsides Oliver Wendell Holmes 253 Concord Hymn Ralph Waldo Emerson 254 His College Examination (from "Up from Slavery") Booker T. Washington 255 A Child's Grace Robert Burns 260 A Howdy Song Joel Chandler Harris 261 Duty Ralph Waldo Emerson 261 Bud's Fairy Tale James Whitcomb Riley 262 The Boy that was Scaret o' Dyin' Annie Trumbull Slosson 268 What Does Little Birdie Say? Lord Tennyson 270 Laetus Sorte Mea (from "The Story of a Short Life") Juliana H. Ewing 271 The Victor of Marengo 275 Good Morning Robert Browning 279 Miranda and Her Friend Kroof (from "The Heart of the Ancient Wood") Charles G. D. Roberts 277 Little Nell Charles Dickens 282 Parsifal the Pure (from "Stories from Wagner") 285 =NO. 4= Editorials 289-292 Charles Sumner Carl Schurz 293 How the Elephant Got His Trunk Rudyard Kipling 295 The Owl Lord Tennyson 299 T'nowhead's Bell J. M. Barrie 300 John Storm's Resolution Hall Cain 308 The Flood of the Floss George Eliot 314 The Real Muck Rake Man Henry van Dyke 319 The Hunt Mercy E. Baker 322 Francois Villon, About to Die John D. Swain 323 Lady Moon Lord Haughton 326 A Good Dinner Mary Stuart Cutting 326 My Rival Rudyard Kipling 328 Imph-m James Nicholson 328 Looking Forward Robert Louis Stevenson 329 Mrs. Atwood's Raiment Mary Stuart Cutting 330 Hymn of a Child Charles Wesley 341 The Day of Precious Penalties Marion Hill 342 Cradle Hymn Martin Luther 349 A Kentucky Cinderella F. Hopkinson Smith 350 At Lincoln's Tomb Robertus Love 355 Mammy's Pickanin' Lucy Dean Jenkins 357 The Old Doll Edith M. Thomas 359 Santa Claus Unknown 360 Little Christel Wm. B. Rands 361 Seven Times One Jean Ingelow 363 Daffy-Down-Dilly Anna B. Warner 364 The Ant and the Cricket Unknown 366 Cradle Hymn Isaac Watts 367 The Usual Way Anonymous 368 The Lark and the Rook Anonymous 369 The Gondola Race F. Hopkinson Smith 371 Lincoln Jonathan P. Dolliver 374 Spacially Jim Bessie Margon 376 An Opera George Ade 378 A Little Knight-Errant Margaret A. Richard 382 Jane Jones Ben King 383 =NO. 5= Editorials 1-5 On Time John Milton 5 The Knight in the Wood E. Leicester Warren 6 A Little Feminine Casabianca Geo. Madden Martin 7 What He Got Out of It S. E. Kiser 11 The Play's the Thing Geo. Madden Martin 12 The Dancing School and Dicky Josephine Dodge Daskam 18 A Model Story in the Kindergarten Josephine Dodge Daskam 24 Fishin'? Anonymous 26 Ardelia in Arcady Josephine Dodge Daskam 27 Meriel Margaret Houston 34 The Old Man and "Shep" John G. Scorer 35 Who Knows Louise Chandler Moulton 36 The Negro Booker T. Washington 37 The Guillotine Victor Hugo 40 Robespierre's Last Speech Maximilian M. I. Robespierre 42 Secession Alex. H. Stephens 44 Birds Richard Henry Stoddard 47 The Death of Hypatia Charles Kingsley 48 Death Stands Above Me. Walter Savage Landor 54 The Tournament Sir Walter Scott 55 A Plea for the Old Year Louise Chandler Moulton 59 Fagin's Last Day Charles Dickens 60 A Caution to Poets. Matthew Arnold 64 Apollo Belvedere Ruth McEnery Stuart 65 An Invalid in Lodgings J. M. Barrie 71 The Stirrup-Cup Sidney Lanier 74 Das Krist Kindel. James Whitcomb Riley 75 Hiram Foster's Thanksgiving Turkey S. E. Kiser 77 The Winning of Lorna Doone R. D. Blackmore 79 The Sky Richard Henry Stoddard 96 * * * * * Published by PEARSON BROTHERS 29 S. Seventh St., Philadelphia Transcriber's Note Variant forms of words in the original text, sometimes within the same selection, have been retained in this ebook. Ellipses have been standardized. Omissions in the Table of Contents match those of the original document. The following typographical corrections have been made in this ebook: Page 17: Changed , to . (kind of mourning.) Page 18: Changed You're to You've (You've got to go.) Page 23: Added missing quotes; changed single to double ('I don't know, I don't know!'") Page 27: Changed helpessly to helplessly (said the young lady, helplessly) Page 40: Changed constanly to constantly (constantly in mind) Page 40: Removed duplicate word 'these' (these twenty-five years) Page 41: Changed scafforld to scaffold (the scaffold against the scaffold) Page 47: Changed shown to shone (the sun of heaven ever shone) Page 53: Removed stray period (She had disappeared, and) Page 66: Changed constanly to constantly (met constantly) Page 71: Removed duplicate quotes (I feared," she said.) Page 72: Changed is to it (but it is satisfaction) Page 82: Changed single-quote to double (go to sleep.") Page 87: Changed by to my (hand upon my arm) Page 90: Changed Doone's to Doones (murdered by the Doones) Page 93: Changed though to thought (I thought he would) Table of Contents: Added missing parenthesis (from "The Heart of the Ancient Wood") Table of Contents: Added missing question mark to match title in text (Fishin'?) Table of Contents: Changed Kris to Krist to match title in text (Das Krist Kindel.) Table of Contents: Added missing word 'On' to match title in text (On Time) 
40576	----	"WINKS" A BOOK OF RECITATIONS FOR BOYS "THOUGHTS" A BOOK OF READINGS FOR THE GIRLS AND BOYS IN TEENS BY ALICE LEWIS RICHARDS [Illustration: LAILA'S SMILES] "SMILES" _A BOOK OF RECITATIONS FOR GIRLS_ BY ALICE LEWIS RICHARDS AKRON, OHIO 1900 COPYRIGHT, 1899 BY ALICE LEWIS RICHARDS PREFACE In writing this little book of recitations it has been the aim of the author to help fill a long-felt want, namely: A work written especially for children; with recitations suitable for all occasions, that will please the children. Any little girl can find in this book "some piece to speak," from the time she learns to talk until the time shall arrive for her to lay away her dollies for other joys that come with later years. A. L. R. My daughter, Laila Myrtle, Though your years are only few, This book of "Mama's Poems" I dedicate to you. Some were written while you slumbered, Some were written while you played; Some the Muses brought to mama While at grandma's you have stayed. Some were written for your pleasure "'Cause you always liked to speak," So I penned "Only a Sparrow," That the moral you might teach. When you are grown, my daughter, And back upon your childhood look, Oh! how sweet will be the memories Of the writing of this book! CONTENTS PAGE ROBIN'S RETURN 11 PAPA'S BEST GIRL 14 DOES JESUS KNOW 15 LILA'S CONCLUSION 17 EMMA'S IDEAL 20 ALICE'S CHOICE 22 WHAT JANIE THINKS 24 MYRTLE'S LETTER 27 ONLY A SPARROW 29 MAY'S APPLE-TREE 32 TEACHING A LESSON 34 THE LITTLE CRIB BED 38 ROBIN'S FAREWELL 40 THE FOOLISH FLOWERS 43 GRANDPA AND PET 46 WHEN I WAS A BABY 49 DOT'S NEW LEAF 51 DREAMING, SWEETLY DREAMING 53 THE SNOWDROP'S CALL 55 WHEN BROTHER WAS A SISTER 57 WE'RE ONLY LITTLE CHILDREN 61 A DREAM OF EASTER 62 MOTHER ROBIN 64 MABEL GRAY 67 THE NAUGHTY CROW 69 THE BIRDS' GOOD-NIGHT 70 SANTA'S QUEER JOKE 72 LITTLE SUNBEAMS 76 WHERE DO BABIES GO 77 WHEN MY KITTY WAS A KITTEN 80 THE BUSY LITTLE HOUSEKEEPER 82 GRANDMA'S POCKET 84 WHAT GOOD IS A BROTHER 86 MR. HOP-TOAD 89 MINNIE'S SECRET 90 NELLIE'S EASTER EGGS 92 WHEN DOLLY WAS SICK 95 AUNTIE'S PARLOR 98 OFF TO SCHOOL WE GO 100 CLARABEL'S VALENTINE 102 THANKSGIVING AT GRANDMA'S 105 DOLLY DAYS 109 THAT GIGGLE 112 MARION'S LAMENT 113 WHEN I'M A BIG GIRL 114 WHAT THE BELLS SAID 116 WHY 118 BECAUSE 120 HOW HAZEL KEPT HOUSE 122 DROPS OF HONEY 125 WHEN MY DOLLY WENT TO SCHOOL 126 THREE LITTLE KITTENS 128 THE SPIDER'S PARLOR 129 MOTHER GOOSE'S DINNER PARTY 132 OLIVE'S ADVICE 136 THE OLD AND THE NEW 137 PA'S WAYS 139 THE SPIDER AND THE BEE 142 KITTY BELL 143 THE BIRDS' PARTY 145 JANUARY 148 FEBRUARY 149 MARCH 150 APRIL 151 MAY 152 JUNE 153 _Little girls with sunny smiles, Little girls with happy whiles, When you through these pages look, I hope you will enjoy your book._ ROBIN'S RETURN A robin came one day in spring, From South he flew with tired wing; He looked around him then to see An old familiar cherry-tree. There grew one by the kitchen door, Redbreast had seen that one before; He flew about, then lit up high, And watched to see some one pass by. A girl came through the kitchen door, Her years, I think, just numbered four; She saw Redbreast, and called to him, As he perched upon that cherry limb:-- "Oh, sweet robin! When did you come? Are you hungry? Do you want a crumb? Are you thirsty? Do you want a drink? You must be very tired, I think. "Say, Sir Robin, why don't you sing? Or don't you know that this is spring? Where have you been this winter long? I missed, so much, your little song!" "I flew about in a sunny clime, Singing my 'cheer-up!' most the time. And what did you, my little maid, While I down South this winter stayed?" "When Christmas came we had a tree, And that was nice for Lisle and me; 'Twas hung so full of things all new, I wish that you had seen it too. "I got some blocks and he a drum, I tell you then we had some fun! We got some dolls and whistles too, And then we played, and then we blew. "We got a sled and went to slide; We went to town and had a ride; We popped some corn when days were cold, And ate as much as we could hold. "One doll got sick and had the croup, Another coughed with dreadful whoop; And so, Redbreast, I think you'll see I've been as busy as I could be. "And now, Redbreast, where is your mate? What made her stay down South so late? Why don't she come to build her nest, And lay some eggs, and sit and rest?" "Oh, she'll come soon, and then you'll see We'll build right here in this same tree, And here we'll stay till cherries are gone, And then sing you a parting song." PAPA'S BEST GIRL I'm mama's little baby, I'm grandpa's little lady, I'm uncle's little trouble, I'm auntie's little bubble, But, I'm papa's best girl. DOES JESUS KNOW? When the Easter chimes are ringing, And the church choir gladly singing, Of that Easter long ago; When we sing the old, old story, How He rose from death to glory, How I wonder! does Jesus know? When we're singing of His dying, And our music turns to sighing O'er His suffering and His woe; When we're singing of the morrow, That will never more bring sorrow, How I wonder! does Jesus know? When we're singing of the flowers, And of springtime and the showers That doth make the grasses grow; When our songs are all of praises For the lilies and the daisies, How I wonder! does Jesus know? Does He hear us when we're singing? Does He hear the church bells ringing As they're swinging to and fro? Does He hear us when we're praying? Does He hear what we are saying? How I wonder! does Jesus know? Yes, up in that land of glory, Where no one is ever sorry, All our heavenly music goes. So no longer will I wonder If He hears us way up yonder, For I'm _sure_ that Jesus _knows_. LILA'S CONCLUSION You may talk about old Santa Claus, With his sleigh and fleeting deer; You may tell about his furry coat And the jingling bells you hear. You may talk about the Christmas trees Which he loads with lots of toys; You may tell about the dolls and sleds That he brings for girls and boys. You may picture him in story-books. With a beard that's long and white; You may paint him when he's going down Through the chimneys in the night. You may tell the story o'er and o'er Just the way 'twas told to you; And I've listened to it often, But I've learned it isn't true. You may write about his pretty deer, As they climb upon the roofs, But it's very plain to any one That they can't climb up with hoofs. And I know that Santa never went Down a chimney in the night, For they all are dark and small around, And they'd squeeze him awful tight. If he ever did get into one, Then he never could get out, For they picture him in story-books With a form that's broad and stout. Then he can't come through the outside doors, For the bolts and locks are there; Nor he can't get through the cellar door To climb the cellar stair. Nor he never could get over all This whole world in a night, To fill the little stockings up, And get home before it's light. Then no one ever seems to know Where the dear old fellow dwells; And no-one ever saw his sleigh, Nor heard his jingling bells. I've looked the maps all through and through, But his home I cannot find; So at last I've concluded this: That he's only "in your mind." And this pretty little tale you tell To the babies may be told; But 'twill hardly do for me to hear, For I've grown too big and old. EMMA'S IDEAL I like to see a handsome boy, With good and honest face; The one who has a twinkling eye And form of manly grace. I like to see him go to school, And like to see him play; But much, I fear, of what he does Is time just thrown away. I much admire the little man Who brings the coal and wood; And helps his mama when she's tired, As every good boy should. I like the boy who never steals The pie upon the shelf; And never hunts the cookies up To eat them all himself. I like the boy who heeds advice, And does as he should do; And so I like the thoughtful lad Who's good to sister too. And thus you see my views are plain, And when I older grow I sometimes think--I guess--may be-- That I--shall have--a beau. But he must be the model lad, Who does not chew nor swear; And he must be a temperance boy, Who goes not on a tear. He must not speak of parents dear, Regardless of respect; He must not call them fogies old, Nor their advice reject. And so the one that I will take, And love him as a brother, Will be the good, old-fashioned boy, Who always minds his mother. ALICE'S CHOICE I'd ruther be a little girl An' have a lovely doll, Than be a boy with a pistol toy, Or have a bat an' ball. I'd ruther be a little girl, 'Cause they are sweeter far Than all the boys with all their noise, No differns who they are. For little girls is always good, An' try to do their part; But boys will shirk their share of work, An' think they're acting smart. An' little boys is naughty too, An' often tease us girls, About our dresses an' our tresses, An' pull our pretty curls. They laugh at us jess 'cause we cry When we gits hurt at play; But we don't care,--they do their share Of cryin' every day. They calls us little "frady-calves," 'Cause we's afeard of mice, An' dogs, an' cats, an' snakes, an' rats, An' other things not nice. But we'd ruther all be little girls, An' let them call us babies, Than all the boys with pistol toys, For they don't grow to ladies. WHAT JANIE THINKS I'd like to see old Santa Claus And find out who he really was. I think 'twould be a pretty sight To see him coming in the night. And watch him on the housetops ride, Then see him down the chimneys glide. I think it's very, very queer The way he comes round every year. For no one ever sees or knows Just how he comes or how he goes. And how he can so quiet be, Is the very strangest part to me. But Christmas morn, in early dawn, We're sure to find he's come and gone; For there upon our Christmas tree Are toys for brothers and for me. But not a mark, or not a track, Does he ever leave when going back. And so I've wondered many a time How Santa could the chimney climb. I think 'twould be a better way To travel round by light of day; Than go a-prowling round at night Like burglars do, to keep from sight. Then little children all could see Who their good Santa Claus might be. And then we'd know, without being told, If Santa Claus was young or old. If he was fat, or very thin, If he had whiskers on his chin. If he was short or very tall-- Why, girls like us would know it all. Then how much nicer it would be For him to come when we could see, Than always come when we're asleep, So none of us at him can peep. I think I'll write him just a line And say: "Please come some other time; "For I don't think it looks just right For you to always come at night." MYRTLE'S LETTER I think I will write to old Santa, And ask for a few little things; And then I will try to be patient, And wait to see what he brings. I'll write him to bring me a dolly, With eyes of a beautiful brown, With hair that is all in gold ringlets, And dressed in a beautiful gown. I'll ask him to bring me a buggy, To take my new dolly to ride; I'll ask for a cunning, swift runner, So dolly can go out to slide. I'll write him to bring me a banjo, A harp, and a cute little drum; I'll wish for a sweet-toned organ And a _whole_ big box full of gum. I want him to bring a wee table, That is made for girlies like me; And a set of little blue dishes, So I can have company to tea. I'll hint that I need some new dresses, For mine are all faded and old; I'll tell him I need some new mittens, To wear when the weather is cold. But maybe I'd better stop wishing, And finish my letter with care, For fear dear old Santa may fancy I'm asking for _more_ than _my_ share. I'll write him my stocking is hanging Right close to my head, on the wall; I'll tell him the right way to manage In case that my stocking's too small. I'll tell him to look in the corner, At the foot of the bed, he'll see A place that I think is just lovely To fasten a cute little tree. ONLY A SPARROW A sparrow flew to my window one day, And in a bird's way he began there to say: "Chirp, chirp, little girl, please listen to me I'm hungry and cold as a sparrow can be! "I'd like a small crumb or something to eat, And may I come in and warm my poor feet? They're almost frozen out here in the snow; So kind little girl, please do not say no." I listened to him and then shook my head; And to that poor sparrow I saucily said: "Well, Mr. Sparrow, if your story is true, I don't think I'll trouble myself about you. "You're a plain-looking bird with a dirty old coat, And you never once sang a sweet little note So, Mr. Sparrow, you may just fly along, For I feed none but birds of beauty and song." "But think, little girl, were you a bird like me, And were out in the cold with your home in a tree, And you came to my house in the cold, deep snow, Would you think it were kind if I treated you so? "Would you think it quite right to be twitted that way, Just because of your coat was not handsome and gay? Would you think it would be nice if you could not sing To be counted as naught but a poor useless thing? "I know I'm not handsome, and my chirp is not sweet, I know I'm not loved by the most that I meet; But I'm just as God made me, a plain little bird, And have, in this world, a right to be heard. "And the birds of great beauty you like to see, In the sight of our Maker are no better than me. So I bid you adieu, my proud little miss, But some time I pray you will just think of this: "That kind little deeds by a good little child So often will tame a nature that's wild. Then always be kind and never be rude, And hold to your tongue in an angry mood." Then he nodded his head and flew far away, And I saw him no more that cold winter day. But, oh! how sorry and grieved was I then, When I saw how very unkind I had been. He was only a sparrow, so humble and plain, But the lesson he taught me will always remain. As I journey through life I shall keep it in mind, And never again will I act so unkind. MAY'S APPLE-TREE One April day Our little May Did plant an apple-tree; Although 'twas slow, She watched it grow Until its years were three. She oft would say, In her sweet way, "How tall you going to be? I'd like to know If you can grow To be as big as me?" So one Spring day When little May Stood by her apple-tree; What do you think? Some buds in pink Were there for her to see. She laughed in glee Those buds to see, And smelt their sweet perfume; And blossoms white Were soon in sight, Upon the tree in bloom. Then apples green So soon were seen, As round as they could be; And so they grew In sun and dew Upon her apple-tree. Then May did eat The apples sweet, As nice as they could be; Then little May Had her full pay For planting that one tree. TEACHING A LESSON They were gazing through the window, On a cold December day, At the pretty toys for children, That were shown in fine array. One was robed in richest raiment, With a face so bright and glad; One was dressed in poorest garments, With a face so wan and sad. While they gazed upon the window, Said the rich one to the poor: "Ain't it nice that Christmas is coming, For that brings old Santa sure. "Oh! he's going to bring a dolly, And a lovely Christmas tree, And some toys and nuts and candy And some story-books for me. "Don't you know what he will bring you?-- Lots of pretty toys, I guess! And a cloak and pair of mittens, And, perhaps, a pretty dress." But the little child made answer, With a deep, unbidden sigh: "Santa never comes to see me, And I never knew just why. "Nor I don't have pretty playthings Like some other children do; Nor the toys and nuts and candy That old Santa brings to you. "For we live down in an alley, In a house that's poor and old; And we scarcely can keep warm When the nights are chill and cold. "And my mama sews to keep us, So it's all that she can do With the little that she's earning Just to feed and clothe us two. "So, perhaps, that's why old Santa Never knocks upon our door, 'Cause he don't care for the children Of the people who are poor." To the little child of plenty, 'Twas a story strange, but true, That her Santa was so partial, And would give to such a few. Home she ran and told her mama All the story, strange and sad: "He's a naughty, naughty Santa, So I'll make the children glad. "I will just make up some bundles Of the things he brings to me, Then I'll play that I am Santa, With a pretty Christmas tree. "And I'll go down the alley And that little girl I'll find; That will teach him such a lesson! One, I think, he'll always mind. "Then I'll write a different letter From the ones he's had before; And I'll tell him it's his duty Just to stop at every door. "That, I guess, will set him thinking All about his conduct here; Then the poor he will remember When he comes another year." So out went the little Santa With the bundles from her tree; And she passed not by a doorway Where she found that want might be. And the lesson for old Santa In her childish way she taught To the selfish ones about her, Who for others had no thought. THE LITTLE CRIB BED There's a little crib bed that is unused now, And is stowed in the garret with care; For the wee baby girl that slept in that bed Will never again dream there. There's a little old pillow of matted down, But no more 'twill be tumbled at night; For the little babe's head that rested there Now sleeps on a pillow more light. There's a little odd quilt of an ancient style, That was pieced from the dresses she wore; But it lies in the bed now undisturbed, For the baby will kick it no more. So this little crib bed is stowed away now, And the pillow is minus its case; And the little, odd quilt, now faded and old, Is neatly tucked in its place. In memory again we only shall see The babe in her little, snug fold; But we treasure the bed, with pillow and quilt, For the baby it used to hold. Yet how happy the times in the olden days, When the baby was sung off to sleep, And the sweet curls lay on the pillow of down, With the quilt tucked over her feet. But the baby has gone to a chamber above, That is furnished in colors of light; And the bed where she rests is one of ease, With a cover all spotless and white. In her picture again we only shall see The ringlets of gold on her head; For her hair--is done up and she's grown too tall To sleep in that little crib bed. ROBIN'S FAREWELL A robin had come to bid me good-by, And up in a tree had perched himself high; He seemed not to mind that the day was cold, But sang his sweet song the same as of old. The morning was drear and leafless the tree, But dear old robin! so happy was he! I said to him, "Robin, why do you wait? It seems to me you are staying too late. "The weather is cold, the flowers are dead, The trees all their leaves have long ago shed; You'd better be going before the snow comes, Or hungry you'll be, and looking for crumbs. "And old Jack Frost will be after your feet, Then you'll need your wing to cover your beak. So, Robin, please hurry away, or you'll freeze If you stay around here in the leafless trees." But robin sang on, and, nodding his head, "Don't worry for me," he knowingly said, "I'm not a bit 'fraid of Jack or the snow, That's why I have been in no hurry to go. "It won't take me long to fly away there, Where trees are all green and balmy the air; It's just a nice trip for this time of year, And I've made it before, so I haven't a fear." "But, Robin, you know that the rain might fall, And the day might end in a dreadful squall; So I cannot see why you have been so slow, For the rest have flown there long ago. "Say, what do you do in that far sunny clime? Does Santa Claus come there at Christmas time? You cannot go coasting, or skating on ice, So I don't think the South can be very nice." "When you are watching for Santa Claus' sleigh, He travels down South in a far differ'nt way. In a great air ship, with fairies for guides, From chimney to chimney he quietly rides. "When you are coasting adown some hill, I'll be drinking from some rippling rill; When you are freezing your feet on your skates, I'll be sailing o'er beautiful lakes. "When you are making a man out of snow, I'll be tending some wild-flower show; When you are trying your best to keep warm, I'll be away from Jack Frost's harm. "But now I am going to say good-by, So, dear little girl, for me do not cry. I'll not be afraid though the journey is long, For my body is warm and my wings are strong. "But if I grow tired and think 'twill be best, I'll stop on the way and take a short rest; And in the glad spring I'll come flying back, And others will follow right on in my track. "So watch for my coming and list for my song, For winter is short and you won't wait long"; Then he sang unto me a robin's adieu, And opened his wings and southward he flew. THE FOOLISH FLOWERS Miss Chrysanth'um gave a party On a cool October night, And invited in the flowers That had tender buds in sight. Then she whispered to the Pansy That old Jack was coming soon, And he'd nip her tender budlets If she left them out to bloom. Then she told the grand Nasturtium, That was climbing up the wall, That if Jack should overtake her She was sure to have a fall. And she said to Miss Petunia: "You must find a hiding-place, For if Jack should chance to kiss you He would spoil your pretty face." And the other summer flowers, That were blooming rather late, She told them all to hide away, Or they'd meet a frosty fate. So they put their heads together, All the flowers that were wise, And they planned to fool old Jack With his sparkling, piercing eyes. But the flowers that were foolish, When she bade them take advice, Shook their heads of flowery beauty And they laughed at frost and ice. Miss Chrysanth'um helped the wise ones In the plans that they had laid: So they gathered leaves of maple, And some coverlets then made. When old Jack came stealing onward, With the stars all shining bright, Not a flower among the wise ones Was there left to greet his sight. All were hidden under covers Made from leaves of Autumn's gold; And Jack then failed to find them Though he was so sharp and old. But the Marigold was laughing, When he chanced to pass her by; And Nasturtium still was climbing O'er the wall so old and high. Then he blew his breath upon them And they both began to sneeze; Soon the tender buds and blossoms Of the flowers began to freeze. When the sun shone out next morning O'er the pretty flower-bed, All the wise ones were rejoicing But the foolish ones--were dead. GRANDPA AND PET Grandpa was holding his pet on his lap, Grandpa and pet were taking a nap. Off in far dreamland were grandpa and May, Looking for goodies for Thanksgiving Day. Jogging along, he was holding her hand, Viewing the sights in funny dreamland. Looking for turkeys, dressed up in gowns, Shooing at goblins wearing bright crowns. Smiling at puddings a-walking on legs, Laughing at dumplings a-sitting on pegs. Onward and onward went grandpa and May, Looking for goodies for Thanksgiving Day. Hunting for turkeys stuffed and roasted, Longing for bread buttered and toasted. 'Round and 'round went grandpa and May, Hungry as two little children at play. Finding at last a table all spread, Grandpa and May sat down at the head. Looking it o'er some goodies they spied, "See! Grandpa, see!" little May cried: "There's a turkey stuffed and roasted! There's some bread buttered and toasted! "There's some dumplings sitting on pegs! There's a pudding standing on legs! "There's a clock that's mountains high, Reaching up against the sky!" Soon the clock began to chime, Everything marched off in line. 'Round and 'round in giddy whirl, Passed the man and little girl. Pet and grandpa watched them all, Wond'ring that they did not fall. He helped himself and little May, As the turkey came their way; Piled their plates up full and high, As the rest came marching by. Just as grandpa took a bite, Sleeping pet then moved a mite, Slipped and fell from grandpa's lap, Right then ended grandpa's nap. Back from dreamland came the two, Sorry that their trip was through. WHEN I WAS A BABY When I was a baby They said I was "sweet"; I'd such dimpled hands And soft, little feet. My head, it was bald, My teeth had not come; But then just the same I chewed my own gum. My eyes they were blue, My lips they were thin, My cheeks they were dimpled, And so was my chin. I was very good-natured, Full of frolic and fun; And they said I was "cute" For a baby so young. And when I grew older I learned how to talk; And soon after creeping, I learned how to walk. I trotted about Most all of the day; And got into mischief When I wasn't in play. I've kept on growing And now am quite tall And think it much nicer Than being so small. I'm growing much older And soon will be eight; And so long to grow big I scarcely can wait. DOT'S NEW LEAF As Dot sat by the fire one night, She thought of times gone past; Of summer days, of romps, and plays, Of school, and its hard task. She thought of times of misspelled words, And numbers hard to sum, Of tardy lines, and awful times, And scales she could not run. So Dot resolved that winter night, The new year she would try To study well, and learn to spell, And sing the scale up high. So when began the winter term, And Dot went off to school, She with the rest then tried her best To learn each little rule. Though little Dot meant all she said, Somehow 'twas hard to do; 'Twas greater fun to slide or run Than multiply by two. The seat grew hard, the teacher cross, And lessons harder got; "I'd rather skate than use my slate," So mused poor little Dot. When time wore on to balmy days, With sunshine and with showers; She stayed away from school, to play And gather wild-wood flowers. So when, at last, the school was closed, She dropped behind the class; For little Dot, her leaf forgot, And then she did not pass. DREAMING, SWEETLY DREAMING I have tucked away my dollies All so snugly in their bed, And I listened to the prayers That my little dollies said. Oh, they were so tired and sleepy, For they played so many hours; But now they're dreaming, sweetly dreaming, Of the birds and pretty flowers. They have played among the daisies, And among the lilies too; They were romping in the clover, And were picking violets blue. They have chased the shining sunbeams That came flitting from the skies; But now they're dreaming, sweetly dreaming, Of the birds and butterflies. They have picked the blushing roses, And have kissed the starry bells, And found the sweet forget-me-nots Where they bloom in flowery dells. They have romped among the grasses That were fanned by evening breeze, But now they're dreaming, sweetly dreaming, Of the birds and humming bees. When the stars have ceased to twinkle, And the sky is bright and clear; When the sun is up and shining, And the dewdrops disappear; When the little fish are swimming, Swimming in the sunny streams, Then my dollies will be waking, Waking from their happy dreams. THE SNOWDROP'S CALL "Come, wake up," said the Snowdrop To a Crocus sleeping nigh, "The sun is brightly shining, And there's blue up in the sky. "The snow has left the hill tops, And the frost is going too; So it's time that you were waking, For to show your face of blue. "Come, Daffodil, I'm calling; You are sleeping much too long; For the bluebirds are returning, And I've heard the robin's song. "The South wind is gently blowing, For I heard it 'mongst the trees And the Hyacinth is waking To perfume the gentle breeze. "Come, Jonquil, do not linger! For the morn is passing fast; If you soon are not awaking, You will surely be the last." The Crocus 'woke up quickly When she heard the Snowdrop's call; And put forth her face of blue When the snow began to fall. She shivered in the snowflakes That fell about her feet; Then was sorry she was wakened From her winter's quiet sleep. "You have called us all too early," Said the sleepy Daffodil, "For the North wind still is blowing, And the nights are cold and chill." Then they all dropped back to slumber Till the days some warmer grew; Then their winter nap was ended, And they 'woke and blossomed too. WHEN BROTHER WAS A SISTER When brother was a little girl, She never wore her hair in curl; But she was very good and sweet, And had the "cutest" dimpled feet! Her little hands were soft and white, And so she kept them day and night. Her dimpled cheeks were pretty too, In rosy tints of nature's hue. And oh! such happy times had we, My little sister Lisle and me. We sometimes kept a little store, And sold our playthings o'er and o'er. And through the long, long summer day, Upon the lawn we used to play. We played with dishes and with dolls, With dolly cabs and rubber balls. She helped to wash the dishes too, Like little sisters always do. And in her sorrows I could share, For sister was my only care. And with a loving sister's arm I used to shield her from all harm. Then life for me was all a joy Before Lisle turned into a boy. But Time flies on his changing wings, And many curious changes brings. The creeping worm becomes a fly, And wings his way toward the sky. The golden egg within the nest, Becomes a chick with downy breast. The pollywog becomes a frog, And croaks within his hidden bog. And little sisters turn to boys, And leave their dolls for warlike toys Then Time brought me the saddest day, When sister's frocks were laid away. The little cloak and bonnet too Were changed for cap and coat of blue. And for the girl with sweetest face-- A boy had stepped into her place. A boy! and oh, so changed is he! From the little girl he used to be. The dimpled feet are brown and bare, And rough and tumbled is his hair. The rosy cheeks of nature's hue-- Sometimes they're black, sometimes they're blue. The little hands so soft and white-- With dirt begrimed, they are a sight. Now through the long, long summer days, Upon the coalhouse roof he plays. And on the roof he sits and fishes, And never helps me wash the dishes. He scorns the sister's loving arm That used to shield him from all harm; And for my loving, watchful care, He turns his nose up in the air. Oh! I wish he'd never turned into a boy, To bring such woe instead of joy; But stayed a little girl like me, For then my life would happier be. WE'RE ONLY LITTLE CHILDREN We're only little children, And not so very wise; So don't expect too much, And do not criticise. We came here for your pleasure, And 'twould be hardly right If we should make mistakes, For you to laugh to-night. So won't you kindly listen, And patience try to keep? Don't whisper to each other, Nor yawn and go to sleep. We're only little children, But think, when we are through, You big folks all will say We did as well as you. A DREAM OF EASTER When Nell her evening prayer had said, And climbed into her snowy bed, She closed her little weary eyes, To dream of wonders in the skies, And dream of days of long ago, When her dear Savior was laid low. She saw Him nailed upon the cross, And heard poor Mary grieve her loss, Then saw Him laid within the tomb, Where all was dark as midnight gloom; And saw the loved ones turn away From where their dear, dead Savior lay. She heard an earthquake's rumbling sound, And felt the shaking of the ground, Then saw a white-robed angel band Descend to earth from heaven land; And at the breaking of the day, She saw one roll the stone away. A glorious light dispelled the gloom That reigned within the Savior's tomb; And forth He came, in garments white, Amid the morning stars of light; A shining crown was on his head, For He had risen from the dead. The band of angels sweetly sang Until the tomb with music rang; The birds cooed softly in the trees, And sweet perfume was on the breeze; The sun arose in splendor bright, To shed o'er earth his beaming light When Nell awoke within her bed, "It is our Easter morn," she said, "Such visions fair in sleep I've seen, For Jesus rose up in my dream. Out from the tomb I saw Him rise And pass beyond the heavenly skies; And with a band of angels fair, He went to heaven to dwell up there." MOTHER ROBIN A robin was sitting high up in a tree, And was happy as ever a robin could be; In a nice little nest that was built by two, She was sitting on four small eggs of blue. Her mate on a limb was sitting close nigh, And thinking of birds that would come by-and-by. He always kept near that little home-nest, And often would sit to give his mate rest. When she grew tired of waiting so long, He would cheer her up with a sweet little song. In a very short time her sitting was o'er, And the birds in her nest numbered just four. A sweet little girl lived near to this tree, Who was happy as ever a girl could be; She had a nice doll, that had a nice swing, That had hung in this tree since early in spring. One day she was swinging her doll to and fro, Mother Robin was peeking at her below; She said: "Little girl, little girl, look up to me, I've four little birdies for you to see." "O Mother Robin, I'm glad they have come! I'll go right now and bring you a crumb; I'll bring one for your mate and each of the four, And when supper is ready I'll bring you some more." "All right, little girl, I wish that you would, I'm glad to see you so thoughtful and good; But I wish you would keep old Tabby away, For I know she was gazing up here to-day." "O Mother Robin, you must have no alarm! For Tabby, I'm sure, will do you no harm; She's a good old cat and minds what I say, But I'll tell her again not to come this way. "Will you give me a birdie? one of your four, I only want one and not any more; I have a nice cage I could hang in the tree, And birdie, I know, would be happy with me." "Oh, no; little girl, it never will do To part with my birdie and give her to you; She never could live shut up in a cage, And my mate, I fear, would fly in a rage. "Will you give me your doll? I'd like to have one For my little birdies, you know they have none; When they get older they'll all want to play, And I've room by my nest to tuck her away." "Oh, no; Mother Robin, my dolly would cry, If she lived in a nest that was up so high; When the wind blew my dolly would fall, Then down would come birdies, nest, and all. "So I'll keep my dolly, for I think it is best, And you keep your birds till they fly from the nest; They will be happier, I know, to be free, And my dolly's contented to stay here with me." MABEL GRAY Early to her slumber Went little Mabel Gray; Rose up in the morning Just at the peep o' day. Busy little maiden Was little Mabel Gray; Doing all her house work Before she went to play. Helping in the kitchen To keep things shining bright; Dusting in the parlor, And setting things to right. Singing all the daytime, From morn till dewy night; Shedding rays of brightness Like stars of purest light. Busy little woman, And with a loving heart, Never shirked her duty, But always did her part. Charming little woman, And loving little wife, Ever bright and cheerful, Lived a long and happy life. THE NAUGHTY CROW A blackbird was swinging On a blackberry bush; When there came an old crow And gave him a push. Then the blackbird fell From the blackberry bush; And the old crow crowed 'Cause he gave him that push. THE BIRDS' GOOD-NIGHT "Good-night," said the robin, As he finished his song; "I am going to sleep Till the morning doth dawn." "Good-night," said the bluebird, As he sought his snug nest; "Now the evening draws near, I am going to rest." "Good-night," said the lark, As he hushed his lay; "I am off to my sleep Till the break of the day." "Good-night," said the thrush As he trilled his last note; "I am off to my roost In the broad spreading oak." "Good-night," said a maid As she nodded her head, "When you've gone to your rest, I am going to bed. "I have finished my work, And have finished my play; And am glad for the night At the close of the day. "I am sleepy and tired, And I long for my bed; For the soft, downy pillow, Where I lay my wee head. "And to dream there sweetly Till the sun shines bright: Till then, my birdies, Good-night, good-night." SANTA'S QUEER JOKE When Santa came one wintry night, A pair of stockings hung in sight Just side by side upon the wall-- But one was large and one was small. When Santa turned and saw them there, He said: "Well, that's a queer-matched pair! "This girl is up to tricks I see, And thinks she'll play a joke on me; "But I'll look 'round and soon find out What this fair miss has been about." And then he took the stockings down, And a folded note in one he found. 'Twas written plain, so Santa read Each line and word the wee note said: "Dear, dear Santa, I hope you won't mind Because two stockings you happen to find. "Don't think I'm greedy, that won't be fair! For one is grandma's you see hung there. "You have not filled it since she was young, So I hung it up to have some fun. "So please, dear Santa, do not scold, For grandma now is getting old. "She wants some specs, so she can see To knit some winter mitts for me. "Then 'twould be nice if you've enough So you could spare a box of snuff. "Some gum to chew, some nuts to crack-- I'm sure you've got them in your pack. "She needs a cap with lace and strings, So, Santa, please give her these things. "That's all I'll ask; if you'll do this, I'll pay you some time with a kiss." "This little girl, with heart of gold, Must love her grandma now so old. "And it's all for fun! Yes, yes, I see!" Then Santa laughed again with glee. "I'll carry the joke as far as I can, For I like some fun, if I am an old man." Then dropping his pack upon the floor, He looked its contents o'er and o'er, And found a cap, some specs, and gum, A whistle, doll, and little drum; A nice red sled, and doll buggy, too, Old Santa found as he searched them through. Into grandma's stocking he stuffed the doll; Although 'twas large, it wouldn't hold all. Then tied with a string the sticks and drum, And said: "Now grandma can have some fun." Then into the other, the one so small, He stuffed the cap, specs, snuff, and all. Then said to himself, the jolly old man, "I've carried the joke as far as I can. "I'd better be off ere grandma is waking, Or maybe I'll get a jolly good shaking." Then should'ring his pack till his form was bent, He got into mischief wherever he went. Then in the morning, when grandma awoke, She laughed, till she cried, at Santa's queer joke. LITTLE SUNBEAMS We're a band of little children, That is gathered here to-day, And we're working for our Savior, In our little childish way. In the path that lies before us, In this world of ours below, We will strive to do our duty, As we ever onward go. We are as the light of morning, That comes peeping through the pane; We are like the rays of sunshine, That we welcome after rain. We are just some little sunbeams That are scattered here and there; And without us little sunbeams, This great world would not be fair. WHERE DO BABIES GO? Where has baby gone to? Asks a mother dear; Why has darling baby Left me lonely here? And my pretty home Grown so still and drear? Where are all the playthings That lay upon the floor? Where's the little dolly cab That bumped against the door? It's stowed now in the attic, For she'll never want it more. So she went and left us, Our little baby May, And we are so lonely Since she went away, That we wish our baby Would come back and stay. There's a dreadful longing In poor mama's breast, Where her precious baby Laid her head to rest; And slept so sweetly, Like birdies in their nest. Where has baby gone to? Says mama with a sigh; Where has baby gone to? And a tear is in her eye, And will my darling baby Come back by-and-by? She gazes from the window, And sees the faces sweet Of the pretty children, Coming down the street; But not a face like baby's Does she chance to meet. Soon a winsome lassie Comes tripping into view, With head of flaxen curls, And eyes of deepest blue, And a loving heart That always beats so true. Mama sees the lassie That took the baby's place, With the same blue eyes, But not the baby face; For the winsome lassie Has one of older grace. And that's where baby went to; But no one ever knows How the baby disappears, Or how the baby goes, Only that a baby Eats, and laughs, and grows. WHEN MY KITTY WAS A KITTEN When my kitty was a kitten, That was many years ago, Her was dest the sweetest kitten Of any kitten that I know. An' her wore a ribby ribbon That was striped in stripes of blue; An' her purred the sweetest pur When her didn't mew her mew. Her was dest as good an' gentle As a kitten ever was; An' was berry neat an' 'ticular 'Bout her little pawey paws. Her was full of fun an' frolic, An' her played wiv paper balls; An' her sleeped her little sleeps Wiv my darling dolly dolls. But my kitty's growed a catty An' forgot her cunnin' plays; An' her doesn't like my dollies, So her spits an' runs aways. Nor her isn't sweet an' gentle Like my kitten used to was; For her scratches little misses Wiv her naughty scratchy claws. Oh! I's sorry that her's bigger Than my kitten used to be; For a kitten's awful sweeter Than a catty is to me. THE BUSY LITTLE HOUSEKEEPER I's such a busy little housekeeper, An' dot so much to do, I has to stop an' think a bit, If ever I tan git froo. For there's my dollie's bed to make An' pretty dess to mend; An' there's my little baby doll That I must stop to tend. Whenever she wakes up at morn, She's sure to fret or cry, Unless I rocks her for a while An' sings a lullaby. An' there's my little bruver Joe, He's such a naughty tease, He always wants my dolly boy, But never will say "Please." He makes such lots an' lots of work For mama an' for me; I often wish he was a fish A-swimmin' in the sea. An' when I has such busy days, An' dot so much to do, To care for all my dollies dear, He never helps me froo. I musn't stop no longer now To tell you nuthin' more; I thinks I hear my dollie scream, Like she's tumbled on the floor. I has to go an' git her now, An' hush her up right quick; Or maybe she will hold her breff, An' then git awful sick. GRANDMA'S POCKET I have a lovely grandma Who's very dear to me; I go to see her oftentimes And sit upon her knee. She tells me pretty stories Just what I like to hear; She thinks I'm very nice, I guess, And calls me little dear. My grandma has a lovely dress She's worn a long, long while; She made it all herself, she said, When pockets were in style. It's made with pointed, ruffled waist, That has a surplice twist; And has the old-time bishop sleeve That buttons at the wrist. The skirt does hang so nicely too, And always looks so well, It has not any train to it, Nor was it cut a bell. It has a lovely pocket though! That's big, and wide, and deep, I always find out where it is And slyly take a peep. "There is something in my pocket, dear," Says grandma every time. I'm sure to find a penny there, Or else a silver dime. "It's yours, my little girlie dear!" Says grandma, with a kiss, "So keep them all, my little one, Until you're grown a miss." I'm saving up my money now To buy a golden locket; And have her picture placed in it With dimes from out her pocket. WHAT GOOD IS A BROTHER? What good is a brother? I never could see, But only to tease A poor sister like me, And that is as naughty, As naughty can be. He's nothing but trouble, And mama's great care, And always in mischief A-doing his share; And no peace in the house Whenever he's there. He hangs up my doll At the foot of the bed, With my new skipping-rope Until she is dead; Then laughs at the tears That it makes me shed. Then he teases my kitty, Like the bad boys do, By pulling her tail Till it's nearly in two; Then whistles and laughs When he hears her mew. If I had my wish, Do you know what I'd say? I'd tell my poor mama To give him away To grandpa and grandma, And there make him stay. But, then, poor grandpa! He never could nap Without a bad boy Crawling up on his lap, And whipping his knees To make them get-ap. And poor, dear grandma, So patient and kind, It worries her so Because he won't mind; And then her glasses She never could find. I suppose I must live, And try, if I can, To bear with his capers Until he's a man; But I do hope then My brother will see What a lot of trouble He has been to me. MR. HOP-TOAD A hop-toad came out One day in the spring. He struck up a tune, And began to sing; The weather was cold And made his voice crack, So poor old hop-toad Just waddled right back. MINNIE'S SECRET I've got a little secret I'd like to have you know; So, now, I'm going to tell it:-- My sister has a beau. She looks so sweet and pretty When Tommy comes to call; And talks so nice and witty, And is so good to all. I'm afraid he's going to love her, And marry her some day; But if he only knew her, He'd think another way. She's awful cross to brother, When Tommy ain't around; I don't believe a crosser girl Could anywhere be found. She says I am a bother When she has got a beau; And act so very stupid By telling all I know. I only told to Tommy That she would lie in bed, And let our tired mama Do all the work instead. I told him not to love her For she was awful cross; And me and little brother She always tried to "boss." I guess he's going to listen And my advice he'll take. He said she must do better Or she would get the shake. I'm just a-going to tell her To mind what she's about; For soon I'll be as big as her And then I'll cut her out. NELLIE'S EASTER EGGS Old Biddy Brown, a nice old hen, Belonged to little Nell; She hid her nest from all the rest, And kept her secret well. And every morn, just like the sun, She made her daily trip Up in the hay her egg to lay, And gave the rest the slip But one cold day old Biddy Brown Concluded it was best, That in the hay she'd better stay, And take a little rest. They missed her from the chicken coop, And from the barnyard pen; And none could tell, not even Nell, Just where to find that hen. The days went by, the weeks sped on, And still she hid away; But little Nell kept hunting well, And found her in the hay. Now, Easter time was drawing nigh, And Nell, in colors bright, Was going to taint, with brush and paint, Old Biddy's eggs so white. She took them from the poor old hen, Who'd sat so long with care, And in a tin she brought them in, Which really was not fair. She dabbled with those pretty paints, Till shells were lost to view; Then with delight she viewed the sight Of eggs, in red and blue. She put them by the kitchen stove, And covered them up tight, To keep them warm and free from harm, And out of baby's sight. The next morn rang the Easter bells, And Nell rose with a start; Her playmates, some would surely come To view her work of art. So proudly to the kitchen then, With step so light and free, With happy look her playmates took, Those Easter eggs to see. But what a change came over Nell! Had some one played her tricks? To her surprise, before her eyes Was a pan of downy chicks. WHEN DOLLY WAS SICK My doll got sick one summer day, And then I had to stop my play. I tucked her in her little bed, With burning cheeks and throbbing head. I knew that she was cutting teeth, And that one thought gave me relief. But still I wondered as I had, Why her poor head should ache so bad. She seemed so ill for one so young, So I thought I'd have the doctor come. I sent for him to come--come quick, For my dear Nell was very sick. Then when he came he shook his head, And this is what the doctor said: "She has the measles or some fever; But have no fear, I can relieve her. "I'll give her powders for her head, But you must keep her close in bed. "I'll give her quinine made in pills, And they will cure those dreadful chills. "But when your neighbors come to call, Don't let them see your babe at all. "She must not talk, nor even smile; So keep her quiet for a while. "Be careful what you give to eat, Now don't give salads or cold meat. "Nor don't give biscuits that are warm, For they will do your dolly harm. "But give her nicely buttered toast, With veal, or lamb, or mutton roast." I watched beside her suffering bed, And many were the tears I shed. But soon a change came o'er my Nell, I saw that she was getting well. Oh, what a joy it was to me, To know from pain my Nell was free! But she was very pale and thin, With faded cheeks and pointed chin. Then came the doctor with his bills-- So much for powders, so much for pills. I paid them all without a sigh, And thanked him 'cause she did not die. AUNTIE'S PARLOR My auntie has a parlor grand, That's furnished very fine, With lots of pretty, fancy things, That cost her many a dime. I like to peep into that room Whenever I go there, To see those pretty, fancy things, And find out what they are. But auntie always watches me, Just like a cat a mouse, And says: "You are a mischief, Belle, When you are in my house." There's bric-a-brac on the mantel-shelf, And pictures on the wall, And pretty, high-back easy-chairs That spring up like a ball. There is a grand piano there That must have cost her much; But all I ever hear is this: "Now, Belle, you must not touch." There is a lovely stand and stool, And rugs upon the floor, And vases in the corner too, But--a lock is on the door. Now, what's a parlor good for, say? I'd really like to know! With doors and windows fastened tight, And pretty things for show. I wish I owned that parlor grand, And all those things so nice, I'd let my kitty go in there To watch for naughty mice. I'd tell the little girls I know Who hadn't one so fine, That they were always welcome guests To come and play in mine. OFF TO SCHOOL WE GO In the morning when the sun Does begin his daily run, When the stars have gone to sleep, And no longer brightly peep, Then we take a morning dine; And before the clock strikes nine, Off to school, to school we go, Some on time and some are slow. Some look pleasant, some look sour, Some are whispering every hour; Some are naughty, some are good, Some, they study as they should; Full of fun and full of play, So they see us every day. Off to school, to school we go, Some on time and some are slow. Soon our lessons are all past, And the day has gone at last; Some, they learned them as they should, Some, they did not get them good; Some are always staying late For mistakes upon their slate. Home from school, from school we go, Some on time and some are slow. Soon we girls will older grow, Then we'll wish so much to know, So to study we must try, For our time is flitting by. Days and weeks are passing fast, And schooldays will soon be past, So while off to school we go, Let's be on time and never slow. CLARABEL'S VALENTINE "Now, who shall get my valentine?" Thought little Clarabel; "For I must send it to some friend Who loves me very well." She thought of cousin Madaline, A proud and haughty miss, But changed her mind almost as soon, For she would scoff at this. She thought of neighbor Bessie Brown, But she was rich and fair, And every year her valentines Were more than one girl's share. And next she thought of classmates dear, Then said their names all o'er; But every year their valentines Would number more and more. So who should get her valentine? She thought and thought in vain; At last she said: "I'll keep this one, And none shall have the gain." Just then a little voice was heard To whisper in her ear: "There's many a girl and many a boy Who will get none this year. "So, Clarabel, please think again Of some poor children's plight, Who never get a valentine To make their sad hearts light." She heard that voice, and then she thought: "I know what I shall do, And where to send this valentine And many others, too." She took her little money bank, Where she had kept her dimes, Then swiftly to the store she ran, And bought more valentines. She sent them to the boys and girls Whose pleasures were but few; Then told her playmates what she'd done, And then they tried it, too. So many were the valentines That went their happy way, And many were the girls and boys That had a happy day. They thanked the postman o'er and o'er, Those hapless little elves, Because he brought them valentines For their own little selves. And Clarabel was happy too, And truly did believe That giving unto others Was more than to receive. THANKSGIVING AT GRANDMA'S 'Twas Thanksgiving on the farm, And hurry everywhere; For Grandma Brown got word from town, The children would be there. She sent an invitation A week or two ahead, To daughter Anna and daughter Hannah, And this is what it said: "Now bring the children, every one, And have a jolly time; For we've our share, and some to spare, So bring them all to dine. And let them bring their relatives, And each a playmate too, So bring them all, both large and small, We'll have enough for you." So Nell and Dell invited Bell And little cousin Prue, Then Bennie Mills asked Jennie Bills, And also neighbor Sue: Then neighbor Sue told brother Ralph, And Ralph told cousin Nan, Then cousin Nan asked playmate Sam, And he told neighbor Dan. Grandma said to grandson Roy: "Now bring your neighbor Ray." So neighbor Ray and sister May Invited cousin Jack; Then cousin Jack told neighbor Mack, And asked his playmate Tess; Then cousin Lottie asked cousin Dottie, And also sister Bess. Then sister Bess invited Richard, And he invited Ned, Then brother Ned invited Ed, And also cousin Fred; Then cousin Fred asked sister Ann, And she invited Joe, Then he sent word, so William heard, To bring his sister Flo. Then sister Flo and her young beau Invited playmate Tom; They said to him: "Bring neighbor Tim And also cousin Don. Tell cousin Don to go along And ask her neighbor Millie; Then she will make her brother Jake Invite his sweetheart Tillie." When grandma's tables were all spread For little guests from town, The happy crowd then shouted loud: "Three cheers for Grandma Brown!" They listened while dear grandpa then Gave thanks for daily bread. Then Will and Tim did both begin And so did Tom and Ned. Then Bennie Mills and Jennie Bills And little Don and Sue, All waded in with eager vim And so did Dan and Prue. Then sister Bess and playmate Tess, Ate much of poultry meats; While Ralph and Nell and cousin Bell, Ate many pickled beets. Then Roy and Ann and Dick and Joe, Ate all of grandma's jam, While Ed and Nan, Dell, Fred, and Sam, Ate all the eggs and ham. Then Ray and Millie, and May and Tillie, And also brother Jake, And Jack and Lottie, and Mack and Dottie, Ate all the broiled steak. When all were through at dinner time, There naught remained but crumbs; For pretty Flo and her young beau, Ate all the sugar plums. Then grandma smiled when she looked round And saw the happy set, For she just knew, as grandmas do, How hungry children get. When grandpa hauled the wagons out To take them back to town, They scrambled in, with childish din, And cheered for Grandma Brown; They cheered for grandpa loud and long, And called him "Grandpa, dear," He said to them: "Now, come again, And dine with us next year." DOLLY DAYS My mama says that I'm too old To play with dolls much more, That I must lay them all away For dolly days for me are o'er. But what I'll do, I do not know, When they're all laid away; I know I'll sigh and maybe cry, When I've no doll with me to play. Then with them all put out of sight The days will lonely be; For when I'm mad, or when I'm sad, There'll be no doll to comfort me. There's Maggie May, my eldest one, The doll that was so fine, Santa let her drop from the chimney top, And caused a crooked spine. She's been a cripple ever since, And such a fretful child, She's cried and screamed until it seemed I really should go wild. There's sweet Marie, a pretty doll, With hair of golden hue, With cheeks so bright and chin so white, And eyes of heaven's blue. And Rosa Nell, another blond, Whose temper is so mild, That every one, both old and young, Could love the pretty child. She's broke her nose, but what of that! She always wears a smile, She's at her play the livelong day, And sings most all the while. There's Lilla Dale, with tangled hair, Who's lain so long in bed, When very small she had a fall, That cracked her little head. She'll miss my care and I'll miss her When she is laid away; For many a time I've soothed her whine Because she could not play. And Nellie Gray, the sweet brunette, Whose hair was dark as night, My heart will ache and maybe break, When she's laid out of sight. She's lost an arm and both her legs, And only has one curl; But you may bet she's precious yet, This dear old darky girl. But now I'm old; too old, they say,-- I've entered in my teens; But I'll look back o'er memory's track, To happy doll-day dreams. There'll be no hours in years to come, That have been like the past; For dolly days and dolly plays Were just too sweet to last. THAT GIGGLE When I arose to speak one day, I quite forgot what I had to say. I thought, and thought, and tried in vain To bring it to my mind again, And there I stood, with head downcast, A-dreading what would come at last. The room grew dark, my heart grew sad, I thought I surely would go mad; I tried to speak, but not a word Or e'en a whisper could be heard. My limbs with palsy seemed to shake, My heart with terror seemed to quake. I heard a giggle clear and loud Go rippling through the waiting crowd. I could no longer stand the strain, For bursting seemed my heart and brain. Then to my feelings I gave vent, And weeping to my seat I went. MARION'S LAMENT I'm such a lonely little girl, And play all by myself; I feel just like a broken doll That's laid by on the shelf. And when I'm tired of playing alone, There's nothing else to do, But wish I had a brother Joe, Or little sister Sue. I think I'll write to Santa Claus And say I'm lone and sad; And if he'll bring a baby girl, I'll be so very glad. I think that he will bring me one, For Santa's good to me. I'll tell him please to hang it on My little Christmas tree. WHEN I'M A BIG GIRL I'll try to be good, And do as I should, I'll learn how to work And never will shirk, When I'm a big girl. I'll do with my might Whatever is right, I'll study at school And obey each rule, When I'm a big girl. With needle and yarn My stockings I'll darn, I'll comb my own tresses And make my own dresses, When I'm a big girl. I'll learn how to bake Some very nice cake, I'll make my own bed And mind what ma said, When I'm a big girl. I'll dust, and I'll sweep, And my dollies I'll keep; I'll stow them away To look at some day, When I'm a big girl. I'll lay away toys For some other joys, I'll never make noise Like the great big boys, When I'm a big girl. Now, had I more time I'd tell you in rhyme Some more that I'll do, When I'm big like you. WHAT THE BELLS SAID One Sabbath morn in lovely June, The old church bells rang out a tune. Unto the world they seemed to say: "This is our little children's day. "Now will you listen to our call, And come to hear the children small? "Their songs in voices, sweet and clear, Unto their Maker you shall hear. "Their smiling faces are a sight, That turns all darkness into light. "Their little speeches are so nice, That you should hear at any price. "Their little songs in chorus sound As though there were no evil 'round. "Their prayers so humble, sweet, and pure, Will make you feel that heaven's sure. "Then come you people, one and all, And learn the ways of children small. "And live again those childish days, Before you learned the worldly ways. "'Twill bring you back those youthful joys, Of winsome girls and manly boys. "'Twill give your soul an upward flight, And bring your heaven just in sight." And then the bells rang off their tune, That lovely Sabbath morn in June. To listen while the songs of love Went to the Maker up above; And listen while a childish prayer, Was breathed upon the holy air. WHY? I often sit and wonder why It is not always day, And why the sunshine and the light Cannot forever stay. I often sit and wonder why The birdies are so wild, And what does make them fly away From every little child. And why they always like to sing, And never like us talk, And why they always like to fly, And never like us walk. Sometimes I sit and wonder too, About my pussy cats, Just why they did not have some wings Like ugly little bats. My dolly is a mystery too, And so I wonder why, When I am washing dolly's face, She does not pout and cry. And then it never seemed quite right To have the world turn round; It seems so strange we do not fall Or tumble off the ground. There are so many other things That don't look right to me; I sometimes really don't believe They're as they ought to be. BECAUSE Now what's the use of wondering Why 'tis not always day? For we must have the night to sleep So we can rest from play. And there's the little birdies too, It's all right they are wild; For it never was intended They should play with a child. I'd rather hear them singing sweet Than hear them try to talk; And rather see them flying high Than see them try to walk. Then what would be the use of wings Upon a pussy cat? Because she could not catch a mouse When flying like a bat. Then what good could a dolly do To cry, or fret, or scream, Because her mama's gentle hand Was trying to wash her clean. And then I think it is all right Because the world turns round; For gravitation in the earth Does keep us on the ground. So then, to me, this world of ours Seems just as it should be; And with it all I'm satisfied, And hope it is with me. HOW HAZEL KEPT HOUSE "I'm going to be the housekeeper, While you are gone away," Said Hazel to her mama, One lovely summer day; "For I can tend the baby, It's nothing more than play. "I'll play that I am mama With lots of work to do; And then I'll call on brother To come and help me through With dishes and the sweeping, Like papa does help you." Then mama kissed her daughter, And said a fond good-by; But gently did remind her: "Don't let the baby cry, Don't burn the dinner pudding, Don't boil the kettle dry." There were dishes to be washed, And kitchen floor to sweep, And soon the precious baby To rock and sing to sleep; And dinner to get ready, And a watch on pudding keep. So busy was our Hazel With dinner to prepare, She did not notice baby Was tired of her chair, Nor that her helpful brother Had run away somewhere. She went to stir the pudding, But baby began to cry; She had to stop and rock her, And sing a lullaby; But could not get her quiet, No matter how she'd try. She called for helpful brother, And thought he was around; But no response was given, Not one familiar sound; For little helpful brother Was nowhere to be found. The noon hour was approaching, With dinner--not in sight, Although our patient Hazel Had worked with will and might To have it cooked and ready, And make the pudding right. When papa came at noon-time, A hungry man was he, But not a tempting morsel For dinner could he see; But poor discouraged Hazel With baby on her knee. The table looked untidy, The floor was yet unswept, And naughty little brother,-- Safe out of sight had kept, While Hazel, with the baby, Had set her down and wept. When mama came at evening She heard her daughter say: "O mama, take the baby, I've had an awful day!" And Hazel found that keeping house Was something more than play. DROPS OF HONEY There was a little busy bee That roamed a field all over; At last he spied a blossom red Upon a stem of clover. He lit upon that blossom red And searched it through and through; And found some drops of honey there That sparkled like the dew. He took those drops of honey And put them in his hive; And when the cold, cold winter came They kept the bee alive. WHEN MY DOLLY WENT TO SCHOOL When my dolly went to school I bought her a slate and rule With my only silver dime; And I said to dolly dear, "Now, my pretty, do you hear? You must always be on time." But I told her not to worry, Nor get into a flurry If she happened to be late; And what teacher has to say She must every word obey, And must always sit up straight. Then her little study book And some other things she took, With a bottle full of ink; And a pen and blotter too, With a tablet clean and new, For to write her little think. But my dolly had a will And she never would sit still, So the teacher had to use a stick. Then the boys would tease her so Just because she didn't know How to get her 'rifmatic. Soon my dolly grew so haughty And some days she was so naughty That she wouldn't mind a rule. And she couldn't learn to spell, Nor would get her grammar well, So I thought I'd take her out of school. And I'd wait a year or two Till my dolly older grew, Then, perhaps, she'd try to learn. But she promised to do better So I did consent to let her Go to school another term. THREE LITTLE KITTENS Three little kittens, All sleek as a mouse, Played hide-and-go-seek, 'Round a honeybee's house. Three little kittens, All sleek as a mouse, Got stung most to death, 'Round a honeybee's house. Three little kittens, All sleek as a mouse, Never played any more, 'Round a honeybee's house. THE SPIDER'S PARLOR There was a cunning spider once Who wove a tangled web; A shining fly came passing by And to the spider said: "What have you in your parlor, sir, I wish you'd tell to me." The spider said: "I wish instead You'd step inside and see. "My parlor is a pretty place Where you may sit and rest; With cozy nooks and picture books, I think mine is the best. "I've windows in my parlor, too, All draped in woven lace; And as you pass a pretty glass Reflects a handsome face. "I've pictures on the mantelshelf I purchased just of late; The frames are fine and nicely shine And all are up to date." The fly then crossed the threshold line And never thought of harm; The spider wise then blinked his eyes And spun a little yarn. He said unto his victim fair: "This is a pretty place; So won't you fly to the window high Where hangs the woven lace?" The fly flew to the window pane Where spider lace was hung; And ere he knew just what to do A web was 'round him strung. He buzzed and hummed and fluttered there, And struggled with his might. The spider sly had caught the fly And held him very tight. So let's not listen, like the fly, To untrue tales that are told; For we must mind we're sure to find All glittering things aren't gold. Let's not be led to danger then By a sinful, harmful guide; But walk each day in the narrow way And shun the one that's wide. MOTHER GOOSE'S DINNER PARTY Old Mother Goose Rode in her caboose, And invited her friends to dine; And to each of them said, As she popped out her head: "Be sure to come at straight nine." To Old Mother Hubbard, Who had a bare cupboard, With nothing to eat or to sup, She said: "Bring your dog Jack, So you can carry back Enough for to fill you both up." And to little Bopeep: "You may bring all your sheep, And their tails that were hung up to dry." And to little Jack Horner, Who sat in the corner, She said: "I have made a plum pie." And to little Boy Blue: "Bring your horn along too, And play us a rollicking tune; For the cat with the fiddle Will play us 'Hi-diddle,' While the cow jumps over the moon." And to little Tom Tucker, Whose face wore a pucker, Because he had nothing to eat, She said: "Come to the party And eat quite hearty, Then your face will be pleas'nt and sweet." But of little Tom Green, The boy who was mean, She said she would surely leave out; And would only invite The boy who did right, And he was that little John Trout. To the piper's son Tom, She said: "Come along And bring us a pig if you will," Then poor simple Simon, Who met the fat pieman, She told he could eat to his fill. And to poor Jack and Jill, Who fell down the hill, And cut such a terrible caper: "Be sure that you bring A drink from the spring, And some vinegar and brown paper." But to bad, bad Peter, The great pumpkin eater, She said she thought 'twould be well To give his poor wife A change in her life, And let her come out of her shell. But poor Humpty-Dumpty! He got such a bumpty, When he fell way down from the wall, That he went all to smash With a terrible crash, So she couldn't invite him at all. Then old Mother Goose Thought 'twould be of no use To invite the king and the queen; For they lived so high On their blackbird pie, And with poor folks wouldn't be seen. But thought 'twould be right To kindly invite The woman who lived in the shoe. So lent her caboose To be of some use In bringing the children there too. So all the folks came To see the good dame, And they all spent a jolly good day; And said their good-byes, With tears in their eyes, When the wagons were rolling away. OLIVE'S ADVICE Let me tell you what to do As this world you journey through. Give a smile to all you meet, Keep your temper nice and sweet. Keep your faces bright and clean, Never do a trick that's mean. Keep pure thoughts within your mind, Never say a word unkind. When at home, or when at school Please obey each given rule. Keep in mind your duty ever, Don't neglect it once, no, never! Then you'll live a happy life, Free from trouble, free from strife. THE OLD AND THE NEW The year has past and gone at last, The parting gave us pain; But though we sigh for one gone by, 'Twill not return again. We can't recall, not one, not all The years that we have known; They came and went and each was spent, With good and bad seeds sown. Then let's not whine nor e'en repine For joys that might have been; But with brave heart let each take part To help his fellow-men. We must not grieve; but still believe Time will soon brighter be; Though we've not met with greatness yet, There's hopes for you and me. We'll let the past that's gone at last, Be lost on memory's track; We'll live no more the old year o'er, Nor ever wish it back. The new year's come and now begun, So ring, ye merry chimes; Peal one loud strain of sweet refrain, And bring us better times. Let's greet the year with words of cheer, And new resolves we'll make; We'll strive with might to do the right, And duty never shake. With pages turned and wisdom learned By mishaps in life's dream; We'll turn one new for me and you, And keep it white and clean. We'll keep it well that it may tell Our vows were not in vain; And may each one, when this year's done, Be raised to higher plane. PA'S WAYS My pa, he's got the funniest ways Of any man whatever I saw! He's different than ma. He never thinks same as she does; But they alus seem to git 'long some way 'Caus ma says fussin' don't pay. But pa don't b'lieve in women votin'; En he says that ma can't, En then he says that she shan't! He says he'd be 'shamed of her; En says he'd git divorce. En pa means what he says o' course. Pa likes to go to church sometimes; But he don't b'long to any 'Caus there's so awful many, En nobody knows which one's right. He says the preachers don't know Where the folks is goin' to go. 'Caus they's never been there-- He means the place they's preach for, What they calls the golden shore. But he says they's doin' lots o' good En he don't mind givin' 'm money. En ma says that's what's funny! But he never minds what she says, He says woman can't mind her biz! En I guess he's right, pa is. But ma b'lieves in woman's rights; En says a woman kin talk en do, En that's what she's goin' to. Pa says if she couldn't talk she'd die! En he wants her to live long, So lets her talk on, en on. But pa can eat more'n she can; En he likes everything she bakes Her pies, en pudins, en cakes. En it keeps her bakin' lots it does. She says she wishes he wouldn't eat s' much Of pies, en cakes, en pudins, en such. He says her cookin's good too, En it jest gives him a appitite! Oh, my! pa eats a awful sight. But he don't care anything 'bout fashion; He says his is all his own; En wishes folks 'uld let him 'lone! He says if folks 'uld pay ther bills They couldn't wear so much style, En go to picnics all the while. He's gittin' older every day, pa is. En ma says he's funnier, too, En she don't know what she'll do! But she never crosses him now; 'Caus she says it never pays Fer pa--well them's pa's ways. THE SPIDER AND THE BEE "Will you walk into my parlor?" Said a spider to a bee, "'Tis the prettiest little parlor That ever you did see." "No: I thank you, Mr. Spider," Said the busy, humming bee, "There's no honey in your parlor, So it's not the place for me." KITTY BELL I've a story that I'll tell 'Bout a puss named Kitty Bell, How she played and romped one day, In a _very shocking_ way. And what happened to her then Just because she'd naughty been; For she wouldn't mind a word, Not a single one she heard. So she had to go to bed With a dreadful aching head! An' she cried an awful lot, 'Caus her head was burning hot. But I bound an' tied it up, Gave her tea in her new cup, Shook her pillow till 'twas light, Then slept kitty all the night. In the morning when she woke Not a single word she spoke; But she mewed, "I'm hungry ma," Then she licked her little paw, Washed her face as kittens do, Till it looked as clean as new; Soon her mama brought a mouse, That she caught back of the house. This she gave to Kitty Bell; An' poor kitty then got well, Ate it up an' ran to play In a _very quiet_ way. THE BIRDS' PARTY The birds all held a party One lovely day in June; When hearts were light and cheery And voices were in tune. They came in pairs from woodlands, From orchards, and from glen, The robin, rook, and bluebird, The swallow, cuckoo, wren, Sweet bobolink and sparrow, The crow and pretty jay, The whip-poor-will and linnet, All came that happy day. The meadow lark and blackbird, The tiny chickadee, The chippy bird and nightingale, All came the sights to see. The catbird and canary, The topknot and the thrush, The oriole and turtledove, All came to join the rush. And each one brought a basket With something good to eat; The robins brought some cherries, The crows each brought some meat. The sparrows brought some pudding, The blackbird brought some corn, The topknot brought a June plum, The chickadee a horn. The bluebird brought a horsefly, The meadow lark a bug, The linnet brought a cricket, The turtledove a slug. The swallow brought a beetle, The wren a little ant, The cuckoo brought a blossom, From off a mustard plant. The catbird brought some berries, The thrush his choice of weeds, The canary and the rest, Brought baskets full of seeds. They gathered in the green wood, To spread their dinner fine; Then each one took his sweetheart, And went with her to dine. The feast was soon all over, And each one with his mate Danced to the horn of chickadee, Until the hour was late. Then all the birdies parted, And each one took to flight; But every bird was happy When he bade his love good-night. JANUARY With merry chimes and merry times We'll greet the new year bright; We'll turn a page that's new in age And try to keep it white. We'll look ahead and never dread The wind in all his whirls, For winter days and winter plays Are good for boys and girls. The wind will blow and drift the snow O'er lakes and frozen rills; But what care we? we'll happy be A-coasting down the hills! We'll build our forts for winter sports, And make a man of snow; And then we'll skate upon the lake, And let the cold wind blow. We like the ice and think it nice, And wish 'twould always tarry; Of all the year we hold most dear The month of January. FEBRUARY The jolly month of winter time Has called around once more; And Mr. Ground-hog will be out To tell us winter is not o'er. He'll walk about in pig-ship style, And, ere the day is done, He'll freeze his nose and chill his toes And wish he hadn't come. Then soon will come old Valentine With lots of fun to see; He'll have a face that looks like you, And one that looks like me. And next will come a birthday Of one who once was great-- We'll dance and shout and all turn out And help to celebrate The birth of one who never lied, And thus he lived until he died-- George Washington. MARCH The month of March has come again With blowing, snowing blast; The winds are piercing in their search, But come too late to last. But as the month will onward march, The winds will warmer grow; Until 'tis seen the earth is green And vanished has the snow. Then comes the sweetest time of all, When sap flows up the tree; When sugar-makers busy are A-making cakes for me. For I'm the girl who likes the cakes Made from that sugar sweet-- They're better far than all the gum That's chewed upon the street. This is the time I like so well And wish 'twere always here. Of all the months that call around I think March sweetest of the year. APRIL The welcome month of April, With sunshine and with showers, Sets all the buds to swelling And brings the early flowers. And nature now has wakened From her long and wintry sleep, And dandelions are peeping In the grasses at our feet. The bullfrog loud is calling From the pond or running stream, And the nesting birds are cooing In their early "love's young dream." The hop-toad in the cellar Thinks he'll take a look without, And old shanghi on the fence Crows and flops his wings about. And I am just as happy As the butterfly or bee, For the showery month of April Is a welcome month to me. MAY The sweetest time of all the year Is when the month of May draws near. The air is sweet with rich perfume That comes from apple-trees in bloom. The peach-tree sheds its fragrance too, And sips alike its share of dew. The lilac blooms and shows its right To make this month a flowery sight. The pansy lifts her welcome face From out her long-leaved hiding-place. The violet blossoms as of old And shows her color true as gold. The brooks they ripple as they go From brink to brink, in ceaseless flow. The lark sails high on upward wing-- All Nature's glad to greet the spring. The wild flowers blossom in the wood, And all proclaim that God is good. Of all the months I'd have to stay It is the flowery month of May. JUNE The month of June brings roses sweet, And daisies blooming at our feet; When Nature sings her sweetest tune, 'Tis in the balmy month of June. And glad vacation June will bring, Then old school bells will cease to ring, But wedding bells their sweet refrain Will ring and ring out just the same. Now lilies white upon the stream, In early morning will be seen; And cherries ripe upon the tree Are tempting to the birds and me. So robin hops from limb to limb, And seems to think they're all for him; And gets his share, and even more, Before the cherry time is o'er. This is the month that suits me best, And I love it better than all the rest; I'd always sing the same gay tune, If all the months were just like June. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Text in italics is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. 
38053	----	THE COO-EE RECITER. BY AUSTRALIAN, BRITISH, AND AMERICAN AUTHORS. _HUMOROUS, PATHETIC, DRAMATIC, DIALECT, RECITATIONS & READINGS._ WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, MELBOURNE & TORONTO. CONTENTS. PAGE I Killed a Man at Graspan M. GROVER. Kitty O'Toole W. L. LUMLEY. The Ballad of the Drover HENRY LAWSON. The Rescue EDWARD DYSON. Saltbush Bill A. B. PATERSON. Drought and Doctrine. J. BRUNTON STEVENS. The Martyr VICTOR J. DALEY. The Carrying of the Baby ETHEL TURNER. The Old Gum FLORENCE BULLIVANT. Murphy shall not Sing To-night MONTAGUE GROVER. Christmas Bells JOHN B. O'HARA, M.A. Wool is Up GARNET WALCH. Wool is Down GARNET WALCH. The Highland Brigade Buries its Dead LIEUT.-COL. W. T. REAY. Australia's Call to Arms JOHN B. O'HARA, M.A. Good News GARNET WALCH. Free Trade _v._ Protection GARNET WALCH. The Lion's Cubs GARNET WALCH. The Little Duchess ETHEL TURNER. Australia's Springtime W. L. LUMLEY. The Man that saved the Match DAVID M'KEE WRIGHT. Ode for Commonwealth Day, 1st January, 1901. A Desperate Assault The Game of Life JOHN G. SAXE. Prejudice CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON. The Poor and the Rich JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. The Engineer's Story Seeing's not Believing. THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY. Caudle has been made a Mason DOUGLAS JERROLD. Mrs. Caudle's Lecture DOUGLAS JERROLD. Jim Bludso COLONEL JOHN HAY. How Uncle Mose Counted the Eggs The Negro Baby's Funeral. WILL CARLETON. Der Shpider und der Fly CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. Lariat Bill G. W. H. The Elf Child; or, Little Orphant Annie JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS (Monk Lewis). An All-around Intellectual Man. TOM MASSON. Her Ideal KATE MASTERSON. The Happy Farmer. MORTIMER C. BROWN. The Son of a Soldier OWEN OLIVER. The Mile DAVID M'KEE WRIGHT. THE COO-EE RECITER _I KILLED A MAN AT GRASPAN._ (_The Tale of a Returned Australian Contingenter done into verse._) I killed a man at Graspan, I killed him fair in fight; And the Empire's poets and the Empire's priests Swear blind I acted right. The Empire's poets and Empire's priests Make out my deed was fine, But they can't stop the eyes of the man I killed From starin' into mine. I killed a man at Graspan, Maybe I killed a score; But this one wasn't a chance-shot home, From a thousand yards or more. I fired at him when he'd got no show; We were only a pace apart, With the cordite scorchin' his old worn coat As the bullet drilled his heart. I killed a man at Graspan, I killed him fightin' fair; We came on each other face to face, An' we went at it then and there. Mine was the trigger that shifted first, His was the life that sped. An' a man I'd never a quarrel with Was spread on the boulders dead. I killed a man at Graspan; I watched him squirmin' till He raised his eyes, an' they met with mine; An' there they're starin' still. Cut of my brother Tom, he looked, Hardly more'n a kid; An', Christ! he was stiffenin' at my feet Because of the thing I did. I killed a man at Graspan; I told the camp that night; An' of all the lies that ever I told That was the poorest skite. I swore I was proud of my hand-to-hand, An' the Boer I'd chanced to pot, An' all the time I'd ha' gave my eyes To never ha' fired that shot. I killed a man at Graspan; An hour ago about, For there he lies with his starin' eyes, An' his blood still tricklin' out. I know it was either him or me, I know that I killed him fair, But, all the same, wherever I look, The man that I killed is there. I killed a man at Graspan; My first and, God! my last; Harder to dodge than my bullet is The look that his dead eyes cast. If the Empire asks for me later on It'll ask for me in vain, Before I reach to my bandolier To fire on a man again. M. GROVER. _KITTY O'TOOLE._ Och! a charmin' young cratur' was Kitty O'Toole, The lily ov shwate Tipperary; Wid a voice like a thrish, and wid cheeks like a rose, An' a figger as nate as a fairy! Oi saw her wan noight--och! she look'd loike a quane In the glory ov shwate wan an' twinty-- As she sat wid McGinty's big arm round her waisht, Och! how I invied McGinty! Six months afther that, in the shwate summer days, The boys an' the girls wor' invoited By Micky O'Toole, ov the cabin beyant, To see Kate an' McGinty unoited; An' whin in the church they wor' made into wan, An' the priesht gave thim blissin's in plinty, An' Kitty look'd shwater than iver before-- Och! how I invied McGinty! But the years have gone by, an' McGinty is dead! Och! me heart was all broke up wid pity To see her so lonely, an' mournful, an' sad, An' I wint an' got married to Kitty! But now, whin I look where McGinty is laid, Wid a shtone o'er his head cowld an' flinty-- As he lies there so peaceful, an' quoiet, an' shtill-- Och! how I invy McGinty. W. L. LUMLEY. _THE BALLAD OF THE DROVER._ BY HENRY LAWSON. (_By kind permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._) Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again. And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old pack-horse Is trotting by his knee. Up Queensland way with cattle He travelled regions vast; And many months have vanished Since home-folk saw him last. He hums a song of someone He hopes to marry soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune. Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies, And yon blue line of ranges, The homestead station lies. And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune. An hour has filled the heavens With storm-cloud inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track, But Harry pushes onward; His horses' strength he tries In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise. The thunder from above him Goes rolling o'er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents fall the rain. And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud. Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains; And to his hardy horses, And strokes their shaggy manes; "We've breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height, Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!" The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses, To swim the fatal stream. But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle horse is failing, And only half-way o'er! When flashes next the lightning, The flood's grey breast is blank, And a cattle-dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank. But on the bank to northward, Or on the southern shore, The stock-horse and his rider Will struggle out no more. The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank. And round and round in circles, He fights with failing strength, Till borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length. Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam, The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home. And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; The hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily. * * * * * The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain. But someone's eyes are saddened, And someone's heart still bleeds, In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds. _THE RESCUE._ BY EDWARD DYSON. (_From "Rhymes from the Mines," by kind permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._) There's a sudden, fierce clang of the knocker, then the sound of a voice in the shaft, Shrieking words that drum hard on the centres, and the braceman goes suddenly daft; "Set the whistle a-blowing like blazes! Billy, run, give old Mackie a call-- Run, you fool! Number Two's gone to pieces, and Fred Baker is caught in the fall! Say, hello! there below--any hope, boys, any chances of saving his life?" "Heave away!" says the knocker. "They've started. God be praised, he's no youngsters or wife!" Screams the whistle in fearful entreaty, and the wild echo raves on the spur, And the night, that was still as a sleeper in soft, charmed sleep, is astir With the fluttering of wings in the wattles, and the vague, frightened murmur of birds; With far cooeys that carry the warning, running feet, inarticulate words. From the black belt of bush come the miners, and they gather by Mack on the brace, Out of breath, barely clad, and half-wakened, with a question in every face. "Who's below?" "Where's the fall?" "Didn't I tell you?-- Didn't I say them sets wasn't sound?" "Is it Fred? He was reckless was Baker; now he's seen his last shift underground." "And his mate? Where is Sandy M'Fadyn?" "Sandy's snoring at home on his bunk." "Not at work! Name of God! a foreboding?" "A foreboding be hanged! He is drunk!" "Take it steady there, lads!" the boss orders. He is white to the roots of his hair. "We may get him alive before daybreak if he's close to the face and has air." In the dim drive with ardour heroic two facemen are pegging away. Long and Coots in the rise heard her thunder, and they fled without word or delay Down the drive, and they rushed for the ladders, and they went up the shaft with a run, For they knew the weak spot in the workings, and they guessed there was graft to be done. Number Two was pitch dark, and they scrambled to the plat and they made for the face, But the roof had come down fifty yards in, and the reef was all over the place. Fresher men from the surface replace them, and they're hauled up on top for a blow; When a life and death job is in doing there's room only for workers below. Bare-armed, and bare-chested, and brawny, with a grim, meaning set of the jaw, The relay hurries in to the rescue, caring not for the danger a straw; 'Tis not toil, but a battle, they're called to, and like Trojans the miners respond, For a dead man lies crushed 'neath the timbers, or a live man is choking beyond. By the faint, yellow glow of the candles, where the dank drive is hot with their breath, On the verge of the Land of the Shadow, waging war breast to bosom with Death, How they struggle, these giants! and slowly, as the trucks rattle into the gloom, Inch by inch they advance to the conquest of a prison--or is it a tomb? And the workings re-echo a volley as the timbers are driven in place; Then a whisper is borne to the toilers: "Boys, his mother is there on the brace!" Like veterans late into action, fierce with longing to hew and to hack, Riordan's shift rushes in to relieve them, and the toil-stricken men stagger back. "Stow the stuff, mates, wherever there's stowage! Run the man on the brace till he drops! There's no time to think on this billet! Bark the heels of the trucker who stops! Keep the props well in front, and be careful. He's in there, and alive, never fret." But the grey dawn is softening the ridges, and the word has not come to us yet. Still the knocker rings out, and the engine shrieks and strains like a creature in pain As the cage rushes up to the surface and drops back into darkness again. By the capstan a woman is crouching. In her eyes neither hope nor despair; But a yearning that glowers like frenzy bids those who'd speak pity forbear. Like a figure in stone she is seated till the labour of rescue be done. For the father was killed in the Phoenix, and the son--Lord of pity! the son? "Hello! there on top!" they are calling. "They are through! He is seen in the drive!" "They have got him--thank Heaven! they've got him, and oh, blessed be God, he's alive!" "Man on! heave away!" "Step aside, lads; let his mother be first when he lands." She was silent and strong in her anguish; now she babbles and weeps where she stands, And the stern men, grown gentle, support her at the mouth of the shaft, till at last With a rush the cage springs to the landing, and her son's arms encircle her fast. _She has cursed the old mine for its murders, for the victims its drives have ensnared, Now she cries a great blessing upon it for the one precious life it has spared._ _SALTBUSH BILL._ BY A. B. PATERSON. (_By permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._) Now this is the law of the Overland, that all in the West obey, A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day; But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood. They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they camp where the grass is good; They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains, Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the saltbush plains. From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand, For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland. For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, 'tis written in white and black-- The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track; And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where the grass is dead, But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go with a two-mile spread. So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night, And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight; Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob, are willing the peace to keep, For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the travelling sheep; But this is a tale of a Jackeroo that came from a foreign strand, And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland. Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough, as ever the country knew, He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes from the sea to the Big Barcoo; He could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him a chance to spread, And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead; He was drifting down in the Eighty drought with a mob that could scarcely creep (When the kangaroos by the thousands starve, it is rough on the travelling sheep), And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run; "We must manage a feed for them here," he said, "or the half of the mob are done!" So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go, Till he grew aware of a Jackeroo with a station-hand in tow, And they set to work on the straggling sheep, and with many a stockwhip crack They forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the half-mile track; So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of that Jackeroo. So he turned and he cursed the Jackeroo, he cursed him alive or dead, From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly head, With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran, Till the Jackeroo from his horse got down and he went for the drover-man; With the station-hand for his picker-up, though the sheep ran loose the while, They battled it out on the saltbush plain in the regular prize-ring style. Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake and the pride of the English race, But the drover fought for his daily bread, with a smile on his bearded face; So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it a lengthy mill, And from time to time as his scouts came in they whispered to Saltbush Bill-- "We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, and the grass it is something grand, You must stick to him, Bill, for another round for the pride of the Overland." The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home, Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the brick-red loam, Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest, Then the drover said he would fight no more, and he gave his opponent best. So the new chum rode to the homestead straight and he told them a story grand Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King of the Overland. And the tale went home to the public schools of the pluck of the English swell, How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell. But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep were boxed on the Old Man Plain. 'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again. With a week's good grass in their wretched hides, with a curse and a stockwhip crack They hunted them off on the road once more to starve on the half-mile track. And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite How the best day's work that ever he did was the day that he lost the fight. _DROUGHT AND DOCTRINE._ BY J. BRUNTON STEPHENS. (_By kind permission of the publishers, Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Sydney and Melbourne._) Come, take the tenner, doctor ... yes, I know the bill says "five," But it ain't as if you'd merely kep' our little 'un alive; Man, you saved the mother's reason when you saved that baby's life, An' it's thanks to _you_ I ha'n't a ravin' idiot for a wife. Let me tell you all the story, an' if then you think it strange, That I'd like to fee ye extry--why, I'll take the bloomin' change. If yer bill had said a hundred ... I'm a poor man, doc., and yet I'd 'a' slaved till I had squared it; ay, an' still been in yer debt. Well, you see, the wife's got notions on a heap o' things that ain't To be handled by a man as don't pretend to be a saint; So I minds "the cultivation," smokes my pipe an' makes no stir, An' religion an' such p'ints I lays entirely on to her. No, she's got it fixed within her that, if children die afore They've been sprinkled by the parson, they've no show for evermore; An' though they're spared the pitchfork, the brimstun, an' the smoke, They ain't allowed to mix _up there_ with other little folk. So when our last began to pine, an' lost his pretty smile, An' not a parson to be had within a hunder mile-- (For though there is a chapel down at Bluegrass Creek, you know, The clargy's there on dooty only thrice a year or so)-- Well, when our yet unchristen'd mite grew limp, an' thin, an' pale, It would 'a' cut you to the heart to hear the mother wail About her "unregenerate babe," an' how, if it should go, 'Twould have no chance with them as had their registers to show. Then awful quiet she grew, an' hadn't spoken for a week, When in came brother Bill one day with news from Bluegrass Creek. "I seen," says he, "a notice on the chapel railin' tied; They'll have service there this evenin'--can the youngster stand the ride? For we can't have parson here, if it be true, as I've heard say, There's a dyin' man as wants him more'n twenty mile away; So"--He hadn't time to finish ere the child was out of bed, With a shawl about its body an' a hood upon its head. "Saddle up," the missus said. I did her biddin' like a bird. Perhaps I thought it foolish, but I never said a word; For though I have a vote in what the kids eat, drink, or wear, Their sperritual requirements are entirely _her_ affair. We started on our two hours' ride beneath a burnin' sun, With Aunt Sal and Bill for sureties to renounce the Evil One; An' a bottle in Sal's basket that was labelled "Fine Old Tom" Held the water that regeneration was to follow from. For Bluegrass Creek was dry, as Bill that very day had found, An' not a sup o' water to be had for miles around; So, to make salvation sartin for the babby's little soul, We had filled a dead marine, sir, at the fam'ly waterhole. Which every forty rods or so Sal raised it to her head, An' took a snifter, "just enough to wet her lips," she said; Whereby it came to pass that when we reached the chapel door, There was only what would serve the job, an' deuce a dribble more. The service had begun--we didn't like to carry in A vessel with so evident a carritur for gin; So we left it in the porch, an', havin' done our level best, Went an' owned to bein' "mis'rable offenders" with the rest. An' nigh upon the finish, when the parson had been told That a lamb was waitin' there to be admitted to the fold, Rememberin' the needful, I gets up an' quietly slips To the porch to see--a swagsman--with our bottle at his lips! Such a faintness came all over me, you might have then an' there Knocked me down, sir, with a feather or tied me with a hair. Doc., I couldn't speak nor move; an' though I caught the beggar's eye, With a wink he turned the bottle bottom up an' drank it dry. An' then he flung it from him, bein' suddintly aware That the label on't was merely a deloosion an' a snare; An' the crash cut short the people in the middle of "A-men," An' all the congregation heard him holler "Sold again!" So that christ'nin' was a failure; every water-flask was drained; Ev'n the monkey in the vestry not a blessed drop contained; An' the parson in a hurry cantered off upon his mare, Leavin' baby unregenerate, an' missus in despair. That night the child grew worse, but all my care was for the wife; I feared more for her reason than for that wee spark o' life.... But you know the rest--how Providence contrived that very night That a doctor should come cadgin' at our shanty for a light.... Baby? Oh, he's chirpy, thank ye--been baptised--his name is Bill. It's weeks and weeks since parson came an' put him through the mill; An' his mother's mighty vain upon the subjick of his weight, An' reg'lar cock-a-hoop about his sperritual state. So now you'll take the tenner. Oh, confound the bloomin' change! Lord, had Billy died!--but, doctor, don't you think it summut strange That them as keeps the gate would have refused to let him in Because a fool mistook a drop of Adam's ale for gin? _THE MARTYR._ BY VICTOR J. DALEY. (_From "At Dawn and Dusk" poems, by kind permission of Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._) Not only on cross and gibbet, By sword, and fire, and flood, Have perished the world's sad martyrs Whose names are writ in blood. A woman lay in a hovel Mean, dismal, gasping for breath; One friend alone was beside her: The name of him was--Death. For the sake of her orphan children, For money to buy them food, She had slaved in the dismal hovel And wasted her womanhood. Winter and spring and summer Came each with a load of cares; And autumn to her brought only A harvest of grey hairs. Far out in the blessèd country, Beyond the smoky town, The winds of God were blowing Evermore up and down; The trees were waving signals Of joy from the bush beyond; The gum its blue-green banner, The fern its dark-green frond; Flower called to flower in whispers By sweet caressing names, And young gum shoots sprang upward Like woodland altar-flames; And, deep in the distant ranges The magpie's fluting song Roused musical, mocking echoes In the woods of Dandenong; And riders were galloping gaily, With loose-held flowing reins, Through dim and shadowy gullies, Across broad, treeless plains; And winds through the Heads came wafting A breath of life from the sea, And over the blue horizon The ships sailed silently; And out of the sea at morning The sun rose, golden bright, And in crimson, and gold, and purple Sank in the sea at night; But in dreams alone she saw them, Her hours of toil between; For life to her was only A heartless dead machine. _Her_ heart was in the graveyard Where lay her children three; Nor work nor prayer could save them, Nor tears of agony. On the lips of her last and dearest Pressing a farewell kiss, She cried aloud in her anguish-- "Can God make amends for _this_?" Dull, desperate, ceaseless slaving Bereft her of power to pray, And Man was careless and cruel, And God was far away. But who shall measure His mercies? His ways are in the deep; And, after a life of sorrow, He gave her His gift of sleep. Rest comes at last to the weary, And freedom to the slave; Her tired and worn-out body Sleeps well in its pauper grave. But His angel bore her soul up To that Bright Land and Fair, Where Sorrow enters never, Nor any cloud of care. They came to a lovely valley, Agleam with asphodel, And the soul of the woman speaking, Said, "Here I fain would dwell!" The angel answered gently: "O Soul, most pure and dear, O Soul, most tried and truest, Thy dwelling is not here! "Behold thy place appointed-- Long kept, long waiting--come! Where bloom on the hills of Heaven The roses of Martyrdom!" _THE CARRYING OF THE BABY._ BY ETHEL TURNER. Larrie had been carrying it for a long way, and said it was quite time Dot took her turn. Dot was arguing the point. She reminded him of all athletic sports he had taken part in, and of all the prizes he had won; she asked him what was the use of being six-foot-two and an impossible number of inches round the chest if he could not carry a baby. Larrie gave her an unexpected glance and moved the baby to his other arm; he was heated and unhappy, there seemed absolutely no end to the red, red road they were traversing, and Dot, as well as refusing to help to carry the burden, laughed aggravatingly at him when he said it was heavy. "He is exactly twenty-one pounds," she said, "I weighed him on the kitchen scales yesterday. I should think a man of your size ought to be able to carry twenty-one pounds without grumbling so." "But he's on springs, Dot," he said; "just look at him, he's never still for a minute; you carry him to the beginning of Lee's orchard, and then I'll take him again." Dot shook her head. "I'm very sorry, Larrie," she said, "but I really can't. You know I didn't want to bring the child, and when you insisted, I said to myself, you should carry him every inch of the way, just for your obstinacy." "But you're his mother," objected Larrie. He was getting seriously angry, his arms ached unutterably, his clothes were sticking to his back, and twice the baby had poked a little fat thumb in his eye and made it water. "But you're its father," Dot said sweetly. "It's easier for a woman to carry a child than a man"--poor Larrie was mopping his hot brow with his disengaged hand--"everyone says so; don't be a little sneak, Dot; my arm's getting awfully cramped; here, for pity's sake take him." Dot shook her head again. "Would you have me break my vow, St. Lawrence?" she said. She looked provokingly cool and unruffled as she walked along by his side; her gown was white, with transparent puffy sleeves, her hat was white and very large, she had little white canvas shoes, long white Suède gloves, and she carried a white parasol. "I'm hanged," said Larrie, and he stopped short in the middle of the road; "look here, my good woman, are you going to take your baby, or are you not?" Dot revolved her sunshade round her little sweet face. "No, my good man," she said; "I don't propose to carry your baby one step." "Then I shall drop it," said Larrie. He held it up in a threatening position by the back of its crumpled coat, but Dot had gone sailing on. "Find a soft place," she called, looking back over her shoulder once and seeing him still standing in the road. "Little minx," he said under his breath. Then his mouth squared itself; ordinarily it was a pleasant mouth, much given to laughter and merry words; but when it took that obstinate look, one could see capabilities for all manner of things. He looked carefully around. By the roadside there was a patch of soft, green grass, and a wattle bush, yellow-crowned, beautiful. He laid the child down in the shade of it, he looked to see there were no ants or other insects near; he put on the bootee that was hanging by a string from the little rosy foot, and he stuck the india-rubber comforter in its mouth. Then he walked quietly away and caught up to Dot. "Well?" she said, but she looked a little startled at his empty arms; she drooped the sunshade over the shoulder nearest to him, and gave a hasty, surreptitious glance backward. Larrie strode along. "You look fearfully ugly when you screw up your mouth like that," she said, looking up at his set side face. "You're an unnatural mother, Dot, that's what you are," he returned hotly. "By Jove, if I was a woman, I'd be ashamed to act as you do. You get worse every day you live. I've kept excusing you to myself, and saying you would get wiser as you grew older, and instead, you seem more childish every day." She looked childish. She was very, very small in stature, very slightly and delicately built. Her hair was in soft gold-brown curls, as short as a boy's; her eyes were soft, and wide, and tender, and beautiful as a child's. When she was happy they were the colour of that blue, deep violet we call the Czar, and when she grew thoughtful, or sorrowful, they were like the heart of a great, dark purple pansy. She was not particularly beautiful, only very fresh, and sweet, and lovable. Larrie once said she always looked like a baby that has been freshly bathed and dressed, and puffed with sweet violet powder, and sent out into the world to refresh tired eyes. That was one of his courtship sayings, more than a year ago, when she was barely seventeen. She was eighteen now, and he was telling her she was an unnatural mother. "Why, the child wouldn't have had its bib on, only I saw to it," he said, in a voice that increased in excitement as he dwelt on the enormity. "Dear me," said Dot, "that was very careless of Peggie; I must really speak to her about it." "I shall shake you some day, Dot," Larrie said, "shake you till your teeth rattle. Sometimes I can hardly keep my hands off you." His brow was gloomy, his boyish face troubled, vexed. And Dot laughed. Leaned against the fence skirting the road that seemed to run to eternity, and laughed outrageously. Larrie stopped too. His face was very white and square-looking, his dark eyes held fire. He put his hands on the white, exaggerated shoulders of her muslin dress and turned her round. "Go back to the bottom of the hill this instant, and pick up the child and carry it up here," he said. "Go and insert your foolish old head in a receptacle for _pommes-de-terre_," was Dot's flippant retort. Larrie's hands pressed harder, his chin grew squarer. "I'm in earnest, Dot, deadly earnest. I order you to fetch the child, and I intend you to obey me," he gave her a little shake to enforce the command. "I am your master, and I intend you to know it from this day." Dot experienced a vague feeling of surprise at the fire in the eyes that were nearly always clear, and smiling, and loving, then she twisted herself away. "Pooh," she said, "you're only a stupid over-grown, passionate boy, Larrie. You my master! You're nothing in the world but my husband." "Are you going?" he said in a tone he had never used before to her. "Say Yes or No, Dot, instantly." "No," said Dot, stormily. Then they both gave a sob of terror, their faces blanched, and they began to run madly down the hill. Oh the long, long way they had come, the endless stretch of red, red road that wound back to the gold-tipped wattles, the velvet grass, and their baby! Larrie was a fleet, wonderful runner. In the little cottage where they lived, manifold silver cups and mugs bore witness to it, and he was running for life now, but Dot nearly outstripped him. She flew over the ground, hardly touching it, her arms were outstretched, her lips moving. They fell down together on their knees by their baby, just as three furious, hard-driven bullocks thundered by, filling the air with dust and bellowing. The baby was blinking happily up at a great fat golden beetle that was making a lazy way up the wattle. It had lost its "comforter" and was sucking its thumb thoughtfully. It had kicked off its white knitted boots, and was curling its pink toes up in the sunshine with great enjoyment. "Baby!" Larrie said. The big fellow was trembling in every limb. "_Baby!_" said Dot. She gathered it up in her little shaking arms, she put her poor white face down upon it, and broke into such pitiful tears and sobs that it wept too. Larrie took them both into his arms, and sat down on a fallen tree. He soothed them, he called them a thousand tender, beautiful names; he took off Dot's hat and stroked her little curls, he kissed his baby again and again; he kissed his wife. When they were all quite calm and the bullocks ten miles away, they started again. "I'll carry him," said Larrie. "Ah no, let me," Dot said. "Darling, you're too tired--see, you can hold his hand across my shoulder." "No, no, give him to me--my arms ache without him." "But the hill--my big baby!" "Oh, I _must_ have him--Larrie, _let_ me--see, he is so light--why, he is nothing to carry." _THE OLD GUM._ Stand here; he has once been a grand old gum, But it makes one reflect that the time will come When we all shall have had our fling; Yet, our life soon passes, we scarce know how-- You would hardly think, to see him now, That once he had been a king. In his youth, in the silence of the wood, A forest of saplings around him stood; But he overtopped them all. And, over their heads, through the forest shade, He could see how the sunlight danced and played, So straight he grew, and so tall. Each day of his life brought something new, The breeze stirred the bracken, the dry leaves flew, The wild bird passed on the wing: He heard the low, sad song of the wood, His childhood was passed in its solitude; And he grew--and became a king. Oft has he stood on the stormy night, When the long-forked flash has revealed to sight The plain where the floods were out; When the wind came down like a hurricane, And the branches, broken and snapped in twain, Were scattered and strewn about. Oft, touched by the reddening bush-fire glow, When clouds of smoke, rolling up from below, Obscured the sun like a pall; When the forest seemed like a flaming sea, And down came many a mighty tree, Has he stood firm through it all. Those days of his youth have long gone by; The magpie's note and the parrot's cry, As borne on the evening wind, Recall to his thoughts his childhood flown, Old memories, fresh, yet faintly blown, Of the youth he has left behind. On the brow of the hill he stands to-day, But the pride of his life has passed away; His leaves are withered and sere. And oft at night comes a sound of woe, As he sways his tired limbs to and fro And laments to the bleak night air. He can still look down on the plain below, And his head is decked by the sunset glow With a glorious crown of light; And from every field, as the night draws on, To his spreading arms the magpies come To shelter there for the night. Some night, when the waters rage and swell, He will hear the thunder roll his knell, And will bow his head to the ground; And the birds from their nests will wheel in the air, And the rabbits burrow deeper in fear, At the thundering, rending sound. And the magpies must find another home; No more, at the sunset, will they come To warble their evening song. Ah, well! our sorrow is quickly flown, For the good old friends we have loved and known: And the old tree falls by the tall new grown, And the weak must yield to the strong. FLORENCE BULLIVANT. _MURPHY SHALL NOT SING TO-NIGHT._ Specimens of Ireland's greatness gathered round O'Connor's bar, Answering the invitation Patsy posted near and far. All the chandeliers were lit, but did not shed sufficient light, So tallow candles, stuck in bottles, graced the bar that famous night. All the quality were there; before such talent ne'er was seen; Healy brought the house down fairly with "The Wearin' o' the Green." Liquor went around in lashins, everything was going off right, When O'Connor sent the word round, "Murphy shall not sing to-night." Faces paled at Patsy's order; none were listening to the song; Through their hearts went vague sensations--awful dreads of coming wrong; For they knew that Danny Murphy thought himself a singer quite, And knew that if he made his mind up, that, bedad, he'd sing that night. Everyone was close attention, knew that there would be a row, When the chairman said that "Mr. Murphy will oblige us now." "Not so fasht," said Pat O'Connor, rising to his fullest height, "This here pub belongs to me, and Murphy shall not sing to-night." Up jumps Murphy, scowling darkly as he looks at Pat O'Connor: "Is this the way," he says to Pat, "that you uphold Ould Oireland's honour?" "Oi know Oi'm not much at singin'; any toime Oi'd sooner foight; But, to show me independence, s'help me bob, Oi'll sing to-night." "Gintlemin," says Pat O'Connor, wildly gazing round about, "It will be my painful duty to chuck Danny Murphy out; It has been a rule with me that no man sings when he is tight; When Oi say a thing Oi mane it--Murphy shall not sing to-night." Then says Doolan to O'Connor, "Listen what Oi've got to tell; If yez want to chuck out Murphy, yez must chuck out me as well." This lot staggered Pat O'Connor, Doolan was a man of might; But he bluffed him, loudly crying, "Murphy shall not sing to-night." Then he rushed on Danny Murphy and he smote him hip and thigh; Patsy looked a winner straight, when Doolan jabbed him in the eye. All the crowd at once took sides, and soon began a rousing fight; The battle cry of Patsy's push was "Murphy shall not sing to-night." The noise soon brought a copper in: 'twas Patsy's cousin, Jim Kinsella. "Hould yer row," he says to Doolan, when Mick lands him on the smeller. They got the best of Doolan's push, though; lumbered them for getting tight. Patsy then had spoken truly, "Murphy did not sing that night." EPILOGUE. Specimens of Ireland's greatness gathered round the City court. There before the awful sentence was a touching lesson taught-- Then away they led the prisoners to a cell, so cool and white; And for fourteen days to come Murphy shall not sing at night. MONTAGUE GROVER. _CHRISTMAS BELLS._ BY JOHN B. O'HARA, M.A. (_By kind permission of the Author._) Bells, joyous bells of the Christmas-time, Dear is the song of your welcome chime; Dear is the burden that softly wells From your joyous throats, O tolling bells! Dear is the message sweet you bind Dove-like to wings of the wafting wind. You tell how the Yule-king cometh forth From his home in the heart of the icy North; On his Eastern steeds how rusheth on The wind-god of storms, Euroclydon; How his trumpet strikes to the pallid stars That shrink from the mad moon's silver bars, Where the cold wind tortures the sobbing sea, And the chill sleet pierces the pinioned lea, As the snow king hurls from his frozen zone The fragments fast of a tumbled throne. But what is the song, O silver bells, You sing of the ferny Austral dells, Of the bracken height, and the sylvan stream, And the breezy woodland's summer dream, Lulled by the lute of the slow sweet rills In the trembling heart of the great grave hills? Ah, what is the song that you sing to me Of the soft blue isles of our shimmering sea, Where the slow tides sleep, and a purple haze Fringes the skirts of the windless bays, That, ringed with a circlet of beauty fair, Start in the face of the dreamer there; O, what is the burden of your sweet chimes, Bells of the golden Christmas times? You sing of the summer gliding down From the stars that gem bright heaven's crown; Of the flowers that fade in the autumn sere, And the sunlit death of the old, old year. Of the sweet South wind that sobs above The grass-green grave of our buried love: No bitter dirge from the stormy flow Of a moaning sea,--ah! no, no, no! But a sweet farewell, and a low soft hymn Under the beautiful moons that swim Over the silver seas that toss Their foam to thy shrine, O Southern Cross! O, bright is the burden of your sweet chimes, Bells of the joyous Christmas times! You bring to the old hearts throbbing slow The beautiful dreams of the long ago; Remembrance sweet of the olden Yule, When hearts beat high in life's young school. Ah, haply now, as they list to your chimes, Will the voices rise of the olden times, Till the wings of peace brood over the hours Slipping like streams through sleepy bowers, While you whisper the story loved of One Who suffered for us--the sad sweet Son-- Who taught that afflictions, sent in love, Chasten the soul for the realms above. _WOOL IS UP._ Earth o'erflows with nectared gladness, All creation teems with joy; Banished be each thought of sadness, Life for me has no alloy. Fill a bumper!--drain a measure, Pewter! goblet! tankard! cup! Testifying thus our pleasure At the news that "Wool is up." 'Thwart the empires, 'neath the oceans, Subtly speeds the living fire; Who shall tell what wild emotions Spring from out that thridden wire? "Jute is lower--copper weaker," This will break poor neighbour Jupp; But for me, I shout "Eureka!" Wealth is mine--for wool is up! What care I for jute or cotton, Sugar, copper, hemp, or flax! Reeds like these are often rotten, Turn to rods for owners' backs. Fortune! ha! I have thee holden In what Scotia calls a "grup," All my fleeces now are golden, Full troy weight--for wool is up! I will dance the gay fandango (Though to me its steps be strange), Doubts and fears, you all can hang go! I will cut a dash on 'Change. Atra Cura, you will please me By dismounting from my crup-- Per--you no more shall tease me, Pray get down--for wool is up! Jane shall have that stylish bonnet Which my scanty purse denied; Long she set her heart upon it, She shall wear it now with pride. I will buy old Dumper's station, Reign as king at Gerringhup, For my crest a bust of Jason, With this motto, "Wool is up." I will keep a stud extensive; Bolter, here! I'll have those greys, Those Sir George deemed too expensive, You can send them--with the bays. Coursing! I should rather think so; Yes, I'll take that "Lightning" pup; Jones, my boy, you needn't wink so, I can stand it--wool is up! Wifey, love, you're looking charming, Years with you are but as days; We must have a grand house-warming When these painters go their ways. Let the ball-room be got ready, Bid our friends to dance and sup: Bother! _how_ can I "go steady"? I'm worth thousands--wool is up! GARNET WALCH. _WOOL IS DOWN._ Blacker than 'eer the inky waters roll Upon the gloomy shores of sluggish Styx, A surge of sorrow laps my leaden soul, For that which was at "two" is now "one--six." "Come, disappointment, come!" as has been said By someone else who quailed 'neath Fortune's frown, Stab to the core the heart that once has bled, (For "heart" read "pocket")--wool, ah! wool is down. "And in the lowest deep a lower deep," Thou sightless seer, indeed it may be so, The road to--well, we know--is somewhat steep, And who shall stay us when that road we go? Thrice cursèd wire, whose lightning strikes to blast, Whose babbling tongue proclaims throughout the town The news, which, being ill, has travelled fast, The dire intelligence that--wool is down. A rise in copper and a rise in jute, A fall alone in wool--but what a fall! Jupp must have made a pile this trip, the brute, He don't deserve such splendid luck at all. The smiles for him--for me the scalding tears; He's worth ten thousand if he's worth a crown, While I--untimely shorn by Fate's harsh shears-- Feel that my game is up when wool is down. Bolter, take back these prancing greys of thine, Remove as well the vanquished warrior's bays, My fortunes are not stable, they decline; Aye, even horses taunt me with their neighs. And thou, sweet puppy of the "Lightning" breed, Through whose fleet limbs I pictured me renown, Hie howling to thy former home with speed, Thy course with me is up--for wool is down. Why, Jane, what's this--this pile of letters here? Such waste of stamps is really very sad. Your birthday ball! Oh, come! not _twice_ a year, Good gracious me! the woman must be mad. You'd better save expense at once, that's clear, And send a bellman to invite the town! There--there--don't cry; forgive my temper, dear, But put these letters up--for wool is down. My station "Gerringhup"--yes, that must go, Its sheep, its oxen, and its kangaroos, First 'twas the home of blacks, then whites, we know, Now is it but a dwelling for "the blues." With it I leave the brotherhood of Cash Who form Australian Fashion's tinsel crown; I tread along the devious path of Smash, I go where wool has gone--down, ever down. Thus ends my dream of greatness; not for me The silken couch, the banquet, and the rout, They're flown--the base _residuum_ will be A mutton chop and half a pint of stout-- Yet will I hold a corner in my soul Where Hope may nestle safe from Fortune's frown. Thou hoodwinked jade! my heart remaineth whole-- I'll keep my spirits up--though wool be down. GARNET WALCH. _THE HIGHLAND BRIGADE BURIES ITS DEAD._ BY LIEUT.-COLONEL W. T. REAY. (_By kind permission of the Author._) How am I to describe the sadly impressive scene at Modder River on the evening of the 13th of December? The sun has just set, and the period of twilight has commenced. The great heat of the day has passed, and although there is not a breath of wind, the air is cool and refreshing. The whole British camp at Modder River is astir. Not, however, with the always gay bustle of warlike preparations; not with the laughter and jest which--such strange creatures are we--almost invariably come from the lips of men who dress for the parade which precedes a plunge into battle. There is this evening a solemn hush over the camp, and the men move from their lines in irregular and noiseless parties, for the time their pipes put out of sight, and their minds charged with serious thought. To what is given this homage of silence as the soldiers gather, and mechanically, without word of command or even request of any kind, leave a roadway from the head-quarters' flag to a point a quarter of a mile away, where a dark mound of upraised earth breaks the monotonous flatness of the whitey-green veldt? For these are mere spectators, deeply interested, it is true, yet still only spectators. What, then, is afoot? Civilians, hats off, and attention everyone. The Highland Brigade is about to bury its dead. Stand here at the head of the lines of spectator soldiers--here where that significant mound is; here at the spot selected as a last resting-place--and observe. The whole Brigade, some of the regiments sadly attenuated, is on parade, and has formed funeral procession, under Colonel Pole-Carew. First come the pipers, and it is seen that they have for the nonce discarded their service kit, and are in the full dress of their several clans. "Savage and shrill" is the Byronic description of the pibroch, which, in the "noon of night," startled the joyous revellers before Waterloo. Now it is a low, deep wail, yet voluminous and weirdly euphonious, that comes from the music-makers of the Highlands, and every heart stands still to listen. Oh, so sad it is! "The Flowers of the Forest"--("He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down")--they are--playing, shall I say? No; rather does the music flow out from the very souls of the pipers in a succession of strangely harmonious moans, and soul calls to soul. Yet beneath it all, beneath the dominant note of heart-bursting sorrow, lurks that other element--"the savage and shrill." Yes, indeed; soul calls to soul through these pipes--calls for sobs and tears for the brave who have fallen--calls for vengeance on the yet unbeaten foe. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead. Following the pipers marches a small armed party. It would have been the firing party, but volleys are not fired over soldiers' graves in time of war. Then the chaplain, in his robes, preceding the corpse of General Wauchope (who had fallen at the head of his men), borne on a stretcher. One of the bearers is of the dead man's kin--a promising young Highland officer. Then come the several regiments of the Brigade, the Black Watch leading. The men march with arms reversed, stately, erect, stern, grim. They lift their feet high for the regulation step of the slow, funeral march. But observe that even in their grim sternness these men are quivering with an emotion which they cannot control--an emotion which passes out in magnetic waves from their ranks to those of their comrade spectators of England and Ireland, and brings tears to the eyes and choking sobs to the throats of the strong and the brave. "Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!" The Highland Brigade is burying its dead. In a separate grave, at the head of a long, shallow trench, the body of General Wauchope is laid, in sight of and facing the foe. The chaplain advances, and the solemn service for the dead is recited in a clear and markedly Scotch voice, while all bow their heads and either listen or ponder. A grief-stricken kinsman's quivering hand drops earth upon the body at the words, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," and the grave of the General is quickly filled in. There, beside the trench, already lie the corpses of fifty officers and men. They had been carried to the burial place earlier in the day. There, at the end nearer to the General's grave, the officers are laid. Beside them their comrades of minor rank in life, all brought to a worldly level by the hand of death, are placed in the trench. It is an excavation only about three feet deep, but it is twelve feet wide, and the dead men are put feet to feet in two parallel rows, twenty-five on each side. They are fully attired, just as they were brought in from the battlefield, and each is wrapped in his blanket. The sporan is turned over on to the dead face, and the kilt thrown back, the rigid limbs showing bare and scarred in the unfilled trench. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead. Once more the chaplain steps forward, and a new funeral service is commenced. Again great, powerful men weep. Some grow faint, some pray, some curse. "Oh, God! oh, God!" is the cry which comes from bursting hearts as comrades are recognised, and soil is sprinkled over them by hard, rough hands, which tremble now as they never trembled in the face of a foe. Then the burial parties get to work, gently as a sweet woman tucks the bedclothes round her sleeping child. The soft soil falls kindly upon the shreds of humanity beneath. Men cease to weep, and catch something of the "rapture of repose" of which a poet has sung. Mother Earth has claimed her own, and the brave are sleeping their last sleep in her kindly embrace. Again the dirge of the pipes, and the sweet strains of "Lochaber no more" fill the evening air. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead. Meanwhile, the cable has carried its budget of sad messages to the old land. There, in a wee cottage by the bonnie burn side, the bereaved mother bows her aged head and says, "Thy will be done." There also the heart-broken once wife, newly-made widow, pours out the anguish of her soul as she clasps her fatherless bairn to her warm bosom. Her man comes no more. For the Highland Brigade has buried its dead. _AUSTRALIA'S CALL TO ARMS._ BY JOHN B. O'HARA, M.A. (_By kind permission of the Author._) Sons of ocean-girdled islands, Where the southern billows sigh, Wake! arise! the dread Bellona Speeds her chariot through the sky; Yea, the troubled star of danger On Britannia shineth down-- Wake! arise! maintain her glory And renown, and renown! In the hour of Britain's peril Shall we falter, while the fires Still are glowing on our altars From the ashes of our sires? Ho! brave hearts, for Britain's honour, For the lustre of her crown, Wake! arise! maintain her glory And renown, and renown! Ye are children of a nation, Ye are scions of the sires That of old were in the vanguard Of the world's wide empires! With the spirit of your fathers, With the fulness of their fame, Wake! arise! maintain the honour Of her name, of her name! Long to Britain may "the crimson Thread of kinship" bind our wings!-- Crimson thread that slowly slackens As the newer race upsprings: Sons of heroes, men of courage That reverse could never tame, Wake! arise! maintain the glory Of her name, of her name! See! the star of ancient Britain, That hath never known decline, By your valour lit up newly, With a glow of fiercer shine, O'er the burning sands of Afric, With your loyalty aflame; Once again maintain the glory Of her name, of her name! _GOOD NEWS._ Moostarchers and hair black as jet, Tall and thin, with a sad kind of smile; Soft-handed, soft-voiced, but well set-- A New Chum in manners and style. That's him, sir--that's him; he's been here A matter of nigh fourteen weeks, Which I know by the rent in arrear, Though a gent--you can tell when he speaks-- Came one night about eight, hired the room Without board--it's four shillings, and cheap, Though I say it, and me and the broom, And good yaller soap for its keep; And a widow with nine, which the twins-- Bless their 'arts--are that sturdy and bold At their tricks soon as daylight begins, Even now when it's perishing cold O' mornings; and Betsy, my girl, As answered the door, sir, for you, She's so slow for her age, though a pearl When there's any long job to get through; And Bobby--but there, I forgot; You'll pardon a mother, I know. Well, for six weeks he paid up his shot, And then I could see funds was low. He dressed just as neat, but his coat Got buttoned up nigher his chin, And the scarf twisted round his poor throat Missed a friend in the shape of a pin. So the rent it run on, for, says I, He's out of his luck, I can see, And wants all his money to buy His wittles (you brat, let that be). Where he works I can't tell, but he's out Every morning at nine from the house, And he comes back at six or about, And ups to his room like a mouse. On Sundays the same, so I s'pose He visits his friends on that day, But where it may be that he goes It's not in my knowledge to say. He ain't well. I can tell by his walk; He's as thin as a lath, and _that_ pale; But I never could get him to talk, So I can't rightly guess what may ail. He never sends out for no beer, He don't smoke, and as far as I see, Beyond the few clothes he brought here, And a desk, he's as hard up as me. What! you bring him good news; I _am_ glad! A fortune! ten thousand! Oh, la! That's the physic for _you_, my poor lad. This way, sir; it's not very far. Mind that stair, please--the banister's broke. Here's his door; hush, I'll knock. Ah! asleep. Can't help it--you'd better be woke; The news is too pretty to keep. Ain't he sound, eh? Poor fellow, he's rocked To rest in the Kingdom of Nod. We'd better go in. It's not locked. Follow me, sir. All dark. Oh! my God! GARNET WALCH. _FREE TRADE v. PROTECTION._ Yes, they were boys together in the grand old Fatherland, They fubbed at taw together, played truant hand-in-hand, They sucked each other's toffy, they cribbed each other's tops, They pledged eternal friendship in an ounce of acid drops. With no tie of blood between them, a greater bond was theirs, Cemented by the constant swop of apples, nuts, and pears; And when to manhood they had grown, with manhood's hispid chins, They held as close together still as Siam's famous twins. And Dobbins swore by Jobbins, and Jobbins vowed that he Would never break with Dobbins, whate'er their fate might be, So Jobbins came with Dobbins across the restless main, And they traded as D., J. & Co., and gained much worldly gain. Each gave the other dinners, each drank the other's health, Each looked upon the other as a "mine of mental wealth," And Dobbins swore by Jobbins, and Jobbins vowed that he Would never break with Dobbins, whate'er their fate might be. But ah! for human nature--alas for human kind-- There came a cloud between them, with a lot more clouds behind. The Tariff was the demon fell which sad disruption made, For our Dobbins loved Protection, while our Jobbins loved Free Trade. As partners now in business, they could no more agree, So they forthwith dissoluted and halved the £ s. d. And the fiercest opposition in every sort of way, Was carried on by Dobbins _versus_ Jobbins day by day. Then Dobbins entered Parliament, and so did Jobbins too, And each upheld his principles amidst that motley crew-- And the side that Dobbins voted with were victors of the hour. And Dobbins was made Treasurer while Jobbins' grapes were sour. Then Dobbins went to work with glee, protecting everything, And gave his pet proclivities the very fullest swing, Set all the manger-loving dogs a-barking in his praise, And raised the Tariff up kite-high, a real four-aces' raise. He taxed the pots, he taxed the pans, he taxed the children's mugs, He taxed the brooms, he taxed the mops, He taxed the jars and jugs; In soft and hardware every line was smothered by his dues, Except the national _tin tax_--the Ministerial _screws_. He taxed each article of food, each article of wear, He even taxed fresh water, and he tried to tax fresh air; He improvised new duties, new taxes by the score, And when he stopped awhile to think he taxed his brain for more. And not one blessed class of goods was entered at the port, But what he advaloremed till he made importers snort; Till even old Protectionists, grown hoary in the cause, Began to change to fidgets what had started as applause. Poor Jobbins suffered hugely by his whilom partner's tricks, But found it rather dangerous to kick against the pricks; He had to grin and bear it, as many a worthy man Has grinned and borne it in his turn since this mad world began. Now Dobbins, flushed with Fortune's smiles, his high ambition fed, Bethought him that the time had come when he might safely wed. So by the wire electrical, as he had nicely planned, He sent this loving message to the grand old Fatherland. "Matilda, I am ready, with five thousand pounds a-year; Come out unto your Dobbins, love, and be his bride so dear;" To which there sped the answer back that very self-same day, "As soon as I have packed my things, I'm coming straight away." Matilda was an heiress of the old blue Bobbins' blood, Her ancestors owned land and beeves long years before the flood; One relative, 'tis said, indeed--a chemist, I'll engage-- Sold bottled Protoplasm in the prehistoric age. Our Dobbins and our Jobbins, too, had loved the maid of old, But Bobbins _père_ had snubbed them both for lack of needful gold; Though when the telegram arrived, "Five thousand pounds a-year!" Pa winked a playful little wink--and said, "Be off, my dear." The packing of her luggage was a most stupendous job, She'd the miscellaneous wardrobe of the highest sort of nob, New trousseau, plate, and furniture, and presents from her friends, And Cockle's pills and raspberry jam, and various odds and ends. There were eighty zinc-lined cases and portmanteaus full a score, Of band and bonnet boxes at least some fifty more, Of carpet-bags three dozen most plethorically crammed, With nigh-forgotten articles in one wild chaos jammed. Our Venus had a transit out particularly quick, A glorious _transit mundi_, but without the usual _sic_ (k); Till one fine day she gazed upon the far-famed, Austral strand. One eye upon her luggage, and one eye upon the land. The vessel berthed beside the pier; Matilda's future lord, The "Honourable Dobbins," stepped jauntily on board; He clasped the maiden to his breast, nor heeded that close by The melancholy Jobbins stood with sad reproachful eye. "Come, come, my love!" says Dobbins, "let's get your things ashore; I have a cab in waiting here to take them to my store." "A cab!" cried she--"twice twenty cabs would not for me suffice; Behold my things!" He started, as though stung by cockatrice. "That lofty mountain yonder, which high its head erects, That Alp of packing cases--are those, dear, your effects?" "Of course they are, beloved, for keeping house with _you_, Enough to furnish us complete, and everything _quite new!_" He staggered as if hearing news of pestilence or dearth, Then gasped in low and anxious tones, "And what's the whole lot worth?" She thought that his emotion spoke of joy that knew no bounds, And whispered gaily in his ear, "Some forty thousand pounds!" He bit his lips, he ground his teeth, he tore out hunks of hair, He looked the full embodiment of desperate despair; Then with a shriek of agony, the hideous truth found vent, "There's _ad valorem_ on the lot of ninety-five per cent.! "My new amended Tariff comes in force this very day, I little dreamt that you and I should be the first to pay; Besides, I haven't got the cash! oh dear, how bad I feel!" The maiden smiled a scornful smile and turned upon her heel. The miserable Dobbins gave a second piercing shriek, Then leaped into the briny flood, and stayed there for a week; Though Jobbins tried to find him hard, but failed, with these remarks, "He always _was_ too deep for me--besides, there might be sharks." The very night of Dobbins' loss, the Ministry went out, The Jobbins' party took their place 'midst many a ringing shout; And of our Jobbins in a trice, their Treasurer they made. Because, as everybody knew, he gloried in Free Trade. He took the dues off everything, from thimbles up to tanks, And passed Miss Bobbins' goods himself, and won that virgin's thanks; And what is more, he won her hand, her chattels and her heart, And she is Mrs. Jobbins now, till death them twain doth part. As Dobbins to import his love had spared nor cash nor pains-- They raised a handsome monument above his cold remains; The carved inscription to this day is there his tale to tell, "He _did_ his duties--and himself--not wisely but too well." GARNET WALCH. _THE LION'S CUBS._ PATRIOTIC SONG AND CHORUS. Australia's sons are we, And the freest of the free, But Love enchains us still with fetters strong To the dear old land at Home, Far across the rolling foam-- The little isle to which our hearts belong. It shall always be our boast, Our bumper-honoured toast, That, should Britain bid us help her, we'll obey; Then, if e'er the call is made, And Old England needs our aid, These are the words Australia's sons will say-- There is not a strong right hand, Throughout this Southern land, But will draw a sword in dear old England's cause; Our numbers may be few, But we've loyal hearts and true, And the Lion's cubs have got the Lion's claws. From our ocean-guarded strand, O'er the sunny plains inland, To the cloud-kissed mountain summits faint and far, Australians bred and born, Behold yon banner torn, And greet it with a lusty-lunged hurrah! 'Tis the brave old Union Jack, That nothing can beat back-- Ever waving where the brunt of battle lies; For each frayed and faded thread Britain counts a hero dead, Who died to gain the liberties we prize. Then there's not, &c. The ever-honoured name On the bright bead-roll of Fame, That our fathers held through all the changing Past, In it we claim our share, And by Saint George we swear, We can keep that name untarnished to the last; Then, when the hour arrives, We will give our very lives For the dearest land of all the lands on earth, And, foremost in the fray, Show Britain's foes the way Australia's sons can prove their British birth. Yes, there's not, &c. Sons of the South, unite In federated might, The Champions of your Country and your Queen; From New Zealand's glacier throne To the burning Torrid Zone, We'll prove that welded steel is tough and keen. The wide world shall be shown That we mean to hold our own In the home of our adoption, free and fair; And if the Lion needs, He shall see, by doughty deeds, How his Austral cubs can guard their father's lair. For there's not, &c. GARNET WALCH. _THE LITTLE DUCHESS._ BY ETHEL TURNER. "The tale is as old as the Eden tree, And new as the new-cut tooth." He was the clerk of the cash tramway, and when the rolling balls gave him a moment's leisure, used to look down from his high perch at the big shop beneath his feet, and, in his slow, quiet style, study the ways of the numberless assistants whose life-books thus opened to him so many of their pages. Lately there had come to the place a slight, grey-eyed girl, who wore her black dress with such grace, and held her small head with such dignity, that he whimsically had named her to himself "The Little Duchess." He liked to look down and catch a glint of her hair's sunshine when his brain was dulled with calculating change, and his fingers ached with shutting cash-balls and dispatching them on their journeys. And he used to wonder greatly how any customer could hesitate to buy silks and satins when their lustre and sheen were displayed by her slim little fingers and the quality descanted on with so persuasive a smile. There were handsomer girls in the shop, girls with finer figures and better features; but, to the boy in his mid-air cage, there was none with the nameless dainty charms that made the little Duchess so lovable. For, of course, he did love her. In less than two months he had begun to watch for her cash-ball with a trembling eagerness, to smooth out and stroke gently the bill her fingers had written, and to wrap it and its change up again with a careful tenderness that no one else's change and bill received. He had spoken to her half-a-dozen times in all; twice at the door on leaving--weather remarks, to which she had responded graciously; once or twice about bills that she had come to rectify at the desk, and once he had had the great good fortune to find and return a handkerchief she had dropped. Such a pretty, ridiculous atom of muslin it was, with a fanciful "Nellie" taking up one quarter, and some delicate scent lending such subtle fascination that it was a real wrench for the lad to take the handkerchief from his breast-pocket and proffer it to her. So great a wrench, indeed, that he profferred his love, too, humbly, but fervently, and received a very wondering look from the grey eyes, a badly-concealed smile, a "Thank you" for the handkerchief, and a "No, thank you" for the love. He had kissed her, though, and that was some consolation afterwards to his sore spirit, kissed her right upon the sweet, scarlet lips which had said "No" so decidedly, and then, bold no longer, had fled the shelter of the friendly packing-cases, and beaten a retreat to his desk aloft. That was nearly a fortnight ago; not once since had she spoken to him, and to-day he was feeling desperate. It had been a very busy morning, and he had found hardly a second to raise his eyes from his work. The one time he had looked down she had been busy with a customer--a girl prettily dressed and golden-headed like herself. That had been at about ten o'clock. Before twelve her cash-box, with the notch upon it that his penknife had made, rolled down its line, and he opened it as he had opened it twenty times that morning; but this time it bore his fate. With the bill was a little twisted note, on which "John Walters, private," was written, and the boy's very heart leaped at the sight. Down below, customers wearily waited for change, and anxiously watched for their own particular ball while the _deus ex machina_ read again and again, with eager eyes: "Please will you meet me at lunch-time in the Strand? Do, if you can. I am in trouble. You said you loved me." Then, as he began mechanically to manipulate the waiting balls, he looked down to the accustomed place of the little Duchess. She was pale, he saw, and her lips trembled oddly now and again. There was a frightened look in her grey eyes, and once or twice he thought he noticed a sparkle as of tears. At lunch-time he actually tore through the shop and away down to the appointed place. She was there--still pale, still nervous and fluttering. "Let us go to the Gardens. It's quieter," he said, putting a great restraint upon himself; then, when at last they were within the gates, "God bless you for this, Nellie." "What?" said the girl, with uncertainty, but not looking at the plain, rugged face that was all aglow with love for her. "For telling me about the worry--asking me to come. Oh, God bless you, Nellie! Now tell me." She sat down on a seat and began to cry, quietly and miserably, till the boy was almost beside himself. At last, between the sobs, he learned her trouble, which was grave indeed. She and her sister had very much wanted to go to a certain ball, and, more than that, to have new dresses for it, of soft white Liberty silk, such as she cut off daily for fortunate customers. But her purse was empty, so, in their emergency, the sisters had hit upon a plan, questionable, indeed, but not dishonestly meant. The sister came to the silk counter and purchased thirty yards of silk, paying 15_s._ for it instead of £3 15_s._ "That was on account; I was only taking a little credit, like other customers," said the little Duchess, with a haughty movement of the head. "On Saturday I was going to make out a bill for an imaginary customer, and send the £3 up to the desk to you. Don't imagine I would really wrong the firm by a halfpenny." "Oh, no," cried the boy eagerly; "it's all right." "That's not all." The girl began to cry again, hopelessly, miserably. "I had no money to get the dresses made, and the next customer paid £2 10_s._, and--and--I only sent 10_s._ up to you--I wanted to make it just £5 I had borrowed. I thought I might borrow enough, as I was borrowing--don't forget, I would rather have died than have stolen the £5, Mr. Walters." "Of course, of course, I understand," said the cash clerk, seeing it was a worse fix than he had imagined, but longing to take her in his arms and kiss away the tears. "And then that horrid Mr. Greaves, who signed first in a hurry, asked for my book and took it for something, and then sent it up to the desk, and the figures are all confused, and the check-leaf isn't the same as I sent to you. I hadn't time to make it right, and when the books are compared to-night it will be noticed, and I shall get into trouble--and, oh, I am so miserable!" The little Duchess was sobbing pitifully. He kissed her, this time in earnest; on the lips, the cheeks, the hair, the tear-wet eyes. He only recollected himself when a gardener's form, and especially his smile, obtruded themselves upon their notice, and they sat apart looking foolish until the two o'clock bells made them hurry back to the shop. "I'll put everything right--don't you worry," he said; and she smiled relievedly and went to her counter. That afternoon he did what all the other years of his life he had deemed it impossible for him to do. He made a neat alteration in his books so that the £5 in question would not be missed. To-morrow, he resolved, he would take £5 of his own and pay it into the account of the firm. The little Duchess should be his debtor, and run no more risks. But, alas, for the morrow! Before he had fairly taken his seat in the morning--before Nellie had finished fastening at her neck the violets he had brought her--some words were said at his elbow, and he slowly became aware that he--surely it was a dream!--was being arrested for defalcations in his accounts. He learned that for some time past the firm had been aware of considerable discrepancies in the books, and had placed a detective-accountant in the office. Last night, for the first time, the man had discovered, as he thought, a clue, and had convinced the firm that in Walters he had found the offender. The lad was ashen pale, horror stricken, as he realised how these things must go against him. He could not drag in the name of the little Duchess--even if he did, it would not avail him much; he certainly had altered his books, and to mention the girl's share would only be to have two of them brought to trial, and perhaps to gaol. The little Duchess in gaol! That hair catching the prison-yard sunshine! That slender form clad in the garments of shame! The boy drew a deep breath, gave one very wistful glance at the silk counter, and then walked straight to the manager's room, followed by the policeman. "I took the £5 yesterday, and brought it back to-day. On my oath before God, sir, I have never misapplied one farthing of my moneys." His voice trembled in its eagerness, the deep-set eyes gleamed, and the white lips worked. "Your purpose, Walters?" The manager looked hard, disbelieving. "Direst need. Oh, believe me, sir, I have served you three years honestly as man can serve--yesterday I borrowed this money and brought it back this morning--don't ruin my whole life for that one act." "Your pressing need yesterday?" John drew a deep breath again. "I--can't well tell you." Then the heads of the firm came in, indignant at their misused trust, and they scorned his story. The defalcations amounted to almost £50 in all, and he had confessed to £5, which had been found upon him. Of course, he and no other was the offender, and they must teach their employés a lesson. So John walked down that long shop by the side of the official, his head very erect, his face pale, and his knees shaking; all his life he would remember the glances of pity, curiosity, and disdain that met him on every side. As he passed the silk counter, the little Duchess was measuring a great piece of rose-red, sheeny satin, that gleamed warm and beautiful beneath her hands. She was very white, and in her eyes was a look of abject horror and entreaty; his eyes reassured her, and he passed on and out of the door. All his life he would remember that rose-red satin and its brilliant, glancing lights. After the trial everyone thought him fortunate to get only two years, and the little Duchess, who had grown thin and old-looking in the interval, breathed freely as she read the account in the papers, and saw that her name was not even mentioned in connection with the matter. He wrote to her a loving, boyish letter, and told her she must be true to him till he came out, and that then they would be married and go away where this could never be heard of. It was no small thing he had done for her, he knew; and, as he was not more than human, he expected his reward. And the little Duchess had cried quietly over the letter, and for several days cut off silk and satin with a pensive, unhappy look that quite touched her customers--those few among them who realised that it was human flesh and blood at the other side of the yard measure. * * * * * Twenty months later the little Duchess was at the same counter measuring silk and satin for the stock-taking, when a note was brought to her in a writing she remembered too well. "I got out to-day, Nellie. Come down to the Gardens in the lunch-time." She hesitated when the time came, but he might come to the shop, and that would never do. So she put her hat on thoughtfully and set out for the Gardens. He was awaiting her on the seat where, nearly two years ago, the gardener had smiled at them. He stood up as she came slowly towards him, and for a minute they gazed at each other without speaking. She was in black, of course, but fresh and dainty-looking, with a bunch of white chiffon at her throat, little tan shoes on her feet, and her hair showing golden against the black of her lace hat. For him, his face had altered and hardened; the once thick, curling hair was horribly short, his hands were rough and unsightly, his clothes hung awkwardly upon him, and his linen was doubtful. "The little Duchess!" he said, dully; then he put out his hand, took her small gloved one, and looked at it curiously. "I--I am glad you're out," she said, carefully looking away from him. "Yes--we must be married now, Nellie; that's all I've had to think about all this awful time." His face flushed a little and his eyes lightened. "It's good not to see the walls," he added, looking round at the spring's brave show, then away to the blue sparkle in the bay and the glancing sails. "We mustn't talk of that time, though, ever--eh, Nellie?" "No," she said, regarding her brown shoes intently. His eye noted the smooth roundness of her cheek, the delicate pink that came and went, the turn of the white neck. "Aren't you going to kiss me, Nellie?" he said, slowly; and he drew her a little strangely and awkwardly to him. Then she spoke. "I knew it wouldn't be any use, and you'd never have any money or get a place after this. We couldn't be married on nothing, and it would only drag you down to have me, too. I'm not worthy of you." "Well, little Duchess," he said, softly, as she stopped and faltered; a slow smile crept over his face, and his deep-set eyes lighted up with tenderness. Not worthy, his little Duchess! Then the crimson rushed into her face, and she flung up her head defiantly. "I married the new shop-walker, four months ago!" _AUSTRALIA'S SPRINGTIME._ 'Tis a bright September morning, and Australia's golden Spring Is awak'ning every flow'ret, and retouching every wing; Everywhere the yellow blossoms of the wattle are in view-- Even has the solemn gum tree taken on a lighter hue; And the earth is cover'd over with a vest of fresher green, And the clear cool air adds brightness to the beauty of the scene. Now the cockatoo's hoarse screaming, and the magpie's cheery call Sound in chorus to the music of the plashy waterfall. Overhead the deep, clear azure is just fleck'd with snowy clouds, And the green and crimson parrots fly around in chatt'ring crowds; Far away is all the bustle of the smoky, restless town, And the timid kangaroo upon the grass lies fearless down; Nature calmly lieth waiting, in her peaceful solitude, For the dawning of the morning bright with hopes of future good: Lies as she has lain for ages, by the white man's foot untrod, Like a glorious new creation, freshly from the hand of God. 'Tis Australia's golden Springtime, and the vision, fresh and green, Of the lonely, peaceful country, is a swiftly changing scene; First a few white tents embosom'd 'mid the thickly growing trees, And the sound of human labour floating on the passing breeze. First a village--then a city--with an everswelling tide Passing thro' its busy markets--stretching outwards far and wide; And while the growing nation overspreads the smiling land, Nature opens up her treasures with a free and lavish hand: O'er the verdant fields are roaming flocks and herds of sheep and kine-- Deep beneath the sunlit surface works the toiler in the mine-- Education and religion build their temples o'er the plain, And the iron horse moves swiftly past broad fields of golden grain, Where a plenteous harvest ripens to reward the toiler's care, And each honest, willing worker may obtain a rightful share. Blessed peace and glorious freedom banish far the warrior's sword-- Fancy seems to gaze enraptur'd on a Paradise restored! 'Tis the Springtime of Australia, and the dazzled eye may see Wondrous dreams of future greatness--of the glories yet to be: Visions--not of martial conquest--not of courage, blood and fire-- But of lands by noble actions growing greater, grander, higher! Of the wond'ring nations turning--gazing with expectant eyes, While oppress'd and toiling millions feel new hopes and thoughts arise In the march of human progress as Australia leads the van To the world's great Federation, and the "parliament of Man!" Such the triumphs--aye, and grander, that the coming days shall see If Australia but be faithful to her glorious destiny; With the smile of Heav'n upon her in the future, as the past, Sweeping back the threat'ning war-clouds that her sky may overcast-- Like a stately white-wing'd vessel she shall keep her steadfast way-- Peace, o'er all her wide dominions, ruling with unbroken sway; And her progress be continued till the wings of Time are furled-- Her glorious page the brightest in the history of the world! W. L. LUMLEY. _THE MAN THAT SAVED THE MATCH._ BY DAVID M'KEE WRIGHT. (_By kind permission of the Author._) Our church ain't reckoned very big, but then the township's small-- I've seen the time when there was seats and elbow-room for all. The women-fold would come, of course, but working chaps was rare; They'd rather loaf about and smoke, and take the Sunday air. But now there's hardly standing room, and you can fairly say There ain't a man we like as well as quiet Parson Grey. We blokes was great for cricket once, we'd held our own so long, In all the townships round about our team was reckoned strong; And them that didn't use to play could barrack pretty fair, They liked the leather-hunting that they didn't have to share. A team from town was coming up to teach us how to play-- We meant to show what we could do upon that Christmas Day. The stumps were pitched at two o'clock, but Lawson's face was grim (Lawson was Captain of the team, our crack we reckoned him), For Albert Wilson hadn't come, the safest bat of all, With no one there to take his place he counted on a fall. "Who could we get? There's no one here it's worth our while to play In place of Albert." At his side was standing Parson Grey. "I used to wield the willow once," the Parson softly said; "If you have no one for the tail, you might take me instead." The Captain bit his fair moustache--he seemed inclined to swear; But answered sulkily enough, "All right, sir; I don't care. There's no one here is worth his salt with breaking balls to play." "I'll try and do my best for you," said quiet Parson Grey. "His best," Bill Lawson said to me, "what's that, I'd like to know? To spoon an easy ball to point, and walk back sad and slow, Miss every catch that comes to him and fumble every ball, And lose his way about the field at every 'over' call. The blooming team can go below after this Christmas Day; I'm hanged if I'm to captain it when parsons start to play." Bill won the toss, we went in first. I might as well say here That I'm a weary kind of bat--to stick in for a year. I can't hit out--it ain't no use; it saddens me to think A bloke that bowled against us once has taken since to drink. He couldn't get my wicket, and his balls came in that way I batted through the innings without a run all day. The fun began. By George! to think the way our stumps went down! Our boys was made the laughing-stock for them swell-blokes from town. I kept my end up--that was all, Lawson was bowled first ball, And six of them went strolling back without a run at all. Nine wickets down for fourteen runs was all our score that day When the last man came in to bat, and that was Parson Grey. The bowler with the break from leg sent down a hardish ball, I thought to see the parson squirm and hear the wicket fall; It didn't happen, for he played a pretty forward stroke; I knew that moment he could bat, that quiet preaching bloke. And when a careless ball came down the boys began to roar, He drove it hard along the ground--we took and run a four. Then it was "over," and of course mine was a maiden one, I broke the bowler's hearts that day for just a single run. The Parson played a dashing game, his cuts were clean and fine; I only wish that strokes like them could now and then be mine. He had a fifty to his name in just an hour's play, And then--well, then--I run him out, I own, that Christmas Day. "By George," said Lawson, "who'd have thought that he could bat so well! I could have gone and drowned myself when Bryant's wicket fell; But, man, he must have been a bat when he was at his best, I'm glad that Wilson wasn't here, or any of the rest; Now, if our chaps are on the spot, and bowl as well to-day, We'll give them news to carry home how country clubs can play." Our bowling always has been fair; we couldn't well complain; We got a wicket now and then--they didn't fall like rain; But runs were coming rather slow, and fifty was the score When the ninth man was given out--an honest "leg before." It was a single innings game, and plainly on the play It seemed the glory would be ours upon that Christmas Day. Last man! The bowling crack came in--of course he couldn't bat, He could lash out and chance the stroke to show us what was what; Our hopes were down to freezing-point, twelve runs were to his score, To win the match he only had to hit another four. He swiped; we groaned to think that we were beaten after all; The stroke was high--a splendid catch--_the Parson held the ball_. Then how we yelled, and yelled again; he'd fairly won the match-- The splendid batting that he showed, the more than splendid catch; Why, chaps, you'd hardly credit it, that almost every bloke Goes into church on Sunday now, and does without his smoke; And no one's likely to forget that sunny Christmas Day, When we were all surprised a bit at quiet Parson Grey. _ODE FOR COMMONWEALTH DAY_ _1st JANUARY, 1901._ Awake! Arise! The wings of dawn Are beating at the gates of day, The morning star hath been withdrawn, The silver vapours melt away. Rise royally, O sun, and crown The shoreward billow, streaming white, The forelands, and the mountains brown, With crested light; Flood with soft beams the valleys wide, The mighty plains, the desert sand, Till the New Day hath won for bride This Austral land! Free-born of nations, virgin white, Not won by blood, nor ringed with steel. Thy throne is on a loftier height, Deep-rooted in the commonweal. O thou, for whom the strong have wrought, And poets sung with souls aflame, Born of long hope and patient thought, A mighty name-- We pledge thee faith that shall not swerve, Our land, our lady, breathing high The thought that makes it love to serve, And life to die! Now are thy maidens linked in love, Who erst have striven for pride of place; Lifted all meaner thoughts above They greet thee, one in heart and race; She, in whose sunlit coves of peace The navies of the world may rest, And bear her wealth of snowy fleece Northward and west. And she, whose corn and rock-hewn gold Built that Queen City of the South, Where the lone billow swept of old Her harbour-mouth. Come, too, thou Sun-maid, in whose veins For ever burns the tropic fire Whose cattle roam a thousand plains, Come, with thy gold and pearls for tire; And that sweet Harvester who twines The tender vine and binds the sheaf; And she, the Western Queen, who mines The desert reef; And thou, against whose flowery throne And orchards green the wave is hurled; Australia claims you; ye are one Before the world. Crown her--most worthy to be praised-- With eyes uplifted to the morn; For, on this day, a flag is raised, A triumph won, a nation born; And ye, vast armies of the dead, From mine and city, plain and sea, Who fought and dared, who toiled and bled That this might be, Draw round us in this hour of fate-- This golden harvest of thy hand-- With unseen lips, O consecrate And bless the land! Eternal power, benign, supreme, Who weigh'st the nations upon earth; Without whose aid the empire-dream And pride of states is nothing worth, From shameless speech, and vengeful deed, From licence veiled in Freedom's name, From greed of gold, and scorn of creed, Guard Thou our fame! In stress of days that yet may be, When hope shall rest upon the sword, In welfare and adversity, Be with us, Lord! GEORGE ESSEX EVANS. _A DESPERATE ASSAULT._ I have more than once had reason to admire the British soldier in battle, but never was there such good ground for admiration as in watching him prepare. All the blare and tumult, the death and disaster of actual conflict have no such tense, dramatic, nerve-trying moments as when a regiment is making ready for some great enterprise. The fight is a medley of mixed impressions, jostling each other for a moment's existence ere passing away, but the getting ready is unforgetable. Everything is clear-cut and within the sum of human emotions--eternal. So it was with that last grand charge of the Devons, which swept the Boers from their fringe of the little plateau and finished the long seventeen hours' ordeal. The enemy were on one side of the Table, we on the other. A tropical hailstorm howled across it, and beat heavily in our faces, as Colonel Park led his men up the sheltered face of the hill, and halted a moment within five yards of the crest, to make ready. The men knew exactly what they had to do, and the solemnity of a great and tragic undertaking was upon and about them. All the world for them--the too brief past with its consequences, the fast-flying present, and the mysterious beyond--might concentrate in a short desperate dash across a storm-swept African hilltop. It was the sublimity of life--the anticipation of death. The Devons were making ready for it, and how unready a man might feel at such a moment! The line of brown riflemen stretched away to the left of us, and it seemed that every trivial action of every man there had become an epic. One noticed most of all the constant moistening of the dry lips, and the frequent raising of the water-bottles for a last hurried mouthful. One man tightened a belt, another brought his cartridges handier to his right hand, though he was not to use them. It was something to ease the strain of watching. Every little thing fixed itself on the mind as a photograph. There was no need of mental effort to remember. One could not see and forget, and would not, for his patriotism and his pride of kinship, forget if he could. Then the low clinking, quivering sound of the steel which died away from us in a trickle down the ranks as the bayonets were fixed--and a dry, harsh, artificial laugh, in strong contrast to the quiet of the scene--everything heard easily somehow above the rush and clatter of the storm, and lost only for an instant in the sudden bursts of thunder. A bit of quiet tragedy wedged into the turmoil of the great play, and all unspeakably solemn and awe-inspiring. One must see to understand it. One may have seen yet can never describe it. The situation was not for ordinary language; it was Homeric, over-mastering. "Now, then, Devons, get ready." There was a dry catch in the colonel's voice as he gave the word--and the short sentence was punctuated by the zip-zip of the Mauser bullets, that for a few precious seconds would still be flying overhead. There was a quick panting of the breath, a stiffening of the lines of the faces, that with so many of them was but the prelude to the rigidity of death. It was waiting for them only a few yards up, and their manhood was being sorely tried. But the Devons squared their shoulders, gripped their rifles--bringing them up with the quick whip of the drill, that was too well ground into them to be forgotten even then. A prompt dressing by the left, and, as though eager to get it over, the Devons sprang forward to the word into the double storm of hail and nickel-plated bullets. The killing suspense was over--they were in action at last, one's whole heart went with them, and just for one moment, as they stood fully exposed upon the plateau, it seemed to the watchers that there might be disaster. They had slightly miscalculated the enemy's strongest point, and had to wheel by the left. As they did so the line faltered for a moment. A shiver, a pendulum-like swaying seemed to run down it; that was the history-making moment, when the regiment might either do something that ever afterwards they would try to forget, or that all their countrymen would be proud to remember--the moment in men's lives which, measured by emotion only, stretch out into centuries. It was the moment of a life, too, for the commander of men. His chance had come. "Steady, Devons, steady," came the clear ringing call, and then, with one great surging rush, that gathered momentum even as it lost in fallen units, the regiment went on. Boldly though they had taken and held that hill, prudence came to the Boer riflemen as these eager bayonets bore down upon them. For a moment they shot the Devons through and through, and then they ran. At that moment not a man amongst our common-place, drinking, swearing Tommies but was exalted, deified--but so many of them were something less of interest on earth than even a common soldier. Where the regiment had gone seventy of its dead and wounded littered the hilltop, but still it was the moment of victory, not of lamentations. It may sound strange to say that the prelude to a battle, like the preface to a book, can be greater than the actual battle or the book. But so it seemed to me. Others might view it differently, but challenge our impressions as we may in the light of riper history, we shall never alter them. They are indelible. Overhaul the plates again and again as we please, it will always be the same picture. DONALD MACDONALD ("How we Kept the Flag Flying"). _THE GAME OF LIFE._ There's a game much in fashion--I think it's called _Euchre_ (Though I never have played for pleasure or lucre), In which, when the cards are in certain conditions, The players appear to have changed their positions, And one of them cries in a confident tone, "I think I may venture to 'go it alone!'" While watching the game, 'tis a whim of the bard's A moral to draw from that skirmish of cards, And to fancy he finds in the trivial strife Some excellent hints for the battle of Life; Where--whether the prize be a ribbon or throne-- The winner is he who can "go it alone!" When great Galileo proclaimed that the world In a regular orbit was ceaselessly whirled, And got--not a convert--for all of his pains, But only derision and prison and chains, "It moves, _for all that!_" was his answering tone, For he knew, like the earth, he could "go it alone!" When Kepler, with intellect piercing afar, Discovered the laws of each planet and star, And doctors, who ought to have lauded his name, Derided his learning and blackened his fame, "I can wait," he replied, "till the truth you shall own;" For he felt in his heart he could "go it alone!" Alas! for the player who idly depends, In the struggle of life, upon kindred or friends; Whatever the value of blessings like these, They can never atone for inglorious ease, Nor comfort the coward who finds, with a groan, That his clutches have left him to "go it alone!" There's something, no doubt, in the hand you may hold: Wealth, family, culture, wit, beauty and gold, The fortunate owner may fairly regard As, each in its way, a most excellent card; Yet the game may be lost, with all these for your own, Unless you've the courage to "go it alone!" In battle or business, whatever the game, In law or love, it is ever the same; In the struggle for power, or the scramble for pelf, Let this be your motto, "RELY ON YOURSELF!" For, whether the prize be a ribbon or throne, The victor is he who can "go it alone!" JOHN G. SAXE. _PREJUDICE._ I was climbing up a mountain path, With many things to do, Important business of my own, And other people's too, When I ran against a Prejudice That quite cut off the view. My work was such as could not wait, My path quite clearly showed; My strength and time were limited; I carried quite a load, And there that bulking Prejudice Sat all along the road. So I spoke to him politely, For he was huge and high, And begged that he would move a bit, And let me travel by-- He smiled, but as for moving-- He didn't even try. And then I reasoned quietly With that colossal mule; The time was short, no other path, The mountain winds were cool-- I argued like a Solomon, He sat there like a fool. Then I flew into a passion, I danced and howled and swore; I pelted and belaboured him Till I was stiff and sore; He got as mad as I did-- But he sat there as before. And then I begged him on my knees-- I might be kneeling still, If so I hoped to move that mass Of obdurate ill-will-- As well invite the monument To vacate Bunker's Hill! So I sat before him helpless, In an ecstasy of woe-- The mountain mists were rising fast, The sun was sinking slow-- When a sudden inspiration came, As sudden winds do blow. I took my hat, I took my stick, My load I settled fair, I approached that awful incubus, With an absent-minded air-- And I walked directly through him, As if he wasn't there! CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON. _THE POOR AND THE RICH._ The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick and stone and gold, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One would not care to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits cares. The bank may break, the factory burn, Some breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands would scarcely earn A living that would suit his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One would not care to hold in fee. What does the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit, King of two hands he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What does the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, Content that from enjoyment springs, A heart that in his labour sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What does the poor man's son inherit? A patience learned by being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it; A fellow feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. Oh! rich man's son, there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whitens, soft white hands; This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee. Oh! poor man's son, scorn not thy state, There is worse weariness than thine-- In being merely rich and great; Work only makes the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last-- Both, children of the same dear God. Prove title to your heirship vast, By record of a well-filled past! A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. _THE ENGINEER'S STORY._ (_From the "Denver Post."_) Well, yes, 'tis a hair-curlin' story-- I would it could not be recalled. The terrible fright of that hell-tinctured night Is the cause of my head bein' bald. I was runnin' the Git-There Express, sir, On the Yankee Creek Jerkwater line. An' the track along there was as crooked, I swear, As the growth of a field pumpkin vine. My run was a night one, an' nights on the Yank War as black as the coal piled back there on the tank. We pulled out of Tenderfoot Station, A day and almost a-half late, An' every durn wheel was a-poundin' the steel At a wildly extravagant rate. My fireman kept pilin' the coal in The jaws of the ol' 94, Till the sweat from his nose seemed to play through a hose An' splashed 'round his feet on the floor, As we thundered along like a demon in flight, A-rippin' a streak through the breast of the night. As we rounded the curve on the mountain, Full sixty an hour I will swear, Jest ahead was a sight that with blood-freezin' fright Would have raised a stuffed buffalo's hair. The bridge over Ute Creek was burnin', The flames shootin' up in their glee; My God! how they gleamed in the air, till they seemed Like the fiery-tongued imps on a spree-- Jest snickered an' sparkled an' laughed like they knowed I'd make my next trip on a different road. In frenzy I reached for the throttle, But 'twas stuck an' refused to obey. I yelled in affright, for our maddenin' flight I felt that I never could stay. Then wildly I grasped the big lever, Threw her over, then held my hot breath, An' waited for what I assuredly thought Was a sure an' terrible death. Then came the wild crash, an' with horror-fringed yell Down into that great fiery chasm I fell. When I came to myself I was lyin' On the floor of the bedroom; my wife Sat astride of my form, and was making it warm Fur her darlin', you bet your sweet life! My hair she had clutched in her fingers, An' was jammin' my head on the floor, Yet I yelled with delight when I found that my fright Was a horrible dream, nothin' more. I had wildly grabb'd one of her ankles, she said, An' reversed her clear over the head of the bed. _SEEING'S NOT BELIEVING._ I saw her, as I fancied, fair, Yes, fairest of earth's creatures; I saw the purest red and white O'erspread her lovely features; She fainted, and I sprinkled her, Her malady relieving: I washed both rose and lily off! Oh! seeing's not believing! I looked again, again I longed To breathe love's fond confession I saw her eyebrows formed to give Her face its arch expression; But gum is very apt to crack, And whilst my breast was heaving, It so fell out that one fell off! Oh! seeing's not believing! I saw the tresses on her brow So beautifully braided; I never saw in all my life Locks look so well as they did, She walked with me one windy day-- Ye zephyrs, why so thieving? The lady lost her flaxen wig! Oh! seeing's not believing! I saw her form, by Nature's hand So prodigally finished, She were less perfect if enlarged, Less perfect if diminished; Her toilet I surprised--the worst Of wonders then achieving; None knew the bustle I perceived! Oh! seeing's not believing! I saw, when costly gems I gave, The smile with which she took them; And if she said no tender things, I've often seen her look them; I saw her my affianced bride, And then, my mansion leaving, She ran away with Colonel Jones! Oh! seeing's not believing! I saw another maiden soon, And struggled to detain her; I saw her plain enough--in fact, Few women could be plainer; 'Twas said, that at her father's death A plum she'd be receiving: I saw that father's house and grounds! Oh! seeing's not believing! I saw her mother--she was deck'd With furbelows and feathers; I saw distinctly that she wore Silk stockings in all weathers; I saw, beneath a load of gems. The matron's bosom heaving; I saw a thousand signs of wealth! Oh! seeing's not believing! I saw her father, and I spoke Of marriage in his study; But would he let her marry me Alas! alas! how could he? I saw him smile a glad consent, My anxious heart relieving, And then I saw the settlements Oh! seeing's not believing! I saw the daughter, and I named My moderate finances; She spurned me not, she gave me one Of her most tender glances. I saw her father's bank--thought I, There cash is safe from thieving; I saw my money safely lodged: Oh! seeing's not believing! I saw the bank, the shutters up, I could not think what they meant, The old infirmity of firms, The bank had just stopped payment! I saw my future father then Was ruined past retrieving, Like me, without a single _sou_: Oh! seeing's not believing! I saw the banker's wife had got The fortune settled on her; What cared he, when the creditors Talked loudly of dishonour! I saw his name in the _Gazette_, But soon I stared, perceiving, He bought another house and grounds: Oh! seeing's not believing! I saw--yes, as plain as could be, I saw the banker's daughter; She saw me, too, and called for sal Volatile and water. She said that she had just espoused A rich old man, conceiving That I was dead or gone to gaol: Oh! seeing's not believing! I saw a friend, and freely spoke My mind on the transaction; Her brother heard it, and he called, Demanding satisfaction. We met--I fell--that brother's ball In my left leg receiving; I have two legs, true--_one is cork_: Oh! seeing's not believing! THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY. _CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON._ Now, Mr. Caudle--Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I shall quit the house. No, no! There's an end of the marriage state, I think--and an end of all confidence between man and wife--if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I daresay; still--not that I care much about it--still, I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well? And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say--you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion--not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a Mason--when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a Mason--when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage. Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!--yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a Mason; not at all, Caudle; I daresay it's a very good thing; I daresay it is: it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me--you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Caudle. DOUGLAS JERROLD. _MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE._ There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows! Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wer'n't you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that. It's a pity you hav'n't something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-and-thread in my hand; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt--what do you say "ah" at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons then? Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through! What with buttons--and one thing and another! They'd never tie themselves up to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle?--Why, do much better without you, I'm certain. And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything. All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd. However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I daresay you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back. DOUGLAS JERROLD. _JIM BLUDSO._ Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives, Because he don't live, you see: Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years, That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks, The night of the "Prairie Belle"? He warn't no saint--them engineers Is all pretty much alike-- One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here, in Pike. A careless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row-- But he never pinked, and he never lied, I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had-- To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the _Prairie Belle_ took fire, A thousand times he swore He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats has their day on the Mississip'. And her day came at last-- The _Movastar_ was a better boat, But the _Belle_, she wouldn't be passed, And so came tearin' along that night, The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine. The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Thro' the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And know'd he would keep his word. And sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smoke-stacks fell, And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the _Prairie Belle_. He warn't no saint--but at judgment I'd run my chance with Jim 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He'd seen his duty a dead sure thing, And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard On a man that died for men. COLONEL JOHN HAY. _HOW UNCLE MOSE COUNTED THE EGGS._ Old Mose, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady came out to the gate to make the purchases. "Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?" she asked. "Yes, indeed I has. Jes got in ten dozen from de kentry." "Are they fresh?" "I gua'ntee 'em. I knows dey am fresh jess de same as ef I had laid 'em myse'f." "I'll take nine dozen. You can count them in this basket." "All right, mum." He counts: "One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. You kin rely on dem bein' fresh. How's your son comin' on at de school? He mus' be mos' grown." "Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank at Galveston." "Why, how ole am de boy?" "He is eighteen." "You don't tole me so. Eighteen and gettin' a salary already! eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's yore gal comin' on? She was mos' growed up de las' time I seed her." "She is married and living in Dallas." "Wal, I declar. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be about----" "Thirty-three." "Am dat so? (counting) firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free. Hit am so singular dat you has sich old childruns. I can't believe you has grand-childruns. You don't look more den forty yeahs old youself." "Nonsense, old man, I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old----" "Fifty-free? I jess dun gwinter b'lieve hit, fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six--I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake--fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah--whew! Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time of yeah when I feels I'se gettin' ole myse'f. I ain't long for dis worl. You comes from an ole family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years ole." "Seventy-two, Uncle Mose." "Dat's ole, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seven, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine--and your mudder? she was one ob de noblest lookin' ladies I ebber see. You reminds me ob her so much. She libbed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died." "No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died." "Den she wasn't no chicken when she died. I know dat--ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight--dar 108 nice fresh eggs--jess nine dozen, and heah am one moah egg in case I has discounted myse'f." Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said to her husband, "I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there and heard Old Mose count them myself, and there were nine dozen." _THE NEGRO BABY'S FUNERAL._ I was walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim, When there slowly through the windows came a plaintive funeral hymn; And the sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew, Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew. Out at front a coloured couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild; On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child. I could picture him when living--curly hair, protruding lip-- And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried Southern trip. But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of death That had fanned more flames of sorrow with his little fluttering breath; And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy profound Than was in the chain of teardrops that enclasped those mourners round. Rose a sad, old coloured preacher at the little wooden desk-- With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque; With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face; With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying race. And he said: "Now, don' be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay-- For de little boy who lived dere, he's done gone an' run away! He was doin' very finely, an' he 'preciate your love; But his sure 'nuff Father want him in de large house up above. "Now, he didn't give you that baby, by a hundred thousan' mile! He just think you need some sunshine, an' He lent it for a while! An' He let you keep an' love it till your hearts were bigger grown; An' dese silver tears your sheddin's jest de interes' on the loan. "Here's yer oder pretty childrun!--doan' be makin' it appear Dat your love got sort o' 'nopolised by dis little fellow here; Don' pile up too much your sorrow on dere little mental shelves, So's to kind 'o set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves. "Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin' long o'er Sorrow's way, What a blessed little pic-nic dis yere baby's got to-day! Your good faders and good moders crowd de little fellow round In de angel-tended garden ob de big Plantation Ground. "An' dey ask him, 'Was your feet sore?' an' take off his little shoes, An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say--'Now what's de news?' An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose, den de little fellow say-- 'All our folks down in the valley tries to keep de hebbenly way.' "An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things he view; Den a tear come an' he whispers--'But I want my parents too!' But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song-- Says 'If only dey be fait'ful dey will soon be comin' 'long.' An' he'll get an' education dat will proberbly be worth Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth; He'll be in de Lawd's big schoolhouse, widout no contempt or fear; While dere's no end to the bad tings might have happened to him here. "So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest, An' don't go to critercisin' dat ar One w'at knows the best! He have sent us many comforts--He have right to take away-- To the Lawd be praise an' glory now and ever! Let us pray!" WILL CARLETON. _DER SHPIDER UND DER FLY._ I reads in Yawcob's shtory book, A couple veeks ago, Von firsd-rade boem, vot I dinks Der beoples all should know. I'd ask dis goot conundhrum, too, Vich ve should brofit by: "'Vill you indo mine parlor valk?' Says der Shpider off der fly." Dot set me dinking, righdt avay, Und vhen, von afternoon, A shbeculator he comes in Und dells me, pooty soon, He haf silfer mine to sell, Und ask me eef I puy, I dink off der oxberience Off dot plue-pottle fly. Der oder day, vhen on der cars I vent by Nie Yorck oudt, I meets a fraulein on der train, Who dold me, mit a pout, She likes der Deutscher shentlemans Und dells me sit peside her-- I says: "Mine friendt, I vas no fly, Eef you vas peen a shpider." I vent indo der shmoking car, Vhere dhey vas blaying boker, Und also haf somedings dhey calls Der funny "leedle joker." Some money id vas shanging hands, Dhey vanted me to try-- I says: "You vas too brevious, I don'd vas been a fly!" On Central Park a shmardt young man Says: "Strauss, how vas you peen?" Und dake me kindtly py der hand, Und ask off mine Katrine. He vants to shange a feefty bill, Und says hees name vas Schneider-- Maype, berhaps, he vas all righdt; More like he vas a shpider. Mosd efry day some shwindling chap He dries hees leedle game; I cuts me oudt dot shpider biece Und poot id in a frame; Righdt in mine shtore I hangs it oup, Und near id, on der shly, I geeps a glub, to send gvick oudt, Dhose shpiders, "on der fly." CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. _LARIAT BILL._ "Well, stranger, 'twas somewhere in 'sixty-nine I wore runnin' the 'Frisco fast express; An' from Murder Creek to Blasted Pine, Were nigh onto eighteen mile, I guess. The road were a down-grade all the way, An' we pulled out of Murder a little late, So I opened the throttle wide that day, And a mile a minute was 'bout our gait. "My fireman's name was Lariat Bill, A quiet man with an easy way, Who could rope a steer with a cow-boy's skill, Which he'd learned in Texas, I've heard him say. The coil were strong as tempered steel, An' it went like a bolt from a cross-bow flung, An' arter Bill changed from saddle to wheel, Just over his head in the cab it hung. "Well, as I were saying, we fairly flew, As we struck the curve at Buffalo Spring, An' I give her full steam an' put her through, An' the engine rocked like a living thing; When all of a sudden I got a scare-- For thar on the track were a little child! An' right in the path of the engine there She held out her little hands and smiled! "I jerked the lever and whistled for brakes, The wheels threw sparks like a shower of gold; But I knew the trouble a down-grade makes, An' I set my teeth an' my flesh grew cold. Then Lariat Bill yanked his long lassoo, An' out on the front of the engine crept-- He balanced a moment before he threw, Then out in the air his lariat swept!" He paused. There were tears in his honest eyes; The stranger listened with bated breath. "I know the rest of the tale," he cries; "He snatched the child from the jaws of death! 'Twas the deed of a hero, from heroes bred, Whose praises the very angels sing!" The engineer shook his grizzled head, And growled: "He didn't do no sich thing. "He aimed at the stump of a big pine tree, An' the lariat caught with a double hitch, An' in less than a second the train an' we Were yanked off the track an' inter the ditch! 'Twere an awful smash, an' it laid me out, I ain't forgot it, and never shall; Were the passengers hurt? Lemme see--about-- Yes, it killed about forty--but saved the gal!" G. W. H. _THE ELF CHILD; OR, LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE._ Little orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, And wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, and bake the bread, an' earn her board an' keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire, an' has the mostest fun A-list'ning to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out! Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs; An' when he went to bed 'at night, away upstairs, His mammy heard him holler, and his daddy heard him bawl, An' whin they turn'd the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter room, and cubby hole and press, An' seeked him up the chimbly flue an' ever'wheres, I guess, But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout! An' the gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out! An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh and grin, An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin; An' onc't when they was company an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she know'd what she's about, An' the gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out! An' little orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is grey, An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squelched away, You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, An' cherish them 't loves you, and dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at cluster all about, Er the gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out! JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. _ALONZO THE BRAVE AND THE FAIR IMOGENE._ A warrior so bold and a virgin so bright, Conversed as they sat on the green; They gazed on each other with tender delight; Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight,-- The maiden's the Fair Imogene. "And oh!" said the youth, "since to-morrow I go To fight in a far distant land, Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow, Some other will court you, and you will bestow On a wealthier suitor your hand!" "Oh cease these suspicions," Fair Imogene said. "Offensive to love and to me; For if you be living, or if you be dead, I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead, Shall husband of Imogene be. "If e'er by lust or by wealth led astray I forget my Alonzo the Brave, God grant that to punish my falsehood and pride Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side, May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, And bear me away to the grave." To Palestine hastened the hero so bold, His love she lamented him sore; But scarce had a twelve-month elapsed, when behold! A Baron, all covered with jewels and gold, Arrived at Fair Imogene's door. His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain Soon made her untrue to her vows; He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain, He caught her affection, so light and so vain, And carried her home as his spouse. And now had the marriage been blest by the priest, And revelry now had begun; The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast. Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased, When the bell at the castle tolled--one. Then first with amazement Fair Imogene found A stranger was placed by her side; His air was terrific, he uttered no sound-- He spake not, he moved not--he looked not around, But earnestly gazed on the bride. His visor was closed, and gigantic his height, His armour was sable to view; All pleasure and laughter were hushed at the sight, All the dogs as they eyed him drew back in afright, All the lights in the chamber burned blue. His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay, The guests sat in silence and fear; At length spake the bride, while she trembled, "I pray, Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, And deign to partake of our cheer." The lady is silent--the stranger complies-- His visor he slowly unclosed; Oh God! what a sight met Fair Imogene's eyes! What word can express her dismay and surprise, When a skeleton's head was exposed. All present then uttered a terrified shout, All turned in disgust from the scene; The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out, And sported his eyes and his temples about, While the spectre addressed Imogene. "Behold me, thou false one--behold me!" he cried; "Remember Alonzo the Brave! God grant that to punish thy falsehood and pride, My ghost at thy marriage should sit at thy side, Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, And bear thee away to the grave!" Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound, While loudly she shrieked in dismay; And sank with his prey through the wide yawning ground, Nor ever again was Fair Imogene found, Or the spectre that bore her away. Not long lived the Baron, and none since that time To inhabit the castle presume; For chronicles say, that by order sublime, There Imogene suffers the pain of her crime, And mourns her deplorable doom. At midnight four times in each year does her sprite, When mortals in slumber are bound, Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white, Appear in the hall of the skeleton knight, And shriek as he whirls her around. While they drink out of skulls, newly torn from the grave, Dancing around them the spectres are seen; Their liquid is blood, and this horrible stave They howl: "To the health of Alonzo the Brave, And his consort, the Fair Imogene." MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS (MONK LEWIS). _AN ALL-AROUND INTELLECTUAL MAN._ He was up in mathematics, had a taste for hydrostatics, and could talk about astronomy from Aristarchus down; He could tell what kind of beans were devoured by the Chaldeans, and he knew the date of every joke made by a circus clown. He was versed in evolution, and would instance the poor Russian as a type of despotism in the modern age of man. He could write a page of matter on the different kinds of batter used in making flinty gim-cracks on the modern cooking plan. He could revel in statistics, he was well up in the fistics, knew the pedigree of horses dating 'way back from the ark. Far and wide his tips were quoted, and his base-ball stuff was noted. In political predictions he would always hit the mark. He could write upon the tariff, and he didn't seem to care if he was called off to review a book or write a poem or two: He could boil down stuff and edit, knew the value of a credit, and could hustle with the telegraph in a style excelled by few. He could tell just how a fire should be handled; as a liar he was sure to exercise a wise, discriminative taste. He was mild and yet undaunted, and no matter what was wanted he was always sure to get it first, yet never was in haste. But despite his reputation as a brainy aggregation, he was known to be deficient in a manner to provoke. For no matter when you met him he would borrow if you let him, and he seemed to have the faculty of always being broke. TOM MASSON. _HER IDEAL._ She wanted to reach an ideal; She talked of the lovely in art, She quoted from Emerson's Essays, And said she thought Howells had "heart." She doted on Wagner's productions, She thought comic opera low, And she played trying tunes on a zither, Keeping time with a sandal-shod toe. She had dreams of a nobler existence-- A bifurcated, corsetless place, Where women would stand free and equal As queens of a glorious race. But her biscuits were deadly creations That caused people's spirits to sink, And she'd views on matters religious That drove her relations to drink. She'd opinions on co-education, But not an idea on cake; She could analyse Spencer or Browning, But the new kitchen range wouldn't bake. She wanted to be esoteric, And she wore the most classical clothes; But she ended by being hysteric And contracting a cold in her nose. She studied of forces hypnotic, She believed in theosophy quite, She understood themes prehistoric And said that the faith cure was right. She wanted to reach the ideal, And at clods unpoetic would rail, And her husband wore fringe on his trousers And fastened them on with a nail! KATE MASTERSON. _THE HAPPY FARMER._ The farmer is a happy man, His life is free from care, With naught to make his spirit sad Or make him want to swear; All day among the cockle burrs He gaily grubs and hoes, And money never troubles him, Unless 'tis what he owes. How sweet at early dawn of day To rise before the sun, And hustle briskly round the barn Till all the chores are done; To feed the cows, and milk them, too, In brightly shining pails, The while they tread upon your corns And thump you with their tails. How sweet to hie into the field, From breakfast smoking hot, And chase a plough all day around A forty acre lot, And, when it strikes against a stone, Drawn by the horses stout, To have the handles prance around And punch your daylights out. How sweet at noon to lie at ease Beneath some spreading tree, And hold a secret session With an ardent bumble bee, And when your rheumatism makes Your legs refuse to go, How sweet to lie upon your back And watch your mortgage grow. And when the busy cares of day Have faded with the light, How sweet to lie in peaceful sleep Throughout the dewy night, And to hear the partner of your joys, At the first faint tinge of dawn, Shout, "Come, old granger, hump yourself The cows are in the corn." MORTIMER C. BROWN. _THE SON OF A SOLDIER_ BY OWEN OLIVER. (_Reprinted from "To-Day" by kind permission of the Author._) You'll be sure to know my daddy, 'Cause he wears a coat of red. An' a rifle, an' a bay'net, An' a helmet on his head. An' he's very big an' handsome, An' his name is Sergeant Smith, An' he's gone to fight the Boers That our Queen is angry with. He's the good Queen's faithful soldier, So he's angry, too, of course-- I expects they _will_ be frightened When they know my daddy's cross! Daddy took me up and nursed me 'For he went on Friday week; "Sonny-boy," he said, "Here's sixpence, Bless you, lad!" and kissed my cheek, "Mind you write to me and tell me How you're doing at your books, How the baby's learning walking, How your little sister looks, How you're good and helping mother-- That's the news I want to find." Mine is only printing writing, But my daddy doesn't mind. I'm my daddy's little soldier, An I've often heard him say, Soldiers ought to do their duty Though their officer's away. Mamma says my duty's doing Just what daddy said I should; But it's hard to do my lessons; And its harder to be good! Teacher says, "Just keep on trying, They'll come easy by-an'-by;" Mamma says I do grow better, And she'll write an' say I try. Won't he smile! unless they've shot him! Mamma said perhaps they would; An' she cried and cried till I cried-- But I don't believe they could. No one couldn't hurt my daddy; If they did, when I grow tall, I shall take a sword and rifle, An' I'll go and kill them all. If I woke up big to-morrow, Off to battle I should go; Then I'd see who'd touch my daddy-- Please, dear God, do make me grow! _THE MILE._ BY DAVID M'KEE WRIGHT. (_By kind permission of the Author._) Sports day at the township; the station chaps mustered From Stewart's and "Flaxland" and Scott's of "Argyle;" Good sport and good weather, and take things together The event that they talked most about was the mile. Young Wilson from Flaxland could run like a greyhound, His times were a wonder with no stopwatch by; From Stewart's, Jack Barry could go like "Old Harry," And Scott's chaps had pinned all their faith on Mackay. The township had three in, and each looked like winning. The cunning boys smiled when you asked what they knew; I'd have sooner been resting than stripping and breasting The mark for the honour of old Waitahu. But the chaps that were with me would take no denial-- I used to run once and could do it to-day; It was no use complaining I wasn't in training, I was hard from the hills and could show them the way. So they said; but the other blokes smiled at my chances, Well they might when I hadn't run for a year; I heard someone mutter, "He's softer than butter-- He used to win once, but he won't finish here." That made me feel foolish, I wished I'd been training, I felt if I had I could make someone spin, But still I was thinking, "I'll finish like winking; Though there isn't a ghost of a chance I can win!" We all toed the line, but I wasn't excited, I fancied the race was all over for Dan; The slowest could do me--the pistol went through me, I jumped from the scratch, and the tussle began. I'd a yard at the start, but I lost it next moment, My word, they went off at a terrible bat; I saw in a minute I wouldn't be in it If Wilson and Barry kept moving like that. They went for a quarter, then Pearce, of the township, Ran up to the lead like a young cannon ball; I kept well behind them, I reckoned to find them About the three-quarters, or else not at all. Second round the same order, Mackay creeping closer, And Pearce, of the township, dropped out at the bend; They kept the pace going, but Wilson was blowing, I didn't expect to see him at the end. Third round, and, by George, I was closing upon them, My long steady swing was beginning to tell; Mackay took the running--he'd played pretty cunning-- I caught my first man at the three-quarter bell. Then I let myself out and I tackled another, Passed him quickly and got up to Wilson at last; There was nothing left in him that once looked like winning; He gave up the struggle the moment I passed. Jack Barry was next, and we got going level, I brought him along till we tackled Mackay; The whole ground was moving, our pace was improving, By Jove! at the finish the grass seemed to fly. "Come on, Dan! come on! you can leave them both standing!" "Jack Barry's the winner!" "Mackay leads the way!"-- The yelling and raving, the rushing and waving-- I'll always remember the finish that day. We were going "eyes out," all three shoulder to shoulder, I gathered myself for the best I could do-- I heard my name crying, I took the tape flying For the honour and glory of old Waitahu! _Other Volumes in this Series._ MANNERS FOR MEN MANNERS FOR WOMEN A WORD TO WOMEN HOW TO BE PRETTY WHAT SHALL I SAY? THE BOOK OF STITCHES HEALTH EXERCISES AND HOME GYMNASTICS THE APPLAUSE RECITER RECITATIONS THE GENTLE ART OF GOOD TALKING CONCERNING MARRIAGE ATHLETICS OF TO-DAY MANNERS FOR GIRLS BEAUTY ADORNED 
29477	----	Transcriber's Note: There are a few pieces which contain some dialect. All dialect, period spelling, etc., has been preserved. The remainder of the TN is at the end of the book. * * * * * When the voice is weak, it should be strengthened by frequent practice, by exercising it in the open air, and upon all convenient occasions. * * * * * The Universal Reciter, CONTAINING 81 Choice Pieces. * * * * * It is necessary not only to practise a little, but to practise a great deal. In this way ease, grace, and fluency are acquired. [Illustration: OH! TELL ME, I SAID, RAPID STREAM OF THE VALLEY, THAT BEAR'ST IN THY COURSE THE BLUE WATERS AWAY, CAN THE JOYS OF LIFE'S MORNING AWAKE BUT TO VANISH, CAN THE FEELINGS OF LOVE BE ALL DOOM'D TO DECAY? AN ECHO REPEATED--"ALL DOOM'D TO DECAY." ] THE UNIVERSAL RECITER, A LITERARY BOUQUET, CONTAINING 81 CHOICE PIECES OF RARE POETICAL GEMS, FINE SPECIMENS OF ORATORY, THRILLING SENTIMENT, ELOQUENCE, TENDER PATHOS, AND SPARKLING HUMOR. * * * * * LONDON: WILLIAM NICHOLSON AND SONS, 20, WARWICK SQUARE PATERNOSTER ROW, AND ALBION WORKS, WAKEFIELD. CONTENTS. PAGE. A Horse Car Incident 194 A love of a Bonnet 87 An Eruption of Mount Vesuvius 100 A Plea for the Ox 103 A Pleasure Exertion 203 A Precious Pickle 125 A Psalm of Life 231 Bell of the "Atlantic" 243 Big Oyster, The 122 Black Regiment, The 162 Boy Archer, The 72 David and Goliath 109 David's lament over Absalom 71 Drafted 98 Dying Hebrew, The 41 Enlisting as Army Nurse 139 Falstaff's Boasting 64 Forging of the Anchor 148 Flowers, The 246 Give me back my Husband 44 Graves of a Household 249 Green Goose, The 175 Gridiron, The 144 Here she goes, and there she goes 105 How we hunted a Mouse 38 Hypochondriac, The 247 Ignorance is bliss 58 Injured Mother, The 50 Juvenile Pugilists 221 Knife Grinder, The 191 Last Man, The 232 Lord Dundreary at Brighton 151 Mantle of St. John De Matha, The 234 Mariner's Wife, The 11 Menagerie, The 56 Migratory Bones 177 Mills of God, The 55 Miser's Fate, The 16 Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question 119 Murdered Traveller, The 70 My Mother's Bible 138 My Friend's Secret 156 One Hoss Shay, The 46 Only Sixteen 143 On to Freedom 68 On the Shores of Tennessee 159 Owl, The 245 Pat and the Fox 22 Pat-ent Gun 229 Patrick's Colt 34 Paul Revere's Ride 200 Pauper's Death Bed 193 Pledge with Wine 250 Polish Boy, The 237 Preaching to the Poor 192 Rain Drops, The 172 Red Chignon 180 Sambo's Dilemma 20 San Francisco Auctioneer 227 Satan's Address to the Sun 32 Scolding Old Dame 174 Shamus O'Brien 214 She would be a Mason 18 Snyder's Nose 13 Socrates Snooks 198 That Hired Girl 241 There's but one pair of Stockings to mend to night 85 Thief of Time, The 164 The Old Man in the Stylish Church 223 The Old Man in the Model Church 225 The World for Sale 37 To my Mother 27 Two Weavers, The 117 Vain Regrets 158 Ventriloquist on a Stage Coach 76 Voices at the Throne 155 Vulture of the Alps, The 62 What ailed "Ugly Sam" 29 Which am de Mightiest 219 Widow Bedott's Poetry 112 Wilkins on Accomplishments 7 [Illustration] THE UNIVERSAL RECITER. WILKINS ON ACCOMPLISHMENTS. A DUOLOGUE. JOHN QUILL. MR. WILKINS. Mrs. Wilkins, of all the aggravating women I ever came across, you are the worst. I believe you'd raise a riot in the cemetry if you were dead, you would. Don't you ever go prowling around any Quaker meeting, or you'll break it up in a plug muss. You? Why you'd put any other man's back up until he broke his spine. Oh! you're too annoying to live; I don't want to bother with you. Go to sleep. MRS. WILKINS. But, Wilkins dear, just listen a minute. We must have that piano, and-- MR. W. Oh! don't "dear" me; I won't have it. You're the only dear thing around here--you're dear at any price. I tell you once for all that I don't get any new piano, and Mary Jane don't take singing lessons as long as I'm her father. There! If you don't understand that I'll say it over again. And now stop your clatter and go to sleep; I'm tired of hearing you cackle. MRS. W. But, Wilk-- MR. W. Now don't aggravate me. I say Mary Jane shan't learn to sing and plant another instrument of torture in this house, while I'm boss of the family. Her voice is just like yours; it's got a twang to it like blowing on the edge of a piece of paper. MRS. W. Ain't you ashamed, Wilk-- MR. W. It's disgrace enough to have _you_ sitting down and pretending to sing, and trying to deafen people, without having the children do it. The first time I heard you sing I started round to the station-house and got six policemen, because I thought there was a murder in your house, and they were cutting you up by inches. I wish somebody would! I wouldn't go for any policeman now, not much! MRS. W. I declare, you are a perfect brute! MR. W. Not much, I wouldn't! But Smith, he told me yesterday that his family were kept awake half the night by the noise you made; and he said if I didn't stop those dogs from yowling in my cellar, he'd be obliged to complain to the board of health. MRS. W. What an awful story, Mr. Wilk-- MR. W. Then I told him it was you, and you thought you could sing; and he advised me as a friend to get a divorce, because he said no man could live happily with any woman who had a voice like a cross-cut saw. He said I might as well have a machine-shop with a lot of files at work in my house as that, and he'd rather any time. MRS. W. Phugh! I don't care what Smith says. MR. W. And you a-talking about a new piano! Why, haven't we got musical instruments enough in the house? There's Holofernes Montgomery been blowing away in the garret for ten days with that old key bugle, until he got so black in the face that he won't get his colour back for a month, and then he only gets a spurt out of her every now and then. He's blown enough wind in her to get up a hurricane, and I expect nothing else but he'll get the old machine so chock full that she'll blow back at him some day and burst his brains out, and all along of your tomfoolery. You're a pretty mother, you are! You'd better go and join some asylum for feeble-minded idiots, you had. MRS. W. Wilkins! I declare you're too bad, for-- MR. W. Yes--and there's Bucephalus Alexander, he's got his head full of your sentimental nonsense, and he thinks he's in love with a girl round the corner, and he meanders about and tries to sigh, and won't eat his victuals, and he's got to going down into the cellar and trying to sing "No one to love" in the coal-bin; and he like to scared the hired girl out of her senses, so that she went upstairs and had a fit on the kitchen door-mat, and came near dying on my hands. MRS. W. That's not true, Mr. Wil-- MR. W. And never came to until I put her head under the hydrant. And then what does Bucephalus Alexander do but go round, night before last, and try to serenade the girl, until the old man histed up the sash and cracked away at Bucephalus Alexander with an old boot, and hit him in the face and blacked his eye, because he thought it was two cats a-yelping. Hang such a mother as you are! You go right to work to ruin your offspring. MRS. W. You're talking nonsense, Wilk-- MR. W. You're about as fit to bring up children as a tadpole is to run a ferry boat, you are! But while I'm alive Mary Jane takes no singing lessons. Do you understand? It's bad enough to have her battering away at that piano like she had some grudge against it, and to have her visitors wriggle around and fidget and look miserable, as if they had cramp colic, while you make her play for them and have them get up and lie, and ask what it was, and say how beautiful it is, and steep their souls in falsehood and hypocrisy all on account of you. You'll have enough sins to answer for, old woman, without that. MRS. W. I never did such a thing, and you-- MR. W. Yes--and you think Mary Jane can play, don't you? You think she can sit down and jerk more music than a whole orchestra, don't you? But she can't. You might about as well set a crowbar to opening oysters as set her to playing on that piano. You might, indeed! MRS. W. You talk like a fool, Wilkins! MR. W. Play! She play? Pshaw! Why, she's drummed away at that polka for six months and she can't get her grip on it yet. You might as well try to sing a long-metre hymn to "Fisher's Hornpipe," as to undertake to dance to that polka. It would jerk your legs out at the sockets, certain, or else it would give you St. Vitus' dance, and cripple you for life. MRS. W. Mr. Wilkins, I'm going to tell you a secret. MR. W. Oh! I don't want to hear your secrets--keep them to yourself. MRS. W. It's about Mary Jane's singing. MR. W. What? MRS. W. Mary Jane, you know--her singing. MR. W. I don't know, and I don't want to; she shan't take lessons, so dry up. MRS. W. But she shall take them! MR. W. I say she shan't! MRS. W. She shall, and you can't help it. MR. W. By George! What do you mean? I'm master in this house I'd like you to know. MRS. W. Yes--but she's been taking lessons for a whole quarter, while you were down town, and I paid the bill out of the market money. MR. W. Well! I hope I may be shot! You don't mean to say that? Well, if you ain't a perfectly abandoned wretch, hang me! Farewell, Mrs. Wilkins, farewell! I'm off by the first express-train for the West! I'll stop at Chicago, where the cars wait fifteen minutes for refreshments and a divorce--I'll take the divorce, that will be indeed refreshing! Farewell! F-a-r-e-well! Fare-r-r-r-r-r-r-well! Mrs. Wil-l-l-l-l-l-l-kins! THE MARINERS WIFE. WM. JULIUS MICKLE. THIS WAS A FAVOURITE RECITATION OF THE LATE CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. And are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark? Make haste, lay by your wheel; Is this a time to spin a thread, When Colin's at the door? Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'. And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife, That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockings pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Put on the mukle pot; Gie little Kate her button gown And Jock his Sunday coat; And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my own gudeman, For he's been long awa. There's twa fat hens upo' the coop, Been fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And mak our table neat and clean, Let everything look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair. And shall I see his face again? And shall I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet! The cold blasts o' the winter wind, That thirléd through my heart, They're a' blown by, I hae him safe, 'Till death we'll never part; But what puts parting in my head? It may be far awa! The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw. Since Colin's weel, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave; And gin I live to keep him sae, I'm blest aboov the lave. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae lack at a'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa. SNYDER'S NOSE. "OUR FAT CONTRIBUTOR." Snyder kept a beer saloon some years ago "over the Rhine." Snyder was a ponderous Teuton of very irascible temper--"sudden and quick in quarrel"--get mad in a minute. Nevertheless his saloon was a great resort for "the boys"--partly because of the excellence of his beer, and partly because they liked to chafe "Old Snyder," as they called him; for, although his bark was terrific, experience had taught them that he wouldn't bite. One day Snyder was missing; and it was explained by his "frau," who "jerked" the beer that day, that he had "gone out fishing mit der poys." The next day one of the boys, who was particularly fond of "roasting" old Snyder, dropped in to get a glass of beer, and discovered Snyder's nose, which was a big one at any time, swollen and blistered by the sun, until it looked like a dead-ripe tomato. "Why, Snyder, what's the matter with your nose?" said the caller. "I peen out fishing mit der poys," replied Snyder, laying his finger tenderly against his proboscis; "the sun it pese hot like ash never vas, und I purns my nose. Nice nose, don't it?" And Snyder viewed it with a look of comical sadness in the little mirror back of his bar. It entered at once into the head of the mischievous fellow in front of the bar to play a joke upon Snyder; so he went out and collected half a dozen of his comrades, with whom he arranged that they should drop in at the saloon one after another, and ask Snyder, "What's the matter with that nose?" to see how long he would stand it. The man who put up the job went in first with a companion, and seating themselves at a table called for beer. Snyder brought it to them, and the new-comer exclaimed as he saw him, "Snyder, what's the matter with your nose?" "I yust dell your friend here I peen out fishin' mit der poys, unt de sun he purnt 'em--zwi lager--den cents--all right." Another boy rushes in. "Halloo, boys, you're ahead of me this time; s'pose I'm in, though. Here, Snyder, bring me a glass of lager and a pret"--(appears to catch a sudden glimpse of Snyder's nose, looks wonderingly a moment and then bursts out laughing)--"ha! ha! ha! Why, Snyder--ha!--ha!--what's the matter with that nose?" Snyder, of course, can't see any fun in having a burnt nose or having it laughed at; and he says, in a tone sternly emphatic: "I peen out fishin' mit der poys, unt de sun it yust ash hot ash blazes, unt I purnt my nose; dat ish all right." Another tormentor comes in, and insists on "setting 'em up" for the whole house. "Snyder," says he, "fill up the boys' glasses, and take a drink yourse----ho! ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! ha! Snyder, wha--ha! ha!--what's the matter with that nose?" Snyder's brow darkens with wrath by this time, and his voice grows deeper and sterner: "I peen out fishin' mit der poys on the Leedle Miami. De sun pese hot like ash--vel, I burn my pugle. Now that is more vot I don't got to say. Vot gind o' peseness? Dat ish all right; I purn my _own_ nose, don't it?" "Burn your nose--burn all the hair off your head for what I care; you needn't get mad about it." It was evident that Snyder wouldn't stand more than one tweak at that nose; for he was tramping about behind his bar, and growling like an exasperated old bear in his cage. Another one of his tormentors walks in. Some one sings out to him, "Have a glass of beer, Billy?" "Don't care about any beer," says Billy, "but, Snyder, you may give me one of your best ciga--Ha-a-a! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho! he! he! he! ah-h-h-ha! ha! ha! ha! Why--why--Snyder--who who--ha-ha! ha! what's the matter with that nose?" Snyder was absolutely fearful to behold by this time; his face was purple with rage, all except his nose, which glowed like a ball of fire. Leaning his ponderous figure far over the bar, and raising his arm aloft to emphasize his words with it, he fairly roared: "I peen out fishin' mit ter poys. The sun it pese hot like ash never was. I purnt my nose. Now you no like dose nose, you yust take dose nose unt wr-wr-wr-wring your mean American finger mit 'em. That's the kind of man vot I am!" And Snyder was right. THE MISER'S FATE. OSBORNE. In the year 1762 a miser, of the name of Foscue, in France, having amassed enormous wealth by habits of extortion and the most sordid parsimony, was requested by the government to advance a sum of money as a loan. The miser demurred, pretending that he was poor. In order to hide his gold effectually, he dug a deep cave in his cellar, the descent to which was by a ladder, and which was entered by means of a trap-door, to which was attached a spring-lock. He entered this cave one day to gloat over his gold, when the door fell upon him, and the spring-lock, the key to which he had left on the outside, snapped, and held him a prisoner in the cave, where he perished miserably. Some months afterwards a search was made, and his body was found in the midst of his money-bags, with a candlestick lying beside it on the floor. In the following lines the miser is supposed to have just entered his cave, and to be soliloquizing. So, so! all safe! Come forth, my pretty sparklers-- Come forth, and feast my eyes! Be not afraid! No keen-eyed agent of the government Can see you here. They wanted me, forsooth, To lend you, at the lawful rate of usance, For the state's needs. Ha, ha! my shining pets, My yellow darlings, my sweet golden circlets! Too well I loved you to do that--and so I pleaded poverty, and none could prove My story was not true. Ha! could they see These bags of ducats, and that precious pile Of ingots, and those bars of solid gold, Their eyes, methinks, would water. What a comfort Is it to see my moneys in a heap All safely lodged under my very roof! Here's a fat bag--let me untie the mouth of it. What eloquence! What beauty! What expression! Could Cicero so plead? Could Helen look One-half so charming? [_The trap-door falls._] Ah! what sound was that? The Trap-door fallen--and the spring-lock caught! Well, have I not the key? Of course I have. 'Tis in this pocket. No. In this? No. Then I left it at the bottom of the ladder. Ha! 'tis not there. Where then? Ah! mercy, Heaven! 'Tis in the lock outside! What's to be done? Help, help! Will no one hear? Oh, would that I Had not discharged old Simon! but he begged Each week for wages--would not give me credit. I'll try my strength upon the door. Despair! I might as soon uproot the eternal rocks As force it open. Am I here a prisoner, And no one in the house? no one at hand, Or likely soon to be, to hear my cries? Am I entombed alive? Horrible fate! I sink--I faint beneath the bare conception! [_Awakes._] Darkness? Where am I? I remember, now, This is a bag of ducats--'tis no dream-- No dream! The trap-door fell, and here am I Immured with my dear gold--my candle out-- All gloom--all silence--all despair! What, ho! Friends! Friends? I have no friends. What right have I To use the name? These money-bags have been The only friends I've cared for--and for these I've toiled, and pinched, and screwed--shutting my heart To charity, humanity and love! Detested traitors! Since I gave you all-- Aye, gave my very soul--can ye do naught For me in this extremity? Ho! Without there! A thousand ducats for a loaf of bread! Ten thousand ducats for a glass of water! A pile of ingots for a helping hand! Was that a laugh? Aye, 'twas a fiend that laughed To see a miser in the grip of death. Offended Heaven, have mercy! I will give In alms all this vile rubbish; aid me thou In this most dreadful strait! I'll build a church-- A hospital! Vain, vain! Too late, too late! Heaven knows the miser's heart too well to trust him! Heaven will not hear! Why should it? What have I Done to enlist Heaven's favor--to help on Heaven's cause on earth, in human hearts and homes? Nothing! God's kingdom will not come the sooner For any work or any prayer of mine. But must I die here--in my own trap caught? Die--die? and then! Oh, mercy! Grant me time-- Thou who canst save--grant me a little time, And I'll redeem the past--undo the evil That I have done--make thousands happy with This hoarded treasure--do Thy will on earth As it is done in Heaven--grant me but time! Nor man nor God will heed my shrieks! All's lost! SHE WOULD BE A MASON. ANONYMOUS. The funniest story I ever heard, The funniest thing that ever occurred, Is the story of Mrs. Mehitable Byrde, Who wanted to be a Mason. Her husband, Tom Byrde, is a Mason true, As good a Mason as any of you; He is tyler of lodge Cerulian Blue, And tyles and delivers the summons due, And she wanted to be a Mason too-- This ridiculous Mrs. Byrde. She followed him round, this inquisitive wife, And nabbed and teased him half out of his life; So to terminate this unhallowed strife, He consented at last to admit her. And first to disguise her from bonnet to shoon, The ridiculous lady agreed to put on His breech--ah! forgive me--I meant pantaloon; And miraculously did they fit her. The Lodge was at work on the Master's Degree; The light was ablaze on the letter G; High soared the pillars J. and B.; The officers sat like Solomon, wise; The brimstone burned amid horrid cries; The goat roamed wildly through the room; The candidate begged 'em to let him go home; And the devil himself stood up in the east, As proud as an alderman at a feast;-- When in came Mrs. Byrde. Oh, horrible sounds! oh, horrible sight! Can it be that Masons take delight In spending thus the hours of night? Ah! could their wives and daughters know The unutterable things they say and do, Their feminine hearts would burst with woe; But this is not all my story, For those Masons joined in a hideous ring, The candidate howling like everything, And thus in tones of death they sing (The Candidate's name was Morey): "Blood to drink and bones to crack, Skulls to smash and lives to take, Hearts to crush and souls to burn-- Give old Morey another turn, And make him all grim and gory." Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde, Unable to speak a single word; She staggered and fell in the nearest chair, On the left of the Junior Warden there, And scarcely noticed, so loud the groans, That the chair was made of human bones. Of human bones! on grinning skulls That ghastly throne of horror rolls-- Those skulls, the skulls that Morgan bore! Those bones the bones that Morgan wore! His scalp across the top was flung, His teeth around the arms were strung-- Never in all romance was known Such uses made of human bone. The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame, Just like a place we will not name; Good angels, that inquiring came From blissful courts, looked on with shame And tearful melancholy. Again they dance, but twice as bad, They jump and sing like demons mad; The tune is Hunkey Dorey-- "Blood to drink," etc., etc. Then came a pause--a pair of paws Reached through the floor, up sliding doors, And grabbed the unhappy candidate! How can I without tears relate The lost and ruined Morey's fate? She saw him sink in a fiery hole, She heard him scream, "My soul! my soul!" While roars of fiendish laughter roll, And drown the yells of mercy! "Blood to drink," etc., etc. The ridiculous woman could stand no more-- She fainted and fell on the checkered floor, 'Midst all the diabolical roar. What then, you ask me, did befall Mehitable Byrde? Why, nothing at all-- _She had dreamed_ she'd been in the Masons' hall. SAMBO'S DILEMMA. "Midas, I want to s'posen a case to you, an' I want you to gim me the gospel truth on your 'pinion 'bout de matter." That's the manner in which one of Washington's dusky damsels put it to her adorer last evening. "Now, Midas, you knows you'se tole me more times 'an you'se got fingers an' toes, as you lubbed me harder 'an a marble-top washstand, an' 'at I'se sweeter to you 'an buckwheat cakes and 'lassas foreber. Midas, this am only s'posen case, but I wants you to s'posen jus' as if'n 'twas a shunuff one. "S'posen me an' you was goin' on a scursion down de riber!" "Yas," broke in Midas, "down to Mount Vernon." "Anywha's 'tall, down the riber. Midas, can you swim?" "No, Luce, I's sorry to 'form you dat de only d'reckshon what I kin circumstanshiate fru de water am de bottom." "Well, den, as I was 'latin'. S'posen we was on de boat, glidin' lubingly an' harmunly down de bussum ob der riber's stream, de moon was lookin' shiningly down pon de smoke-stack, an' you wos sottin' rite up to me (jus' slide up here closer, an' lem me show you how), dats de way." "Yah, yah! but wouldn't dat be scrumptuous?" interrupted Midas. "S'posen," continued Lucy, "you had jest put your arm roun' my wai' (dat's it), der wasn't nobody 'bout, you was a squeezin' me up, an' was jest gwine to gimme de lubinest kind ob a kiss, an'--an'--an' de biler would bust!" "Oh, de debbil!" said the disappointed Midas. "Now, Midas, I is s'posen dis case, an' I wants you to mind de words what I am a speakin'. S'posen when dat biler busted we bof went up in de air, come down in de ribber, an' when we arrive in de water we found de only thing lef' of dat boat was one piece ob board dat wasn't big enough to hole us bof, but we bof grab at it; now, Midas, wud you let go dat board, or would you put me off an' took it all y'self? Dat's de question what I'm s'posen." "Luce, can you swim?" he asked, after hesitating a few moments. "No, Midas, ob course not. You know I can't swim." "Well den, Luce, my conchenshus 'pinion ob de whole matter am dat we won't go on no scursions." PAT AND THE FOX. SAMUEL LOVER. "Paddy," said the squire, "perhaps you would favor the gentleman with that story you told me once about a fox?" "Indeed and I will, plaze yer honor," said Paddy, "though I know full well the divil a one word iv it you b'lieve, nor the gintlemen won't either, though you're axin' me for it--but only want to laugh at me, and call me a big liar when my back's turned." "Maybe we wouldn't wait for your back being turned, Paddy, to honor you with that title." "Oh, indeed, I'm not sayin' that you wouldn't do it as soon foreninst my face, yer honor, as you often did before, and will agin, plaze God, and welkim." "Well, Paddy, say no more about that, but let's have the story." "Sure I'm losing no time, only telling the gintlemen beforehand that it's what they'll be callin' it, a lie--and indeed it's ancommon, sure enough; but you see, gintlemen, you must remimber that the fox is the cunnin'est baste in the world, barrin' the wran----" Here Paddy was questioned why he considered the wren as cunning a _baste_ as the fox. "Why, sir, bekase all the birds build their nest wid one hole to it only, excep'n the wran; but the wran builds two holes to the nest, and so that if any inimy comes to disturb it upon one door it can go out an the other. But the fox is cute to that degree that there's many mortial a fool to him--and, by dad, the fox could by and sell many a Christian, as you'll soon see by-and-by, when I tell you what happened to a wood-ranger that I knew wanst, and a dacent man he was, and wouldn't say the thing in a lie. "Well, you see, he kem home one night mighty tired--for he was out wid a party in the domain cock-shootin' that day; and whin he got back to his lodge he threw a few logs o' wood an the fire to make himself comfortable, and he tuk whatever little matther he had for his supper--and afther that he felt himself so tired that he wint to bed. But you're to understand that, though he wint to bed, it was more for to rest himself like, than to sleep, for it was airly; and so he jist wint into bed, and there he divarted himself lookin' at the fire, that was blazin' as merry as a bonfire an the hearth. "Well, as he was lyin' that-a-way, jist thinkin' o' nothin' at all, what should come into the place but a fox. But I must tell you, what I forgot to tell you, before, that the ranger's house was on the bordhers o' the wood, and he had no one to live wid him but himself, barrin' the dogs that he had the care iv, that was his only companions, and he had a hole cut an the door, with a swingin' boord to it, that the dogs might go in or out accordin' as it plazed thim; and, by dad, the fox kem in as I told you, through the hole in the door, as bould as a ram, and walked over to the fire, and sat down foreninst it. "Now it was mighty provokin' that all the dogs was out; they wor rovin' about the wood, you see, lookin for to catch rabbits to ate, or some other mischief, and so it happened that there wasn't as much as one individual dog in the place; and, by gor, I'll go bail the fox knew that right well before he put his nose inside the ranger's lodge. "Well, the ranger was in hopes some o' the dogs id come home and ketch the chap, and he was loath to stir hand or fut himself, afeared o' frightenin' away the fox, but by gor, he could hardly keep his timper at all at all, whin he seen the fox take his pipe aff o' the hob where he left it afore he wint to bed, and puttin' the bowl o' the pipe into the fire to kindle it (it's as thrue as I'm here), he began to smoke foreninst the fire, as nath'ral as any other man you ever seen. "'Musha, bad luck to your impidence, you long-tailed blackguard,' says the ranger, 'and is it smokin' my pipe you are? Oh, thin, by this and by that, iv I had my gun convaynient to me, it's fire and smoke of another sort, and what you wouldn't bargain for, I'd give you,' says he. But still he was loath to stir, hopin the dogs id come home; and 'By gor, my fine fellow,' says he to the fox, 'if one o' the dogs comes home, saltpethre wouldn't save you, and that's a sthrong pickle.' "So with that he watched antil the fox wasn't mindin' him, but was busy shakin' the cindhers out o' the pipe whin he was done wid it, and so the ranger thought he was goin' to go immediately afther gettin an air o' the fire and a shough o' the pipe; and so, says he, 'Faix, my lad, I won't let you go so aisy as all that, as cunnin' as you think yourself;' and with that he made a dart out o' bed, and run over to the door, and got betune it and the fox, 'And now,' says he, 'your bread's baked, my buck, and maybe my lord won't have a fine run out o' you, and the dogs at your brish every yard, you morodin' thief, and the divil mind you,' says he, 'for your impidence--for sure, if you hadn't the impidence of a highwayman's horse it's not into my very house, undher my nose, you'd daar for to come:' and with that he began to whistle for the dogs; and the fox, that stood eyein' him all the time while he was spakin', began to think it was time to be joggin' whin he heard the whistle--and says the fox to himself, 'Troth, indeed, you think yourself a mighty great ranger now,' says he, 'and you think you're very cute, but upon my tail, and that's a big oath, I'd be long sorry to let such a mallet-headed bog-throtter as yourself take a dirty advantage o' me, and I'll engage,' says the fox, 'I'll make you lave the door soon and suddint,'--and with that he turned to where the ranger's brogues was lyin' hard by beside the fire, and, what would you think, but the fox tuk one o' the brogues, and wint over to the fire, and threw it into it. "'I think that'll make you start,' says the fox. "'Divil resave the start,' says the ranger--'that won't do, my buck,' says he, 'the brogue may burn to cindhers,' says he, 'but out o' this I won't stir;' and thin, puttin' his fingers into his mouth, he gev a blast of a whistle you'd hear a mile off, and shouted for the dogs. "'So that won't do,' says the fox--'well, I must thry another offer,' says he, and with that he tuk up the other brogue, and threw it into the fire too. "'There, now,' says he, 'you may keep the other company,' says he; 'and there's a pair o' you now, as the divil said to his knee-buckles.' "'Oh, you thievin' varment,' says the ranger, 'you won't lave me a tack to my feet; but no matter,' says he, 'your head's worth more nor a pair o' brogues to me any day, and by the Piper of Blessintown, you're money in my pocket this minit,' says he: and with that, the fingers was in his mouth agin, and he was goin' to whistle, whin, what would you think, but up sets the fox on his hunkers, and puts his two fore-paws into his mouth, makin' game o' the ranger--(bad luck to the lie I tell you.) "'Well, the ranger, and no wondher, although in a rage as he was, couldn't help laughin' at the thought o' the fox mockin' him, and, by dad, he tuk sitch a fit o' laughin' that he couldn't whistle--and that was the 'cuteness o' the fox to gain time; but whin his first laugh was over, the ranger recovered himself, and gev another whistle; and so says the fox, 'By my soul,' says he, 'I think it wouldn't be good for my health to stay here much longer, and I mustn't be triflin' with that blackguard ranger any more,' says he, 'and I must make him sensible that it is time to let me go, and though he hasn't understandin' to be sorry for his brogues, I'll go bail I'll make him lave that,' says he, 'before he'd say _sparables_'--and with that what do you think the fox done? By all that's good--and the ranger himself told me out iv his own mouth, and said he would never have b'lieved it, ownly he seen it--the fox tuk a lighted piece iv a log out o' the blazin' fire, and run over wid it to the ranger's bed, and was goin' to throw it into the sthraw, and burn him out of house and home; so when the ranger seen that he gev a shout out iv him-- "'Hillo! hillo! you murtherin' villain,' says he, 'you're worse nor Captain Rock; is it goin' to burn me out you are, you red rogue iv a Ribbonman?" and he made a dart betune him and the bed, to save the house from bein' burnt,--but, my jew'l, that was all the fox wanted--and as soon as the ranger quitted the hole in the door that he was standin' foreninst, the fox let go the blazin' faggit, and made one jump through the door and escaped. "But before he wint, the ranger gev me his oath that the fox turned round and gev him the most contemptible look he ever got in his life, and showed every tooth in his head with laughin', and at last he put out his tongue at him, as much as to say--'You've missed me like your mammy's blessin',' and off wid him, like a flash o' lightnin'." TO MY MOTHER. FORRESTER. [It is hardly necessary to say that too much tenderness cannot be imparted to the voice while reading these beautiful lines. The heart that recalls a departed mother's memory will be the best monitor.] Give me my old seat, mother, With my head upon thy knee; I've passed through many a changing scene, Since thus I sat by thee. Oh! let me look into thine eyes; Their meek, soft, loving light Falls like a gleam of holiness, Upon my heart, to-night. I've not been long away, mother; Few suns have risen and set, Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek, My lips in kisses met. 'Tis but a little time, I know, But very long it seems; Though every night I came to thee, Dear mother, in my dreams. The world has kindly dealt, mother, By the child thou lov'st so well; The prayers have circled round her path; And 'twas their holy spell Which made that path so dearly bright; Which strewed the roses there; Which gave the light, and cast the balm On every breath of air. I bear a happy heart, mother; A happier never beat; And, even now, new buds of hope Are bursting at my feet. Oh! mother! life may be a dream; But if such _dreams_ are given, While at the portals thus we stand, What are the _truths_ of Heaven? I bear a happy heart, mother! Yet, when fond eyes I see, And hear soft tones and winning words, I ever think of thee. And then, the tears my spirit weeps Unbidden fill my eye; And, like a houseless dove, I long Unto thy breast to fly. _Then_ I am very sad, mother, I'm very sad and lone: O! there's no heart whose inmost fold Opes to me like thine own! Though sunny smiles wreath blooming lips, While love-tones meet my ear; My mother, one fond glance of thine Were thousand times more dear. Then with a closer clasp, mother, Now hold me to thy heart: I'll feel it beating 'gainst my own, Once more before we part. And mother, to this love-lit spot, When I am far away, Come oft--_too oft_ thou canst not come! And for thy darling pray. WHAT AILED "UGLY SAM." DETROIT FREE PRESS. He had been missing from the "Potomac" for several days, and Cleveland Tom, Port Huron Bill, Tall Chicago, and the rest of the boys who were wont to get drunk with him, couldn't make out what had happened. They hadn't heard that there was a warrant out for him, had never known of his being sick for a day, and his absence from the old haunts puzzled them. They were in the Hole-in-the-Wall saloon yesterday morning, nearly a dozen of them, drinking, smoking, and playing cards, when in walked Ugly Sam. There was a deep silence for a moment as they looked at him. Sam had a new hat, had been shaved clean, had on a clean collar and a white shirt, and they didn't know him at first. When they saw that it was Ugly Sam, they uttered a shout and leaped up. "Cave in that hat!" cried one. "Yank that collar off!" shouted another. "Let's roll him on the floor!" screamed a third. There was something in his look and bearing which made them hesitate. The whiskey-red had almost faded from his face, and he looked sober and dignified. His features expressed disgust and contempt as he looked around the room, and then revealed pity as his eyes fell upon the red eyes and bloated faces of the crowd before him. "Why, what ails ye, Sam?" inquired Tall Chicago, as they all stood there. "I've come down to bid ye good-bye, boys!" he replied, removing his hat and drawing a clean handkerchief from his pocket. "What! Hev ye turned preacher?" they shouted in chorus. "Boys, ye know I can lick any two of ye; but I hain't on the fight any more, an' I've put down the last drop of whiskey which is ever to go into my mouth! I've switched off. I've taken an oath. I'm going to be decent!" "Sam, be you crazy?" asked Port Huron Bill, coming nearer to him. "I've come down here to tell ye all about it," answered Sam. "Move the cha'rs back a little and give me room. Ye all know I've been rough, and more too. I've been a drinker, a fighter, a gambler, and a loafer. I can't look back and remember when I've earned an honest dollar. The police hez chased me around like a wolf, and I've been in jail and the work-house, and the papers has said that Ugly Sam was the terror of the Potomac. Ye all know this, boys, but ye didn't know I had an old mother." The faces of the crowd expressed amazement. "I never mentioned it to any of ye, for I was neglecting her," he went on. "She was a poor old body living up here in the alley, and if the neighbours hadn't helped her to fuel and food, she'd have been found dead long ago. I never helped her to a cent--didn't see her for weeks and weeks, and I used to feel mean about it. When a feller goes back on his old mother, he's a-gittin' purty low, and I know it. Well, she's dead--buried yesterday! I was up there afore she died. She sent for me by Pete, and when I got there I seen it was all day with her." "Did she say anything?" asked one of the boys, as Sam hesitated. "That's what ails me now," he went on. "When I went she reached out her hand to me, and says she, 'Samuel, I'm going to die, and I know'd you'd want to see me afore I passed away!' I sat down, feeling queer like. She didn't go on and say as how I was a loafer, and had neglected her, and all that, but says she, 'Samuel, you'll be all alone when I'm gone. I've tried to be a good mother to you, and have prayed for you hundreds o' nights and cried about you till my old heart was sore!' Some o' the neighbours had dropped in, and the women were crying, and I tell you, boys, I felt weak." He paused for a moment, and then continued: "And the old woman said she'd like to kiss me afore death came, and that broke me right down. She kept hold of my hand, and by-and-by she whispered; 'Samuel, you are throwing your life away. You've got it in you to be a man if you will only make up your mind, I hate to die and feel that my only son and the last of our family may go to the gallows. If I had your promise that you'd turn over a new leaf and try and be good, it seems as if I'd die easier. Won't you promise me, my son?' And I promised her, boys, and that's what ails me! She died holding my hand, and I promised to quit this low business and go to work. I came down to tell ye, and now you won't see me on the Potomac again. I've bought an axe, and am going up in Canada to Winter." There was a dead silence for a moment, and then he said: "Well, boys, I'll shake hands with ye all around afore I go. Good-by, Pete--good-by, Jack--Tom--Jim. I hope you won't fling any bricks at me, and I shan't never fling any at any of ye. It's a dying promise, ye see, and I'll keep it if it takes a right arm!" The men looked reflectively at each other after he had passed out, and it was a long time before any one spoke. Then Tall Chicago flung his clay pipe into a corner, and said: "I'll lick the man who says Ugly Sam's head isn't level!" "So'll I!" repeated the others. SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. MILTON. This famous speech affords opportunity for the grandest declamation. It is studded with points--anger, hate, scorn, admiration and defiance. The student should read, and re-read and ponder over every line, until he catches the exact meaning intended to be conveyed--then, following the examples already given, he should declaim it repeatedly: O thou, that, with surpassing glory crown'd, Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars Hide their diminish'd heads; to thee I call, But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, O Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere; Till pride and worse ambition threw me down Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless king: Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such return From me, whom he created what I was In that bright eminence, and with his good Upbraided none; nor was his service hard. What could be less than to afford him praise, The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks, How due! yet all his good proved ill in me, And wrought but malice; lifted up so high I 'sdain'd subjection, and thought one step higher Would set me highest, and in a moment quit The debt immense of endless gratitude So burdensome still paying, still to owe: Forgetful what from him I still received, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and discharged; what burden then? O, had his powerful destiny ordain'd Me some inferior angel, I had stood Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised Ambition! Yet why not? some other Power As great might have aspired, and me, though mean, Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within Or from without, to all temptations arm'd. Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand? Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all? Be then his love accursed, since love or hate, To me alike, it deals eternal woe. Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will Chose freely what it now so justly rues. Me miserable! which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell; And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. O then at last relent: Is there no place Left for repentance, none for pardon left? None left but by submission; and that word Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced With other promises and other vaunts Than to submit, boasting I could subdue The Omnipotent. Ah me! they little know How dearly I abide that boast so vain, Under what torments inwardly I groan, While they adore me on the throne of hell. With diadem and sceptre high advanced, The lower still I fall, only supreme In misery! Such joy ambition finds. But say I could repent, and could obtain By act of grace, my former state; how soon Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay What faint submission swore? Ease would recant Vows made in pain, as violent and void. For never can true reconcilement grow, Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep: Which would but lead me to a worse relapse And heavier fall; so should I purchase dear Short intermission bought with double smart. This knows my Punisher; therefore as far From granting he, as I from begging, peace; All hope excluded thus, behold, instead Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight, Mankind created, and for him this world, So farewell, hope; and with hope, farewell, fear; Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost; Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold, By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign; As man, ere long, and this new world shall know. PATRICK'S COLT. ANONYMOUS. Patrick O'Flanigan, from Erin's isle Just fresh, thinking he'd walk around a while, With open mouth and widely staring eyes, Cried "Och!" and "Whist!" at every new surprise. He saw some labourers in a field of corn; The golden pumpkins lit the scene with glory; Of all that he had heard since being born, Nothing had equaled this in song or story. "The holy mither! and, sirs, would ye plaise To be a tellin' me what might be these? An' sure I'm thinkin' that they're not pratees, But mebbe it's the way you grow your chase." "Ah, Patrick, these are mare's eggs," said the hand, Giving a wink to John, and Jim, and Bill; "Just hatch it out, and then you have your horse; Take one and try it; it will pay you well." "Faith an' that's aisy sure; in dear ould Ireland I always had my Christmas pig so nate, Fatted on buttermilk, and hard to bate; But only gintlemen can own a horse. Ameriky's a great counthry indade, I thought that here I'd kape a pig, of coorse, Have me own land, and shanty without rent, An' have me vote, an' taxes not a cint; But sure I niver thought to own a baste. An' won't the wife and childer now be glad? A thousand blissings on your honor's head! But could ye tell by lookin' at the egg What colour it will hatch? It's to me taste To have a dapple gray, with a long tail, High in the neck, and slinder in the leg, To jump a twel' feet bog, and niver fail, Like me Lord Dumferline's at last year's races--" Just then the merry look on all their faces Checked Patrick's flow of talk, and with a blush That swept his face as milk goes over mush, He added, "Sure, I know it is no use To try to tell by peering at an egg If it will hatch a gander or a goose;" Then looked around to make judicious choice. "Pick out the largest one that you can hide Out of the owner's sight there by the river; Don't drop and break it, or the colt is gone; Carry it gently to your little farm, Put it in bed, and keep it six weeks warm." Quickly Pat seized a huge, ripe, yellow one, "Faith, sure, an' I'll do every bit of that The whole sax wakes I'll lie meself in bed, An' kape it warrum, as your honour said; Long life to yees, and may you niver walk, Not even to your grave, but ride foriver; Good luck to yees," and without more of talk He pulled the forelock 'neath his tattered hat, And started off; but plans of mice and men Gang oft agley, again and yet again. Full half a mile upon his homeward road Poor Patrick toiled beneath his heavy load. A hilltop gained, he stopped to rest, alas! He laid his mare's egg on some treacherous grass; When down the steep hillside it rolled away, And at poor Patrick's call made no delay. Gaining momentum, with a heavy thump, It struck and split upon a hollow stump, In which a rabbit lived with child and wife, Frightened, the timid creature ran for life. "Shtop, shtop my colt!" cried Patrick, as he ran After his straying colt, but all in vain. With ears erect poor Bunny faster fled As "Shtop my colt!" in mournful, eager tones Struck on those organs, till with fright half dead He hid away among some grass and stones. Here Patrick searched till rose the harvest moon, Braying and whinnying till he was hoarse, Hoping to lure the colt by this fond cheat; "For won't the young thing want his mither soon, And come to take a bit of something t'eat?" But vain the tender accents of his call-- No colt responded from the broken wall; And 'neath the twinkling stars he plodded on, To tell how he had got and lost his horse. "As swate a gray as iver eyes sat on," He said to Bridget and the children eight, After thrice telling the whole story o'er, "The way he run it would be hard to bate; So little, too, with jist a whisk o' tail, Not a pin-feather on it as I could see, For it was hatched out just sax weeks too soon! An' such long ears were niver grown before On any donkey in grane Ireland! So little, too, you'd hold it in your hand; Och hone! he would have made a gray donkey." So all the sad O'Flanigans that night Held a loud wake over the donkey gone, Eating their "pratees" without milk or salt, Howling between whiles, "Och! my little colt!" While Bunny, trembling from his dreadful fright, Skipped home to Mrs. B. by light of moon, And told the story of his scare and flight; And all the neighbouring rabbits played around The broken mare's egg scattered on the ground. THE WORLD FOR SALE. REV. RALPH HOYT. The world for sale! Hang out the sign; call every traveler here to me: who'll buy this brave estate of mine, and set this weary spirit free? 'Tis going! yes, I mean to fling the bauble from my soul away; I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring: the world's at auction here to-day! It is a glorious sight to see--but, ah! it has deceived me sore; it is not what it seems to be. For sale! it shall be mine no more. Come, turn it o'er and view it well; I would not have you purchase dear. 'Tis going! going! I must sell! Who bids! who'll buy this splendid Tear? Here's Wealth, in glittering heaps of gold; who bids? But let me tell you fair, a baser lot was never sold! Who'll buy the heavy heaps of Care? and, here, spread out in broad domain, a goodly landscape all may trace; hall, cottage, tree, field, hill and plain:--who'll buy himself a burial place? Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell that Beauty flings around the heart; I know its power, alas! too well; 'tis going! Love and I must part! Must part? What can I more with Love? all o'er is the enchanter's reign. Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove--a breath of bliss, a storm of pain? And Friendship, rarest gem of earth; who e'er has found the jewel his? Frail, fickle, false, and little worth! who bids for Friendship--as it is? 'Tis going! going! hear the call; once, twice and thrice, 'tis very low! 'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all, but now the broken staff must go! Fame! hold the brilliant meteor high; how dazzling every gilded name! Ye millions! now's the time to buy. How much for Fame? how much for Fame? Hear how it thunders! Would you stand on high Olympus, far renowned, now purchase, and a world command!--and be with a world's curses crowned. Sweet star of Hope! with ray to shine in every sad foreboding breast, save this desponding one of mine--who bids for man's last friend, and best? Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life, this treasure should my soul sustain! But Hope and Care are now at strife, nor ever may unite again. Ambition, Fashion, Show and Pride, I part from all forever now; Grief, in an overwhelming tide, has taught my haughty heart to bow. By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft, I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod; the best of all I still have left--my Faith, My Bible, and my GOD. HOW WE HUNTED A MOUSE. JOSHUA JENKINS. I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the kitchen and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions, and shouting "shoo," in a general manner, at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, "O Joshua! a mouse, shoo--wha--shoo--a great--ya, shoo--horrid mouse, and--she--ew--it ran right out of the cupboard--shoo--go away--O Lord--Joshua--shoo--kill it, oh, my--shoo." All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down, and ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn't poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment. There is something real disagreeable about having a mouse inside the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing between you and the mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are scratchy, and its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is nothing pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it will try to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of on the cloth. That mouse was next to me. I could feel its every motion with startling and suggestive distinctness. For these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as the case seemed urgent to me I may have yelled with a certain degree of vigor; but I deny that I yelled fire, and if I catch the boy who thought that I did, I shall inflict punishment on his person. I did not loose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can't handle many mice at once to advantage. Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked what she should do--as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. "O Joshua," she cried, "I wish you had not killed the cat." Now I submit that the wish was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. How on earth did she suppose a cat could get where that mouse was?--rather have the mouse there alone, anyway, than to have a cat prowling around after it. I reminded Maria of the fact that she was a fool. Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy. That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dradged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear. Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let Maria "shoo" them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for the trouble. THE DYING HEBREW. KIMBIE. The following poem, a favourite with the late Mr. Edwin Forrest, was composed by a young law student, and first published in Boston in 1858. A Hebrew knelt in the dying light, His eye was dim and cold; The hairs on his brow were silver white, And his blood was thin and old! He lifted his look to his latest sun, For he knew that his pilgrimage was done; And as he saw God's shadow there, His spirit poured itself in prayer! "I come unto death's second birth Beneath a stranger air, A pilgrim on a dull, cold earth, As all my fathers were! And men have stamped me with a curse, I feel it is not Thine; Thy mercy, like yon sun, was made On me, as them, to shine; And therefore dare I lift mine eye Through that to Thee before I die! In this great temple, built by Thee, Whose pillars are divine, Beneath yon lamp, that ceaselessly Lights up Thine own true shrine, Oh take my latest sacrifice-- Look down and make this sod Holy as that where, long ago, The Hebrew met his God. I have not caused the widow's tears, Nor dimmed the orphan's eye; I have not stained the virgin's years, Nor mocked the mourner's cry. The songs of Zion in mine ear Have ever been most sweet, And always, when I felt Thee near, My shoes were off my feet. I have known Thee in the whirlwind, I have known Thee on the hill, I have loved Thee in the voice of birds, Or the music of the rill; I dreamt Thee in the shadow, I saw Thee in the light; I blessed Thee in the radiant day, And worshiped Thee at night. All beauty, while it spoke of Thee, Still made my soul rejoice, And my spirit bowed within itself To hear Thy still, small voice! I have not felt myself a thing, Far from Thy presence driven, By flaming sword or waving wing Shut off from Thee and heaven. Must I the whirlwind reap because My fathers sowed the storm? Or shrink, because another sinned, Beneath Thy red, right arm? Oh much of this we dimly scan, And much is all unknown; But I will not take my curse from man-- I turn to Thee alone! Oh bid my fainting spirit live, And what is dark reveal, And what is evil, oh forgive, And what is broken heal. And cleanse my nature from above, In the dark Jordan of Thy love! I know not if the Christian's heaven Shall be the same as mine; I only ask to be forgiven, And taken home to Thine. I weary on a far, dim strand, Whose mansions are as tombs, And long to find the Fatherland, Where there are many homes. Oh grant of all yon starry thrones, Some dim and distant star, Where Judah's lost and scattered sons May love Thee from afar. Where all earth's myriad harps shall meet In choral praise and prayer, Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet, Alone be wanting there? Yet place me in Thy lowest seat, Though I, as now, be there, The Christian's scorn, the Christian's jest; But let me see and hear, From some dim mansion in the sky, Thy bright ones and their melody." The sun goes down with sudden gleam, And--beautiful as a lovely dream And silently as air-- The vision of a dark-eyed girl, With long and raven hair, Glides in--as guardian spirits glide-- And lo! is kneeling by his side, As if her sudden presence there Were sent in answer to his prayer. (Oh say they not that angels tread Around the good man's dying bed?) His child--his sweet and sinless child-- And as he gazed on her He knew his God was reconciled, And this the messenger, As sure as God had hung on high The promise bow before his eye-- Earth's purest hopes thus o'er him flung, To point his heavenward faith, And life's most holy feeling strung To sing him into death; And on his daughter's stainless breast The dying Hebrew found his rest! GIVE ME BACK MY HUSBAND. Not many years since, a young married couple from the far "fast-anchored isle" sought our shores with the most sanguine anticipations of happiness and prosperity. They had begun to realize more than they had seen in the visions of hope, when, in an evil hour, the husband was tempted "to look upon the wine when it is red," and to taste of it, "when it giveth its colour in the cup." The charmer fastened round its victim all the serpent-spells of its sorcery, and he fell; and at every step of his degradation from the man to the brute, and downward, a heartstring broke in the bosom of his companion. Finally, with the last spark of hope flickering on the altar of her heart, she threaded her way into one of those shambles where man is made such a thing as the beasts of the field would bellow at. She pressed her way through the bacchanalian crowd who were revelling there in their own ruin. With her bosom full of "that perilous stuff that preys upon the heart," she stood before the plunderer of her husband's destiny, and exclaimed in tones of startling anguish, "_Give me back my husband!_" "There's your husband," said the man, as he pointed toward the prostrate wretch. "_That my husband?_ What have you done to him? _That my husband?_ What have you done to that noble form that once, like the great oak, held its protecting shade over the fragile vine that clung to it for support and shelter? _That my husband?_ With what torpedo chill have you touched the sinews of that manly arm? What have you done to that once noble brow, which he wore high among his fellows, as if it bore the superscription of the Godhead? _That my husband?_ What have you done to that eye, with which he was wont to look erect on heaven, and see in his mirror the image of his God? What Egyptian drug have you poured into his veins, and turned the ambling fountains of the heart into black and burning pitch? Give me back my husband! Undo your basilisk spells, and give me back the _man_ that stood with me by the altar!" The ears of the rumseller, ever since the first demijohn of that burning liquid was opened upon our shores, have been saluted, at every stage of the traffic, with just such appeals as this. Such wives, such widows, and mothers, such fatherless children, as never mourned in Israel at the massacre of Bethlehem or at the burning of the temple, have cried in his ears, morning, night, and evening, "_Give me back my husband! Give me back my boy! Give me back my brother! Give me back my sister! Give me back my wife!_" But has the rumseller been confounded or speechless at these appeals? No! not he. He could show his credentials at a moment's notice with proud defiance. He always carried in his pocket a written absolution for all he had done and could do in his work of destruction. _He had bought a letter of indulgence_--I mean a _license!_--a precious instrument, signed and sealed by an authority stronger and more respectable than the pope's. _He_ confounded? Why, the whole artillery of civil power was ready to open in his defence and support. Thus shielded by the law, he had nothing to fear from the enemies of his traffic. He had the image and superscription of Cæsar on his credentials, and unto Cæsar he appealed; and unto Cæsar, too, his _victims_ appealed, and _appealed in vain_. THE ONE-HOSS SHAY; OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE. A LOGICAL STORY. O.W. HOLMES. Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then of a sudden, it--ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,-- Have you ever heard of that, I say? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. _Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,-- Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, And left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot,-- In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will,-- Above or below, or within or without,-- And that's the reason beyond a doubt, A chaise _breaks down_, but doesn't _wear out_. But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell _yeou_,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; --"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,-- That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of whitewood, that cut like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"-- Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through."-- "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!" Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren,--where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day! EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-- "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.) FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day,-- There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local as one may say. There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub _encore_. And yet, _as a whole_, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be _worn out!_ First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. "Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text,-- Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the--Moses--was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. --First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,-- And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,-- Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! --What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,-- All at once, and nothing first,-- Just as bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say. THE INJURED MOTHER. From the Rev. JOHN BROWN'S tragedy of BARBAROSSA. CHARACTERS: BARBAROSSA, _an Usurper_, OTHMAN, _an officer_, ZAPHIRA, _the Widowed Queen_. [This play has many passages of splendid diction, well calculated for bold declamation. The plot of the piece runs thus: _Barbarossa_ having killed, and then usurped the throne of his friend and master, tries to obtain the hand of Zaphira, the late monarch's widow--having previously destroyed, (as is supposed) her son, _Selim_. The following scene represents the interviews between the unhappy queen and her faithful Othman, and of the queen with Barbarossa. COSTUMES.--_Barbarossa_ green velvet robe, scarlet satin shirt, white trousers, russet boots, and turban. _Othman_, scarlet fly, yellow satin shirt, white slippers, turban white, scarlet cashmere vest. _Zaphira_, white dress, embroidered with silver, turban, and Turkish shoes. NOTE.--A little taste will enable any smart young lady to make up these dresses. They are mostly loose, and the embroidery may be of tinsel--while cheap velveteen looks as well as the best velvet on the stage.] SCENE I.--_An apartment, with sofa._ _Enter_ ZAPHIRA, R. ZAP. (C.) When shall I be at peace? O, righteous heaven Strengthen my fainting soul, which fain would rise To confidence in thee! But woes on woes O'erwhelm me. First my husband, now my son-- Both dead--both slaughter'd by the bloody hand Of Barbarossa! What infernal power Unchain'd thee from thy native depth of hell, To stalk the earth with thy destructive train, Murder and lust! To wake domestic peace, And every heart-felt joy! _Enter_ OTHMAN, L. O, faithful Othman! Our fears were true; my Selim is no more! OTH. Has, then, the fatal secret reach'd thine ear? Inhuman tyrant! ZAP. Strike him, heav'n with thunder, Nor let Zaphira doubt thy providence! OTH. 'Twas what we fear'd. Oppose not heav'n's high will, Nor struggle with the ten-fold chain of fate, That links thee to thy woes. O, rather yield, And wait the happier hour, when innocence Shall weep no more. Rest in that pleasing hope, And yield thyself to heaven, my honor'd queen. The king---- ZAP. Whom stylest thou king? OTH. 'Tis Barbarossa. ZAP. Does he assume the name of king? OTH. He does. ZAP. O, title vilely purchas'd!--by the blood Of innocence--by treachery and murder! May heav'n, incens'd, pour down its vengeance on him, Blast all his joys, and turn them into horror Till phrensy rise, and bid him curse the hour That gave his crimes their birth!--My faithful Othman, My sole surviving prop, canst thou devise No secret means, by which I may escape This hated palace? OTH. That hope is vain. The tyrant knows thy hate; Hence, day and night, his guards environ thee. Rouse not, then, his anger: Let soft persuasion and mild eloquence Redeem that liberty, which stern rebuke Would rob thee of for ever. ZAP. An injur'd queen To kneel for liberty!--And, oh! to whom! E'en to the murd'rer of her lord and son! O, perish first, Zaphira! Yes, I'll die! For what is life to me? My dear, dear lord-- My hapless child--yes, I will follow you! OTH. Wilt thou not see him, then? ZAP. I will not, Othman; Or, if I do, with bitter imprecation More keen than poison shot from serpents' tongues, I'll pour my curses on him. OTH. Will Zaphira Thus meanly sink in woman's fruitless rage, When she should wake revenge? ZAP. Revenge!--O, tell me-- Tell, me but how?--What can a helpless woman? OTH. (C.). Gain but the tyrant's leave, and seek thy father; Pour thy complaints before him; let thy wrongs Kindle his indignation to pursue This vile usurper, till unceasing war Blast his ill-gotten pow'r. ZAP. (L.C.). Ah! say'st thou, Othman? Thy words have shot like lightning through my frame, And all my soul's on fire!--thou faithful friend! Yes, with more gentle speech I'll soothe his pride; Regain my freedom; reach my father's tents; There paint my countless woes. His kindling rage Shall wake the valleys into honest vengeance; The sudden storm shall pour on Barbarossa, And ev'ry glowing warrior steep his shaft In deadlier poison, to revenge my wrongs! (_crosses to_ R.) OTH. (C.). There spoke the queen.--But, as thou lov'st thy freedom, Touch not on Selim's death. Thy soul will kindle, And passion mount in flames that will consume thee. ZAP. (R.). My murder'd son!--Yes, to revenge thy death, I'll speak a language which my heart disdains. OTH. Peace, peace,!--the tyrant comes. Now, injur'd Queen, Plead for thy freedom, hope for just revenge, And check each rising passion. [_Exit_ OTHMAN, R. _Enter_ BARBAROSSA, L. BAR. (L.). Hail sovereign fair! in whom Beauty and majesty conspire to charm: Behold the conqu'ror. ZAP. (R.C.) O, Barbarossa, No more the pride of conquest e'er can charm My widow'd heart. With my departed lord My love lies buried! Then turn thee to some happier fair, whose heart May crown thy growing love with love sincere; For I have none to give. BAR. Love ne'er should die: 'Tis the soul's cordial--'tis the font of life; Therefore should spring eternal in the breast. One object lost, another should succeed, And all our life be love. ZAP. Urge me no more.--Thou mightst with equal hope Woo the cold marble, weeping o'er a tomb, To meet thy wishes. But, if generous love (_approaches him._) Dwell in thy breast, vouchsafe me proof sincere: Give me safe convoy to the native vales Of dear Mutija, where my father reigns. BAR. O, blind to proffer'd bliss!--What! fondly quit This pomp Of empire for an Arab's wand'ring tent, Where the mock chieftain leads his vagrant tribes From plain to plain, and faintly shadows out The majesty of kings!--Far other joys Here shall attend thy call: Submissive realms Shall bow the neck; and swarthy kings and Queens, From the far-distant Niger and the Nile, Drawn captive at my conqu'ring chariot wheels, Shall kneel before thee. ZAP. Pomp and pow'r are toys, Which e'en the mind at ease may well disdain: But oh! what mockery is the tinsel pride Of splendour, when the mind Lies desolate within!--Such, such is mine! O'erwhelm'd with ills, and dead to ev'ry joy; Envy me not this last request, to die In my dear father's tents. BAR. Thy suit is vain. ZAP. Thus, kneeling at thy feet--(_kneels._) BAR. Thou thankless fair! (_raises_ ZAPHIRA.) Thus to repay the labours of my love! Had I not seiz'd the throne when Selim died, Ere this thy foes had laid Algiers in ruin. I check'd the warring pow'rs, and gave you peace, Make thee but mine, I will descend the throne, and call thy son From banishment to empire. ZAP. O, my heart! Can I bear this? Inhuman tyrant!--curses on thy head! May dire remorse and anguish haunt thy throne, And gender in thy bosom fell despair,-- Despair as deep as mine! (_crosses to_ L.) BAR. (R.C.). What means Zaphira? What means this burst of grief? ZAP. (L.). Thou fell destroyer! Had not guilt steel'd thy heart, awak'ning conscience Would flash conviction on thee, and each look, Shot from these eyes, be arm'd with serpent horrors, To turn thee into stone!--Relentless man! Who did the bloody deeds--O, tremble, guilt, Where'er thou art!--Look on me; tell me, tyrant, Who slew my blameless son? BAR. What envious tongue Hath dar'd to taint my name with slander? Thy Selim lives; nay, more, he soon shall reign, If thou consent to bless me. ZAP. Never, O, never!--Sooner would I roam An unknown exile through the torrid climes Of Afric--sooner dwell with wolves and tigers, Than mount with thee my murder'd Selim's throne! BAR. Rash queen, forbear; think on thy captive state, Remember, that within these palace walls I am omnipotent. Yield thee, then; Avert the gath'ring horrors that surround thee, And dread my pow'r incens'd. ZAP. Dares thy licentious tongue pollute mine ear With that foul menace? Tyrant! dread'st thou not Th' all-seeing eye of heav'n, its lifted thunder, And all the red'ning vengeance which it stores For crimes like thine?--Yet know, Zaphira scorns thee. [_crosses to_ R. Though robb'd by thee of ev'ry dear support, No tyrant's threat can awe the free-born soul, That greatly dares to die. [_Exit_ ZAPHIRA, R. BAR. (C.). Where should she learn the tale of Selim's death? Could Othman dare to tell it?--If he did, My rage shall sweep him swifter than the whirlwind, To instant death! [_Exit._ (R.) Right. (L.) Left. (C.) Centre. (R.C.) Right Centre. (L.C.) Left Centre. THE MILLS OF GOD. DUGANNE. Apart from the noble sentiments of these verses, and their exquisite diction--in which every word is the best that could possibly be used--as in a piece of faultless mosaic every minute stone is so placed as to impart strength, brilliancy, and harmony--they afford an excellent example of lofty, dignified recitation: Those mills of God! those tireless mills! I hear their ceaseless throbs and thrills: I see their dreadful stones go round, And all the realms beneath them ground; And lives of men and souls of states, Flung out, like chaff, beyond their gates. And we, O God! with impious will, Have made these Negroes turn Thy mill! Their human limbs with chains we bound, And bade them whirl Thy mill-stones round; With branded brow and fettered wrist, We bade them grind this Nation's grist! And so, like Samson--blind and bound-- Our Nation's grist this Negro ground; And all the strength of Freedom's toil, And all the fruits of Freedom's soil, And all her hopes and all her trust, From Slavery's gates were flung, like dust. With servile souls this mill we fed, That ground the grain for Slavery's bread; With cringing men, and grovelling deeds, We dwarfed our land to Slavery's needs; Till all the scornful nations hissed, To see us ground with Slavery's grist. The mill grinds on! From Slavery's plain, We reap great crops of blood-red grain; And still the Negro's strength we urge, With Slavery's gyve and Slavery's scourge; And still we crave--on Freedom's sod-- That Slaves shall turn the mills of God! The Mill grinds on! God lets it grind! We sow the seed--the sheaves we bind: The mill-stones whirl as we ordain; Our children's bread shall test the grain! While Samson still in chains we bind, The mill grinds on! God lets it grind! THE MENAGERIE. J. HONEYWELL. Did you ever! No, I never! Mercy on us, what a smell! Don't be frightened, Johnny, dear! Gracious! how the jackals yell! Mother, tell me, what's the man Doing with that pole of his? Bless your little precious heart, He's stirring up the beastesses! Children! don't you go so near! Hevings! there's the Afric cowses! What's the matter with the child? Why, the monkey's tore his trowses! Here's the monstrous elephant,-- I'm all a tremble at the sight; See his monstrous tooth-pick, boys! Wonder if he's fastened tight? There's the lion!--see his tail! How he drags it on the floor! 'Sakes alive! I'm awful scared To hear the horrid creatures roar! Here's the monkeys in their cage, Wide awake you are to see 'em; Funny, ain't it? How would you Like to have a tail and be 'em? Johnny, darling, that's the bear That tore the naughty boys to pieces; Horned cattle!--only hear How the dreadful camel wheezes! That's the tall giraffe, my boy, Who stoops to hear the morning lark; 'Twas him who waded Noah's flood, And scorned the refuge of the ark. Here's the crane,--the awkward bird! Strong his neck is as a whaler's, And his bill is full as long As ever met one from the tailor's. Look!--just see the zebra there, Standing safe behind the bars; Goodness me! how like a flag, All except the corner stars! There's the bell! the birds and beasts Now are going to be fed; So my little darlings, come, It 's time for you to be abed. "Mother, 't is n't nine o'clock! You said we need n't go before; Let us stay a little while,-- Want to see the monkeys more!" Cries the showman, "Turn 'em out! Dim the lights!--there, that will do; Come again to-morrow, boys; Bring your little sisters, too." Exit mother, half distraught, Exit father, muttering "bore?" Exit children, blubbering still, "Want to see the monkeys more!" IGNORANCE IS BLISS CHARACTERS. FRED BROWN. JOHNNY GRAY. NED WHITE. SCENE.--_Recitation-Room at a Public School._ _Enter_ FRED. _Fred._ A pretty task Master Green has given me this time! He calls me to his desk, and says, "Brown, those boys, Gray and White, have been very inattentive during the music lesson: take them into the recitation-room, and keep them there until they can sing four stanzas of 'The Battle-cry of Freedom.'" A nice music-master I am! I can't read, sing, or growl a note, and I don't know a single line of "The Battle-cry of Freedom." But I must not let them know that. Here they are. (_Enter_ GRAY _and_ WHITE; _they get in a corner of the stage, and whisper together._) Now, what conspiracy is hatching? Hem! Here, you fellows, do you know what you came here for? _Gray._ To take a music lesson, I suppose. _Fred._ Well, you had better commence. _White._ Certainly, after you. _Fred._ After me! What do you mean? _White._ I believe it's the custom of all music-masters to first sing the song they wish to teach. (_Aside to_ GRAY.) He can't sing a note. _Gray._ (_Aside to_ WHITE.) He can't? good! Let's plague him. (_Aloud._) Come, singing-master, proceed. _Fred._ No matter about me. You two can sing, and when you make a mistake I will correct it. _Gray._ You'll correct it! That's good. With what, pray? _Fred._ With this. (_Producing a ratten from under his jacket._) _White._ O, dear, I don't like that sort of tuning-fork. _Fred._ You'll get it if you don't hurry. Come, boys, "The Battle-cry of Freedom." _Gray._ (_Aside to_ WHITE.) Ned, do you know the song? _White._ (_Aside._) I know just one line. _Gray._ (_Aside._) O, dear, we're in a scrape. (_Aloud._) Master Fred, will you please give me the first line? I've forgotten it. _Fred._ Certainly. Let me see. "Rock me to sleep, mother." No, that isn't it. _White._ (_Aside._) He's split on that rock. _Fred._ Hem! ah! "Dear father, dear father, come home." O, bother! _Gray._ (_Aside._) It'll bother him to "come home" with that line. _Fred._ "Give me a cot."--O, pshaw! I tell you what, boys, I didn't come here to talk, but to listen: now you two sing away at once, or down comes the ratten. _Gray._ (_Aside._) I say, Ned, Brown doesn't know it? here's fun. Now you just keep quiet, and ring in your line when I snap my fingers. _White._ (_Aside._) All right. I understand. When you snap, I sing. _Fred._ Come, come! Strike up, or I shall strike down. _Gray._ (_Sings to the tune of the Battle-cry of Freedom_,)-- "Mary had a little lamb; Its fleece was white as snow." (_Snaps his fingers._) _White._ (_Very loud._) "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom." _Gray._ (_Sings._) "And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go." (_Snaps._) _White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom." _Fred._ Capital! Perfectly correct, perfectly correct. Sing again. _Gray._ (_Sings._) "It followed her to school one day; It was against the rule." (_Snaps._) _White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom." _Gray._ (_Sings._) "It made the children laugh and play To see a lamb at school." (_Snaps._) _White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom." _Fred._ Beautiful! beautiful! I couldn't do it better myself. _Gray._ (_Aside._) I should think not. _White._ Come, Mr. Singing-master, you try a stanza. _Fred._ What, sir! do you want to shirk your task? Sing away. _Gray._ (_Sings._) "And so the teacher turned him out; Yet still he lingered near." (_Snaps._) _White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom." _Gray._ "And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear." (_Snaps._) _White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom." _Fred._ Glorious! Why, boys, it's a perfect uproar. _White._ There's enough, isn't there? _Fred._ No, sir, four stanzas. Come, be quick. _Gray._ I don't know any more. _White._ I'm sure I don't. _Fred._ Yes you do, you're trying to shirk; but I won't have it. You want a taste of the rattan. Come, be lively. _Gray._ (_Sings._) "'What makes the lamb love Mary so?' The eager children cry." (_Snaps._) _White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom." _Gray._ "'Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,' The teacher did reply." (_Snaps._) _White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom." _Fred._ There, boys, I knew you could sing. Now come in, and I will tell Master Green how capitally you have done--that I couldn't do better myself. [_Exit._ _White._ Well, Johnny, we got out of that scrape pretty well. _Gray._ Yes, Ned; but it's a poor way. I must pay a little more attention to my singing. _White._ And so must I, for we may not always have a teacher on whom the old saying fits so well. _Gray._ Old saying? What's that? _White._ "Where ignorance is bliss--" _Gray._ O, yes, "'Twere folly to be wise." [_Exeunt._ THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS. ANONYMOUS. [The following stirring poem is highly dramatic. The reader should, as far as possible, realize the feelings of the shepherd-parent as he sees "the youngest of his babes" borne in the iron-claws of the vulture high in mid air towards his golgotha of a nest. Much force of attitude and gesture is not only admissable, but called for, as the agonized father leans forward following the flight of the vulture.] I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more. And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear, A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear: The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous. But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:-- "It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells; But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock. "One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again. "I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care, But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air. "Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye! His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry! And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave, That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save! "My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free, At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed: Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed. "The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew, A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view: But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight; 'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite. "All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot, When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached, He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached! "I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away; I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred, The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head." That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers passing by, Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh. And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay. FALSTAFF'S BOASTING SHAKESPEARE. This scene will give a good chance to practise _variety_ of expression, both in words and action. Falstaff throws himself into all the attitudes, and elevates and depresses his voice, as if he was actually engaged in the combat he describes--preserving the utmost gravity of face, until he finds that the Prince has really detected him. Then the "fat rogue" bursts into a jolly, unctuous laugh, and carries off the honors, after all: _P. Henry._ What's the matter? _Fal._ What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this morning. _P. Hen._ Where is it, Jack? where is it? _Fal._ Where is it? taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us. _P. Hen._ What, a hundred, man? _Fal._ I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four, through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw _ecce signum_. I never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards!--Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of darkness. _P. Hen._ Speak, sirs: how was it? _Gads._ We four set upon some dozen,-- _Fal._ Sixteen at least, my lord. _Gads._ And bound them. _Peto._ No, no, they were not bound. _Fal._ You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. _Gads._ As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us. _Fal._ And unbound the rest, and then come in the other. _P. Hen._ What, fought ye with them all? _Fal._ All! I know not what ye call, all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legged creature. _Poins._ Pray God, you have not murdered some of them. _Fal._ Nay, that's past praying for, for I have peppered two of them: two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal,--if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward;--here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me.-- _P. Hen._ What, four? thou said'st but two, even now. _Fal._ Four, Hal; I told thee four. _Poins._ Ay, ay, he said four. _Fal._ These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus. _P. Hen._ Seven? why, there were but four, even now. _Fal._ In buckram. _Poins._ Ay, four in buckram suits. _Fal._ Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. _P. Hen._ Pr'ythee, let him alone; we shall have more anon. _Fal._ Dost thou hear me, Hal? _P. Hen._ Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. _Fal._ Do, so, for it is worth the listening to. The nine in buckram that I told thee of,---- _P. Hen._ So, two more already. _Fal._ Their points being broken,---- _Poins._ Down fell their hose. _Fal._ Began to give me ground: But I followed me close, came in foot and hand: and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid. _P. Hen._ O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two! _Fal._ But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand. _P. Hen._ These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts; thou knotty-pated fool! thou whoreson, obscene, greasy, tallow-keech,-- _Fal._ What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth, the truth? _P. Hen._ Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us thy reason; what sayest thou to this? _Poins._ Come, your reason, Jack, your reason. _Fal._ What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I. _P. Hen._ I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh;-- _Fal._ Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's-tongue, bull's-pizzle, you stock-fish,--O for breath to utter what is like thee!--you tailor's yard, you sheathe, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck;-- _P. Hen._ Well, breathe a while and then to it again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons hear me speak but this. _Poins._ Mark, Jack. _P. Hen._ We two saw you four set on four: you bound them, and were masters of their wealth.--Mark now how plain a tale shall put you down.--Then did we two set on you four: and, with a word, out-faced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house:--and, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword, as thou hast done; and then say, it was a fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame? _Poins._ Come, let's hear, Jack: What trick hast thou now? _Fal._ By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters: Was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money.--Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow.--Gallant, lads, boys, hearts of gold. All the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore? ON TO FREEDOM. DUGANNE. This poem should be delivered with bold energy, with flashing eye, swelling breast, and free action--as though the speaker's heart was full of the nobility of the theme: "There has been the cry--'On to Richmond!' And still another cry--On to England!' Better than either is the cry--'On to Freedom!'" CHARLES SUMNER. On to Freedom! On to Freedom! 'Tis the everlasting cry Of the floods that strive with ocean-- Of the storms that smite the sky; Of the atoms in the whirlwind, Of the seed beneath the ground-- Of each living thing in Nature That is bound! 'Twas the cry that led from Egypt, Through the desert wilds of Edom: Out of darkness--out of bondage-- On to Freedom! On to Freedom! O! thou stony-hearted Pharaoh! Vainly warrest thou with God! Moveless, at thy palace portals, Moses waits, with lifted rod! O! thou poor barbarian, Xerxes! Vainly o'er the Pontic main Flingest thou, to curb its utterance, Scourge or chain! For, the cry that led from Egypt, Over desert wilds of Edom, Speaks alike through Greek and Hebrew; On to Freedom! On to Freedom! In the Roman streets, with Gracchus, Hark! I hear that cry outswell; In the German woods with Hermann, And on Switzer hills, with Tell; Up from Spartacus, the Bondman, When his tyrants yoke he clave, And from Stalwart Wat the Tyler-- Saxon slave! Still the old, old cry of Egypt, Struggling up from wilds of Edom-- Sounding still through all the ages: On to Freedom! On to Freedom! On to Freedom! On to Freedom! Gospel cry of laboring Time: Uttering still, through seers and sages, Words of hope and faith sublime! From our Sidneys, and our Hampdens, And our Washingtons they come: And we cannot, and we dare not Make them dumb! Out of all the shames of Egypt-- Out of all the snares of Edom; Out of darkness--out of bondage-- On to Freedom! On to Freedom! THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. When spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again, The murdered traveller's bones were found, Far down a narrow glen. The fragrant birch, above him, hung Her tassels in the sky; And many a vernal blossom sprung, And nodded, careless, by. The red-bird warbled, as he wrought His hanging nest o'erhead; And, fearless, near the fatal spot, Her young the partridge led. But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Grew sorrowful and dim. They little knew, who loved him so, The fearful death he met, When shouting o'er the desert snow, Unarmed, and hard beset. Nor how, when round the frosty pole, The northern dawn was red, The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole, To banquet on the dead; Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier, And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear. But long they looked, and feared and wept, Within his distant home; And dreamt and started as they slept, For joy that he was come. So long they looked--but never spied His welcome step again, Nor knew the fearful death he died, Far down that narrow glen. DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM. N.P. WILLIS. This admirable composition gives ample scope for gentle, mournful, tear-stricken recitation. The thoughts prompt the speaker to natural expression: The king stood still Till the last echo died: then throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe:-- "Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair. How could he mark _thee_ for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom! "Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee; How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet '_my father_' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung; But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come To meet me, Absalom! "And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom! "And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:-- And thy dark sin!--Oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My erring Absalom!" He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child: then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer; And, as a strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently, and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. THE BOY ARCHER. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. The fire and energy of Tell contrasts nobly with the youthful ambition of his son's young and noble heart. It is a charming exercise, and exceedingly effective when well delivered: SCENE.--_Exterior of_ TELL'S _cottage. Enter_ ALBERT (TELL'S _son_) _with bow and arrows, and_ VERNER. _Verner._ Ah! Albert! What have you there? _Albert._ My bow and arrows, Verner. _Ver._ When will you use them like your father, boy? _Alb._ Some time, I hope. _Ver._ You brag! There's not an archer In all Helvetia can compare with him. _Alb._ But I'm his son; and when I am a man I may be like him. Verner, do I brag, To think I some time may be like my father? If so, then is it he that teaches me; For, ever as I wonder at his skill, He calls me boy, and says I must do more Ere I become a man. _Ver._ May you be such A man as he--if heaven wills, better--I'll Not quarrel with its work; yet 'twill content me If you are only such a man. _Alb._ I'll show you How I can shoot (_goes out to fix the mark._) _Ver._ Nestling as he is, he is the making of a bird Will own no cowering wing. _Re-enter_ ALBERT. _Alb._ Now, Verner, look! (_shoots_) There's within An inch! _Ver._ Oh, fy! it wants a hand. [_Exit_ VERNER. _Alb._ A hand's An inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it. _While_ ALBERT _continues to shoot,_ TELL _enters and watches him some time, in silence._ _Tell._ That's scarce a miss that comes so near the mark? Well aimed, young archer! With what ease he bends The bow. To see those sinews, who'd believe Such strength did lodge in them? That little arm, His mother's palm can span, may help, anon, To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat, And from their chains a prostrate people lift To liberty. I'd be content to die, Living to see that day! What, Albert! _Alb._ Ah! My father! _Tell._ You raise the bow Too fast. (ALBERT _continues shooting._) Bring it slowly to the eye.--You've missed. How often have you hit the mark to-day? _Alb._ Not once, yet. _Tell._ You're not steady. I perceive You wavered now. Stand firm. Let every limb Be braced as marble, and as motionless. Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gate Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes Nor stirs. (ALBERT _shoots_) That's better! See well the mark. Rivet your eye to it There let it stick, fast as the arrow would, Could you but send it there. (ALBERT _shoots_) You've missed again! How would you fare, Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and you Alone, with but your bow, and only time To fix a single arrow? 'Twould not do To miss the wolf! You said the other day, Were you a man you'd not let Gesler live-- 'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now, Your life or his depended on that shot!-- Take care! That's Gesler!--Now for liberty! Right to the tyrant's heart! (_hits the mark_) Well done, my boy! Come here. How early were you up? _Alb._ Before the sun. _Tell._ Ay, strive with him. He never lies abed When it is time to rise. Be like the sun. _Alb._ What you would have me like, I'll be like, As far as will to labor joined can make me. _Tell._ Well said, my boy! Knelt you when you got up To-day? _Alb._ I did; and do so every day. _Tell._ I know you do! And think you, when you kneel, To whom you kneel? _Alb._ To Him who made me, father. _Tell._ And in whose name? _Alb._ The name of Him who died For me and all men, that all men and I Should live _Tell._ That's right. Remember that my son: Forget all things but that--remember that! 'Tis more than friends or fortune; clothing, food; All things on earth; yea, life itself!--It is To live, when these are gone, when they are naught-- With God! My son remember that! _Alb._ I will. _Tell._ I'm glad you value what you're taught. That is the lesson of content, my son; He who finds which has all--who misses, nothing. _Alb._ Content is a good thing. _Tell._ A thing, the good Alone can profit by. But go, Albert, Reach thy cap and wallet, and thy mountain staff. Don't keep me waiting. [_Exit_ ALBERT. TELL. _paces the stage in thought. Re-enter_ ALBERT. _Alb._ I am ready, father. _Tell._ (_taking_ ALBERT _by the hand_). Now mark me, Albert Dost thou fear the snow, The ice-field, or the hail flaw? Carest thou for The mountain mist that settles on the peak, When thou art upon it? Dost thou tremble at The torrent roaring from the deep ravine, Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie? Or faintest thou at the thunder-clap, when on The hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud, And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travel All night. _Alb._ I'm ready; say all night again. _Tell._ The mountains are to cross, for thou must reach Mount Faigel by the dawn. _Alb._ Not sooner shall The dawn be there than I. _Tell._ Heaven speeding thee. _Alb._ Heaven speeding me. _Tell._ Show me thy staff. Art sure Of the point? I think 'tis loose. No--stay! 'Twill do. Caution is speed when danger's to be passed. Examine well the crevice. Do not trust the snow! 'Tis well there is a moon to-night. You're sure of the track? _Alb._ Quite sure. _Tell._ The buskin of That leg's untied; stoop down and fasten it. You know the point where you must round the cliff? _Alb._ I do. _Tell._ Thy belt is slack--draw it tight. Erni is in Mount Faigel: take this dagger And give it him! you know its caverns well. In one of them you will find him. Farewell. A VENTRILOQUIST ON A STAGE-COACH. HENRY COCKTON. "Now then, look alive there!" shouted the coachman from the booking-office door, as Valentine and his Uncle John approached. "Have yow got that are mare's shoe made comfor'ble, Simon!" "All right, sir," said Simon, and he went round to see if it were so, while the luggage was being secured. "Jimp up, genelmen!" cried the coachman, as he waddled from the office with his whip in one hand and his huge way-bill in the other; and the passengers accordingly proceeded to arrange themselves on the various parts of the coach,--Valentine, by the particular desire of Uncle John, having deposited himself immediately behind the seat of the coachman. "If you please," said an old lady, who had been standing in the gateway upwards of an hour, "will you be good enow, please, to take care of my darter?" "All safe," said the coachman, untwisting the reins. "She shaunt take no harm. Is she going all the way?" "Yes, sir," replied the old lady; "God bless her! She's got a place in Lunnun, an' I'm told--" "Hook on them ere two sacks o' whoats there behind," cried the coachman; "I marn't go without 'em this time.--Now, all right there?" "Good by, my dear," sobbed the old lady, "do write to me soon, be sure you do,--I only want to hear from you often. Take care of yourself." "Hold hard!" cried the coachman, as the horses were dancing, on the cloths being drawn from their loins. "Whit, whit!" and away they pranced, as merrily as if they had known that _their_ load was nothing when compared with the load they left behind them. Even old Uncle John, as he cried "Good by, my dear boy," and waved his hand for the last time, felt the tears trickling down his cheeks. The salute was returned, and the coach passed on. The fulness of Valentine's heart caused him for the first hour to be silent; but after that, the constant change of scene and the pure bracing air had the effect of restoring his spirits, and he felt a powerful inclination to sing. Just, however, as he was about to commence for his own amusement, the coach stopped to change horses. In less than two minutes they started again, and Valentine, who then felt ready for anything, began to think seriously of the exercise of his power as a ventriloquist. "Whit, whit!" said Tooler, the coachman, between a whisper and a whistle, as the fresh horses galloped up the hill. "Stop! hoa!" cried Valentine, assuming a voice, the sound of which appeared to have travelled some distance. "You have left some one behind," observed a gentleman in black, who had secured the box seat. "Oh, let un run a bit!" said Tooler. "Whit! I'll give un a winder up this little hill, and teach un to be up in time in future. If we was to wait for every passenger as chooses to lag behind, we shouldn't git over the ground in a fortnit." "Hoa! stop! stop! stop!" reiterated Valentine, in the voice of a man pretty well out of breath. Tooler, without deigning to look behind, retickled the haunches of his leaders, and gleefully chuckled at the idea of _how_ he was making a passenger sweat. The voice was heard no more, and Tooler, on reaching the top of the hill, pulled up and looked round, but could see no man running. "Where is he?" inquired Tooler. "In the ditch!" replied Valentine, throwing his voice behind. "In the ditch!" exclaimed Tooler. "Blarm me, whereabouts?" "There," said Valentine. "Bless my soul!" cried the gentleman in black, who was an exceedingly nervous village clergyman. "The poor person no doubt is fallen down in an absolute state of exhaustion. How very, very wrong of you, coachman, not to stop!" Tooler, apprehensive of some serious occurrence, got down with the view of dragging the exhausted passenger out of the ditch; but although he ran several hundred yards down the hill, no such person of course could be found. "Who saw un?" shouted Tooler, as he panted up the hill again. "I saw nothing," said a passenger behind, "but a boy jumping over the hedge." Tooler looked at his way-bill, counted the passengers, found them all right, and, remounting the box, got the horses again into a gallop, in the perfect conviction that some villanous young scarecrow had raised the false alarm. "Whit! blarm them 'ere boys!" said Tooler, "'stead o' mindin' their crows, they are allus up to suffen. I only wish I had un here, I'd pay _on_ to their blarmed bodies; if I would n't--" At this interesting moment, and as if to give a practical illustration of what he would have done in the case, he gave the off-wheeler so telling a cut round the loins that the animal without any ceremony kicked over the trace. Of course Tooler was compelled to pull up again immediately; and after having adjusted the trace, and asking the animal seriously what he meant, at the same time enforcing the question by giving him a blow on the bony part of the nose, he prepared to remount; but just as he had got his left foot upon the nave of the wheel, Valentine so admirably imitated the sharp snapping growl of a dog in the front boot, that Tooler started back as quickly as if he had been shot, while the gentleman in black dropped the reins and almost jumped into the road. "Good gracious!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, trembling with great energy; "How wrong, how very horribly wrong, of you, coachman, not to tell me that a dog had been placed beneath my feet." "Blarm their carcases!" cried Tooler, "they never told _me_ a dog was shoved there. Lay _down_! We'll soon have yow out there together!" "Not for the world!" cried the gentleman in black, as Tooler approached the foot-board in order to open it. "Not for the world! un-un-un-less you le-le-let me get down first. I have no desire to pe-pe-perish of hydropho-phobia." "Kip yar fut on the board then, sir, please," said Tooler, "we'll soon have the varmint out o' that." So saying, he gathered up the reins, remounted the box, and started off the horses again at full gallop. The gentleman in black then began to explain to Tooler how utterly inconceivable was the number of persons who had died of hydrophobia within an almost unspeakable short space of time, in the immediate vicinity of the residence of a friend of his in London; and just as he had got into the marrow of a most excruciating description of the intense mental and physical agony of which the disease in its worst stage was productive, both he and Tooler suddenly sprang back, with their feet in the air, and their heads between the knees of the passengers behind them, on Valentine giving a loud growling snap, more bitingly indicative of anger than before. As Tooler had tightly hold of the reins when he made this involuntary spring, the horses stopped on the instant, and allowed him time to scramble up again without rendering the slow process dangerous. "I cannot, I-I-I positively cannot," said the gentleman in black, who had been thrown again into a dreadful state of excitement, "I cannot sit here,--my nerves cannot endure it; it's perfectly shocking." "Blister their bowls!" exclaimed Tooler, whose first impulse was to drag the dog out of the boot at all hazards, but who, on seeing the horses waiting in the road a short distance ahead for the next stage, thought it better to wait till he had reached them. "I'll make un remember this the longest day o' thar blessed lives,--blarm un! Phih! I'll let un know when I get back, I warrant. I'll larn un to--" "Hoa, coachman! hoa! my hat's off!" cried Valentine, throwing his voice to the back of the coach. "Well, _may_ I be--phit!" said Tooler. "I'll make yow run for't anyhow--phit!" In less than a minute the coach drew up opposite the stable, when the gentleman in black at once proceeded to alight. Just, however, as his foot reached the plate of the roller-bolt, another growl from Valentine frightened him backwards, when falling upon one of the old horse-keepers, he knocked him fairly down, and rolled over him heavily. "Darng your cloomsy carkus," cried the horse-keeper, gathering himself up, "carn't you git oof ar cooarch aroat knocking o' pipple darn?" "I-I-I beg pardon," tremblingly observed the gentleman in black; "I hope I-I--" "Whoap! pardon!" contemptuously echoed the horse-keeper as he limped towards the bars to unhook the leaders' traces. "Now then, yow warmint, let's see who yow belong to," said Tooler, approaching the mouth of the boot; but just as he was in the act of raising the foot-board, another angry snap made him close it again with the utmost rapidity. "Lay down! blarm your body!" cried Tooler, shrinking back. "Here, yow Jim, kim here, bor, and take this 'ere devil of a dog out o' that." Jim approached, and the growling was louder than before, while the gentleman in black implored Jim to take care that the animal didn't get hold of his hand. "Here, yow Harry!" shouted Jim, "yare noot afeared o' doogs together,--darng un, _I_ doont like un." Accordingly Harry came, and then Sam, and then Bob, and then Bill; but as the dog could not be seen, and as the snarling continued, neither of them dared to put his hand in to drag the monster forth. Bob therefore ran off for Tom Titus the blacksmith, who was supposed to care for nothing, and in less than two minutes Tom Titus arrived with about three feet of rod-iron red hot. "Darng un!" cried Tom, "this ere 'll maake un _quit_ together!" "Dear me! my good man," said the gentleman in black, "don't use that unchristian implement! don't put the dumb thing to such horrible torture!" "It don't siggerfy a button," cried Tooler, "I marn't go to stop here all day. Out he must come." Upon this Tom Titus introduced his professional weapon, and commenced poking about with considerable energy, while the snapping and growling increased with each poke. "I'll tell you what it is," said Tom Titus, turning round and wiping the sweat off his brow with his naked arm, "this here cretur here's stark raavin' mad." "I knew that he was," cried the gentleman in black, getting into an empty wagon which stood without horses just out of the road; "I felt perfectly sure that he was rabid." "He 's a bull-terrier too," said Tom Titus, "I knows it by 's growl. It 's the worsest and dargdest to go maad as is." "Well, what shall us do wi' th' warment?" said Tooler. "Shoot him! shoot him!" cried the gentleman in black. "O, I 've goot a blunderbus, Bob!" said Tom Titus, "yow run for 't together, it 's top o' the forge." Bob started at once, and Tom kept on the bar, while Tooler, Sam, and Harry, and Bob held the heads of the horses. "He 's got un; all right!" cried Tom Titus, as Bob neared the coach with the weapon on his shoulder. "Yow 'll be doon in noo time," he added as he felt with his rod to ascertain in which corner of the boot the bull-terrier lay. "Is she loarded?" asked Bob, as he handed Tom Titus the instrument of death. "Mind you make the shot come out at bottom," shouted Tooler. "I hool," said Tom Titus, putting the weapon to his shoulder. "Noo the Loord ha' marcy on yar, as joodge says sizes," and instantly let fly. The horses of course plunged considerably, but still did no mischief; and before the smoke had evaporated, Valentine introduced into the boot a low melancholy howl, which convinced Tom Titus that the shot had taken effect. "He 's giv oop the ghost; darng his carkus!" cried Tom, as he poked the dead body in the corner. "Well, let 's have a look at un," said Tooler, "let 's see what the warment is like." The gentleman in black at once leaped out of the wagon, and every one present drew near, when Tom, guided by the rod which he had kept upon the body, put his hand into the boot, and drew forth a fine hare that had been shattered by the shot all to pieces. "He arn't a bull-terrier," cried Bob. "But that arn't he," said Tom Titus. "He 's some'er aboot here as dead as a darng'd nail. I know he 's a corpse." "Are you sure on 't?" asked Tooler. "There arn't any barn door deader," cried Tom. "Here, I'll lug um out an' show yar." "No, no!" shouted Tooler, as Tom proceeded to pull out the luggage. "I marn't stay for that. I 'm an hour behind now, blarm un! jimp up, genelmen!" Tom Titus and his companions, who wanted the bull-terrier as a trophy, entreated Tooler to allow them to have it, and, having at length gained his consent, Tom proceeded to empty the boot. Every eye was, of course, directed to everything drawn out, and when Tom made a solemn declaration that the boot was empty, they were all, at once, struck with amazement. Each looked at the other with astounding incredulity, and overhauled the luggage again and again. "Do you mean to say," said Tooler, "that there arn't nuffin else in the boot?" "Darnged a thing!" cried Tom Titus, "coom and look." And Tooler did look, and the gentleman in black looked, and Bob looked, and Harry looked, and Bill looked, and Sam looked, and all looked, but found the boot empty. "Well, blarm me!" cried Tooler. "But darng it all, he must be somewhere!" "I' ll taake my solum davy," said Bill, "that he _was_ there." "I seed um myself," exclaimed Bob, "wi' my oarn eyes, an' didn't loike the looks on um a bit." "There cannot," said the gentleman in black, "be the smallest possible doubt about his having been there; but the question for our mature consideration is, where is he now?" "I 'll bet a pint," said Harry, "you blowed um away?" "Blowed um away, you fool!--how could I ha' blowed um away?" "Why, he _was_ there," said Bob, "and he baint there noo, and he baint here nayther, so you mus ha' blowed um out o' th' boot; 'sides, look at the muzzle o' this ere blunderbust!" "Well, of all the rummest goes as ever happened," said Tooler, thrusting his hands to the very bottom of his pockets, "this ere flogs 'em all into nuffin!" "It is perfectly astounding!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, looking again into the boot, while the men stood and stared at each other with their mouths as wide open as human mouths could be. "Well, in wi' 'em agin," cried Tooler, "in wi' 'em!--Blarm me if this here arn't a queer un to get over." The luggage was accordingly replaced, and Tooler, on mounting the box, told the men to get a gallon of beer, when the gentleman in black generously gave them half a crown, and the horses started off, leaving Tom with his blunderbuss, Harry, Bill, Sam, and their companions, bewildered with the mystery which the whole day spent in the alehouse by no means enabled them to solve. THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS TO MEND TO-NIGHT. Recite this in a simple unaffected manner; carefully avoiding anything like _rant_. At times the voice should sink tremulously low, as the good dame recalls memories of her departed children: An old wife sat by her bright fireside, Swaying thoughtfully to and fro, In an ancient chair whose creaky frame Told a tale of long ago; While down by her side, on the kitchen floor, Stood a basket of worsted balls--a score. The old man dozed o'er the latest news, Till the light of his pipe went out, And, unheeded, the kitten, with cunning paws, Rolled and tangled the balls about; Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair, Swaying to and fro, in the firelight glare. But anon a misty tear-drop came In her eye of faded blue, Then trickled down in a furrow deep, Like a single drop of dew; So deep was the channel--so silent the stream-- The good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam. Yet he marvelled much that the cheerful light Of her eye had weary grown, And marvelled he more at the tangled balls; So he said in a gentle tone, "I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow, Conceal not from me thy sorrows now." Then she spoke of the time when the basket there Was filled to the very brim, And how there remained of the goodly pile But a single pair--for him. "Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night. "I cannot but think of the busy feet, Whose wrappings were wont to lie In the basket, awaiting the needle's time, Now wandered so far away; How the sprightly steps to a mother dear, Unheeded fell on the careless ear. "For each empty nook in the basket old, By the hearth there's a vacant seat; And I miss the shadows from off the wall, And the patter of many feet; 'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night. "'Twas said that far through the forest wild, And over the mountains bold, Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves Were gemmed with the rarest gold; Then my first-born turned from the oaken door, And I knew the shadows were only four. "Another went forth on the foaming waves And diminished the basket's store-- But his feet grew cold--so weary and cold-- They'll never be warm any more-- And this nook in its emptiness, seemeth to me To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea. "Two others have gone towards the setting sun, And made them a home in its light, And fairy fingers have taken their share To mend by the fireside bright; Some other baskets their garments fill-- But mine! Oh, mine is emptier still. "Another--the dearest--the fairest--the best-- Was ta'en by the angels away, And clad in a garment that waxeth not old, In a land of continual day. Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light, While I mend the one pair of stockings to-night." A LOVE OF A BONNET (FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.) CHARACTERS. MRS. CLIPPER, a Widow. KITTY, her Daughter. AUNT JEMIMA HOPKINS, a leetle inquisitive. MRS. HORTENSIA FASTONE, very genteel. DORA, her Daughter. KATY DOOLAN, Irish Help. SCENE.--_Room in_ MRS. CLIPPER'S _House. Lounge_, L.; _Chairs_, C.; _Table and Rocking-chair, Looking-glass_, R. _Enter_ MRS. CLIPPER _and_ KITTY, R. _Mrs. C._ But really, Kitty, I cannot afford it. _Kitty._ O, yes, you can, mother; just this once. It's such a love of a bonnet! it's so becoming! and it only costs fifteen dollars. _Mrs. C._ Fifteen dollars! Why, child, you are crazy! We cannot afford to be so extravagant. The income derived from the property your dear father left will only allow us to dress in the most economical manner. _Kitty._ But this bonnet is not extravagant. Dora Fastone wears a bonnet which cost twenty-five-dollars, and her father has failed five or six times. I don't see why I can't have a new bonnet as well as that proud, stuck-up-- _Mrs. C._ Hush, my child! never speak ill of our neighbors because they dress better than we do. If they spend money foolishly, we should endeavor to use ours to better purpose. I am sure I should be glad to gratify you, but we have so many expenses. Your music lessons cost a great deal of money; and your brother Harry, off at school, is really suffering for a new suit of clothes. I must send him some money to-day. _Kitty._ O, he can wait; he's only a boy; and no one cares how he looks; but young ladies must dress, or they are thought nothing of. O, you must let me have the bonnet, mamma! _Mrs. C._ If you have this bonnet, Kitty, Harry must go without his new suit. _Kitty._ If you could just see it! It's such a love of a bonnet! Do let me run down and ask Miss Thompson to send it up for you to look at. _Mrs. C._ I've no objection to that; and if you think you need it more than Harry does his new suit, why-- _Kitty._ You'll let me have it. That's a good, dear mother. I know you wouldn't refuse. I'll run to Miss Thompson's. I won't be gone long. I suppose I am selfish; but then, mother, it's such a love of a bonnet. [_Exit_, L. _Mrs. C._ (_Sits in a rocking-chair._) Dear child, it is hard to refuse her! But one should be made of money to keep up with the extravagant fashions of the day. _Enter_ AUNT HOPKINS, R. _Aunt H._ Angelina, what on airth have them air Joneses got for dinner? I've sot and sot at that air front winder till I've got a crick in my back a tryin' to find out whether it's lamb or mutton. It's something roasted, anyhow. _Mrs. C._ Aunt Hopkins, you are very inquisitive! _Aunt H._ Inquisitive! Law sakes, do hear the child talk! Neow, what harm kin there be in tryin' to find eout what your neighbors have got for dinner? I mean to put on my bunnet and run acrost and see. I know they've got apple dumplin's, for I see the hired gal throw the parin's out into the yard. _Mrs. C._ Run across! Don't dream of such a thing! _Aunt H._ Well, I'm goin' up stairs to git my specs and have another good look, anyhow; for I'm jest dyin' to know whether it's lamb or mutton. Land sakes! what's the use of livin', ef you can't know how other folks live? [_Exit_, R. _Mrs. C._ Aunt Hopkins!--She's gone! Dear me, she does worry me terribly! What will our neighbors think of us? _Enter_ KATY DOOLAN, L. _Katy._ If you plase, mam, may I coome in? _Mrs. C._ Certainly, Katy. What's the matter? _Katy._ If you plase, mam, I have a letther; and would you plase rade it for me? _Mrs. C._ (_Takes letter._) Certainly, Katy. From your lover? _Katy._ Indeed, mam, I have no lover. It's my cousin, mam. _Mrs. C._ O, your cousin. (_Opens letter._) "Light ov my sowl!" Why, this cannot be your cousin. _Katy._ Indade, indade, it be, sure! It's only the insinivatin' way he has, mam! _Mrs. C._ (_Reads._) "Bewitchin' Katy! and how are ye's onyhow? I take my pin in hand to till ye's I am yurs, in good hilth and sphirits; and it's hopin' ye's the same, truly! The pulsitations uv my heart are batin' wid the love I bears ye's, darlin' Katy! the fairest flower--niver mind the blot--that iver bloomed an the family tree uv Phil Doolan uv Tipperary, dead and gone this siven years, bliss his sowl,--and how are ye's? An' by the same token that I loves ye's much, I sind by the ixpriss, freight paid, a new bunnit, which my cousin Biddy Ryan, for my dear love, have made for ye's charmin' Katy Doolan! Wear it nixt ye's heart! And if ye git it before this letther coomes to hand, ye's may know it is from Your ever sighin', Wid love for ye's dyin', CORNALIUS RYAN. P.S. If ye's don't resave this letther, sind me word uv mouth by the man who fetches the bunnit." _Mrs. C._ That's a very loving epistle. _Katy._ Pistol, it is? Faith, I thought it was a letther. _Mrs. C._ And so it is; and a very loving one! Your _cousin_ has sent you a new bonnet. _Katy._ Is it in the letther, mam! _Mrs. C._ It is coming by express. _Katy._ Sure, he might sind it in the letther, and save expinse. What will I do? _Mrs. C._ Wait patiently until the bonnet arrives. _Katy._ Will Cornalius coome wid it? _Mrs. C._ I think not. The expressman will bring it. _Katy._ Sure, I don't want the ixpressman. It's Cornalius I want. _Mrs. C._ This cousin of yours seems very affectionate. Are you going to marry him some day? _Katy._ Some day?--yis, mam. He tould me, Would I? and I axed him, Yes. What will I do with the letther, mam? _Mrs. C._ Keep it with your treasures. It should be precious to you. _Katy._ Faith, thin I'll put it in the savings bank with my money. I'm obliged, to ye's Mrs. Clipper, mam. If you plase, what was that last in the letther? _Mrs. C._ "Your ever sighin', Wid love for ye's dyin', Cornalius Ryan." _Katy._ O, don't, ma'am! Ye's make me blush wid the shame I fail. Och! it's a quare darlin', wid all his sighin', is Cornalius Ryan! Och, musha! it's an illigant lad he is, onyhow! [_Exit_, L. _Mrs. C._ So we are to have another new bonnet in the family! Well, Katy is a good girl, and I hope will get a good husband, as well as a new bonnet. [_Exit_, L. _Enter_ AUNT HOPKINS, R., _with a bandbox._ _Aunt H._ It's mutton! I was determined to find eout, and I have! I saw that air Jones boy a playin' in the street, and I asked him what his folks had got for dinner, and he said mutton, and neow I'm satisfied on that air p'int. I wonder what's in this 'ere bandbox! I saw that express cart stop here, and the man said it was for Miss Kitty somebody; of course, Angelina's darter. I do wonder what it is! (_Opens box._) Well I declare! A spic span new bunnet! (_Takes out a very large, gaudily-trimmed bonnet._) And sich a bunnet! Ribbons and lace, flowers and feathers! Now that's jest what I call a tasty bunnet! I mean to try it on. It'll jest suit my complexion. Law sakes! here comes Kitty! 'Twon't do to let her know I've been at her things! (_Puts bonnet back into box, and places it behind the table._) _Enter_ KITTY, L., _Kitty._ O, aunt Hopkins! Where's mother? _Aunt H._ Land sakes! I don't know no more than the child unborn! _Kitty._ Dear me! Here are Mrs. Fastone and Dora coming up the steps! What shall I do? _Aunt H._ Why, let 'em in, of course! _Kitty._ Has my new bonnet come yet? _Aunt H._ Indeed it has! And sich a beauty! _Kitty._ O, I'm so glad! But where is it? _Aunt H._ Down there behind the table. I hain't teched it; only jest took a peep. _Kitty._ I'll let Miss Dora see that some people can dress as well as some other people. Aunt Hopkins, you must manage to draw attention to my new bonnet while the visitors are here, to give me an opportunity to show it. _Aunt H._ Why, I'll take it right eout the fust hing. _Kitty._ No, no! that would be too abrupt. Manage to speak of bonnets; but do not show it until they ask to see it. _Aunt H._ Well, I guess I know heow to do it genteelly. _Enter_ KATY, L. _Katy._ Two ladies to see you, miss. (_Crosses to_ R.) _Kitty._ Where's mother, Katy? _Katy._ Gone to the butcher's, miss. [_Exit_ R. _Aunt H._ Butcher's? Wal, I do hope she'll git some mutton, for the Joneses has it; and we ought to be as genteel as our neighbours. _Enter_ MRS. FASTONE _and_ DORA, L., _very elegantly attired_. _Mrs. F._ My dear child, how do you do? _Kitty._ (_Shaking hands with her, and afterwards with_ DORA.) I'm delighted to see you! Hope you are quite well, and Dora. _Mrs. F._ Quite well--aren't you, Dora? _Dora._ Quite, mamma. _Kitty._ Pray be seated, ladies. (_They sit on lounge._) Mrs. Hopkins, Mrs. Fastone. _Aunt H._ (_Steps over and shakes hands._) Hope you are pretty well, ma'am, and you, too, miss, though you do look awful delicate! And how's your husband? He's a broker--ain't he? (_Sits in rocking-chair, and keeps it in motion._) _Mrs. F._ Yes, Mrs. Hopkins, Mr. Fastone is a broker, engaged day after day in the busy vortex of fluctuating enterprises. _Aunt H._ Well, I never hearn tell of that business afore; but I s'pose it's profitable, or you couldn't afford to dress so. Is that a silk or a poplin you've got on? _Kitty._ (_Brings her chair; sits_, C.) Aunt Hopkins!--Mother has stepped out to make a call. _Aunt H._ No, she hain't; she's only gone to the butcher's. _Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--Mrs. Fastone, what is the news? _Mrs. F._ Well, really nothing. I am dying of _ennui_, the world is so quiet; no excitement to move the placid waters of fashionable society--is there, Dora? _Dora._ Nothing, mamma. _Mrs. F._ Nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to wear,--is there, Dora? _Dora._ Nothing, mamma. _Aunt H._ Nothing to wear! Yes, there's bunnets. _Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--Mrs. Fastone, you are quite correct. _Mrs. F._ Mrs. Hopkins spoke of bonnets. I have been so disappointed! Thompson had a perfect love of a bonnet that I had quite set my heart upon for Dora; but it is gone, and the poor child is almost broken-hearted--ain't you, Dora? _Dora._ Quite, mamma. _Kitty._ I am very sorry, for bonnets are so hard to find. I have been very much perplexed about them myself. They are so very commonplace; no air of refinement about them. _Mrs. F._ None, whatever--is there, Dora? _Dora._ None, mamma. _Kitty._ I've just had a new one sent home, but it doesn't suit me. _Aunt H._ Why, Kitty, how you talk! It's a regular beauty! _Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--It is not what I wanted, but Thompson said it was the most stylish she had. _Mrs. F._ Thompson! Did you get it of Thompson? _Kitty._ Yes, all my bonnets come from Thompson. _Mrs. F._ Do let me see it! _Aunt H._ (_Jumps up._) I'll show it to you right off. It's an eligunt bunnet. (_Gets bandbox._) _Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins! _Aunt H._ Neow don't aunt Hopkins me! for I'm going to show 'em jest how it looks on yer; set still; for if there's anything I pride myself on, it's showin' off a bunnet. (_Stands behind_ KITTY, _puts the bonnet on her head, and ties it._) There! ain't that a beauty? _Mrs. F._ Why! what a hor--a handsome bonnet! Did you ever see anything like it, Dora? _Dora._ Never, mamma! _Aunt H._ That's the style, marm. _Mrs. F._ Really! I want to know! And this is Thompson's most stylish bonnet! Really, how the fashions do change! Did you ever, Dora! _Dora._ Never, mamma! _Kitty._ (_Aside._) I do believe they are laughing! Aunt Hopkins, I cannot get it off! You've tied it in a hard knot! _Mrs. F._ It's very becoming--isn't it, Dora? _Dora._ O, very, mamma. _Mrs. F._ (_Aside to_ DORA.)--What a horrid fright! _Dora._ Frightful, mamma! _Mrs. F._ I believe we must be moving, for I must hurry to Thompson's and order just such a bonnet for Dora. Good day. You have such a charming taste--hasn't she, Dora? _Dora._ Charming, mamma! (_They bow, and exeunt_, L., _with their handkerchiefs to their mouths, endeavouring to conceal their laughter._) _Kitty._ Good day. Call again.--The hateful things! They are laughing at me. What ails this bonnet. (_Goes to glass._) Goodness gracious; what a fright! This is not my bonnet. Aunt Hopkins, you've ruined me! I shall be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. (_Tears off the bonnet._) _Enter_ MRS. CLIPPER, R. _Mrs. C._ Have the Fastones gone? _Kitty._ I hope so. O, mother, send aunt Hopkins home; she's made me look ridiculous! _Aunt H._ Well, I declare! this comes of trying to please folks! _Mrs. C._ Is _that_ your love of a bonnet, Kitty? _Kitty._ No, indeed! Aunt Hopkins, where did you get this hateful thing? _Aunt H._ Out of that bandbox. _Kitty._ (_Takes up the cover._) It's marked "Miss Katy Doolan." You've made a pretty mess of it! _Aunt H._ Sakes alive! It's the hired gal's! Well, I never! _Mrs. C._ But where's the bonnet you sent from Thompson's? _Katy._ (_Outside._) O, murder! that iver I should say this day! _Enter_ KATY, R., (_holding in her hand an elegant bonnet._) The mane, stingy blackgurd has sint me this whisp of a bunnet, that I'll niver git on my head at all at all! _Kitty._ That's my bonnet! _Katy._ Is it, indade? and perhaps ye's be afther claiming the letther Cornalius Ryan sint wid it. _Mrs. C._ No, no, Katy; there's a little mistake here. This is your bonnet. _Katy._ Faith, now, isn't that a darling, jist! I'll wear it to church to-morrow, sure. _Kitty._ Put it on now, Katy; and then take this wisp of a bonnet, as you call it, to Miss Thompson, with my best compliments and tell her I have decided not to keep it. _Mrs. C._ Why, Kitty, I thought your heart was set upon having it. _Kitty._ So it was, mother; but I shall never dare to wear it, after the ridiculous appearance I have just made. It's too fine for me. My conscience gave me a little twinge as I was coming home. Send Harry the money for his new suit. My old bonnet is quite good enough for me. _Aunt H._ Neow that's what I call a self-denyin' gal. I'll fix it up for you; for if there's anything I pride myself on doin', it's fixing up old bunnets. _Kitty._ And trying on new ones! No, I thank you, aunt Hopkins. Hereafter I'll look after my bonnets myself. I think our acquaintance with Mrs. Fastone will be broken off by this adventure; and so I will make a merit of necessity, abandon fashionable society, and be more humble in my demeanor and in my dress. _Mrs. C._ Ah, my child, you will be better satisfied with your decision, as you grow older, and see how frivolous are the demands of fashion, and how little happiness can be obtained by lavish display. And I think this little adventure, though a severe lesson, will be far more profitable than the possession of that "love of a bonnet." DRAFTED. MRS. H.L. BOSTWICK. The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted:--in the end the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of resignation fills the mother's heart: My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books; No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie--as delicate, too, in his looks. Why, it seems but a day since he helped me girl-like, in my kitchen at tasks; He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he asks? He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best; Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest. Too slender for over much study--why, his master has made him to-day Go out with his ball on the common--and you have drafted a child at his play! "Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I wimper when Robert stood up with his gun, And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run? Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall, "There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert, "if I am to fall." "Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot for Clay. Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame We'll lay on the candidate's altar"--and christened the child with his name. Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with harm, (Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough little farm,) That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my eyes, That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice? Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there is no appeal, But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel? Five stalwart sons has my neighbour, and never the lot upon one; Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is done? Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his rest, With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his breast? Too tender for parting with sweet hearts? Too fair to be crippled or scarred? My boy! Thank God for these tears--I was growing so bitter and hard! * * * * * Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night, Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight; Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is higher than mine, And faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly camp-fires shine. Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide down in the yard; That shall go with my soldier to battle, and stand with my picket on guard. Spirits of loving and lost ones--watch softly with Harry to-night, For to-morrow he goes forth to battle--to arm him for Freedom and Right! AN ERUPTION OF MOUNT VESUVIUS. BULWER. The following magnificent description of perhaps the most awful phenomenon in nature, gives full scope for almost every tone and gesture. Care should, however, be taken that the natural grandeur of the subject be not marred by a stilted, pompous, or affected delivery. Let the speaker try to realize the thought and feelings of a spectator of the dark scene of desolation, and he cannot go amiss: The eyes of the crowd beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapour shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine-tree; the trunk, blackness; the branches, fire, that shifted and wavered in its hues with every moment: now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare. Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men stared at each other, but were dumb. At that moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the walls of the theatre trembled; and beyond, in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs. An instant more, and the mountain-cloud seemed to roll toward them, dark and rapid like a torrent; at the same time it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes, mixed with fragments of burning stone! Over the crushing vines, over the desolate streets, over the amphitheatre itself,--far and wide,--with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea, fell that awful shower! The cloud advanced, darker, disgorging showers of ashes and pumice stones; and, amid the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast up columns of boiling water. Blent and kneaded with the half-burning ashes, the streams fell like seething mud over the streets, in frequent intervals. The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day, at length settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. But in proportion as the blackness gathered did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible beauty confined to their hues of fire. Now brightly blue, as the most azure depth of a southern sky; now of a livid and snake-like green, darting restlessly to and fro, as the folds of an enormous serpent; now of a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns of smoke far and wide, and lighting up all Pompeii; then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the ghost of its own life! In the pauses of the showers were heard the rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain. The ashes, in many places, were already knee-deep; and in some places immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house-roofs, bore down along the streets masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more, with every hour, obstructed the way; and, as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was more sensibly felt; the footing seemed to slide and creep, nor could chariot or litter be kept steady, even on the most level ground. Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plains beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved, for several houses and even vineyards had been set on flames; and at various intervals the fire rose fiercely and sullenly against the solid gloom. The citizens had endeavoured to place rows of torches in the most frequented spots; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the wind extinguished them. Suddenly arose an intense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the darkness which closed around it, the mountain shone, a pile of fire! Its summit seemed riven in two; or rather, above its surface, there seemed to rise two monster-shapes, each confronting each, as demons contending for a world. These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which lighted up the whole atmosphere; but below, the nether part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded, save in three places, adown which flowed serpentine, and irregular rivers of molten lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they flowed slowly on, as towards the devoted city. And through the still air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hurling one upon another, as they were borne down the fiery cataracts, darkening for one instant the spot where they fell, and suffused the next in the burnished hues of the flood along which they floated! Suddenly a duller shade fell over the air; and one of the two gigantic crests into which the summit had been divided, rocked and waved to and fro; and then, with a sound, the mightiness of which no language can describe, it fell from its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire, down the sides of the mountain. At the same instant gushed forth a volume of blackest smoke, rolling on, over air, sea and earth. Another, and another, and another shower of ashes, far more profuse than before, scattered fresh desolation along the streets, and darkness once more wrapped them as a veil. The whole elements of civilization were broken up. If in the darkness, wife was separated from husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing was left save the law of self-preservation. A PLEA FOR THE OX. DUGANNE. This beautiful poem should be recited with a calm, even devout dignity; occasionally rising into energetic expression as the poet apostrophizes the Deity in behalf of the down-trodden: Of all my Father's herds and flocks, I love the Ox--the large-eyed Ox! I think no Christian man would wrong The Ox--so patient, calm, and strong! How huge his strength! and yet, with flowers A child can lead this Ox of ours; And yoke his ponderous neck, with cords Made only of the gentlest words. By fruitful Nile the Ox was Lord; By Jordan's stream his blood was poured; In every age--with every clan-- He loves, he serves, he dies for MAN! And, through the long, long years of God, Since labouring ADAM delved the sod, I hear no human voice that mocks The _hue_ which God hath given His Ox! While burdening toils bow down his back, Who asks if he be _white_ or _black?_ And when his generous blood is shed, Who shall deny its common _red?_ "Ye shall not muzzle"--God hath sworn-- "The Ox, that treadeth out the corn!" I think no Christian law ordains That _Ox_ or _Man_ should toil in chains. So, haply, for an Ox I pray. That kneels and toils for us this day; A huge, calm, patient, large-eyed Ox, Black-skinned, among our herds and flocks. So long, O righteous Lord! so long Bowed down, and yet so brave and strong-- I think no Christian, just and true, Can spurn this poor Ox for his _hue!_ I know not why he shall not toil, Black-skinned, upon our broad, free soil; And lift aloft his dusky frame, Unbranded by a bondman's name! And struggling still, for nobler goal, With wakening will and soaring soul, I know not why his great free strength May not be our best wealth at length: That strength which, in the limbs of _slaves_-- Like Egypt's--only piles up graves! But in the hands of _freemen_ now May build up states, by axe and plough!-- And rear up souls, as purely white As angels, clothed with heavenly light; And yield forth life-blood, richly red As patriot hearts have ever shed. God help us! we are veiled within-- Or white or black--with shrouds of skin; And, at the last, we all shall crave Small difference in the breadth of grave! But--when the grass grows, green and calm, And smells above our dust, like balm-- I think our rest will sweeter be, If over us the Ox be--_free!_ HERE SHE GOES, AND THERE SHE GOES. JAMES NACK. Two Yankee wags, one summer day, Stopped at a tavern on their way, Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest, And woke, to breakfast on the best. The breakfast over, Tom and Will Sent for the landlord and the bill; Will looked it over:--"Very right-- But hold! what wonder meets my sight? Tom! the surprise is quite a shock!" "What wonder? where?" "The clock, the clock!" Tom and the landlord in amaze Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, And for a moment neither spoke; At last the landlord silence broke,-- "You mean the clock that's ticking there? I see no wonder, I declare! Though maybe, if the truth were told, 'Tis rather ugly, somewhat old; Yet time it keeps to half a minute; But, if you please, what wonder in it?" "Tom, don't you recollect," said Will, "The clock at Jersey, near the mill, The very image of this present, With which I won the wager pleasant?" Will ended with a knowing wink; Tom scratched his head and tried to think. "Sir, begging your pardon for inquiring," The landlord said with grin admiring, "What wager was it?" "You remember It happened, Tom, in last December: In sport I bet a Jersey Blue That it was more than he could do To make his finger go and come In keeping with the pendulum, Repeating, till the hour should close, Still--'_Here she goes, and there she goes._' He lost the bet in half a minute." "Well, if I would, the deuce is in it!" Exclaimed the landlord; "try me yet, And fifty dollars to be bet." "Agreed, but we will play some trick, To make you of the bargain sick!" "I'm up to that!" "Don't make us wait,-- Begin,--the clock is striking eight." He seats himself, and left and right His finger wags with all its might, And hoarse his voice and hoarser grows, With--"Here she goes, and there she goes!" "Hold!" said the Yankee, "plank the ready!" The landlord wagged his finger steady, While his left hand, as well as able, Conveyed a purse upon the table, "Tom! with the money let's be off!" This made the landlord only scoff. He heard them running down the stair, But was not tempted from his chair; Thought he, "The fools! I'll bite them yet! So poor a trick sha'n't win the bet." And loud and long the chorus rose Of--"Here she goes, and there she goes!" While right and left his finger swung, In keeping to his clock and tongue. His mother happened in to see Her daughter: "Where is Mrs. B----?" "When will she come, do you suppose?" Son!--" "Here she goes, and there she goes!" "Here!--where?"--the lady in surprise His finger followed with her eyes; "Son! why that steady gaze and sad? Those words,--that motion,--are you mad? But here's your wife, perhaps she knows, And--" "Here she goes, and there she goes!" His wife surveyed him with alarm, And rushed to him and seized his arm; He shook her off, and to and fro His finger persevered to go, While curled his very nose with ire That _she_ against him should conspire; And with more furious tone arose The--"Here she goes, and there she goes!" "Lawks!" screamed the wife, "I'm in a whirl! Run down and bring the little girl; She is his darling, and who knows But--" "Here she goes, and there she goes!" "Lawks! he is mad! What made him thus? Good Lord! what will become of us? Run for a doctor,--run, run, run,-- For Doctor Brown and Doctor Dun, And Doctor Black and Doctor White, And Doctor Grey with all your might!" The doctors came, and looked, and wondered, And shook their heads, and paused and pondered. Then one proposed he should be bled,-- "No, leeched you mean," the other said,-- "Clap on a blister!" roared another,-- "No! cup him,"--"No! trepan him, brother." A sixth would recommend a purge, The next would an emetic urge; The eighth, just come from a dissection, His verdict gave for an injection. The last produced a box of pills, A certain cure for earthly ills: "I had a patient yesternight," Quoth he, "and wretched was her plight, And as the only means to save her, Three dozen patent pills I gave her; And by to-morrow I suppose That--" "Here she goes, and there she goes!" "You are all fools!" the lady said,-- "The way is, just to shave his head. Run! bid the barber come anon." "Thanks, mother!" thought her clever son; "You help the knaves that would have bit me, But all creation sha'n't outwit me!" Thus to himself, while to and fro His fingers perseveres to go, And from his lips no accent flows But--"Here she goes, and there she goes!" The barber came--"Lord help him! what A queerish customer I've got; But we must do our best to save him,-- So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him!" But here the doctors interpose,-- "A woman never--" "There she goes!" "A woman is no judge of physic, No even when her baby is sick. He must be bled,"--"No, no, a blister,"-- "A purge, you mean,"--"I say a clyster,"-- "No, cup him,"--"Leech him,"--"Pills! pills! pills!" And all the house the uproar fills. What means that smile? what means that shiver? The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver, And triumph brightens up his face, His finger yet shall win the race; The clock is on the stroke of nine, And up he starts,--"'Tis mine! 'tis mine!" "What do you mean?" "I mean the fifty; I never spent an hour so thrifty. But you who tried to make me lose, Go, burst with envy, if you choose! But how is this? where are they?" "Who?" "The gentlemen,--I mean the two Came yesterday,--are they below?" "They galloped off an hour ago." "O, purge me! blister! shave and bleed! For, hang the knaves, I'm mad indeed!" DAVID AND GOLIATH. Goliath gives vent to his arrogance in a bombastic style. This should be borne in mind by the speaker. David, on the other hand, expresses himself with modesty, but in a tone of confident courage: _Goliath._ Where is the mighty man of war, who dares Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief? What victor-king, what general drenched in blood, Claims this high privilege? What are his rights? What proud credentials does the boaster bring To prove his claim? What cities laid in ashes, What ruined provinces, what slaughtered realms, What heads of heroes, or what hearts of kings, In battle killed, or at his altars slain, Has he to boast? Is his bright armory Thick set with spears, and swords, and coats of mail, Of vanquished nations, by his single arm Subdued? Where is the mortal man so bold, So much a wretch, so out of love with life, To dare the weight of this uplifted spear? Come, advance! Philistia's gods to Israel's. Sound, my herald, Sound for the battle straight! _David._ Behold thy foe. _Gol._ I see him not. _Dav._ Behold him here. _Gol._ Say, where? Direct my sight. I do not war with boys. _Dav._ I stand prepared; thy single arm to mine. _Gol._ Why, this is mockery, minion; it may chance To cost thee dear. Sport not with things above thee: But tell me who, of all this numerous host, Expects his death from me? Which is the man Whom Israel sends to meet my bold defiance? _Dav._ The election of my sovereign falls on me. _Gol._ On thee! on thee! by Dagon, 'tis too much! Thou curled minion! thou a nation's champion! 'Twould move my mirth at any other time; But trifling's out of tune. Begone, light boy! And tempt me not too far. _Dav._ I do defy thee, Thou foul idolator! Hast thou not scorned The armies of the living God I serve! By me he will avenge upon thy head Thy nation's sins and thine. Armed with his name, Unshrinking, I dare meet the stoutest foe That ever bathed his hostile spear in blood. _Gol._ Indeed! 'tis wondrous well! Now, by my gods! The stripling plays the orator! Vain boy! Keep close to that same bloodless war of words, And thou shalt still be safe. Tongue-valiant warrior! Where is thy sylvan crook, with garlands hung, Of idle field-flowers? Where thy wanton harp, Thou dainty-fingered hero? Now will I meet thee, Thou insect warrior; since thou dar'st me thus, Already I behold thy mangled limbs, Dissevered each from each, ere long to feed The fierce, blood-snuffing vulture. Mark me well, Around my spear I'll twist thy shining locks And toss in air thy head all gashed with wounds. _Dav._ Ha, say'st thou so? Come on, then; Mark us well. Thou com'st to me with sword and spear, and shield; In the dread name of Israel's God, I come; The living Lord of Hosts, whom thou defi'st; Yet though no shield I bring; no arms, except These five smooth stones I gathered from the brook With such a simple sling as shepherds use; Yet all exposed, defenceless as I am, The God I serve shall give thee up a prey To my victorious arm. This day, I mean To make the uncircumcised tribes confess There is a God in Israel. I will give thee, Spite of thy vaunted strength and giant bulk, To glut the carrion-kites. Nor thee alone; The mangled carcasses of your thick hosts Shall spread the plains of Elah; till Philistia, Through all her trembling tents and flying bands, Shall own that Judah's God is God indeed! I dare thee to the trial! _Gol._ Follow me. In this good spear I trust. _Dav._ I trust in Heaven! The God of battles stimulates my arm, And fires my soul with ardor not its own. In this dialogue, the first speech of Goliath is simple vaunt. Confident in his huge bulk and strength, he strides occasionally from side to side while speaking, elevating his arms and throwing his limbs about as if anxious to display his powerful sinews and muscular proportions. He speaks very loud, as if willing to terrify all Israel with his voice. In this second speech, Goliath partly stoops, half shuts his eyes like a person endeavouring to discern some diminutive object, and, after looking intently a short time, suddenly straightens himself up to his full height, and says arrogantly: "I see him not." In his third speech, Goliath maintains the same ground, till, in the conclusion, he seems, at last, to have perceived David, and, turning away contemptuously, adds: "I do not war with boys." In the latter part of the dialogue, Goliath becomes really furious, and is in haste to transfix David with his spear; while David, on the other hand, becomes more calm, collected, and observant as the critical moment approaches, thus denoting his firm and unwavering trust in the God of Israel. David makes but few gestures, but always assumes a reverential attitude when he mentions the name of God--not puritanical by any means, but expressive of humble hope and smiling confidence. THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. FRANCES M. WHITCHER. Yes,--he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 't was Poll Bingham), _she_ says, I never found it out till after he died, but that 's the consarndest lie, that ever was told, though it 's jest a piece with everything else she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his memory, nobody wouldn 't think I dident set store by him. Want to hear it? Well, I 'll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin's; but I'll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry? How you talk! used to make lots on 't; hain't so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin' great cheese, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on 't. It says:-- Teach him for to proclaim Salvation to the folks; No occasion give for any blame, Nor wicked people's jokes. And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say the rest on now, seein' there's seven and forty verses. Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it; used to sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made in relation to husband; it begins as follers:-- He never jawed in all his life, He never was unkind,-- And (tho' I say it that was his wife) Such men you seldom find. (That's as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh word.) I never changed my single lot,-- I thought 't would be a sin-- (though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 't ain't for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o' chances or not, but there 's them livin' that _might_ tell if they wos a mind to; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three year after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows what was the nature o' Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss Jinkins _does_ say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her "Jack at a pinch,"--seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get,--but I goes on to say-- I never changed my single lot, I thought 't would be a sin,-- For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott, I never got married agin. If ever a hasty word he spoke, His anger dident last, But vanished like tobacker smoke Afore the wintry blast. And since it was my lot to be The wife of such a man, Tell the men that's after me To ketch me if they can. If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in-- That's a fact,--he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now only jest think,--widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he wa' n't there, who was ther, pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come on Deacon Bedott,--and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin'; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back. He had a wonderful gift, and he wa' n't a man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin,--so you see 't was from a sense o' duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I? Oh!-- If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in-- I sot so much by Deacon Bedott I never got married agin. A wonderful tender heart he had, That felt for all mankind,-- It made him feel amazin bad To see the world so blind. Whiskey and rum he tasted not-- That's as true as the Scripturs,--but if you'll believe it, Betsy Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house, how 't she 'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever! Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything _she_ says. I've knowed Poll Bingham from a gall, and she never knowed how to speak the truth--besides she always had a pertikkler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I 'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well she was a ravin'-distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story. I 'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See,--where had I got to? Oh, I remember now,-- Whiskey and rum he tasted not,-- He thought it was a sin,-- I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott I never got married agin. But now he's dead! the thought is killin', My grief I can't control-- He never left a single shillin' His widder to console. But that wa' n't his fault--he was so out o' health for a number o' year afore he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin'--however, it dident give him no great oneasiness,--he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back,--begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his house! did you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbors' husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper,--used to swear like all posset when he got mad,--and I've heard my husband say, (and he wa' n't a man that ever said anything that wa' n't true),--I've heard _him_ say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! "His widder to console,"--ther ain't but one more verse, 't ain't a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he,--What did you stop so soon for?"--but Miss Jinkins told the Crosbys _she_ thought I'd better a' stopt afore I 'd begun,--she 's a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I 'd like to see some poitry o' hern,--I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n all that, she said there wa' n't a word o' truth in the hull on 't,--said I never cared two cents for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie!! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell, they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on 't. I conclude as follers:-- I'll never change my single lot,-- I think 't would be a sin,-- The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott Don't intend to get married agin. Excuse me cryin'--my feelin's always overcomes me so when I say that poitry--O-o-o-o-o-o! THE TWO WEAVERS. HANNAH MORE. This piece should be spoken in a simple, unaffected conversational manner; still it admits of much quiet emphasis, and subdued irony: As at their work two weavers sat, Beguiling time with friendly chat, They touched upon the price of meat, So high, a weaver scarce could eat. "What with my brats and sickly wife," Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life; So hard my work, so poor my fare, 'Tis more than mortal man can bear. "How glorious is the rich man's state His house so fine, his wealth so great! Heaven is unjust, you must agree; Why all to him? Why none to me? "In spite of what the Scripture teaches In spite of all the parson preaches, This world (indeed I've thought so long) Is ruled methinks extremely wrong. "Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 'Tis all confused and hard and strange; The good are troubled and oppressed, And all the wicked are the blest." Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause Why thus we blame our Maker's laws; _Parts of his ways_ alone we know; 'Tis all that man can see below. "See'st thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun? Behold the wild confusion there, So rude the mass it makes one stare! "A stranger, ignorant of the trade, Would say, no meaning's there conveyed; For where's the middle? where's the border? Thy carpet now is all disorder." Quoth Dick, "My work is yet in bits, But still in every part it fits; Besides, you reason like a lout-- Why, man, that _carpet's inside out_." Says John, "Thou say'st the thing I mean, And now I hope to cure thy spleen; This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt _Is but a carpet inside out_. "As when we view these shreds and ends, We know not what the whole intends; So, when on earth things look but odd, They're working still some scheme of God. "No plan, no pattern, can we trace; All wants proportion, truth, and grace The motley mixture we deride, Nor see the beauteous upper side. "But when we reach that world of light, And view those works of God aright, Then shall we see the whole design, And own the workman is divine. "What now seem random strokes, will there All order and design appear; Then shall we praise what here we spurned, For then the _carpet shall be turned_." "Thou'rt right," quoth Dick; "no more I'll grumble That this sad world's so strange a jumble; My impious doubts are put to flight, For my own carpet sets me right." MISS MALONEY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION. MARY MAPES DODGE. Och! don't be talkin'. Is it howld on, ye say? An' did n't I howld on till the heart o' me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin' that thin you could clutch me wid yer two hands? To think o' me toilin' like a nager for the six year I 've been in Ameriky,--bad luck to the day I iver left the owld counthry! to be bate by the likes o' them (faix an' I'll sit down when I 'm ready, so I will, Aunt Ryan, an' yed better be listnin' than drawin' yer remarks)! an' is it mysel, with five good characters from respectable places, would be herdin' wid the haythens? The saints forgive me, but I 'd be buried alive sooner 'n put up wid it a day longer. Sure an' I was the granehorn not to be lavin' at onct when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter man which was brought out from Californy. "He 'll be here the night," says she, "and, Kitty, it 's meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid him, for he 's a furriner," says she, a kind o' lookin' off. "Sure an it 's little I 'll hinder nor interfare wid him nor any other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff, for I minded me how these French waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their fingers, isn 't company for no gurril brought up dacint and honest. Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the missus walked into me kitchen smilin', and says kind o' shcared: "Here 's Fing Wing, Kitty, an' you 'll have too much sinse to mind his bein' a little strange." Wid that she shoots the door, and I, misthrusting if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up, and--Howly fathers! may I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rale haythen Chineser a grinnin' like he'd just come off a tay-box. If you'll belave me, the crayture was that yeller it ud sicken you to see him; and sorra stitch was on him but a black nightgown over his trousers, and the front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler, and a black tail a-hangin' down from behind, wid his two feet stook into the heathenestest shoes you ever set eyes on. Och! but I was up stairs afore you could turn about, a givin' the missus warnin', an' only stopt wid her by her raisin' me wages two dollars, and playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid haythins and taitch 'em all in our power,--the saints have us! Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn't be tellin'. Not a blissed thing cud I do but he'd be lookin' on wid his eyes cocked up'ard like two poomp-handles, an' he widdout a speck or smitch o' whiskers on him, an' his finger-nails full a yard long. But it 's dyin' you'd be to see the missus a' larnin' him, and he grinnin' an' waggin' his pig-tail (which was pieced out long wid some black stoof, the haythen chate), and gettin' into her ways wonderful quick, I don't deny, imitatin' that sharp you'd be shurprised, and ketchin' an' copyin' things the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, yet don't want comin' to the knowledge of the family,--bad luck to him! Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an' would I be sittin' wid a haythen an' he a-atin' wid drum-sticks,--yes, an' atin' dogs an' cats unknownst to me, I warrant you, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, till the thought made me that sick I could die. An' did n't the crayture proffer to help me a wake ago come Toosday, an' me a foldin' down me clane clothes for the ironin', an' fill his haythin mouth wid water, an' afore I could hinder squirrit it through his teeth stret over the best linen table-cloth, and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a baby, the dirrity baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd be doin' till ye'd be dishtracted. It's yersel' knows the tinder feet that's on me since ever I 've bin in this counthry. Well, owin' to that, I fell into a way o' slippin' me shoes off when I 'd be settin' down to pale the praities or the likes o' that, and, do ye mind! that haythin would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him to parin' apples or tomaterses. The saints in heaven could n't have made him belave he cud kape the shoes on him when he'd be palin' anything. Did I lave for that? Faix an' I did n't. Did n't he get me into trouble wid my missus, the haythin? You're aware yersel' how the boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more 'n 'll go into anything dacently. So, for that matter, I'd now and then take out a sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper and put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin' blankit the how it cuddent be bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn the missus wos a spakin' pleasant and respec'ful wid me in me kitchen when the grocer boy comes in an' stands fornenst her wid his boondles, an' she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call him by that name ner any other but just haythin), she motions to him, she does, for to take the boondles an' empty out the sugar an' what not, where they belongs. If you'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup o' sugar, an' a handful o' tay, an' a bit o' chaze right afore the missus, wrap them into bits o' paper, an' I spacheless wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up wid the ironin' blankit and pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein' sly to put them in. Och, the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, and missus sayin', "O Kitty!" in a way that 'ud cruddle your blood. "He 's a haythin nager," says I. "I 've found you out," says she. "I 'll arrist him," says I. "It 's you ought to be arristed," says she. "You won't," says I. "I will," says she; and so it went till she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no lady,--an' I give her warnin' an' left that instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore. THE BIG OYSTER. A LEGEND OF RARITAN BAY. GEORGE ARNOLD. 'Twas a hazy, mazy, lazy day, And the good smack _Emily_ idly lay Off Staten Island, in Raritan Bay, With her canvas loosely flapping, The sunshine slept on the briny deep, Nor wave nor zephyr could vigils keep, The oysterman lay on the deck asleep, And even the cap'n was napping. The smack went drifting down the tide,-- The waters gurgling along her side,-- Down where the bay glows vast and wide,-- A beautiful sheet of water; With scarce a ripple about her prow, The oyster-smack floated, silent and slow, With Keyport far on her starboard bow, And South Amboy on her quarter. But, all at once, a grating sound Made the cap'n awake and glance around; "Hold hard!" cried he, "we've run aground, As sure as all tarnation!" The men jumped up, and grumbled and swore; They also looked, and plainly saw That the _Emily_ lay two miles from shore, At the smallest calculation. Then, gazing over the side, to see What kind of a bottom this shoal might be, They saw, in the shadow that lay to the lee, A sight that filled them with horror! The water was clear, and beneath it, there, An oyster lay in its slimy lair, So big, that to tell its dimensions fair Would take from now till to-morrow. And this it was made the grating sound; On this the _Emily_ ran aground; And this was the shoal the cap'n found,-- Alack! the more is the pity. For straight an idea entered his head: He'd drag it out of its watery bed, And give it a resting-place, instead, In some saloon in the city. So, with crow, and lever, and gaff, and sling, And tongs, and tackle, and roller, and ring, They made a mighty effort to bring This hermit out of his cloister. They labored earnestly, day and night, Working by torch and lantern light, Till they had to acknowledge that, do what they might, They never could budge the oyster! The cap'n fretted, and fumed, and fussed,-- He swore he'd "have that 'yster, or bust!" But, for all his oaths, he was quite nonplussed; So by way of variation, He sat him quietly down, for a while, To cool his anger and settle his bile, And to give himself up, in his usual style, To a season of meditation. Now, the cap'n was quite a wonderful man; He could do almost anything any man can, And a good deal more, when he once began To act from a clear deduction. But his wonderful power,--his greatest pride,-- The feat that shadowed all else beside,-- The talent on which he most relied,-- Was his awful power of suction! At suction he never had known defeat! The stoutest suckers had given in, beat, When he sucked up a quart of apple-jack, neat, By touching his lips to the measure! He'd suck an oyster out of its shell, Suck shrimps or lobsters equally well; Suck cider till inward the barrel-heads fell,-- And seemed to find it a pleasure. Well, after thinking a day or two, This doughty sucker imagined he knew About the best thing he could possibly do, To secure the bivalvular hermit. "I'll bore through his shell, as they bore for coal, With an auger fixed on the end of a pole, And then, through a tube, I'll suck him out whole,-- A neat little swallow, I term it!" The very next day, he returned to the place Where his failure had thrown him into disgrace; And there, with a ghastly grin on his face, Began his submarine boring. He worked for a week, for the shell was tough, But reached the interior soon enough For the oyster, who found such surgery rough,-- Such grating, and scraping, and scoring! The shell-fish started, the water flew, The cap'n turned decidedly blue, But thrust his auger still further through, To quiet the wounded creature. Alas! I fear my tale grows sad, The oyster naturally felt quite bad In spite of its peaceful nature. It arose, and, turning itself on edge, Exposed a ponderous shelly wedge, All covered with slime, and sea-weed, and sedge,-- A conchological wonder! This wedge flew open, as quick as a flash, Into two great jaws, with a mighty splash One scraunching, crunching, crackling crash,-- And the smack was gone to thunder. A PRECIOUS PICKLE. (FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.) CHARACTERS. MISS REBECCA PEASE. MRS. GABBLE. JENNY FROST, } City girls on a vacation BESSY SNOW, } in the country. SADIE BEAN, } SISSY GABBLE. JUNO, Miss Pease's coloured help. SCENE.--MISS PEASE'S _best room. Table_, C., _back. Chairs_, R. _and_ L. _Rocking-chair_, C. _Chair directly in front of the table._ _Enter_, L., JUNO; _costume, calico dress, handkerchief about her head in shape of a turban, broom in her hand._ _Juno._ Bress my soul! Nebber see, in de whole co'se ob my life, sich a galloping set as dem are city gals--nebber! For all de worl', jes like a flock ob sheep. Shoo! away dey go, from de cellar to de top ob de house--pell-mell inter de barn. Skipterty shoo, ober de fields; skersplash into de brook; don't keer for nuffin nor nobody. Can't keep de chairs straight, nor de flo' clean nor nuffin. (_Looks off_, R.) Now, now, now, jes look a dar! jes look a dar! See 'em scootin' round, chasin' dat are poor orphanless calf, what ain't got no mudder. Never did see nuffin like it, nebber. (_Sweeps violently._) _Jenny._ (_Outside_, R.) Ha, ha, ha! If you don't stop, girls, I shall die. _Bessie._ (_Outside_, R.) Ha, ha, ha! O, dear, there goes my hat! _Sadie._ (_Outside_, R.) Ha, ha, ha! Do see him jump! [_All three enter_, R, _laughing._ _Jenny._ O, isn't this splendid! A country life for me. _Bessie._ It's glorious! I could live here forever. _Sadie._ So could I. No more city life for me. _Juno._ Bress my soul! Goin' fur to stay here forebber! I'll jes' pack up my jewelry, and slope, for sartin'. _Jenny._ Ah, there's Juno. O, Juno, isn't it most dinner-time? I'm so hungry! _Bessie._ So am I--ravenous. _Sadie._ I'm starving; slowly, but surely, starving. _Juno._ Dinner! Why, bress my soul! yer hain't got yer breakfast digesticated yet. Well, I nebber, in de whole co'se ob my life, seed sich eaters--nebber. Six biscuit, four b'iled eggs apiece, and chicken; chicken by de dozen for dar breakfast; and now want dar dinner! Bress my soul! Doesn't yer git nuffin to eat in de city? _Sadie._ O, yes, plenty; but not such biscuits as Juno makes. _Jenny and Bessie._ Never, never! _Jenny._ And eggs, girls! None cooked as Juno cooks them. _Bessie and Sadie._ Never, never! _Bessie._ And chickens! never so nice as those broiled by Juno. _Jenny and Sadie._ Never, never! _Juno._ Doesn't yers, honies? (_Grinning._) Dat's mean; dat's raal mean. Well, poor dears, I s'pose yers is hungry. Now you jes' wait and see what Juno can find for a lunch. [_Exit_, L. _Jenny._ "A little _flattery_, now and then, is relished by the wisest men." _Bessie._ And the darkest of our sex, Jenny. _Sadie._ Yes; and "a _soft_ answer turneth away wrath." O, ain't we having a splendid time, girls? _Jenny._ How kind of our parents, after eight months' hard study, to send us to this delightful place! _Sadie._ O, it's splendid. We want nothing here. _Bessie._ No, indeed. There's nothing left in that dry, hot city to be regretted. _Jenny._ Stop. There is one thing I _should_ like. _Sadie and Bessie._ What is that? _Jenny._ One of mother's pickles. _Sadie and Bessie._ What! a pickle? _Jenny._ Yes. I'm dying for one of mother's sour, peppery pickles. _Sadie._ O, don't, Jenny. Do you want to make me homesick? _Bessie._ My mouth puckers at the thought. I want to go home. _Enter_, R., SISSY GABBLE, _a very small girl, with a very large cape bonnet on her head, and a tin pail in her hand._ _Sissy._ If yer pleath, Mith Peath, if, if--Mith Peath, if you pleath-- _Jenny._ Why, who in the world is this? _Sadie._ What do you want, little girl? _Sissy._ Mith Peath, if you pleath, if, if--Mith Peath, to home, my mother thed--my mother thed. What did my mother thed? O, my mother thed, if Mith Peath is to home, to give Mith Peath her com--her com--to give Mith Peath her com-- _Jenny._ Her compliments? _Sissy._ Yith ma'am, I geth tho; and tell Mith Peath, the thent her thome of her pickleth. _Sadie and Bessie._ Pickles! O, you dear little thing! _Jenny._ O, isn't she a darling! (_They all crowd round_ SISSY, _take off her bonnet, kiss and hug her._) Isn't she splendid? _Bessie._ I'll take the pail, little girl. _Sissy._ (_Putting pail behind her._) Yith marm; I geth not. My mother thed I muthn't give it to nobody but Mith Peath. _Bessie._ Well, take off the cover, little girl. The pickles will spoil. _Sissy._ I geth not. _My_ mother's pickleth _never_ thpoil. _Jenny._ The little plague! Say, Sissy; do you like candy? _Sissy._ Candy? Merlatheth candy? _Jenny._ Yes. _Sissy._ Ith it pulled? _Jenny._ Yes, indeed; pulled white as snow. Give me the pail, and I'll find you a long stick of it. _Sissy._ You ain't Mith Peath; and I don't like merlatheth candy white ath thnow. Where ith Mith Peath? _Sadie._ Little girl, don't you want some red and white peppermints? _Sissy._ No, I don't. I want Mith Peath. _Bessie._ Or some splendid gum drops? _Sissy._ No. I want Mith Peath. _Enter_ MISS PEASE, L. _Miss P._ And here she is, Sissy Gabble. What have you for me? (_The girls fall back in confusion, and whisper together._) _Sissy._ Thome pickleth, Mith Peath, my mother thent you, with her com--her com--her com-- _Miss P._ Her compliments, Sissy. I understand. I'm very much obliged to her for sending them, and to you, Sissy, for bringing them so carefully. Here, Juno! _Enter_, JUNO, L. _Juno._ Yes, missis. Why, bress my soul! if dar ain't Sissy Gabble! Come right here, yer dear chile. _Miss P._ Take her to the kitchen, Juno. Perhaps you can find a cake for her. _Juno._ Guess I can, missis, sure for sartin. Come, Sissy Gabble, come right along wid Juno. _Sissy._ Thay, Juno, who ith them? (_Pointing to girls._) _Juno._ Why, bress yer soul, dem ar's de young ladies from de city, on dar vex--vex--on dar vexation. O, Sissy, dar drefful sweet. _Sissy._ Thweet, Juno? I thpothe tho; they've got thuch loth of candy. But they didn't git my pail, tho! _Juno._ Come along to de kitchen. Come. [_Exeunt_ JUNO _and_ SISSY, L. _The girls gather about_ MISS PEASE. _Jenny._ O, Miss Pease, I'm so glad Mrs. Gabble sent you those pickles, I'm so fond of them! _Bessie._ Yes, Miss Pease; they're so nice! _Sadie._ O, they're splendid! Do give us a taste. _Miss P._ Stop, stop young ladies. While I cannot but be grateful to Mrs. Gabble for her kindness, I wish it had taken some other shape. I have long been of the opinion that pickles are unwholesome, and have never allowed them to be placed upon my table. And I am sure I should be disobeying the instructions I received from your parents--to provide you only wholesome food--did I permit you to taste them. For the present, I shall leave them here. (_Places pail on the table._) If you believe I have your interest at heart, you will not touch that which I have condemned. I know I can trust you. _Exit_, L. _Bessie._ Well, I declare! The mean old thing! _Jenny._ It's too bad! Nothing but blasted hopes in this world! _Sadie._ Well, I don't care, I'm a going to have one of those pickles, if I die for it. _Jenny._ Why, Sadie Bean, you don't mean it! _Sadie._ Yes, I do. I know they _are_ wholesome, and my mother always allows me to eat them. _Bessie._ I wouldn't touch one for the world. How impolite it would be, after Miss Pease has forbidden it! _Sadie._ No; she didn't forbid it. She said, if we thought she had our interest at heart, we wouldn't touch the pail. Now I don't believe she has, when she wants to deprive us of such a luxury. I'm determined to have a pickle. _Jenny._ You are wrong, Sadie, to think of such a thing. A Precious Pickle you'll make. (_Sits on sofa._) _Bessie._ Nothing would tempt me. (_Sits on sofa._) How can you, Sadie? _Sadie._ Pooh! Cowards! It's just as easy as croquet, when you make up your mind. (_Lifts cover, and takes out pickle._) A Precious Pickle. I'll taste, Jenny. Ain't they beauties? _Jenny._ Quick, quick, Sadie; somebody's coming! _Sadie._ Dear me! (_Claps on cover, runs and sits on sofa between_ JENNY _and_ BESSIE.) _Enter_ JUNO, L. _Juno._ Bress my soul! dars Missis Gabble a runnin up de walk like all possessed. Speck her house afire, sure for sartin. _Exit_, R. _Sadie._ (_Tasting pickle._) O, ain't it nice! Bessie, run and get one. _Bessie._ No, indeed; I shall do no such thing. _Jenny._ O, Sadie, I wouldn't believe you could do such a thing. _Sadie._ O, pshaw! It's all envy; you know it is. _Enter_ R., JUNO, _followed by_ MRS. GABBLE, _who wears a calico dress, has her sleeves rolled up, her apron thrown over her head, and has altogether the appearance of having just left the wash-tub._ _Mrs. G._ Yes, Juno, poor Mr. Brown has shuffled off this mortal--what's it's name? (_Looks_ _at girls._) O, how do you do? I don't know how much he's worth, but they do say--Why, Juno, you've got a new calico--Fine day, young ladies.--They do say--Well, there, I oughtn't to speak of it. Got your washing out, Juno? I've been all day at that tub; and--Where's Miss Pease? I can't stop a minute; so don't ask me to sit down. (_Sits in rocking-chair and rocks violently._) _Juno._ Yes, Missy Gabble, Missy Pease to home. Send her right up, sure for sartin. Bress my soul, how that woman do go on, for sartin. _Exit_, L. _Mrs. G._ Ah, poor Mrs. Brown, with all them young ones. I wonder where my Sis is. _Jenny._ I think she's in the kitchen, Mrs. Gabble. _Mrs. G._ You don't say so? Stuffing herself, I'm sure. And poor Mr. Brown lying dead in the next house--and there's my washing waiting for soap--and there's Mrs. Jones hasn't sent my ironing-board home; and mercy knows how I'm to get along without it. _Enter_ MISS PEASE, L. _During the dialogue between_ MISS PEASE _and_ MRS. G., SADIE _slyly eats her pickle, offering it to_ JENNY _and_ BESSIE, _who at first shake their heads, afterwards taste; the pickle is passed among them, and devoured before the conclusion of the conversation._ _Miss P._ Ah, Mrs. Gabble! I'm glad to see you. (_Takes chair and sits beside her._) _Mrs. G._ And poor Brown is gone! _Miss P._ Mr. Brown dead? This is sad news. _Mrs. G._ I should think it was--and there's Skillet, the butcher, chopped off his thumb--and Miss Pearson fell down stairs and broke her china sugar-bowl--sp'ilt the whole set. As I told my husband, these expensive dishes never can be matched--and speaking of matches, Mrs. Thorpe is going to get a divorce. Jest think of it! I met her going into Carter's shop this morning. She had on that pink muslin he gave her for a birthday present--Jenkins has got a new lot of them, only a shilling a yard--speaking of yards, old Cooper tumbled into that miserable well in his back yard this morning. They pulled him out--speaking of pulling, Miss Tibbet was in to the dentist's this morning for a new set of teeth, and--Have you seen my Sis? _Miss P._ O, yes. She's in the kitchen with Juno. And, speaking of Sissy, reminds me that I must thank you for sending me-- _Mrs. G._ My pickles? Yes. Well, I'm glad you got 'em. But I didn't have a bit of good luck with 'em. And, speaking of pickles, O, Miss Pease, that villain, Smith, the grocer, has been taken up. He's going to be hung. Nothing can save him. _Miss P._ Mr. Smith arrested! For what pray? _Mrs. G._ P'isoning! Jest think of it! And he a deacon in the church, and has such a splendid span of horses, and such an elegant beach wagon. I declare, the last time he took us to the beach I nearly died eating soft-shelled crabs; and my husband tumbled overboard, and Mr. Brown got sunstruck; and now he's gone! Dear me, dear me! And my washing ain't out yet. _Miss P._ But tell me, Mrs. Gabble, what is it about the poisoning? _Mrs. G._ Why, he or somebody else has been putting prussic acid in his vinegar, just at the time, too, when everybody's making pickles; and there's no end of the p'isoning he will have to answer for. Mrs. Jewel's just sent for the doctor, and Mrs. Poor's been dreadful all day, and Dr. Baldtop's flying round from house to house; and, O, dear--there's my washing! Who'll be the next victim nobody knows, I'm sure. _Sadie._ (_Jumping up._) O, dear! O, dear! Send for the doctor, quick! I'm dying, I know I am. (_Runs across stage and sinks into chair_, R.) _Miss P._ (_Running to her._) Bless me child, what ails you? _Sadie._ I don't know; I can't tell. The doctor, quick! _Mrs. G._ Deary me, she's took sudden, just for all the world like Susan Richie. _Jenny._ (_Jumping up._) Water, water! Give me some water! I shall die if I don't have some water. (_Runs down and sinks into chair_, L.) _Mrs. G._ (_Jumping up and running to her._) Gracious goodness! here's another! It's something dreadful, depend upon it. When folks is took sudden-- _Bessie._ (_Jumping up._) O, my throat! I'm burning up! Give me some ipecac. Quick, quick, quick! (_Runs round stage, then sinks into chair_, C.) _Mrs. G._ There goes another! It's something dreadful, depend on it. _Miss P._ What does this mean? Here, Juno, Juno! Quick! _Enter_ JUNO, L. _Juno._ Here I is, Missy Pease. _Sadie._ Run for the doctor, quick, Juno! _Juno._ (_Running_, R.) Bress my soul! I'll fetch him. _Jenny._ No, no! Get me some water--quick! _Juno._ (_Running_ L.) To be sure, honey; to be sure. _Bessie._ No, no, Juno! some ipecac, or a stomach pump. _Juno._ Pump, pump! Want de pump? I'll fetch it, I'll fetch it. Bress my soul, I'll fetch something. _Exit_, L. _Mrs. G._ Well, if this ain't drefful!--washing-day, too--and the undertaker's jest as busy as he can be--there never was so much _immortality_ in this place, never. Poor critters! poor critters! _Miss P._ Girls, what does this mean? _Sadie._ O, Miss Pease, such agony! _Bessie._ O, dear, what will become of me? _Jenny._ O, this dreadful parching in the throat! _Mrs. G._ O, I know it, I know it. I told my husband that something dreadful was a goin' to happen when he sold that colt yesterday. _Miss P._ Sadie, what is the meaning of this. Your pulse is regular, your head cool, and your tongue clear. _Sadie._ O, Miss Pease, it's those dreadful pickles. _Mrs. G._ Yes, indeed, it is a drefful pickle--and so sudden, jest for all the world like poor Mr. Brown's sudden took, and these always seem to end fatally at some time or other--Dear me, dear me, and my wash-- _Miss P._ Pickles! Have you disobeyed me? _Sadie._ I couldn't help it, Miss Pease; they looked so tempting. But I only took one. _Bessie._ And I only tasted that. _Jenny._ I only had one good bite. _Sadie._ And we are poisoned! _Bessie._ O, dear! poisoned! _Jenny._ Yes, poisoned! _Miss P._ How, poisoned? _Sadie._ Mrs. Gabble says the vinegar was poisoned by Mr. Smith. _Mrs. G._ Smith--vinegar--p'isoned! The land sakes! And I a good church member--and my washing--and poor Mr. Brown, tew. Well, I never! I'd have you to know that I bought no vinegar of Mr. Smith, I made my own. _Sadie._ And your pickles were not poisoned? _Mrs. G._ No, indeed. Never did such a thing in my life. _Sadie._ O, dear! I'm so glad! (_Jumping up._) _Bessie._ I won't have the ipecac. (_Rises._) _Jenny._ My throat is decidedly better. (_Rises._) _Enter_ JUNO _with a pail of water and a dipper._ _Juno._ Bress my soul, de pump was fastened down so tight couldn't git it up. Here's a pail of water; if dat won't do I'll git a tub. _Miss P._ No matter, Juno. I think 'twill not be needed. Young ladies, I am very sorry-- _Sadie._ Please, Miss Pease, do not speak of it. I alone am to blame for transgressing your command, for such we should consider it, as you are for the present our guardian. Forgive me, and in future I will endeavour to control my appetite, and comply with your wishes. _Mrs. G._ Well, I declare, I don't see the harm in eating pickles. My girls eat their weight in 'em, and they're just as sweet-tempered as-- _Miss P._ Their mother. Mrs. Gabble, it is not a question of harm, but of obedience, here. You see, the young ladies accept me as their guardian, and I only forbid that which I think their parents would not approve. _Mrs. G._ And there's my washing in the suds! Where's my Sis. _Enter_ SISSY GABBLE, L., _with a large slice of bread, covered with molasses._ _Sissy._ Here I ith, mother. Mith Peath thed I might have thumthin, and I like bread, and 'latheth. _Juno._ Bress my soul! dat are chile jest runnin' over with sweetness, sure for sartin. _Mrs. G._ Yes; and the 'lasses running all over the clothes! Come, Sissy, let's go home. I'm sorry, Miss Pease, you don't like pickles; and I'm sorry, young ladies, they disagree with you. And I'm sorry, Miss Pease, I left my washing. _Miss P._ Now don't be sorry at all, Mrs. Gabble. I'm always glad to see you. Your gift was well-intended, and the young ladies have suffered no harm, perhaps received a wholesome lesson. _Sadie._ I think we have. I shall be very careful what I touch. _Jenny._ O, dear! such a fright! I shall never get over it. _Bessie._ O, Sadie, you thought it was so nice! _Jenny._ Yes, such a Precious Pickle! _Mrs. G._ Of course it was. My pickles are the best made in town--precious nice, I tell you. Mrs. Doolittle always sends in for 'em when she has company; and the minister says they're awful soothing arter sermon. _Sadie._ O, certainly; I've no doubt of it. But I've found that _stolen_ fruit is not the sweetest, and that mischievous fingers make trouble when they clutch what mine sought, and _made_ a Precious Pickle. [_Curtain._] MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. MORRIS. After once reading this sweet little poem, the student will need no prompting to teach him that it is not possible for him to deliver it with too much genuine emotion: This book is all that's left me now! Tears will unbidden start,-- With faltering lip and throbbing brow, I press it to my heart. For many generations past, Here is our family tree; My mother's hand this Bible clasped; She, dying, gave it me. Ah! well do I remember those Whose names those records bear, Who round the hearthstone used to close After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said, In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still! My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters dear; How calm was my poor mother's look, Who learned God's word to hear. Her angel-face--I see it yet! What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home! Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I've tried; Where all were false I found thee true, My counsellor and guide. The mines of earth no treasure give That could this volume buy: In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die. ENLISTING AS ARMY NURSE. LOUISA M. ALCOTT. "I want something to do."--This remark being addressed to the world in general, no one in particular felt it his duty to reply; so I repeated it to the smaller world about me, received the following suggestions, and settled the matter by answering my own inquiry, as people are apt to do when very much in earnest. "Write a book," quoth my father. "Don't know enough, sir. First live, then write." "Try teaching again," suggested my mother. "No, thank you, ma'am; ten years of that is enough." "Take a husband like my Darby, and fulfil your mission," said Sister Jane, home on a visit. "Can't afford expensive luxuries, Mrs. Coobiddy." "Turn actress, and immortalize your name," said Sister Vashti, striking an attitude. "I won't." "Go nurse the soldiers," said my young neighbor, Tom, panting for "the tented field." "I will!" Arriving at this satisfactory conclusion, the meeting adjourned; and the fact that Miss Tribulation was available as army nurse went abroad on the wings of the wind. In a few days a townswoman heard of my desire, approved of it, and brought about an interview with one of the sisterhood I wished to join, who was at home on a furlough, and able and willing to satisfy inquiries. A morning chat with Miss General S.--we hear no end of Mrs. Generals, why not a Miss?--produced three results: I felt that I could do the work, was offered a place, and accepted it; promising not to desert, but to stand ready to march on Washington at an hour's notice. A few days were necessary for the letter containing my request and recommendation to reach head-quarters, and another, containing my commission, to return; therefore no time was to be lost; and, heartily thanking my pair of friends, I hurried home through the December slush, as if the Rebels were after me, and, like many another recruit, burst in upon my family with the announcement,--"I've enlisted!" An impressive silence followed. Tom, the irrepressible, broke it with a slap on the shoulder and the grateful compliment,--"Old Trib, you're a trump!" "Thank you; then I'll _take_ something,"--which I did, in the shape of dinner, reeling off my news at the rate of three dozen words to a mouthful; and as every one else talked equally fast, and all together, the scene was most inspiring. As boys going to sea immediately become nautical in speech, walk as if they already had their sea-legs on, and shiver their timbers on all possible occasions, so I turned military at once, called my dinner my rations, saluted all new-comers, and ordered a dress-parade that very afternoon. Having reviewed every rag I possessed, I detailed some pieces for picket duty while airing on the fence; some to the sanitary influences of the wash-tub; others to mount guard in the trunk; while the weak and wounded went to the Work-basket Hospital, to be made ready for active service again. To this squad I devoted myself for a week; but all was done, and I had time to get powerfully impatient before the letter came. It did arrive, however, and brought a disappointment along with its good-will and friendliness; for it told me that the place in the Armory Hospital that I supposed I was to take was already filled, and a much less desirable one at Hurly-burly House was offered instead. "That's just your luck, Trib. I'll take your trunk up garret for you again; for of course you won't go," Tom remarked, with the disdainful pity which small boys affect when they get into their teens. I was wavering in my secret soul; but that remark settled the matter, and I crushed him on the spot with martial brevity,--"It is now one; I shall march at six." I have a confused recollection of spending the afternoon in pervading the house like an executive whirlwind, with my family swarming after me,--all working, talking, prophesying, and lamenting while I packed such of my things as I was to take with me, tumbled the rest into two big boxes, danced on the lids till they shut, and gave them in charge, with the direction,--"If I never come back, make a bonfire of them." Then I choked down a cup of tea, generously salted instead of sugared by some agitated relative, shouldered my knapsack,--it was only a travelling-bag, but do let me preserve the unities,--hugged my family three times all round without a vestige of unmanly emotion, till a certain dear old lady broke down upon my neck, with a despairing sort of wail,--"O my dear, my dear! how can I let you go?" "I'll stay, if you say so, mother." "But I don't; go, and the Lord will take care of you." Much of the Roman matron's courage had gone into the Yankee matron's composition, and, in spite of her tears, she would have sent ten sons to the war, had she possessed them, as freely as she sent one daughter, smiling and flapping on the door-step till I vanished, though the eyes that followed me were very dim, and the handkerchief she waved was very wet. My transit from The Gables to the village depot was a funny mixture of good wishes and good-bys, mud-puddles and shopping. A December twilight is not the most cheering time to enter upon a somewhat perilous enterprise; but I'd no thought of giving out, O, bless you, no! When the ingine screeched "Here we are!" I clutched my escort in a fervent embrace, and skipped into the car with as blithe a farewell as if going on a bridal tour,--though I believe brides don't usually wear cavernous black bonnets and fuzzy brown coats, with a hair-brush, a pair of rubbers, two books, and a bag of gingerbread distorting the pockets. If I thought that people would believe it, I'd boldly state that I slept from C. to B., which would simplify matters immensely; but as I know they wouldn't, I'll confess that the head under the funereal coal-hod fermented with all manner of high thoughts and heroic purposes "to do or die,"--perhaps both; and the heart under the fuzzy brown coat felt very tender with the memory of the dear old lady, probably sobbing over her army socks and the loss of her topsy-turvy Trib. At this juncture I took the veil, and what I did behind it is nobody's business; but I maintain that the soldier who cries when his mother says "Good by" is the boy to fight best, and die bravest, when the time comes, or go back to her better than he went. ONLY SIXTEEN. "When last seen, he was considerably intoxicated.... and was found dead in the highway."--_Republican and Democrat of_ May 17. Only sixteen, so the papers say, Yet there on the cold, stony ground he lay; 'Tis the same sad story we hear every day-- He came to his death in the public highway. Full of promise, talent, and pride, Yet the rum fiend conquered him; so he died. Did not the angels weep over the scene? For he died a drunkard--and only sixteen, Only sixteen. Oh! it were sad he must die all alone: That of all his friends, not even one Was there to list to his last faint moan, Or point the suffering soul to the throne Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son Would say, "Whosoever will may come." But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene, With his God we leave him--only sixteen. Only sixteen. Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought: Witness the suffering and pain you have brought To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well, And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell That beclouded his brain, his reason dethroned, And left him to die out there all alone. What if 'twere _your_ son instead of another? What if your wife were that poor boy's mother, And he only sixteen? Ye free-holders who signed the petition to grant The license to sell, do you think you will want That record to meet in the last great day, When the earth and the heavens shall have passed away, When the elements, melted with fervent heat, Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete? Will you wish to have his blood on your hands When before the great throne you each shall stand, And he only sixteen? Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right, To action and duty; into the light Come with your banners, inscribed "Death to rum." Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come; Strike killing blows; hew to the line; Make it a felony even to sign A petition to license; you would do it, I ween, If that were your son, and "only sixteen," Only sixteen. THE WATCHWORD. THE GRIDIRON. THE CAPTAIN, PATRICK, AND THE FRENCHMAN. _Patrick._ Well, Captain, whereabouts in the wide world _are_ we? Is it Roosia, Proosia, or the Jarmant oceant? _Captain._ Tut, you fool; it's France. _Patrick._ Tare and ouns! do you tell me so? and how do you know it's France, Captain dear? _Captain._ Because we were on the coast of the Bay of Biscay when the vessel was wrecked. _Patrick._ Throth, I was thinkin' so myself. And now, Captain jewel, it is I that wishes we had a gridiron. _Captain._ Why, Patrick, what puts the notion of a gridiron into your head? _Patrick._ Because I'm starving with hunger, Captain dear. _Captain._ Surely you do not intend to eat a gridiron, do you? _Patrick._ Ate a gridiron; bad luck to it! no. But if we had a gridiron, we could dress a beefsteak. _Captain._ Yes; but where's the beefsteak, Patrick? _Patrick._ Sure, couldn't we cut it off the pork? _Captain._ I never thought of that. You are a clever fellow, Patrick. (_Laughing._) _Patrick._ There's many a thrue word said in joke, Captain. And now, if you will go and get the bit of pork that we saved from the rack, I'll go to the house there beyant, and ax some of them to lind me the loan of a gridiron. _Captain._ But, Patrick, this is France, and they are all foreigners here. _Patrick._ Well, and how do you know but I am as good a furriner myself as any o' them. _Captain._ What do you mean, Patrick? _Patrick._ Parley voo frongsay? _Captain._ O, you understand French, then, is it? _Patrick._ Throth, you may say that, Captain dear. Captain. Well, Patrick, success to you. Be civil to the foreigners, and I'll be back with the pork in a minute. [_He goes out._ _Patrick._ Ay, sure enough, I'll be civil to them; for the Frinch are always mighty p'lite intirely, and I'll show them I know what good manners is. Indade, and here comes munseer himself, quite convaynient. (_As the Frenchman enters, Patrick takes off his hat, and making a low bow, says:_) God save you, sir, and all your children. I beg your pardon for the liberty I take, but it's only being in disthress in regard of ateing, that I make bowld to trouble ye; and if you could lind me the loan of a gridiron, I'd be intirely obleeged to ye. _Frenchman (staring at him)._ Comment! _Patrick._ Indade it's thrue for you. I'm tathered to paces, and God knows I look quare enough; but it's by rason of the storm that dhruve us ashore jist here, and we're all starvin'. _Frenchman._ Je m'y t--(_pronounced_ zhe meet). _Patrick._ Oh! not at all! by no manes! we have plenty of mate ourselves, and we'll dhress it, if you be plased jist to lind us the loan of a gridiron, sir. (_Making a low bow._) _Frenchman (staring at him, but not understanding a word.)_ _Patrick._ I beg pardon, sir; but maybe I'm undher a mistake, but I thought I was in France, sir. An't you all furriners here? Parley voo frongsay? _Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur. _Patrick._ Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, if you plase? (_The Frenchman stares more than ever, as if anxious to understand._) I know it's a liberty I take, sir; but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away; and if you plase, sir, parley voo frongsay? _Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur, oui. _Patrick._ Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, sir and you'll obleege me? _Frenchman._ Monsieur, pardon, monsieur-- _Patrick. (Angrily)._ By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress, and if it was to owld Ireland you came, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you, if you axed it, but something to put on it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain. Can't you understand your own language? (_Very slowly._) Parley--voo--frongsay--munseer? _Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur; oui, monsieur, mais-- _Patrick._ Then lend me the loan of a gridiron, I say, and bad scram to you. _Frenchman (bowing and scraping)._ Monsieur, je ne l'entend-- _Patrick._ Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your long tongs! I don't want a tongs at all, at all. Can't you listen to rason? _Frenchman._ Oui, oui, monsieur: certainement, mais-- _Patrick._ Then lind me the loan of a gridiron, and howld your prate. (_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if to say he did not understand; but Patrick, thinking he meant it as a refusal, says, in a passion:_) Bad cess to the likes o' you! Throth, if you were in my counthry, it's not that-a-way they'd use you. The curse o' the crows on you, you owld sinner! The divil another word I'll say to you. (_The Frenchman puts his hand on his heart, and tries to express compassion in his countenance._) Well, I'll give you one chance more, you old thafe! Are you a Christhian, at all, at all? Are you a furriner that all the world calls so p'lite? Bad luck to you! do you understand your mother tongue? Parley voo frongsay? (_Very loud._) Parley voo frongsay? _Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur, oui, oui. _Patrick._ Then, thunder and turf! will you lind me the loan of a gridiron? (_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if he did not understand; and Pat says, vehemently:_) The curse of the hungry be on you, you owld negarly villian! the back of my hand and the sowl of my fut to you! May you want a gridiron yourself yet! and wherever I go, it's high and low, rich and poor, shall hear of it, and be hanged to you! THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. SAMUEL FERGUSON. This fine poem is full of points for brilliant declamation; at times there should be a flow of rapid narration, rising frequently into shouts of exultation: Come, see the good ship's anchor forged--'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased--though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round; All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare-- Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe! It rises, roars, rends all outright--O, Vulcan, what a glow: 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright--the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swart, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing-monster slow Sinks on the anvil--all about the faces fiery grow. "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out--leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low-- A hailing fount of fire is struck at every quashing blow; The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!" Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor--a bower thick and broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road-- The low reef roaring on her lee--the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains! But courage still, brave mariners--the bower yet remains! And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high; Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing--here am I." Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time; Your blows make sweeter music far than any steeple's chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing--and let the burden be, "The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we:" Strike in, strike in--the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped. Our anchor must soon change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor must soon change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the "Heave-away!" and the sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go--far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cast was cast. O, trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea! O, broad-armed diver of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? The good ship weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line; And, night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play. O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, once leagued in patriot band! O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron sides would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the sea! Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for love of father-land-- Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave-- O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among! LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON. AND THE RIDDLE HE MADE THERE. One of the many popular delusions wespecting the Bwitish swell is the supposition that he leads an independent life,--goes to bed when he likes, gets up when he likes, d-dwesses how he likes, and dines when he pleases. The public are gwossly deceived on this point. A weal swell is as m-much under authowity as a p-poor devil of a pwivate in the marines, a clerk in a government office, or a f-forth-form boy at Eton. Now I come under the demon--demonima--(no,--thop,--what is the word?)--dom--denom--d-denomination, that 'th it--I come under the d-denomination of a swell--(in--in fact--a _howwid_ swell--some of my friends call me, but _that'th_ only their flattewy), and I assure you a f-fellah in that capacity is so much westained by rules of f-fashion, that he can scarcely call his eyeglath his own. A swell, I take it, is a fellah who t-takes care that he swells as well as swells who swell as well as he, (there's thuch lot of thwelling in that thentence,--ha, ha!--it's what you might c-call a busting definition). What I mean is, that a f-fellah is obliged to do certain things at certain times of the year, whether he likes 'em or no. For instance, in the season I've got to go to a lot of balls and dwums and tea-fights in town, that I don't care a bit about, and show myself in the Park wegularly evewy afternoon; and latht month I had to victimize mythelf down in the countwy,--shooting (a bwutal sort of amusement, by the way). Well, about the end of October evewy one goes to Bwighton, n-no one knowth why,--that'th the betht of it,--and so I had to go too,--that's the wortht of it,--ha, ha! Not that it's such a b-bad place after all,--I d-dare say if I hadn't _had_ to go I should have gone all the same, for what is a f-fellah to do who ith n't much of a sportsman just about this time? There 'th n-nothing particular going on in London. Evewything is b-beathly dull; so I thought I would just run down on the Southeastern Wailway to be--ha, ha!--Bwightoned up a bit. (Come, th-that's not bad for an impromptu!) B-Bwighton was invented in the year 1784, by his Woyal Highness George P-Pwince of Wales,--the author of the shoebuckle, the stand-up collar (a b-beathly inconvenient and cut-throat thort of a machine), and a lot of other exthploded things. He built the Pavilion down there, which looks like a lot of petrified onions from Bwobdinag clapped down upon a guard-house. There'th a jolly sort of garden attached to the building, in which the b-band plays twice a week, and evewy one turns in there about four o'clock, so I went too (n-not _too_ o'clock, you know, but f-four o'clock). I--I'm vewy fond of m-martial music, mythelf. I like the dwums and the t-twombones, and the ophicleides, and all those sort of inshtwuments,--yeth, ethpethelly the bwass ones,--they're so vewy exthpiring, they are. Thtop though, ith it expiring or _p-per_thpiring?--n-neither of 'em sound quite right. Oh! I have it now, it--it's _in_thspiring,--that'th what it is, because the f-fellahs _bweathe into them_! That weminds me of a widdle I made down there (I--I've taken to widdles lately, and weally it'th a vewy harmleth thort of a way of getting thwough the morning, and it amuthes two f-fellahs at onth, because if--if you athk a fellah a widdle, and he can't guess it, you can have a jolly good laugh at _him_, and--if he--if he _doth_ guess it, he--I mean you--no--that is the widdle--stop, I--I'm getting confuthed,--where wath I? Oh! I know. If--if he _doth_ guess it.... however it ithn't vewy likely he would--so what's the good of thupposing impwobabilities?) Well, thith was the widdle I made,--I thed to Sloper (Sloper's a fwiend of mine,--a vewy gook thort of fellah Sloper is,--I d-don't know exactly what his pwofession would be called, but hith uncle got him into a b-berth where he gets f-five hundred a year,--f-for doing nothing--s-somewhere--I forget where--but I--I know he does it),--I said to Sloper, "Why is that f-fellah with the b-bassooon l-like his own instrument?" and Sloper said, "How--how the dooth should I know?" (Ha, ha!--I thought he'd give it up!) So I said to Sloper, "Why, b-because they both get _blown_--in _time_!" _You_ thee the joke, of course, but I don't think Sloper did, thomhow; all he thed was, "V-vewy mild, Dundreary,"--and t-tho--it was mild--thertainly, _f-for October_, but I d-don't thee why a f-fellah should go making wemarks about the weather instead of laughing at m-my widdle. In this pwomenade that I was speaking of, you see such a lot of thtunning girls evewy afternoon,--dwessed twemendous swells, and looking like--yes, by Jove! l-like angels in cwinoline,--there 'th no other word for it. There are two or thwee always _will_ l-laugh, somehow, when I meet them,--they do now _weally_. I--I almost fancy they wegard me with intewest. I mutht athk Sloper if he can get me an introduction. Who knowth? pwaps I might make an impwession,--I'll twy,--I--I've got a little converthathional power,--and _theveral_ new wethcoats. Bwighton is filling fast now. You see dwoves of ladies evewy day on horseback, widing about in all diwections. By the way, I--I muthn't forget to mention that I met those two girls that always laugh when they thee me, at a tea-fight. One of 'em--the young one--told me, when I was intwoduced to her,--in--in confidence, mind,--that she had often heard of me and of my _widdles_. Tho you thee I'm getting quite a weputathun that way. The other morning, at Mutton's, she wath ch-chaffing me again, and begging me to tell her the latetht thing in widdles. Now, I hadn't heard any mythelf for thome time, tho I couldn't give her any _vewy_ great novelty, but a fwiend of mine made one latht theason which I thought wather neat, tho I athked her, When ith a jar not a jar? Thingularly enough, the moment she heard thith widdle she burtht out laughing behind her pocket-handkerchief! "Good gwacious! what'th the matter?" said I. "Have you ever heard it before?" "Never," she said emphatically, "in that form; do, _please_ tell me the answer." So I told her,--When it ith a door! Upon which she--she went off again in hystewics. I--I--I never _did_ see such a girl for laughing. I know it's a good widdle, but I didn't think it would have such an effect as _that_. By the way, Sloper told me afterwards that he thought _he_ had heard the widdle before, somewhere, but it was put in a different way. He said it was: When ith a door not a door?--and the answer, When it ith ajar! I--I've been thinking over the matter lately, and though I dare thay it--d-don't much matter which way the question is put, still--pwaps the last f-form is the betht. It--it seems to me to _wead_ better. What do you think? Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on the Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New--Newfoundland dog, and he inthpired me--the dog, you know, not the fellah,--he wath a lunatic. I'm keeping the widdle, but I don't mind telling _you_. Why does a dog waggle hith tail? Give it up? I think motht fellahs will give that up! You thee, the dog waggles hith tail becauth the dog's stwonger than the tail. If he wath n't, the tail would waggle the dog! Ye-th,--that 'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I thall athtonish those two girls thome of these days. THE VOICES AT THE THRONE. T. WESTWOOD. A little child, A little meek-faced, quiet village child, Sat singing by her cottage door at eve A low, sweet sabbath song. No human ear Caught the faint melody,--no human eye Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed The oft-repeated burden of the hymn, "Praise God! Praise God!" A seraph by the throne In full glory stood. With eager hand He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood Of harmony on the celestial air Welled forth, unceasing. There with a great voice, He sang the "Holy, holy evermore, Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courts Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies, Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned With vehement adoration. Higher yet Rose the majestic anthem, without pause, Higher, with rich magnificence of sound, To its full strength; and still the infinite heavens Rang with the "Holy, holy evermore!" Till, trembling with excessive awe and love, Each sceptred spirit sank before the Throne With a mute hallelujah. But even then, While the ecstatic song was at its height, Stole in an alien voice,--a voice that seemed To float, float upward from some world afar,-- A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet! That blended with the spirits' rushing strain, Even as a fountain's music, with the roll Of the reverberate thunder. Loving smiles Lit up the beauty of each angel's face At that new utterance, smiles of joy that grew More joyous yet, as ever and anon Was heard the simple burden of the hymn, "Praise God! praise God!" And when the seraph's song Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre Silence hung brooding,--when the eternal courts Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime, Still through the abysmal space that wandering voice Came floating upward from its world afar, Still murmured sweet on the celestial air, "Praise God! praise God!" MY FRIEND'S SECRET. I found my friend in his easy chair, With his heart and his head undisturbed by a care; The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from his lips, His face like the moon in a semi-eclipse; His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose, And his chair tilted back to a classical pose. I marvelled much such contentment to see-- The secret whereof I begged he'd give me. He puffed away with re-animate zest, As though with an added jollity blest. "I'll tell you, my friend," said he, in a pause, "What is the very 'identical' cause. "Don't fret!--Let this be the first rule of your life;-- Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife; Let everything happen as happen it may, Be cool as a cucumber every day; If favourite of fortune or a thing of its spite, Keep calm, and believe that all is just right. "If you're blown up abroad or scolded at home, Just make up your mind to let it all come: If people revile you or pile on offence, 'Twill not make any odds a century hence. For all the reviling that malice can fling, A little philosophy softens the sting. "Run never in debt, but pay as you go; A man free from debt feels a heaven below; He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun, And ranks 'mid the favoured as A No. 1. It needs a great effort the spirit to brace 'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face. "And this one resolve you should cherish like gold, --It has ever my life and endeavour controlled,-- If fortune assail, and worst comes to worst, And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst, Be resolved, if disaster your plans circumvent, That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent." There was Bunsby's deep wisdom revealed in his tone, Though its depth was hard to fathom I own; "For how can I fail," I said to myself, "If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?" Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light, But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right; And herein give out, as my earnest intent, Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent. VAIN REGRETS. A seedy old beggar asked alms of me As he sat 'neath the shade of a wayside tree. He was beggared in purse and beggared in soul, And his voice betrayed a pitiful dole, As he sang a song, to a dismal pitch, With the burden, "IF THINGS WAS ONLY SICH!" "If things was only sich," said he, "You should see what a wonderful man I'd be; No beggar I, by the wayside thrown, But I'd live in a palace and millions own, And men would court me if I were rich-- As I'd be if things was only sich." "If things was only sich," said he, "I'd be lord of the land and lord of the sea; I would have a throne and be a king, And rule the roast with a mighty swing-- I'd make a place in Fame's bright niche; I'd do it if things was only sich." "If things was only sich," said he, "Rare wines I'd quaff from the far countree, I'd cloth myself in dazzling garb, I'd mount the back of the costly barb, And none should ask me wherefore or which-- Did it chance that things was only sich." "If things was only sich," said he, "I'd love the fairest and they'd love me; Yon dame, with a smile that warms my heart, Might have borne with me life's better part, But lost to me, here in poverty's ditch, What were mine if things was only sich." Thus the old beggar moodily sung, And his eyes dropped tears as his hands he wrung. I could but pity to hear him berate, In dolorous tones the decrees of Fate, That laid on his back its iron switch, While he cried, "If things was only sich." "If things was only sich!"--e'en all Might the past in sad review recall; But little the use and little the gain, Exhuming the bones of buried pain, And whether we're poor or whether we're rich, We'll say not, "If things was only sich." ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE. E.L. BEERS. The opening verses should be given in a low, almost plaintive tone; when the flag is seen, the exclamations should be ejaculated with spirit and rapturous delight. Care should be taken not to give the negro _patois_ too broad, or it may prove a defect; where properly spoken it is really a beauty: "Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey-- Massa won't be with you long; And I fain would hear the south wind Bring once more the sound to me, Of the wavelets softly breaking On the shores of Tennessee. "Mournful though the ripples murmur As they still the story tell, How no vessels float the banner That I've loved so long and well. I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and stripes on sloop and shallop Sailing up the Tennessee; "And, Pompey, while old Massa's waiting For Death's last dispatch to come, If that exiled starry banner Should come proudly sailing home. You shall greet it slave no longer-- Voice and hand shall both be free That shout and point to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee." "Massa's berry kind to Pompey; But old darkey's happy here. Where he's tended corn and cotton For dese many a long gone year. Over yonder, Missis' sleeping-- No one tends her grave like me: Mebbe she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee. "'Pears like, she was watching Massa-- If Pompey should beside him stay, Mebbe she'd remember better How for him she used to pray; Telling him that way up yonder White as snow his soul would be, If he served the Lord of Heaven While he lived in Tennessee." Silently the tears were rolling Down the poor old dusky face, As he stepped behind his master, In his long-accustomed place. Then a silence fell around them, As they gazed on rock and tree Pictured in the placid waters Of the rolling Tennessee;-- Master, dreaming of the battle Where he fought by Marion's side, When he bid the haughty Tarleton Stoop his lordly crest of pride;-- Man, remembering how yon sleeper Once he held upon his knee, Ere she loved the gallant soldier, Ralph Vervair of Tennessee. Still the south wind fondly lingers 'Mid the veteran's silver hair; Still the bondman close beside him Stands behind the old arm-chair, With his dark-hued hand uplifted, Shading eyes, he bends to see Where the woodland, boldly jutting, Turns aside the Tennessee. Thus he watches cloud-born shadows Glide from tree to mountain-crest, Softly creeping, aye and ever To the river's yielding breast. Ha! above the foliage yonder Something flutters wild and free "Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! The flag's come back to Tennessee!" "Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, Help me stand on foot once more, That I may salute the colors As they pass my cabin door. Here's the paper signed that frees you, Give a freeman's shout with me-- 'God and Union!' be our watchword Evermore in Tennessee!" Then the trembling voice grew fainter, And the legs refused to stand; One prayer to Jesus--and the soldier Glided to the better land. When the flag went down the river Man and master both were free; While the ring-dove's note was mingled With the rippling Tennessee. THE BLACK REGIMENT. PORT HUDSON. MAY 27, 1863. GEO. H. BOKER. Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land;-- So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event Stands the black regiment. Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eye-balls shine, And the bright bayonet, Bristling, and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long, ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment. "Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound,-- Bound with red stripes of pain In our cold chains again!" Oh! what a shout there went From the black regiment! "Charge!" trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen broke: Bayonet and sabre stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh; Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel, All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment. "Freedom!" their battle-cry,-- "Freedom! or learn to die!" Ah! and they meant the word, Not as with us 'tis heard, Not a mere party shout: They gave their spirits out; Trusted the end to God, And on the glory sod Rolled in triumphant blood. Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death, Praying--alas! in vain!-- That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty! This was what "freedom" lent To the black regiment. Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. O, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true! Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side; Never in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment. THE THIEF OF TIME. CHARACTERS. JOHN RAY, } CHARLEY CHEERFUL, } School-boys. RALPH READY, } MR. HANKS, a Deaf Gentleman. JOHN CLOD, a Countryman. PATSY FLINN, an Irishman. SCENE.--_A Quiet Place in the Country._ _Enter_ RALPH READY, R., _with School-books_. _Ralph._ Twenty minutes of nine. I can take it easy this morning. How glad I am I staid at home last night and studied "Spartacus." It's Declamation Day, and I want to win the highest mark. If I fail, it will not be for want of study. I believe I'm all right. (_Declaims._) "Ye call me Chief--"[1] [Footnote 1: The dialogue can be lengthened, if necessary, by allowing Charley and Ralph to declaim the whole of their pieces.] _Enter_ CHARLEY CHEERFUL, L. _Charley._ (_Clapping his hands._) Bravo! Bravo! Spartacus. "They do well to call _you_ chief!" number one in arithmetic, history, and geography; and to-day I've no doubt we shall call you number one in declamation. _Ralph._ Ah, Charley, glad to see you. Are you all ready for the contest? _Charley._ Yes, Ralph. (_Declaims._) "Again to the battle, Achaians; Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance." _Ralph._ I see "a foeman worthy of my steel." Well, Charley, good luck to you. _Charley._ The same to you. I believe we are about equally matched. I want to take the highest mark, but if I am to be defeated, there's no one to whom I'd sooner surrender the "victor's laurels" than to you. _Ralph._ And I can heartily say the same of you; but we must both look out. John Ray told the boys yesterday he was bound to have the highest mark. _Charley._ I don't fear him. _Ralph._ But he's a good declaimer, Charley. _Charley._ I'll acknowledge that; but you know he's a terrible fellow for putting off study until the last moment. It was only yesterday morning Master Jones decided to have declamation to-day. The only time we had to prepare was yesterday noon, last night, and this morning. _Ralph._ Time enough, Charley. _Charley._ Certainly. But I know John Ray hasn't employed it. Yesterday noon he went boating; last night I'm afraid he visited Hopkins's melon patch; and this morning I saw him from my window playing ball. _Ralph._ Then we've not much to fear from him; but here he is, puffing like a porpoise. _Enter_ JOHN RAY, L., _with a book._ _John._ Hallo, boys! what's the time? _Charley._ Eighteen minutes of nine. All ready for the declamation? _John._ Not yet; there's time enough. _Ralph._ Time enough! What have you selected? _John._ "Tell's Address." I'm going to pitch into it now. I can do it in eighteen minutes. _Charley._ Why, you haven't left it till now? _John._ Of course I have. Time enough, I tell you. I've got a locomotive memory, you know. None of your slow coaches. I shall only have to read it over two or three times. _Ralph._ But why didn't you take it up before? _John._ What's the use? I went boating yesterday; and last night I went--somewhere else. _Charley._ Yes! you took a _melon_choly walk. Hey, John? _John._ What do you mean by that? _Charley._ No matter. You'd better study Tell's Address, if you expect to be ready by nine o'clock. _John._ So I had. Well, you run along, and let me have this place to myself. It's a quiet place. So good by. I'll see you by nine o'clock, with Tell's Address perfect. _Charley._ Well, good luck to you. Come Ralph. _Ralph._ I say, Ray; what's the proverb about the "thief of time"? _John._ Who do you call a thief? _Ralph._ A slow coach, that will rob you of your laurels spite of your locomotive memory. Come along Charley. [_Exeunt_ CHARLEY _and_ RALPH R. _John._ Now, who told them I was after melons last night. (_Opens book._) "Tell's Address." Won't I astonish those lads! What's the use of wasting time in study before it's needed? (_Reads._) "Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again." _Enter_ MR. HANKS, L. _Mr. Hanks._ Look here, boy; where's Mr. Simmons's house? _John._ O, bother! Over by the mill. _Mr. H._ Hey? _John._ Over by the mill. _Mr. H._ Over that hill? Good gracious! You don't mean I've got to travel as far as that, do you, in the hot sun? _John._ No, no; it's only a little ways. _Mr. H._ Only a little blaze! It's an awful hot morning. _John._ O, dear! this old fellow is as deaf as a post. (_Very loud._) Mr.--Simmons--lives--down--by--the--mill. _Mr. H._ O, he does! Why didn't you say so before? Down that way? (_Points_ R.) _John._ (_Loud._) Yes! To--the--right! That--old--wooden--one--ahead! _Mr. H._ Who do you call an old wooden head? _John._ O, dear! I never shall get that piece. You don't understand. I--said--wooden--house. _Mr. H._ Hey? _John._ O, dear! O, dear! (_Points_ R.) That's Mr. Simmons's--house--down--there! _Mr. H._ O, yes. Thank you, thank you. I'm a little hard of hearing. _John._ I see you are. Suffering from a cold? _Mr. H._ Hey? _John._ O, what a nuisance! Is it--from a cold you--suffer? _Mr. H._ Old buffer, indeed! Be more respectful to your elders, young man; more respectful. [_Exit_, R. _John._ I've got rid of him at last, and five minutes gone. O, dear! (_Reads._) "Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!" _Enter_ MR. HANKS, R. _Mr. H._ Did you say right or left? _John._ Good gracious! the man's back! To--the right! To the right! Follow the stream. _Mr. H._ Hey? _John._ Follow--the--stream--as--it--flows. _Mr. H._ Follow my nose! You're an impudent scamp! I'll ask you no more questions. [_Exit_, R. _John._ I hope you won't. This comes of trying to do a good-natured act. O, dear! that address! (_Reads._) "Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!" _Enter_ JOHN CLOD, L. _Clod._ I say, sonny; yer hain't seen nothin' of a keow, have yer, here or hereabouts? _John._ No, I haven't seen no cow. _Clod._ Well, don't git mad. It's plaguy strange where that are keow has travelled tew. Brand new keow dad brought hum from market yesterday. What on airth shall I do? She's a brindle, short horns. Yeou hain't seen her? _John._ No, I haven't seen her. I've seen no cows or cattle of any kind. It's no use stopping here. _Clod._ Well, I dunno what's to be did. Marm, she dropped her bakin', and scooted one way; dad quit ploughin', and scooted another; and I've been scootin' every which way. Ain't heard a keow moo--mooing, have yer? _John._ I don't believe there's a cow within forty miles of here. _Clod._ Sho! yer jokin' neow. Neow, see here; I kinder think yeou dew know somethin' about that keow. Jest tell me where she is, and I don't mind ginning yer fo'pence. _John._ I tell you again, I know nothing about your cow. I'm studing my lesson; and if you don't clear out and leave me in peace, I shall never get it. _Clod._ Sho! Well, I don't want to hender ye, but I should like to know what's become of that are keow. [_Exit_, R. _John._ Gone at last. Was ever a fellow so plagued! I've only got eight minutes, and I must study. (_Goes to back of stage, and walks up and down, studying._) _Enter_ PATSY FLINN, L. _Patsy._ Begorra, it's a foine irrant I's on ony way. It's all along iv thim watthermillons, bad luck to 'em! Slaping swately on my bid last night thinking uv the bould b'ys that fit, blid, and run away from Canady, I heerd a v'ice in the millon patch, "Here's a bouncer, b'ys." Faix, didn't I lept out uv that bid, and didn't I hurry on my clo'es, and didn't I take a big shtick, and didn't I run fur the patch, and didn't I find nobody? To be sure I did! So this morning, Mr. Hopkins sinds me to the school-house to find the b'ys that invadid the sacred retrait, which is the millon-patch. But how will I find thim? Begorra, I should know that v'ice; and I'll make the whole school shtand up togither one by one and shout, "Here's a bouncer!" that I will. _John._ (_Coming down_ R. _of stage._) Now let's see how much I know. (_Declaims._) "Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!" _Patsy._ By my sowl, that's the v'ice of my dr'ams! _John._ "I hold to you the hands you first beheld, To show they still are free." _Patsy._ Fray, is it, begorra! Ye'll not hould thim long, me b'y! _John._ "Methinks I hear A spirit in your echoes answer me." _Patsy._ Begorra, ye'll soon hear an Irish echo ax ye something else! _John._ "And bid your tenant welcome to his home again!" _Patsy._ Begorra, you're wilcome to no more watermillons, ye'll find! _John._ "Ye guards of Liberty!" _Patsy._ Ye little blackguard! _John._ "I'm with you once again! I hold my hands to you, To show they still are free!" _Patsy._ Begorra, they're stained with watermillons, sure! _John._ "I rush to you, As though I could embrace you!" (_Runs into_ PATSY'S _arms._) _Patsy._ Come on, I'm waiting for you! O, you blackguard! O, yes spalpeen! I've got yes! _John._ Who are you? What do you want? Let me go! _Patsy._ Niver! Ye must go along wid me, my fine lad; there's a bill a waiting for you at farmer Hopkins's. _John._ Farmer Hopkins! But I shall be late for school. _Patsy._ O, niver mind the school. You'll get a little uv it there, from a nice big cowhide. _John._ Let me go, I say! _Patsy._ Quit your howling, and come along. _John._ I won't. Help! Help! Help! _Enter_ CHARLEY _and_ RALPH, R. _Charley._ What's the matter, Ray? _Ralph._ Hallo, Patsy! What's to pay now? _Patsy._ A small bill for watermillons, Master Ralph. _Ralph._ O, I see; you're found out, Ray! _John._ Well, I wan't the only one in the patch last night. _Ralph._ But you're the only one found out; so you must take the consequences. _Charley._ Master Jones sent us to look for you; it's five minutes after nine. _John._ O, dear, what's to become of me! _Ralph._ You must get to school at once. Patsy, I'll be answerable for John Ray's appearance at Farmer Hopkins's after school. Won't that do? _Patsy._ To be sure it will. I can depind upon you, Master Ralph. But mind and cape an eye on that chap; fur it's my opinion he's a little cracked; he's bin ravin' about crags, and peaks, and liberty like a full-blooded Fenian. I'll go home and practise a bit wid that cowhide. [_Exit_, L. _Charley._ Well, John, got your piece? _John._ Got my piece? No. I've been bothered to death! _Ralph._ You've been keeping company with the "thief of time." _John._ I'd like to know what you mean by that. _Ralph._ I'll tell you. You should have studied your piece yesterday noon; but, instead of that, you went boating. You should have studied last night; but instead of that, you got into a scrape, which promises to make trouble for you; and this morning you played ball instead of taking time for your work. _John._ Well, I meant to have studied it yesterday, but I thought I had plenty of time. I wanted a little recreation. _Charley._ Yes, John; but you should look out for the lessons first, and not neglect them. Come, let's go to school. _John._ And be at the foot of the class. I don't like this. _Ralph._ You'll find a remedy for it in the copy-book. _John._ What is it? _Ralph._ A warning to the dilatory--"Procrastination is the thief of time." [_Exeunt_, R. THE RAIN-DROPS. T.H. EVANS. A farmer had a field of corn of rather large extent, In tending which, with anxious care, much time and toil he spent; But after working long and hard, he saw, with grief and pain, His corn began to droop and fade, because it wanted rain. So sad and restless was his mind, at home he could not stop, But to his field repaired each day to view his withering crop. One day, when he stood looking up, despairing, at the sky, Two little rain-drops in the clouds his sad face chanced to spy. "I very sorry feel," said one, "to see him look so sad; I wish I could do him some good; indeed, I should be glad. Just see the trouble he has had; and if it should not rain, Why, all his toil, and time, and care he will have spent in vain." "What use are you," cried number two, "to water so much ground? You're nothing but a drop of rain, and could not wet one mound." "What you have said," his friend replied, "I know is very true; But I'm resolved to do my best, and more I cannot do. I'll try to cheer his heart a bit: so now I'm off--here goes!" And down the little rain-drop fell upon the farmer's nose. "Whatever's that?" the farmer cried. "Was it a drop of rain? I do believe it's come at last; I have not watched in vain." Now, when the second rain-drop saw his willing friend depart, Said he, "I'll go as well, and try to cheer the farmer's heart." But many rain-drops by this time had been attracted out, To see and hear what their two friends were talking so about. "We'll go as well," a number cried, "as our two friends have gone. We shall not only cheer his heart, but water, too, his corn. We're off! we're off!" they shout with glee, and down they fell so fast. "O bless the Lord!" the farmer cried, "the rain has come at last." The corn it grew and ripened well, and into food was dressed, Because a little rain-drop said, "I'll try, and do my best." This little lesson, children dear, you'll not forget I'm sure; Try, do your best, do what you can--angels can do no more. THE SCOLDING OLD DAME. There once was a toper--I'll not tell his name-- Who had for his comfort a scolding old dame; And often and often he wished himself dead, For, if drunk he came home, she would beat him to bed. He spent all his evenings away from his home, And, when he returned, he would sneakingly come And try to walk straightly, and say not a word-- Just to keep his dear wife from abusing her lord; For if he dared say his tongue was his own, 'Twould set her tongue going, in no gentle tone, And she'd huff him, and cuff him, and call him hard names, And he'd sigh to be rid of all scolding old dames. It happened, one night, on a frolic he went, He stayed till his very last penny was spent; But how to go home, and get safely to bed, Was the thing on his heart that most heavily weighed. But home he must go; so he caught up his hat, And off he went singing, by this and by that, "I'll pluck up my courage; I guess she's in bed. If she a'nt, 'tis no matter, I'm sure. Who's afraid?" He came to his door; he lingered until He peeped, and he listened, and all seemed quite still, In he went, and his wife, sure enough, was in bed! "Oh!" says he, "it's just as I thought. Who's afraid?" He crept about softly, and spoke not a word; His wife seemed to sleep, for she never e'en stirred! Thought he, "For _this_ night, then, my fortune is made: For my dear, scolding wife is asleep! Who's afraid?" But soon he felt thirsty; and slyly he rose, And, groping around, to the table he goes, The pitcher found empty, and so was the bowl, The pail, and the tumblers--she'd emptied the whole! At length, in a corner, a vessel he found! Says he, "Here's something to drink, I'll be bound!" And eagerly seizing, he lifted it up-- And drank it all off in one long, hearty sup! It tasted so queerly; and what could it be? He wondered. It neither was water nor tea! Just then a thought struck him and filled him with fear: "Oh! it must be the poison for rats, I declare!" And loudly he called on his dear, sleeping wife, And begged her to rise; "for," said he, "on my life I fear it was _poison_ the bowl did contain. _Oh dear! yes_, it _was_ poison; I now feel the pain!" "And what made you dry, sir?" the wife sharply cried. "'Twould serve you just right if from poison you died; And you've done a _fine_ job, and you'd now better march, _For just see, you brute, you have drunk all my starch!_" THE GREEN GOOSE. Mr. Bogardus "gin a treat," And a green goose, best of birds to eat, Delicious, savory, fat and sweet, Formed the dish the guests to greet; But such, we know, Is small for a "blow," And many times around won't go; So Mr. Bogardus chanced to reflect, And with a wisdom circumspect, He sent round cards to parties select, Some six or so the goose to dissect, The day and hour defining; And then he laid in lots of things, That might have served as food for kings, Liquors drawn from their primal springs, And all that grateful comfort brings To epicures in dining. But Mr. Bogardus's brother Sim, With moral qualities rather dim, Copied the message sent to him, In his most clerkly writing, And sent it round to Tom, and Dick, And Harry, and Jack, and Frank, and Nick, And many more, to the green goose "pick" Most earnestly inviting; He laid it on the green goose thick, Their appetites exciting. 'Twas dinner time by the Old South Clock; Bogardus waited the sounding knock Of friends to come at the moment, "chock," To try his goose, his game, his hock, And hoped they would not dally; When one, and two, and three, and four, And running up the scale to a score, And adding to it many more, Who all their Sunday fixings wore, Came in procession to the door, And crowded in on his parlor floor, Filling him with confusion sore, Like an after-election rally! "Gentlemen," then murmured he, "To what unhoped contingency Am I owing for this felicity, A visit thus unexpected?" Then they held their cards before his eyes, And he saw, to his infinite surprise, That some sad dog had taken a rise On him, and his hungry friends likewise, And _whom_ he half suspected; But there was Sim, Of morals dim, With a face as long, and dull, and grim, As though _he_ the ire reflected. Then forth the big procession went, With mirth and anger equally blent; To think they didn't get the scent Of what the cursed missive meant Annoyed some of 'em deeply; They felt they'd been caught by a green goose bait, And plucked and skinned, and then, light weight, Had been sold very cheaply. MORAL. Keep your weather eye peeled for trap, For we never know just what may hap, Nor if we shall be winners; Remembering that one green goose Will be of very little use 'Mongst twenty hungry sinners. MIGRATORY BONES,[2] SHOWING THE VAGABONDISH TENDENCY OF BONES THAT ARE LOOSE. We all have heard of Dr. Redman, The man in New York who deals with dead men, Who sits at a table, And straightway is able To talk with the spirits of those who have fled, man! And gentles and ladies Located in Hades, Through his miraculous mediation, Declare how they feel, And such things reveal As suits their genius for impartation. 'Tis not with any irreverent spirit I give the tale, or flout it, or jeer it; For many good folk Not subject to joke Declare for the fact that they both see and hear it. It comes from New York, though, And it might be hard work, though, To bring belief to any point near it. Now this Dr. Redman, Who deals with dead men, Once cut up a fellow whose spirit had fled, man, Who (the fellow) perchance Had indulged in that dance Performed at the end of a hempen thread, man; And the cut-up one, (A sort of a gun!) Like Banquo, though he was dead, wasn't done, Insisted in very positive tones That he'd be ground to calcined manure, Or any other evil endure, Before he'd give up his right to his bones! And then, through knocks, the resolute dead man Gave his bones a bequest to Redman. In Hartford, Conn., This matter was done, And Redman the bones highly thought on, When, changed to New York Was the scene of his work, In conjunction with Dr. Orton. Now mark the wonder that here appears: After a season of months and years, Comes up again the dead man, Who in a very practical way, Says he'll bring his bones some day, And give them again to Redman. When, sure enough (Though some that are rough Might call the narrative "devilish tough"), One charming day In the month of May, As Orton and Redman walked the street Through the severing air, From they knew not where, Came a positive bone, all bleached and bare. That dropped at the doctor's wondering feet! Then the sprightly dead man Knocked out to Redman The plan that lay in his ghostly head, man: He'd carry the freight, Unheeding its weight; They needn't question how, or about it; But they might be sure The bones he'd procure And not make any great bones about it. From that he made it a special point Each day for their larder to furnish a joint! From overhead, and from all around, Upon the floor, and upon the ground, Pell-mell, Down fell Low bones, and high bones, Jaw bones, and thigh bones, Until the doctors, beneath their power, Ducked like ducks in a thunder-shower! Armfuls of bones, Bagfuls of bones, Cartloads of bones, No end to the multitudinous bones, Until, forsooth, this thought gained head, man, That this invisible friend, the dead man, Had chartered a band From the shadowy land, Who had turned to work with a busy hand, And boned all their bones for Dr. Redman! Now, how to account for all the mystery Of this same weird and fantastical history? That is the question For people's digestion, And calls aloud for instant untwistery! Of this we are certain, By this lift of the curtain, That still they're alive for work or enjoyment, Though I must confess That I scarcely can guess Why they don't choose some useful employment. [Footnote 2: Dr. Redman, of New York, was a noted medium, and it was said that, for a while, wherever he might be, bones would be dropped all about him, to the confusion and wonder of everybody. These bones, he said, were brought him by a spirit, whose bones were of no further use to him.] THE RED CHIGNON. (FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.) CHARACTERS. MISS PRISCILLA PRECISE, { Principal of a genteel Boarding { School for Young Ladies. HETTY GRAY, } FANNY RICE, } Pupils. LIZZIE BOND, } HANNAH JONES, } MRS. LOFTY, a fashionable Lady. SCENE.--_Parlor in_ MISS PRECISE'S _Establishment._ _Piano_ R., _Lounge_ L., _Chairs_ C. _Enter_ HETTY, FANNY, _and_ LIZZIE, R., _laughing._ _Hetty._ O, such a fright! _Fanny._ Such a stupid! _Lizzie._ I never saw such a ridiculous figure in the whole course of my life! _Hetty._ I should think she came from the back-woods. _Fanny._ Who is she, any way? _Lizzie._ She's the daughter of the rich Mr. Jones, a man, who, three years ago, was the proprietor of a very small saw-mill away down east. He managed to scrape together a little money, which he invested in certain railroad stocks, which nobody thought would ever pay. They did, however, and he has, no doubt to his own astonishment, made a great deal of money. _Hetty._ And that accounts for Miss Precise's partiality. Well, I'm not going to associate myself with her; and I mean to write to father this very day, and tell him to take me home. She dresses so ridiculously! _Lizzie._ And talks so horridly! _Fanny._ And plays so wretchedly! _Hetty._ O, girls, don't you think I caught her at the piano this morning playing Yankee Doodle and whistling an accompaniment! _Fanny._ Whistling! _Lizzie._ Good gracious! what would Miss Precise say. If there's anything she forbids, it's whistling. _Hetty._ Yes, and such a reader! I heard her reciting Longfellow's Excelsior; and such reading, and such gestures! (_Recites._) "The shades of night were falling fast, As through an All-pine village past--" (_All laugh._) _Fanny._ O, it's ridiculous! _Lizzie._ And then her dress! O, girls, I've made a discovery! _Fanny._ What is it? What is it? _Hetty._ O, do tell us! _Lizzie._ Well, then, you must be secret. _Fanny and Hetty._ Of course, of course! _Lizzie._ Well, yesterday, at just twelve o'clock, I was in the hall; the door-bell rang; I opened it; there was a box for Miss Hannah Jones; I took it; I carried it to her room; I opened-- _Fanny and Hetty._ The box? _Lizzie._ The door; she wasn't there. I put it on the table; it slipped off; the cover rolled off; and such a sight! _Fanny._ What was it? _Hetty._ O, do tell us! _Lizzie._ Four--great--red-- _Fanny and Hetty._ What? What? _Lizzie._ Chignons! _Hetty._ Chignons? Why, Miss Precise has forbidden our wearing them. _Fanny._ O, it's horrible! _Lizzie._ Ain't it? And I did want one so bad! _Hetty._ But she cannot wear them. _Lizzie._ We shall see! Now comes Miss Precise's trial. She has taken Hannah Jones because her father is rich. She worships money; but if there is anything she hates, it is chignons. If she can stand this test, it will be the best thing in the world for us. Then we'll all have them. _Hetty._ Of course we will. _Fanny._ But I don't like the idea of having such an interloper here. She's no company for us. _Enter_ MISS PRECISE, L. _She stands behind the Girls with folded arms._ _Hetty._ Indeed she isn't! I think Miss Precise is real mean to allow her to stay. _Lizzie._ She'd better go where she belongs,--among the barbarians! _Miss Precise._ And pray, whom are you consigning to a place among the barbarians, young ladies? _Hetty._ Good gracious! _Fanny._ O, dear! O, dear! _Lizzie._ O, who'd have thought! (_They separate_, HETTY _and_ FANNY, L., LIZZIE, R., MISS PRECISE, C.) _Miss P._ Speak, young ladies; upon whom has your dread anathema been bestowed? _Lizzie._ Well, Miss Precise, if I must tell, it's that hateful new pupil, Miss Jones. I detest her. _Fanny._ I can't abide her. _Hetty._ She's horrible! _Lizzie._ So awkward! _Fanny._ Talks so badly! _Hetty._ And dresses so ridiculously! _Lizzie._ If she stays here, I shan't! _Fanny._ Nor I. _Hetty._ Nor I. _Miss P._ Young ladies, are you pupils of the finest finishing-school in the city? Are you being nursed at the fount of learning? Are you being led in the paths of literature by my fostering hands? _Lizzie._ Don't know. S'pose so. _Miss P._ S'pose so! What language! S'pose so! Is this the fruit of my teaching? Young ladies, I blush for you!--you, who should be the patterns of propriety! Let me hear no more of this. Miss Jones is the daughter of one of the richest men in the city, and, as such, she should be respected by you. _Lizzie._ She's a low, ignorant girl. _Miss P._ Miss Bond! _Hetty._ With arms like a windmill. _Miss P._ Miss Gray! _Fanny._ A voice like a peacock. _Miss P._ Miss Rice! _Hetty, Lizzie, and Fanny._ O, she's awful! _Miss P._ Young ladies! I'm astonished! I'm shocked! I'm thunderstruck! Miss Jones is my pupil. She is your associate. As such, you will respect her. Let me hear no more of this. Go to your studies. I highly respect Miss Jones. Imitate her. She's not given to conspiracies. She's not forever gossiping. Be like her, and you will deserve my respect. To your studies. Miss Jones is a model for your imitation. [_Exit_, L. _Hetty._ Did you ever! _Fanny._ No, I never! _Lizzie._ A model for imitation! Girls, we'll have some fun out of this. Imitate Miss Jones! I only hope she'll put on one of her chignons. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ HANNAH JONES, R., _extravagantly dressed, with a red chignon, followed by_ MRS. LOFTY. _Hannah._ Come right in, marm; this is our setting-room, where we receive callers. Take a seat. (MRS. LOFTY _sits on lounge_.) _Mrs. Lofty._ Will you please call your mistress at once? _Hannah._ My mistress? Law, neow, I s'pose yeou take me for a hired gal. Yeou make me laugh! Why, my pa's richer than all the rest of 'em's pas put together. I deon't look quite so scrumptious as the rest o 'em, p'r'aps, but I'm one of the scholars here. _Mrs. L._ I beg your pardon. No offence was intended. _Hannah._ Law, I don't mind it. Yeou see our folks come from deown east, and we haven't quite got the hang of rich folks yit. That's why I'm here to git polished up. Miss Precise is the schoolmarm, but she's so stiff, I don't expect she'll make much of me. I do hate airs. She makes the girls tend tu door, because she's too poor to keep help. _Mrs. L._ Will you please speak to her? I have not much time to spare, as this is my charity day. _Hannah._ Charity day! Pray, what's that? _Mrs. L._ I devote one day in the week to visiting poor people, and doing what I can to alleviate their misfortunes. _Hannah._ Well, marm, that's real clever in you. I do like to see rich folks look arter the poor ones. Won't you please to let me help you? I don't know the way among the poor yit, but I'm going to find out. Here's my pocket-book; there's lots uv money in it; and if you'll take and use it for the poor folks, I'll be obleeged. (_Gives pocket-book._) _Mrs. L._ O, thank you, thank you! you are very kind; I will use it, for I know just where it is needed. Can you really spare it? _Hannah._ Spare it? Of course I can. I know where to git lots more; and my pa says, 'What's the use of having money, if you don't do good with it?' Law, I forgot all about Miss Precise. You just make yourself to home, and I'll call her. [_Exit_, L. _Mrs. L._ A rough diamond. She has a kind heart. I hope she'll not be spoiled in the hands of Miss Precise. (_Opens pocket-book._) What a roll of bills! I must speak to Miss Precise before I use her money. She may not be at liberty to dispose of it in this wholesale manner. _Enter_ MISS PRECISE, L. _Miss P._ My dear Mrs. Lofty, I hope I have not kept you waiting. (_Shakes hands with her, then sits in chair_, C.) _Mrs. L._ O, no; though I'm in something of a hurry. I called to ask you if you could take my daughter as a pupil. _Miss P._ Well, I am rather full just now; and the duties of instructor are so arduous, and I am so feeble in health---- _Mrs. L._ O, don't let me add to your trials. I will look elsewhere. _Miss P._ No, no; you did not hear me out. I was going to say I have decided to take but one more pupil. _Mrs. L._ What are the studies? _Miss P._ English branches, French, Italian, German, and Spanish languages, and music; all taught under my personal supervision. _Mrs. L._ Quite an array of studies; almost too much for one teacher. _Miss P._ Ah, Mrs. Lofty, the mind--the mind is capable of great expansion; and to one gifted with the power to lead the young in the flowery paths of learning, no toil is too difficult. My school is select, refined; nothing rough or improper is allowed to mingle with the high-toned elements with which I endeavour to form a fashionable education. _Mrs. L._ I should like to see some of your pupils. _Miss P._ O, certainly. You will take them unawares; but I flatter myself you will not find them unprepared. (_Strikes bell on piano._) _Enter_ FANNY, _dressed as before, but with large, red chignon on her head._ _Miss P._ This is Miss Fanny Rice. Mrs. Lofty, Fanny. There you see one of my pupils who has an exquisite touch for the piano, a refined, delicate appreciation of the sweetest strains of the great masters. Fanny, my dear, take your place at the piano, and play one of those pieces which you know I most admire. (FANNY _sits at piano, plays Yankee Doodle, whistling an accompaniment._) What does this mean? (_Turns and looks at_ FANNY, _starts, puts her eye-glass to her eye.--Aside._) Heavens! that child has one of those horrible chignons on her head!--(_Aloud._) Miss Rice, why did you make that selection? _Fanny._ (_Imitates_ HANNAH'S _manner of speaking._) Cos I thought you'd like it. _Miss P._ "Cos?" O, I shall die! And why did you think I should like it? _Fanny._ Cos that's the way Hannah Jones does. _Miss P._ Send Miss Gray to me. (_Follows_ FANNY _to door._) And take that flaming turban off your head. I'll pay you for this! [_Exit_ FANNY, L. _Mrs. L._ Your pupil is exceedingly patriotic in her selection. _Miss P._ Yes; there's some mistake here. She's evidently not on her good behaviour. _Enter_ HETTY GRAY, L., _with red chignon._ Ah, here's Miss Gray. Mrs. Lofty, Miss Gray. She has a sweet voice, and sings sentimental songs in a bewitching manner. Miss Gray, take your place at the piano, and sing one of my favourites. (HETTY _sits at piano, plays and sings._) "Father and I went down to camp Along with Captain Goodin, And there we saw the boys and girls As thick as hasty-puddin." _Miss P._ Stop! (_Looks at her through eye-glass._) She's got one of those hateful things on too,--chignons! Is there a conspiracy? Miss Gray, who taught you that song? _Hetty._ Miss Hannah Jones, if you please. _Miss P._ Go back to your studies, and send Miss Bond to me. (_Takes her by the ear, and leads her to the door._) _Hetty._ Ow! you hurt! _Miss P._ Silence, miss! Take off that horrid head-dress at once. [_Exit_, HETTY, L. Mrs. Lofty, how can I find words to express my indignation at the conduct of my pupils? I assure you, this is something out of the common course. _Enter_ LIZZIE, L., _with red chignon._ Here is one of my smartest pupils, Miss Bond. Mrs. Lofty, Miss Bond. She particularly excels in reading. Miss Bond, take a book from the piano and read, something sweet and pathetic! something that you think would suit me. LIZZIE _takes a position_, L., _opens book, and reads, in imitation of_ HANNAH'S _voice._ _Lizzie._ What is it that salutes the light, Making the heads of mortals bright, And proves attractive to the sight? My chignon. _Miss P._ Good gracious! is the girl mad? _Lizzie._ What moves the heart of Miss Precise To throw aside all prejudice, And gently whisper, It is nice? My chignon! _Miss P._ Chignon, indeed! Who taught you to read in that manner? _Lizzie._ Hannah Jones. _Miss P._ O, this is too bad! You, too, with one of these horrid things on your head? (_Snatches it off, and beats her on head with it._) Back to your room! You shall suffer for this! [_Exit_ LIZZIE, L. _Mrs. L._ Excuse me, Miss Precise, but your pupils all wear red chignons. Pray, is this a uniform you have adopted in your school? _Miss P._ O, Mrs. Lofty, I'm dying with mortification! Chignons! I detest them; and my positive orders to my pupils are, never to wear them in the house. _Hannah._ (_Outside_, L.) Wal, we'll see what Miss Precise will say to this. _Enters with a red chignon in each hand, followed by_ LIZZIE, HETTY, _and_ FANNY. _Miss P._ Good gracious! More of these horrid things! _Hannah._ Miss Precise, jest look at them! Here these pesky girls have been rummaging my boxes, and putting on my best chignons that pa sent me only yesterday. Look at them! They're teetotally ruined! _Miss P._ Why, Miss Jones, you've got one on your head now! _Hannah._ Of course I have. Have you got anything to say against it? _Miss P._ O, no; only it don't match your hair. _Hannah._ What of that? Pa always goes for the bright colours, and so do I. _Lizzie._ Miss Precise, I thought pupils were forbidden to wear them. _Miss P._ Well, yes--no--I must make exceptions. Miss Jones has permission to wear them. _Lizzie._ Then I want permission. _Hetty._ And so do I. _Fanny._ And so do I. _Miss P._ First tell me what is the meaning of this scene we have just had. _Lizzie._ Scene? Why, didn't you tell us to take Miss Jones as a model for imitation? Haven't we done it? _Miss P._ But Miss Jones doesn't whistle. _Hannah._ Whistle? I bet I can. Want to hear me? _Miss P._ No. She don't sing comic songs. _Hannah._ Yes, she does. _Lizzie._ Yes, and she wears chignons. As we must imitate her, and hadn't any of our own, we appropriated hers. _Miss P._ Shame, shame! What will Mrs. Lofty say? _Mrs. L._ That she rather enjoyed it. I saw mischief in their eyes as they came in. And now, girls, I'm going to tell you what Miss Jones does that you _don't_ know. A short time ago she placed in my hands her pocket-book, containing a large roll of bills, to be distributed among the poor. _Lizzie._ Why, isn't she splendid? _Hetty._ Why, she's "mag." _Fanny._ O, you dear old Hannah. (_Kisses her._) _Mrs. L._ I'm going to send my daughter here to school, and I shall tell her to make all the friends she can; but her first friend must be Hannah Jones. _Hannah._ Well, I'm sure, I'm obleeged to you. _Lizzie._ O, Miss Precise, we are so sorry we have acted so! Let us try again, and show Mrs. Lofty that we have benefited by your instruction. _Miss P._ Not now. If Mrs. Lofty will call again, we will try to entertain her. I see I was in the wrong to give you such general directions. I say now, imitate Hannah Jones--her warm heart, her generous hand. _Mrs. L._ And help her, by your friendship, to acquire the knowledge which Miss Precise so ably dispenses. _Lizzie._ We will, we will. _Miss P._ Only, ladies, avoid whistling. _Hetty._ Of course, of course. _Miss P._ And comic songs! _Fanny._ O, certainly. _Lizzie._ And there is one more thing we shall be sure to avoid. _Miss P._ What is that? _Lizzie._ The wearing of red chignons. [_Exeunt._ THE KNIFE-GRINDER. GEORGE CANNING. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road,--your wheel is out of order,-- Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in 't, So have your breeches! Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 't is crying all day 'Knives and Scissors to grind O! Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney? Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit? (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story. KNIFE-GRINDER. Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night, a drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle. Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- Stocks for a vagrant. I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. I give thee sixpence! I will see thee hang'd first,-- Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance-- Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast! [Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.] PREACHING TO THE POOR. Father Taylor once said, "'Tis of no use to preach to empty stomachs." The parson preached in solemn way, --A well-clad man on ample pay,-- And told the poor they were sinners all, Depraved and lost by Adam's fall; That they must repent, and save their souls. A hollow-eyed wretch cried, "_Give us coals!_" Then he told of virtue's pleasant path, And that of ruin and of wrath; How the slipping feet of sinners fell Quick on the downward road to h----, To suffer for sins when they are dead; And the hollow voice answered, "_Give us bread!_" Then he spoke of a land of love and peace, Where all of pain and woe shall cease, Where celestial flowers bloom by the way, Where the light is brighter than solar day, And there's no cold nor hunger there. "Oh," says the voice, "_Give us clothes to wear!_" Then the good man sighed, and turned away, For such depravity to pray, That had cast aside the heavenly worth For the transient and fleeting things of earth! And his church that night, to his content, Raised his salary fifty per cent. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. BY C.B. SOUTHEY. Tread softly--bow the head; In reverent silence bow; No passing bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger! however great, With lowly reverence bow; There's one in that poor shed, One by that paltry bed, Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state; Enter--no crowds attend; Enter--no guards defend This palace gate. That pavement, damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread; One silent woman stands, Lifting with meagre hands A dying head. No mingling voices sound-- An infant wail alone: A sob suppressed--again That short, deep gasp, and then The parting groan. Oh! change!--Oh! wondrous change!-- Burst are the prison bars-- This moment there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars! Oh! change--stupendous change! There lies the soulless clod! The sun eternal breaks-- The new immortal wakes Wakes with his God! A HORSE-CAR INCIDENT. No matter what horse-car, but it happened that I had to go a mile or two, and held up my cane to attract the attention of the driver or the conductor of one of them, which I did, after some difficulty. I am bound to say it was not on the Touchandgo road, for the officers employed there have an instinctive knowledge whether a man wishes to ride or not, and indeed often by the magic of the upraised finger they draw people in to ride who had hardly any previous intention of it. I have been attracted in this way, and found myself to my astonishment, seated in the car, confident that I had signified no disposition to do so. In this instance, however, I would ride, and got in. There were the usual passengers in the car--the respectable people going out of town, who were reading the last editions of the papers, the women who had been shopping, the servant girls who had been in to visit their friends, feeling no interest in one another, and all absorbed in their own reflections, as I was. I was thinking seriously, when--my eye was attracted by some glittering object on the floor, beneath the opposite seat. Of course everybody is attracted by glitter. A piece of glass in the moonlight may be a diamond, and show is far ahead of substance in influencing men, from the illusion which affects short-sighted vision. Thus this glittering object. What was it?--a diamond pin dropped by a former passenger? No, it could not be this, because it appeared to be round, and bigger than a pin stone could be. Could it be a bracelet? No, for it was too small. I directed my gaze more earnestly towards it in my doubt, and saw that it was a QUARTER, bright and sparkling with the freshness of new mint about it, so it seemed. This I determined to make mine at the first chance, for a woman was sitting very near it, and I dreaded any confusion I might cause, by a sudden plunge, through the motion of the cars; so, whistling at a low breath, as if indifferent, but keeping my eye upon the prize, I awaited the opportunity that should insure me the coveted one-and-sixpence. It soon came: the bell rang, and the lady opposite, with her arms full of bundles, walked out, leaving the object of my ardent regard more distinctly in view. It seemed to me that every one in the car had an eye on that quarter, which I felt was mine by right of discovery, and which I was determined to have. As the coach started I rose and fairly tumbled over into the just-vacated seat, taking care to drop in such a way as to screen the glittering bait. I looked at my fellow-passengers, and found that all were staring at me, as though they were reading my secret. The conductor had come inside the door, and was looking at me, and a heavy gentleman on the same seat with me leaned far out on his cane, so that he could take in my whole person with his glance, as though I were a piece of property on which he had to estimate. I felt my face burn, and a general discomfort seized me, as a man sometimes feels when he has done a wrong or a foolish act; though I couldn't think the act I was about to perform was wrong, and no one could say it was foolish in one to try to get a quarter of a dollar in this day of postal currency. At length I stooped down as if to adjust something about my boot, and slipped the object of my solicitude into my hand, unseen, as I believed. "What is it?" asked the conductor. "What's what?" said I, with affected smartness. "What you just found," he persisted. "I was pulling my pants down over my boot," I prevaricated. "That's all humbug," said he; "you found something in the car, and it belongs to the company." "Prove that I found any thing," said I, angrily. "Young man," said the voice of the big man who was leaning on his cane, still looking at me, "it is as bad to lie about a thing as it is to steal. I saw you pick something up, and to me it had the appearance of money." He struck his cane on the floor as he spoke, and grasped it firmer, as if to clinch his remark. "Yes," said the conductor; "and we don't want nothing of the kind here, and what's more, we won't have it; so hand over." "My fine fellow," said I, prepared for a crisis, "I know my rights, and, without admitting that I have found any thing, I contend that if I had, in this public conveyance, which is as public as the street to him who pays for a ride in it, that which I find in it is mine after I have made due endeavour to find out its owner. Money being an article impossible to identify, unless it is marked, if I had found it, it would have been mine--according to Whately, Lycurgus, and Jew Moses." "Hang your authorities," said he; "I don't know any thing about 'em, but this I know,--that money belongs to the Touchandgo Horse Railroad Company, and I'll have it. Ain't I right, Mr. Diggs?" addressing a gentleman with glasses on, reading the Journal. "I think you are," replied he, looking at me over the top of his spectacles, as though he were shooting from behind a breastwork; "I think the pint is clear, and that it belongs to the company to advertise it and find out the owner." "Well," I put in, "suppose they don't find the owner; who has it?" "The company, I should think," said he, folding his paper preparatory to getting out. "That's it," said the conductor, taking up the thread as he put the passenger down; "and now I want that money." He looked ugly. "What money?" I queried. "The money you picked up on the floor." I saw that I was in a place of considerable difficulty, involving a row on one side and imputation of villany on the other, and studied how to escape. "Well," said I, "if, in spite of the authorities I have quoted, you insist upon my giving this up which I hold in my hand,--the value of which I do not know,--I shall protest against your act, and hold the company responsible." "Responsible be----blowed," replied he, severely; "shell out." The people in the car were much excited. The fat man on the seat had risen up, though still in sitting position, and balanced himself upon his toes to get a better view. I unclosed my hand and deposited in the conductor's a round piece of tin that had been punched out by some tin-man and hammered smooth bearing a close resemblance to money! The disappointment of every one was intense. The conductor intimated that if he met me in society he would give me my money's worth, the fat man muttered something about my being an "imposture," several lady passengers looked bluely at me, and only one laughed heartily at the whole affair, as I did. It was a queer incident. SOCRATES SNOOKS. Mister Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation, The second time entered the married relation: Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand, And they thought him the happiest man in the land, But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his head, When, one morning, to Xantippe, Socrates said, "I think, for a man of my standing in life, This house is too small, as I now have a wife: So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy." "Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied, "I hate to hear every thing vulgarly _my'd_; Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, Say, _our_ cow house, _our_ barn yard, _our_ pig pen." "By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please Of _my_ houses, _my_ lands, _my_ gardens, _my_ trees." "Say _our_," Xantippe exclaimed in a rage. "I won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age!" Oh, woman! though only a part of man's rib, If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib, Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you, You are certain to prove the best man of the two. In the following case this was certainly true; For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her shoe, And laying about her, all sides at random, The adage was verified--"Nil desperandum." Mister Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain, To ward off the blows which descended like rain-- Concluding that valour's best part was discretion-- Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian: But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid, Converted the siege into a blockade. At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, He concluded 't was useless to strive against fate: And so, like a tortoise protruding his head, Said, "My dear, may we come out from under _our_ bed?" "Hah! hah!" she exclaimed, "Mr. Socrates Snooks, I perceive you agree to my terms by your looks: Now, Socrates--hear me--from this happy hour, If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 'T is said the next Sabbath, ere going to church, He chanced for a clean pair of trousers to search: Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches, "My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches?" PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. H.W. LONGFELLOW. Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend--"If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light-- One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm." Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack-door, The sound of arms and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade-- Up the light ladder, slender and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the quiet town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the church-yard, lay the dead In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still, That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread The watchful night-wind as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay-- A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, On the opposite shore waited Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North-Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. It was twelve by the village-clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town, He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river-fog, That rises when the sun goes down. It was one by the village-clock, When he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gazed at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village-clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning-breeze Blowing over the meadows brown, And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled-- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm-- A cry of defiance, and not of fear-- A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed. And the midnight-message of Paul Revere. A PLEASURE EXERTION. MARIETTA HOLLEY. This humorous sketch is taken from a work entitled "My Opinions and Betsey Bobbet's." They have been havin' pleasure exertions all summer here to Jonesville. Every week a'most they would go off on a exertion after pleasure, and Josiah was all up in end to go too. That man is a well-principled man as I ever see; but if he had his head he would be worse than any young man I ever see to foller up pic-nics, and 4th of Julys, and camp meetin's, and all pleasure exertions. But I don't encourage him in it. I have said to him, time and agin, "There is a time for everything, Josiah Allen, and after anybody has lost all their teeth, and every mite of hair on the top of their head, it is time for 'em to stop goin' to pleasure exertions." But, good land! I might jest as well talk to the wind. If that man should get to be as old as Mr. Methusler, and be a goin' a thousand years old, he would prick up his ears if he should hear of an exertion. All summer long that man has beset me to go to 'em, for he wouldn't go without me. Old Bunker Hill himself hain't any sounder in principle than Josiah Allen, and I have had to work head-work to make excuses, and quell him down. But, last week, the old folks was goin' to have one out on the lake, on an island, and that man sot his foot down that go he would. We was to the breakfast-table, a talkin' it over, and says I, "I shan't go, for I am afraid of big water any way." Says Josiah, "You are jest as liable to be killed in one place as another." Says I, with a almost frigid air, as I passed him his coffee, "Mebby I shall be drownded on dry land, Josiah Allen; but I don't believe it." Says he, in a complainin' tone, "I can't get you started onto a exertion for pleasure any way." Says I, in a almost eloquent way, "I don't believe in makin' such exertions after pleasure. I don't believe in chasin' of her up." Says I, "Let her come of her own free will." Says I, "You can't catch her by chasin' of her up, no more than you can fetch a shower up, in a drewth, by goin' out doors, and running after a cloud up in the heavens above you. Sit down, and be patient; and when it gets ready, the refreshin' rain-drops will begin to fall without none of your help. And it is jest so with pleasure, Josiah Allen; you may chase her up over all the ocians and big mountains of the earth, and she will keep ahead of you all the time; but set down, and not fatigue yourself a thinkin' about her, and like as not she will come right into your house, unbeknown to you." "Wal," says he, "I guess I'll have another griddlecake, Samantha." And as he took it, and poured the maple syrup over it, he added, gently but firmly, "I shall go, Samantha, to this exertion, and I should be glad to have you present at it, because it seems jest, to me, as if I should fall overboard durin' the day." Men are deep. Now that man knew that no amount of religious preachin' could stir me up like that one speech. For though I hain't no hand to coo, and don't encourage him in bein' spoony at all, he knows that I am wrapped almost completely up in him. I went. We had got to start about the middle of the night, for the lake was fifteen miles from Jonesville, and the old horse bein' so slow, we had got to start a hour or two ahead of the rest. I told Josiah that I had jest as lives set up all night, as to be routed out at two o'clock. But he was so animated and happy at the idee of goin' that he looked on the bright side of everything, and he said that we would go to bed before dark, and get as much sleep as we commonly did! So we went to bed, the sun an hour high. But we hadn't more'n got settled down into the bed, when we heard a buggy and a single wagon stop to the gate, and I got up and peeked through the window, and I see it was visitors come to spend the evenin'--Elder Wesley Minkly and his family, and Deacon Dobbins' folks. Josiah vowed that he wouldn't stir one step out of that bed that night. But I argued with him pretty sharp, while I was throwin' on my clothes, and I finally got him started up. I hain't deceitful, but I thought, if I got my clothes all on before they came in, I wouldn't tell 'em that I had been to bed that time of day. And I did get all dressed up, even to my handkerchief pin. And I guess they had been there as much as ten minutes before I thought that I hadn't took my night-cap off. They looked dretful curious at me, and I felt awful meachin'. But I jest ketched it off, and never said nothin'. But when Josiah came out of the bedroom, with what little hair he has got standin' out in every direction, no two hairs a layin' the same way, I up and told 'em. I thought mebby they wouldn't stay long. But Deacon Dobbins' folks seemed to be all waked up on the subject of religion, and they proposed we should turn it into a kind of a conference meetin'; so they never went home till after ten o'clock. It was most eleven o'clock when Josiah and me got to bed agin. And then jest as I was gettin' into a drowse, I heard the cat in the buttery, and I got up to let her out. And that rousted Josiah up, and he thought he heard the cattle in the garden, and he got up and went out. And there we was a marchin' round most all night. And if we would get into a nap, Josiah would think it was mornin', and he would start up and go out to look at the clock. I lost myself once, for I dreampt that Josiah was a droundin', and Deacon Dobbins was on the shore a prayin' for him. It started me so, that I jest ketched hold of Josiah and hollered. It skairt him awfully, and says he, "What does ail you, Samantha? I hain't been asleep before to-night, and now you have rousted me up for good. I wonder what time it is?" And then he got out of bed again, and went out and looked at the clock. It was half-past one, and he said "he didn't believe we had better go to sleep again for fear we would be too late for the exertion, and he wouldn't miss that for nothin'." "Exertion," says I, in a awful cold tone; "I should think we had had exertion enough for one spell." But I got up at 2 o'clock, and made a cup of tea as strong as I could, for we both felt beat out, worse than if we had watched in sickness. But, as bad and wore out as Josiah felt bodily, he was all animated in his mind about what a good time he was a goin' to have. He acted foolish, and I told him so. I wanted to wear my brown and black gingham, and a shaker; but Josiah insisted that I should wear a new lawn dress that he had brought me home as a present, and I had got just made up. So, jest to please him, I put it on, and my best bonnet. And that man, all I could do and say, would wear a pair of pantaloons I had been a makin' for Thomas Jefferson. They was gettin' up a military company in Thomas J.'s school, and these pantaloons was white with a blue stripe down the sides, a kind of uniform. Josiah took a awful fancy to 'em; and, says he, "I will wear 'em, Samantha; they look so dressy." Says I, "They hain't hardly done. I was goin' to stitch that blue stripe on the left leg on again. They haint finished as they ought to be, and I would not wear 'em. It looks vain in you." Says he, "I will wear 'em, Samantha. I will be dressed up for once." I didn't contend with him. Thinks I, we are makin' fools of ourselves by goin' at all, and if he wants to make a little bigger fool of himself, I won't stand in his light. And then I had got some machine oil onto 'em, so I felt that I had got to wash 'em any way, before Thomas J. took 'em to school. So he put 'em on. I had good vittles, and a sight of 'em. The basket wouldn't hold 'em all. So Josiah had to put a bottle of red rhaspberry jell into the pocket of his dress coat, and lots of other little things, such as spoons, and knives, and forks, in his pantaloons and breast pockets. He looked like Captain Kidd, armed up to the teeth, and I told him so. But, good land, he would have carried a knife in his mouth if I had asked him, he felt so neat about goin', and boasted so, on what a splendid exertion it was going to be. We got to the lake about eight o'clock, being about the first ones there; but they kep' a comin', and before 10 o'clock we all got there. There was about 20 old fools of us, when we got all collected together. And about 10 o'clock we sot sail for the island. Josiah havin' felt so animated and tickled about the exertion, was worked up awfully when, just after we had got well out onto the lake, the wind took his hat off and blew it away. He had made up his mind to look so pretty that day, and be so dressed up, that it worked him up awfully. And then the sun beat down onto him: and if he had had any hair onto his head it would have seemed more shady. But I did the best I could by him; I stood by him, and pinned on his red bandanna handkerchief onto his head. But as I was a fixin' it on, I see there was something more than mortification that ailed him. The lake was rough, and the boat rocked, and I see he was beginning to be awful sick. He looked deathly. Pretty soon I felt bad too. Oh, the wretchedness of that time! I have enjoyed poor health considerable in my life, but never did I enjoy so much sickness, in so short a time, as I did on that pleasure exertion to the island. I suppose our bein' up all night a'most made it worse. When we reached the island we was both weak as cats. I set right down on a stun, and held my head for a spell, for it did seem as if it would split open. After awhile I staggered up onto my feet, and finally I got so I could walk straight, and sense things a little. Then I began to take the things out of my dinner basket. The butter had all melted, so we had to dip it out with a spoon. And a lot of water had swashed over the side of the boat, so my pies, and tarts, and delicate cake, and cookies, looked awful mixed up, but no worse than the rest of the company's did. But we did the best we could, and begun to make preparations to eat, for the man that owned the boat said he knew it would rain before night, by the way the sun scalded. There wasn't a man or a woman there but what the perspiration jest poured down their faces. We was a haggered and melancholy lookin' set. There was a piece of woods a little ways off, but it was up quite a rise of ground, and there wasn't one of us but what had the rheumatiz, more or less. We made up a fire on the sand, though it seemed as if it was hot enough to steep the tea and coffee as it was. After we got the fire started, I histed a umberell, and sat down under it, and fanned myself hard, for I was afraid of a sunstroke. Wal, I guess I had sat there ten minutes or more, when all of a sudden I thought, Where is Josiah? I hadn't seen him since we had got there. I riz right up and asked the company, almost wildly, "If they had seen my companion, Josiah?" They said "No, they hadn't." But Celestine Wilkins' little girl, who had come with her grandpa and grandma Gowdey, spoke up, and says she, "I seen him a goin' off towards the woods; he acted dreadfully strange, too, he seemed to be a walkin' off sideways." "Had the sufferin's we had undergone made him delirious?" says I to myself; and then I started off on the run towards the woods, and old Miss Bobbet, and Miss Gowdey, and Sister Minkley, and Deacon Dobbins' wife, all rushed after me. Oh, the agony of them 2 or 3 minutes, my mind so distracted with forebodin's, and the perspiration a pourin' down. But, all of a sudden, on the edge of the woods we found him. Miss Gowdey weighed 100 pounds less than me; had got a little ahead of me. He sat backed up against a tree in a awful cramped position, with his left leg under him. He looked dretful uncomfortable, but when Miss Gowdey hollered out: "Oh, here you be; we have been skairt about you; what is the matter?" he smiled a dretful sick smile, and says he: "Oh, I thought I would come out here and meditate a spell. It was always a real treat to me to meditate." Jest then I came up, a pantin' for breath, and as the women all turned to face me, Josiah scowled at me, and shook his fist at them 4 wimmen, and made the most mysterious motions with his hands towards 'em. But the minute they turned 'round he smiled in a sickish way, and pretended to go to whistlin'. Says I, "What is the matter, Josiah Allen? What are you off here for?" "I am a meditatin', Samantha." The wimmen happened to be a lookin' the other way for a minute, and he looked at me as if he would take my head off, and made the strangest motions towards 'em; but the minute they looked at him he would pretend to smile that deathly smile. Says I, "Come, Josiah Allen, we're goin' to have dinner right away, for we are afraid it will rain." "Oh, wal," says he, "a little rain, more or less, hain't a goin' to hinder a man from meditatin'." I was wore out, and says I: "Do you stop meditatin' this minute, Josiah Allen." Says he: "I won't stop, Samantha. I let you have your way a good deal of the time; but when I take it into my head to meditate, you hain't a goin' to break it up." Says I: "Josiah Allen, come to dinner." "Oh, I hain't hungry," says he. "The table will probably be full. I had jest as leves wait." "Table full!" says I. "You know jest as well as I do that we are eatin' on the ground. Do you come and eat your dinner this minute." "Yes, do come," says Miss Bobbet. "Oh," says he, with that ghastly smile, a pretendin' to joke; "I have got plenty to eat here, I can eat muskeeters." The air was black with 'em; I couldn't deny it. "The muskeeters will eat you, more likely," says I. "Look at your face and hands." "Yes, they have eat considerable of a dinner out of me, but I don't begrech 'em. I hain't small enough, I hope, to begrech 'em one meal." Miss Bobbet and the rest turned to go back, and the minute we were alone he said: "Can't you bring 40 or 50 more wimmen up here? You couldn't come here a minute without a lot of other wimmen tied to your heels!" I began to see daylight, and then Josiah told me. It seems he had set down on that bottle of rhaspberry jell. That blue stripe on the side wasn't hardly finished, as I said, and I hadn't fastened my thread properly; so when he got to pullin' at 'em to try to wipe off the jell, the thread started, and bein' sewed on a machine, that seam jest ripped right open from top to bottom. That was what he had walked off sideways towards the woods for. Josiah Allen's wife hain't one to desert a companion in distress. I pinned 'em up as well as I could, and I didn't say a word to hurt his feelin's, only I jest said this to him, as I was a fixin' 'em: "Josiah Allen, is this pleasure?" Says I: "You was determined to come." "Throw that in my face again, will you? What if I wuz? There goes a pin into my leg. I should think I had suffered enough without your stabbin' of me with pins." "Wal, then, stand still, and not be a caperin' round so. How do you suppose I can do anything with you a tousin' round so?" "Wal, don't be so agrevatin', then." I fixed 'em as well as I could, but they looked pretty bad, and then, there they was all covered with jell, too. What to do I didn't know. But finally I told him I would put my shawl onto him. So I doubled it up corner-ways, as big as I could, so it almost touched the ground behind, and he walked back to the table with me. I told him it was best to tell the company all about it, but he jest put his foot down that he wouldn't, and I told him if he wouldn't that he must make his own excuses to the company about wearin' the shawl. So he told 'em that he always loved to wear summer shawls; he thought it made a man look so dressy. But he looked as if he would sink all the time he was a sayin' it. They all looked dretful curious at him, and he looked as meachin' as if he had stole a sheep, and he never took a minute's comfort, nor I nuther. He was sick all the way back to the shore, and so was I. And jest as we got into our wagons and started for home, the rain begun to pour down. The wind turned our old umberell inside out in no time. My lawn dress was most spilte before, and now I give up my bunnet. And I says to Josiah: "This bunnet and dress are spilte, Josiah Allen, and I shall have to buy some new ones." "Wal! wal! who said you wouldn't?" he snapped out. But it wore on him. Oh, how the rain poured down. Josiah havin' nothin' but his handkerchief on his head felt it more than I did. I had took a apron to put on a gettin' dinner, and I tried to make him let me pin it on to his head. But says he, firmly: "I hain't proud and haughty, Samantha, but I do feel above ridin' out with a pink apron on for a hat." "Wal, then," says I, "get as wet as sop if you had ruther." I didn't say no more, but there we jest sot and suffered. The rain poured down, the wind howled at us, the old horse went slow, the rheumatiz laid holt of both of us, and the thought of the new bunnet and dress was a wearin' on Josiah, I knew. After I had beset him about the apron, we didn't say hardly a word for as much as 13 miles or so; but I did speak once, as he leaned forward with the rain a drippin' offen his bandanna handkerchief onto his white pantaloons. I says to him in stern tones: "Is this pleasure, Josiah Allen?" He gave the old mare a awful cut, and says he: "I'd like to know what you want to be so agrevatin' for?" I didn't multiply any more words with him, only as we drove up to our door-step, and he helped me out into a mud puddle, I says to him: "Mebby you'll hear to me another time, Josiah Allen?" And I'll bet he will. I hain't afraid to bet a ten-cent bill that that man won't never open his mouth to me again about a PLEASURE EXERTION. SHAMUS O'BRIEN, THE BOLD BOY OF GLINGALL--A TALE OF '98 BY SAMUEL LOVER. Jist afther the war, in the year '98, As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate, 'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got, To hang him by thrial--barrin' sich as was shot. There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight, There was martial-law hangin' the lavins by night. It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon: If he missed in the judges--he'd meet a dragoon; An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sentence, The divil a much time they allowed for repentance, An' it's many's the fine boy was then on his keepin' Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin', An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned to sell it, A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet-- Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day, With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay; An' the bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all Was SHAMUS O'BRIEN, from the town iv Glingall. His limbs were well set, an' his body was light, An' the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so white; But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, And his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red; An' for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye, For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye, So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright, Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night! An' he was the best mower that ever has been, An' the illigantest hurler that ever was seen, An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare, An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare; An' by gorra, the whole world gev it into him there. An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught, An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought, An' it's many the one can remember right well The quare things he done: an' it's often I heerd tell How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin four, An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore. But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest, An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best; Afther many a brave action of power and pride, An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side, An' a thousand great dangers and toils over past, In the darkness of night he was taken at last. Now, SHAMUS, look back on the beautiful moon, For the door of the prison must close on you soon, An' take your last look at her dim lovely light, That falls on the mountain and valley this night; One look at the village, one look at the flood, An' one at the sheltering, far distant wood; Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill, An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still; Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake, And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake, An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail, An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail; The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands wor bound, An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison-ground, An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him there As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air, An' happy remembrances crowding on ever, As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the river, Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by, Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart Would not suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start; An' he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave, An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave, By the hopes of the good, an' the cause of the brave, That when he was mouldering in the cold grave His enemies never should have it to boast His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost; His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry, For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die. Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone, The terrible day iv the thrial kem on, There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand, An' sodgers on guard, an' dhragoons sword-in-hand; An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered, An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered; An' counsellors almost gev over for dead, An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead; An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big, With his gown on his back, and an illegant new wig; An' silence was called, an' the minute it was said The court was as still as the heart of the dead, An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock, An' SHAMUS O'BRIEN kem into the dock. For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng, An' he looked at the bars, so firm and so strong, An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, A chance to escape, nor a word to defend; An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone, As calm and as cold as a statue of stone; And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste, An' JIM didn't understand it, nor mind it a taste, An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, "Are you guilty or not, JIM O'BRIEN, av you plase?" An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread, An' SHAMUS O'BRIEN made answer and said: "My lord, if you ask me, if in my life-time I thought any treason, or did any crime That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow Before GOD and the world I would answer you, no! But if you would ask me, as I think it like, If in the rebellion I carried a pike, An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close, An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, I answer you, yes; and I tell you again, Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry, An' that now for her sake I am ready to die." Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light; By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap! In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. Then SHAMUS' mother in the crowd standin' by, Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry: "O, judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word! The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord; He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin'; You don't know him, my lord--O, don't give him to ruin! He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted; Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted. Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord, An' GOD will forgive you--O, don't say the word!" That was the first minute that O'BRIEN was shaken, When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken; An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother, The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other; An' two or three times he endeavoured to spake, But the sthrong, manly voice used to falther and break; But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride, He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide, "An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart, For, sooner or later, the dearest must part; And GOD knows it's betther than wandering in fear On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer, To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast, From thought, labour, and sorrow, forever shall rest. Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour; For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven, No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!" Then towards the judge SHAMUS bent down his head, An' that minute the solemn death-sentince was said. The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky; But why are the men standin' idle so late? An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street? What come they to talk of? what come they to see? An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree? O, SHAMUS O'BRIEN! pray fervent and fast, May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last; Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh, When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die. An' fasther an' fasther, the crowd gathered there, Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair; An' whiskey was sellin', and cussamuck too, An' ould men and young women enjoying the view. An' ould TIM MULVANY, he med the remark, There wasn't sich a sight since the time of NOAH'S ark, An' be gorry, 'twas thrue for him, for devil sich a scruge, Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge, For thousands were gathered there, if there was one, Waitin' till such time as the hangin' 'id come on. At last they threw open the big prison-gate, An' out came the sheriffs and sodgers in state, An' a cart in the middle, an' SHAMUS was in it, Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute. An' as soon as the people saw SHAMUS O'BRIEN, Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin', A wild wailin' sound kem on by degrees, Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees. On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on; An' at every side swellin' around of the cart, A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand; An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, An' SHAMUS O'BRIEN throws one last look round. Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill; An' the rope bin' ready, his neck was made bare, For the gripe iv the life-strangling chord to prepare; An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer, But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound, And with one daring spring JIM has leaped on the ground; Bang! bang! goes the carbines, and clash goes the sabres; He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him, neighbours! Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,-- By the heavens, he's free!--than thunder more loud, By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken-- One shout that the dead of the world might awaken. The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An' Father MALONE lost his new Sunday hat; To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin, An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in. Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang. He has mounted his horse, and soon he will be In America, darlint, the land of the free. "WHICH AM DE MIGHTIEST, DE PEN OR DE SWORD?" The "Colored Debating Society" of Mount Vernon, Ohio, had some very interesting meetings. The object of the argument on a particular evening was the settlement, at once and forever, of the question. Mr. Larkins said about as follows: "Mr. Chaarman, what's de use ob a swoard unless you's gwyne to waar? Who's hyar dat's gwyne to waar? I isn't, Mr. Morehouse isn't, Mrs. Morehouse isn't, Mr. Newsome isn't; I'll bet no feller wot speaks on the swoard side is any ideer ob gwyne to waar. Den, what's de use ob de swoard? I don't tink dar's much show for argument in de matter." Mr. Lewman said: "What's de use ob de pen 'less you knows how to write? How's dat? Dat's what I wants to know. Look at de chillun ob Isr'l--wasn't but one man in de whole crowd gwine up from Egyp' to de Promis' Lan' cood write, an' he didn't write much. [A voice in the audience, "Who wrote de ten comman'ments, anyhow, you bet." Cheers from the pen side.] Wrote 'em? wrote 'em? Not much; guess not; not on stone, honey. Might p'r'aps cut 'em wid a chisel. Broke 'em all, anyhow, 'fore he got down de hill. Den when he cut a new set, de chillun ob Isr'l broke 'em all again. Say he did write 'em, what good was it? So his pen no 'count nohow. No, saar. De _swoard's_ what fotched 'em into de Promis' Lan', saar. Why, saar, it's ridiculous. Tink, saar, ob David a-cuttin' off Goliah's head wid a _pen_, saar! De ideer's altogedder too 'posterous, saar. De _swoard_, saar, de _swoard_ mus' win de argument, saar." Dr. Crane said: "I tink Mr. Lewman a leetle too fas'. He's a-speakin' ob de times in de dim pas', when de mind ob man was crude, an' de han' ob man was in de ruff state, an' not tone down to de refinement ob cibilized times. Dey wasn't educated up to de use ob de pen. Deir han's was only fit for de ruff use ob de swoard. Now, as de modern poet says, our swoards rust in deir cubbards, an' peas, sweet peas, cover de lan'. An' what has wrot all dis change? _De pen._ Do I take a swoard now to get me a peck ob sweet taters, a pair ob chickens, a pair ob shoes? No, saar. I jess take my pen an' write an order for 'em. Do I want money? I don't git it by de edge ob de swoard; I writes a check. I want a suit ob clothes, for instance--a stroke ob de pen, de mighty pen, de clothes is on de way. I'se done." Mr. Newsome said: "Wid all due 'spect to de learned gemman dat's jus' spoke, we mus' all agree dat for smoovin' tings off an' a-levelin' tings down, dere's notting equals de swoard." Mr. Hunnicut said: "I agrees entirely wid Mr. Newsome; an' in answer to what Dr. Crane says, I would jess ask what's de use ob drawin' a check unless you's got de money in de bank, or a-drawin' de order on de store unless de store truss you? S'pose de store do truss, ain't it easier to sen' a boy as to write a order? If you got no boy handy, telegraf. No use for a pen--not a bit. Who ebber heard of Mr. Hill's pen? Nobody, saar. But his swoard, saar--de swoard ob ole Bunker Hill, saar--is known to ebbery chile in de lan'. If it hadden been for de swoard ob ole Bunker Hill, saar, whaar'd we niggers be to-night, saar? whaar, saar? Not hyar, saar. In Georgia, saar, or wuss, saar. No cullud man, saar, should ebber go back, saar, on de swoard, saar." Mr. Hunnicut's remarks seemed to carry a good deal of weight with the audience. After speeches by a number of others, the subject was handed over to the "committee," who carried it out and "sot on it." In due time they returned with the followin' decision: "De committee decide dat de swoard has de most pints an' de best backin', an' dat de pen is de most beneficial, an' dat de whole ting is about a stan'-off." JUVENILE PUGILISTS. S.C. CLEMENS. "Yes, I've had a good many fights in my time," said old John Parky, tenderly manipulating his dismantled nose, "and it's kind of queer, too, for when I was a boy the old man was always telling me better. He was a good man and hated fighting. When I would come home with my nose bleeding or with my face scratched up, he used to call me out in the woodshed, and in a sorrowful and discouraged way say, 'So, Johnny, you've had another fight, hey? How many times have I got to tell ye how disgraceful and wicked it is for boys to fight? It was only yesterday that I talked to you an hour about the sin of fighting, and here you've been at it again. Who was it with this time? _With Tommy Kelly, hey?_ Don't you know any better than to fight a boy that weighs twenty pounds more than you do, besides being two years older? Ain't you got a spark of sense about ye? I can see plainly that you are determined to break your poor father's heart by your reckless conduct. What ails your finger? _Tommy bit it?_ Drat the little fool! Didn't ye know enough to keep your finger out of his mouth? _Was trying to jerk his cheek off, hey?_ Won't you never learn to quit foolin' 'round a boy's mouth with yer fingers? You're bound to disgrace us all by such wretched behaviour. You're determined never to be nobody. Did you ever hear of Isaac Watts--that wrote, "Let dogs delight to bark and bite"--sticking his fingers in a boy's mouth to get 'em bit, like a fool? I'm clean discouraged with ye. Why didn't ye go for his nose, the way Jonathan Edwards, and George Washington, and Daniel Webster used to do, when they was boys? _Couldn't 'cause he had ye down?_ That's a purty story to tell me. It does beat all that you can't learn how Socrates and William Penn used to gouge when they was under, after the hours and hours I've spent in telling you about those great men! It seems to me sometimes as if I should have to give you up in despair. It's an awful trial to me to have a boy that don't pay any attention to good example, nor to what I say. What! _You pulled out three or four handfuls of his hair?_ H'm! Did he squirm any? Now if you'd a give him one or two in the eye--but as I've told ye many a time, fighting is poor business. Won't you--for your _father's_ sake--_won't you_ promise to try and remember that? H'm! Johnny, how did it--ahem--which licked?" "'_You licked him?_ Sho! Really? Well, now, I hadn't any idea you could lick that Tommy Kelly! I don't believe John Bunyan, at ten years old, could have done it. Johnny, my boy, you can't think how I hate to have you fighting every day or two. I wouldn't have had him lick _you_ for five, no, not for ten dollars! Now, sonny, go right in and wash up, and tell your mother to put a rag on your finger. And, Johnny, don't let me hear of your fighting again!'" "I never see anybody so down on fighting as the old man, was, but somehow he never could break me from it." THE OLD MAN IN THE STYLISH CHURCH. JOHN H. YATES. Additional effect may be given to this piece by any one who can impersonate the old man. Well, wife, I've been to church to-day--been to a stylish one-- And, seein' you can't go from home, I'll tell you what was done; You would have been surprised to see what I saw there to-day; The sisters were fixed up so fine they hardly bowed to pray. I had on these coarse clothes of mine, not much the worse for wear, But then they knew I wasn't one they call a millionaire; So they led the old man to a seat away back by the door-- 'Twas bookless and uncushioned--_a reserved seat for the poor_. Pretty soon in came a stranger with gold ring and clothing fine; They led him to a cushioned seat far in advance of mine. I thought that wasn't exactly right to seat him up so near, When he was young, and I was old and very hard to hear. But then there's no accountin' for what some people do; The finest clothing nowadays oft gets the finest pew, But when we reach the blessed home, all undefiled by sin, We'll see wealth beggin' at the gate, while poverty goes in. I couldn't hear the sermon, I sat so far away, So, through the hours of service, I could only "watch and pray;" Watch the doin's of the Christians sitting near me, round about; Pray God to make them pure within, as they were pure without. While I sat there, lookin' 'round upon the rich and great, I kept thinkin' of the rich man and the beggar at his gate; How, by all but dogs forsaken, the poor beggar's form grew cold, And the angels bore his spirit to the mansions built of gold. How, at last, the rich man perished, and his spirit took its flight, From the purple and fine linen to the home of endless night; There he learned, as he stood gazin' at the beggar in the sky, "It isn't all of life to live, nor all of death to die." I doubt not there were wealthy sires in that religious fold, Who went up from their dwellings like the Pharisee of old, Then returned home from their worship, with a head uplifted high, To spurn the hungry from their door, with naught to satisfy. Out, out with such professions! they are doin' more to-day To stop the weary sinner from the Gospel's shinin' way Than all the books of infidels; than all that has been tried Since Christ was born at Bethlehem--since Christ was crucified. How simple are the works of God, and yet how very grand; The shells in ocean caverns, the flowers on the land; He gilds the clouds of evenin' with the gold right from his throne, Not for the rich man _only_--not for the poor alone. Then why should man look down on man because of lack of gold? Why seat him in the poorest pew because his clothes are old? A heart with noble motives--a heart that God has blest-- May be beatin' Heaven's music 'neath that faded coat and vest. I'm old--I may be childish--but I love simplicity; I love to see it shinin' in a Christian's piety. Jesus told us in His sermons in Judea's mountains wild, He that wants to go to Heaven must be like a little child. Our heads are growin' gray, dear wife; our hearts are beatin' slow; In a little while the Master will call us for to go. When we reach the pearly gateways, and look in with joyful eyes, We'll see _no stylish worship_ in the temple of the skies. THE OLD MAN IN THE MODEL CHURCH. JOHN H. YATES. A companion to the foregoing. Well, wife, I've found the model church! I worshipped there to-day! It made me think of good old times before my hairs were gray; The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years ago, But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show. The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through The long isle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew. I wish you'd heard the singin'; it had the old-time ring; The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!" The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled, Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall; Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown him Lord of all." I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form, And anchor in that blessed port, forever from the storm. The prechen'? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read; He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth; It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; 'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed; 'Twas full of invitations to Christ and not to creed. The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews; And--though I can't see very well--I saw the falling tear That told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near. How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place; How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face; Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend, "When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbath has no end." I hope to meet that minister--that congregation, too-- In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, The happy hour of worship in that model church to-day. Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought--the victory soon be won; The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore, To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. THE SAN FRANCISCO AUCTIONEER. ANON. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour of putting up a fine pocket-handkerchief, a yard wide, a yard long, and almost a yard thick; one-half cotton, and t'other half cotton too, beautifully printed with stars and stripes on one side, and the stripes and stars on t'other. It will wipe dust from the eyes so completely as to be death to demagogues, and make politics as bad a business as printing papers. Its great length, breadth and thickness, together with its dark colour, will enable it to hide dirt, and never need washing. Going at one dollar? seventy-five cents? fifty cents? twenty-five cents? one bit? Nobody wants it! Oh, thank you, sir! Next, gentlemen--for the ladies won't be permitted to bid on this article--is a real, simon pure, tempered, highly-polished, keen-edged Sheffield razor; bran spanking new; never opened before to sunlight, moonlight, starlight, daylight or gaslight; sharp enough to shave a lawyer or cut a disagreeable acquaintance or poor relation; handle of buck-horn, with all the rivets but the two at the ends of pure gold. Who will give two dollars? one dollar? half a dollar? Why, ye long-bearded, dirty-faced reprobates, with not room on your phizzes for a Chinese woman to kiss, I'm offering you a bargain at half a dollar! Well, I'll throw in this strop at half a dollar! razor and strop! a recent patent; two rubs upon it will sharpen the city attorney; all for four bits; and a piece of soap, sweeter than roses, lathers better than a school-master, and strong enough to wash all the stains from a California politician's countenance, all for four bits. Why, you have only to put the razor, strop and soap under your pillow at night, and wake up in the morning clean shaved. Won't anybody give two bits, then, for the lot? I knew I would sell them! Next, ladies and gentlemen, I offer three pair socks, hose, stockings, or half-hose, just as you're a mind to call them, knit by a machine made on purpose, out of cotton wool. The man that buys these will be enabled to walk till he gets tired; and, provided his boots are big enough, needn't have any corns; the legs are as long as bills against the corporation, and as thick as the heads of the members of the legislature. Who wants 'em at one half dollar? Thank-ee, madame, the money. Next I offer you a pair of boots made especially for San Francisco, with heels long enough to raise a man up to the Hoadley grades, and nails to ensure against being carried over by a land slide; legs wide enough to carry two revolvers and a bowie-knife, and the upper of the very best horse leather. A man in these boots can move about as easy as the State Capitol. Who says twenty dollars? All the tax-payers ought to buy a pair to kick the council with, everybody ought to buy a pair to kick the legislature with, and they will be found of assistance in kicking the bucket especially if somebody should kick at being kicked. Ten dollars for legs, uppers and soles! while souls, and miserable souls at that, are bringing twenty thousand dollars in Sacramento! Ten dollars! ten dollars! gone at ten dollars! Next is something that you ought to have, gentlemen,--a lot of good gallowses--sometimes called suspenders. I know that some of you will, after a while, be furnished at the State's expense, but you can't tell which one, so buy where they're cheap. All that deserve to be hanged are not supplied with a gallows; if so, there would be nobody to make laws, condemn criminals, or hang culprits, until a new election. Made of pure gum-elastic--stretch like a judge's conscience, and last as long as a California office-holder will steal; buckles of pure iron, and warranted to hold so tight that no man's wife can rob him of his breeches; are, in short, as strong, as good, as perfect, as effectual and as bona-fide as the ordinance against Chinese shops on Dupont Street--gone at twenty-five cents. PAT-ENT GUN. I've heard a good joke on Emerald Pat, Who kept a few brains and a brick in his hat; He was bound to go hunting; so taking his gun He rammed down a charge--this was load number one; Then he put in the priming, and when all was done, By way of experiment, he thought he would try And see if by perchance he might hit the "bull's eye." He straightened himself until he made a good figure, Took a deliberate aim and then pulled the trigger. Click! went the hammer, but nothing exploded; "And sure," muttered Paddy, "the gun isn't loaded." So down went another charge, just as before, Unless this contained a grain or two more; Once more he made ready and took a good aim And pulled on the trigger--effect quite the same. "I wonder, can this be, still shootin'?" said Pat; "I put down a load, now I'm certain of that; I'll try it again, and then we shall see!" So down went the cartridge of load number three. Then trying again with a confident air, And succeeding no better, he gave up in despair. Just at that moment he happened to spy His friend, Michael Milligan, hurrying by. "Hello, Mike! Come here and try on my gun; I've been trying to shoot until I'm tired and done!" So Mike took the gun and picked up the powder, Remarking to Pat, "it would make it go louder." Then placing it firmly against his right arm, And never suspecting it might do him harm, He pointed the piece in the proper direction, And pulled on the trigger without more reflection, When off went the gun like a county election Where whisky and gin have exclusive selection Of those who are chosen to guard the inspection-- There's a great deal of noise--and some little inspection, And Michael "went off" in another direction. "Hold on!" shouted Pat, "Hold on to the gun, I put in three loads, and you fired off but one! Get up, and be careful, don't hold it so level, Or else we are both us gone to the--cemetery!" "I'm goin'," says Michael, "it's time that I wint, I've got meself kicked and I'll just take the hint." Now, old boys, and young, here's a moral for you; Don't make Pat your pattern whatever you do. Don't carry too much in the crown of your hat; Of all things you lodge there beware of the bat! I don't mean the little mouse flying in the air, The ladies so fear that may get into their hair, But the dangerous brick bat, so much worse than that, Nobody can wear it that isn't a "flat," And then don't forget it is one of Old Nick's Diabolical methods of playing his tricks On foolish young men who become "perfect bricks;" He don't give the hint until _after_ he kicks! A PSALM OF LIFE. H.W. LONGFELLOW. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act that each to-morrow, Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating, Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle. In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time. Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing Learn to labour and to wait. THE LAST MAN. THOMAS CAMPBELL. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, the sun himself must die, before this mortal shall assume its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep that gave my spirit strength to sweep adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould that shall Creation's death behold, as Adam saw her prime! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, the earth with age was wan; the skeletons of nations were around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight--the brands still rusted in their bony hands; in plague and famine some. Earth's cities had no sound or tread, and ships were drifting with the dead to shores where all was dumb. Yet, prophet-like, that Lone One stood, with dauntless words and high, that shook the sere leaves from the wood as if a storm passed by, saying--"We are twins in death, proud Sun! thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'tis mercy bids thee go; for thou ten thousand years hast seen the tide of human tears--that shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee, man put forth his pomp, his pride, his skill; and arts that made fire, flood, and earth, the vassals of his will?--yet mourn I not thy parted sway, thou dim, discrownèd king of day; for all those trophied arts and triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, healed not a passion or a pang entailed on human hearts. Go! let Oblivion's curtain fall upon the stage of men! nor with thy rising beams recall life's tragedy again! Its piteous pageants bring not back, nor waken flesh upon the rack of pain anew to writhe, stretched in Disease's shapes abhorred, or mown in battle by the sword, like grass beneath the scythe! Even I am weary in yon skies to watch thy fading fire: test of all sumless agonies, behold not me expire! My lips, that speak thy dirge of death, their rounded gasp and gurgling breath to see, thou shalt not boast; the eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, the majesty of Darkness shall receive my parting ghost! The spirit shall return to Him who gave its heavenly spark; yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim when thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine in bliss unknown to beams of thine; by Him recalled to breath, who captive led captivity, who robbed the grave of victory, and took the sting from Death! Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up on Nature's awful waste, to drink this last and bitter cup of grief that man shall taste,--go! tell the night that hides thy face thou saw'st the last of Adam's race on earth's sepulchral clod, the darkening universe defy to quench his immortality, or shake his trust in God!" THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA. JOHN G. WHITTIER. A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE." A.D. 1154-1864. A strong and mighty Angel, Calm, terrible and bright, The cross in blended red and blue Upon his mantle white! Two captives by him kneeling, Each on his broken chain, Sang praise to God who raiseth The dead to life again! Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the Angel said; "Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign-- The white, the blue, the red." Then rose up John de Matha In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France The ransom of the slave. The gates of tower and castle Before him open flew, The drawbridge at his coming fell, The door-bolt backward drew. For all men owned his errand, And paid his righteous tax; And the hearts of lord and peasant Were in his hands as wax. At last, outbound from Tunis, His bark her anchor weighed, Freighted with seven score Christian souls Whose ransom he had paid. But, torn by Paynim hatred, Her sails in tatters hung; And on the wild waves rudderless, A shattered hulk she swung. "God save us!" cried the captain, For naught can man avail: O, woe betide the ship that lacks Her rudder and her sail! "Behind us are the Moormen; At sea we sink or strand: There's death upon the water, There's death upon the land!" Then up spake John de Matha: "God's errands never fail! Take thou the mantle which I wear, And make of it a sail." They raised the cross-wrought mantle, The blue, the white, the red; And straight before the wind off-shore The ship of Freedom sped. "God help us!" cried the seamen, "For vain is mortal skill; The good ship on a stormy sea Is drifting at its will." Then up spake John de Matha: "My mariners, never fear! The Lord whose breath has filled her sail May well our vessel steer!" So on through storm and darkness They drove for weary hours; And lo! the third gray morning shone On Ostia's friendly towers. And on the walls the watchers The ship of mercy knew-- They knew far off its holy cross, The red, the white, the blue. And the bells in all the steeples Rang out in glad accord, To welcome home to Christian soil The ransomed of the Lord. So runs the ancient legend By bard and painter told; And lo! the cycle rounds again, The new is as the old! With rudder foully broken, And sails by traitors torn, Our country on a midnight sea Is waiting for the morn. Before her, nameless terror; Behind, the pirate foe; The clouds are black above her, The sea is white below. The hope of all who suffer, The dread of all who wrong, She drifts in darkness and in storm, How long, O Lord! how long? But courage, O my mariners! Ye shall not suffer wreck, While up to God the freedman's prayers Are rising from your deck. Is not your sail the banner Which God hath blest anew, The mantle that de Matha wore, The red, the white, the blue? Its hues are all of heaven-- The red of sunset's dye The whiteness of the moonlit cloud, The blue of morning's sky. Wait cheerily, then, O mariners, For daylight and for land; The breath of God is on your sail, Your rudder in His hand. Sail on, sail on, deep freighted With blessings and with hopes; The saints of old with shadowy hands Are pulling at your ropes. Behind ye, holy martyrs Uplift the palm and crown; Before ye, unborn ages send Their benedictions down. Take heart from John de Matha!-- God's errands never fail! Sweep on through storm and darkness, The thunder and the hail! Sail on! The morning cometh, The port ye yet shall win; And all the bells of God shall ring The good ship bravely in! THE POLISH BOY. ANN S. STEPHENS. Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, That cut, like blades of steel, the air, Causing the creeping blood to chill With the sharp cadence of despair? Again they come, as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe. Whence came they? from yon temple where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. The dim funereal tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by. What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress? No thrilling fingers seek its clasp? It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there. With pallid lip and stony brow She murmurs forth her anguish now. But hark! the tramp of heavy feet Is heard along the bloody street; Nearer and nearer yet they come With clanking arms and noiseless drum. Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep; The gate is burst; a ruffian band Rush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain. The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child; Then with pale cheek and flashing eye Shouted with fearful energy, "Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead; Nor touch the living boy--I stand Between him and your lawless band. Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 'twill save my child!" "Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side, And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door. "One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one! Will land or gold redeem my son? Take heritage, take name, take all, But leave him free from Russian thrall! Take these!" and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there; Her cross of blazing rubies last Down at the Russian's feet she cast. He stooped to seize the glittering store-- Upspringing from the marble floor, The mother, with a cry of joy, Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. But no! the Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mortal agony. But the brave child is roused at length, And breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands, a giant in the strength Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. Proudly he towers; his flashing eye, So blue, and yet so bright, Seems kindled from the eternal sky, So brilliant is its light. His curling lips and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks; With a full voice of proud command He turned upon the wondering band: "Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can! This hour has made the boy a man! I knelt before my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept! I was a child; but now-- My noble mother, on her knee, Hath done the work of years for me!" He drew aside his broidered vest, And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jeweled haft of poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight. "Ha! start ye back! Fool! coward! knave! Think ye my noble father's glaive Would drink the life-blood of a slave? The pearls that on the handle flame Would blush to rubies in their shame; The blade would quiver in thy breast, Ashamed of such ignoble rest. No! Thus I rend the tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain!" A moment and the funeral light Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. Quick to his mother's side he sprang, And on the air his clear voice rang: "Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! The choice was death or slavery. Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! His freedom is forever won; And now he waits one holy kiss To bear his father home in bliss-- One last embrace, one blessing--one! To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel My warm blood o'er my heart congeal? Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! What! silent still? Then art thou dead? ----Great God, I thank Thee! Mother, I Rejoice with thee--and thus--to die!" One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom--dead. THAT HIRED GIRL. ANON. When she came to work for the family on Congress street, the lady of the house sat down and told her that agents, book-peddlers, hat-rack men, picture sellers, ash-buyers, rag-men, and all that class of people, must be met at the front door and coldly repulsed, and Sarah said she'd repulse them if she had to break every broomstick in Detroit. And she did. She threw the door open wide, bluffed right up at 'em, and when she got through talking, the cheekiest agent was only too glad to leave. It got so after awhile that peddlers marked that house, and the door-bell never rang except for company. The other day, as the girl of the house was wiping off the spoons, the bell rang. She hastened to the door, expecting to see a lady, but her eyes encountered a slim man, dressed in black and wearing a white necktie. He was the new minister, and was going around to get acquainted with the members of his flock, but Sarah wasn't expected to know this. "Ah--um--is--Mrs.--ah!" "Git!" exclaimed Sarah, pointing to the gate. "Beg pardon, but I would like to see--see--" "Meander!" she shouted, looking around for a weapon; "we don't want any flour-sifters here!" "You're mistaken," he replied, smiling blandly. "I called to--" "Don't want anything to keep moths away--fly!" she exclaimed, getting red in the face. "Is the lady in?" he inquired, trying to look over Sarah's head. "Yes, the lady is in, and I'm in, and you are out!" she snapped; "and now I don't want to stand here talking to a fly-trap agent any longer! Come lift your boots!" "I'm not an agent," he said, trying to smile. "I'm the new--" "Yes, I know you--you are the new man with the patent flat-iron, but we don't want any, and you'd better go before I call the dog." "Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called?" "No, I won't; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I can't stand here all day." "Didn't you know that I was a minister?" he asked as he backed off. "No, nor I don't know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a dollar chromo for eighteen shillings." "But here is my card." "I don't care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open I will have to fling a flower-pot at you!" "I will call again," he said, as he went through the gate. "It won't do any good!" she shouted after him; "we don't want no prepared food for infants--no piano music--no stuffed birds! I know the policemen on this beat, and if you come around here again, he'll soon find out whether you are a confidence man or a vagrant!" And she took unusual care to lock the door. THE BELL OF THE "ATLANTIC." MRS. SIGOURNEY. Toll, toll, toll! Thou bell by billows swung, And, night and day, thy warning words Repeat with mournful tongue! Toll for the queenly boat, Wrecked on yon rocky-shore! Sea-weed is in her palace halls-- She rides the surge no more. Toll for the master bold, The high-souled and the brave, Who ruled her like a thing of life Amid the crested wave! Toll for the hardy crew, Sons of the storm and blast, Who long the tyrant ocean dared; But it vanquished them at last. Toll for the man of God, Whose hallowed voice of prayer Rose calm above the stifled groan Of that intense despair! How precious were those tones, On that sad verge of life, Amid the fierce and freezing storm, And the mountain billows strife! Toll for the lover, lost To the summoned bridal train Bright glows a picture on his breast, Beneath th' unfathomed main. One from her casement gazeth Long o'er the misty sea: He cometh not, pale maiden-- His heart is cold to thee? Toll for the absent sire, Who to his home drew near, To bless a glad, expecting group-- Fond wife, and children dear! They heap the blazing hearth, The festal board is spread, But a fearful guest is at the gate:-- Room for the sheeted dead! Toll for the loved and fair, The whelmed beneath the tide-- The broken harps around whose strings The dull sea-monsters glide! Mother and nursling sweet, Reft from the household throng; There's bitter weeping in the nest Where breathed their soul of song. Toll for the hearts that bleed 'Neath misery's furrowing trace; Toll for the hapless orphan left, The last of all his race! Yea, with thy heaviest knell, From surge to rocky shore, Toll for the living--not the dead, Whose mortal woes are o'er. Toll, toll, toll! O'er breeze and billow free; And with thy startling lore instruct Each rover of the sea. Tell how o'er proudest joys May swift destruction sweep, And bid him build his hopes on high-- Lone teacher of the deep! THE OWL--A SMALL BOY'S COMPOSITION. ANON. Wen you come to see a owl cloce it has offle big eyes, and wen you come to feel it with your fingers, wich it bites, you fine it is mosely fethers, with only jus meat enuf to hole 'em to gether. Once they was a man thot he would like a owl for a pet, so he tole a bird man to send him the bes one in the shop, but wen it was brot he lookt at it and squeezed it, and it diddent sute. So the man he rote to the bird man and said Ile keep the owl you sent, tho it aint like I wanted, but wen it's wore out you mus make me a other, with littler eyes, for I spose these eyes is number twelves, but I want number sixes, and then if I pay you the same price you can aford to put in more owl. Owls have got to have big eyes cos tha has to be out a good deal at nite a doin bisnis with rats and mice, wich keeps late ours. They is said to be very wise, but my sisters young man he says any boddy coud be wise if they woud set up nites to take notice. That feller comes to our house jest like he used to, only more, and wen I ast him wy he come so much he said he was a man of sience, like me, and was a studyin arnithogaly, which was birds. I ast him wot birds he was a studyin, and he said anjils, and wen he said that my sister she lookt out the winder and said wot a fine day it had turn out to be. But it was a rainin cats and dogs wen she said it. I never see such a goose in my life as that girl, but Uncle Ned, wich has been in ole parts of the worl, he says they is jes that way in Pattygong. In the picture alphabets the O is some times a owl, and some times it is a ox, but if I made the picters Ide have it stan for a oggur to bore holes with. I tole that to ole gaffer Peters once wen he was to our house lookin at my new book, and he said you is right, Johnny, and here is this H stan for harp, but hoo cares for a harp, wy don't they make it stan for a horgan? He is such a ole fool. THE FLOWERS. HOWITT. [In reciting this sweetly beautiful little poem its noble truths should be uttered with emphatic, but not noisy elocution. There is sufficient variety in the different stanzas for the speaker to display much taste and feeling.] God might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all. We might have had enough, enough For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine and toil, And yet have had no flowers. The one within the mountain mine Requireth none to grow; Nor does it need the lotus-flower To make the river flow. The clouds might give abundant rain; The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all. Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow-light, All fashioned with supremest grace Upspringing day and night:-- Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness Where no man passes by? Our outward life requires them not-- Then wherefore had they birth?-- To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth; To comfort man--to whisper hope, Whene'er his faith is dim, For who so careth for the flowers Will much more care for him! THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. Good morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of Walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I've had the worst kind of a narvous head-ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived. Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. (_Coughs._) Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side? Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body. (_Coughs._) Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does me the leastest good. (_Coughs._) Oh this cough--it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion. What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out plowing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept a backing and backing, on till she back'd me right up agin the colter, and knock'd a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. (_Coughs._) But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day--and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood--you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself. I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out--as it was a raining at the time--but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knock'd out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face ain't well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by the women folks. (_Coughs._) Oh, dear! but that ain't all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes--and I'm afeard I'm a going to have the "yallar janders." (_Coughs._) THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. BYRON. [This sweetly mournful refrain, should be delivered with sad earnestness; as though the speaker was describing the fate of his own family.] They grew in beauty side by side, They filled our home with glee; Their graves are severed, far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow; She had each folded flower in sight, Where are those dreamers now? One, 'midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream is laid,-- The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, but none O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain: He wrapt his colours round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain. And one--o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; She faded 'midst Italian flowers,-- The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who played Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee! They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth,-- Alas! for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, oh, earth! PLEDGE WITH WINE. "Pledge with wine--pledge with wine!" cried the young and thoughtless Harry Wood. "Pledge with wine," ran through the brilliant crowd. The beautiful bride grew pale--the decisive hour had come, she pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of her bridal wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her heart beat wilder. "Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once," said the Judge, in a low tone, going towards his daughter; "the company expect it, do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette;--in your own house act as you please; but in mine, for this once please me." Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion's principles were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits--and to-night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down to a woman's opinion so soon. Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles toward Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook not, as smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so when every hand was arrested by her piercing exclamation of "Oh, how terrible!" "What is it?" cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at arm's length, and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous object. "Wait," she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark eyes, "wait and I will tell you. I see," she added, slowly pointing one jewelled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, "A sight that beggars all description; and yet listen; I will paint it for you if I can: It is a lonely spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the waters' edge. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun seeks vainly to pierce; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; but there, a group of Indians gather; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brow; and in their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands beside him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon his breast. "Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy looking brow! Why should death mark it, and he so young? Look how he throws the damp curls! see him clasp his hands! hear his thrilling shrieks for life! mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh! hear him call piteously his father's name; see him twine his fingers, together as he shrieks for his sister--his only sister--the twin of his soul--weeping for him in his distant native land. "See!" she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the untasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the Judge fell, overpowered, upon his seat; "see! his arms are lifted to heaven; he prays, how wildly, for mercy! hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping; awe-stricken, the men move silently, and leave the living and dying together." There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct: she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup. "It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, and her beams lay gently on his forehead. He moves not; his eyes are set in their sockets; dim are their piercing glances; in vain his friend whispers the name of father and sister--death is there. Death! and no soft hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back! one convulsive shudder! he is dead!" A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her description, so unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described seemed actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed also, that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping. "Dead!" she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and her voice more and more broken; "and there they scoop him a grave; and there without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp reeking earth. The only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to-day in that distant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies--my father's son--my own twin brother! a victim to this deadly poison. Father," she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, "father, shall I drink it now?" The form of the old Judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered--"No, no, my child, in God's name, no." She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying:--"Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand; who watched over my brother's dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband?" His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer. The Judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and with a more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash the enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms. Those who were present at that wedding, can never forget the impression so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass. [Illustration] W. NICHOLSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, WAKEFIELD. RECITERS AND PENNY READINGS. THE BEAUTIFUL RECITER; Or a Collection of Entertaining, Pathetic, Witty, and Humorous Pieces, and Dialogues, with a Selection of Martial, and Oratorical Pieces, in Prose and Verse Price 1s. 6d. 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"_A Cheerful heart robs the Physician of his fee._"--_Virgil._ Catalogues may be had on Application. * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Obvious punctuation erors have been repaired. There are a few pieces which contain some dialect. All dialect, period spelling, etc., has been preserved. Typographical errors have been corrected. Errata: p. 15: one instance of 'Snider' corrected to 'Snyder' for consistency. p. 36: 'heayy' corrected to 'heavy' - "Poor Patrick toiled beneath his heavy load." p. 36: 'hiltop' corrected to 'hilltop' - "A hilltop gained,..." p. 47: 'tress' corrected to 'trees' - "from the straightest trees;" p. 74: 'Abl,' corrected to 'Alb' - "_Alb._ Not once, yet." p. 101: 'too' corrected to 'to' - "darting restlessly to and fro," p. 103: 'beautitul' corrected to 'beautiful' - "This beautiful poem should be recited" p. 111: 'hugh' corrected to 'huge' - "his huge bulk and strength" p. 125: 'Peace's' corrected to 'Pease's' - "JUNO, Miss Pease's coloured help." p. 126: 'Bres' corrected to 'Bress' - "_Juno._ Bress my soul!" p. 141: 'it's' corrected to 'its' - "along with its good-will and friendliness;" p. 155: 'quite' corrected to 'quiet' - "A little meek-faced, quiet village child," 
17378	----	SUCCESSFUL RECITATIONS Edited by ALFRED H. MILES 1901 "Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines."--_Hamlet_. SHAKESPEARE. London: S. H. Bousfield & Co., Ld., Norfolk House, Norfolk Street W.C. London: Printed by H. Virtue And Company, Limited. City Road. PREFACE. Many things go to the making of a successful recitation. A clear aim and a simple style are among the first of these: the subtleties which make the charm of much of the best poetry are lost in all but the best platform work. The picturesque and the dramatic are also essential elements; pictures are the pleasures of the eyes, whether physical or mental, and incident is the very soul of interest. The easiest, and therefore often the most successful, recitations are those which recite themselves; that is, recitations so charged with the picturesque or the dramatic elements that they command attention and excite interest in spite of poor elocution and even bad delivery. The trouble with these is that they are usually soon recognized, and once recognized are soon done to death. There are pieces, too, which, depending upon the charm of novelty, are popular or successful for a time only, but there are also others which, vitalised by more enduring qualities, are things of beauty and a "joy for ever." But after all it is not the Editor who determines what are and what are not successful recitations. It is time, the Editor of Editors, and the public, our worthy and approved good masters. It is the public that has made the selection which makes up the bulk of this volume, though the Editor has added a large number of new and less known pieces which he confidently offers for public approval. The majority of the pieces in the following pages _are_ successful recitations, the remainder can surely be made so. A.H.M. THE ROYAL RECITER. PREFATORY. True Patriotism is the outcome of National home-feeling and self-respect. Home-feeling is born of the loving associations and happy memories which belong to individual and National experience; self-respect is the result of a wise and modest contemplation of personal or National virtues. The man who does not respect himself is not likely to command the respect of others. And the Nation which takes no pride in its history is not likely to make a history of which it can be proud. But self-respect involves self-restraint, and no man who wishes to retain his own respect and to merit the respect of others would think of advertising his own virtues or bragging of his own deeds. Nor would any Nation wishing to stand well in its own eyes and in the eyes of the world boast of its own conquests over weaker foes or shout itself hoarse in the exuberance of vainglory. Patriotism is not to be measured by ostentation any more than truth is to be estimated by volubility. The history of England is full of incidents in which her children may well take an honest pride, and no one need be debarred from taking a pride in them because there are other incidents which fill them with a sense of shame. As a rule it will be found that the sources of pride belong to the people themselves, and that the sources of shame belong to their rulers. It would be difficult to find words strong enough to condemn the campaign of robbery and murder conducted by the Black Prince against the peaceful inhabitants of Southern France in 1356, but it would be still more difficult to do justice to the magnificent pluck and grit which enabled 8,000 Englishmen at Poitiers to put to flight no less than 60,000 of the chosen chivalry of France. The wire-pullers of state-craft have often worked with ignoble aims, but those who suffer in the working out of political schemes often sanctify the service by their self-sacrifice. There is always Glory at the cannon's mouth. In these days when the word Patriot is used both as a party badge and as a term of reproach, and when those who measure their patriotism by the standards of good feeling and self-respect are denied the right to the use of the term though they have an equal love for their country and take an equal pride in their country's honourable achievements, it seems necessary to define the word before one applies it to oneself or puts one's name to what may be called patriotic verse. It is a bad day for any country when false standards of patriotism prevail, and at such times it is clearly the duty of intelligent patriotism to uphold true ones. ALFRED H. MILES. _October_, 1901. CONTENTS. NAME. AUTHOR. John Bull and His Island Alfred H. Miles The Red Rose of War F. Harald Williams England Eliza Cook A Song for Australia W. C. Bennet The Ploughshare of Old England Eliza Cook The Story of Abel Tasman Frances S. Lewin The Groom's Story A. Conan Doyle The Hardest Part I ever Played Re Henry The Story of Mr. King David Christie Murray The Art of Poetry From "Town Topics" The King of Brentford's Testament W. M. Thackeray. "Universally Respected" J. Brunton Stephens The Amenities of Shopping Leopold Wagner Shamus O'Brien J. S. Le Fanu Home, Sweet Home William Thomson The Cane Bottom'd Chair W. M. Thackeray The Alma W. C. Bennet The Mameluke Charge Sir F. H. Doyle My Lady's Leap Campbell Rae-Brown A Song for the end of the Season J. R. Planche The Aged Pilot-man Mark Twain Tim Keyser's Nose Max Adeler The Lost Expression Marshall Steele A Night Scene Robert B. Brough Karl the Martyr Frances Whiteside The Romance of Tenachelle Hercules Ellis Michael Flynn William Thomson A Night with a Stork William G. Wilcox An Unmusical Neighbour William Thomson The Chalice David Christie Murray Livingstone Henry Lloyd In Swanage Bay Mrs. Craik Ballad of Sir John Franklin G. H. Boker Phadrig Crohoore J. S. Le Fanu Cupid's Arrows Eliza Cook The Crocodile's Dinner Party E. Vinton Blake "Two Souls with but a Single Thought" William Thomson A Risky Ride Campbell Rae-Brown On Marriage Josh Billings The Romance of Carrigcleena Hercules Ellis The False Fontanlee W. C. Roscoe The Legend of St. Laura Thomas Love Peacock David Shaw, Hero J. Buckham Brotherhood Alfred H. Miles The Straight Rider H. S. M. Women and Work Alfred H. Miles A Country Story Alfred H. Miles The Beggar Maid Lord Tennyson The Vengeance of Kafur Clinton Scollard The Wishing Well V. W. Cloud The Two Church Builders John G. Saxe The Captain of the Northfleet Gerald Massey The Happiest Land H. W. Longfellow The Pipes of Lucknow J. G. Whittier The Battle of the Baltic Thomas Campbell The Grave Spoilers Hercules Ellis Bow-Meeting Song Reginald Heber The Ballad of Rou Lord Lytton Bingen on the Rhine Hon. Mrs. Norton Deeds, not Words Captain Marryat Old King Cole Alfred H. Miles The Green Domino Anonymous The Legend Beautiful H. W. Longfellow The Bell of Atri H. W. Longfellow The Storm Adelaide A. Proctor The Three Rulers Adelaide A. Proctor The Horn of Egremont Castle William Wordsworth The Miracle of the Roses Robert Southey The Bridal of Malahide Gerald Griffin The Daughter of Meath T. Haynes Bayley Glenara Thomas Campbell A Fable for Musicians Clara D. Bates Onward. A Tale of the S.E.R. Anonymous The Declaration N. P. Willis Love and Age Thomas Love Peacock Half an Hour before Supper Bret Harte He Worried About It S. W. Foss Astronomy made Easy Anonymous Brother Watkins John B. Gough Logic Anonymous The Pride of Battery B F. H. Gassaway The Dandy Fifth F. H. Gassaway Bay Billy F. H. Gassaway The Old Veteran Bayard Taylor Santa Claus Alfred H. Miles THE ROYAL RECITER _EDITED BY ALFRED H. MILES_. JOHN BULL AND HIS ISLAND. BY ALFRED H. MILES. There's a doughty little Island in the ocean,-- The dainty little darling of the free; That pulses with the patriots' emotion, And the palpitating music of the sea: She is first in her loyalty to duty; She is first in the annals of the brave; She is first in her chivalry and beauty, And first in the succour of the slave! Then here's to the pride of the ocean! Here's to the pearl of the sea! Here's to the land of the heart and the hand That fight for the right of the free! Here's to the spirit of duty, Bearing her banners along-- Peacefully furled in the van of the world Or waving and braving the wrong. There's an open-hearted fellow in the Island, Who loves the little Island to the full; Who cultivates the lowland and the highland With a lover's loving care--John Bull His look is the welcome of a neighbour; His hand is the offer of a friend; His word is the liberty of labour; His blow the beginning of the end. Then here's to the Lord of the Island; Highland and lowland and lea; And here's to the team--be it horse, be it steam-- He drives from the sea to the sea, Here's to his nod for the stranger; Here's to his grip for a friend; And here's to the hand, on the sea, or the land, Ever ready the right to defend. There's a troop of trusty children from the Island Who've planted Englands up and down the sea; Who cultivate the lowland and the highland And fly the gallant colours of the free: Their hearts are as loyal as their mother's; Their hands are as ready as their sire's Their bond is a union of brothers,-- Who fear not a holocaust of fires! Then here's to the Sons of the nation Flying the flag of the free; Holding the farm and the station, Keeping the Gates of the Sea; Handed and banded together, In Arts, and in Arms, and in Song, Father and son, united as one, Bearing her Banners along, Peacefully furled in the van of the world, Or waving and braving the wrong! THE RED ROSE OF WAR. BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS. God hath gone forth in solemn might to shake The peoples of the earth, Through the long shadow and the fires that make New altar and new hearth! And with the besom of red war He sweeps The sin and woe away, To purge with fountains from His ancient deeps The dust of old decay. O not in anger but in Love He speaks From tempest round Him drawn, Unveiling thus the fair white mountain peaks Which tremble into dawn. Not otherwise would Truth be all our own Unless by flood and flame, When the last word of Destiny is known-- God's fresh revealed Name. For thence do windows burst in Heaven and light Breaks on our darkened lands, And sovereign Mercy may fulfil through night The Justice it demands. Ah, not in evil but for endless good He bids the sluices run And death, to mould His blessed Brotherhood Which had not else begun. For if the great Arch-builder comes to frame Yet broader empires, then He lays the stones in blood and splendid shame With glorious lives of men. He takes our richest and requires the whole Nor is content with less, He cannot rear by a divided dole The walls of Righteousness. And so He forms His grand foundations deep Not on our golden toys, But in the twilight where the mourners weep Of broken hearts and joys. And He will only have the best or nought, A full and willing price, When the tall towers eternal are upwrought With tears and sacrifice. Our sighs and prayers, the loveliness of loss, The passion and the pain And sharpest nails of every noble cross, Were never borne in vain. That fragrant faith the incense of His courts, Whereon this dim world thrives And hardly gains at length His peaceful ports, Is wrung from bruised lives. Lo, when grim battle rages and is shed A dreadful crimson dew, God is at work and of the gallant dead He maketh man anew. The hero courage, the endurance stout, The self-renouncing will, The shock of onset and the thunder shout That triumph over ill-- All wreak His purpose though at bitter cost And fashion forth His plan, While not a single sob or ache is lost Which in His Breath began. Each act august, which bravely in despite Of suffering dared to be, Is one with the grand order infinite Which sets the kingdoms free. The pleading wound, the piteous eye that opes Again to nought but pangs, Are jewels and sweet pledges of those hopes On which His empire hangs. But if we travail in the furnace hot And feel its blasting ire, He learns with us the anguish of our lot And walketh in the fire. He wills no waste, no burden is too much In the most bitter strife; Beneath the direst buffet is His touch, Who holds the pruning knife. We are redeemed through sorrow, and the thorn That pierces is His kiss, As through the grave of grief we are re-born And out of the abyss. The blood of nations is the precious seed Wherewith He plants our gates And from the victory of the virile deed Spring churches and new states. And they that fall though but a little space Fall only in His hand, And with their lives they pave the fearful place Whereon the pillars stand. God treads no more the winepress of His wrath As once He did alone, He bids us share with Him the perilous path The altar and the throne. When from the iron clash and stormy stress Which mark His wondrous way, Shines forth all haloed round with holiness The rose of perfect day. ENGLAND. BY ELIZA COOK. My heart is pledg'd in wedded faith to England's "Merrie Isle," I love each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile; I'm happy when my steps are free upon the sunny glade, I'm glad and proud amid the crowd that throng its mart of trade; I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her throne, Where every flag that comes 'ere now has lower'd to our own. Look round the globe and tell me can ye find more blazon'd names, Among its cities and its streams, than London and the Thames? My soul is link'd right tenderly to every shady copse, I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant hops; The citron tree or spicy grove for me would never yield, A perfume half so grateful as the lilies of the field. Our songsters too, oh! who shall dare to breathe one slighting word, Their plumage dazzles not--yet say can sweeter strains be heard? Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush, Give me old England's nightingale, its robin, and its thrush. I'd freely rove through Tempe's vale, or scale the giant Alp, Where roses list the bulbul's late, or snow-wreaths crown the scalp; I'd pause to hear soft Venice streams plash back to boatman's oar, Or hearken to the Western flood in wild and falling roar; I'd tread the vast of mountain range, or spot serene and flower'd, I ne'er could see too many of the wonders God has shower'd; Yet though I stood on fairest earth, beneath the bluest heaven, Could I forget _our_ summer sky, _our_ Windermere and Devon? I'd own a brother in the good and brave of any land, Nor would I ask his clime or creed before I gave my hand; Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world may know, And little reck "the place of birth," or colour of the brow; Yet though I hail'd a foreign name among the first and best, Our own transcendent stars of fame would rise within my breast; I'd point to hundreds who have done the most 'ere done by man, And cry "There's England's glory scroll," do better if you can! A SONG FOR AUSTRALIA _GOD BLESS THE DEAR OLD LAND_, BY WILLIAM COX BENNET. A thousand leagues below the line, 'neath southern stars and skies, 'Mid alien seas, a land that's ours, our own new England lies; From north to south, six thousand miles heave white with ocean foam, Between the dear old land we've left and this our new-found home; Yet what though ocean stretch between--though here this hour we stand! Our hearts, thank God! are English still; God bless the dear old land! "To England!" men, a bumper brim; up, brothers, glass in hand! "England!" I give you "England!" boys; "God bless the dear old land!" O what a greatness she makes ours? her past is all our own, And such a past as she can boast, and brothers, she alone; Her mighty ones the night of time triumphant shining through, Of them our sons shall proudly say, "They were our fathers too;" For us her living glory shines that has through ages shone; Let's match it with a kindred blaze, through ages to live on; Thank God! her great free tongue is ours; up brothers, glass in hand! Here's "England," freedom's boast and ours; "God bless the dear old land!" For us, from priests and kings she won rights of such priceless worth As make the races from her sprung the freemen of the earth; Free faith, free thought, free speech, free laws, she won through bitter strife, That we might breathe unfetter'd air and live unshackled life; Her freedom boys, thank God! is ours, and little need she fear, That we'll allow a right she won to die or wither here; Free-born, to her who made us free, up brothers glass in hand! "Hope of the free," here's "England!" boys, "God bless the dear old land!" They say that dangers cloud her way, that despots lour and threat; What matters that? her mighty arm can smite and conquer yet; Let Europe's tyrants all combine, she'll meet them with a smile; Hers are Trafalgar's broadsides still--the hearts that won the Nile: We are but young; we're growing fast; but with what loving pride, In danger's hour, to front the storm, we'll range us at her side; We'll pay the debt we owe her then; up brothers glass in hand! "May God confound her enemies! God bless the dear old land!" THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND. BY ELIZA COOK. The Sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the Isle; The Soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while; But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls, And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals: We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn, To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn; We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land, The ploughshare of old England, and her sturdy peasant band! The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told, We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold: Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there; God speed it well, and let it thrive unshackled everywhere. The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust, But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust. Fill up! fill up! with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land, The ploughshare of old England, and her sturdy peasant band. THE STORY OF ABEL TASMAN. (DISCOVERER OF TASMANIA.) BY FRANCES S. LEWIN. Bold and brave, and strong and stalwart, Captain of a ship was he, And his heart was proudly thrilling With the dreams of chivalry. One fair maiden, sweet though stately, Lingered in his every dream, Touching all his hopes of glory With a brighter, nobler gleam. Daughter of a haughty father, Daughter of an ancient race, Yet her wilful heart surrendered, Conquered by his handsome face; And she spent her days in looking Out across the southern seas, Picturing how his bark was carried Onward by the favouring breeze. Little wonder that she loved him, Abel Tasman brave and tall; Though the wealthy planters sought her, He was dearer than them all. Dearer still, because her father Said to him, with distant pride, "Darest thou, a simple captain, Seek my daughter for thy bride?" But at length the gallant seaman Won himself an honoured name; When again he met the maiden, At her feet he laid his fame: Said to her, "My country sends me, Trusted with a high command, With the 'Zeehan' and the 'Heemskirk,' To explore the southern strand." "I must claim it for my country, Plant her flag upon its shore; But I hope to win you, darling, When the dangerous cruise is o'er." And her haughty sire relenting, Did not care to say him nay: Flushing high with love and valour, Sailed the gallant far away. And the captain, Abel Tasman, Sailing under southern skies, Mingled with his hopes of glory, Thoughts of one with starlight eyes. Onward sailed he, where the crested White waves broke around his ship, With the lovelight in his true eyes, And the song upon his lip. Onward sailed he, ever onward, Faithful as the stars above; Many a cape and headland pointing Tells the legend of his love: For he linked their names together, Speeding swiftly o'er the wave-- Tasman's Isle and Cape Maria, Still they bear the names he gave. Toil and tempest soon were over, And he turned him home again, Seeking her who was his guiding Star across the trackless main. Strange it seems the eager captain Thus should hurry from his prize, When a thousand scenes of wonder Stood revealed before his eyes. But those eyes were always looking, Out toward the Java seas, Where the maid he loved was waiting-- Dearer prize to him than these. But his mission was accomplished, And a new and added gem Sparkled with a wondrous lustre In the Dutch king's diadem. Little did the gallant seaman Think that in the days to be, England's hand should proudly wrest it From his land's supremacy. THE GROOM'S STORY. BY A. CONAN DOYLE. Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true. The big bay 'orse in the further stall--the one wot's next to you. I've seen some better 'orses; I've seldom seen a wuss, But 'e 'olds the bloomin' record, an' that's good enough for us. We knew as it was in 'im. 'E's thoroughbred, three part, We bought 'im for to race 'im, but we found 'e 'ad no 'eart; For 'e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin' dignified, It seemed a kind o' liberty to drive 'im or to ride; For 'e never seemed a-thinkin' of what 'e 'ad to do. But 'is thoughts was set on 'igher things, admirin' of the view. 'E looked a puffect pictur, and a pictur 'e would stay, 'E wouldn't even switch 'is tail to drive the flies away. And yet we knew 'twas in 'im; we knew as 'e could fly; But what we couldn't get at was 'ow to make 'im try. We'd almost turned the job up, until at last one day, We got the last yard out of 'm in a most amazin' way. It was all along o' master; which master 'as the name Of a reg'lar true blue sportsman, an' always acts the same; But we all 'as weaker moments, which master 'e 'ad one, An' 'e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun. I seed it in the stable yard--it fairly turned me sick-- A greasy, wheezy, engine as can neither buck nor kick. You've a screw to drive it forard, and a screw to make it stop, For it was foaled in a smithy stove an' bred in a blacksmith's shop. It didn't want no stable, it didn't ask no groom, It didn't need no nothin' but a bit o' standin' room. Just fill it up with paraffin an' it would go all day, Which the same should be agin the law if I could 'ave my way. Well, master took 'is motor-car, an' moted 'ere an' there, A frightenin' the 'orses an' a poisenin' the air. 'E wore a bloomin' yachtin' cap, but Lor!--what _did_ 'e know, Excep' that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go? An' then one day it wouldn't go. 'E screwed and screwed again But somethin' jammed, an' there 'e stuck in the mud of a country lane. It 'urt 'is pride most cruel, but what was 'e to do? So at last 'e bade me fetch a 'orse to pull the motor through. This was the 'orse we fetched 'im; an' when we reached the car, We braced 'im tight and proper to the middle of the bar, And buckled up 'is traces and lashed them to each side, While 'e 'eld 'is 'ead so 'aughtily, an' looked most dignified. Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed, And 'e seemed to say, "Well, bli' me! wot _will_ they ask me next? I've put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far, To be assistant engine to a crocky motor car!" Well, master, 'e was in the car, a-fiddlin' with the gear, An' the 'orse was meditatin', an' I was standin' near, When master 'e touched somethin'--what it was we'll never know-- But it sort o' spurred the boiler up and made the engine go. "'Old 'ard, old gal!" says master, and "Gently then!" says I, But an engine wont 'eed coaxin' an' it ain't no use to try; So first 'e pulled a lever, an' then 'e turned a screw, But the thing kept crawlin' forrard spite of all that 'e could do. And first it went quite slowly, and the 'orse went also slow, But 'e 'ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to go; For the car kept crowdin' on 'im and buttin' 'im along, An' in less than 'alf a minute, sir, that 'orse was goin' strong. At first 'e walked quite dignified, an' then 'e had to trot, And then 'e tried to canter when the pace became too 'ot. 'E looked 'is very 'aughtiest, as if 'e didn't mind, And all the time the motor-car was pushin' 'im be'ind. Now, master lost 'is 'ead when 'e found 'e couldn't stop, And 'e pulled a valve or somethin' an' somethin' else went pop, An' somethin' else went fizzywig, an' in a flash or less, That blessed car was goin' like a limited express. Master 'eld the steerin' gear, an' kept the road all right, And away they whizzed and clattered--my aunt! it was a sight. 'E seemed the finest draught 'orse as ever lived by far, For all the country Juggins thought 'twas 'im wot pulled the car. 'E was stretchin' like a grey'ound, 'e was goin' all 'e knew, But it bumped an' shoved be'ind 'im, for all that 'e could do; It butted 'im and boosted 'im an' spanked 'im on a'ead, Till 'e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said. Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true. The only time we ever found what that 'ere 'orse could do. Some say it wasn't 'ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss, But 'e broke the ten-mile record, and that's good enough for us. You see that 'orse's tail, sir? You don't! no more do we, Which really ain't surprisin', for 'e 'as no tail to see; That engine wore it off 'im before master made it stop, And all the road was litter'd like a bloomin' barber's shop. And master? Well, it cured 'im. 'E altered from that day, And come back to 'is 'orses in the good old-fashioned way. And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far, Is to 'int as 'ow you think 'e ought to keep a motorcar. THE HARDEST PART I EVER PLAYED. BY RE HENRY. I come of an acting family. We all took to the stage as young ducks take to the water; and though we are none of us geniuses,--yet we got on. My three brothers are at the present time starring, either in the provinces or in America; my two elder sisters, having strutted and fretted their hour upon the stage, are married to respectable City men; I, Sybil Gascoigne, have acted almost as long as I can remember; the little ones, Kate and Dick, are still at school, but when they leave the first thing they do will be to look out for an engagement. I do not think we were ever any of us very much in love with the profession. We took things easily. Of course there were some parts we liked better than others, but we played everything that came in our way--Comedy, Farce, Melodrama. My elder sisters quitted the stage before they had much time to distinguish themselves. They were each in turn, on their marriage, honoured with a paragraph in the principal dramatic papers, but no one said the stage had sustained an irreparable loss, or that the profession was robbed of one of its brightest ornaments. I was following very much in my sisters' footsteps. The critics always spoke well of me. I never got a slating in my life, but then before the criticism was in print I could almost have repeated word for word the phrases that would be used. "Miss Gascoigne was painstaking and intelligent as usual." "The part was safe in the hands of that promising young actress, Sybil Gascoigne." With opinions such as these I was well content. My salary was regularly paid, I could always reckon on a good engagement, and even if my profession failed me there was Jack to fall back upon, and Jack was substantial enough to fall back upon with no risk of hurting oneself. He was six feet two, with broad, square shoulders, and arms--well, when Jack's arms were round you you felt as if you did not want anything else in the world. At least, that is how I felt. Jack ought to have been in the Life Guards, and he would have been only a wealthy uncle offered to do something for him, and of course such an offer was not to be refused, and the "something" turned out to be a clerkship in the uncle's business "with a view to a partnership" as the advertisements say. Now the business was not a pretty or a romantic one--it had something to do with leather--but it was extremely profitable, and as I looked forward to one day sharing all Jack's worldly goods I did not grumble at the leather. Not that Jack had ever yet said a word to me which I could construe into a downright offer. He had looked, certainly, but then with eyes like his there is no knowing what they may imply. They were dark blue eyes, and his hair was bright brown, with a touch of yellow in it, and his moustache was tawny, and his skin was sunburnt to a healthy red. We had been introduced in quite the orthodox way. We had not fallen in love across the footlights. He seldom came to see me act, but sometimes he would drop in to supper, perhaps on his way from a dinner or to a dance, and if I could make him stay with us until it was too late to go to that dance, what a happy girl I used to be! My mother, with the circumspection that belongs to mothers, told me that he was only flirting, and that I had better turn my attention to somebody else. Somebody else! As if any one were worth even looking at after Jack Curtis. I pitied every girl who was not engaged to him. How could my sisters be happy? Resigned, content, they might be; but to be married and done for, and afterwards to meet Jack--well, imagination failed me to depict the awfulness of such a calamity. It was quite time he spoke--there can be no doubt of that; although Jack Curtis was too charming to be bound by the rules which govern ordinary mortals. Still, I could not help feeling uneasy and apprehensive. How could I tell how he carried on at those gay and festive scenes in which I was not included? A proud earl's lovely daughter might be yearning to bestow her hand upon him. A duchess might have marked him for her own. Possibly my jealous fears exaggerated the importance of the society in which he moved, but it seemed to me that if Jack had been bidden to a friendly dinner at Buckingham Palace it was only what might be expected. Well, there came a night when we expected Jack to supper and he appeared not. Only, in his place, a few lines to say that he was going to start at once for his holiday. A friend had just invited him to join him on his yacht. He added in a postscript: "I will write later." He did _not_ write. Hours, days, weeks passed, and not a word did we hear. "It is a break-off," said my mother consolingly. "He had got tired of us all, and he thought this the easiest way of letting us know. I told you there was an understanding between him and Isabel Chisholm--any one could see that with half an eye." I turned away shuddering. "Terrible gales," said my father, rustling the newspaper comfortably in his easy chair. "Great disasters among the shipping. I shouldn't wonder if the yacht young what's-his-name went out in were come to grief." I grew pale, and thin, and dispirited. I knew the ladies of our company made nasty remarks about me. One day I overheard two of them talking. "She never was much of an actress, and now she merely walks through her part. They never had any feeling for art, not one of those Gascoigne girls." No feeling for art! What a low, mean, spiteful, wicked thing to say. And the worst of it was that it was so true. I resolved at once that I would do something desperate. The last piece brought out at our theatre had been a "frost." It had dragged along until the advertisements were able to announce "Fifteenth Night of the Great Realistic Drama." And various scathing paragraphs from the papers were pruned down and weeded till they seemed unstinted praise. Thus: "It was not the fault of the management that the new play was so far from being a triumphant success," was cut down to one modest sentence, "A triumphant success." "A few enthusiastic cheers from personal friends alone broke the ominous silence when the curtain fell," became briefly "Enthusiastic cheers." But nobody was deceived. One week the public were informed that they could book their seats a month in advance; the next that the successful drama had to be withdrawn at the height of its popularity, owing to other arrangements. What the other arrangements were to be our manager was at his wit's end to decide. There only wanted three weeks to the close of the season. Fired with a wild ambition born of suspense and disappointment, I suggested that Shakespeare should fill the breach. "Romeo and Juliet," with me, Sybil Gascoigne, as the heroine. "Pshaw!" said our good-humoured manager, "you do not know what you are talking about. Juliet! You have not the depth, the temperament, the experience for a Juliet. She had more knowledge of life at thirteen than most of our English maids have at thirty. To represent Juliet correctly an actress must have the face and figure of a young girl, with the heart and mind of a woman, and of a woman who has suffered." "And have I not suffered? Do you think because you see me tripping through some foolish, insipid _rôle_ that I am capable of nothing better? Give me a chance and see what I can do." "Oh! bid me leap, rather than marry Paris," I began, and declaimed the speech with such despairing vigour that our manager was impressed. Well, the end of it was that he yielded to my suggestion. It seemed a prosperous time to float a new Juliet. At a neighbouring theatre a lovely foreign actress was playing the part nightly to crowded houses. We might get some of the overflow, or the public would come for the sake of comparing native with imported talent. Oh! the faces of my traducers, who had said, "Those Gascoigne girls have no feeling for art," when it was known that they were out of the bill, and that Sybil Gascoigne was to play Shakespeare. I absolutely forgot Jack for one moment. But the next, my grief, my desolation, were present with me with more acuteness than ever. And I was glad that it was so. Such agony as I was enduring would surely make me play Juliet as it had never been played before. At rehearsals I could see I created a sensation. I felt that I was grand in my hapless love, my desperate grief. I should make myself a name. If Jack were dead or had forsaken me, my art should be all in all. The morning before the all important evening dawned, I had lain awake nearly an hour, as my custom was of nights how, thinking of Jack, wondering if ever woman had so much cause to grieve as I. Then I rose, practised taking the friar's potion, and throwing myself upon the bed, until my mother came up and told me to go to sleep, or my eyes would be red and hollow in the morning. But I told my mother that hollow eyes and pale cheeks were necessary to me now--that my career depended upon the depths of my despair. "To-morrow, mother, let no one disturb me on any account. Keep away letters, newspapers, everything. Tomorrow I am Juliet or nothing." My mother promised, and I got some hours of undisturbed slumber. Rehearsal was over--the last rehearsal. I had gone through my part thinking of my woes. I had swallowed the draught as if it had indeed been a potion to put me out of all remembrance of my misery. I had snatched the dagger and stabbed myself with great satisfaction, and I felt I should at least have the comfort of confounding my enemies and triumphing over them. I was passing Charing Cross Station, delayed by the streams of vehicles issuing forth, when in a hansom at a little distance I saw a form--a face--which made me start and tremble, and turn hot and cold, and red and white, all at the same time. It could not be Jack. It ought not, must not, should not be Jack. Had I not to act in suffering and despair to-night? Well, even if he had returned in safety from his cruise it was without a thought of me in his heart. He was engaged--married--for aught I knew. It was possible, nay, certain, that I should never see him again. And yet I ran all the way home. And yet I told the servant breathlessly--"If any visitors call I do not wish to be disturbed." And yet I made my mother repeat the promise she had given me the previous night. Then I flew to my den at the top of the house; bolted myself in, and set a chair against the door as if I were afraid of anyone making a forcible entry. I stuffed my fingers in my ears, and went over my part with vigour, with more noise even than was absolutely necessary. Still, how strangely I seemed to hear every sound. A hansom passing--no, a hansom drawing up at our house. I went as far from the window as possible. I wedged myself up between the sofa and the wall, and I shut my eyes firmly. Surely there were unaccustomed sounds about, talking and laughing, as if something pleasant had happened. Presently heavy footsteps came bounding up, two steps at a time. Oh! should I have the courage not to answer if it should be Jack? But it was not. Kitty's voice shouted-- "Sybil, Sybil, come down. Here's----" "Kitty, be quiet," I called out furiously. "If you do not hold your tongue, if you do not go away from the door immediately, I'll--I'll shoot you." She went away, and I heard her telling them downstairs that she believed Sybil had gone mad. I waited a little longer,--then I stole to the window. Surely Juliet would not be spoiled by the sight of a visitor leaving the house. But there was no one leaving. Indeed, I saw the prospect of a fresh arrival--Isabel Chisholm was coming up the street in a brand new costume and hat to match. Her fringe was curled to perfection. A tiny veil was arranged coquettishly just above her nose. Flesh and blood could not stand this. Downstairs I darted, without even waiting for a look in the glass. Into the drawing-room I bounced, and there, in his six feet two of comely manliness, stood Jack, my Jack, more bronzed and handsome and loveable than ever. He whom I had been mourning for by turns as dead and faithless, but whom I now knew was neither; for he came towards me with both hands outstretched, and he held mine in such a loving clasp, and he looked at me with eyes which I knew were reading just such another tale as that written on his own face. Then when the knock sounded which heralded Miss Chisholm, he said:-- "Come into another room, Sybil; I have so much to say to you." And in that other room he told me of his adventures and perils, and how through them all he had thought of me and wondered, if he never came back alive, whether I should be sorry, and, if he did come back, whether I would promise to be his darling little wife, very, very soon. But all this, though far more beautiful than poet ever wrote, was not Shakespeare, and I was to act Juliet at night--Juliet the wretched, the heartbroken--while my own spirits were dancing, and my pulses bounding with joy and delight unutterable. Well, I need hardly tell you my Juliet was not a success. I was conscious of tripping about the stage in an airy, elated way, which was allowable only during the earlier scenes; but when I should have been tragic and desperate, I was still brimming over with new found joy. All through Juliet's grand monologue, where she swallows the poison, ran the refrain--"Jack has come home, I am going to marry Jack." I had an awful fear once that I mixed two names a little, and called on Jackimo when I should have said Romeo, and when my speech was over and I lay motionless on the bed, I gave myself up to such delightful thoughts that Capulet or the Friar, I forget which, bending over the couch to assure himself that I was really dead, whispered-- "Keep quiet, you're grinning." I was very glad when the play was over. We often read the reverse side of the picture--of how the clown cracks jokes while his heart is breaking; perhaps his only mother-in-law passing away without his arms to support her. But no one has ever written of the Juliet who goes through terror, suffering, and despair, to the tune of "Jack's returned, I'm going to marry Jack." THE STORY OF MR. KING. BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY. This is the story of Mr. King, American citizen--Phineas K., Whom I met in Orkhanié, far away From freshening cocktail and genial sling. A little man with twinkling eyes, And a nose like a hawk's, and lips drawn thin, And a little imperial stuck on his chin, And about him always a cheerful grin, Dashed with a comic and quaint surprise. That very night a loot of wine Made correspondents and doctors glad, And the little man, unask'd to dine, Sat down and shar'd in all we had. For none said nay, this ready hand Reach'd after pillau, and fowl, and drink, And he toss'd off his liquor without a wink, And wielded a knife like a warrior's brand. With a buccaneering, swaggering look He sang his song, and he crack'd his jest, And he bullied the waiter and curs'd the cook With a charming self-approving zest. We wanted doctors: he was a doctor; Had we wanted a prince it had been the same. Admiral, general, cobbler, proctor-- A man may be anything. What's in a name? The wounded were dying, the dead lay thick In the hospital beds beside the quick. Any man with a steady nerve And a ready hand, who knew how to obey, In those stern times might well deserve His fifty piastres daily pay. So Mr. King, as assistant surgeon, Bandaged, and dosed, and nursed, and dressed, And worked, as he ate and drank, with zest, Until he began to blossom and burgeon To redness of features and fulness of cheek, And his starven hands grew plump and sleek. But for all sign of wealth he wore He swaggered neither less nor more. He talked the stuff he talked before, And bragged as he had bragged of yore, With his Yankee chaff and his Yankee slang, And his Yankee bounce and his Yankee twang. And, to tell the truth, we all held clear Of the impudent little adventurer; And any man with an eye might see That, though he bore it merrily, He recognised the tacit scorn Which dwelt about him night and morn. The Turks fought well, as most men fight For life and faith, and hearth and home. But, from Teliche and Etrepol, left and right, The Muscov swirled, like the swirling foam On the rack of a tempest driven sea. And foot by foot staunch Mehemit Ali Was driven along the Lojan valley, Till he sat his battered forces down Just northward of the little town, And waited on war's destiny. War's destiny came, and line by line His forces broke and fled. And for three days in Orkhanié town The arabas went up and down With loads of dying and dead; Till at last in a rush of panic fear, The hardest bitten warriors there Turn'd with the cowardly Bazouk And the vile Tchircasse and forsook The final fort, in headlong flight, For near Kamirli's sheltering height; While through the darkness of the night The cannon belched their hate Against the flying crowd; and far And near the soldiers of the Tsar Pour'd onward towards the spoil of war In haste precipitate. And the little adventurer sat in a shed With one woman dying, and one woman dead. Nothing he knew of the late defeat, Nothing of Mehemit's enforced retreat; For he spoke no word of the Turkish tongue, And had seen no Englishman all day long. So he sat there, calm, with a flask of rum, And a cigarette 'twixt finger and thumb, Tranquilly smoking, and watching the smoke, And probably hatching some stupid joke, When in at the door, without a word, Burst a Circassian, hand on sword. And the sword leapt out of its sheath, as a flame Breaks from the coals when the fire is stirred. And Mr. King, with a "What's _your_ game?" Faced the Tchircasse with the wild-beast eyes. "Naow, what do you want?" said Mr. King. Quoth the savage, in English, "The woman dies!" "Waat," said the impostor, "you'll take your fling, At least in the first case, along of a son Of Columbia, daughter of Albion." The Tchircasse moved to the side of the bed. A distaff was leaning against the wall, And Mr. King, with arms at length, Gave it a swing, with all his strength, And crashed it full at the villain's head, And dropped him, pistols and daggers and all. Then sword in hand, he raged through the door, And there were three hundred savages more, All hungry for murder, and loot, and worse! Mr. King bore down with an oath and a curse, Bore down on the chief with the slain man's sword He saw at a glance the state of the case; He knew without need of a single word That the Turk had flown and the Russ was near, And the Tchircasse held _his_ midday revel; So he laid himself out to curse and swear, And he raged like an eloquent devil. They listen'd, in a mute surprise, Amaz'd that any single man should dare Harangue an armed crowd with such an air, And such commanding anger in his eyes; Till, thinking him at least an English lord, The Tchircasse leader lower'd his sword, Spoke a few words in his own tongue, and bow'd, And slowly rode away with all his men. Then Mr. King turn'd to his task again: Sought a rough araba with bullocks twain; Haled up the unwilling brutes with might and main, Laid the poor wounded woman gently down, And calmly drove her from the rescued town! And Mr. King, when we heard the story, Was a little abash'd by the hero's glory; And, "Look you here, you boys; you may laff But I ain't the man to start at chaff. I know without any jaw from you, 'Twas a darned nonsensical thing to do; But I tell you plain--and I mean it, too-- For all it was such a ridiculous thing, I should do it again!" said Mr. King. THE ART OF "POETRY." FROM "TOWN TOPICS." I ask not much! but let th' "dank wynd" moan, "Shimmer th' woold" and "rive the wanton surge;" I ask not much; grant but an "eery drone," Some "wilding frondage" and a "bosky dirge;" Grant me but these, and add a regal flush Of "sundered hearts upreared upon a byre;" Throw in some yearnings and a "darksome hush," And--asking nothing more--I'll smite th' lyre. Yea, I will smite th' falt'ring, quiv'ring strings, And magazines shall buy my murky stunts; Too long I've held my hand to honest things, Too long I've borne rejections and affronts; Now will I be profound and recondite, Yea, working all th' symbols and th' "props;" Now will I write of "morn" and "yesternight;" Now will I gush great gobs of soulful slops. Yea, I will smite! Grant me but "swerveless wynd," And I will pipe a cadence rife with thrills; With "nearness" and "foreverness" I'll bind A "downflung sheaf" of outslants, pæans and trills; Pass me th' "quenchless gleam of Titian hair," And eke th' "oozing forest's woozy clumps;" Now will I go upon a metric tear And smite th' lyre with great resounding thumps. THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. W. M. THACKERAY. The noble King of Brentford Was old and very sick, He summon'd his physicians To wait upon him quick: They stepp'd into their coaches And brought their best physick. They cramm'd their gracious master With potion and with pill; They drenched him and they bled him: They could not cure his ill. "Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer; I'd better make my will." The monarch's Royal mandate The lawyer did obey; The thought of six-and-eightpence Did make his heart full gay. "What is't," says he, "your Majesty Would wish of me to-day?" "The doctors have belabour'd me With potion and with pill: My hours of life are counted, O man of tape and quill! Sit down and mend a pen or two; I want to make my will. "O'er all the land of Brentford I'm lord, and eke of Kew: I've three-per-cents and five-per-cents; My debts are but a few; And to inherit after me I have but children two. "Prince Thomas is my eldest son; A sober prince is he, And from the day we breech'd him Till now--he's twenty-three-- He never caused disquiet To his poor mamma or me. "At school they never flogg'd him; At college, though not fast, Yet his little-go and great-go He creditably pass'd, And made his year's allowance For eighteen months to last. "He never owed a shilling, Went never drunk to bed, He has not two ideas Within his honest head-- In all respects he differs From my second son, Prince Ned. "When Tom has half his income Laid by at the year's end, Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver That rightly he may spend, But sponges on a tradesman, Or borrows from a friend. "While Tom his legal studies Most soberly pursues, Poor Ned must pass his mornings A-dawdling with the Muse: While Tom frequents his banker, Young Ned frequents the Jews. "Ned drives about in buggies, Tom sometimes takes a 'bus; Ah, cruel fate, why made you My children differ thus? Why make of Tom a _dullard_, And Ned a _genius_?' "You'll cut him with a shilling," Exclaimed the man of writs: "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, "Sir Lawyer, as befits, And portion both their fortunes Unto their several wits." "Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said; "On your commands I wait." "Be silent, sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate! Come take your pen and paper, And write as I dictate." The will as Brentford spoke it Was writ and signed and closed; He bade the lawyer leave him, And turn'd him round and dozed; And next week in the churchyard The good old King reposed. Tom, dressed in crape and hatband, Of mourners was the chief; In bitter self-upbraidings Poor Edward showed his grief: Tom hid his fat white countenance In his pocket-handkerchief. Ned's eyes were full of weeping, He falter'd in his walk; Tom never shed a tear, But onwards he did stalk, As pompous, black, and solemn As any catafalque. And when the bones of Brentford-- That gentle King and just-- With bell and book and candle Were duly laid in dust, "Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, "Let business be discussed. "When late our sire beloved Was taken deadly ill, Sir Lawyer, you attended him (I mean to tax your bill); And, as you signed and wrote it, I prithee read the will" The lawyer wiped his spectacles, And drew the parchment out; And all the Brentford family Sat eager round about: Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, But Tom had ne'er a doubt. "My son, as I make ready To seek my last long home, Some cares I have for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom: Sobriety and order You ne'er departed from. "Ned hath a brilliant genius, And thou a plodding brain; On thee I think with pleasure, On him with doubt and pain." ("You see, good Ned," says Thomas, "What he thought about us twain.") "Though small was your allowance, You saved a little store; And those who save a little Shall get a plenty more." As the lawyer read this compliment, Tom's eyes were running o'er. "The tortoise and the hare, Tom, Set out at each his pace; The hare it was the fleeter, The tortoise won the race; And since the world's beginning This ever was the case. "Ned's genius, blithe and singing, Steps gaily o'er the ground; As steadily you trudge it, He clears it with a bound; But dulness has stout legs, Tom, And wind that's wondrous sound. "O'er fruit and flowers alike, Tom, You pass with plodding feet; You heed not one nor t'other, But onwards go your beat; While genius stops to loiter With all that he may meet; "And ever as he wanders, Will have a pretext fine For sleeping in the morning, Or loitering to dine, Or dozing in the shade, Or basking in the shine. "Your little steady eyes, Tom, Though not so bright as those That restless round about him His flashing genius throws, Are excellently suited To look before your nose. "Thank Heaven, then, for the blinkers It placed before your eyes; The stupidest are strongest, The witty are not wise; Oh, bless your good stupidity! It is your dearest prize. "And though my lands are wide, And plenty is my gold, Still better gifts from Nature, My Thomas, do you hold-- A brain that's thick and heavy, A heart that's dull and cold. "Too dull to feel depression, Too hard to heed distress, Too cold to yield to passion Or silly tenderness. March on--your road is open To wealth, Tom, and success. "Ned sinneth in extravagance, And you in greedy lust." ("I' faith," says Ned, "our father Is less polite than just.") "In you, son Tom, I've confidence, But Ned I cannot trust. "Wherefore my lease and copyholds, My lands and tenements, My parks, my farms, and orchards, My houses and my rents, My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock, My five and three per cents, "I leave to you, my Thomas"-- ("What, all?" poor Edward said, "Well, well, I should have spent them, And Tom's a prudent head ")-- "I leave to you, my Thomas,-- To you IN TRUST for Ned." The wrath and consternation What poet e'er could trace That at this fatal passage Came o'er Prince Tom his face; The wonder of the company, And honest Ned's amaze? "'Tis surely some mistake," Good-naturedly cries Ned; The lawyer answered gravely, "'Tis even as I said; 'Twas thus his gracious Majesty Ordain'd on his death-bed. "See, here the will is witness'd And here's his autograph." "In truth, our father's writing," Says Edward with a laugh; "But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom; We'll share it half and half." "Alas! my kind young gentleman, This sharing cannot be; 'Tis written in the testament That Brentford spoke to me, 'I do forbid Prince Ned to give Prince Tom a halfpenny. "'He hath a store of money, But ne'er was known to lend it; He never helped his brother; The poor he ne'er befriended; He hath no need of property Who knows not how to spend it. "'Poor Edward knows but how to spend, And thrifty Tom to hoard; Let Thomas be the steward then, And Edward be the lord; And as the honest labourer Is worthy his reward, "'I pray Prince Ned, my second son, And my successor dear, To pay to his intendant Five hundred pounds a year; And to think of his old father, And live and make good cheer.'" Such was old Brentford's honest testament. He did devise his moneys for the best, And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest. Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent; But his good sire was wrong, it is confess'd, To say his son, young Thomas, never lent. He did. Young Thomas lent at interest, And nobly took his twenty-five per cent. Long time the famous reign of Ned endured O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew, But of extravagance he ne'er was cured. And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'Twas commonly reported that the steward Was very much the richer of the two. UNIVERSALLY RESPECTED. BY J. BRUNTON STEPHENS. I. Biggs was missing: Biggs had vanished; all the town was in a ferment; For if ever man was looked to for an edifying end, With due mortuary outfit, and a popular interment, It was Biggs, the universal guide, philosopher, and friend. But the man had simply vanished; speculation wove no tissue That would hold a drop of water; each new theory fell flat. It was most unsatisfactory, and hanging on the issue Were a thousand wagers ranging from a pony to a hat. Not a trace could search discover in the township or without it, And the river had been dragged from morn till night with no avail. His continuity had ceased, and that was all about it, And there wasn't ev'n a grease-spot left behind to tell the tale. That so staid a man as Biggs was should be swallowed up in mystery Lent an increment to wonder--he who trod no doubtful paths, But stood square to his surroundings, with no cloud upon his history, As the much-respected lessee of the Corporation Baths. His affairs were all in order; since the year the alligator With a startled river bather made attempt to coalesce, The resulting wave of decency had greater grown and greater, And the Corporation Baths had been a marvellous success. Nor could trouble in the household solve the riddle of his clearance, For his bride was now in heaven, and the issue of the match Was a patient drudge whose virtues were as plain as her appearance-- Just the sort whereto no scandal could conceivably attach. So the Whither and the Why alike mysterious were counted; And as Faith steps in to aid where baffled Reason must retire, There were those averred so good a man as Biggs might well have mounted Up to glory like Elijah in a chariot of fire! For indeed he was a good man; when he sat beside the portal Of the Bath-house at his pigeon-hole, a saint within a frame, We used to think his face was as the face of an immortal, As he handed us our tickets, and took payment for the same. And, Oh, the sweet advice with which he made of such occasion A duplicate detergent for our morals and our limbs-- For he taught us that decorum was the essence of salvation, And that cleanliness and godliness were merely synonyms; But that open-air ablution in the river was a treason To the purer instincts, fit for dogs and aborigines, And that wrath at such misconduct was the providential reason For the jaws of alligators and the tails of stingarees. But, alas, our friend was gone, our guide, philosopher, and tutor, And we doubled our potations, just to clear the inner view; But we only saw the darklier through the bottom of the pewter, And the mystery seemed likewise to be multiplied by two. And the worst was that our failure to unriddle the enigma In the "rags" of rival towns was made a byword and a scoff, Till each soul in the community felt branded with the stigma Of the unexplained suspicion of poor Biggs's taking off. So a dozen of us rose and swore this thing should be no longer: Though the means that Nature furnished had been tried without result, There were forces supersensual that higher were and stronger, And with consentaneous clamour we pronounced for the occult. Then Joe Thomson slung a tenner, and Jack Robinson a tanner, And each according to his means respectively disbursed; And a letter in your humble servant's most seductive manner Was despatched to Sludge the Medium, recently of Darlinghurst. II. "I am Biggs," the spirit said ('twas through the medium's lips he said it; But the voice that spoke, the accent, too, were Biggs's very own, Be it, therefore, not set down to our unmerited discredit, That collectively we sickened as we recognised the tone). "From a saurian interior, Christian friends, I now address you"-- (And "Oh heaven!" or its correlative, groaned shuddering we)-- "While there yet remains a scrap of my identity, for, bless you, This ungodly alligator's fast assimilating me. "For although through nine abysmal days I've fought with his digestion, Being hostile to his processes and loth to pulpify, It is rapidly becoming a most complicated question How much of me is crocodile, how much of him is I. "And, Oh, my friends, 'tis sorrow's crown of sorrow to remember That this sacrilegious reptile owed me nought but gratitude, For I bought him from a showman twenty years since come November, And I dropped him in the river for his own and others' good. "It had grieved me that the spouses of our townsmen, and their daughters, Should be shocked by river bathers and their indecorous ways, So I cast my bread, that is, my alligator, on the waters, And I found it, in a credit balance, after many days. "Years I waited, but at last there came the rumour long-expected, And the out-of-door ablutionists forsook their wicked paths, And the issues of my handiwork divinely were directed In a constant flow of custom to the Corporation Baths. "'Twas a weakling when I bought it; 'twas so young that you could pet it; But with all its disadvantages I reckoned it would do; And it did: Oh, lay the moral well to heart and don't forget it-- Put decorum first, and all things shall be added unto you. "Lies! all lies! I've done with virtue. Why should _I_ be interested In the cause of moral progress that I served so long in vain, When the fifteen hundred odd I've so judiciously invested Will but go to pay the debts of some young rip who marries Jane? "But the reptile overcomes me; my identity is sinking; Let me hasten to the finish; let my words be few and fit. I was walking by the river in the starry silence, thinking Of what Providence had done for me, and I had done for it; "I had reached the saurian's rumoured haunt, where oft in fatal folly I had dropped garotted dogs to keep his carnal craving up" (Said Joe Thomson, in a whisper, "That explains my Highland colley!" Said Bob Williams, _sotto voce_, "That explains my Dandy pup!"). "I had passed to moral questions, and found comfort in the notion That fools are none the worse for things not being what they seem, When, behold, a seeming log became instinct with life and motion, And with sudden curvature of tail upset me in the stream. "Then my leg, as in a vice"--but here the revelation faltered, And the medium rose and shook himself, remarking with a smile That the requisite conditions were irrevocably altered, For the personality of Biggs was lost in crocodile. Now, whether Sludge's story would succeed in holding water Is more, perhaps, than one has any business to suspect; But I know that on the strength of it I married Biggs's daughter, And I found a certain portion of the narrative correct. THE AMENITIES OF SHOPPING. BY LEOPOLD WAGNER. If there is one thing I do dislike, it is to go into a draper's shop. To my mind, it is not a man's business at all; it is one essentially feminine. I have never been able to reconcile, myself to the troublesome formalities one has to go through in these marts of female finery; there seems to be no such thing as to pop inside for a trifling article, lay down your money for it, and get away again. No; the system of trade pursued at such establishments is undoubtedly to get you to sit down, with leisure to look about you, and coax you into buying things you don't want. Years ago, when I was living in lonely lodgings, I had occasion one Saturday night to slip into the nearest draper's shop for some pins. "I only want a farthing's worth of pins," I observed, apologetically, to the bald-headed shopwalker who pounced down upon me. "Please to step this way." To my astonishment he marched me to the extreme end of the shop, thence through an opening in the side wall, past another long double row of dames and damsels of all sorts and sizes making purchases, and finally referred me to a young lady whose special function in life seemed to consist in selling pins to adventurous young gentlemen like myself. She was an extremely good looking young lady too, and I felt considerably embarrassed at the insignificance of my purchase. "And the next thing, please?" she asked, during the wrapping-up process. I informed her, as politely as I could, that I did not require anything more. "Gloves, handkerchiefs, collars, shirts, neckties--?" "No thank you," I returned, "I only came in for the pins." But I was not to be let off so easily. Utterly ignoring the humble penny that I had laid down on the counter, she showed me samples of almost everything in the shop suitable for male wear. Blushing to the roots of my hair, I implored her to spare herself further trouble, as my wardrobe was already extensive. Then she showed me a sample silk umbrella. I was unwilling to rush away abruptly from the presence of such a charming young lady, but she provoked me to it; indeed, I was only prevented from carrying out my design by my failure to discern the hole in the wall through which I had been inveigled into that department. "If you would be so good as to give me my change," I stammered out, feeling heartily ashamed at the thought of wanting the change at all. "Certainly sir." Then she proceeded to make out the bill. "Oh, never mind about the bill," I said, "I'm rather in a hurry." Of this appeal she took no notice. "Sign, please," she said to the young lady at her elbow. "Pins, one farthing," she added to my utter confusion. The second young lady made a wild flourish over the bill with her pencil and turned away. My fair tormentor slowly wrapped my penny in the bill, screwed up the whole inside a large wooden ball, jerked a dangling cord at her elbow, then stood looking me straight in the face as the ball went rolling along a set of tramway lines over our heads to the other end of the shop. That was the most melancholy game at skittles I ever took part in. It seemed an age before the ball came back to us, whereupon the young lady took out the bill and my change--a halfpenny. "We haven't a farthing in the place," she said innocently, "What else will you take for it?" "Oh, it doesn't matter at all," I returned, anxious only to rush away from the spot--which I did. It was a good quarter-of-an-hour before I gained the street. During that interval, I strayed into the carpet department, upset an old lady, fell sprawling over a chair, rushed into the arms of the shopwalker, knocked down a huge stack of flannels, trod on some unfortunate young fellow's corn, making him howl with pain, and last, not least, ran foul of a perambulator laden with a baby and the usual Saturday night's marketing in the doorway. I entered that shop full of hope and promise; I left it a melancholy man. Though not quite so exciting as the foregoing, there is an intimate connection between that incident and the one I shall now dwell upon. Let me tell the tale as I told it to my wife. The other day I brought home a neat little Japanese basket--a mere knick-knack, costing only twopence. "Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed my wife. "Wherever did you get this?" "I bought it at a large shop in Regent Street," I answered, "but it cost me a great deal of trouble to get it." Pressed for particulars, I continued: "I was amusing myself by looking at the shops, when I saw a lot of these little Japanese baskets in the corner of a large window, plainly marked twopence each. So I stepped inside to buy one. The door was promptly opened for me by a black boy, resplendent in gold-faced livery. He made me a profound salaam, as a gentleman of aristocratic bearing came forward to meet me. 'And what may I have the pleasure of showing you?' he inquired. 'Oh!' I returned, not without some misgivings, 'I only want one of those little Japanese baskets which you have in one corner of the window, marked, I believe, twopence each.' 'Certainly, sir. Will you be so kind as to step into this department?' he said. "Meekly I followed him through long avenues of silks, damasks, brocades, and other costly examples of Oriental luxury in all the tints of the rainbow. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable at the thought of causing him so much trouble, when he paused at the entrance to another department, and called out, 'Japanese baskets, please.' Then turning to me, he said, 'If you will be good enough to step forward, they will be most happy to serve you.' I did so, and found myself on the threshold of an Eastern bazaar. Another nobleman now took me in hand. 'And what may I have the pleasure----' he began, making a courteous bow. 'I only want one of those little Japanese baskets which you have in a corner of your window, marked, I believe, twopence each--or, possibly, they may be two shillings?' I said in a shaky voice. 'No, sir, quite right--they are twopence each,' he replied, to my great relief; for I had begun to suspect they might be two guineas. 'Will you do me the favour to step this way?' While following at his side, I asked myself whether, at the end of my travels, I should ever be able to find my way back again; so bewildering were the ramifications through which we passed. Presently he handed me over to another nobleman, who, having learned my pleasure (which by this time had developed rather painful tendencies), graciously escorted me to the further end of a long counter, and begged me to take a chair. A stylishly-dressed young lady sailed towards us behind the counter. 'I shall feel extremely obliged,' said the nobleman to her, 'If you will be so good as to request Miss Doubleyou to step down, and serve this gentleman. 'Yes, sir,' answered the young lady, as she vanished somewhere behind me; for my eyes were now following the retreating figure of the nobleman. After a little while I heard a pattering of feet, and, looking round, beheld some tokens of a young lady descending a spiral staircase. She was behind the counter the next moment and then I made a discovery. It was the same young lady who had served me with the farthing's worth of pins years before! I recognised her at once, and I suspect the recognition was mutual. But, of course, she never betrayed the least emotion.'And what article may I have the pleasure to serve you with?' she asked, m the still small voice of a duchess. There was a gulping sensation in my throat as I answered, 'You have, I believe, in one corner of one of your windows a number of little Japanese baskets, marked, if my eyes did not deceive me, twopence each. (The graceful nod of her head was reassuring.) I should be very glad to become the possessor of one of those articles.' 'Certainly, sir, I'll bring it to you,' she answered. 'Oh, thank you!' I returned, delighted at the prospect; and so she departed on her errand of mercy. "Whether, by the rules of the establishment, it was necessary for her to obtain a written permission from each of those three noblemen to pass over their territory and invade the shop window, or whether she lost herself in the numerous windings and turnings through which I had been conducted in perfect safety, I cannot say; I only know that she was gone a very long time. But when at last she made her reappearance with one of those little Japanese baskets in her hand, and beaming with smiles, I felt I owed her an everlasting debt of gratitude. She did not ask me if there was any other article she could have the pleasure of showing me; she had asked me that before and she remembered that I was proof against her persuasiveness! The fair creature simply made a movement towards the spiral staircase, as I thought, to fetch down a witness to the important transaction, until my eyes rested on some tissue paper. 'Pray don't stay to wrap it up,' I exclaimed, 'my pockets are ample,' and my thanks were profuse. Seizing the coveted treasure, I laid my twopence down on the counter and walked straight forward in a contrary direction to that by which I had entered, gladdened by the prospect that I was making direct for the street. If anyone had arrested my progress for the sake of further formalities, I should unquestionably have knocked them down. But everyone must have seen the glare of defiant desperation flashing from my restless eyes and no one dared to bar my egress. As I emerged from that shop into Regent Street, I felt as exhausted as if I had just bought a grand piano or a suite of furniture. 'Really,' I said to my wife in conclusion, 'if I could have foreseen all the trouble in store for me over buying this little Japanese basket, price twopence, it would have been still reposing with its companions in the corner of that magnificent shop window in Regent Street.'" She promised to prize it all the more on that account. And now, when I look at that little Japanese basket, my mind wanders back to the farthing's worth of pins I purchased in my old bachelor days. SHAMUS O'BRIEN: A TALE OF '98. BY J. SHERIDAN LE FANU. Jist afther the war, in the year '98, As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate, 'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got, To hang him by thrial--barrin' sich as was shot.-- There was trial by jury goin' on in the light, And martial-law hangin' the lavins by night It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon: If he got past the judges--he'd meet a dragoon; An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sintance, The divil an hour they gev for repintance. An' it's many's the boy that was then on his keepin', Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin'; An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned for to sell it, A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet-- Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day, With the _heath_ for their _barrack, revenge_ for their _pay_. The bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all, Was Shamus O'Brien, o' the town iv Glingall. His limbs were well-set, an' his body was light, An' the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so white. But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, And his cheeks never warmed with the blush of the red; But for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye, For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye, So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright, Like a fire-flash crossing the depth of the night; He was the best mower that ever was seen, The handsomest hurler that ever has been. An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare, An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare; Be gorra, the whole world gev in to him there. An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught, An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought, An' it's many the one can remember right well The quare things he done: an' it's often heerd tell How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin' four, An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore.-- But the fox _must_ sleep sometimes, the wild deer _must_ rest, An' treachery play on the blood iv the best.-- Afther many brave actions of power and pride, An' many a hard night on the bleak mountain's side, An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast, In the darkness of night he was taken at last. Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon, For the door of the prison must close on you soon, An' take your last look on her dim lovely light, That falls on the mountain and valley this night;-- One look at the village, one look at the flood, An' one at the sheltering, far-distant wood. Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill, An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still; Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake, And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake.-- An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail, An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail; The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands wor bound, An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison ground. An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him there, As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air; An' happy rememberances crowding on ever, As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the river, Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by, Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart Would not suffer _one_ drop down his pale cheek to start; Then he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave, An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave, By the hopes of the good, an' the cause of the brave, That when he was mouldering low in the grave His enemies never should have it to boast His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost; His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry, For, undaunted he _lived_, and undaunted he'd _die_. Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone, The terrible day iv the thrial kem on; There _was sich_ a crowd there was scarce room to stand, The sodgers on guard, the dhragoons sword-in-hand. An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered. Attorneys an' criers were just upon smothered; An' counsellers almost gev over for dead. The jury sat up in their box overhead; An' the judge on the bench so detarmined an' big, With his gown on his back, and an illigent wig; Then silence was called, and the minute 'twas said The court was as still as the heart of the dead, An' they heard but the turn of a key in a lock,-- An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.-- For a minute he turned his eye round on the throng, An' he looked at the irons, so firm and so strong, An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, A chance of escape, nor a word to defend; Then he folded his arms as he stood there alone, As calm and as cold as a statue of stone; And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste, An' Jim didn't hear it, nor mind it a taste, An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, "Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?" An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread As Shamus O'Brien made answer and said: "My lord, if you ask me, if ever a time I have thought any treason, or done any crime That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow, Before God and the world I would answer you, _No!_' But--if you would ask me, as I think it like, If in the rebellion I carried a pike, An' fought for me counthry from op'ning to close, An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, I answer you, _Yes_; and I tell you again, Though I stand here to perish, I glory that _then_ In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry, An' that _now_ for _her_ sake I am ready to die." Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light; By my sowl, it's himself was a crabbed ould chap! In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by, Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry: "O, judge! darlin', don't, O, O, don't say the word! The crathur is young, O, have mercy, my lord; He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';-- You don't know him, my lord--don't give him to ruin!-- He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted;-- Don't part us for ever, that's been so long parted. Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord, An' God will forgive you--O, don't say the word!" That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken, When he saw he was not quite forgot or forsaken; An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother, The big tears kem runnin' one afther th' other; An' two or three times he endeavoured to spake, But the sthrong manly voice seem'd to falther and break; But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride, He conquered and masthered his griefs swelling tide, "An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart For, sooner or later, the dearest _must_ part; And God knows it's betther than wandering in fear On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer, To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast From labour, and sorrow, for ever shall rest. Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour; For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven, No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!" Then facin' the judge Shamus bent down his head, An' that minute the solemn death-sintance was said. The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;-- But why are the men standin' idle so late? An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street? What come they to talk of? what come they to see? An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?-- O, Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast, May the saints take your soul, for _this_ day is your _last_; Pray fast, an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh, When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die.-- An' fasther an' fasther, the crowd gathered there, Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair; An' whisky was sellin', an' cussamuck too, An' the men and the women enjoying the view. An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark, There was no sich a sight since the time of Noah's ark; An' be gorra, 'twas thrue too, for never sich scruge, Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge. For thousands were gathered there, if there was one, All waitin' such time as the hangin' kem on. At last they threw open the big prison-gate, An' out came the sheriffs an' sodgers in state, An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it, Not _paler_, but _prouder_ than ever, that minute, An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, Wid prayin' an' blessin', and all the girls cryin', The wild wailin' sound it kem on by degrees, Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees. On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on; At every side swellin' around of the cart, A sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand; An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, An' Shamus O'Brien throws one look around. Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill, An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare, For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to prepare; An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer. But the priest has done _more_, for his hands he unbound, And with one daring spring Jim has leaped to the ground; Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash goes the sabres; He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him, neighbours. Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,-- By heaven he's free!--than thunder more loud, By one _shout_ from the people the heavens were shaken-- _One_ shout that the dead of the world might awaken. Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang; To-night he'll be sleeping in Atherloe Glin, An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.-- The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat; An' the sheriffs were both of them punished severely, An' fined like the divil for bein' done fairly. HOME, SWEET HOME. BY WILLIAM THOMSON. Sawtan i' the law court Wis once, sae I've heard tell-- "Oh! but hame is hamely!" Quo' Sawtan to himsel.' THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. BY W.M. THACKERAY. In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pairs of stairs. To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd), Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa, that basks by the fire; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn: 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best: For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair. If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms! I look'd and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair; I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair. It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair. And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair. When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, In the silence of night as I sit here alone-- I sit here, alone, but we yet are a pair-- My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair. She comes from the past and revisits my room; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair. THE ALMA. September 20th, 1854. BY WILLIAM C. BENNET. Yes--clash, ye pealing steeples! Ye grim-mouthed cannon, roar! Tell what each heart is feeling, From shore to throbbing shore! What every shouting city, What every home would say, The triumph and the rapture That swell our hearts to-day. And did they say, O England, That now thy blood was cold, That from thee had departed The might thou hadst of old! Tell them no deed more stirring Than this thy sons have done, Than this, no nobler triumph, Their conquering arms have won. The mighty fleet bore seaward; We hushed our hearts in fear, In awe of what each moment Might utter to our ear; For the air grew thick with murmurs That stilled the hearer's breath, With sounds that told of battle, Of victory and of death. We knew they could but conquer; O fearless hearts, we knew The name and fame of England Could but be safe with you. We knew no ranks more dauntless The rush of bayonets bore, Through all Spain's fields of carnage, Or thine, Ferozepore. O red day of the Alma! O when thy tale was heard, How was the heart of England With pride and gladness stirred! How did our peopled cities All else forget, to tell Ye living, how ye conquered, And how, O dead, ye fell. Glory to those who led you! Glory to those they led! Fame to the dauntless living! Fame to the peaceful dead! Honour, for ever, honour To those whose bloody swords Struck back the baffled despot, And smote to flight his hordes! On, with your fierce burst onward! On, sweep the foe before, Till the great sea-hold's volleys Roll through the ghastly roar! Till your resistless onset The mighty fortress know, And storm-won fort and rampart Your conquering standards show. Yes--clash, ye bells, in triumph! Yes--roar, ye cannon, roar! Not for the living only, But for those who come no more. For the brave hearts coldly lying In their far-off gory graves, By the Alma's reddened waters, And the Euxine's dashing waves. For thee, thou weeping mother, We grieve; our pity hears Thy wail, O wife; the fallen, For them we have no tears; No--but with pride we name them, For grief their memory wrongs; Our proudest thoughts shall claim them, And our exalting songs. Heights of the rocky Alma, The flags that scaled you bore "Plassey," "Quebec," and "Blenheim," And many a triumph more; And they shall show your glory Till men shall silent be, Of Waterloo and Maida Moultan and Meanee. I look; another glory Methinks they give to fame; By Badajoz and Bhurtpoor Streams out another name; From captured fleet and city, And fort, the thick clouds roll, And on the flags above them Is writ "Sebastopol." THE MAMELUKE CHARGE. BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. Let the Arab courser go Headlong on the silent foe; Their plumes may shine like mountain snow, Like fire their iron tubes may glow, Their cannon death on death may throw, Their pomp, their pride, their strength, we know, But--let the Arab courser go. The Arab horse is free and bold, His blood is noble from of old, Through dams, and sires, many a one, Up to the steed of Solomon. He needs no spur to rouse his ire, His limbs of beauty never tire, Then, give the Arab horse the rein, And their dark squares will close in vain. Though loud the death-shot peal, and louder, He will only neigh the prouder; Though nigh the death-flash glare, and nigher, He will face the storm of fire; He will leap the mound of slain, Only let him have the rein. The Arab horse will not shrink back, Though death confront him in his track, The Arab horse will not shrink back, And shall his rider's arm be slack? No!--By the God who gave us life, Our souls are ready for the strife. We need no serried lines, to show A gallant bearing to the foe. We need no trumpet to awake The thirst, which blood alone can slake. What is it that can stop our course, Free riders of the Arab horse? Go--brave the desert wind of fire; Go--beard the lightning's look of ire; Drive back the ravening flames, which leap In thunder from the mountain steep; But dream not, men of fifes and drums, To stop the Arab when he comes: Not tides of fire, not walls of rock, Could shield you from that earthquake shock. Come, brethren, come, too long we stay, The shades of night have rolled away, Too fast the golden moments fleet, Charge, ere another pulse has beat; Charge--like the tiger on the fawn-- Before another breath is drawn. MY LADY'S LEAP. BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN. My lady's leap! that's it, sir,-- That's what we call it 'ere;-- It's a nasty jump for a man, sir, Let alone for a woman to clear. D'ye see the fencing around it? And the cross as folk can tell, That this is the very spot, sir, Where her sweet young ladyship fell? I've lived in his lordship's family For goin' on forty year. And the tears will come a wellin' Whenever I think of her; For my mem'ry takes me backwards To the days when by my side She would sit in her tiny saddle As I taught her the way to ride. But she didn't want much teachin';-- Lor' bless ye, afore she was eight There wasn't a fence in the county Nor ever a five-barred gate But what she'd leap, aye, and laugh at. I think now I hear the ring Of her voice, shouting, "Now then, lassie!" As over a ditch she'd spring. How proud I was of my mistress, When round the country-side I'd hear folks talking of her, sir, And how she used to ride! Every one knew my young mistress, "My lady of Hislop Chase;" And, what's more, every one loved her, And her sunny, angel face. Lord Hislop lost his wife, sir, When Lady Vi' was born. And never man aged so quickly: He grew haggard and white and worn In less than a week. Then after, At times, he'd grow queer and wild; And only one thing saved him-- His love for his only child. He worshipped her like an idol; He loved her, folks said too well; And God sent the end as a judgment,-- But how that may be who can tell? I don't know how it all happened-- I heard the story you see, In bits and scraps,--just here and there; But, sir, 'atween you and me, In putting them all together, I think I've a good idea As how the Master got swindled, And things at the "Chase" went queer. He'd a notion to leave Miss Vi'let Rich, I fancy, you know; For now and ag'in I noticed He'd take in his head to go Away for a time--to London,-- And I, who knew him so well, Could see as he came home worried. Aye, sir! I could read--could tell As things had gone wrong with Master. I was right: 'twas that tale so old! He'd lost in that great big gamble, In that cursed greed for gold. And then the worst came to the worst, sir. "The old Chase must go from us, Vi'!" Her father told her one morning, "My child! oh, my child! I would die Ten thousand deaths rather than tell you What price our freedom would cost." And then, in a voice hoarse and broken, He told her how all had been lost. They say, sir, the girl answered proudly, "I know, father, what you would say: The man who has swindled you, duped you, Will return you your own if you pay His price--my hand. Don't speak, father! You know what I'm saying is true; And, father, I know Paul Delaunay, Yes, better, far better, than you. Go, tell him I'll wed him to-morrow, On this one condition--list here,-- That he beats me across the country From Hislop to Motecombe Mere. But say that should I chance to beat him He must give back everything--all Of what he has robbed you, father: That's the message I send Sir Paul." Two men watched that ride across country At the break of an autumn day: Young Hilton, the son of the Squire, And I, sir. They started away And came through the first field together, Then leaped the first fence neck and neck; On, on again, riding like mad, sir, Jumping all without hinder or check. In this, the last field 'fore the finish, You could save half a minute or more By leaping the stone wall and brooklet; But never, sir, never before, Had anyone ever attempted That leap; it was madness, but, sir, My young mistress knew that Delaunay Was too great a coward and cur To follow; and, what's more, she knew, sir, That she _must_ be first in the race-- For the sake of the Hislop honour, To win back the dear old Chase. I looked at young Hilton beside me-- A finer lad never walked: I don't think he thought as I knew, sir, Their secret, for I'd never talked; But I'd known for a long time, you see, sir, As he and my lady Vi' Had loved and would love for ever. At last from his lips came a cry, "Good God! she never will clear it!" Then he turned his face to the ground; While I--I looked on in terror, Watched her, sir, taking that bound. With a cold sweat bathing my forehead, I saw her sweep onward, and gasped-- "For Heaven's sake, stop, Lady Vi'let!" A laugh was her answer. She passed On, on, like a shimmer of lightning, And then came her last great leap-- The next, sir, I saw of my lady Was a crushed and mangled heap. Delaunay? No, he didn't follow, Nor even drew rein when she fell; But rode on, the longest way round, sir. When he came back to claim her--well, She was dead in the arms of her lover-- Claspt tight in his mad embrace;-- With her life-blood staining her tresses, And a sad, sweet smile on her face. I heard the last words that she uttered-- "My love! tell my father I tried To do what was best for his honour; For you and for him I have died." A SONG FOR THE END OF THE SEASON. BY J.R. PLANCHE. (_FROM THE "DRAMATIC COLLEGE ANNUAL."_) Sir John has this moment gone by In the brougham that was to be mine, But, my dear, I'm not going to cry, Though I know where he's going to dine. I shall meet him at Lady Gay's ball With that girl to his arm clinging fast, But it won't, love, disturb me at all, I've recovered my spirits at last! I was horribly low for a week, For I could not go out anywhere Without hearing, "You know they don't speak;" Or, "I'm told it's all broken off there." But the Earl whispered something last night, I sha'n't say exactly what past, But of this, dear, be satisfied quite, I've recovered my spirits at last! THE AGED PILOT MAN. BY MARK TWAIN. On the Erie Canal, it was, All on a summer's day, I sailed forth with my parents Far away to Albany. From out the clouds at noon that day There came a dreadful storm, That piled the billows high about, And filled us with alarm. A man came rushing from a house, "Tie up your boat I pray! Tie up your boat, tie up, alas! Tie up while yet you may." Our captain cast one glance astern, Then forward glanced he, And said, "My wife and little ones I never more shall see." Said Dollinger the pilot man, In noble words, but few-- "Fear not, but lean on Dollinger, And he will fetch you through." The boat drove on, the frightened mules Tore through the rain and wind, And bravely still in danger's post, The whip-boy strode behind. "Come 'board, come 'board," the captain cried, "Nor tempt so wild a storm;" But still the raging mules advanced, And still the boy strode on. Then said the captain to us all, "Alas, 'tis plain to me, The greater danger is not there, But here upon the sea. So let us strive, while life remains, To save all souls on board, And then if die at last we must, I ... _cannot_ speak the word!" Said Dollinger the pilot man, Tow'ring above the crew, "Fear not, but trust in Dollinger, And he will fetch you through." "Low bridge! low bridge!" all heads went down, The labouring bark sped on; A mill we passed, we passed a church, Hamlets, and fields of corn; And all the world came out to see, And chased along the shore, Crying, "Alas, the sheeted rain, The wind, the tempest's roar! Alas, the gallant ship and crew, Can _nothing_ help them more?" And from our deck sad eyes looked out Across the stormy scene: The tossing wake of billows aft, The bending forests green, The chickens sheltered under carts, In lee of barn the cows, The skurrying swine with straw in mouth, The wild spray from our bows! "She balances? She wavers! _Now_ let her go about! If she misses stays and broaches to We're all"--[then with a shout,] "Huray! huray! Avast! belay! Take in more sail! Lor! what a gale! Ho, boy, haul taut on the hind mule's tail!" "Ho! lighten ship! ho! man the pump! Ho, hostler, heave the lead!" "A quarter-three!--'tis shoaling fast! Three feet large!--three-e feet!-- 'Tis three feet scant!" I cried in fright, "Oh, is there _no_ retreat?" Said Dollinger the pilot man, As on the vessel flew, "Fear not, but trust in Dollinger, And he will fetch you through." A panic struck the bravest hearts, The boldest cheek turned pale; For plain to all, this shoaling said A leak had burst the ditch's bed! And, straight as bolt from crossbow sped, Our ship swept on, with shoaling lead, Before the fearful gale! "Sever the tow-line! Stop the mules!" Too late! .... There comes a shock! * * * * * Another length, and the fated craft Would have swum in the saving lock! Then gathered together the shipwrecked crew And took one last embrace, While sorrowful tears from despairing eyes Ran down each hopeless face; And some did think of their little ones Whom they never more might see, And others of waiting wives at home, And mothers that grieved would be. But of all the children of misery there On that poor sinking frame, But one spake words of hope and faith, And I worshipped as they came: Said Dollinger the pilot man-- (O brave heart strong and true!)-- "Fear not, but trust in Dollinger, For he will fetch you through." Lo! scarce the words have passed his lips The dauntless prophet say'th, When every soul about him seeth A wonder crown his faith! And count ye all, both great and small, As numbered with the dead! For mariner for forty year, On Erie, boy and man, I never yet saw such a storm, Or one 't with it began! So overboard a keg of nails And anvils three we threw, Likewise four bales of gunny-sacks, Two hundred pounds of glue, Two sacks of corn, four ditto wheat, A box of books, a cow, A violin, Lord Byron's works, A rip-saw and a sow. A curve! a curve; the dangers grow! "Labbord!--stabbord!--s-t-e-a-d-y!--so!-- _Hard-a.-port_, Dol!--hellum-a-lee! Haw the head mule!--the aft one gee! Luff!--bring her to the wind!" For straight a farmer brought a plank,-- (Mysteriously inspired)-- And laying it unto the ship, In silent awe retired. Then every sufferer stood amazed That pilot man before; A moment stood. Then wondering turned, And speechless walked ashore. TIM KEYSER'S NOSE. BY MAX ADELER. Tim Keyser lived at Wilmington, He had a monstrous nose, Which was a great deal redder Than the very reddest rose, And was completely capable Of most terrific blows. He wandered down one Christmas-day To skate upon the creek, And there upon the smoothest ice He slid along so slick, The people were amazed to see Him cut it up so quick; The exercise excited thirst, And so, to get a drink, He cut an opening in the ice, And lay down on the brink. Says he, "I'll dip my nose right in, And sip it up, I think." But while his nose was thus immersed Six inches in the stream, A very hungry pickerel Was attracted by the gleam, And darting up, it gave a snap, And Keyser gave a scream. Tim Keyser then was well assured He had a famous bite; To pull that pickerel up he tried, And tugged with all his might; But the disgusting pickerel had The better of the fight. And just as Mr. Keyser thought His nose would split in two, The pickerel gave his tail a twist, And pulled Tim Keyser through, And he was scudding through the waves The first thing that he knew. Then onward swam the savage fish With swiftness towards its nest, Still chewing Mr. Keyser's nose, While Mr. Keyser guessed What kind of policy would suit His circumstances best. Just then his nose was tickled With a spear of grass close by; Tim Keyser gave a sneeze which burst The pickerel into "pi," And blew its bones, the ice, and waves A thousand feet on high. Tim Keyser swam up to the top, A breath of air to take, And finding broken ice, he hooked His nose upon a cake, And gloried in a nose that could Such a concussion make. His Christmas dinner on that day He tackled with a vim; And thanked his stars, as shuddering He thought upon his swim, That that wild pickerel had not Spent Christmas eating him. THE LOST EXPRESSION. BY MARSHALL STEELE. Oh! I fell in love with Dora, and my heart was all a-glow, For I never met before a girl who took my fancy so; She had eyes--no! cheeks a-blushing with the peach's ripening flush, Was ecstatically gushing--and I like a girl to gush. She'd the loveliest of faces, and the goldenest of hair, And all customary graces lovers fancy in the fair. Now, she doated on romances, she was yearnful and refined, She had sentimental fancies of a most æsthetic kind, She was sensitive, fantastic, tender, too, as she was fair, But alas! she was not plastic, as I owned in my despair. And, for all she was so gentle, yet she gave me this rebuff-- Though I might be sentimental, I'd not sentiment enough. Then I _did_ grow sentimental, for that seemed to be my part, And I talked in transcendental fashion that might move her heart, Sighed to live in fairy grottoes with my Dora all alone, And I studied cracker mottoes, which I quoted as my own. Thus I strove to be romantic, but I failed upon the whole, And she nearly drove me frantic when she said I had not "soul." So, despair tinged all my passion, sorrow mingled with my love, Though I wooed her in a fashion which the stones of Rome might move, Though I wrote her fervid sonnets with the fervour underlined, Though I bought her gloves and bonnets of the most artistic kind, Yet for me life held no pleasure, and my sorrow grew acute That she smiled upon my presents, but she frowned upon my suit. All in vain seemed love and longing till upon one fateful day Hopes anew came on me thronging, as I heard my Dora say-- "Richard mine, I saw you sobbing o'er my photograph last night, With a look that set me throbbing with unspeakable delight. Wide your eyelids you were oping and your look was far from hence With a passionate wild hoping that was soulful and intense. "I have seen that look on Irving and sometimes on Beerbohm Tree, And it seems to be observing joy and rapture yet to be. In the nostril elevated and the lip that lightly curled Was a cold scorn indicated of this vulgar nether world. I could marry that expression. Show it once again then, do! And I meekly make profession--I--I--I will marry you!" Joy was then my heart's possession, joy and rapturous content, For I'd practised that expression, and I knew just what she meant: So my eyebrows up I lifted and I stared with all my might And my right-hand nostril shifted somewhat further to the right, But I quite forgot--sad error was this dire mnemonic slip!-- I forgot in doubt and terror how to move my lower lip! With one eyebrow elevated down I dropped my dexter lid, Never mortal dislocated all his features as I did, For I moved them in my folly right and left and up and down, Till she asked if I was qualifying for the part of clown. And I left in deep depression when she showed me to the door, Saying, "Bring back that expression, sir, or never see me more!" Then before my looking-glass I sought, and sought for months in vain, That expression which, alas! I had forgotten, to my pain, And I said then, feeling poorly, "I'll go seek the haunts of men, I could reproduce it surely, if I met with it again: For, whose-ever--peer's or peasant's--face that heavenly look might wear, He should never leave my presence till I copied it, I swear." Could I meet a schoolboy, madly pleased the day that school begins, Or a father smiling gladly, when the nurse says "Sir, it's twins!" Or a well-placed politician who no better place desires, But achieves his one ambition on the day that he retires, That expression--'tis my sure hope--on their faces I should get, So I searched for them through Europe, but I haven't found them yet. Then I lunched one day with Irving, once I dined with Mr. Tree, Who in intervals of serving made such faces up at me. But they failed me, though the former once a look upon me hurled, Which expressed how the barn-stormer shows disdain of all the world, And his look of rapture when I rose to go was quite immense, Though not either now or then I thought it soulful or intense. But at last, some long months later--'twas a dinner I was at In the City--"Bring me, waiter," someone said, "some more green fat." 'Twas my _vis-à-vis_ was speaking, and an Alderman was he; On his radiant face, and reeking, was the hope of joy to be. He had all that lost expression, every detail showing plain, Soulfulness, hope of possession, joy, intensity, disdain. Then I sought to make him merry, and I plied him with old port, Claret, burgundy, Bass, sherry, and a little something short; And this guzzler, by me aided, kept on soaking all the while, Till that lost expression faded to an idiotic smile, And his speech grew thick and thicker, and his mind began to roam, Till he finished off his liquor and I drove him to my home. There with coils of rope I strapped him to my sofa, firm and fast, Douched him, doused him, bled and tapped him, till I sobered him at last, To that lost expression led him--that was all that I was at-- As for days and weeks I fed him on suggestions of green fat. Thus I caught that lost expression, and I cried, "Thrice happy day! Once again 'tis my possession." Then I turned and fled away. Without swerving or digression to my Dora straight I sped, And she gazed at that expression, then she clapped her hands and said-- "You have found it--who'd have thought it?--you have brought it me again!" "Yes!" I cried, "and as I've brought it, make me happiest of men." But--oh! who could tell her sorrow, as she cried in wistful tones?-- "Dick, I'd marry you to-morrow, but I'm Mrs. Bowler Jones!" A NIGHT SCENE. BY ROBERT B. BROUGH. Out of the grog-shop, I've stepp'd in the street. Road, what's the matter? you're loose on your feet; Staggering, swaggering, reeling about, Road, you're in liquor, past question or doubt. Gas-lamps, be quiet--stand up, if you please. What the deuce ails you? you're weak in the knees: Some on your heads--in the gutter some sunk-- Gas-lamps, I see it, you're all of you drunk. Angels and ministers! look at the moon-- Shining up there like a paper balloon, Winking like mad at me: Moon, I'm afraid-- Now I'm convinced--Oh! you tipsy old jade. Here's a phenomenon: Look at the stars-- Jupiter, Ceres, Uranus, and Mars, Dancing quadrilles; caper'd, shuffl'd and hopp'd. Heavenly bodies! this ought to be stopp'd. Down come the houses! each drunk as a king-- Can't say I fancy much this sort of thing; Inside the bar it was safe and all right, I shall go back there, and stop for the night. KARL, THE MARTYR. BY FRANCES WHITESIDE. It was the closing of a summer's day, And trellised branches from encircling trees Threw silver shadows o'er the golden space. Where groups of merry-hearted sons of toil Were met to celebrate a village feast; Casting away, in frolic sport, the cares That ever press and crowd and leave their mark Upon the brows of all whose bread is earned By daily labour. 'Twas perchance the feast Of fav'rite saint, or anniversary Of one of bounteous nature's season gifts To grateful husbandry--no matter what The cause of their uniting. Joy beamed forth On ev'ry face, and the sweet echoes rang With sounds of honest mirth too rarely heard In the vast workshop man has made his world, Where months of toil must pay one day of song. Somewhat apart from the assembled throng There sat a swarthy giant, with a face So nobly grand that though (unlike the rest) He wore no festal garb nor laughing mien, Yet was he study for the painter's art: He joined not in their sports, but rather seemed To please his eye with sight of others' joy. There was a cast of sorrow on his brow, As though it had been early there. He sat In listless attitude, yet not devoid Of gentlest grace, as down his stalwart form He bent, to catch the playful whisperings, And note the movements of a bright-hair'd child Who danced before him in the evening sun, Holding a tiny brother by the hand. He was the village smith (the rolled-up sleeves And the well-charred leathern apron show'd his craft); Karl was his name--a man beloved by all. He was not of the district. He had come Amongst them ere his forehead bore one trace Of age or suffering. A wife and child He had brought with him; but the wife was dead. Not so the child--who danced before him now And held a tiny brother by the hand-- Their mother's last and priceless legacy! So Karl was happy still that those two lived, And laughed and danced before him in the sun. Yet sadly so. The children both were fair, Ruddy, and active, though of fragile form; But to that father's ever watchful eye, Who had so loved their mother, it was plain That each inherited the wasting doom Which cost that mother's life. 'Twas reason more To work and toil for them by night and day! Early and late his anvil's ringing sound Was heard amidst all seasons. Oftentimes The neighbours asked him why he worked so hard With only two to care for? He would smile, Wipe his hot brow, and say, "'Twas done in love For sake of those in mercy left him still-- And hers: he might not stay. He could not live To lose them all." The tenderest of plants Required the careful'st gardening, and so He worked on valiantly; and if he marked An extra gleam of health in Trudchen's cheeks, A growing strength in little Casper's laugh, He bowed his head, and felt his work was paid. Even as now, while sitting 'neath the tree, He watched the bright-hair'd image of his wife, Who danced before him in the evening sun, Holding her tiny brother by the hand. The frolics pause: now Casper's laughing head Rests wearily against his father's knee In trusting lovingness; while Trudchen runs To snatch a hasty kiss (the little man, It may be, wonders if the tiny hand With which he strives to reach his father's neck Will ever grow as big and brown as that He sees imbedded in his sister's curls). When quick as lightning's flash up starts the smith, Huddles the frightened children in his arms, Thrusts them far back--extends his giant frame And covers them as with Goliath's shield! Now hark! a rushing, yelping, panting sound, So terrible that all stood chilled with fear; And in the midst of that late joyous throng Leapt an infuriate hound, with flaming eyes, Half-open mouth, and fiercely bristling hair, Proving that madness tore the brute to death. One spring from Karl, and the wild thing was seized, Fast prison'd in the stalwart Vulcan's gripe. A sharp, shrill cry of agony from Karl Was mingled with the hound's low fever'd growl. And all with horror saw the creature's teeth Fixed in the blacksmith's shoulder. None had power To rescue him; for scarcely could you count A moment's space ere both had disappeared-- The man and dog. The smith had leapt a fence And gained the forest with a frantic rush, Bearing the hideous mischief in his arms. A long receding cry came on the ear, Showing how swift their flight; and fainter grew The sound: ere well a man had time to think What might be done for help, the sound was hushed, Lost in the very distance. Women crouched And huddled up their children in their arms; Men flew to seek their weapons. 'Twas a change So swift and fearful, none could realise Its actual horrors--for a time. But now, The panic past, to rescue and pursuit! Crash! through the brake into the forest track; But pitchy darkness, caused by closing night And foliage dense, impedes the avengers' way; When lo! they trip o'er something in their path! It was the bleeding body of the hound, Warm, but quite dead. No other trace of Karl Was near at hand; they called his name; in vain They sought him in the forest all night through; Living or dead, he was not to be found. At break of day they left the fruitless search. Next morning, as an anxious village group Stood meditating plans what best to do, Came little Trudchen, who, in simple tones, Said, "Father's at the forge--I heard him there Working long hours ago; but he is angry. I raised the latch: he bade me to be gone. What have I done to make him chide me so?" And then her bright blue eyes ran o'er with tears. "The child's been dreaming through this troubled night," Said a kind dame, and drew the child towards her. But the sad answers of the girl were such As led them all to seek her father's forge (It lay beyond the village some short span). They forced the door, and there beheld the smith. His sinewy frame was drawn to its full height; And round his loins a double chain of iron, Wrought with true workman skill, was riveted Fast to an anvil of enormous weight. He stood as pale and statue-like as death. Now let his own words close the hapless tale: "I killed the hound, you know; but not until His maddening venom through my veins had passed. I knew full well the death in store for me, And would not answer when you called my name; But crouched among the brushwood, while I thought Over some plan. I know my giant strength, And dare not trust it after reason's loss. Why! I might turn and rend whom most I love. I've made all fast now. 'Tis a hideous death. I thought to plunge me in the deep, still pool That skirts the forest--to avoid it; but I thought that for the suicide's poor shift I would not throw away my chance of heaven, And meeting one who made earth heaven to me. So I came home and forged these chains about me: Full well I know no human hand can rend them, And now am safe from harming those I love. Keep off, good friends! Should God prolong my life, Throw me such food as nature may require. Look to my babes. This you are bound to do; For by my deadly grasp on that poor hound, How many of you have I saved from death Such as I now await? But hence away! The poison works! these chains must try their strength. My brain's on fire! with me 'twill soon be night." Too true his words! the brave, great-hearted Karl, A raving maniac, battled with his chains For three fierce days. The fourth saw him free; For Death's strong hand had loosed the martyr's bonds; Where his freed spirit soars, who dares to doubt? THE ROMANCE OF TENACHELLE. BY HERCULES ELLIS. On panting steeds they hurry on, Kildare, and Darcy's lovely daughter-- On panting steeds they hurry on; To cross the Barrow's water; Within her father's dungeon chained, Kildare her gentle heart had gained; Now love and she have broke his chain, And he is free! is free again. His cloak, by forest boughs is rent, The long night's toilsome journey showing; His helm's white plume is wet, and bent, And backwards o'er his shoulders flowing; Pale is the lovely lady's cheek, Her eyes grow dim, her hand is weak; And, feebly, tries she to sustain, Her falling horse, with silken rein. "Now, clasp thy fair arms round my neck," Kildare cried to the lovely lady; "Thy weight black Memnon will not check, Nor stay his gallop, swift and steady;" The blush, one moment, dyed her cheek; The next, her arms are round his neck; And placed before him on his horse, They haste, together, on their course. "Oh! Gerald," cried the lady fair, Now backward o'er his shoulder gazing, "I see Red Raymond, in our rear, And Owen, Darcy's banner raising-- Mother of Mercy! now I see My father, in their company; Oh! Gerald, leave me here, and fly, Enough! enough! for one to die!" "My own dear love; my own dear love!" Kildare cried to the lovely lady, "Fear not, black Memnon yet shall prove, Than all their steeds, more swift and steady: But to guide well my gallant horse, Tasks eye, and hand, and utmost force; Then look for me, my love, and tell, What see'st thou now at Tenachelle?" "I see, I see," the lady cried, "Now bursting o'er its green banks narrow, And through the valley spreading wide, In one vast flood, the Barrow! The bridge of Tenachelle now seems, A dark stripe o'er the rushing streams; For nought above the flood is shown, Except its parapet alone." "But can'st thou see," Earl Gerald said, "My faithful Gallowglasses standing? Waves the green plume on Milo's head, For me, at Tenachelle commanding?" "No men are there," the lady said, "No living thing, no human aid; The trees appear, like isles of green, Nought else, through all the vale is seen." Deep agony through Gerald passed; Oh! must she fall, the noble-hearted; And must this morning prove their last, By kinsmen and by friends deserted? Sure treason must have made its way, Within the courts of Castle Ley; And kept away the mail-clad ranks He ordered to the Barrow's banks. "The chase comes fast," the lady cries; "Both whip and spur I see them plying; Sir Robert Verdon foremost hies, Through Regan's forest flying; Each moment on our course they gain, Alas! why did I break thy chain, And urge thee, from thy prison, here, To make the mossy turf thy bier?" "Cheer up! cheer up! my own dear maid," Kildare cried to the weeping lady; "Soon, soon, shall come the promised aid, With shield and lance for battle ready; Look out, while swift we ride, and tell What see'st thou now at Tenachelle. Does aught on Clemgaum's Hill now move? Cheer up, and look, my own dear love!" "Still higher swells the rushing tide," The lady said, "along the river; The bridge wall's rent, with breaches wide, Beneath its force the arches quiver. But on Clemgaum I see no plumes; From Offaly no succour comes; No banner floats, no trumpet's blown-- Alas! alas! we are alone. "And now, O God! I see behind, My father to Red Raymond lending, His war-horse, fleeter than the wind, And on our chase, the traitor sending: He holds the lighted aquebus, Bearing death to both of us; Speed, my gallant Memnon, speed, Nor let us 'neath the ruffian bleed." "Thy love saved _me_ at risk of life," Kildare cried, "when the axe was wielding; And now I joy, my own dear wife, To think my breast _thy_ life is shielding; Thank Heaven no bolt can now reach thee, That shall not first have passed through me; For death were mercy to the thought, That thou, for me, to death were brought." And now they reach the trembling bridge, Through flooded bottoms swiftly rushing; Along it heaves a foaming ridge, Through its rent walls the torrent's gushing. Across the bridge their way they make, 'Neath Memnon's hoofs the arches shake; While fierce as hate, and fleet as wind, Red Raymond follows fast behind. They've gained, they've gained the farther side! Through clouds of foam, stout Memnon dashes; And, as they swiftly onward ride, Beneath his feet the vext flood splashes. But as they reach the floodless ground, The valley rings with a sharp sound; The aquebus has hurled its rain, And by it gallant Memnon's slain. And now behind loud rose the cry-- "The bridge! beware! the bridge is breaking!" Backwards the scared pursuers fly, While, like a tyrant, his wrath wreaking, Rushed the flood, the strong bridge rending, And its fragments downwards sending; In its throat Red Raymond swallowed, While above him the flood bellowed. Hissing, roaring, in its course, The shattered bridge before it spurning, The flood burst down, with giant force, The oaks of centuries upturning. The awed pursuers stood aghast; All hope to reach Kildare's now past Blest be the Barrow, which thus rose, To save true lovers from their foes! And now o'er Clemgaum's Hill appear, Their white plumes on the breezes dancing, A gallant troop, with shield and spear, From Offaley with aid advancing. Quick to Kildare his soldiers ride, And raise him up from Memnon's side; Unhurt he stands, and to his breast, The Lady Anna Darcy's pressed. "Kinsmen and friends," exclaimed Kildare, "Behold my bride, the fair and fearless, Who broke my chain, and brought me here, In truth, in love, and beauty, peerless. Here, at the bridge of Tenachelle, Amid the friends I love so well, I swear that until life depart, She'll rule my home, my soul, my heart!" MICHAEL FLYNN. BY WILLIAM THOMSON. Said Michael Flynn, the lab'ring man, "Yis, sorr, although oi'm poor, Sooner than live on charity I'd beg from door to door." A NIGHT WITH A STORK. BY WILLIAM G. WILCOX. Four individuals--namely, my wife, my infant son, my maid-of-all-work, and myself, occupy one of a row of very small houses in the suburbs of London. I am a thoroughly domesticated man, and notwithstanding that my occupation necessitates absence from my dwelling between the hours of 9 A.M. and 5 P.M., my heart is usually at home with my diminutive household. My wife and I love regularity and quiet above all things; and although, since the arrival of my son and heir, we have not enjoyed that perfect peace which was ours during the first years of our married life, yet his powerful little lungs, I am bound to say, have failed to make ours a noisy house. Up to the time when the incident occurred which I am going to tell you about our regularity had remained undisturbed, and we got up, went to bed, dined, breakfasted, and took tea at the same time, day after day. Well, as I say, we had been going on in this clockwork fashion for a considerable time, when the other morning the postman brought a letter to our door, and on looking at the direction, I found that it came from an old, rich, and very eccentric uncle of mine, with whom--hem! for certain reasons, we wished to remain on the best of terms. "What can Uncle Martin have to write about?" was our simultaneous exclamation. "The present for baby at last, I do believe, James," added my wife; "a cheque, perhaps, or----" I opened the letter and read:-- "MARTIN HOUSE, HERTS., "_October 17th_. "DEAR NEPHEW,--You may perhaps have heard that I am forming an aviary here. A friend in Rotterdam has written to me to say that he has sent by the boat, which will arrive in London to-morrow afternoon, a very intelligent parrot and a fine stork. As the vessel arrives too late for them to be sent on the same night, I shall be obliged by your taking the birds home, and forwarding them to me the next morning. With my respects to your good lady, "I remain, "Your affectionate Uncle, "RALPH MARTIN." We looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then my wife said, "James, what is a stork?" "A stork, my dear, is a--a--sort of ostrich, I think." "An ostrich! why that's an enormous----" "Yes, my dear, the creature that puts its head in the sand, and kicks when it's pursued, you know." "James, the horrid thing shall _not_ come here! If it should kick baby we should never forgive ourselves." "No, no, my dear, I don't think the _stork_ is at all ferocious. No, it can't be. Stork! stork! I always associate storks with chimneys. Yes, abroad, I think in Holland, or Germany, or somewhere, the stork sweeps the chimneys with its long legs from the top. But let's see what the Natural History says, my dear. That will tell us all about it. Stork--um--um--'hind toe short, middle toe long, and joined to the outer one by a large membrane, and by a smaller one to the inner toe.' Well, _that_ won't matter much for one night, will it, dear? 'His height often exceeds four feet.'" "_Four_ feet!!!" interrupted my wife. "James, how high are you?" "Well, my dear, really, comparisons are exceedingly disagreeable--um--um--'appetite extremely voracious,' and his food--hulloa! 'frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels!'" "Frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels," repeated my wife. "James, do you expect me to provide supper and breakfast of this description for the horrid thing?" "Well, my dear, we must do our best for baby's sake, you know, for baby's sake," and, getting my hat, I left as usual for the office. I passed anything but a pleasant day there, my thoughts constantly reverting to our expected visitors. At four o'clock I took a cab to the docks, and on arriving there inquired for the ship, which was pointed out to me as "the one with the crowd on the quay." On driving up I discovered why there was a crowd, and the discovery did not bring comfort with it. On the deck, on one leg, stood the stork. Whether it was the sea voyage, or the leaving his home, or, that being a stork of high moral principle, he was grieving at the persistent swearing of the parrot, I do not know, but I never saw a more melancholy looking object in my life. I went down on the deck, and did not like the expression of relief that came over the captain's face when he found what I had come for. The transmission of the parrot from the ship to the cab was an easy matter, as he was in a cage; but the stork was merely tethered by one leg; and although he did his best, when brought to the foot of the ladder, in trying to get up, he failed utterly, and had to be half shoved, half hauled all the way. Even then he persisted in getting outside of every bar--like this. After a great deal of trouble we got him to the top. I hurried him into the cab, and telling the man to drive as quickly as possible, got in with my guests. At first I had to keep dodging my head about to keep my face away from his bill, as he turned round; but all of a sudden he broke the little window at the back of the cab, thrust his head through, and would keep it there, notwithstanding that I kept pulling him back. Consequently when we drove up to my house there was a mob of about a thousand strong around us. I got him in as well as I could, and shut the door. How can I describe the spending of that evening? How can I get sufficient power out of the English language to let you know what a nuisance that bird was to us? How can I tell you of the cool manner in which he inspected our domestic arrangements, walking slowly from room to room, and standing on one leg till his curiosity was satisfied, or how describe the expression of wretchedness that he threw over his entire person when he was tethered to the banisters, and found out that, owing to our limited accommodation he was to remain in the hall all night, or picture the way in which he ate the snails specially provided for him, verifying to the letter the naturalist's description of his appetite. How can you who have _not_ had a stork staying with you have any idea of the change that came over his temper after his supper, how he pecked at everybody who came near him; how he stood sentinel at the foot of the stairs; how my wife and I made fruitless attempts to get past, followed by ignominious retreats; how at last we outmanoeuvred him by throwing a tablecloth over his head, and then rushing by him, gained the top of the stairs before he could disentangle himself. Added to all this we had to endure language from that parrot which was really shocking: indeed, so scurrilous did he become that we had at last to take him and lock him up in the coal-hole, where, owing to the darkness of his bedroom, or from fatigue, he presently swore himself to sleep. Well, by this time, we were quite ready for rest, and the forgetfulness which, we hoped, sleep would bring with it; but our peace was not to last long. About 2 A.M. my wife clutched my hair and woke me up. "James, James, listen!" I listened. I heard a sort of scrambling noise outside the door. "The water running into the cistern, my dear," I said sleepily. "James, don't be absurd; that horrid thing has broken its string, and is coming upstairs." I listened again. It really sounded like it. "James, if you don't go at once, _I_ must. You know the nursery door is always left open, and if that horrid thing should get in to baby----" "But, my dear," said I, "what am I to do in my present defenceless state of clothing, if he should take to pecking?" My wife's expression of contempt at the idea of considering myself before the baby determined me at once, come what might, to go and do him battle. Out I went, and there, sure enough, he was on the landing resting himself after his unusual exertion by tucking up one leg. He looked so subdued that I was about to take him by the string and lead him downstairs, when he drew back his head, and in less time than it takes to relate, I was back in my room, bleeding from a severe wound in the leg. I shouted out to the nurse to shut the door, and determined to let the infamous bird go where he liked. I bound up my leg and went to bed again; but the thought that there was a stork wandering about the house prevented me from getting any more sleep. From certain sounds that we heard, we had little doubt that he was spending some of his time in the cupboard where we kept our surplus crockery, and an inspection the next day confirmed this. In the morning I ventured cautiously out, and finding he was in our spare bedroom, I shut the door upon him. I then sent for a large sack, and with the help of the tablecloth, and the boy who cleans our boots, we got him into it without any further personal damage. I took him off in this way to the station, and confided him and the parrot to the guard of the early train. As the train moved off, I heard a yell and a very improper expression from the guard. I have reason to believe that the stork had freed himself from the wrapper, and had begun pecking again. We have determined that, taking our chance about a place in my uncle's will, we will never again have anything to do with any foreign birds, however much he may ask and desire it. AN UNMUSICAL NEIGHBOUR. BY WILLIAM THOMSON. I once knew a man who was musical mad-- A hundred years old was the fiddle he had; I never complained, but whenever he played I wished I had lived when that fiddle was made. THE CHALICE. BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY. Swift, storm-scud, raced the morning sky, As light along the road I fared; Stern was the way, yet glad was I, Though feet and breast and brow were bared; For fancy, like a happy child, Ran on before and turned and smiled. The track grew fair with turf and tree, The air was blithe with bird and flower. Boon nature's gentlest wizardry Was potent with the bounteous hour: A raptured languor o'er me crept; I laid me down at noon and slept. I woke, and there, as in a dream, Which holds some boding fear of wrong, By fog-bound fen and sluggard stream I dragged my leaden steps along. My blood ran ice; I turned and spied A shrouded figure at my side. "And who art thou that pacest here?" He answered like a hollow wind, Not heard by any outer ear, But in dim chambers of the mind. "I walk," he said, "in ways of shame, The comrade of thy wasted fame." A passion clamoured in my breast, For mirthless laughter, and I laughed; In mine the phantom's cold hand pressed A cup, and in self's spite I quaffed. It clung like slime; 'twas black like ink: Death is less bitter than that drink. "This chalice scarce can fail," said he, "Till thou and I shall fail from earth;' And we will walk in company, And waste the night with shameful mirth. I pledge thy fate; now pledge thou mine." I pledged him in the bitter wine. "Had'st thou not slept at noon," he said, "Thou should'st have walked in praise and fame. Now loathest thou thine heart and head, And both thine eyes are blind with shame." His voice was like a hollow wind In dim death-chambers in the mind. He turned; he bared a demon face; He filled the night with ribald song; For many a league, in evil case, We danced our leaden feet along. And every rood, in that foul wine, I pledged his fate: he drank to mine. "What comfort has thou?" suddenly To me my phantom comrade saith. "I know," said I, "where'er I lie, The end of each man's road is death. I pray that I may find it soon; I weary of night's changeless moon." Then, in such lays of hideous mirth As never tainted human breath, He cursed all things of human worth-- Made mock of life and scorn of death. "Art weary?" quoth he; and said I: "Fain here to lay me down and die." "Then join," he saith, "my roundelay; Curse God and die, and make an end. Fled is thine hope, and done thy day; The fleshworm is thine only friend. Thy mouth is fouled, and he, I ween, Alone can scour thy palate clean." I said: "I justify the rod; I claim its heaviest stripe mine own. Did justice cease to dwell with God, Then God were toppled from His throne! Fill up thy chalice to the brink-- Thy bitterest, and I will drink." With looks like any devil's grim, He poured the brewage till it ran With fetid horror at the brim. "Now, drink," he gibed, "and play the man!" He stretched the chalice forth. It stank That my soul failed me, and I drank. With loathing soul and quivering flesh I drank, and lo! the draught I took Was limpid-clear, and sweet and fresh As ever came from summer brook Or fountain, where the trees have made Long from the sun a pleasant shade. He hurled the chalice to the sky; A bright hand caught it; and was gone. He blessed me with a sovereign eye, And like a god's his visage shone, And there he took me by the hand, And led me towards another land. LIVINGSTONE. Buried in Westminster Abbey, April, 1874. BY HENRY LLOYD. With solemn march and slow a soldier comes, In conquest fallen; home we bring him dead; Stand silent by, beat low the muffled drums, Uncover ye, and bow the reverent head. Where ghostly echoes dwell and grey light falls, Where Kings and Heroes rest in honoured sleep; Their names steel bitten on the sacred walls, Inter his dust, while England bends to weep. Stir not ye Kings and Heroes in your rest, Lest these poor bones dishonour such as you; This man was both, though nodding plume or crest Ne'er waved above his eye so bright and true. By no sad orphan is his name abhorred, A hero, yet no battered shield he brings. Nor on his bier a blood encrusted sword; Nor as his trophies Kings, nor crowns of Kings. War hath its heroes, Peace hath hers as well, Armed by Heaven's King from Heaven's armoury; And this dead man was one, who fought and fell, Life less his choice, than death and victory. To do his work with purpose iron strong, To loose the captive, set the prisoner free; To heal the hideous sore of deadly wrong Kept festering by greed and cruelty; Love on his banner, Pity in his heart; His lofty soul moved on with single aim; 'Mid deadly perils bore a noble part, And, dying, left a pure, unsullied name. Thro' dreary miles of foul eternal swamp, And over lonely leagues of burning sand, He wrought his purpose; Faith his quenchless lamp, And Truth his sword held as in giant's hand. His lot was as his sorrowing Master's lot, Nowhere to lay his weary honoured head; "My limbs they fail me, and my brow is hot; Build me a hut--wherein--to die," he said. "Ah, England, I shall see thee nevermore. Farewell, my loved ones, far o'er ocean's foam; Ye watch in vain on that dear mother shore," He looked to Heaven and cried, "I'm going home." Home, sweetest word that ever man has made, Home, after weariness and toil and pain; Home to his Father's house all unafraid, Home to his rest, no more to weep again. How found they him, this hero of all time? Dead on his knees, as if at last he said: "Into thy hands, O God!" with faith sublime; And death looked on, scarce knowing he was dead. O British land, that breedeth sturdy men, Be proud to hold our hero's honoured bones; Land that he wrought for with his life and pen, Write, write his glory in enduring stones. Tell how he lived and died, how fought and fell, So in the world's glad future, looming dim; The children of the lands he loved so well, Shall learn his name and love to honour him. IN SWANAGE BAY. BY MRS. CRAIK. "'Twas five-and-forty year ago, Just such another morn, The fishermen were on the beach, The reapers in the corn; My tale is true, young gentlemen, As sure as you were born. "My tale's all true, young gentlemen," The fond old boatman cried Unto the sullen, angry lads, Who vain obedience tried: "Mind what your father says to you, And don't go out this tide. "Just such a shiny sea as this, Smooth as a pond, you'd say, And white gulls flying, and the crafts Down Channel making way; And the Isle of Wight, all glittering bright, Seen clear from Swanage Bay. "The Battery Point, the Race beyond, Just as to-day you see; This was, I think, the very stone Where sat Dick, Dolly, and me; She was our little sister, sirs, A small child, just turned three. "And Dick was mighty fond of her: Though a big lad and bold, He'd carry her like any nurse, Almost from birth, I'm told; For mother sickened soon, and died When Doll was eight months old. "We sat and watched a little boat, Her name the 'Tricksy Jane,' A queer old tub laid up ashore, But we could see her plain. To see her and not haul her up Cost us a deal of pain. "Said Dick to me, 'Let's have a pull; Father will never know: He's busy in his wheat up there, And cannot see us go; These landsmen are such cowards if A puff of wind does blow. "'I've been to France and back three times-- Who knows best, dad or me, Whether a ship's seaworthy or not? Dolly, wilt go to sea?' And Dolly laughed and hugged him tight, As pleased as she could be. "I don't mean, sirs, to blame poor Dick: What he did, sure I'd do; And many a sail in 'Tricksy Jane' We'd had when she was new. Father was always sharp; and what He said, he meant it too. "But now the sky had not a cloud, The bay looked smooth as glass; Our Dick could manage any boat, As neat as ever was. And Dolly crowed, 'Me go to sea!' The jolly little lass! "Well, sirs, we went: a pair of oars; My jacket for a sail: Just round 'Old Harry and his Wife'-- Those rocks there, within hail; And we came back.----D'ye want to hear The end o' the old man's tale? "Ay, ay, we came back past that point, But then a. breeze up-sprung; Dick shouted, 'Hoy! down sail!' and pulled With all his might among The white sea-horses that upreared So terrible and strong. "I pulled too: I was blind with fear; But I could hear Dick's breath Coming and going, as he told Dolly to creep beneath His jacket, and not hold him so: We rowed for life or death. "We almost reached the sheltered bay, We could see father stand Upon the little jetty here, His sickle in his hand; The houses white, the yellow fields, The safe and pleasant land. "And Dick, though pale as any ghost, Had only said to me, 'We're all right now, old lad!' when up A wave rolled--drenched us three-- One lurch, and then I felt the chill And roar of blinding sea. "I don't remember much but that: You see I'm safe and sound; I have been wrecked four times since then-- Seen queer sights, I'll be bound. I think folks sleep beneath the deep As calm as underground." "But Dick and Dolly?" "Well, Poor Dick! I saw him rise and cling Unto the gunwale of the boat-- Floating keel up--and sing Out loud, 'Where's Doll?'--I hear him yet As clear as anything. "'Where's Dolly?' I no answer made; For she dropped like a stone Down through the deep sea; and it closed: The little thing was gone! 'Where's Doll?' three times; then Dick loosed hold, And left me there alone. * * * * * "It's five-and-forty year since then," Muttered the boatman grey, And drew his rough hand o'er his eyes, And stared across the bay; "Just five-and-forty year," and not Another word did say. "But Dolly?" ask the children all, As they about him stand. "Poor Doll! she floated back next tide With sea-weed in her hand. She's buried o'er that hill you see, In a churchyard on land. "But where Dick lies, God knows! He'll find Our Dick at Judgment-day." The boatman fell to mending nets, The boys ran off to play; And the sun shone and the waves danced In quiet Swanage Bay. BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. BY GEORGE HENRY BOKER. "O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?" Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. "To know if between the land and the pole I may find a broad sea-way." "I charge you back, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN, As you would live and thrive; For between the land and the frozen pole No man may sail alive." But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, And spoke unto his men: "Half England is wrong, if he is right; Bear off to westward then." "O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?" Cried the little Esquimaux. "Between your land and the polar star My goodly vessels go." "Come down, if you would journey there," The little Indian said; "And change your cloth for fur clothing, Your vessel for a sled." But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, And the crew laughed with him, too:-- "A sailor to change from ship to sled, I ween were something new!" All through the long, long polar day, The vessels westward sped; And wherever the sails of Sir John were blown, The ice gave way and fled: Gave way with many a hollow groan, And with many a surly roar; But it murmured and threatened on every side, And closed where he sailed before. "Ho! see ye not, my merry men, The broad and open sea? Bethink ye what the whaler said, Think of the little Indian's sled!" The crew laughed out in glee. "Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold, The scud drives on the breeze, The ice comes looming from the north, The very sunbeams freeze." "Bright summer goes, dark winter comes-- We cannot rule the year; But long ere summer's sun goes down, On yonder sea we'll steer." The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, And floundered down the gale; The ships were stayed, the yards were manned, And furled the useless sail "The summer's gone, the winter's come, We sail not yonder sea: Why sail we not, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?" A silent man was he. "The summer goes, the winter comes-- We cannot rule the year." "I ween we cannot rule the ways, Sir John, wherein we'd steer!" The cruel ice came floating on, And closed beneath the lee, Till the thickening waters dashed no more; 'Twas ice around, behind, before-- Oh God! there is no sea! What think you of the whaler now? What of the Esquimaux? A sled were better than a ship, To cruise through ice and snow. Down sank the baleful crimson sun, The northern light came out, And glared upon the ice-bound ships, And shook its spears about. The snow came down, storm breeding storm, And on the decks were laid: Till the weary sailor, sick at heart, Sank down beside his spade. "Sir John, the night is black and long, The hissing wind is bleak, The hard green ice is strong as death-- I prithee, Captain, speak!" "The night is neither bright nor short, The singing breeze is cold; The ice is not so strong as hope-- The heart of man is bold!" "What hope can scale this icy wall, High o'er the main flag-staff? Above the ridges the wolf and bear Look down with a patient settled stare, Look down on us and laugh." "The summer, went, the winter came-- We could not rule the year; But summer will melt the ice again, And open a path to the sunny main, Whereon our ships shall steer." The winter went, the summer went, The winter came around: But the hard green ice was strong as death, And the voice of hope sank to a breath, Yet caught at every sound. "Hark! heard ye not the noise of guns? And there, and there again?" "'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar, As he turns in the frozen main." "Hurrah! hurrah! the Esquimaux Across the ice-fields steal: God give them grace for their charity!" "Ye pray for the silly seal." "Sir John, where are the English fields, And where are the English trees, And where are the little English flowers That open in the breeze?" "Be still, be still, my brave sailors! You shall see the fields again, And smell the scent of the opening flowers, The grass, and the waving grain." "Oh! when shall I see my orphan child? My Mary waits for me." "Oh! when shall I see my old mother, And pray at her trembling knee?" "Be still, be still, my brave sailors! Think not such thoughts again." But a tear froze slowly on his cheek; He thought of Lady Jane. Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold, The ice grows more and more; More settled stare the wolf and bear, More patient than before. "Oh! think you, good Sir John Franklin, We'll ever see the land? 'Twas cruel to send us here to starve, Without a helping hand. "'Twas cruel, Sir John, to send us here, So far from help and home, To starve and freeze on this lonely sea: I ween, the Lord of the Admiralty Would rather send than come." "Oh! whether we starve to death alone, Or sail to our own country, We have done what man has never done-- The truth is found, the secret won-- We passed the Northern Sea!" PHADRIG CROHOORE. BY JAMES SHERIDAN LE FANU. Oh, Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy, And he stood six feet eight; And his arm was as round as another man's thigh,-- 'Tis Phadrig was great. His hair was as black as the shadows of night, And it hung over scars got in many a fight. And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud, And his eye flashed like lightning from under a cloud,-- And there wasn't a girl from thirty-five under, Sorra matter how cross, but he could come round her; But of all whom he smiled on so sweetly, but one Was the girl of his heart, and he loved her alone. As warm as the sun, as the rock firm and sure, Was the love of the heart of young Phadrig Crohoore. He would die for a smile from his Kathleen O'Brien, For his love, like his hatred, was strong as a lion. But one Michael O'Hanlon loved Kathleen as well As he hated Crohoore--and that same I can tell. And O'Brien liked him, for they were all the same parties-- The O'Hanlons, O'Briens, O'Ryans, M'Carthies; And they all went together in hating Crohoore, For many's the bating he gave them before. So O'Hanlon makes up to O'Brien, and says he: "I'll marry your daughter if you'll give her to me." So the match was made up, and when Shrovetide came on The company assembled--three hundred if one! The O'Hanlon's, of course, turned out strong on that day, And the pipers and fiddlers were tearing away; There was laughing, and roaring, and jigging, and flinging, And joking and blessing, and kissing and singing, And they were all merry; why not, to be sure, That O'Hanlon got inside of Phadrig Crohoore; And they all talked and laughed, the length of the table, Aiting and drinking while they were able-- With the piping and fiddling, and roaring like thunder, Och! you'd think your head fairly was splitting asunder; And the priest shouted, "Silence, ye blabblers, agin," And he took up his prayer-book and was going to begin, And they all held their funning, and jigging, and bawling, So silent, you'd notice the smallest pin falling; And the priest was beginning to read, when the door Was flung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore. Oh! Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy, And he stood six feet eight; His arm was as big as another man's thigh,-- 'Tis Phadrig was great. As he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye, As a dark cloud moves on through the stars in the sky-- None dared to oppose him, for Phadrig was great, Till he stood, all alone, just in front of the seat Where O'Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride, Were seated together, the two side by side. He looked on Kathleen till her poor heart near broke, Then he turned to her father, O'Brien, and spoke, And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud, And his eyes flashed like lightning from under a cloud: "I did not come here like a tame, crawling mouse; I stand like a man, in my enemy's house. In the field, on the road, Phadrig never knew fear Of his foemen, and God knows he now scorns it here. I ask but your leave, for three minutes or four, To speak to the girl whom I ne'er may see more." Then he turned to Kathleen, and his voice changed its tone, For he thought of the days when he called her his own; And said he, "Kathleen, bawn, is it true what I hear-- Is this match your free choice, without threat'ning or fear? If so, say the word, and I'll turn and depart-- Cheated once, but once only, by woman's false heart." Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl quite dumb; She tried hard to speak, but the words wouldn't come, For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her, Struck cold on her heart, like the night-wind in winter, And the tears in her blue eyes were trembling to flow, And her cheeks were as pale as the moonbeams on snow. Then the heart of bold Phadrig swelled high in its place, For he knew by one look in that beautiful face, That though strangers and foemen their pledged hands might sever, Her heart was still his, and his only, for ever. Then he lifted his voice, like an eagle's hoarse call, And cried out--"She is mine yet, in spite of ye all." But up jumped O'Hanlon, and a tall chap was he, And he gazed on bold Phadrig as fierce as could be; And says he--"By my fathers, before you go out, Bold Phadrig Crohoore, you must stand for a bout." Then Phadrig made answer--"I'll do my endeavour;" And with one blow he stretched out O'Hanlon for ever! Then he caught up his Kathleen, and rushed to the door, He leaped on his horse, and he swung her before; And they all were so bothered that not a man stirred Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard. Then up they all started, like bees in a swarm, And they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm; And they ran, and they jumped, and they shouted galore; But Phadrig or Kathleen they never saw more. But those days are gone by, and his, too, are o'er, And the grass it grows over the grave of Crohoore, For he wouldn't be aisy or quiet at all; As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall, So he took a good pike--for Phadrig was great-- And he died for old Ireland in the year ninety-eight. CUPID'S ARROWS. BY ELIZA COOK. Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day, And besought him to look at his arrow; "'Tis useless," he cried, "you must mend it, I say, 'Tisn't fit to let fly at a sparrow. There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart, For it flutters quite false to my aim; 'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart, And the world really jests at my name. "I have straighten'd, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare, I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs; 'Tis feather'd with ringlets my mother might wear, And the barb gleams with light from young eyes; But it falls without touching--I'll break it, I vow, For there's Hymen beginning to pout; He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low, That Zephyr might puff it right out." Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, Till Vulcan the weapon restored; "There, take it, young sir; try it now--if it fail, I will ask neither fee nor reward." The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made, The wounded and dead were untold; But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, For the arrow was laden with _gold_. THE CROCODILE'S DINNER PARTY. BY E. VINTON BLAKE. _FROM "GOOD CHEER_." A wily crocodile Who dwelt upon the Nile, Bethought himself one day to give a dinner. "Economy," said he, "Is chief of all with me, And shall considered be--as I'm a sinner!" With paper, pen and ink, He sat him down to think; And first of all, Sir Lion he invited; The northern wolf who dwells In rocky Arctic dells; The Leopard and the Lynx, by blood united. Then Mr. Fox the shrewd-- No lover he of good-- And Madam Duck with sober step and stately; And Mr. Frog serene In garb of bottle green, Who warbled bass, and bore himself sedately. Sir Crocodile, content, The invitations sent. The day was come--his guests were all assembled; They fancied that some guile Lurked in his ample smile; Each on the other looked, and somewhat trembled. A lengthy time they wait Their hunger waxes great; And still the host in conversation dallies. At last the table's laid, With covered dishes spread, And out in haste the hungry party sallies. But when--the covers raised-- On empty plates they gazed, Each on the other looked with dire intention; Ma'am Duck sat last of all, And Mr. Frog was small;-- She softly swallowed him, and made no mention! This Mr. Fox perceives, And saying, "By your leaves, Some punishment is due for this transgression." He gobbled her in haste, Then much to his distaste, By Mr. Lynx was taken in possession! The Wolf without a pause, In spite of teeth and claws, Left nothing of the Lynx to tell the story; The Leopard all irate At his relation's fate, Made mince meat of that wolfish monster hoary. The Lion raised his head; "Since I am king," he said, "It ill befits the king to lack his dinner!" Then on the Leopard sprang, With might of claw and fang, And made a meal upon that spotted sinner!-- Then saw in sudden fear Sir Crocodile draw near, And heard him speak, with feelings of distraction; "Since all of you have dined Well suited to your mind, You surely cannot grudge _me_ satisfaction!" And sooth, a deal of guile Lurked in his ample smile, As down his throat the roaring lion hasted; "Economy with me, Is chief of all," said he, "And I am truly glad to see there's nothing wasted." "TWO SOULS WITH BUT A SINGLE THOUGHT." BY WILLIAM THOMSON. "My soul is at the gate!" The sighing lover said. He wound his arms around her form And kissed her golden head. "My _sole_ is at the gate!" The maiden's father said. The lover rubbed the smitten part, And from the garden fled. A RISKY RIDE. BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN. "A risky ride," they called it. Lor bless ye, there wasn't no risk: I knew if I gave 'er 'er head, sir, That "Painted Lady" would whisk Like a rocket through all the horses, And win in a fine old style, With "the field" all a-tailin' behind 'er In a kind of a' Indian file. * * * * * You didn't know old Josh Grinley-- "Old Josh o' the Whitelands Farm," As his father had tilled afore 'im, And his afore 'im.--No harm Ever touched one of the Grinleys When the 'Ollingtons owned the lands; But they ruined themselves through racing, And it passed into other hands. Ain't ye heard how Lord 'Ollington died, sir, On that day when "Midlothian Maid" Broke down when just winning the "Stewards'"? Every farthing he'd left was laid On the old mare's chance; and vict'ry Seemed fairly within his grasp When she stumbled--went clean to pieces. With a cry of despair--a gasp-- Lord 'Ollington staggered backwards; A red stream flowed from his mouth, And he died--with the shouts ringing round him: "Beaten by Queen o' the South!" But I'm going on anyhow,--ain't I? I began about my ride; And I'm talking now like a novel Of how Lord 'Ollington died. Don't ask me to tell how I'm bred, sir; Put my "pedigree" down as "unknown," But a good 'un to go when he's "wanted," From whatever dam he was thrown. Old Joshua--he's been my mother And father all rolled into one;-- It was 'im as bred and trained me; Got me "ready" and "fit" to run. It's been whispered he saved my life, sir-- Picked me up one winter's night, Wrapped up in a shawl or summat,-- The tale's like enough to be right. It's just what he would do,--bless 'im! Yes, I owed every atom to him: So you'll guess how I felt that mornin', When, with eyes all wet and dim, He told me the new folk would give 'im But two weeks to pay his arrears; Then he cried like a little child, sir. When I saw the old fellow's tears, My young blood boiled madly within me; I knew how he'd struggled and fought 'Gainst years of bad seasons and harvests; How nobly but vainly he'd sought To make both ends meet at the "Whitelands." "They never will do it!" I cry. "You've lived all your life at the 'Farm,' Josh, And you'll still live on there till you die! 'Tain't for me to tell stable secrets, But I know--well, just what I know: Go! say that in less than a month, Josh, You'll pay every penny you owe." * * * * * "A couple o' hundred" was wanted To pull good old Joshua right; I was only a lad; but I'd "fifty"-- My money went that night, Every penny on "Painted Lady" For the "Stakes" in the coming week. I should 'ave backed her afore, sir; But waited for master to speak As to what he intended a-doing, I thought 'twas a "plant"--d'ye see? With a bit o' "rope" in the question, So I'd let "Painted Lady" be. I knew she _could_ win in a canter, As long as there wasn't no "fake." And now--well, I meant that she _should_ win, For poor old Josh Grinley's sake. * * * * * The three-year old "Painted Lady" Had never been beat in her life; And I'd always 'ad the mount, sir; But rumours now 'gan to get rife That something was wrong with the "filly". The "bookies" thought everything "square"-- For them--so they "laid quite freely" Good odds 'gainst the master's mare! When he'd gone abroad in the summer He had given us orders to train "The Lady" for this 'ere race, sir; We'd never heard from him again. And, seeing the "bookies" a-layin', I thought they knew more than I: But _now_ I thought with a chuckle, Let each look out for his eye. The morning before the race, sir, The owner turned up. With a smile I showed 'im the mare--"There she is, sir, Goin' jist in 'er same old style. We'll win in a common canter, 'Painted Lady' and I, Sir Hugh, As we've always done afore, sir; As we always mean to do." He looked at me just for a moment, A shade of care seemed to pass All over his handsome features. Then he kicked at a tuft o' grass, In a sort of a pet, then stammered, As he lifted his eyes from his shoes, "I'm sorry, my lad--very sorry, But to-morrow the mare must _lose_." He turned on his heel. I stood stroking My "Lady's" soft shining skin, Then I muttered, "I'm sorry, sir, very, But to-morrow the mare must _win_." * * * * * I was 'tween two stools, as they say, sir-- If I disobeyed orders, Sir Hugh Would "sack" me as safe as a trivet, So I thought what I'd better do. I wasn't so long, for I shouted, "I've hit it! I'll _win_ this 'ere race, And I'll lay fifty pounds to a sov'reign As I don't get the 'kick' from my place." * * * * * The day of the race: bell's a-ringin' To clear the course for the start. I gets to an out-o'-way corner; Then, quickly as lightning, I dart My hand 'neath my silken jacket, Pops a tiny phial to my lips, Then off to mount "Painted Lady"-- Sharp into the saddle I slips. In a minute or two we were streaming Down the course at a nailing pace; But I lets the mare take it easy, For I feels as I've got the race Well in hand. "No, nothing can touch ye: You'll win!" I cries--"Now then, my dear!" All at once I feels fairly silly; Then I comes over right down queer. I dig my knees into her girths, sir; I let the reins go--then I fall Back faint, and dizzy, and drowsy-- "Painted Lady" sweeps on past them all. She can't make out what's a happenin', Flies on--maddened, scared with fright-- And wins--by how far? well, don't know, sir, But the rest hadn't come in sight. I was took from the saddle, lifeless; I've heard as they thought me dead; And after I rallied--"'Twas funny! 'Twas curious--very!" they said. * * * * * The matter was all hushed up, sir; Sir Hugh dussn't show 'is hands. I'm head "boss" now in the stables. Josh stayed--and died--down at the 'Lands. ON MARRIAGE. BY JOSH BILLINGS. Marriage iz a fair transaction on the face ov it. But thare iz quite too often put up jobs in it. It iz an old institushun, older than the pyramids, and az phull ov hyrogliphicks that noboddy kan parse. History holds its tounge who the pair waz who fust put on the silken harness, and promised tew work kind in it, thru thick and thin, up hill and down, and on the level, rain or shine, survive or perish, sink or swim, drown or flote. But whoever they waz they must hav made a good thing out ov it, or so menny ov their posterity would not hav harnessed up since and drov out. Thare iz a grate moral grip in marriage; it iz the mortar that holds the soshull bricks together. But there ain't but darn few pholks who put their money in matrimony who could set down and giv a good written opinyun whi on arth they cum to did it. This iz a grate proof that it iz one ov them natral kind ov acksidents that must happen, jist az birds fly out ov the nest, when they hav feathers enuff, without being able tew tell why. Sum marry for buty, and never diskover their mistake; this iz lucky. Sum marry for money, and--don't see it. Sum marry for pedigree, and feel big for six months, and then very sensibly cum tew the conclusion that pedigree ain't no better than skimmilk. Sum marry ter pleze their relashons, and are surprised tew learn that their relashuns don't care a cuss for them afterwards. Sum marry bekause they hav bin highsted sum where else; this iz a cross match, a bay and a sorrel; pride may make it endurable. Sum marry for love without a cent in the pocket, nor a friend in the world, nor a drop ov pedigree. This looks desperate, _but it iz the strength ov the game_. If marrying for love ain't a suckcess, then matrimony iz a ded beet. Sum marry bekauze they think wimmin will be skarse next year, and liv tew wonder how the crop holds out. Sum marry tew get rid of themselfs, and diskover that the game waz one that two could play at, and neither win. Sum marry the seckond time to git even, and find it a gambling game, the more they put down, the less they take up. Sum marry tew be happy, and not finding it, wonder whare all the happiness on earth goes to when it dies. Sum marry, they kan't tell whi, and liv, they kan't tell how. Almoste every boddy gits married, and it iz a good joke. Sum marry in haste, and then set down and think it careful over. Sum think it over careful fust, and then set down and marry. Both ways are right, if they hit the mark. Sum marry rakes tew convert them. This iz a little risky, and takes a smart missionary to do it. Sum marry coquetts. This iz like buying a poor farm, heavily mortgaged, and working the ballance ov yure days tew clear oph the mortgages. THE ROMANCE OF CARRIGCLEENA. BY HERCULES ELLIS. "Oh! wizard, to thine aid I fly, With weary feet, and bosom aching; And if thou spurn my prayer, I die; For oh! my heart! my heart! is breaking: Oh! tell me where my Gerald's gone-- My loved, my beautiful, my own; And, though in farthest lands he be; To my true lover's side I'll flee." "Daughter," the aged wizard said, "For what cause hath thy Gerald parted? I cannot lend my mystic aid, Except to lovers, faithful hearted; My magic wand would lose its might-- I could not read my spells aright-- All skill would from my soul depart, If I should aid the false in heart." "Oh! father, my fond heart was true," Cried Ellen, "to my Gerald ever; No change its stream of love e'er knew, Save that it deepened like yon river: True, as the rose to summer sun, That droops, when its loved lord is gone, And sheds its bloom, from day to day, And fades, and pines, and dies away. "Betrothed, with my dear sire's consent, Each morn beheld my Gerald coming; Each day, in converse sweet, was spent; And, ere he went, dark eve was glooming: But one day, as he crossed the plain, I saw a cloud descend, like rain, And bear him, in its skirts, away-- Oh! hour of grief, oh! woeful day! "They sought my Gerald many a day, 'Mid winter's snow, and summer's blossom; At length, his memory passed away, From all, except his Ellen's bosom. But there his love still glows and grows, Unchanged by time, unchecked by woes; And, led by it, I've made my way, To seek thy aid, in dark Iveagh." He traced a circle with his wand, Around the spot, where they were standing; He held a volume in his hand, All writ, with spells of power commanding: He read a spell--then looked--in vain, Southward, across the lake of Lene; Then to the east, and western side; But, when he northward looked, he cried-- "I see! I see your Gerald now! In Carrigcleena's fairy dwelling; Deep sorrow sits upon his brow, Though Cleena tales of love is telling-- Cleena, most gentle, and most fair, Of all the daughters of the air; The fairy queen, whose smiles of light, Preserves from sorrow and from blight. "Her love has borne him from thy arms, And keeps him in those fairy regions, Where Cleena blooms in matchless charms, Attended by her fairy legions. Yet kind and merciful's the queen; And if thy woe by her were seen, And all thy constancy were known, Brave Gerald yet might be thine own." "Oh! father," the pale maiden cried, "Hath he forgotten quite his Ellen? Thinks he no more of Shannon's side, Where love so long had made his dwelling?" "Alas! fair maid, I cannot tell The thoughts that in the bosom dwell; For ah! all vain is magic art, To read the secrets of the heart." To Carrigcleena Ellen wends, With aching breast, and footsteps weary; Low on her knees the maiden bends, Before that rocky hill of fairy; Pale as the moonbeam is her cheek; With trembling fear she scarce can speak; In agony her hands she clasps; And thus her love-taught prayer she gasps. "Oh! Cleena, queen of fairy charms, Have mercy on my love-lorn maiden; Restore my Gerald to my arms-- Behold! behold! how sorrow laden And faint, and way-worn, here I kneel; And, with clasped hands, to thee appeal: Give to my heart, oh! Cleena give, The being in whose love I live! "Break not my heart, whose truth you see, Oh! break it not by now refusing; For Gerald's all the world to me, Whilst thou hast all the world for choosing: Oh! Cleena, fairest of the fair, Grant now a love-lorn maiden's prayer; Or, if to yield him you deny, Let me behold him once, and die." Her prayer of love thus Ellen poured, With streaming eyes and bosom heaving; And, at each faint heart-wringing word, Her soul seemed its fair prison leaving: The linnet, on the hawthorn tree, Stood hushed by her deep misery; And the soft summer evening gale Seemed echoing the maiden's wail. And now the solid rocks divide, A glorious fairy hall disclosing; There Cleena stands, and by her side, In slumber, Gerald seems reposing: She wakes him from his fairy trance; And, hand in hand, they both advance; And, now, the queen of fairy charms Gives Gerald to his Ellen's arms. "Be happy," lovely Cleena cried, "Oh! lovers true, and fair, and peerless; All vain is magic, to divide Such hearts, so constant, and so fearless. Be happy, as you have been true, For Cleena's blessing rests on you; And joy, and wealth, and power, shall give, As long as upon earth you live." THE FALSE FONTANLEE. BY WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE. Alas, that knight of noble birth Should ever fall from fitting worth! Alas, that guilty treachery Should stain the blood of Fontanlee! The king hath lent a listening ear, And blacker grew his face to hear: "By Cross," he cried, "if thou speak right, The Fontanlee is a traitor knight!" Outstepped Sir Robert of Fontanlee, A young knight and a fair to see; Outstepped Sir Stephen of Fontanlee. Sir Robert's second brother was he; Outstepped Sir John of Fontanlee, He was the youngest of the three. There are three gloves on the oaken boards, And three white hands on their hilted swords: "On horse or foot, by day or night, We stand to do our father right." The Baron Tranmere hath bent his knee, And gathered him up the gages three: "Ye are young knights, and loyal, I wis, And ye know not how false your father is. "Put on, put on your armour bright; And God in heaven help the right!" "God help the right!" the sons replied; And straightway on their armour did. The Baron Tranmere hath mounted his horse, And ridden him down the battle-course; The young Sir Robert lifted his eyes, Looked fairly up in the open skies: "If my father was true in deed and in word, Fight, O God, with my righteous sword; If my father was false in deed or in word, Let me lie at length on the battle-sward!" The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse, And ridden him down the battle-course; Sir Robert's visor is crushed and marred, And he lies his length on the battle-sward. Sir Stephen's was an angry blade-- I scarce may speak the words he said: "Though Heaven itself were false," cried he, "True is my father of Fontanlee! "And, brother, as Heaven goes with the wrong, If this lying baron should lay me along, Strike another blow for our good renown." "Doubt me not," said the young knight John. The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse, And ridden him down the battle-course; In bold Sir Stephen's best life-blood His spear's point is wet to the wood. The young knight John hath bent his knee, And speaks his soul right solemnly: "Whatever seemeth good to Thee, The same, O Lord, attend on me. "What though my brothers lie along, My father's faith is firm and strong: Perchance thy deeply-hid intent Doth need some nobler instrument. "Let faithless hearts give heed to fear, I will not falter in my prayer: If ever guilty treachery Did stain the blood of Fontanlee,-- "As such an 'if' doth stain my lips, Though truth lie hidden in eclipse,-- Let yonder lance-head pierce my breast, And my soul seek its endless rest." Never a whit did young John yield When the lance ran through his painted shield; Never a whit debased his crest, When the lance ran into his tender breast. "What is this? what is this, thou young Sir John, That runs so fast from thine armour down?" "Oh, this is my heart's blood, I feel, And it wets me through from the waist to the heel." Sights of sadness many a one A man may meet beneath the sun; But a sadder sight did never man see Than lies in the Hall of Fontanlee. There are three corses manly and fair, Each in its armour, and each on its bier; There are three squires weeping and wan, Every one with his head on his hand, Every one with his hand on his knee, At the foot of his master silently Sitting, and weeping bitterly For the broken honour of Fontanlee. Who is this at their sides that stands? "Lift, O squires, your heads from your hands; Tell me who these dead men be That lie in the Hall of the Fontanlee." "This is Sir Robert of Fontanlee, A young knight and a fair to see; This is Sir Stephen of Fontanlee, Sir Robert's second brother was he; This is Sir John of Fontanlee, He was the youngest of the three. "For their father's truth did they Freely give their lives away, And till he doth home return, Sadly here we sit and mourn." These sad words they having said, Every one down sank his head; Till in accents strangely spoken, At their sides was silence broken. "I do bring you news from far, False was the Fontanlee in war! --Unbend your bright swords from my breast, I that do speak do know it best." Wide he flung his mantle free; Lo, it was the Fontanlee! Then the squires like stricken men Sank into their seats again, And their cheeks in wet tears steeping Fresh and faster fell a weeping. He with footsteps soft and slow Round to his sons' heads did go; Sadly he looked on every one, And stooped and kissed the youngest, John. Then his weary head down bending, "Heart," said he, "too much offending, Break, and let me only be Blotted out of memory." Thrice with crimson cheek he stood, And thrice he swallowed the salt blood; Then outpoured the torrent red; And the false Fontanlee lay dead. THE LEGEND OF SAINT LAURA. BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. Saint Laura, in her sleep of death, Preserves beneath the tomb --'Tis willed where what is willed must be-- In incorruptibility, Her beauty and her bloom. So pure her maiden life had been, So free from earthly stain, 'Twas fixed in fate by Heaven's own Queen That till the earth's last closing scene She should unchanged remain. Within a deep sarcophagus Of alabaster sheen, With sculptured lid of roses white, She slumbered in unbroken night, By mortal eyes unseen. Above her marble couch was reared A monumental shrine, Where cloistered sisters gathering round, Made night and morn the aisle resound With choristry divine. The abbess died; and in her pride Her parting mandate said They should her final rest provide, The alabaster couch beside, Where slept the sainted dead. The abbess came of princely race; The nuns might not gainsay; And sadly passed the timid band, To execute the high command They dared not disobey. The monument was opened then; It gave to general sight The alabaster couch alone; But all its lucid substance shone With preternatural light. They laid the corpse within the shrine; They closed its doors again; But nameless terror seemed to fall, Throughout the livelong night, on all Who formed the funeral train. Lo! on the morrow morn, still closed The monument was found; But in its robes funereal drest, The corse they had consigned to rest Lay on the stony ground. Fear and amazement seized on all; They called on Mary's aid; And in the tomb, unclosed again, With choral hymn and funeral train, The corse again was laid. But with the incorruptible Corruption might not rest; The lonely chapel's stone-paved floor Received the ejected corse once more, In robes funereal drest. So was it found when morning beamed; In solemn suppliant strain The nuns implored all saints in heaven, That rest might to the corse be given, Which they entombed again. On the third night a watch was kept By many a friar and nun; Trembling, all knelt in fervent prayer, Till on the dreary midnight air Rolled the deep bell-toll "One!" The saint within the opening tomb Like marble statue stood; All fell to earth in deep dismay; And through their ranks she passed away, In calm unchanging mood. No answering sound her footsteps raised Along the stony floor; Silent as death, severe as fate, She glided through the chapel gate, And none beheld her more. The alabaster couch was gone; The tomb was void and bare; For the last time, with hasty rite, Even 'mid the terror of the night, They laid the abbess there. 'Tis said the abbess rests not well In that sepulchral pile; But yearly, when the night comes round As dies of "one" the bell's deep sound She flits along the aisle. But whither passed the virgin saint? To slumber far away, Destined by Mary to endure, Unaltered in her semblance pure, Until the judgment day! DAVID SHAW, HERO. BY JAMES BUCKHAM. The saviour, and not the slayer, he is the braver man. So far my text--but the story? Thus, then, it runs; from Spokane Rolled out the overland mail train, late by an hour. In the cab David Shaw, at your service, dressed in his blouse of drab. Grimed by the smoke and the cinders. "Feed her well, Jim," he said; (Jim was his fireman.) "_Make up time!_" On and on they sped; Dust from the wheels up-flying; smoke rolling out behind; The long train thundering, swaying; the roar of the cloven wind; Shaw, with his hand on the lever, looking out straight ahead. How she did rock, old Six-forty! How like a storm they sped. Leavenworth--thirty minutes gained in the thrilling race. Now for the hills--keener look-out, or a letting down of the pace. Hardly a pound of the steam less! David Shaw straightened back, Hand like steel on the lever, face like flint to the track. God!--look there! Down the mountain, right ahead of the train, Acres of sand and forest sliding down to the plain! What to do? Why, jump, Dave! Take the chance, while you can. The train is doomed--save your own life! Think of the children, man! Well, what did he, this hero, face to face with grim death? Grasped the throttle--reversed it--shrieked "_Down brakes!_" in a breath. Stood to his post, without flinching, clear-headed, open-eyed, Till the train stood still with a shudder, and he--went down with the slide! Saved?--yes, saved! Ninety people snatched from an awful grave. One life under the sand, there. All that he had, he gave, Man to the last inch! Hero?--noblest of heroes, yea; Worthy the shaft and the tablet, worthy the song and the bay! BROTHERHOOD. BY ALFRED H. MILES. I am my brother's keeper, And I the duty own; For no man liveth to himself Or to himself alone; And we must bear together A common weal and woe, In all we are, in all we have, In all we feel and know. I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can be, Of high and pure example, Of true integrity; A guide to go before him, In darkness and in light; A very cloud of snow by day, A cloud of fire by night. I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can say, To help him on his journey To cheer him by the way; To succour him in weakness, To solace him in woe; To strengthen him in conflict, And fit him for the foe. I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can do To save him from temptation, To help him to be true; To stay him if he stumble, To lift him if he fall; To stand beside him though his sin Has severed him from all. I am my brother's keeper, In sickness and in health; In triumph and in failure, In poverty and wealth; His champion in danger, His advocate in blame, The herald of his honour, The hider of his shame. And though he prove unworthy, He is my brother still, And I must render right for wrong And give him good for ill; My standard must not alter For folly, fault, or whim, And to be true unto myself I must be true to him. And all men are my brothers Wherever they may be, And he is most my proper care Who most has need of me; Who most may need my counsel, My influence, my pelf, And most of all who needs _my_ strength To save him from _myself_. For all I have of power Beyond what he can wield, Is not a weapon of offence But a protecting shield, Which _I_ must hold before him To save him from his foe, E'en though _I_ be the enemy That longs to strike the blow. I am my brother's keeper, And must be to the end-- A neighbour to the neighbourless, And to the friendless, friend; His weakness lays it on me, My strength involves it too, And common love for common life Will bear the burden through. THE STRAIGHT RIDER. _(FROM "BLACK AND WHITE?" BY PERMISSION.)_ "My _dear_ Mabel, how pale you look! It is this hot room. I am sure Lord Saint Sinnes will not mind taking you for a little turn in the garden--between the dances." My Lord Saint Sinnes--or Billy Sinnes as he is usually called by his friends--shuffled in his high collar. It is a remarkable collar, nearly related to a cuff, and it keeps Lord Saint Innes in remembrance of his chin. If it were not that this plain young nobleman were essentially a gentleman, one might easily mistake him for a groom. Moreover, like other persons of equine tastes, he has the pleasant fancy of affecting a tight and horsey "cut" in clothes never intended for the saddle. The girl, addressed by her somewhat overpowering mother as Mabel, takes the proffered arm with a murmured acquiescence and a quivering lip. She is paler than before. Over his stiff collar Lord Saint Sinnes looks down at her--with something of the deep intuition which makes him the finest steeplechaser in England. Perhaps he notes the quiver of the lip, the sinews drawn tense about her throat. Such silent signals of distress are his business. Certainly he notes the little shiver of abject fear which passes through the girl's slight form as they pass out of the room together. Their departure is noted by several persons--mostly _chaperons_. "He must do it to-night," murmurs the girl's mother with a complacent smile on her worldly, cruel face, "and then Mabel will soon see that--the other--was all a mistake." Some mothers believe such worn-out theories as this--and others--are merely heartless. Lord Saint Sinnes leads the way deliberately to the most secluded part of the garden. There are two chairs at the end of a narrow pathway. Mabel sits down hopelessly. She is a quiet-eyed little girl, with brown hair and gentle ways. Just--in a word--the sort of girl who usually engages the affections of blushing, open-air, horsey men. She has no spirit, and those who know her mother are not surprised. She is going to say yes, because she dare not say no. At least two lives are going to be wrecked at the end of the narrow path. Lord Saint Sinnes sits down at her side and contemplates his pointed toes. Then he looks at her--his clean-shaven face very grave--with the eye of the steeplechase rider. "Miss Maddison"--jerk of the chin and pull at collar--"you're in a ghastly fright." Miss Maddison draws in a sudden breath, like a sob, and looks at her lacework handkerchief. "You think I'm going to ask you to marry me?" Still no answer. The stiff collar gleams in the light of a Chinese lantern. Lord Saint Sinnes's linen is a matter of proverb. "But I'm not. I'm not such a cad as that." The girl raises her head, as if she hears a far-off sound. "I know that old worn----. I daresay I would give great satisfaction to some people if I did! But ... I can't help that." Mabel is bending forward, hiding her face. A tear falls on her silk dress with a little dull flop. Young Saint Sinnes looks at her--almost as if he were going to take her in his arms. Then he shuts his upper teeth over his lower lip, hard--just as he does when riding at the water jump. "A fellow mayn't be much to look at," he says, gruffly, "but he can ride straight, for all that." Mabel half turns her head, and he has the satisfaction of concluding that she has no fault to find with his riding. "Of course," he says, abruptly, "there is s'm' other fellow?" After a pause, Miss Maddison nods. "Miss Maddison," says Lord Saint Sinnes, rising and jerking his knees back after the manner of horsey persons, "you can go back into that room and take your Bible oath that I never asked you to marry me." Mabel rises also. She wants to say something, but there is a lump in her throat. "Some people," he goes on, "will say that you bungled it, others that I behaved abominably, but--but we know better, eh?" He offers his arm, and they walk toward the house. Suddenly he stops, and fidgets in his collar. "Don't trouble about me," he says, simply. "I shan't marry anyone else--I couldn't do that--but--but I didn't suspect until to-night, y'know, that there was another man, and a chap must ride straight, you know." H. S. M. WOMEN AND WORK. BY ALFRED H. MILES. "Always a hindrance, are we? You didn't think that of old; With never a han' to help a man, and only a tongue to scold? Timid as hares in danger--weak as a lamb in strife, With never a heart to bear a part in the rattle and battle of life! Just fit to see to the children and manage the home affairs, With only a head for butter and bread, a soul for tables and chairs? Where would you be to-morrow if half of the lie were true? It's well some women are weak at heart, if only for saving you. "We haven't much time to be merry who marry a struggling man, Making and mending and saving and spending, and doing the best we can. Skimming and scamming and plotting and planning, and making the done for do, Grinding the mill with the old grist still and turning the old into new; Picking and paring and shaving and sharing, and when not enough for us all, Giving up tea that whatever may be the 'bacca sha'n't go to the wall; With never a rest from the riot and zest, the hustle and bustle and noise Of the boys who all try to be men like you, and the girls who all try to be boys. "You know the tale of the eagle that carried the child away To its eyrie high in the mountain sky, grim and rugged and gray; Of the sailor who climbed to save it, who, ere he had half-way sped Up the mountain wild, _met_ mother and child returning as from the dead There's many a bearded giant had never have grown a span, If in peril's power in childhood's hour he'd had to wait for a man. And who is the one among you but is living and hale to-day, Because he was tied to a woman's side in the old home far away? "You have heard the tale of the lifeboat, and the women of Mumbles Head, Who, when the men stood shivering by, or out from the danger fled, Tore their shawls into striplets and knotted them end to end, And then went down to the gates of death for father and brother and friend. Deeper and deeper into the sea, ready of heart and head, Hauling them home through the blinding foam, and raising them from the dead. There's many of you to-morrow who, but for a woman's hand, Would be drifting about with the shore lights out and never a chance to land. "You've read of the noble woman in the midst of a Border fray Who held her own in a castle lone, for her lord who was far away. For the children who gather'd round her and the home that she loved so well, And the deathless fame of a woman's name whom nothing but love could quell. Who, when the men would have yielded, with her own sweet lily hand, Led them straight from the postern gate, and drove the foe from the land. There's many a little homestead that is cosy and sung to-day, Because of a woman who stood in the door and kept the wolves at bay. "Only a hindrance are we? then we'll be a hindrance still. We hinder the devil and all his works, and I reckon he takes it ill. We do the work that is nearest, and that is the surest plan, But if ever you want a hero, and you cannot wait for a man, You need not tell us the chances, you've only the need to show, And there's many a woman in all the world who is willing and ready to go, For trust in trial, for work in woe, for comfort and care in sorrow, The wives of the world are its strength to-day, the daughters it's hope to-morrow." A COUNTRY STORY. (Founded on an old Legend.) BY ALFRED H. MILES. At the little town of Norton, in a famous western shire, There dwelt a sightless maiden with her venerated sire. To him she was the legacy her mother had bequeathed; To her he was the very sun that warmed the air she breathed. Old Alec was a carter, and he moved from town to town, Taking parcels from the "The Wheatsheaf" to "The Mitre" or "The Crown;" And on festival occasions would the sightless maiden ride To the old cathedral city by the honest carter's side. Ere he tended to his duty at the market or the fair He would seek the lofty Gothic pile, and leave the maiden there, That the choir's joyous singing and the organ's solemn strain Might beguile her simple fancy till he journeyed home again. On the fair autumnal evening of a bright September day She had heard the choir singing, she had heard the canons pray; And the good old dean was preaching with simple words and wise Of Him who gave the maiden life and touched the poor man's eyes. And her tears fell fast and thickly as the good old preacher said That even now He cures the blind and raises up the dead; And he aptly went on speaking of the blinding death of sin, And urged them to be seeking for life and light within. 'Mid the mighty organ's pealing in the voluntary rare, Through the fine oak-panelled ceiling went the maiden's broken prayer That she might but for a moment be allowed to have her sight, To see old Alec's honest face that tranquil autumn night. That He of old who sweetly upon Bartimeus smiled Would gaze in like compassion on an English peasant child: That He who once in pity stood beside the maiden's bed, Would take her hand within His own and raise her from the dead. The maiden's small petition, and the choir's grander praise, Reached the shining gates of heaven, 'mid the sun's declining rays, And the King who heard the praises, turned to listen to the prayer, With a smile that shone more brightly than the richest jewel there. And before the organ ended, ay, before the prayer was done, An angel guard came flying through "the kingdom of the sun," From the land of lofty praises to which God's elect aspire To the old cathedral city of that famous western shire. And the maiden's prayer was answered; she gazed with eager sight At the tesselated pavement, at the window's painted light; And her heart beat fast and wildly as she realized the scene, With the choir's slow procession, and the old white-headed dean. Till she saw old Alec waiting, and arose for his embrace, While a radiant light was stealing o'er her pallid upturned face, But her spirit soaring higher flew beyond the realms of night, For God Himself had turned for her all darkness into light. THE BEGGAR MAID. BY LORD TENNYSON. Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Bare-footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day." As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!" THE VENGEANCE OF KAFUR. BY CLINTON SCOLLARD. From fair Damascus, as the day grew late, Passed Kafur homeward through St. Thomas' gate Betwixt the pleasure-gardens where he heard Vie with the lute the twilight-wakened bird. But song touched not his heavy heart, nor yet The lovely lines of gold and violet, A guerdon left by the departing sun To grace the brow of Anti-Lebanon. Upon his soul a crushing burden weighed, And to his eyes the swiftly-gathering shade Seemed but the presage of his doom to be,-- Death, and the triumph of his enemy. "_One slain by slander_" cried he, with a laugh, "Thus should the poets frame my epitaph, Above whose mouldering dust it will be said, 'Blessed be Allah that the hound is dead!'" Out rang a rhythmic revel as he spake From joyous bulbuls in the poplar brake, Hailing the night's first blossom in the sky. And now, with failing foot, he drew anigh The orchard-garden where his home was hid Pomegranate shade and jasmine bloom amid. Despair mocked at him from the latticed gate Where Love and Happiness had lain in wait With tender greetings, and the lights within Gleamed on the grave of Bliss that once had been. Fair Hope who daily poured into his ear Her rainbow promises gave way to Fear Who smote him blindly, leaving him to moan With bitter tears before the gateway prone. Soft seemed the wind in sympathy to grieve, When lo! a sudden hand touched Kafur's sleeve, And then a voice cried, echoing his name, "Behold the proofs to put thy foe to shame!'" Up sprang the prostrate man, and while he stood Gripping the proffered scrip in marvelhood, He who had brought deliverance slipped from sight; Thus Joy made instant day of Kafur's night. "Allah is just," he said.... Then burning ire With vengeance visions filled his brain like fire; And to his bosom, anguish-torn but late, Delirious with delight he hugged his hate. "Revenge!" cried he; "why wait until the morn? This night mine enemy shall know my scorn." The stars looked down in wo'nder overhead As backward Kafur toward Damascus sped. The wind, that erst had joined him in his grief, Now whispered strangely to the walnut leaf; Into the bird's song pleading notes had crept, The happy fountains in the gardens wept, And e'en the river, with its restless roll, Seemed calling "pity" unto Kafur's soul. "Allah" he cried, "O chasten thou my heart; Move me to mercy, and a nobler part!" Slow strode he on, the while a new-born grace Softened the rigid outlines of his face, Nor paused he till he struck, as ne'er before, A ringing summons on his foeman's door. His mantle half across his features thrown, He won the spacious inner court unknown, Where, on a deep divan, lay stretched his foe, Sipping his sherbet cool with Hermon snow; Who, when he looked on Kafur, hurled his hate Upon him, wrathful and infuriate, Bidding him swift begone, and think to feel A judge's sentence and a jailer's steel. "Hark ye!" cried Kafur, at this burst of rage Holding aloft a rolled parchment page; "Prayers and not threats were more to thy behoof; Thine is the danger, see! I hold the proof. Should I seek out the Caliph in his bower To-morrow when the mid-muezzin hour Has passed, and lay before his eyes this scrip, Silence would seal forevermore thy lip. "Ay! quail and cringe and crook the supple knee, And beg thy life of me, thine enemy, Whom thou, a moment since, didst doom to death. I will not breathe suspicion's lightest breath Against thy vaunted fame: and even though Before all men thou'st sworn thyself my foe, And pledged thyself wrongly to wreak on me Thy utmost power of mortal injury, In spite of this, should I be first to die And win the bowers of the blest on high, Beside the golden gate of Paradise Thee will I wait with ever-watchful eyes, Ready to plead forgiveness for thy sin, If thou shouldst come, and shouldst not enter in. "Should Allah hear my plea, how sweet! how sweet! For then would Kafur's vengeance be complete." THE WISHING WELL. BY VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD. Around its shining edge three sat them down, Beyond the desert, 'neath the palms' green ring. "I wish," spake one, "the gems of Izza's crown, For then would I be Izza and a King!" Another, "I the royal robe he wears, To hear men say, 'Behold, a King walks here!'" And cried the third, "Now by his long gray hairs I'd have his throne! Then should men cringe and fear!" They quaffed the blessed draught and went their way To where the city's gilded turrets shone; Then from the shadowed palms, where rested they, Stepped one, with bowed gray head, and passed alone. His arms upon his breast, his eyes down bent, Against the fading light a shadow straight; Across the yellow sand, musing, he went Where in the sunset gleamed the city's gate. Lo, the next morrow a command did bring To three who tarried in that city's wall, Which bade them hasten straightway to the King, Izza, the Great, and straightway went they all, With questioning and wonder in each mind. Majestic on his gleaming throne was he, Izza the Just, the kingliest of his kind! His eagle gaze upon the strangers three Bent, to the first he spake, "Something doth tell Me that to-day my jewelled crown should lie Upon thy brow, that it be proven well How any man may be a king thereby." And to the second, "Still the same hath told That thou shalt don this robe of royalty, And"--to the third--"that thou this sceptre hold To show a king to such a man as I!" And straightway it was done. Then Izza spake Unto the guards and said, "Go! Bring thee now From out the city wall a child to make Its first obeisance to the King. Speed thou!" In Izza's name, Izza, the great and good, Went this strange word 'mid stir and trumpet's ring, And straightway came along and wondering stood A child within the presence of the King. The King? Her dark eyes, flashing, fearless gazed To where 'mid pomp and splendor three there sate. One, 'neath a glittering crown, shrunk sore amazed; One cringed upon the carven throne of state, The third, wrapped with a royal robe, hung low His head in awkward shame, and could not see Beyond the blazoned hem, that was to show How any man thus garbed a king might be! Wondering, paused the child, then turned to where One stood apart, his arms across his breast; No crown upon the silver of his hair, Black-gowned and still, of stately mien possessed; No 'broidered robe nor gemmed device to tell Whose was that brow, majestic with its mind; But lo, one look, and straight she prostrate fell Before great Izza, kingliest of his kind! * * * * * Around the shining Well, at close of day, Beyond the desert, 'neath the palms' green ring, Three stopped to quaff a draught and paused to say "Life to great Izza! Long may he be King!" THE TWO CHURCH-BUILDERS. BY JOHN G. SAXE. A famous king would build a church, A temple vast and grand; And that the praise might be his own, He gave a strict command That none should add the smallest gift To aid the work he planned. And when the mighty dome was done, Within the noble frame, Upon a tablet broad and fair, In letters all aflame With burnished gold, the people read The royal builder's name. Now when the king, elate with pride, That night had sought his bed, He dreamed he saw an angel come (A halo round his head), Erase the royal name and write Another in its stead. What could it be? Three times that night That wondrous vision came; Three times he saw that angel hand Erase the royal name, And write a woman's in its stead In letters all aflame. Whose could it be? He gave command To all about his throne To seek the owner of the name That on the tablet shone; And so it was, the courtiers found A widow poor and lone. The king, enraged at what he heard, Cried, "Bring the culprit here!" And to the woman trembling sore, He said, "'Tis very clear That thou hast broken my command: Now let the truth appear!" "Your majesty," the widow said, "I can't deny the truth; I love the Lord--my Lord and yours-- And so in simple sooth, I broke your Majesty's command (I crave your royal ruth). "And since I had no money, Sire, Why, I could only pray That God would bless your Majesty;' And when along the way The horses drew the stones, I gave To one a wisp of hay!" "Ah! now I see," the king exclaimed, "Self-glory was my aim: The woman gave for love of God, And not for worldly fame-- 'Tis my command the tablet bear The pious widow's name!" THE CAPTAIN OF THE NORTHFLEET, BY GERALD MASSEY. So often is the proud deed done By men like this at Duty's call; So many are the honours won For us, we cannot wear them all! They make the heroic common-place, And dying thus the natural way; And yet, our world-wide English race Feels nobler, for that death, To-day! It stirs us with a sense of wings That strive to lift the earthiest soul; It brings the thoughts that fathom things To anchor fast where billows roll. Love was so new, and life so sweet, But at the call he left the wine, And sprang full-statured to his feet, Responsive to the touch divine. "_ Nay, dear, I cannot see you die. For me, I have my work to do Up here. Down to the boat. Good-bye, God bless you. I shall see it through_." We read, until the vision dims And drowns; but, ere the pang be past, A tide of triumph overbrims And breaks with light from heaven at last. Through all the blackness of that night A glory streams from out the gloom; His steadfast spirit lifts the light That shines till Night is overcome. The sea will do its worst, and life Be sobbed out in a bubbling breath; But firmly in the coward strife There stands a man who has conquered Death! A soul that masters wind and wave, And towers above a sinking deck; A bridge across the gaping grave; A rainbow rising o'er the wreck. Others he saved; he saved the name Unsullied that he gave his wife: And dying with so pure an aim, He had no need to save his life! Lord! how they shame the life we live, These sailors of our sea-girt isle, Who cheerily take what Thou mayst give, And go down with a heavenward smile! The men who sow their lives to yield A glorious crop in lives to be: Who turn to England's harvest-field The unfruitful furrows of the sea. With such a breed of men so brave, The Old Land has not had her day; But long her strength, with crested wave, Shall ride the Seas, the proud old way. THE HAPPIEST LAND. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. There sat one day in quiet, By an alehouse on the Rhine, Four hale and hearty fellows, And drank the precious wine. The landlord's daughter filled their cups Around the rustic board; Then sat they all so calm and still, And spake not one rude word. But when the maid departed, A Swabian raised his hand, And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, "Long live the Swabian land! "The greatest kingdom upon earth Cannot with that compare; With all the stout and hardy men And the nut-brown maidens there." "Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing,-- And dashed his beard with wine; "I had rather live in Lapland, Than that Swabian land of thine! "The goodliest land on all this earth It is the Saxon land! There have I as many maidens As fingers on this hand!" "Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!" A bold Bohemian cries; "If there's a heaven upon this earth, In Bohemia it lies: "There the tailor blows the flute, And the cobbler blows the horn, And the miner blows the bugle, Over mountain gorge and bourn!" * * * * * And then the landlord's daughter Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, "Ye may no more contend-- There lies the happiest land." THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW. September 24th, 1857. BY J. G. WHITTIER. Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills! Not the braes of broom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower Have heard your sweetest strain! Dear to the lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The Scottish pipes are dear;-- Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played. Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled and nearer crept; Round and round the jungle serpent Near and nearer circles swept. "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,-- Pray to-day!" the soldier said; "To-morrow, death's between us And the wrong and shame we dread." Oh! they listened, looked, and waited, Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing Filled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground: "Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it? The pipes o' Havelock sound!" Hushed the wounded man his groaning; Hushed the wife her little ones; Alone they heard the drum-roll And the roar of Sepoy guns. But to sounds of home and childhood The Highland ear was true; As her mother's cradle crooning The mountain pipes she knew. Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer,-- More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear,-- She knew the droning pibroch She knew the Campbell's call: "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,-- The grandest o' them all." Oh! they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's; "God be praised!--the march of Havelock! The piping of the clans!" Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithsomely The pipes of rescue blew! Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Moslem mosque and pagan shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of Auld Lang Syne; O'er the cruel roll of war-drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban, As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. Dear to the corn-land reaper, And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The piper's song is dear; Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen, and glade, But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played! THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the prince of all the land Led them on.-- Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time.-- But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of Oak!" our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- Then ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.-- Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave; "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:-- So peace instead of death let us bring: But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our king."-- Then Denmark bless'd our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wild and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, While the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore! Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died,-- With the gallant good Riou, Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! While the hollow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave! THE GRAVE SPOILERS. BY HERCULES ELLIS. They dragged our heroes from the graves, In which their honoured dust was lying; They dragged them forth--base, coward slaves And hung their bones on gibbets flying. Ireton, our dauntless Ironside, And Bradshaw, faithful judge, and fearless, And Cromwell, Britain's chosen guide, In fight in faith, and council, peerless. The bravest of our glorious brave! The tyrant's terror in his grave. In felon chains, they hung the dead-- The noble dead, in glory lying: Before whose living face they fled, Like chaff before the tempest flying. They fled before them, foot and horse, In craven flight their safety seeking; And now they gloat around each corse, In coward scoff their hatred wreaking. Oh! God, that men could own, as kings, Such paltry, dastard, soulless things. Their dust is scattered o'er the land They loved, and freed, and crowned with glory; Their great names bear the felon's brand; 'Mongst murderers is placed their story. But idly their grave-spoilers thought, Disgrace, which fled in life before them, By craven judges could be brought, To spread in death, its shadow o'er them. For chain, nor judge, nor dastard king, Can make disgrace around them cling. Their dry bones rattle in the wind, That sweeps the land they died in freeing; But the brave heroes rest enshrined, In cenotaphs of God's decreeing: Embalmed in every noble breast, Inscribed on each brave heart their story, All honoured shall the heroes rest, Their country's boast--their race's glory. On every tongue shall be their name; In every land shall live their fame. But fouler than the noisome dust, That reeks your rotting bones encasing, Shall be your fame, ye sons of lust, And sloth, and every vice debasing! Insulters of the glorious dead, While honour in our land is dwelling, Above your tombs shall Britons tread, And cry, while scorn each breast is swelling-- "HERE LIE THE DASTARD, CAITIFF SLAVES, WHO DRAGGED OUR HEROES FROM THEIR GRAVES." BOW-MEETING SONG. BY REGINALD HEBER. Ye spirits of our fathers, The hardy, bold, and free, Who chased o'er Cressy's gory field A fourfold enemy! From us who love your sylvan game, To you the song shall flow, To the fame of your name Who so bravely bent the bow. 'Twas merry then in England (Our ancient records tell), With Robin Hood and Little John Who dwelt by down and dell; And yet we love the bold outlaw Who braved a tyrant foe, Whose cheer was the deer, And his only friend the bow. 'Twas merry then in England In autumn's dewy morn, When echo started from her hill To hear the bugle-horn. And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth In garb of green did go The shade to invade With the arrow and the bow. Ye spirits of our fathers! Extend to us your care, Among your children yet are found The valiant and the fair, 'Tis merry yet in Old England, Full well her archers know, And shame on their name Who despise the British bow! THE BALLAD OF ROU. BY LORD LYTTON. From Blois to Senlis, wave by wave, rolled on the Norman flood, And Frank on Frank went drifting down the weltering tide of blood; There was not left in all the land a castle wall to fire, And not a wife but wailed a lord, a child but mourned a sire. To Charles the king, the mitred monks, the mailèd barons flew, While, shaking earth, behind them strode, the thunder march of Rou. "O king," then cried those barons bold, "in vain are mace and mail, We fall before the Norman axe, as corn before the flail." "And vainly," cry the pious monks, "by Mary's shrine we kneel, For prayers, like arrows glance aside, against the Norman steel." The barons groaned, the shavelings wept, while near and nearer drew, As death-birds round their scented feast, the raven flags of Rou. Then said King Charles, "Where thousands fail, what king can stand alone? The strength of kings is in the men that gather round the throne. When war dismays my barons bold, 'tis time for war to cease; When Heaven forsakes my pious monks the will of Heaven is peace. Go forth, my monks, with mass and rood the Norman camp unto, And to the fold, with shepherd crook, entice this grisly Rou. "I'll give him all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my child, shall be his bride, to bind him fast and sure; Let him but kiss the Christian cross, and sheathe the heathen sword, And hold the lands I cannot keep, a fief from Charles his lord." Forth went the pastors of the Church, the Shepherd's work to do, And wrap the golden fleece around the tiger loins of Rou. Psalm-chanting came the shaven monks, within the camp of dread; Amidst his warriors, Norman Rou stood taller by a head. Out spoke the Frank archbishop then, a priest devout and sage, "When peace and plenty wait thy word, what need of war and rage? Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch of blue, Which might be thine to sow and reap?--Thus saith the king to Rou: "'I'll give thee all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my fairest child, as bride, to bind thee fast and sure; If thou but kneel to Christ our God, and sheathe thy paynim sword, And hold thy land, the Church's son, a fief from Charles thy lord.'" The Norman on his warriors looked--to counsel they withdrew; The Saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the soul of Rou. So back he strode, and thus he spoke, to that archbishop meek, "I take the land thy king bestows, from Eure to Michael-peak, I take the maid, or foul or fair, a bargain with the coast, And for thy creed,--a sea-king's gods are those that give the most. So hie thee back, and tell thy chief to make his proffer true, And he shall find a docile son, and ye a saint in Rou." So o'er the border stream of Epte came Rou the Norman, where, Begirt with barons, sat the king, enthroned at green St. Clair; He placed his hand in Charles's hand,--loud shouted all the throng, But tears were in King Charles's eyes--the grip of Rou was strong. "Now kiss the foot," the bishop said, "that homage still is due;" Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim convert Rou. He takes the foot, as if the foot to slavish lips to bring; The Normans scowl; he tilts the throne and backward falls the king. Loud laugh the joyous Norman men.--pale stare the Franks aghast; And Rou lifts up his head as from the wind springs up the mast: "I said I would adore a God, but not a mortal too; The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss!" said Rou. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers-- There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on the Rhine! "Tell my Brothers and Companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground. That we fought the battle bravely--and, when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,-- The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars! But some were young,--and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,-- And one there came from Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine! "Tell my Mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would--but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen,--calm Bingen on the Rhine! "Tell my Sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too,--and not afraid to die. And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honour of old Bingen,--dear Bingen on the Rhine! "There's another--not a Sister,--in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye: Too innocent for coquetry; too fond for idle scorning;-- Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her, the last night of my life--(for, ere this moon be risen, My body will be out of pain--my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with _her_, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine! "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along--I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear! And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path belov'd of yore, and well-remembered walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine... But we'll meet no more at Bingen,--loved Bingen on the Rhine!" His voice grew faint and hoarser,--his grasp was childish weak,-- His eyes put on a dying look,--he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him, ... but the spark of life had fled! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine! DEEDS NOT WORDS. BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT. The Captain stood on the carronade--first lieutenant, says he, Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me; I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons--because I'm bred to the sea; That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight with we. Odds blood, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds--but I've gained the victory. That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't take _she_, 'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture _we_; I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man to his gun, If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each mother's son. Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds--and I've gained the victory. We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had enough I little thought, he said, that your men were of such stuff; The Captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow made to he; I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite I wish to be. Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds--and I've gained the victory. Our Captain sent for all of us; my merry men said he, I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful be: You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun; If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have flogged each mother's son. Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I'm at sea, I'll fight 'gainst every odds--and I'll gain the victory. OLD KING COLE. BY ALFRED H. MILES. Old King Cole was a merry old soul, A merry old soul was he! He would call for his pipe, he would call for his glass, He would call for his fiddlers three; With loving care and reason rare, He ruled his subjects true-- Who used to sing, "Long live the King!" And He--"the people too!" Old King Cole was a musical soul, A musical soul was he! He used to boast what pleased him most Was nothing but fiddle-de-dee! But his pipe and his glass he loved--alas! As much as his fiddlers three, And by time he was done with the other and the one, He was pretty well done, was he! Old King Cole was a kingly soul, A kingly soul was he! He governed well, the records tell, The brave, the fair, the free; He used to say, by night and day, "I rule by right divine! My subjects free belong to me, And all that's theirs is mine!" Old King Cole was a worthy soul, A worthy soul was he! From motives pure he tried to cure All greed and vanity; So if he found--the country round A slave to gold inclined, He would take it away, and bid him pray For a more contented mind. Old King Cole was a good old soul, A good old soul was he! And social life from civil strife He guarded royally, For when he caught the knaves who fought O'er houses, land, or store, He would take it himself, whether kind or pelf, That they shouldn't fall out any more. Old King Cole was a thoughtful soul, A thoughtful soul was he! And he said it may be, if they all agree, They may all disagree with me. I must organise routs and tournament bouts, And open a Senate, said he; Play the outs on the ins and the ins on the outs, And the party that wins wins me. So Old King Cole, constitutional soul, (Constitutional soul was he)! With royal nous, a parliament house He built for his people free. And they talked all day and they talked all night, And they'd die, but they wouldn't agree Until black was white, and wrong was right, And he said, "It works to a T." Old King Cole was a gay old soul, A gay old soul was he! If he chanced to meet a maiden sweet, He'd be sure to say "kitchi kitchi kee;" And then if her papa, her auntie or mamma, Should suddenly appear upon the scene, He would put the matter straight with an office in the state If they'd promise not to go and tell the queen. Old Queen Cole was a dear old soul, A dear old soul was she! Her hair was as red as a rose--'tis said-- Her eyes were as green as a pea; At beck and call for rout and ball, She won the world's huzzahs. At fêtes and plays and matinees Receptions and bazaars. When Old King Cole, with his pipe and bowl, At a smoking concert presided, His queen would be at a five-o'clock tea, At the palace where she resided; And so they governed, ruled, and reigned, O'er subjects great and small, And never was heard a seditious word In castle, cot, or hall. THE GREEN DOMINO. In the latter part of the reign of Louis XV. of France the masquerade was an entertainment in high estimation, and was often given, at an immense cost, on court days, and such occasions of rejoicing. As persons of all ranks might gain admission to these spectacles, provided they could afford the purchase of the ticket, very strange _rencontres_ frequently took place at them, and exhibitions almost as curious, in the way of disguise or assumption of character. But perhaps the most whimsical among the genuine surprises recorded at any of these spectacles was that which occurred in Paris on the 15th of October, on the day when the Dauphin (son of Louis XV.) attained the age of one-and-twenty. At this fête, which was of a peculiarly glittering character--so much so, that the details of it are given at great length by the historians of the day--the strange demeanour of a man in a green domino, early in the evening, excited attention. This mask, who showed nothing remarkable as to figure--though tall, rather, and of robust proportion--seemed to be gifted with an _appetite_, not merely past human conception, but passing the fancies of even romance. The dragon of old, who churches ate (He used to come on a Sunday), Whole congregations were to him But a dish of Salmagundi,-- he was but a nibbler--a mere fool--to this stranger of the green domino. He passed from chamber to chamber--from table to table of refreshments--not tasting, but devouring--devastating--all before him. At one board he despatched a fowl, two-thirds of a ham, and half-a-dozen bottles of champagne; and, the very next moment, he was found seated in another apartment performing the same feat, with a stomach better than at first. This strange course went on until the company (who at first had been amused by it) became alarmed and tumultuous. "Is it the same mask--or are there several dressed alike?" demanded an officer of guards as the green domino rose from a seat opposite to him and quitted the apartment. "I have seen but one--and, by Heaven, here he is again," exclaimed the party to whom the query was addressed. The green domino spoke not a word, but proceeded straight to the vacant seat which he had just left, and again commenced supping, as though he had fasted for the half of a campaign. At length the confusion which this proceeding created became universal; and the cause reached the ear of the Dauphin. "He is the very devil, your highness!" exclaimed an old nobleman--"saving your Highness's presence--or wants but a tail to be so!" "Say, rather he should be some famished poet, by his appetite," replied the Prince, laughing. "But there must be some juggling; he spills all his wine, and hides the provisions under his robe." Even while they were speaking, the green domino entered the room in which they were talking, and, as usual, proceeded to the table of refreshments. "See here, my lord!" cried one--"I have seen him do this thrice!" "I, twice!"--"I, five times!"--"and I, fifteen." This was too much. The master of the ceremonies was questioned. He knew nothing--and the green domino was interrupted as he was carrying a bumper of claret to his lips. "The Prince's desire is, that Monsieur who wears the green domino should unmask." The stranger hesitated. "The command with which his Highness honours Monsieur is perfectly absolute." Against that which is absolute there is no contending. The green man threw off his mask and domino; and proved to be a private trooper of the Irish dragoons! "And in the name of gluttony, my good friend (not to ask how you gained admission), how have you contrived," said the Prince, "to sup to-night so many times?" "Sire, I was but beginning to sup, with reverence be it said, when your royal message interrupted me." "Beginning!" exclaimed the Dauphin in amazement; "then what is it I have heard and seen? Where are the herds of oxen that have disappeared, and the hampers of Burgundy? I insist upon knowing how this is!" "It is Sire," returned the soldier, "may it please your Grace, that the troop to which I belong is to-day on guard. We have purchased one ticket among us, and provided this green domino, which fits us all. By which means the whole of the front rank, being myself the last man, have supped, if the truth must be told, at discretion; and the leader of the rear rank, saving your Highness's commands, is now waiting outside the door to take his turn." THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" That is what the vision said. In his chamber all alone, Kneeling on the floor of stone, Prayed the Monk in deep contrition For his sins of indecision, Prayed for greater self-denial In temptation and in trial; It was noonday by the dial, And the Monk was all alone. Suddenly, as if it lightened, An unwonted splendour brightened All within him and without him In that narrow cell of stone; And he saw the Blessed Vision Of our Lord, with light Elysian Like a vesture wrapped about Him, Like a garment round Him thrown. Not as crucified and slain, Not in agonies of pain, Not with bleeding hands and feet, Did the Monk his Master see; But as in the village street, In the house or harvest-field, Halt and lame and blind He healed, When He walked in Galilee. In an attitude imploring, Hands upon his bosom crossed, Wondering, worshipping, adoring, Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. "Lord," he thought, "in Heaven that reignest, Who am I that thus Thou deignest To reveal Thyself to me? Who am I, that from the centre Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter This poor cell my guest to be?" Then amid his exaltation, Loud the convent-bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Rang through court and corridor, With persistent iteration He had never heard before. It was now the appointed hour When alike, in shine or shower, Winter's cold or summer's heat, To the convent portals came All the blind and halt and lame, All the beggars of the street, For their daily dole of food Dealt them by the brotherhood; And their almoner was he Who upon his bended knee, Wrapt in silent ecstasy Of divinest self-surrender, Saw the Vision and the splendour. Deep distress and hesitation Mingled with his adoration; Should he go or should he stay? Should he leave the poor to wait Hungry at the convent gate Till the Vision passed away? Should he slight his heavenly guest, Slight this visitant celestial, For a crowd of ragged, bestial Beggars at the convent gate? Would the Vision there remain? Would the Vision come again? Then a voice within his breast Whispered, audible and clear, As if to the outward ear: "Do thy duty; that is best; Leave unto thy Lord the rest!" Straightway to his feet he started, And, with longing look intent On the Blessed Vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand went. At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close And of feet that pass them by; Grown familiar with disfavour, Grown familiar with the savour Of the bread by which men die! But to-day, they know not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent gate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine. In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see; And the inward voice was saying: "Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of Mine and lowest That thou doest unto Me." Unto Me! But had the Vision Come to him in beggar's clothing, Come a mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision And have turned away with loathing? Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Toward his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling. But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door; For the Vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor. Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed Vision said: "Hadst thou stayed I must have fled!" THE BELL OF ATRI. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, One of those little places that have run Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, And then sat down to rest, as if to say, "I climb no further upward, come what may,"-- The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, So many monarchs since have borne the name, Had a great bell hung in the market-place Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, By way of shelter from the sun and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all his train, And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long; Made proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John. How swift the happy days in Atri sped, What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. Suffice it that, as all things must decay, The hempen rope at length was worn away, Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, Till one, who noted this in passing by, Mended the rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports And prodigalities of camps and courts;-- Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold. He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favourite steed of all, To starve and shiver in a naked stall, And day by day sat brooding in his chair, Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. At length he said: "What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, Eating his head off in my stables here, When rents are low and provender is dear? Let him go feed upon the public ways: I want him only for the holidays." So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, Barked at by dogs, and torn by briar and thorn. One afternoon, as in that sultry clime It is the custom in the summer time, With bolted doors and window-shutters closed, The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed; When suddenly upon their senses fell The loud alarum of the accusing bell! The Syndic started from his deep repose, Turned on his coach, and listened, and then rose And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace Went panting forth into the market-place, Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung, Reiterating with persistent tongue, In half-articulate jargon, the old song: "Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!" But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade, He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, No shape of human form of woman born, But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, Who with uplifted head and eager eye Was tugging at the vines of briony. "Domeneddio!" cried the Syndic straight, "This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state! He calls for justice, being sore distressed, And pleads his cause as loudly as the best." Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd Had rolled together like a summer cloud, And told the story of the wretched beast In five-and-twenty different ways at least, With much gesticulation and appeal To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. The Knight was called and questioned; in reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny; Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, And set at nought the Syndic and the rest, Maintaining, in an angry undertone, That he should do what pleased him with his own. And thereupon the Syndic gravely read The proclamation of the King; then said: "Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, But cometh back on foot, and begs its way; Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds Of flowers of chivalry, and not of weeds! These are familiar proverbs; but I fear They never yet have reached your knightly ear. What fair renown, what honour, what repute Can come to you from starving this poor brute? He who serves well and speaks not, merits more Than they who clamour loudest at the door. Therefore the law decrees that as this steed Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed To comfort his old age, and to provide Shelter in stall, and food and field beside." The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee, And cried aloud: "Right well it pleaseth me! Church-bells at best but ring us to the door; But go not into mass; my bell doth more: It cometh into court and pleads the cause Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws; And this shall make, in every Christian clime, The Bell of Atri famous for all time." THE STORM. BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR. The tempest rages wild and high, The waves lift up their voice and cry Fierce answers to the angry sky,-- Miserere Domine. Through the black night and driving rain, A ship is struggling, all in vain To live upon the stormy main;-- Miserere Domine. The thunders roar, the lightnings glare, Vain is it now to strive or dare; A cry goes up of great despair,-- Miserere Domine. The stormy voices of the main, The moaning wind, the pelting rain Beat on the nursery window pane:-- Miserere Domine. Warm curtained was the little bed, Soft pillowed was the little head; "The storm will wake the child," they said: Miserere Domine. Cowering among his pillows white He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright, "Father save those at sea to-night!" Miserere Domine. The morning shone all clear and gay, On a ship at anchor in the bay, And on a little child at play,-- Gloria tibi Domine! THE THREE RULERS. BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR. I saw a Ruler take his stand And trample on a mighty land; The People crouched before his beck, His iron heel was on their neck, His name shone bright through blood and pain, His sword flashed back their praise again. I saw another Ruler rise-- His words were noble, good and wise; With the calm sceptre of his pen He ruled the minds, and thoughts of men; Some scoffed, some praised, while many heard, Only a few obeyed his word. Another Ruler then I saw-- Love and sweet Pity were his law: The greatest and the least had part (Yet most the unhappy) in his heart-- The People in a mighty band, Rose up and drove him from the land! THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Ere the brothers though the gateway Issued forth with old and young, To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed, Which for ages there had hung. Horn it was which none could sound, No one upon living ground, Save He who came as rightful Heir To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair. Heirs from times of earliest record Had the House of Lucie borne, Who of right had held the lordship Claimed by proof upon the horn: Each at the appointed hour Tried the horn--it owned his power; He was acknowledged; and the blast Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the last. With his lance Sir Eustace pointed, And to Hubert thus said he: "What I speak this horn shall witness For thy better memory. Hear, then, and neglect me not! At this time, and on this spot, The words are uttered from my heart, As my last earnest prayer ere we depart. "On good service we are going, Life to risk by sea and land, In which course if Christ our Saviour Do my sinful soul demand, Hither come thou back straightway, Hubert, if alive that day; Return, and sound the horn, that we May have a living house still left in thee!" "Fear not," quickly answered Hubert: "As I am thy father's son, What thou askest, noble brother, With God's favour, shall be done." So were both right well content: Forth they from the castle went, And at the head of their array To Palestine the brothers took their way. Side by side they fought (the Lucies Were a line for valour famed), And where'er their strokes alighted, There the Saracens were tamed. Whence, then, could it come--the thought-- By what evil spirit brought? Oh! can a brave man wish to take His brother's life, for lands' and castle's sake? "Sir!" the ruffians said to Hubert, "Deep he lies in Jordan's flood." Stricken by this ill assurance, Pale and trembling Hubert stood. "Take your earnings.--Oh! that I Could have _seen_ my brother die!" It was a pang that vexed him then, And oft returned, again, and yet again. Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace! Nor of him were tidings heard; Wherefore, bold as day, the murderer Back again to England steered. To his castle Hubert sped; Nothing has he now to dread. But silent and by stealth he came, And at an hour which nobody could name. None could tell if it were night-time, Night or day, at even or morn; No one's eye had seen him enter, No one's ear had heard the horn. But bold Hubert lives in glee: Months and years went smilingly; With plenty was his table spread, And bright the lady is who shares his bed. Likewise he had sons and daughters; And, as good men do, he sate At his board by these surrounded, Flourishing in fair estate. And while thus in open day Once he sate, as old books say, A blast was uttered from the horn, Where by the castle-gate it hung forlorn, 'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace! He has come to claim his right: Ancient castle, woods, and mountains Hear the challenge with delight. Hubert! though the blast be blown, He is helpless and alone: Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word! And there he may be lodged, and thou be lord! Speak!--astounded Hubert cannot; And, if power to speak he had, All are daunted, all the household Smitten to the heart and sad. 'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be Living man it must be he! Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, And by a postern-gate he slunk away. Long and long was he unheard of: To his brother then he came, Made confession, asked forgiveness, Asked it by a brother's name, And by all the saints in heaven; And of Eustace was forgiven: Then in a convent went to hide His melancholy head, and there he died. But Sir Eustace, whom good angels Had preserved from murderers' hands, And from pagan chains had rescued, Lived with honour on his lands. Sons he had, saw sons of theirs: And through ages, heirs of heirs, A long posterity renowned Sounded the horn which they alone could sound. THE MIRACLE OF THE ROSES. BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. There dwelt in Bethlehem a Jewish maid, And Zillah was her name, so passing fair That all Judea spake the virgin's praise. He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance, How it revealed her soul, and what a soul Beamed in the mild effulgence, woe to him! For not in solitude, for not in crowds, Might he escape remembrance, nor avoid Her imaged form, which followed everywhere, And filled the heart, and fixed the absent eye. Alas for him! her bosom owned no love Save the strong ardour of religious zeal; For Zillah upon heaven had centred all Her spirit's deep affections. So for her Her tribe's men sighed in vain, yet reverenced The obdurate virtue that destroy'd their hopes. One man there was, a vain and wretched man, Who saw, desired, despaired, and hated her: His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek E'en till the flush of angry modesty Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. She loathed the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, And the strong workings of brute selfishness Had moulded his broad features; and she feared The bitterness of wounded vanity That with a fiendish hue would overcast His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, For Hamuel vowed revenge, and laid a plot Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports That soon obtain belief; how Zillah's eye, When in the temple heavenward it was raised, Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance With other feelings filled:--that 'twas a task Of easy sort to play the saint by day Before the public eye, but that all eyes Were closed at night;--that Zillah's life was foul, Yea, forfeit to the law. Shame--shame to man, That he should trust so easily the tongue Which stabs another's fame! The ill report Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon, For Hamuel by his well-schemed villainy Produced such semblances of guilt,--the maid Was to the fire condemned! Without the walls There was a barren field; a place abhorred, For it was there where wretched criminals Received their death! and there they fixed the stake, And piled the fuel round, which should consume The injured maid, abandoned, as it seemed, By God and man. The assembled Bethlehemites Beheld the scene, and when they saw the maid Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness She lifted up her patient looks to heaven, They doubted of her guilt.-- With other thoughts Stood Hamuel near the pile; him savage joy Led thitherward, but now within his heart Unwonted feelings stirred, and the first pangs Of wakening guilt, anticipant of hell! The eye of Zillah as it glanced around Fell on the slanderer once, and rested there A moment; like a dagger did it pierce, And struck into his soul a cureless wound. Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour Of triumph dost thou spare the guilty wretch, Not in the hour of infamy and death Forsake the virtuous!-- They draw near the stake-- They bring the torch!--hold, hold your erring hands! Yet quench the rising flames!--O God, protect, They reach the suffering maid!--O God, protect The innocent one! They rose, they spread, they raged;-- The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames, In one long lightning-flash concentrating, Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone! Hark what a fearful scream the multitude Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake Branches and buds, and spreading its green leaves, Embowers and canopies the innocent maid Who there stands glorified; and roses, then First seen on earth since Paradise was lost, Profusely blossom round her, white and red, In all their rich variety of hues; And fragrance such as our first parents breathed In Eden, she inhales, vouchsafed to her A presage sure of Paradise regained. THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. BY GERALD GRIFFIN. The joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide, The fresh wind is singing along the seaside; The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers, And the harp-strings are trembling in all the glad bowers Swell, swell the gay measure! roll trumpet and drum! 'Mid greetings of pleasure in splendour they come! The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide, For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride. What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight, The future shall scatter o'er them in its flight! What blissful caresses shall fortune bestow, Ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as the snow! Before the high altar young Maud stands arrayed: With accents that falter her promise is made-- From father and mother for ever to part, For him and no other to treasure her heart. The words are repeated, the bridal is done, The rite is completed--the two, they are one; The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart, That must not be broken till life shall depart. Hark! 'Mid the gay clangour that compassed their car, Loud accents in anger come mingling afar! The foe's on the border! his weapons resound Where the lines in disorder unguarded are found! As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold, When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold, So rises already the chief in his mail, While the new-married lady looks fainting and pale. "Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife, For sister and mother, for children and wife! O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain, Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain!" Farrah! to the battle!--They form into line-- The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine! Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery rue-- On, burgher and yeoman! to die or to do! The eve is declining in lone Malahide; The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride; She marks them unheeding--her heart is afar, Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war. Hark!--loud from the mountain--'tis victory's cry! O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky! The foe has retreated! he flees to the shore; The spoiler's defeated--the combat is o'er! With foreheads unruffled the conquerors come-- But why have they muffled the lance and the drum? What form do they carry aloft on his shield? And where does he tarry, the lord of the field? Ye saw him at morning, how gallant and gay! In bridal adorning, the star of the day; Now, weep for the lover--his triumph is sped, His hope it is over! the chieftain is dead! But, O! for the maiden who mourns for that chief, With heart overladen and rending with grief! She sinks on the meadow--in one morning-tide, A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride! Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole! Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul: True--true, 'twas a story for ages of pride; He died in his glory--but, oh, he _has_ died! The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now, And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow; That glance may for ever unaltered remain, But the bridegroom will never return it again. The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide, The death-wail is rolling along the seaside; The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green, For the sun has departed that brightened the scene! How scant was the warning, how briefly revealed, Before on that morning, death's chalice was filled! Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply-- Thus joy has its measure--we live but to die! THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH. BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY. Turgesius, the chief of a turbulent band, Came over from Norway and conquer'd the land: Rebellion had smooth'd the invader's career, The natives shrank from him, in hate, or in fear; While Erin's proud spirit seem'd slumb'ring in peace, In secret it panted for death--or release. The tumult of battle was hush'd for awhile,-- Turgesius was monarch of Erin's fair isle, The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath, His triumphs were honour'd with trophy and wreath; The princes of Erin despair'd of relief, And knelt to the lawless Norwegian chief. His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile; But ne'er, till he came to this beautiful isle, Did he know with what mild, yet resistless control, That sweet smile can conquer a conqueror's soul: And oh! 'mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthral, He soon met with one--he thought sweetest of all. The brave Prince of Meath had a daughter as fair As the pearls of Loch Neagh which encircled her hair; The tyrant beheld her, and cried, "She shall come To reign as the queen of my gay mountain home; Ere sunset to-morrow hath crimson'd the sea, Melachlin, send forth thy young daughter to me!" Awhile paused the Prince--too indignant to speak, There burn'd a reply in his glance--on his cheek: But quickly that hurried expression was gone, And calm was his manner, and mild was his tone. He answered--"Ere sunset hath crimson'd the sea, To-morrow--I'll send my young daughter to thee. "At sunset to-morrow your palace forsake, With twenty young chiefs seek the isle on yon lake; And there, in its coolest and pleasantest shades, My child shall await you with twenty fair maids: Yes--bright as my armour the damsels shall be I send with my daughter, Turgesius, to thee." Turgesius return'd to his palace; to him The sports of that evening seem'd languid and dim; And tediously long was the darkness of night, And slowly the morning unfolded its light; The sun seem'd to linger--as if it would be An age ere his setting would crimson the sea. At length came the moment--the King and his band With rapture push'd out their light boat from the land; And bright shone the gems on the armour, and bright Flash'd their fast-moving oars in the setting sun's light; And long ere they landed, they saw though the trees The maiden's white garments that waved in the breeze. More strong in the lake was the dash of each oar, More swift the gay vessel flew on to the shore; Its keel touch'd the pebbles--but over the surf The youths in a moment had leap'd to the turf, And rushed to a shady retreat in the wood, Where many veiled forms mute and motionless stood. "Say, which is Melachlin's fair daughter? away With these veils," cried Turgesius, "no longer delay; Resistance is vain, we will quickly behold Which robe hides the loveliest face in its fold; These clouds shall no longer o'ershadow our bliss, Let each seize a veil--and my trophy be this!" He seized a white veil, and before him appear'd No fearful, weak girl--but a foe to be fear'd! A youth--who sprang forth from his female disguise, Like lightning that flashes from calm summer skies: His hand grasp'd a weapon, and wild was the joy That shone in the glance of the warrior boy. And under each white robe a youth was conceal'd, Who met his opponent with sword and with shield. Turgesius was slain--and the maidens were blest, Melachlin's fair daughter more blithe than the rest; And ere the last sunbeam had crimson'd the sea, They hailed the boy-victors--and Erin was free! GLENARA. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad on the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear, And her sire and her people are called to the bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud: Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silence--they looked to the ground. In silence they reached over mountains and moor, To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar: "Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern. "And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed! "I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" Oh, pale grew the cheek of the chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen! Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn-- 'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn: "I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief, I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:-- Glenara! Glenara! now read me MY dream!" In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne; Now joy to the house of the fair Ellen of Lorn! A FABLE FOR MUSICIANS. BY CLARA DOTY BATES. He grew as a red-headed thistle Might grow, a mere vagabond weed-- Little Frieder--as gay with his whistle As water-wagtail on a reed-- Blithe that was indeed! He had a little old fiddle, A shabby and wonderful thing, Patched at end, patched and glued in the middle Oft lacking a key or a string, But, oh, it could sing! Barber's 'prentice was Frieder, but having No sense of the true barber's art, He cut every face in the shaving, Pulled hair, and left gashes and smart, Getting blows for his part. Blows he liked not, and so off he started One morning, his fortune to seek, Comb and fiddle his all, yet light-hearted As long as his fiddle could squeak, Be it ever so weak. Ran away! Highway rutted or dusty Seemed velvety grass to his feet; Sang the birds; his own stout legs were trusty; To his hunger a black crust was sweet, And life seemed complete. Towards twilight he came to a meadow Where a lovely green water, outlaid Like a looking-glass, held in clear shadow Low iris-grown shores--every blade Its double had made. Neck, the Nixie, lived under this water, In a palace of glass, far below Where fishes might swim, or the otter Could dive, or a sunbeam could go, Or a lily root grow. And, lo, Frieder spied him that minute In a little red coat, sitting there By the pond, with his feet hanging in it, And clawing his knotted green hair In a comic despair. Green hair, full of duck weed, and tangled With snail shells, and moss and eel-grass It was, and it straggled and dangled Over forehead and shoulders--alas, A wild hopeless mass. "Good evening," hailed Frieder, "I know you, Sir Neck, the Pond Nixie! I pray You will come to the shore, and I'll show you How hair should be combed, if I may, The real barber's way." Neck swam like a frog to him, grinning, And Frieder attacked the green mane That had neither end nor beginning! Neck bore like a hero the strain Of the pulling and pain. Till at length, without whimper or whining The task of the combing was done, And each lock was as smooth and as shining As long iris leaves in the sun-- Soft as silk that is spun. Then Neck thrust his hand in the rushes And pulled out his own violin, And played--why, it seemed as if thrushes Had song-perches under his chin, So sweet was the din. The barber boy's heart fell to throbbing; "Herr Neck"--this was all he could say, Between fits of laughing and sobbing-- "Herr Neck, oh, pray teach me to play In that wonderful way!" Neck glanced at the comb. "Will you give it For this little fiddle?" he cried. "My comb--why, of course you can have it, And jacket and supper beside!" Eager Frieder replied. Neck flung down his fiddle, and catching The comb at arm's length, dived below. And Frieder, the instrument snatching Across the weird strings drew the bow, To and fro--to and fro! Till out of the forest came springing Roebuck and rabbit and deer; Till the nightingale stopped in its singing And the black flitter-mice crowded near, The sweet music to hear. * * * * * Forth from that moment went Frieder Far countries and kingdoms to roam, Of all earth's musicians the leader, King's castles and courts for a home, But, alas, for his comb! Gold he had, but a comb again, never! And his hair in a wild disarray Henceforth grew at random.--And ever Musicians to this very day Wear theirs the same way! "ONWARD." _A TALE OF THE S. E. RAILWAY_. ANONYMOUS. No doubt you've 'eard the tale, sir. Thanks,--'arf o' stout and mild. Of the man who did his dooty, though it might have killed his child. He was only a railway porter, yet he earned undy'n' fame. Well!--Mine's a similar story, though the end ain't quite the same. I were pointsman on the South Eastern, with an only child--a girl As got switched to a houtside porter, though fit to 'ave married a pearl. With a back as straight as a tunnel, and lovely carrotty 'air, She used to bring me my dinner, sir, and couldn't she take her share!-- One day she strayed on the metals, and fell asleep on the track; I didn't 'appen to miss her, sir, or I should ha' called her back. She'd gone quite out of earshot, and I daresen't leave my post, For the lightnin' express was comin', but four hours late at the most! 'Ave you ever seen the "lightnin'" thunder through New Cross? Fourteen miles an hour, sir, with stoppages, of course. And just in the track of the monster was where my darling slept. I could hear the rattle already, as nearer the monster crept! I might turn the train on the sidin', but I glanced at the loop line and saw That right on the outer metals was lyin' a bundle of straw; And right in the track of the "lightnin'" was where my darlin' laid, But the loop line 'ud smash up the engine, and there'd be no dividend paid I thought of the awful disaster, of the blood and the coroner's 'quest; Of the verdict, "No blame to the pointsman, he did it all for the best!" And I thought of the compensation the Co. would 'ave to pay If I turned the train on the sidin' where the 'eap of stubble lay. So I switched her off on the main, sir, and she thundered by like a snail, And I didn't recover my senses till I'd drunk 'arf a gallon o' ale. For though only a common pointsman, I've a father's feelings, too, So I sank down in a faint, sir, as my Polly was 'id from view. And now comes the strangest part, sir, my Polly was roused by the sound. You think she escaped the engine by lyin' flat on the ground? No! always a good 'un to run, sir, by jove she must 'ave flown, For she raced the "lightnin' express," sir, till the engine was puffed and blown!!! When next you see the boss, sir, tell him o' what I did, How I nobly done my dooty, though it might a killed my kid; And you may, if you like, spare a trifle for the agony I endured, When I thought that my Polly was killed, sir, and I 'adn't got her insured! THE DECLARATION. BY NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 'Twas late, and the gay company was gone, And light lay soft on the deserted room From alabaster vases, and a scent Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came Through the unshutter'd window on the air. And the rich pictures with their dark old tints Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel, The dark-eyed spiritual Isabel Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd To whisper what I could not when the crowd Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt, And with the fervour of a lip unused To the cool breath of reason, told my love. There was no answer, and I took the hand That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss Upon it unforbidden--and again Besought her, that this silent evidence That I was not indifferent to her heart, Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke. And she withdrew them gently, and upraised Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd Earnestly on me--_She had been asleep!_ LOVE AND AGE. BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four; When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more. Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wandered hand in hand together; But that was sixty years ago. You grew a lovely roseate maiden. And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden, They glided joyously along: And I did love you very dearly, How dearly words want power to show; I thought your heart was touched as nearly; But that was fifty years ago. Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year, And many a splendid circle found you The centre of its glittering sphere. I saw you then, first vows forsaking, On rank and wealth your hand bestow;' Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking,-- But that was forty years ago. And I lived on, to wed another: No cause she gave me to repine; And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine. My own young flock, in fair progression, Made up a pleasant Christmas row: My joy in them was past expression,-- But that was thirty years ago. You grew a matron plump and comely, You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze; My earthly lot was far more homely; But I too had my festal days. No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christened,-- But that was twenty years ago. Time passed. My eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire gray! One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flowered meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure,-- And that is not ten years ago. But though first love's impassioned blindness Has passed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be a hundred years ago. HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER. BY BRET HARTE. "So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea--the lady you met on the train, And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?" "Of course," he replied, "she would know me; there was never womankind yet Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not forget." "Then you told her your love?" asked the elder; while the younger looked up with a smile: "I sat by her side half an hour--what else was I doing the while? "What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky, And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own to her eye? "No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold as the look, And I held up myself to herself--that was more than she got from her book." "Young blood!" laughed the elder; "no doubt you are voicing the mode of to-day: But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance for delay. "There's my wife--(you must know)--we first met on the journey from Florence to Rome; It took me three weeks to discover who was she, and where was her home; "Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again; And a year ere my romance _began_ where yours ended that day on the train." "Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day by express; Forty miles to the hour," he answered, "won't admit of a passion that's less." "But what if you make a mistake?" quoth the elder. The younger half sighed. "What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced?" he replied. "Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, "but submit Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered no whit. "Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I try your ideal With something, if not quite so fair, at least more _en règle_ and real? "Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist--you shall follow--this way. My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to stay? "My wife, Mr. Rapid--Eh, what? Why, he's gone--yet he said he would come. How rude! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crimson and dumb?" HE WORRIED ABOUT IT. BY S. W. FOSS. "The Sun will give out in ten million years more; It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before." And he worried about it; It would surely give out, so the scientists said And they proved it in many a book he had read, And the whole mighty universe then would be dead. And he worried about it. "Or some day the earth will fall into the sun, Just as sure and as straight, as if shot from a gun." And he worried about it. "For when gravitation unbuckles her straps, Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse! It will come in a few million ages, perhaps." And he worried about it. "The earth will become far too small for the race, And we'll pay at a fabulous rate for our space." And he worried about it. "The earth will be crowded so much without doubt, There will hardly be room for one's tongue to stick out, Nor room for one's thoughts when they'd wander about." And he worried about it. "And in ten thousand years, there's no manner of doubt, Our lumber supply and our coal will give out." And he worried about it: "And then the Ice Age will return cold and raw, Frozen men will stand stiff with arms stretched out in awe, As if vainly beseeching a general thaw." And he worried about it. His wife took in washing (two shillings a day). He didn't worry about it. His daughter sewed shirts, the rude grocer to pay. He didn't worry about it. While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub On the washboard drum in her old wooden tub, He sat by the fire and he just let her rub. He didn't worry about it, ASTRONOMY MADE EASY. I saw and heard him as I was going home the other evening. A big telescope was pointed heavenward from the public square, and he stood beside it and thoughtfully inquired,-- "Is it possible, gentlemen, that you do not care to view the beautiful works of nature above the earth? Can it be true that men of your intellectual appearance will sordidly cling to ten cents, rather than take a look through this telescope and bring the beauties of heaven within one and a half miles of your eyes?" The appeal was too much for one young man to resist. He was a tall young man, with a long face, high cheek bones, and an anxious look. He looked at the ten cents and then at the telescope, hesitated for a single moment, and then took his seat on the stool. "Here is a young man who prefers to feast his soul with scientific knowledge rather than become a sordid, grasping, avaricious capitalist," remarked the astronomer, as he arranged the instrument. "Fall back, you people who prefer the paltry sum of ten cents to a view of the starry heavens, and give this noble young man plenty of room!" The noble young man removed his hat, placed his eye to the instrument, a cloth was thrown over his head, and the astronomer continued:-- "Behold the bright star of Venus! A sight of this star is worth a thousand dollars to any man who prefers education to money." There was an instant of deep silence, and then the young man exclaimed:-- "I say!" I stood behind him, and knew that the telescope pointed at the fifth storey of a building across the square, where a dance was in progress. "All people indulge in exclamations of admiration as they view the beauties and mysteries of nature," remarked the astronomer. "Young man, tell the crowd what you see." "I see a feller hugging a girl!" was the prompt reply. "And if there isn't a dozen of them!" "And yet," continued the astronomer, "there are sordid wretches in this crowd who hang to ten cents in preference to observing such sights as these in ethereal space. Venus is millions of miles away, and yet by means of this telescope and by paying ten cents this intellectual young man is enabled to observe the inhabitants of that far-off world hugging each other just as natural as they do in this!" The instrument was wheeled around to bear on the tower of the engine-house some distance away, and the astronomer, continued:-- "Behold the beauties and the wonders of Saturn! This star, to the naked eye, appears no larger than a pin's point, and yet for the paltry sum of ten cents this noble young man is placed within one mile of it!" "Well, this beats all!" murmured the young man, as he slapped his leg. "Tell me what you see, my friend." "I see two fellows in a small room, smoking cigars and playing chess!" was the prompt reply. "Saturn is 86,000,000 of miles from this town," continued the astronomer, "and yet the insignificant sum of ten cents has enabled this progressive young man to learn for himself that the celestial beings enjoy themselves pretty much as we do in this world. I venture to say that there is not a man in this crowd who ever knew before that the inhabitants of Saturn knew anything about chess or cigars." Once more he wheeled the instrument round. This time it got the range of the upper storey of a tenement-house on the hill The young man had scarcely taken a glance through the tube, when he yelled out:-- "Great guns! But what planet is this?" "You are now looking at Uranus," replied the professor. "Uranus is 97,502,304 miles distant from the earth, and yet I warrant that it doesn't appear over eighty rods away to you. Will you be kind enough, my friend, to tell this crowd what you see?" "Give it to him! That's it! Go it old woman!" shouted the young man, slapping one leg and then the other. "Speak up, my friend. What do you see?" "By jove! she's got him by the hair now! Why, she'll beat him hollow!" "Will you be kind enough, my friend, to allay the curiosity of your friends?" "Whoop! that's it; now she's got him. Toughest fight I ever saw!" cried the young man as he moved back and slapped his thigh. The professor covered up the instrument slowly and carefully, picked up and unlocked a satchel which had been lying near his feet, and then softly said:-- "Gentlemen, we will pause here for a moment. When a man tells you after this that the planet of Saturn is not inhabited, tell him that you know better, that it is not only inhabited, but that the married couples up there have family fights the same as on this mundane sphere. In about ten minutes I will be ready again to explain the wonders and beauties of the sparkling heavens to such of you as prefer a million dollars' worth of scientific knowledge to ten cents in vile dross. Meanwhile permit me to call your attention to my celebrated toothache drops, the only perfect remedy yet invented for aching teeth." BROTHER WATKINS. BY JOHN B. GOUGH. An old southern preacher, who had a great habit of talking through his nose, left one congregation and came to another. The first Sunday he addressed his new congregation he went on about as follows:-- My beloved brederin, before I take my text, I must tell you of parting with my old congregation-ah, on the morning of last Sabbath-ah I entered into my church to preach my farewell discourse-ah. Before me sat the old fadders and mothers of Israel-ah. The tears course down their furrowed cheeks, their tottering forms and quivering lips breathed out a sad fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. Behind them sat middle-aged men and matrons, youth and vigour bloomed from every countenance, and as they looked up, I thought I could see in their dreamy eyes fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. Behind them sat the little boys and girls I had baptised and gathered into the Sabbath school. Ofttimes had they been rude and boisterous; but now their merry laugh was hushed and in the silence I could hear fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. Away in the back seats and along the aisles stood and sat the coloured bretherin with their black faces and honest hearts, and as they looked up I thought I could see in their eyes fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. When I had finished my discourse, and shaken hands with the bretherin-ah, I went out to take a last look at the church-ah, and the broken steps-ah, the flopping blinds-ah, and the moss-covered roof-ah, suggested fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. I mounted my old grey mare with all my earthly possessions in my saddle-bags, and as I passed down the street the servant girls stood in the doors-ah and waved their brooms with a fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. As I passed out of the village, I thought I could hear the wind-ah moaning through the waving branches of the trees, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. I came on to the creek, and as the old mare stopped to drink I thought I could hear the water rippling over the pebbles, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. Even the little fishes-ah, as their bright fins glistened in the sunlight-ah, gathered round to say as best they could, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. I was slowly passing up the hill meditating-ah on the sad vicissitudes of life-ah, when out bounded a big hog from the fence corner-ah with an a-boo a-boo and I came to the ground-ah, with my saddle bags-ah by my side-ah, and as the old mare ran up the hill-ah, she waved her tail back at me-ah seemingly to say-ah, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah. LOGIC. ANONYMOUS. I. HER RESPECTABLE PAPA'S. "My dear, be sensible! Upon my word, This--for a woman even--is absurd. His income's not a hundred pounds, I know. He's not worth loving."--"But I love him so." II. HER MOTHER'S. "You silly child, he is well made and tall; But looks are far from being all in all. His social standing's low, his family's low. He's not worth loving."--"And I love him so." III. HER ETERNAL FRIEND'S. "Is that he picking up the fallen fan? My dear! he's such an awkward, ugly man! You must be certain, pet, to answer 'No.' He's not worth loving."--" And I love him so." IV. HER BROTHER'S. "By jove! were I a girl--through horrid hap-- I wouldn't have a milk-and-water chap. The man has not a single spark of 'go.' He's not worth loving."--" Yet I love him so." V. HER OWN. "And were he everything to which I've listened, Though he were ugly, awkward (and he isn't), Poor, lowly-born, and destitute of 'go,' He _is_ worth loving, for I love him so." THE PRIDE OF BATTERY B. BY F.H. GASSAWAY. South Mountain towered on our right Far off the river lay; And over on the wooded height We kept their lines at bay. At last the muttering guns were stilled, The day died slow and wan; At last the gunners' pipes were filled, The sergeant's yarns began. When, as the wind a moment blew Aside the fragrant flood, Our brushwood razed, before our view A little maiden stood. A tiny tot of six or seven, From fireside fresh she seemed; Of such a little one in heaven I know one soldier dreamed. And as she stood, her little hand Went to her curly head; In grave salute, "And who are you?" At length the sergeant said. "Where is your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me? Why, don't you know I'm little Jane, The pride of Battery B? "My home? Why, that was burnt away, And Pa and Ma is dead; But now I ride the guns all day, Along with Sergeant Ned. "And I've a drum that's not a toy, And a cap with feathers too; And I march beside the drummer-boy On Sundays at review. "But now our baccy's all give out The men can't have their smoke, And so they're cross; why even Ned Won't play with me, and joke! "And the big colonel said to-day-- I hate to hear him swear-- 'I'd give a leg for a good smoke Like the Yanks have over there.' "And so I thought when beat the drum, And the big guns were still, I'd creep beneath the tent, and come Out here across the hill. "And beg, good Mr. Yankee-men, You'd give me some Long Jack; Please do, when we get some again, I'll surely bring it back. "And so I came; for Ned, says he, 'If you do what you say, You'll be a general yet, maybe, And ride a prancing bay.'" We brimmed her tiny apron o'er,-- You should have heard her laugh, As each man from his scanty store Shook out a generous half. To kiss the little mouth stooped down A score of grimy men, Until the sergeant's husky voice Said "'Tention, squad?" and then, We gave her escort till good-night The little waif we bid, Then watched her toddle out of sight, Or else 'twas tears that hid. Her baby form nor turned about, A man nor spoke a word, Until at length a far faint shout Upon the wind we heard, We sent it back, and cast sad eyes Upon the scene around, That baby's hand had touched the ties That brother's once had bound. That's all, save when the dawn awoke: Again the work of hell, And through the sullen clouds of smoke The screaming missiles fell. Our colonel often rubbed his glass, And marvelled much to see, Not a single shell that whole day fell In the camp of Battery B. THE DANDY FIFTH. BY F.H. GASSAWAY. 'Twas the time of the working men's great strike, When all the land stood still At the sudden roar from the hungry mouths That labour could not fill; When the thunder of the railroad ceased, And startled towns could spy A hundred blazing factories Painting each midnight sky. Through Philadelphia's surging streets Marched the brown ranks of toil, The grimy legions of the shops, The tillers of the soil; White-faced militia-men looked on, And women shrank with dread; 'Twas muscle against money then-- 'Twas riches against bread. Once, as the mighty mob tramped on, A carriage stopped the way, Upon the silken seat of which A young patrician lay. And as, with haughty glance, he swept Along the jeering crowd, A white-haired blacksmith in the ranks Took off his cap and bowed. That night the Labour League was met, And soon the chairman said: "There hides a Judas in our midst; One man who bows his head, Who bends the coward's servile knee When capital rolls by." "Down with him! Kill the traitor cur!" Rang out the savage cry. Up rose the blacksmith, then, and held Erect his head of grey-- "I am no traitor, though I bowed To a rich man's son to-day; And though you kill me as I stand-- As like you mean to do-- I want to tell you a story short, And I ask you'll hear me through. "I was one of those who enlisted first, The old flag to defend, With Pope and Hallick, with 'Mac' and Grant, I followed to the end; And 'twas somewhere down on the Rapidan, When the Union cause looked drear, That a regiment of rich young bloods Came down to us from here. "Their uniforms were by tailors cut, They brought hampers of good wine; And every squad had a nigger, too, To keep their boots in shine; They'd nought to say to us dusty 'vets,' And through the whole brigade, We called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth When we passed them on parade. "Well, they were sent to hold a fort The Rebs tried hard to take, 'Twas the key of all our line which naught While it held out could break, But a fearful fight we lost just then, The reserve came up too late; And on that fort, and the Dandy Fifth, Hung the whole division's fate. "Three times we tried to take them aid, And each time back we fell, Though once we could hear the fort's far guns Boom like a funeral knell; Till at length Joe Hooker's corps came up, An' then straight through we broke; How we cheered as we saw those dandy coats Still back of the drifting smoke. "With the bands at play and the colours spread We swarmed up the parapet, But the sight that silenced our welcome shout I shall never in life forget. Four days before had their water gone-- They bad dreaded that the most-- The next their last scant rations went, And each man looked a ghost, "As he stood, gaunt-eyed, behind his gun, Like a crippled stag at bay, And watched starvation--but not defeat-- Draw nearer every day. Of all the Fifth, not four-score men Could in their places stand, And their white lips told a fearful tale, As we grasped each bloodless hand. "The rest in the stupor of famine lay, Save here and there a few In death sat rigid against the guns, Grim sentinels in blue; And their Col'nel, _he_ could not speak nor stir, But we saw his proud eye thrill As he simply glanced at the shot-scarred staff Where the old flag floated still! "Now, I hate the tyrants who grind us down, While the wolf snarls at our door, And the men who've risen from us--to laugh At the misery of the poor; But I tell you, mates, while this weak old hand I have left the strength to lift, It will touch my cap to the proudest swell Who fought in the Dandy Fifth!" "BAY BILLY." BY F.H. GASSAWAY. 'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg-- Perhaps the day you reck-- Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine, Kept Early's men in check. Just where Wade Hampton boomed away The fight went neck and neck. All day we held the weaker wing, And held it with a will; Five several stubborn times we charged The battery on the hill, And five times beaten back, re-formed, And kept our columns still. At last from out the centre fight Spurred up a general's aid. "That battery _must_ silenced be!" He cried, as past he sped. Our colonel simply touched his cap, And then, with measured tread, To lead the crouching line once more The grand old fellow came. No wounded man but raised his head And strove to gasp his name, And those who could not speak nor stir "God blessed him" just the same. For he was all the world to us, That hero grey and grim; Right well he knew that fearful slope We'd climb with none but him, Though while his white head led the way We'd charge hell's portals in. This time we were not half-way up, When, 'midst the storm of shell, Our leader, with his sword upraised, Beneath our bay'nets fell; And, as we bore him back, the foe Set up a joyous yell. Our hearts went with him. Back we swept, And when the bugle said, "Up, charge, again!" no man was there But hung his dogged head. "We've no one left to lead us now," The sullen soldiers said. Just then, before the laggard line, The colonel's horse we spied-- Bay Billy, with his trappings on, His nostrils swelling wide, As though still on his gallant back His master sat astride. Right royally he took the place That was his old of wont, And with a neigh, that seemed to say, Above the battle's brunt, "How can the Twenty-second charge If I am not in front?" Like statues we stood rooted there, And gazed a little space; Above that floating mane we missed The dear familiar face; But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire, And it gave us hearts of grace. No bugle-call could rouse us all As that brave sight had done; Down all the battered line we felt A lightning impulse run; Up, up the hill we followed Bill, And captured every gun! And when upon the conquered height Died out the battle's hum; Vainly 'mid living and the dead We sought our leader dumb; It seemed as if a spectre steed To win that day had come. At last the morning broke. The lark Sang in the merry skies, As if to e'en the sleepers there It said awake, arise!-- Though naught but that last trump of all Could ope their heavy eyes. And then once more, with banners gay, Stretched out the long brigade; Trimly upon the furrowed field The troops stood on parade, And bravely 'mid the ranks we closed The gaps the fight had made. Not half the Twenty-second's men Were in their place that morn, And Corp'ral Dick, who yester-morn Stood six brave fellows on, Now touched my elbow in the ranks, For all between were gone. Ah! who forgets that dreary hour When, as with misty eyes, To call the old familiar roll The solemn sergeant tries-- One feels that thumping of the heart As no prompt voice replies. And as in falt'ring tone and slow The last few names were said, Across the field some missing horse Toiled up with weary tread. It caught the sergeant's eye, and quick Bay Billy's name was read. Yes! there the old bay hero stood, All safe from battle's harms, And ere an order could be heard, Or the bugle's quick alarms, Down all the front, from end to end, The troops presented arms! Not all the shoulder-straps on earth Could still our mighty cheer. And ever from that famous day, When rang the roll-call clear, Bay Billy's name was read, and then The whole line answered "Here!" THE OLD VETERAN. BY BAYARD TAYLOR. An old and crippled veteran to the War Department came, He sought the Chief who led him on many a field of fame-- The Chief who shouted "Forward!" where'er his banner rose, And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes. "Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier cried, "The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I was at your side? Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane? 'Tis true I'm old and pensioned, but I want to fight again." "Have I forgotten?" said the Chief: "my brave old soldier, no! And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so; But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, old, and gray, And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to-day." "But, General," cried the veteran, a flush upon his brow, "The very men who fought with us, they say, are traitors now; They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old red, white and blue, And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop is true." "I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good old gun, To get the range of traitors' hearts, and prick them one by one. Your Minie rifles and such arms, it ain't worth while to try; I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep my powder dry" "God bless you, comrade!" said the Chief,--"God bless your loyal heart! But younger men are in the field, and claim to have a part; They'll plant our sacred banner firm, in each rebellious town, And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it down!" "But, General!"--still persisting, the weeping veteran cried, "I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're my guide; And some you know, must bite the dust, and that, at least can I; So give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to die!" "If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in command Put me upon the ramparts with the flag-staff in my hand: No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the shell may fly, I'll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die!" "I'm ready, General; so you let a post to me be given, Where Washington can look at me, as he looks down from Heaven, And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General Wayne,-- 'There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane!'" "And when the fight is raging hot, before the traitors fly, When shell and ball are screeching, and bursting in the sky, If any shot should pierce through me, and lay me on my face, My soul would go to Washington's, and not to Arnold's place!" SANTA CLAUS. BY ALFRED H. MILES. The bells were ringing their cheerful chimes In the old grey belfry tow'r, The choir were singing their carols betimes In the wintry midnight hour, The waits were playing with eerie drawl "The mistletoe hung in the castle hall," And the old policeman was stomping his feet As he quiver'd and shiver'd along on his beat; The snow was falling as fast as it could O'er city and hamlet, forest and wood, And Jack Frost, busy with might and main, Was sketching away at each window-pane; Father Christinas was travelling fast, Mid the fall of the snow and the howl of the blast, With millions of turkeys for millions to taste, And millions of puddings all tied to his waist, And millions of mince-pies that scented the air, To cover the country with Christmas fare,-- When over the hills, from far away, Came Santa Claus with the dawn of day; He rode on a cycle, as seasons do, With Christmas behind him a-tandem too; His pockets were bigger than sacks from the mill-- The Soho Bazaar would not one of them fill, And the Lowther Arcade and the good things that stock it Would travel with ease in his tiniest pocket. And these were all full of delights and surprises For gifts and rewards and for presents and prizes. Little knick-knackeries, beautiful toys For mas and papas and for girls and for boys There were dolls of all sorts, there were dolls of all sizes, In comical costumes and funny disguises,-- Dolls of all countries and dolls of all climes, Dolls of all ages and dolls of all times; Soldier dolls, sailor dolls, red, white and blue; Khaki dolls, darkie dolls, trusty and true; Curio Chinese and quaint little Japs, Nid-nodding at nothing, the queer little chaps; Bigger dolls, nigger dolls woolly and black, With never a coat or a shirt to their back. Dolls made of china and dolls made of wood, Dutch dolls and such dolls, and all of them good; Dolls of fat features, and dolls with more pointed ones, Dolls that were rigid and dolls that were jointed ones, Dolls made of sawdust and dolls made of wax, Dolls that go "bye-bye" when laid on their backs, Dolls that are silent when nobody teases them, Dolls that will cry when one pinches or squeezes them; Dolls with fair faces and eyes bright of hue, The black and the brunette, the blond and the blue; Bride dolls and bridegrooms, the meekest of spouses; And hundreds and thousands of pretty dolls' houses. And as for the furniture--think for a day He brought all you'll think of and all I could say! And then there were playthings and puzzles and games. With all kinds of objects and all sorts of names,-- Musical instruments, boxes and glasses, And fiddles and faddles of various classes; Mandolins ready for fingers and thumbs, And banjos and tambourines, trumpets and drums. Noah's arks, animals, reptiles and mammals, Mammoths and crocodiles, cobras and camels; Lions and tigers as tame as a cat, Eagles and vultures as blind as a bat; Bears upon bear-poles and monkeys on sticks, Foxes in farmyards at mischievous tricks; Monkeys on dogs too, and dogs too on bicycles, Clumsy old elephants triking on tricycles; Horses on rockers and horses on wheels, But never a one that could show you his heels. There were tops for the whip, there were tops for the string, There were tops that would hum, there were tops that would sing; There were hoops made of iron and hoops made of wood, And hoop-sticks to match them, as strong and as good; There were books full of pictures and books full of rhymes, There were songs for the seasons and tales for the times; Pen-knives and pen-wipers, pencils and slates, Wheelers and rockers and rollers and skates; Bags full of marbles and boxes of bricks, And bundles and bundles of canes and of sticks. There were "prams" for the girls, there were "trams" for the boys, And thousands of clever mechanical toys,-- Engines and carriages running on rails, Steamers and sailers that carry the mails; Flags of all nations, and ships for all seas-- The Red Sea, the Black Sea, or what sea you please-- That tick it by clockwork or puff it by steam, Or outsail the weather or go with the stream; Carriages drawn by a couple of bays, 'Buses and hansoms, and waggons and drays, Coaches and curricles, rallis and gigs-- All sorts of wheelers, with all sorts of rigs. Cricket and croquet, and bat, trap, and ball, And tennis--but really the list would appal. There were balls for the mouth, there were balls for the feet, There were balls you could play with and balls you could eat, There were balls made of leather and balls made of candy, Balls of all sizes, from footballs to brandy. And then came the boxes of curious games, With all sorts of objects and all sorts of names,-- Lotto and Ludo, the Fox and the Geese, Halma and Solitaire--all of a piece; Go-bang and Ringolette, Hook-it and Quoits, For junior endeavours and senior exploits; And Skittles and Spellicans, Tiddle-de-winks-- But one mustn't mention the half that one thinks; Chessmen and draughtsmen, and hoards upon hoards Of chess and backgammon and bagatelle boards; And boxes of dominoes, boxes of dice, And boxes of tricks you can try in a trice. And Santa Claus went with his wonderful load Through street after street, and through road after road, And crept through the keyholes--or some other way; He got down the chimneys--so some people say: But, one way or other, he managed to creep Where all the good children were lying asleep; And when he got there, all the stockings in rows That were ready hung up he cramm'd full to the toes With the many good things he had brought with the day From over the hills and far away. And Santa Claus smiled as he look'd on the faces Of all the good children asleep in their places, And laugh'd out so loud as to almost awaken One sharp little fellow who great pains had taken; His socks were too small--for he'd hopes of great riches-- So, tying the legs, he had hung up his breeches! And surely the tears almost came in his eyes As he open'd a letter with joy and surprise That he took from a stocking hung up to a bed, And surely they fell as the letter he read; 'Twas a little girl's hand, and said, "Dear Santer Claws, Don't fordit baby's sox--they's hung up to the drors." But wasn't there laughter and shouting and noise From the boys and the girls, and the girls and the boys, When they counted the good things the good Saint had brought them, And laid them all out on their pillows to sort them. Such wonderful voices, such wonderful lungs, It was just like another confusion of tongues, A Babel of chatter from master and miss-- And I don't think they've left off from that day to this. Ah! good little people, if thus you shall find Rich treasures provided, be grateful and mind, In the midst of your pleasures, a moment to pause, And think about Christmas and good Santa Claus! Remember, in weary and desolate places, With tears in their eyes and with grime on the faces, The children of poverty, sorrow and weep, With little to cheer them awake or asleep; And remember that you who have much and to spare, Can brighten their eyes and can lighten their cares, If you take the example and work to the cause Of your own benefactor, the good Santa Claus. You need not climb chimneys in tempest and storm, Nor creep into keyholes in fairy-like form; You've a magical key for the dreariest place In the light of your eyes and the smile of your face. And remember the joy that you give to another Will gladden your own heart as well as the other; For troubles are halved when together we bear them, And pleasures are doubled whenever we share them. THE IMPERIAL RECITER "And we are peacemen, also; crying for Peace, peace at any price--though it be war! We must live free, at peace, or each man dies With death-clutch fast for ever on the prize." --GERALD MASSEY. The Editor's thanks are due to the Rev. A. Frewen Aylward for the use of the poem "Adsum," and to Messrs. Harmsworth Bros, for permission to include Mr. Rudyard Kipling's phenomenal success, "The Absent-Minded Beggar," in this collection; also to Messrs. Harper and Brothers, of New York, for special permission to copy from "Harper's Magazine" the poem "Sheltered," by Sarah Orme Jewett; to Messrs. Chatto and Windus for permission to use "Mrs. B.'s Alarms," from "Humorous Stories," by the late James Payn; to Miss Palgrave and to Messrs. Macmillan and Co., for the use of "England Once More," by the late F. T. Palgrave; to Mr. Clement Scott for permission to include "Sound the Assembly" and "The Midnight Charge"; to Mr. F. Harald Williams and Mr. Gerald Massey for generous and unrestricted use of their respective war poems, and to numerous other authors and publishers for the use of copyright pieces. PREFATORY. There is a true and a false Imperialism. There is the Imperialism of the vulgar braggart, who thinks that one Englishman can fight ten men of any other nationality under the sun; and there is the Imperialism of the man of thought, who believes in the destiny of the English race, who does not shrink from the responsibilities of power from "craven fear of being great," and who holds that an Englishman ought to be ready to face _twenty_ men if need be, of any nationality, including his own, rather than surrender a trust or sacrifice a principle. The first would base empire on vanity and brute force, inspired by the vulgar reflection-- "We've got the men, we've got the ships, we've got the money too." The second does not seek empire, but will not shrink from the responsibilities of its growth, and in all matters of international dispute believes with Solomon, that "He that is slow to wrath is of great understanding," and in all matters of international relationship that "Righteousness exalteth a nation." The rapid and solid growth of the British Empire has been due largely to two characteristics of its rule--the integrity of its justice and the soundness of its finance. Native races everywhere appeal with confidence to the justice of our courts, and find in the integrity of our fiscal system relief from the oppressive taxation of barbarous governments. These blessings we owe, and with them the strength of our empire, not to the force of our arms in the field, but to the subordination of the military to the civil spirit, both in peace and war. Other nations fail in their attempts at colonisation because they proceed on military lines. With them it is the soldier first and the civilian where he can. England succeeds because she proceeds on _industrial_ lines. With her it is the plough where it may be and the sword where it must. The military spirit never yet built up an enduring empire, and the danger of military success is that it is apt to confuse means and ends in the public mind, and to encourage the subordination of the civil to the military spirit in national institutions. Such a result could only be disastrous to the British Empire, and so, while rejoicing in the success of the British arms, it behoves us to oppose with all our strength the growth of the military spirit. The seventh decade of the nineteenth century saw the realisation of one of the greatest facts of our time, the federation of the German states in one great military empire. The tenth decade has realised a greater fact, the federation of the British colonies in a great social and commercial empire. The German Empire must fall to pieces if it continues to subordinate the civil to the military Spirit in its national policy. The British Empire can never perish while it is true to the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man. Signs of the growth of a military spirit are to be seen in the advocacy of some form of conscription or compulsory service for home defence; and this, too, at a time when the ends of the earth have been sending us _volunteers_ in abundance to espouse a foreign quarrel. Such advocates neither understand the national history nor the English character. Were England in any real danger there would be no need for forced service, and service forced without need would breed revolution. The nation that cannot depend upon its volunteers for its home defence is not worth defending. ALFRED H. MILES. _October 1, 1900_. CONTENTS. NAME. AUTHOR. The Englishman Eliza Cook England goes to Battle Gerald Massey England Once More F. T. Palgrave God Defend the Right F. Harold Williams The Volunteer Alfred H. Miles Down in Australia Gerald Massey Australia Speaks Gerald Massey An Imperial Reply Gerald Massey The Boys' Return Gerald Massey "Sound the Assembly!" Clement Scott The Absent-Minded Beggar Rudyard Kipling For the Empire F. Harald Williams Wanted--a Cromwell F. Harald Williams England's Ironsides F. Harald Williams The Three Cherry-Stones Anonymous The Midshipman's Funeral Darley Dale Ladysmith F. Harald Williams The Six-inch Gun "The Bombshell" St. Patrick's Day F. Harald Williams The Hero of Omdurman F. Harald Williams Boot and Saddle F. Harald Williams The Midnight Charge Clement Scott Mafeking--"Adsum!" A. Frewen Aylward The Fight at Rorke's Drift Emily Pfeiffer Relieved! (At Mafeking) "Daily Express" How Sam Hodge Won the V.C. Jeffrey Prowse The Relief of Lucknow R.T.S. Lowell A Ballad of War M.B. Smedley The Alma R.C. Trench After Alma Gerald Massey Balaclava--The Charge of the Light Lord Tennyson Brigade After Balaclava James Williams Inkerman Gerald Massey Killed in Action F. Harald Williams At the Breach Sarah Williams Santa Filomena H.W. Longfellow The Little Hatchet Story Burdette The Loss of the _Birkenhead_ Sir F.H. Doyle Elihu Alice Carey The Last of the _Eurydice_ Sir Noel Paton The Warden of the Cinque Ports H.W. Longfellow England's Dead Felicia Hemans Mehrab Khan Sir F.H. Doyle The Red Thread of Honour Sir F.H. Doyle The Private of the Buffs Sir F.H. Doyle A Fisherman's Song Alfred H. Miles The Field of Waterloo Lord Byron The Lay of the Brave Cameron J. S. Blackie A Song for Stout Workers J. S. Blackie At the Burial of a Veteran Alfred H. Miles Napoleon and the British Sailor Thomas Campbell The Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe At Trafalgar Gerald Massey Camperdown Alfred H. Miles The Armada Lord Macaulay Mr. Barker's Picture Max Adeler The Wooden Leg Max Adeler The Enchanted Shirt Colonel John Hay Jim Bludso Colonel John Hay Freedom J.R. Lowell The Coortin' J.R. Lowell The Heritage J.R. Lowell Lady Clare Lord Tennyson Break, Break, Break Lord Tennyson The Lord of Burleigh Lord Tennyson Dora Lord Tennyson Mrs. B.'s Alarms James Payn Sheltered Sarah Orme Jewett Guild's Signal Bret Harte Bill Mason's Bride Bret Harte The Clown's Baby "St. Nicholas" Aunt Tabitha O. Wendell Holmes Little Orphant Annie J. Whitcomb Riley The Limitations of Youth Eugene Field Rubinstein's Playing Anonymous Obituary William Thomson The Editor's Story Alfred H. Miles Nat Ricket Alfred H. Miles 'Spatially Jim "Harper's Magazine" 'Arry's Ancient Mariner Campbell Rae-Brown The Amateur Orlando George T. Lanigan A Ballad of a Bazaar Campbell Rae-Brown A Parental Ode Thomas Hood 'Twas ever Thus Henry S. Leigh Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question Mary Mapes Dodge The Heathen Chinee Bret Harte Ho-ho of the Golden Belt John G. Saxe The Hired Squirrel Laura Sanford Ballad of the Trailing Skirt New York "Life" To the Girl in Khaki "Modern Society" The Tender Heart Helen G. Cone A Song of Saratoga John G. Saxe The Sea Eva L. Ogden A Tale of a Nose Charles F. Adams Leedle Yawcob Strauss Charles F. Adams Dot Baby of Mine Charles F. Adams A Dutchman's Mistake Charles F. Adams The Owl Critic James T. Fields The True Story of King Marshmallow Anonymous The Jackdaw of Rheims R.H. Barham Tubal Cain Charles Mackay The Three Preachers Charles Mackay Say not the Struggle A.H. Clough Patriotism Lord Tennyson To-day and To-morrow Gerald Massey Ring Out, Wild Bells Lord Tennyson "Rule, Britannia!" James Thomson THE IMPERIAL RECITER. _EDITED BY ALFRED H. MILES_. THE ENGLISHMAN. BY ELIZA COOK. There's a land that bears a well-known name, Though it is but a little spot; I say 'tis the first on the scroll of fame, And who shall aver it is not? Of the deathless ones who shine and live In arms, in arts, or song, The brightest the whole wide world can give To that little land belong. 'Tis the star of the Earth--deny it who can-- The Island-home of the Englishman. There's a flag that waves o'er every sea, No matter when or where; And to treat that flag as aught but the free Is more than the strongest dare. For the lion spirits that tread the deck Have carried the palm of the brave; And that flag may sink with a shot-torn wreck, But never float o'er a slave; Its honour is stainless--deny it who can-- And this is the flag of the Englishman. There's a heart that beats with burning glow, The wrong'd and the weak to defend; And strikes as soon for a trampled foe As it does for a soul-bound friend. It nurtures a deep and honest love, The passions of faith and pride, And yearns with the fondness of a dove, To the light of its own fireside, 'Tis a rich rough gem--deny it who can-- And this is the heart of an Englishman. The Briton may traverse the pole or the zone And boldly claim his right, For he calls such a vast domain his own That the sun never sets on his might. Let the haughty stranger seek to know The place of his home and birth; And a flush will pour from cheek to brow While he tells of his native earth; For a glorious charter--deny it who can-- Is breathed in the words, "I'm an Englishman." ENGLAND GOES TO BATTLE. BY GERALD MASSEY. Now, glory to our England, She arises, calm and grand, The ancient spirit in her eyes,-- The good sword in her hand! Our royal right on battle-ground Was aye to bear the brunt: Ho! brave heart, with one passionate bound, Take the old place in front! Now glory to our England, As she rises, calm and grand, The ancient spirit in her eyes,-- The good sword in her hand! Who would not fight for England? Who would not fling a life I' the ring, to meet a Tyrant's gage, And glory in the strife? Her stem is thorny, but doth burst A glorious Rose a-top! And shall our proud Rose wither? First We'll drain life's dearest drop! Who would not fight for England? Who would not fling a life I' the ring, to meet a tyrant's gage, And glory in the strife? To battle goes our England, As gallant and as gay As lover to the altar, on A merry marriage-day. A weary night she stood to watch The clouds of dawn up-rolled; And her young heroes strain to match The valour of the old. To battle goes our England, As gallant and as gay As lover to the altar, on A merry marriage-day. Now, fair befall our England, On her proud and perilous road: And woe and wail to those who make Her footprints wet with blood. Up with our red-cross banner--roll A thunder-peal of drums! Fight on there, every valiant soul Have courage! England comes! Now, fair befall our England, On her proud and perilous road: And woe and wail to those who make Her footprints wet with blood! Now, victory to our England! And where'er she lifts her hand In freedom's fight, to rescue Right, God bless the dear old land! And when the Storm hath passed away, In glory and in calm, May she sit down i' the green o' the day, And sing her peaceful psalm! Now victory to our England! And where'er she lifts her hand In freedom's fight, to rescue Right, God bless the dear old land! ENGLAND ONCE MORE. BY FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. Old if this England be The Ship at heart is sound, And the fairest she and gallantest That ever sail'd earth round! And children's children in the years Far off will live to see Her silver wings fly round the world, Free heralds of the free! While now on Him who long has bless'd To bless her as of yore, Once more we cry for England, England once more! They are firm and fine, the masts; And the keel is straight and true; Her ancient cross of glory Rides burning through the blue:-- And that red sign o'er all the seas The nations fear and know, And the strong and stubborn hero-souls That underneath it go:-- While now on Him who long has bless'd To bless her as of yore, Once more we cry for England, England once more! Prophets of dread and shame, There is no place for you, Weak-kneed and craven-breasted, Among this English crew! Bluff hearts that cannot learn to yield, But as the waves run high, And they can almost touch the night, Behind it see the sky. While now on Him who long has bless'd To bless her as of yore, Once more we cry for England, England once more! As Past in Present hid, As old transfused to new, Through change she lives unchanging, To self and glory true; From Alfred's and from Edward's day Who still has kept the seas, To him who on his death-morn spoke Her watchword on the breeze! While now on Him who long has bless'd To bless her as of yore, Once more we cry for England, England once more! What blasts from East and North What storms that swept the land Have borne her from her bearings Since Cæsar seized the strand! Yet that strong loyal heart through all Has steer'd her sage and free, --Hope's armour'd Ark in glooming years, And whole world's sanctuary! While now on Him who long has bless'd To bless her as of yore, Once more we cry for England, England once more! Old keel, old heart of oak, Though round thee roar and chafe All storms of life, thy helmsman Shall make the haven safe! Then with Honour at the head, and Faith, And Peace along the wake, Law blazon'd fair on Freedom's flag, Thy stately voyage take:-- While now on Him who long has bless'd To bless Thee as of yore, Once more we cry for England, England once more! GOD DEFEND THE RIGHT. BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS. Where Roman eagle never flew The flag of England flies, The herald of great empires new Beneath yet larger skies; Upon a hundred lands and seas, And over ransomed slaves Who poured to her no idle pleas, The pledge of Freedom waves; Whatever man may well have done We have with dauntless might, And England holds what England won, And God defends the right. Where hardly climb the mountain goats, On stormy cape and crag, The refuge of the wanderer floats-- Our hospitable flag; While alien banners only mock With glory's fleeting wraith, It stands on the eternal rock Of our eternal faith; And handed on from sire and son, It furls not day nor night; So England holds what England won, And God defends the right. When wrongs cry out for brave redress, Our justice does not lag, And in the name of righteousness Moves on our stainless flag; The helpless see it proudly shine And hail the sheltering robe, That heralds on the thin red line That girdles round the globe; A pioneer of truth as none Before it scatters light, And England holds what England won, And God defends the right. Beneath the shadow of its peace Though riddled to a rag, The down-trod nations gain release, And rally round the flag; We fight the battles of the Lord, And never may we yield A foot we measure with the sword-- On the red harvest-field; And we will not retreat, while one Stout heart remains to fight; Let England hold what England won, And God defend the right. THE VOLUNTEER. BY ALFRED H. MILES. Conscription? Never! The word belongs To the Foes of Freedom, the Friends of wrongs, And unto them alone. The first and worst of the Tyrant's terms, Barbed to spike at the writhing worms That crawl about his throne. Only the mob at a despot's heels Would juggle a man at Fortune's wheels, Or conjure one with the die that reels From the lip of the dice-cup thrown! The soldier forced to the field of fight, With never a reck of the wrong or right, Wherever a flag may wave-- By the toss of a coin, or a number thrown-- Fights with a will that is not his own, A victim and a slave! Right is Might in ever a fight, And Truth is Bravery, And the Right and True are the Ready too, When the bolt is hurl'd in the peaceful blue By the hand of Knavery. And the Land that fears for its Volunteers Is a Land of Slavery. Compulsion? Never! The word is dead In a land of Freedom born and bred, Of old in the years of yore, Where all by the laws of Freedom wrought May do as they will, who will as they ought, And none desire for more. Who brooks no spur has need of none, (Who needs a spur is a traitor son,) And all are ready and all are one When Freedom calls to the fore! The soldier forced to the field of war By the iron hand of a tyrant law, Wherever a flag may wave, And the press'd--at best but a coward's 'hest-- Fight with the bitter, sullen zest, And the ardour of a slave! A hireling? Never! The bought and sold Are ever the prey of the traitor's gold, Wherever the fight may be. Or ever a man will sell his sword, The highest bidder may buy the gaud With a coward's niggard fee. Who buys and sells to the market goes, And sells his friends as he sells his foes, So he gain in the main by his country's woes,-- But the gain is not to the free;-- For the soldier bought with a price has nought But his fee to 'fend when the fight is fought, Wherever the flag may wave. And he who fights for the loot or pay, Fights for himself, or ever he may-- A huckster and a slave! Or ever a Free land needs a son To follow the flag with pike or gun Upon the field of war, There's never a need to seek for one In the dice's throw, or the number's run, Or the iron grip of the law;-- All are ready, where all are free, With never a spur and never a fee, To fight and 'fend the liberty That Freemen hold in awe. The Volunteer is a son sincere, And ready, or ever the cause appear, Whole-hearted, free as brave,-- Ready at call to sally forth From east and west, and south and north, Wherever the flag may wave,-- With never a selfish thought to mar The sacrifice of the holy war, And never a self to save. And the flag shall float in the blue on high Till the last of the Volunteers shall die, And Hell shall tear it out of the sky-- From Freedom's trampled grave! Right is Might in ever a fight, And Truth is Bravery, And the Right and True are the Ready too, When the bolt is hurl'd in the peaceful blue By the hand of Knavery. And the Land that fears for its Volunteers Is a Land of Slavery. DOWN IN AUSTRALIA. BY GERALD MASSEY. Quaff a cup and send a cheer up for the Old Land! We have heard the Reapers shout, For the Harvest going out, With the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land; And our message shall be hurled Ringing right across the world, There are true hearts beating for you in the Gold Land. We are with you in your battles, brave and bold Land! For the old ancestral tree Striketh root beneath the sea, And it beareth fruit of Freedom in the Gold Land! We shall come, too, if you call, We shall fight on if you fall; Shakespere's land shall never be a bought and sold land.... O, a terror to the Tyrant is that bold Land! He remembers how she stood, With her raiment roll'd in blood, When the tide of battle burst upon the Old Land; And he looks with darkened face, For he knows the hero race Strike the Harp of Freedom--draw her sword with bold hand.... When the smoke of Battle rises from the Old Land You shall see the Tyrant down! You shall see her lifted crown Wears another peerless jewel won with bold hand; She shall thresh her foes like corn, They shall eat the bread of scorn; We will sing her song of triumph in the Gold Land. Quaff a cup and send a cheer up for the Old Land! We have heard the Reapers shout For the Harvest going out, Seen the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land; And our answer shall be hurled Ringing right across the world,-- All true hearts are beating for you in the Gold Land. AUSTRALIA SPEAKS. BY GERALD MASSEY. What is the News to-day, Boys? Have they fired the Signal gun? We answer but one way, Boys; We are ready for the fray, Boys, All ready and all one! They shall not say we boasted Of deeds that would be done; Or sat at home and toasted: We are marshall'd, drilled, and posted, All ready and all one! We are not as driven cattle That would the conflict shun. They have to test our mettle As _Volunteers_ of Battle, All ready and all one! The life-streams of the Mother Through all her youngsters run, And brother stands by brother, To die with one another, All ready and all one! AN IMPERIAL REPLY. BY GERALD MASSEY. 'Tis glorious, when the thing to do Is at the supreme instant done! We count your first fore-running few A thousand men for every one! For this true stroke of statesmanship-- The best Australian poem yet-- Old England gives your hand the grip, And binds you with a coronet, In which the gold o' the Wattle glows With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose. They talked of England growing old, They said she spoke with feeble voice; But hear the virile answer rolled Across the world! Behold her Boys Come back to her full-statured Men, To make four-square her fighting ranks. She feels her youth renewed again, With heart too full for aught but "Thanks!" And now the gold o' the Wattle glows With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose. "My Boys have come of age to-day," The proud old mother smiling said. "They write a brand-new page to-day, By far-off futures to be read!" Throughout all lands of British blood, This stroke hath kindled such a glow; The Federal links of Brotherhood Are clasped and welded at a blow. And aye the gold o' the Wattle glows With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose. THE BOYS' RETURN. BY GERALD MASSEY. Wives, mothers, sweethearts sent Their dearest; waved their own defenders forth; And, fit companions for the bravest, went The Boys, to test their manhood, prove their worth. As Sons of those who braved All dangers; to Earth's ends our Flag unfurled, The old pioneers of Ocean, who have paved Our pathway with their bones around the world! To-day the City waits, Proudly a-throb with life about to be: She welcomes her young warriors in her gates Of glory, opened to them by the Sea. Let no cur bark, or spurt Defilement, trying to tarnish this fair fame; No Alien drag our Banner through the dirt Because it blazons England's noble name. Upon the lips of Praise They lay their own hands, saying, _"We have not won Great battles for you, nor Immortal bays, But what your boys were given to do is done!"_ When Clouds were closing round The Island-home, our Pole-star of the North, Australia fired her Beacons--rose up crowned With a new dawn upon the ancient earth. For us they filled a cup More rare than any we can brim to them! The patriot-passion did so lift men up, They looked as if each wore a diadem! Best honours we shall give, If to that loftier outlook still we climb; And in our unborn children there shall live The larger spirit of this great quickening time. To-day is the Women's day! With them there's no more need o' the proud disguise They wore when their young heroes sailed away; Soft smiles the dewy fire in loving eyes! And, when to the full breast, O mothers! your re-given ones you take, And in your long embraces they are blest, Give them one hug at heart for England's sake. The Mother of us all! Dear to us, near to us, though so far apart; For whose defence we are sworn to stand or fall In the same battle as Brothers one at heart. All one to bear the brunt, All one we move together in the march, Shoulder to shoulder; to the Foe all front, The wide world round; all heaven one Triumph Arch. One in the war of Mind For clearing earth of all dark Jungle-Powers; One for the Federation of mankind, Who will speak one language, and that language ours. "SOUND THE ASSEMBLY!" BY CLEMENT SCOTT. _(From Punch's Souvenir. May 3rd, 1900.)_ Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow! For England has need of her bravest to-day. Sound! and the World Universal will know We shall fight to a finish, in front or at bay. Sound the Assembly! They'll hear it, and spring To the saddle, and gallop wherever they're led. Sound! Every city and village will ring With the shout "To the front!" It shall never be said-- That an Englishman's heart ever failed in its glow For Queen, or for country, when threatened by foe, For Liberty, stabbed by oppression and woe, So, Sound the Assembly! Blow! Buglemen, blow! Sound the Assembly! Sound the Assembly! You'll see, as of yore, The Service united in heart and in head, When blue-jackets leap from their ships to the shore To bring up the guns for their comrades in red! Sound the Assembly! Our Naval Brigade Will prove they are sailors and soldiers as well; They will pull, they will haul, they will march, they will wade, And dash into furnaces hotter than hell! A long pull, a strong pull, a cheery "Yo! ho!" Do you see that big mountain? 'Tis Jack who will know To be first at the top, when, by gad! he will crow! So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow! Sound the Assembly! Sound the Assembly! Brave Union Jack! You have floated triumphant on sea and on shore; Old England and Scotland are still back to back, And Ireland, God bless her! is with us once more. Sound the Assembly! Come! Forward! Quick march! What! Feather-bed soldiers? Bah! give them the lie. Divested by war of Society starch They will shout "'Tis a glorious death to die!"-- What land in the world could produce such a show Of heroes, who face both siroccos and snow, Rush madly to danger, and never lie low? So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow! Sound the Assembly! Sound the Assembly! Form, citizens, form! From smoke of the city, from country so green, A horse of irregulars sweeps like a storm To defend with their lives their dear country and Queen! Sound the Assembly! Come! Volunteers, come! Leave oldsters at grinding and tilling the sod! Bold Yoemen, enrolled for defence of their home, Enlist with a cheer for the Empire, thank God!-- To the front! to the front! with their faces aglow, They will march, the dear lads, with a pulse and a go; Wave flags o'er the Workman, the Johnnie, the Beau, So, Sound the Assembly! Blow, Buglemen, blow! Sound the Assembly! THE ABSENT-MINDED BEGGAR. BY RUDYARD KIPLING. When you've shouted "Rule Britannia"--when you've sung "God Save the Queen"-- When you've finished killing Kruger with your mouth-- Will you kindly drop a shilling in my little tambourine For a gentleman in kharki ordered South? He's an absent-minded beggar and his weaknesses are great-- But we and Paul must take him as we find him-- He is out on active service, wiping something off a slate-- And he's left a lot o' little things behind him! Duke's son--cook's son--son of a hundred kings-- (Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!) Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after their things?) Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay--pay--pay! There are girls he married secret, asking no permission to, For he knew he wouldn't get it if he did. There is gas and coals and vittles, and the house-rent falling due, And it's more than rather likely there's a kid. There are girls he walked with casual, they'll be sorry now he's gone, For an absent-minded beggar they will find him; But it ain't the time for sermons with the winter coming on-- We must help the girl that Tommy's left behind him! Cook's son--Duke's son--son of a belted Earl-- Son of a Lambeth publican--it's all the same to-day! Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after the girl?) Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay! There are families by thousands, far too proud to beg or speak-- And they'll put their sticks and bedding up the spout, And they'll live on half o' nothing paid 'em punctual once a week, 'Cause the man that earned the wage is ordered out. He's an absent-minded beggar, but he heard his country call, And his reg'ment didn't need to send to find him: He chucked his job and joined it--so the job before us all Is to help the home that Tommy's left behind him! Duke's job--cook's job--gardener, baronet, groom-- Mews or palace or paper-shop--there's someone gone away! Each of 'em doing his country's work (and who's to look after the room?) Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay! Let us manage so as later we can look him in the face, And tell him--what he'd very much prefer-- That, while he saved the Empire his employer saved his place, And his mates (that's you and me) looked out for her. He's an absent-minded beggar, and he may forget it all, But we do not want his kiddies to remind him, That we sent 'em to the workhouse while their daddy hammered Paul, So we'll help the home our Tommy's left behind him! Cook's home--Duke's home--home of a millionaire. (Fifty'thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!) Each of 'em doing his country's work (and what have you got to spare?) Pass the hat for your credit's sake, and pay! pay! pay! FOR THE EMPIRE. BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS. It is no more place and party, It is no more begging votes; But the roaring of steam-packets, And a rushing of bluejackets And a rally of redcoats; For the Empire's will is hearty, Thundered by united throats. We are sick of talk and treason, There is duty to be done; By the veteran in danger, And the lad who is a stranger Unto strife and shrinks from none; In the power of right and reason, Now all classes are but one. We have suffered and have yielded, Till we felt the burning shame; And long outrage and endurance Are our glory of assurance To begin the bloody game; By our honour are we shielded, In the might of England's name. It is no more fume of faction, It is no more weary calls; We are strong in faith and steady, With the sword of Justice ready And our iron men and walls; Since the hour has struck for action, And red retribution falls. We have wrongs, which for redressing Cry aloud to God at last; It is woe to him who trifles When we speak across our rifles At the great and final cast; And we seek no other blessing Than the blotting out the past. We will brook no new denial, We will have no second tale; And we seek no sordid laurels, But here fight the ages' quarrels And for freedom's broadening pale-- Lo, an Empire on its trial, Hangs within the awful scale. WANTED--A CROMWELL. BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS. O for an hour of Cromwell's might Who raised an Empire out of dust, And lifted it to noontide light By simple and heroic trust; Whose word was like a swordsman's thrust, And clove its way through crowned night. We want old England's iron stock, Hewn of the same eternal rock. Where is the man of equal part, To rule by right divine of power; With statesman's head and soldier's heart, And all the ages' dreadful dower Brought to a bright and perfect flower-- From whom a nobler course may start? We hear but faction's fume and cry, With England in her agony. Where is the master mind that reads The far-off issues of the day, And with a willing nation pleads That loves to own a master sway? Where are the landmarks on the way, Set up alone by him who leads? We vainly ask a common creed To make us one in England's need. Is there no man with broader reach To fill a thorny throne of care, And bravely act and bravely teach Because in all he has a share? No helper who will do and dare, And stand a bulwark in the breach? Have we no lord of England's fate, Though coming from a cottage gate? O surely somewhere is the hand To grasp and guide this reeling realm, While in the hour-glass sinks the sand And faints the pilot at the helm; If billows break to overwhelm, Yet he will conquer and command. England is waiting to be led, If through the dying and the dead. We do not seek the party fame That trafficks in a people's fall, But one to shield our burning shame And answer just his country's call; To weld us in a solid wall, And kindle with a common flame. Ah, when she finds the fitting man, England will do what England can. ENGLAND'S IRONSIDES. BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS. They are not gone, the old Cromwellian breed, As witness conquered tides, And many a pasture sown with crimson seed-- Our English Ironsides; And out on kopjes, where the bullets rain, They serve their Captain, slaying or are slain. The same grand spirit in the same grim stress Arms them with stubborn mail; They see the light of duty's loveliness And over death prevail. They never count the price or weigh the odds, The work is theirs, the victory is God's. They are not fled, the old Cromwellian stock, Where stern the horseman rides, Or stands the outpost like a lonely rock-- Our English Ironsides. Through drift and donga, up the fire-girt crag They bear the honour of the ancient flag. What if they starve, or on red pillows lie Beneath a burning sun? It is enough to live their day, or die Ere it has even begun; They only ask what duty's voice would crave, And march right on to glory or the grave. THE THREE CHERRY-STONES. ANONYMOUS. Many years ago, three young gentlemen were lingering over their fruit and wine at a tavern, when a man of middle age entered the room, seated himself at a small unoccupied table, and calling the waiter, ordered a simple meal. His appearance was not such as to arrest attention. His hair was thin and grey; the expression of his countenance was sedate, with a slight touch, perhaps, of melancholy; and he wore a grey surtout with a standing collar, which manifestly had seen service, if the wearer had not. The stranger continued his meal in silence, without lifting his eyes from the table, until a cherry-stone, sportively snapped from the thumb and finger of one of the gentlemen, struck him upon his right ear. His eye was instantly upon the aggressor, and his ready intelligence gathered from the ill-suppressed merriment of the party that this petty impertinence was intentional. The stranger stooped, and picked up the cherry-stone, and a scarcely perceptible smile passed over his features as he carefully wrapped it in a piece of paper, and placed it in his pocket. This singular procedure upset the gravity of the young gentlemen entirely, and a burst of laughter proceeded from the group. Unmoved by this rudeness, the stranger continued his frugal repast until another cherry-stone, from the same hand, struck him upon the right elbow. This also, to the infinite amusement of the party, he picked from the floor, and carefully deposited with the first. Amidst shouts of laughter, a third cherry-stone was soon after discharged, and struck the stranger upon the left breast. This also he very deliberately deposited with the other two. As he rose, and was engaged in paying for his repast, the gaiety of these sporting gentlemen became slightly subdued. Having discharged his reckoning, he walked to the table at which the young men were sitting, and with that air of dignified calmness which is a thousand times more terrible than wrath, drew a card from his pocket, and presented it with perfect civility to the offender, who could do no other than offer his in return. While the stranger unclosed his surtout, to take the card from his pocket, he displayed the undress coat of a military man. The card disclosed his rank, and a brief inquiry at the bar was sufficient for the rest. He was a captain whom ill-health and long service had entitled to half-pay. In earlier life he had been engaged in several affairs of honour, and, in the dialect of the fancy, was a dead shot. The next morning a note arrived at the aggressor's residence, containing a challenge, in form, and one of the cherry-stones. The truth then flashed before the challenged party--it was the challenger's intention to make three bites at this cherry--three separate affairs out of this unwarrantable frolic! The challenge was accepted, and the challenged party, in deference to the challenger's reputed skill with the pistol, had half decided upon the small sword; but his friends, who were on the alert, soon discovered that the captain, who had risen by his merit, had, in the earlier days of his necessity, gained his bread as an accomplished instructor in the use of that weapon. They met, and fired alternately, by lot--the young man had selected this mode, thinking he might win the first fire--he did--fired, and missed his opponent. The captain levelled his pistol and fired--the ball passed through the flap of the right ear; and, as the wounded man involuntarily put his hand to the place, he remembered that it was the right ear of his antagonist that the first cherry-stone had struck. Here ended the first lesson. A month passed. His friends cherished the hope that he would hear nothing more from the captain, when another note--a challenge, of course--and another cherry-stone arrived, with an apology, on the score of ill-health, for delay. Again they met--fired simultaneously, and the captain, who was unhurt, shattered the right elbow of his antagonist--the very point upon which he had been struck with the second cherry-stone; and here ended the second lesson. There was something awfully impressive in the _modus operandi_ and exquisite skill of his antagonist. The third cherry-stone was still in his possession, and the aggressor had not forgotten that it had struck the unoffending gentleman upon the left breast. A month passed--another--and another, of terrible suspense; but nothing was heard from the captain. At length, the gentleman who had been his second in the former duels once more presented himself, and tendered another note, which, as the recipient perceived on taking it, contained the last of the cherry-stones. The note was superscribed in the captain's well-known hand, but it was the writing evidently of one who wrote feebly. There was an unusual solemnity also in the manner of him who delivered it. The seal was broken, and there was the cherry-stone in a blank envelope. "And what, sir, am I to understand by this?" inquired the aggressor. "You will understand, sir, that my friend forgives you--he is dead." THE MIDSHIPMAN'S FUNERAL. BY BARLEY DALE. "Years ago, when I was quite a young man, I was appointed chaplain to H.M.S. _Octopus_, then on guard at Gibraltar. We had a very nice time of it, for 'Gib.' is a very gay place, and that winter there was plenty of fun somewhere nearly every night, and we were asked to most of the festivities. Now, on board the Octopus was a young midshipman, whom I will call Munro. He was a handsome young fellow, but rather delicate, and he had been sent to Gibraltar for the sake of the climate, in hopes that the sea-air and warm winter might set him up. He was the life of the ship, and wherever he went he was popular; and it is possible he might have outgrown his weakness, for I don't think there was any organic disease at this time, but he got a low fever, and died in a week. This low fever was very prevalent, and at the same time that poor young Munro died, an admiral, one of the leading members of society at 'Gib.,' died of the same disease. As it was considered infectious, the two bodies were placed in their coffins and carried to the mortuary till the funeral. Oddly enough, both funerals were fixed for the same day; Munro's in the morning, and the admiral's in the afternoon. The admiral's was to be a very grand affair, all the troops in the garrison were to follow, as well as the naval officers and sailors on board the guardships; the ceremony was to be performed by the bishop, assisted by some other clergy while as for poor Munro, I was to bury him at ten o'clock in the morning, six men were told off to carry the coffin, and it was left to those who liked to act as mourners. "Well, the day of the funerals arrived, all the ships were decked with flags half-mast high in honour of the admiral, minute-guns were fired in honour of the admiral, church bells tolled in honour of the admiral, while as for poor Munro (one or two of us excepted), no one thought of him. Ten o'clock came, and I with the doctor and ore of Munro's comrades, another middy, and the six sailors, who, by the way, had all volunteered their services, set out for the mortuary; I had a fancy to follow the poor fellow as far as I could, so I waited while the jack tars went inside and fetched out the coffin covered with the union-jack, and Munro's hat and sword on the top, and then the little procession took its way across the neutral ground to the English cemetery. I followed the coffin, and the other two brought up the rear. The sentries did not salute us as we passed them. At last we reached the cemetery gates. Here I was obliged to relegate my post of chief mourner to the doctor, while I went into the chapel, put on my surplice, and went to the door to meet the body. I then proceeded to bury the poor boy, and when the union-jack was taken off and the coffin lowered into the grave, I leant over to take one last look; the doctor did the same, and as our eyes met the same emotion caused us both to blow our noses violently, and it was in a voice of suppressed emotion that I concluded the service. "I was so disgusted with the way in which the poor boy had been slighted that I had not intended going to the admiral's funeral; but after burying Munro I felt more charitably disposed, so I got into my uniform and duly attended the admiral's obsequies. "It was a very grand affair indeed; the streets were thronged with spectators, every window was filled with eager faces as the enormous procession passed by. There were five regiments stationed in Gibraltar at the time, and two men-of-war besides the _Octopus_ lying in the harbour; detachments from every regiment were sent, three military bands followed, a battery of artillery, the marines and all the jack tars in the place, the governor and his staff were there, and every officer, who was not on the sick list, quartered in Gibraltar, was present. A firing party was told off to fire over the grave when all was over, and this brilliant procession was met at the cemetery-gates by the bishop, attended by several clergymen and a surpliced choir. I forgot to say that a string of carriages followed the troops, and the entire procession could not have been much less than a mile long. "As we crossed the neutral ground this time, the sentry, with arms reversed, saluted us; and the strains of Beethoven's 'Funeral March of a Hero,' must have been heard all over Gibraltar as the three bands--one in front, one in the rear, and one in the centre--all pealed it forth. "Of course, not one-third of the funeral _cortège_ could get near the grave; but I managed to get pretty close. The service proceeded, and at length the coffin was uncovered to be lowered into the grave; it was smothered with flowers, but the wreaths were all carefully removed, and the admiral's cocked-hat and sword, and then the union-jack was off, and the bishop, the governor, and all the officers near the grave pressed forward to look at the coffin. "They looked once, they started; they looked again, they frowned; they rubbed their eyes; they looked again, then they whispered; they sniffed, they snorted, they grumbled; they gave hurried orders to the sextons, who shovelled some earth on to the coffin, and the bishop hurriedly finished the service. "What do you think they saw when they looked into the grave? "Why, poor Munro's coffin! I buried the admiral myself in the morning, by mistake. The doctor and I found it out at the grave, but we kept our own counsel."--_Young England_. LADYSMITH. BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS. I.--LADYSMITH OCCUPIED. Flushed with fight and red with glory, Conquerors if backward flung, Fresh from triumphs grim and gory, Toward the goal the Army swung; Splendid, but with recent laurels Dimmed by shadow of defeat, Thirsting yet for nobler quarrels-- Never dreaming of retreat. Day by day they grimly struggled, Early on and on till late; Night by night with doom they juggled, Dodging Death and fighting Fate. Not a murmur once was spoken, Stern endurance still unspent, As with spirit all unbroken On the bitter march they went. Still with weary steps that stumbled Forward moved that constant tread, Sleepless, silent, and unhumbled, On and on the army sped, Noble sons of noble mothers, Proud of home and kin and kith, Brothers to the aid of brothers, On and on to Ladysmith. There, through smoke of onset rifted, Soldiers who disdained to yield Had for weal or woe uplifted England's own broad battle-shield. Right across the path of pillage Was that iron rampart thrust, While beneath it town and village Safely hid in settled trust. Frail and open seemed that shelter And unguarded to the foes, Helpless, as the fiery welter Rocked it in volcanic throes; But there was defence to bind it With the force of Destiny, And an Empire stood behind it Armed in awful majesty. And no fortress ever moulded Girt securer chosen space, Than those unseen walls which folded In their fear that lonely place. On its Outposts far the scourges Fell with wrath and crimson rain, But the fierce assaulting surges Beat and beat in thunder vain. II.--LADYSMITH BESIEGED. There they kept the old flag flying Day by day and prayed relief, Weary, wounded, doomed, and dying-- Gallant men and noble chief By the leaden tempest stricken, Grandly stood or grandly fell-- Peril had but power to quicken Faith that owned such holy spell. Not alone the foe without them Menaced them with fire and shot, Sickness creeping round about them, Fever, dysentery, and rot, Struck the rider and the stallion, Making merry as at feast On the pick of each battalion-- Ruthless, smiting man and beast. None were spared and nothing holy, For the fever claimed the best, Now the high and now the lowly, Now the baby at the breast, All obeyed its mandate, drooping In the fulness of their power, Old and young before it stooping, Bud and blossom, fruit and flower. Hunger blanched their dauntless faces, Furrowed with the lines of lack, But with stern and stubborn paces Still they drove the spoiler back. Round them drew the iron tether Tighter, but they kept their troth, All for England's sake together-- Soldier and civilian both. Death and ruin knock and enter, Hearts may break and homesteads burn, Yet from that lone faithful centre Flashed red vengeance in return; Guardian guns thence hurled defiance From the brave who lightly took All their blows in brave reliance, Which no tempest ever shook. Hand to hand they strove and wrestled Stoutly for that pearl of pride, Where mid flame and woe it nestled Down with danger at its side. Yet like boys released from class time, Though the blast destroying blew, There they played and found a pastime While the Flag unconquered flew. III.--LADYSMITH RELIEVED. Then, when all seemed lost but glory With the lustre which it gave, And Relief an idle story Murmured by a sealed grave; While with pallid lips they reckoned Darkly the enduring days Famished, lo! Deliverance beckoned Surely after long delays. Wave on wave of martial beauty, Dashed upon those deadly rocks At the simple call of duty, And were broken by the shocks. Yet that chivalry of splendour, Though baptized in blood and fire, Had no thought of mean surrender Never breathed the word retire. Still they weighed the dreadful chances, Still they gathered up their strength, By invincible advances Steeled to win the prize at length. Fate-like their resolve to sever Those gaunt bonds of grim despair, And within the breach for ever England's honour to repair. Came relief at last, endeavour, Stern, magnificent, and true, Hoping on and fighting ever, Forced its gory passage through. All the rage of pent-up forces, All the passion seeking vent Out of vast and solemn sources, Here renewed their sacrament; In the rapture of a greeting For which thousands fought and bled, With the saved and saviours meeting Over our Imperial dead. Witnesses unseen but tested Lived again as grander men, And their awful shadow rested With a benediction then; One who with his wondrous talent Conquered more than even the sword, And among the gay and gallant By his pen was crownéd lord. There they lie in silence lowly Which no battle now can wake, And the ground is ever holy For our English heroes' sake. THE SIX-INCH GUN. (From the Christmas number of the _Bombshell_, published in Ladysmith during the siege.) There is a famous hill looks down, Five miles away, on Ladysmith town, With a long flat ridge that meets the sky Almost a thousand feet on high. And on the ridge there is mounted one Long-range, terrible six-inch gun. And down in the street a bugle is blown, When the cloud of smoke on the sky is thrown, For it's sixty seconds before the roar Reverberates o'er, and a second more Till the shell comes down with a whiz and stun From that long-range, terrible six-inch gun. And men and women walk up and down The long, hot streets of Ladysmith town, And the housewives walk in the usual round, And the children play till the warning sound-- Then into their holes they scurry and run From the whistling shell of the six-inch gun. For the shells they weigh a hundred pound, Bursting wherever they strike the ground, While the strong concussion shakes the air And shatters the window-panes everywhere. And we may laugh, but there's little of fun In the bursting shell from a six-inch gun. Oh! 'twas whistle and jest with the carbineers gay As they cleaned their steeds at break of day, But like a thunderclap there fell In the midst of the horses and men a shell, And the sight we saw was a fearful one After that shell from the six-inch gun. Though the foe may beset us on every side, We'll furnish some cheer in this Christmastide; We will laugh and be gay, but a tear will be shed And a thought be given to the gallant dead, Cut off in the midst of their life and fun By the long-range, terrible six-inch gun. ST. PATRICK'S DAY. BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS. Here's to the Isle of the Shamrock, Here's a good English hurrah, Luck to the Kelt upon kopje or veldt, Erin Mavourneen gobragh. The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle, The shamrock, the rose, and the leek, One where the bayonets bristle, One when there's duty to seek. Each has a need of each other, Linked on the shore and the wave, All for the sake of one Mother-- Honour the Brave. Here's to the boys of the Shamrock, Here's to the gallant and gay, Bearing the flag upon donga or crag, Blithely as children at play. The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle, The shamrock, the leek, and the rose, One though the bullets may whistle, One in a red grave's repose. Each has a need of his fellows, Sharing the glory or grave, Each the same destiny mellows-- Honour the Brave. Here's to the girls of the shamrock, Here's to the glamour and grace, Laughing on all, in hovel and hall, Ever from Erin's young face! The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle, The shamrock, the rose, and the leek, One in the face of a missile, One when the batteries speak. Each of himself is delighted To succour the serf or the slave, And who can deny them united?-- Honour the Brave. Here's to the wit of the Shamrock, Here's to the favoured and free, Giving us store of that magical lore Learnt but at Nature's own knee! The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle, The shamrock, the leek, and the rose, One when fame writes her epistle, One where dread dangers enclose. Each for the others asks only, Ever to succour and save, Each without all must be lonely-- Honour the Brave. Here's to the day of the Shamrock, Here's to the emblem of youth; Wear it we will on our bosoms and still Deeper in heart and in truth! The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle, The shamrock, the rose, and the leek, One where grim batteries bristle, One when there's pleasure to seek. Each on each other relying, Trusts, nor for better would rave, Each for all, living and dying-- Honour the Brave. Here's to the reign of the shamrock, Here's to the welfare of all, Bearing its light through the feast and the fight, Ever at liberty's call. The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle, The shamrock, the leek, and the rose, One where the death-arrows whistle, One where hilarity flows. Each from the bog or the heather Gives all a brother may crave, Ploughland and city together-- Honour the Brave. THE HERO OF OMDURMAN. MAJOR-GENERAL H.A. MACDONALD, C.B., D.S.O. [_Told in the Ranks_.] BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS. There were lots of lies and tattle In dispatches and on wire, But 'twas Mac who saved the battle When the word came to retire. "I'll no do it"--he cried, ready For what peril lay in store, With his ranks like steel and steady-- "And I'll see them hanged before! O, we maun jist fight!" And bolder Slewed his front the Dervish way, Smart with shoulder knit to shoulder, White and black that bloody day. Then a hell of fire, and sputtered Iron blast and leaden hail, While the Maxims stormed and stuttered And our rifles did not fail. For the destiny of nations With an agony intense, And our Empire's own foundations Hung a minute in suspense. But old Mac was cool as ever, And his words like leaping flame Flashed in confident endeavour To avert that evil shame. Swung his lines on hinges, rolling Right and left like very doom, Till our fate nigh past controlling Brake in glory out of gloom. While upon those awful stages Throbbed a world's great piston beat, And the moments seemed as ages Rung from death and red defeat. Ah, we lived, indeed, and no man Recked of wound or any ill, As we grimly faced the foeman-- If we died, to conquer still. And it felt as though the burden Of all England gave us might, Laid on each, who asked no guerdon But against those odds to fight. Let the lucky get high stations And the honour which he won, Mac desires no decorations But the gallant service done. For the rankers bear the losses And the brunt of every toil, While they earn for others "crosses" And the splendour and the spoil. BOOT AND SADDLE. BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS. A TRUE INCIDENT IN THE MATABELE CAMPAIGN (1893). Mashangombi's was the rat-hole, Which we had to draw ere day, Heedless whether this or that hole-- If we only found a way; Up among the iron furrows Of the rocks, where hid in burrows Safe the rats in shelter lay. No misgiving, not a fear-- Nor was I the last astraddle Nor the hindmost in the rear When the bugle sounded clear-- "Boot and saddle!" Right away went men and horses, Both as eager for the fun; Through the drifts and dried-up courses, Where like mad the waters run After storms or through the winters, Mashing all they meet to splinters-- Ready, hand and sword and gun. Every eye was keen to mark, And the tongue alone seemed idle Every ear alert to hark As we scanned each crevice dark-- Bit and bridle! Here and there the startled chirrup Of strange creatures, as we go, Standing sometimes in the stirrup, Just to get a bigger show; Till we gain our point, the entry-- There the pass, no sign of sentry, Not a sound above, below! Clear the coast, the savage gave Never hint to south or norward; Was he napping in his cave, With that quiet like the grave?-- Steady, forward! Further in; the rats were sleeping; We would grimly smoke them out, With a dose of lead for keeping And a fence of flame about; They might wake perhaps from shelter, At our bullets' ghastly pelter, To the brief and bloody rout!-- But, next moment, we were wrapt Down to saddle girth and leather In the fire of foes unmapt; _We_ were turned, and fairly trapt-- "Keep together!" On they poured in thousands, hurling Steel that stabbed and belching ball From a host of rifles, curling Serpent-wise around us all. Front and flank and rear, they tumbled Nearer, darker, as we fumbled-- Till we heard the Captain's call, "Each man for himself, and back!" So we rushed those rocky mazes, With that torrent grim and black Dealing ruin in our track-- Death and blazes! Ah, that bullet! How it shattered Vein and tissue to the bone; Dropt me faint and blood-bespattered, Helpless on a bed of stone! While the mare which oft had eaten From my hand, caressed, unbeaten, Left her master doomed, alone. Limply then I lay in dread, Racked with torture, sick and under-- Hearing, as through vapours red And with reeling heart and head, Hoofs of thunder! Was I dreaming? By the boulder Where I huddled as I fell, Stood the steed beside my shoulder Faithful, fain to serve me well. Whinnying softly, then, to screen me From the foe, she knelt between me And that circling human hell. Tenderly she touched my face With the nose that knew my petting, Ripe for the last glorious race And her comrade's own embrace-- Unforgetting! O her haunches heaved and quivered With the passion freely brought For the life to be delivered, Though she first with demons fought; While her large eyes gleamed and glistened And her ears down-pointing listened, Waiting for the answer sought. Till a sudden wave of might Set me once again astraddle On the seat of saving flight, Plucked from very jaws of night-- Boot and saddle! THE MIDNIGHT CHARGE. BY CLEMENT SCOTT. Pass the word to the boys to-night!--lying about midst dying and dead!-- Whisper it low; make ready to fight! stand like men at your horses' head! Look to your stirrups and swords, my lads, and into your saddles your pistols thrust; Then setting your teeth as your fathers did, you'll make the enemy bite the dust! What did they call us, boys, at home?--"Feather-bed soldiers!"-- faith, it's true! "Kept to be seen in her Majesty's parks, and mightily smart at a grand review!" Feather-bed soldiers? Hang their chaff! Where in the world, I should like to know, When a war broke out and the country called, was an English soldier sorry to go? Brothers in arms and brothers in heart! cavalry! infantry! there and then; No matter what careless lives they lived, they were ready to die like Englishmen! So pass the word! in the sultry night, Stand to your saddles! make ready to fight! We are sick to death of the scorching sun, and the desert stretching for miles away; We are all of us longing to get at the foe, and sweep the sand with our swords to-day! Our horses look with piteous eyes--they have little to eat, and nothing to do; And the land around is horribly white, and the sky above is terribly blue. But it's over now, so the Colonel says: he is ready to start, we are ready to go: And the cavalry boys will be led by men--Ewart! and Russell! and Drury-Lowe! Just once again let me stroke the mane--let me kiss the neck and feel the breath Of the good little horse who will carry me on to the end of the battle--to life or death! "Give us a grip of your fist, old man!" let us all keep close when the charge begins! God is watching o'er those at home! God have mercy on all our sins! So pass the word in the dark, and then, When the bugle sounds, let us mount like men! Out we went in the dead of the night! away to the desert, across the sand-- Guided alone by the stars of Heaven! a speechless host! a ghostly band! No cheery voice the silence broke; forbidden to speak, we could hear no sound But the whispered words, "Be firm, my boys!" and the horses' hoofs on the sandy ground. "What were we thinking of then?" Look here! if this is the last true word I speak, I felt a lump in my throat--just here--and a tear came trickling down my cheek. If a man dares say that I funked, he lies! But a man is a man though he gives his life For his country's, cause, as a soldier should--he has still got a heart for his child and wife! But I still rode on in a kind of dream; I was thinking of home and the boys--and then The silence broke! and, a bugle blew! then a voice rang cheerily, "Charge, my men!" So pass the word in the thick of the fight, For England's honour and England's right! What is it like, a cavalry charge in the dead of night? I can scarcely tell, For when it is over it's like a dream, and when you are in it a kind of hell! I should like you to see the officers lead--forgetting their swagger and Bond Street air-- Like brothers and men at the head of the troop, while bugles echo and troopers dare! With a rush we are in it, and hard at work--there's scarcely a minute to think or pause-- For right and left we are fighting hard for the regiment's honour and country's cause! Feather-bed warriors! On my life, be they Life Guards red or Horse Guards blue, They haven't lost much of the pluck, my boys, that their fathers showed us at Waterloo! It isn't for us, who are soldiers bred, to chatter of wars, be they wrong or right; We've to keep the oath that we gave our QUEEN! and when we are in it--we've got to fight! So pass the word, without any noise, Bravo, Cavalry! Well done, boys! Pass the word to the boys to-night, now that the battle is fairly won. A message has come from the EMPRESS-QUEEN--just what we wanted-- a brief "Well done!" The sword and stirrup are sorely stained, and the pistol barrels are empty quite, And the poor old charger's piteous eyes bear evidence clear of the desperate fight. There's many a wound and many a gash, and the sun-burned face is scarred and red; There's many a trooper safe and sound, and many a tear for the "pal" who's dead! I care so little for rights and wrongs of a terrible war; but the world at large-- It knows so well when duty's done!--it will think sometimes of our cavalry charge! Brothers in arms and brothers in heart! we have solemnly taken an oath! and then, In all the battles throughout the world, we have followed our fathers like Englishmen! So pass this blessing the lips between-- 'Tis the soldier's oath--GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. MAFEKING. "_ADSUM!_" BY REV. A. FREWEN AYLWARD. At the evening roll call at the "Charterhouse" School, where Baden-Powell was educated, it is customary for the boys to respond to the call of their names by saying "Adsum--I'm here!" Oft as the shades of evening fell, In the school-boy days of old,-- The form work done, or the game played well,-- Clanging aloft the old school bell Uttered its summons bold; And a bright lad answered the roll call clear, "Adsum,--I'm here!" A foe-girt town and a captain true Out on the Afric plain;-- High overhead his Queen's flag flew, But foes were many and friends but few; Who shall guard that flag from stain? And calm 'mid confusion a voice rang clear, "Adsum,--I'm here!" The slow weeks passed, and no succour came, Famine and death were rife; Yet still that banner of deathless fame, Floated, unsullied by fear or shame, Over the scene of strife; And the voice,--though weaker--was full of cheer, "Adsum,--I'm here!" Heaven send, that when many a heart's dismayed, In dark days yet in store,-- Should foemen gather; or, faith betrayed, The country call for a strong man's aid As she never called before,-- A voice like his may make answer clear, Banishing panic, and calming fear, "Adsum,--I'm here!" THE FIGHT AT RORKE'S DRIFT (January 23, 1879.) BY EMILY PFEIFFER. It was over at Isandula, the bloody work was done, And the yet unburied dead looked up unblinking at the sun; Eight hundred men of Britain's best had signed with blood the story Which England leaves to time, and lay there scanted e'en of glory. Stewart Smith lay smiling by the gun he spiked before he died; But gallant Gardner lived to write a warning and to ride A race for England's honour and to cross the Buffalo, To bid them at Rorke's Drift expect the coming of the foe. That band of lusty British lads camped in the hostile land Rose up upon the word with Chard and Bromhead to command; An hour upon the foe that hardy race had barely won, But in it all that men could do those British lads had done. And when the Zulus on the hill appeared, a dusky host, They found our gallant English boys' 'pale faces' at their post; But paler faces were behind, within the barricade-- The faces of the sick who rose to give their watchers aid. Five men to one the first dark wave of battle brought, it bore Down swiftly, while our youngsters waited steadfast as the shore; Behind the slender barricade, half-hidden, on their knees, They marked the stealthy current glide beneath the orchard trees. Then forth the volley blazed, then rose the deadly reek of war; The dusky ranks were thinned; the chieftain slain by young Dunbar, Rolled headlong and their phalanx broke, but formed as soon as broke, And with a yell the furies that avenge man's blood awoke. The swarthy wave sped on and on, pressed forward by the tide, Which rose above the bleak hill-top, and swept the bleak hill-side; It rose upon the hill, and, surging out about its base, Closed house and barricade within its murderous embrace. With savage faces girt, the lads' frail fortress seemed to be An island all abloom within a black and howling sea; And only that the savages shot wide, and held the noise As deadly as the bullets, they had overwhelmed the boys. Then in the dusk of day the dusky Kaffirs crept about The bushes and the prairie-grass, to rise up with a shout, To step as in a war-dance, all together, and to fling Their weight against the sick-house till they made its timbers spring. When beaten back, they struck their shields, and thought to strike with fear Those British hearts,--their answer came, a ringing British cheer! And the volley we sent after showed the Kaffirs to their cost The coolness of our temper,--scarce an ounce of shot was lost. And the sick men from their vantage at the windows singled out From among the valiant savages the bravest of the rout; A pile of fourteen warriors lay dead upon the ground By the hand of Joseph Williams, and there led up to the mound A path of Zulu bodies on the Welshman's line of fire Ere he perished, dragged out, assegaied, and trampled in their ire; But the body takes its honour or dishonour from the soul, And his name is writ in fire upon our nation's long bead-roll. Yet, let no name of any man be set above the rest, Where all were braver than the brave, each better than the best, Where the sick rose up as heroes, and the sound had hearts for those Who, in madness of their fever, were contending as with foes. For the hospital was blazing, roof and wall, and in its light The Kaffirs showed like devils, till so deadly grew the fight That they cowered into cover, and one moment all was still, When a Kaffir chieftain bellowed forth new orders from the hill. Then the Zulu warriors rallied, formed again, and hand to hand We fought above the barricade; determined was the stand; Our fellows backed each other up,--no wavering and no haste, But loading in the Kaffirs' teeth, and not a shot to waste. We had held on through the dusk, and we had held on in the light Of the burning house; and later, in the dimness of the night, They could see our fairer faces; we could find them by their cries, By the flash of savage weapons and the glare of savage eyes. With the midnight came a change--that angry sea at length was cowed, Its waves still broke upon us, but fell fainter and less loud; When the 'pale face' of the dawn rose glimmering from his bed The last black sullen wave swept off and bore away the dead. That island all abloom with English youth, and fortified With English valour, stood above the wild, retreating tide; Those lads contemned Canute, and shamed the lesson that he read,-- For them the hungry waves withdrew, the howling ocean fled. Britannia, rule, Britannia! while thy sons resemble thee, And are islanders, true islanders, wherever they may be; Island fortified like this, manned with islanders like these, Will keep thee Lady of thy Land, and Sovereign of all Seas! RELIEVED! (_AT MAFEKING_.) Said he of the relieving force, As through the town he sped, "Art thou in Baden-Powell's Horse?" The trooper shook his head, Then drew his hand his mouth across, Like one who's lately fed. "Alas! for Baden-Powell's horse-- It's now in me," he said.--_Daily Express_. HOW SAM HODGE WON THE VICTORIA CROSS. BY WILLIAM JEFFREY PROWSE. Just a simple little story I've a fancy for inditing; It shows the funny quarters in which chivalry may lodge, A story about Africa, and Englishmen, and fighting, And an unromantic hero by the name of Samuel Hodge. "Samuel Hodge!" The words in question never previously filled a Conspicuous place in fiction or the Chronicles of Fame; And the Blood and Culture critics, or the Rosa and Matilda School of Novelists would shudder at the mention of the name. It was up the Gambia River--and of _that_ unpleasant station It is chiefly in connection with the fever that we hear!-- That my hero with the vulgar and prosaic appellation Was a private--mind, a private!--and a sturdy pioneer. It's a dreary kind of region, where the river mists arising Roll slowly out to seaward, dropping poison in their track. And accordingly few gentlemen will find the fact surprising That a rather small proportion of our garrison comes back! It is filthy, it is foetid, it is sordid, it is squalid; If you tried it for a season, you would very soon repent; But the British trader likes it, and he finds a reason solid For the liking, in his profit at the rate of cent, per cent. And to guard the British traders, gallant men and merry younkers, In their coats of blue and scarlet, still are stationed at the post, Whilst the migratory natives, who are known as "Tillie-bunkas," Grub up and down for ground-nuts and chaffer on the coast. Furthermore, to help the trader in his laudable vocation, We have heaps of little treaties with a host of little kings, And, at times, the coloured caitiffs in their wild inebriation, Gather round us, little hornets, with uncomfortable stings. To my tale:--The King of Barra had been getting rather "sarsy," In fact, for such an insect, he was coming it too strong, So we sent a small detachment--it was led by Colonel D'Arcy-- To drive him from his capital of Tubabecolong! Now on due investigation, when his land they had invaded, They learnt from information which was brought them by the guides That the worthy King of Barra had completely _barra_caded The spacious mud-construction where his majesty resides. "At it, boys!" said Colonel D'Arcy, and himself was first to enter, And his fellows tried to follow with the customary cheers; Through the town he dashed impatient, but had scarcely reached the centre Ere he found the task before him was a task for pioneers. For so strongly and so stoutly all the gates were palisaded, The supports could never enter if he did not clear a way:-- But Sammy Hodge, perceiving how the foe might be "persuaded," Had certain special talents which he hastened to display. Whilst the bullets, then, were flying, and the bayonets were glancing Whilst the whole affair in fury rather heightened than relaxed, With axe in hand, and silently, our pioneer advancing SMOTE THE GATE; AND BADE IT OPEN; AND IT DID--AS IT WAS AXED! L'ENVOI. Just a word of explanation, it may save us from a quarrel, I have really no intention--'twould be shameful if I had, Of preaching you a blatant, democratic kind of moral; For the "swell, you know," the D'Arcy, fought as bravely as the "cad!" Yet I own that sometimes thinking how a courteous decoration May be won by shabby service or disreputable dodge, I regard with more than pleasure--with a sense of consolation-- The Victoria Cross "For Valour" on the breast of Sammy Hodge! THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. (October 25, 1857.) BY R.T.S. LOWELL. Oh! that last day in Lucknow fort! We knew that it was the last: That the enemy's mines had crept surely in, And the end was coming fast. To yield to that foe meant worse than death; And the men and we all work'd on: It was one day more, of smoke and roar, And then it would all be done. There was one of us, a corporal's wife, A fair young gentle thing, Wasted with fever in the siege, And her mind was wandering. She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid, And I took her head on my knee: "When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said, "Oh! please then waken me." She slept like a child on her father's floor In the flecking of wood-bine shade, When the house-dog sprawls by the open door, And the mother's wheel is stay'd. It was smoke and roar, and powder-stench, And hopeless waiting for death: But the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, Seem'd scarce to draw her breath. I sank to sleep, and I had my dream, Of an English village-lane, And wall and garden;--a sudden scream Brought me back to the roar again. Then Jessie Brown stood listening, And then a broad gladness broke All over her face, and she took my hand And drew me near and spoke: "_The Highlanders!_ Oh! dinna ye hear The slogan far awa-- The McGregor's? Ah! I ken it weel; It's the grandest o' them a'. "God bless thae bonny Highlanders! We're saved! we're saved!" she cried: And fell on her knees, and thanks to God Pour'd forth, like a full flood-tide. Along the battery-line her cry Had fallen among the men: And they started, for they were there to die: Was life so near them then? They listen'd, for life: and the rattling fire Far off, and the far-off roar Were all:--and the colonel shook his head, And they turn'd to their guns once more. Then Jessie said--"That slogan's dune; But can ye no hear them, noo,-- _The Campbells are comin'?_ It's no a dream; Our succours hae broken through!" We heard the roar and the rattle afar But the pipes we could not hear; So the men plied their work of hopeless war, And knew that the end was near. It was not long ere it must be heard,-- A shrilling, ceaseless sound: It was no noise of the strife afar, Or the sappers underground. It _was_ the pipes of the Highlanders, And now they play'd "_Auld Lang Syne_:" It came to our men like the voice of God, And they shouted along the line. And they wept and shook one another's hands, And the women sobb'd in a crowd: And every one knelt down where we stood, And we all thank'd God aloud. That happy day when we welcomed them, Our men put Jessie first; And the General took her hand, and cheers From the men, like a volley, burst. And the pipers' ribbons and tartan stream'd Marching round and round our line; And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, For the pipes play'd "_Auld Lang Syne_." A BALLAD OF WAR. BY MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY. (By permission of Messrs. Isbister & Co.) "Oh! were you at war in the red Eastern land? What did you hear, and what did you see? Saw you my son, with his sword in his hand? Sent he, by you, any dear word to me?" "I come from red war, in that dire Eastern land; Three deeds saw I done one might well die to see; But I know not your son with his sword in his hand; If you would hear of him, paint him to me." "Oh, he is as gentle as south winds in May!" "'Tis not a gentle place where I have been." "Oh, he has a smile like the outbreak of day!" "Where men are dying fast, smiles are not seen." "Tell me the mightiest deeds that were done. Deeds of chief honour, you said you saw three: You said you saw three--I am sure he did one. My heart shall discern him, and cry, 'This is he!'" "I saw a man scaling a tower of despair, And he went up alone, and the hosts shouted loud." "That was my son! Had he streams of fair hair?" "Nay; it was black as the blackest night-cloud." "Did he live?" "No; he died: but the fortress was won, And they said it was grand for a man to die so." "Alas for his mother! He was not my son. Was there no fair-hair'd soldier who humbled the foe?" "I saw a man charging in front of his rank, Thirty yards on, in a hurry to die: Straight as an arrow hurled into the flank Of a huge desert-beast, ere the hunter draws nigh." "Did he live?" "No; he died: but the battle was won, And the conquest-cry carried his name through the air. Be comforted, mother; he was not thy son; Worn was his forehead, and gray was his hair." "Oh! the brow of my son is as smooth as a rose; I kissed it last night in my dream. I have heard Two legends of fame from the land of our foes; But you said there were three; you must tell me the third." "I saw a man flash from the trenches and fly In a battery's face; but it was not to slay: A poor little drummer had dropp'd down to die, With his ankle shot through, in the place where he lay. "He carried the boy like a babe through the rain, The death-pouring torrent of grape-shot and shell; And he walked at a foot's pace because of the pain, Laid his burden down gently, smiled once, and then fell." "Did he live?" "No; he died: but he rescued the boy. Such a death is more noble than life (so they said). He had streams of fair hair, and a face full of joy, And his name"--"Speak it not! 'Tis my son! He is dead! "Oh, dig him a grave by the red rowan tree, Where the spring moss grows softer than fringes of foam! And lay his bed smoothly, and leave room for me, For I shall be ready before he comes home. "And carve on his tombstone a name and a wreath, And a tale to touch hearts through the slow-spreading years-- How he died his noble and beautiful death, And his mother who longed for him, died of her tears. "But what is this face shining in at the door, With its old smile of peace, and its flow of fair hair? Are you come, blessed ghost, from the far heavenly shore? Do not go back alone--let me follow you there!" "Oh! clasp me, dear mother. I come to remain; I come to your heart, and God answers your prayer. Your son is alive from the hosts of the slain, And the Cross of our Queen on his breast glitters fair!" THE ALMA. (September 20, 1854.) BY RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. Though till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be, Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea: Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known-- Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown. In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless name, And a star for ever shining in the firmament of fame. Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower and shrine, Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine, Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living head, Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead. Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning, say-- When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away-- "He has pass'd from, us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side." Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose, Thou on England's banners blazon'd with the famous fields of old, Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold; And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be done, By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights were won. Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the free-- Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea. AFTER ALMA, (September 20, 1854.) BY GERALD MASSEY. Our old War-banners on the wind Were waving merrily o'er them; The hope of half the world behind-- The sullen Foe before them! They trod their march of battle, bold As death-devoted freemen; Like those Three Hundred Greeks of old, Or Rome's immortal Three Men. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow. But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow? With towering heart and lightsome feet They went to their high places; The fiery valour at white heat Was kindled in their faces! Magnificent in battle-robe, And radiant, as from star-lands, That spirit shone which girds our globe With glory, as with garlands! Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow? They saw the Angel Iris o'er Their deluge of grim fire; And with their life's last tide they bore The Ark of Freedom higher! And grander 'tis i' the dash of death To ride on battle's billows, When Victory's kisses take the breath, Than sink on balmiest pillows. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow? Brave hearts, with noble feelings flushed; In valour's ruddy riot But yesterday! how are ye hushed Beneath the smile of quiet! For us they poured their blood like wine, From life's ripe-gathered clusters; And far through History's night shall shine Their deeds with starriest lustres. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow? We laid them not in churchyard home, Beneath our darling daisies: Where to their grave-mounds Love might come, And sit and sing their praises. But soothly sweet shall be their rest Where Victory's hands have crowned them To Earth our Mother's bosom pressed, And Heaven's arms around them. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow? Yes, there they lie 'neath Alma's sod, On pillows dark and gory-- As brave a host as ever trod Old England's path to glory. With head to home and face to sky, And feet the tyrant spurning, So grand they look, so proud they lie, We weep for glorious yearning. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow? They in life's outer circle sleep, As each in death stood sentry! And like our England's dead still keep Their watch for kin and country. Up Alma, in their red footfalls, Comes Freedom's dawn victorious, Such graves are courts to festal halls! They banquet with the Glorious. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow? Our Chiefs who matched the men of yore, And bore our shield's great burden, The nameless Heroes of the Poor, They all shall have their guerdon. In silent eloquence, each life The Earth holds up to heaven, And Britain gives for child and wife As those brave hearts have given. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow? The Spirits of our Fathers still Stand up in battle by us, And, in our need, on Alma hill, The Lord of Hosts was nigh us. Let Joy or Sorrow brim our cup, 'Tis an exultant story, How England's Chosen Ones went up Red Alma's hill to glory. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow? BALACLAVA. (October 25, 1854.) _THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE_. BY LORD TENNYSON. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade, Charge for the guns!" he said. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Someone had blunder'd. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd; Plunged in the battery smoke Right thro' the line they broke, Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not-- Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O, the wild charge they made. All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! AFTER BALACLAVA, BY JAMES WILLIAMS. The fierce wild charge was over; back to old England's shore Were borne her gallant troopers, who ne'er would battle more; In hospital at Chatham, by Medway's banks they lay, Dragoon, hussar, and lancer, survivors of the fray. One day there came a message--'twas like a golden ray-- "Victoria, Britain's noble Queen, will visit you to-day;" It lighted up each visage, it acted like a spell, On Britain's wounded heroes, who'd fought for her so well. One soldier lay among them, fast fading was his life, A lancer from the border, from the good old county Fife; Already was death's icy grasp upon his honest brow, When through the ward was passed the word, "The Queen is coming now!" The dying Scottish laddie, with hand raised to his head, Saluted Britain's Sovereign, and with an effort said-- "And may it please your Majesty, I'm noo aboot to dee, I'd like to rest wi' mither, beneath the auld raugh tree. "But weel I ken, your Majesty, it canna, mauna be, Yet, God be thanked, I might hae slept wi' ithers o'er the sea, 'Neath Balaclava's crimsoned sward, where many a comrade fell, But now I'll rest on Medway's bank, in sound of Christian bell." She held a bouquet in her hand, and from it then she chose For the dying soldier laddie a lovely snow-white rose; And when the lad they buried, clasped in his hand was seen The simple little snowy flower, the gift of Britain's Queen. INKERMAN. (November 5, 1854.) BY GERALD MASSEY. 'Twas midnight ere our guns' loud laugh at their wild work did cease, And by the smouldering fires of war we lit the pipe of peace. At four a burst of bells went up through Night's cathedral dark, It seemed so like our Sabbath chimes, we could but wake, and hark! So like the bells that call to prayer in the dear land far away; Their music floated on the air, and kissed us--to betray. Our camp lay on the rainy hill, all silent as a cloud, Its very heart of life stood still i' the mist that brought its shroud; For Death was walking in the dark, and smiled his smile to see How all was ranged and ready for a sumptuous jubilee. O wily are the Russians, and they came up through the mirk-- Their feet all shod for silence in the best blood of the Turk! While in its banks our fiery tide of War serenely slept, Their subtle serpentry unrolled, and up the hill-side crept. In the Ruins of the Valley do the birds of carnage stir? A creaking in the gloom like wheels! feet trample--bullets whir-- By God! the Foe is on us! Now the bugles with a start Thrill--like the cry of a wrongèd queen--to the red roots of the heart; And long and loud the wild war-drums with throbbing triumph roll-- A sound to set the blood on fire, and warm the shivering soul. The war-worn and the weary leaped up ready, fresh, and true! No weak blood curdled white i' the face, no valour turned to dew. Majestic as a God defied, arose our little host-- All for the peak of peril pushed--each for the fieriest post! Thorough mist, and thorough mire, and o'er the hill brow scowling grim, As is the frown of Slaughter when he dreams his dreadful dream. No sun! but none is needed,--men can feel their way to fight, The lust of battle in their face--eyes filled with fiery light; And long ere dawn was red in heaven, upon the dark earth lay The prophesying morning-red of a great and glorious day. As bridegroom leaves his wedded bride in gentle slumbers sealed, Our England slumbered in the West, when her warriors went afield. We thought of her, and swore that day to strike immortal blows, As all along our leagured line the roar of battle rose. Her banners waved like blessing hands, and we felt it was the hour For a glorious grip till fingers met in the throat of Russian power, And at a bound, and with a sound that madly cried to kill, The lion of Old England leapt in lightnings from the hill. And there he stood superb, through all that Sabbath of the Sword, And there he slew, with a terrible scorn, his hunters, horde on horde. All Hell seemed bursting on us, as the yelling legions came-- The cannon's tongues of quick red fire licked all the hills aflame! Mad whistling shell, wild sneering shot, with devilish glee went past, Like fiendish feet and laughter hurrying down the battle-blast; And through the air, and round the hills, there ran a wrack sublime As though Eternity were crashing on the shores of Time. On bayonets and swords the smile of conscious victory shone, As down to death we dashed the Rebels plucking at our Throne. On, on they came with face of flame, and storm of shot and shell-- Up! up! like heaven-sealers, and we hurled them back to Hell. Like the old sea, white-lipped with rage, they dash and foam despair On ranks of rock, ah! what a prize for the wrecker death was there! But as 'twere River Pleasaunce, did our fellows take that flood, A royal throbbing in the pulse that beat voluptuous blood: The Guards went down to the fight in gray that's growing gory red-- See! save them, they're surrounded! leap your ramparts of the dead, And back the desperate battle, for there is but one short stride Between the Russ and victory! One more tug, you true and tried-- The Red-Caps crest the hill! with bloody spur, ride, Bosquet, ride! Down like a flood from Etna foams their valour's burning tide. Now, God for Merrie England cry! Hurrah for France the Grand! We charge the foe together, all abreast, and hand to hand! He caught a shadowy glimpse across the smoke of Alma's fray Of the Destroying Angel that shall blast his strength to-day. We shout and charge together, and again, again, again Our plunging battle tears its path, and paves it with the slain. Hurrah! the mighty host doth melt before our fervent heat; Against our side its breaking heart doth faint and fainter beat. And O, but 'tis a gallant show, and a merry march, as thus We sound into the glorious goal with shouts victorious! From morn till night we fought our fight, and at the set of sun Stood conquerors on Inkerman--our Soldiers' Battle won. That morn their legions stood like corn in its pomp of golden grain! That night the ruddy sheaves were reaped upon the misty plain! We cut them down by thunder-strokes, and piled the shocks of slain: The hill-side like a vintage ran, and reeled Death's harvest-wain. We had hungry hundreds gone to sup in Paradise that night, And robes of Immortality our ragged braves bedight! They fell in boyhood's comely bloom, and bravery's lusty pride; But they made their bed o' the foemen dead, ere they lay down and died. We gathered round the tent-fire in the evening cold and gray, And thought of those who ranked with us in battle's rough array, Our comrades of the morn who came no more from that fell fray! The salt tears wrung out in the gloom of green dells far away-- The eyes of lurking Death that in Life's crimson bubbles play-- The stern white faces of the dead that on the dark ground lay Like statues of old heroes, cut in precious human clay-- Some with a smile as life had stopped to music proudly gay-- The household gods of many a heart all dark and dumb to-day! And hard hot eyes grew ripe for tears, and hearts sank down to pray. From alien lands, and dungeon-grates, how eyes will strain to mark This waving Sword of Freedom burn and beckon through the dark! The martyrs stir in their red graves, the rusted armour rings Adown the long aisles of the dead, where lie the warrior kings. To the proud Mother England came the radiant victory With laurels red, and a bitter cup like some last agony. She took the cup, she drank it up, she raised her laurelled brow: Her sorrow seemed like solemn joy, she looked so noble now. The dim divine of distance died--the purpled past grew wan, As came that crowning glory o'er the heights of Inkerman. KILLED IN ACTION. BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS. For him no words, the best were only weak And could not say what love desires to speak; For him no praise, no prizes did he ask, To serve his Queen was a sufficient task; For him no show, no idle tears be shed, No fading laurels on that lowly head. He fought for England, and for her he fell And did his duty then--and it is well. He deemed it but a little act, to give His life and all, if Freedom thus might live; And though he found the shock of battle rough, He might not flinch--the glory was enough. What if he broke, who would not tamely bend? He strove for us, and craved no other end. Nor should we ring too long his dying knell, He has a soldier's crown--and it is well. For him the tomb that is a nation's heart, And doth endure when crumbling stones depart; To him the honour, like the brave to stand, With those who were in danger our right hand; For him no empty epitaph of dust, But that he kept for England safe her trust. He is not dead; but, over war's loud swell, Heard he his Captain's call--and it is well. AT THE BREACH. BY SARAH WILLIAMS. All over for me The struggle and possible glory! All swept past, In the rush of my own brigade. Will charges instead, And fills up my place in the story; Well,--'tis well, By the merry old games we played. There's a fellow asleep, the lout! in the shade of the hillock yonder; What a dog it must be to drowse in the midst of a time like this! Why, the horses might neigh contempt at him; what is he like, I wonder? If the smoke would but clear away, I have strength in me yet to hiss. Will, comrade and friend, We parted in hurry of battle; All I heard Was your sonorous, "Up, my men!" Soon conquering pæans Shall cover the cannonade's rattle; Then, home bells, Will you think of me sometimes, then? How that rascal enjoys his snooze! Would he wake to the touch of powder? A réveille of broken bones, or a prick of a sword might do. "Hai, man! the general wants you;" if I could but for once call louder: There is something infectious here, for my eyelids are dropping too. Will, can you recall The time we were lost on the Bright Down? Coming home late in the day, As Susie was kneeling to pray, Little blue eyes and white night-gown, Saying, "Our Father, who art,-- Art what?" so she stayed with a start. "In Heaven," your mother said softly. And Susie sighed, "So far away!"-- 'Tis nearer, Will, now, to us all. It is strange how that fellow sleeps! stranger still that his sleep should haunt me; If I could but command his face, to make sure of the lesser ill: I will crawl to his side and see, for what should there be to daunt me? What there! what there! Holy Father in Heaven, not Will! Will, dead Will! Lying here, I could not feel you! Will, brave Will! Oh, alas, for the noble end! Will, dear Will! Since no love nor remorse could heal you, Will, good Will! Let me die on your breast, old friend! SANTA FILOMENA. (FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.) BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. [It was the practice of Florence Nightingale to pay a last visit to the wards of the military hospital in the Crimea after the doctors and the other nurses had retired for the night. Bearing a light in her hand she passed from bed to bed and from ward to ward, until she became known as "the Lady with the Lamp."] Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares, Out of all meaner cares. Honour to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow, Raise us from what is low! Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,-- The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom And flit from room to room. And slow as in a dream of bliss The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent. On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past. A lady with a lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood. Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore St. Filomena bore. THE LITTLE HATCHET STORY. WITH OCCASIONAL QUESTIONS BY A FIVE-YEAR-OLD HEARER. BY BURDETTE. Mrs. Caruthers had left her infant prodigy, Clarence, in our care for a little while that she might not be distracted by his innocent prattle while selecting the material for a new gown. He was a bright, intelligent boy, of five summers, with a commendable thirst for knowledge, and a praiseworthy desire to understand what was said to him. We had described many deep and mysterious things to him, and to escape the possibility of still more puzzling questions, offered to tell him a story--_the_ story--the story of George Washington and his little hatchet. After a few necessary preliminaries we proceeded. "Well, one day, George's father--" "George who?" asked Clarence. "George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his father--" "Whose father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest. "George Washington's; this great man we are telling you of. One day George Washington's father gave him a little hatchet for a--" "Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child interrupted with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, but we didn't. We know how to talk to children. So we went on. "George Washington." "Who gave him the little hatchet?" "His father. And his father--" "Whose father?" "George Washington's." "Oh!" "Yes, George Washington's. And his father told him--" "Told who?" "Told George." "Oh, yes, George." And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We took up the story right where the boy interrupted, for we could see he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said: "And he was told--" "George told him?" queried Clarence. "No, his father told George--" "Oh!" "Yes, told him he must be careful with the hatchet--" "Who must be careful?" "George must." "Oh!" "Yes, must be careful with his hatchet--" "What hatchet?" "Why, George's." "Oh!" "Careful with the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave it out of doors all night. So George went around cutting everything he could reach with his hatchet. At last he came to a splendid apple tree, his father's favourite apple tree, and cut it down--" "Who cut it down?" "George did." "Oh!" "But his father came home and saw it the first thing, and--" "Saw the hatchet?" "No, saw the apple tree. And he said, 'Who has cut down my favourite apple tree?'" "What apple tree?" "George's father's. And everybody said they didn't know anything about it, and--" "Anything about what?" "The apple tree." "Oh!" "And George came up and heard them talking about it--" "Heard who talking about it?" "Heard his father and the men." "What were they talking about?" "About the apple tree." "What apple tree?" "The favourite tree that George had cut down." "George who?" "George Washington." "Oh!" "So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he--" "What did he cut it down for?" "Just to try his little hatchet." "Whose little hatchet?" "Why, his own, the one his father gave him--" "Gave who?" "Why, George Washington." "Oh!" "So George came up, and he said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I--" "Who couldn't tell a lie?" "George couldn't." "Oh, George; oh, yes." "It was I who cut down your apple tree; I did--" "His father did?" "No, no; it was George said this." "Said he cut his father?" "No, no, no; said he cut down his apple tree." "George's apple tree?" "No, no; his father's." "Oh!" "He said--" "His father said?" "No, no, no; George said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little hatchet.' And his father said, 'Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand apple trees than have you tell a lie.'" "George did?" "No, his father said that." "Said he'd rather have a thousand apple trees?" "No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple trees than--" "Said he'd rather George would?" "No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie." "Oh, George would rather have his father lie?" We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of the snarl. And as Clarence Alençon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut down an apple tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple tree. THE LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD." (February 25, 1852.) SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. [The _Birkenhead_ was lost off the coast of Africa by striking on a hidden rock, when the soldiers on board sacrificed themselves, in order that the boats might be left free for the women and children.] Right on our flank the sun was dropping down; The deep sea heaved around in bright repose; When, like the wild shriek from some captured town, A cry of women rose. The stout ship _Birkenhead_ lay hard and fast, Caught without hope upon a hidden rock; Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when thro' them passed The spirit of that shock. And ever like base cowards, who leave their ranks In danger's hour, before the rush of steel, Drifted away, disorderly, the planks From underneath her keel. So calm the air--so calm and still the flood, That low down in its blue translucent glass We saw the great fierce fish, that thirst for blood, Pass slowly, then repass. They tarried, the waves tarried, for their prey! The sea turned one clear smile! Like things asleep Those dark shapes in the azure silence lay, As quiet as the deep. Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush, and wreck, Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply, Our Colonel gave the word, and on the deck Form'd us in line to die. To die!--'twas hard, while the sleek ocean glow'd Beneath a sky as fair as summer flowers: "_All to the Boats!_" cried one--he was, thank God, No officer of ours. Our English hearts beat true--we would not stir: That base appeal we heard, but heeded not: On land, on sea, we had our Colours, sir, To keep without a spot. They shall not say in England, that we fought With shameful strength, unhonour'd life to seek; Into mean safety, mean deserters, brought By trampling down the weak. So we made the women with their children go, The oars ply back again, and yet again; Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low, Still, under steadfast men. ----What follows, why recall?--The brave who died, Died without flinching in the bloody surf, They sleep as well beneath that purple tide As others under turf. They sleep as well! and, roused from their wild grave, Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again, Joint heirs with Christ, because they bled to save His weak ones, not in vain. If that day's work no clasp or medal mark, If each proud heart no cross of bronze may press, Nor cannon thunder loud from Tower or Park, This feel we none the less: That those whom God's high grace there saved from ill, Those also left His martyrs in the bay, Though not by siege, though not in battle, still Full well had earned their pay. ELIHU. BY ALICE CAREY. "O sailor, tell me, tell me true, Is my little lad--my Elihu-- A-sailing in your ship?" The sailor's eyes were dimmed with dew. "Your little lad? Your Elihu?" He said with trembling lip; "What little lad--what ship?" What little lad?--as if there could be Another such a one as he! "What little lad, do you say? Why, Elihu, that took to the sea The moment I put him off my knee. It was just the other day The _Grey Swan_ sailed away." The other day? The sailor's eyes Stood wide open with surprise. "The other day?--the _Swan?_" His heart began in his throat to rise. "Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies The jacket he had on." "And so your lad is gone!" "Gone with the _Swan_." "And did she stand With her anchor clutching hold of the sand For a month, and never stir?" "Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, The wild sea kissing her-- A sight to remember, sir." "But, my good mother, do you know, All this was twenty years ago? I stood on the _Grey Swan's_ deck, And to that lad I saw you throw-- Taking it off, as it might be so-- The kerchief from your neck;" "Ay, and he'll bring it back." "And did the little lawless lad, That has made you sick and made you sad, Sail with the _Grey Swan's_ crew?" "Lawless! the man is going mad; The best boy ever mother had; Be sure, he sailed with the crew-- What would you have him do?" "And he has never written line, Nor sent you word, nor made you sign, To say he was alive?" "Hold--if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; Besides, he may be in the brine; And could he write from the grave? Tut, man! what would you have?" "Gone twenty years! a long, long cruise; 'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; But if the lad still live, And come back home, think you you can Forgive him?" "Miserable man! You're mad as the sea; you rave-- What have I to forgive?" The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild: "My God!--my Father!--is it true? My little lad--my Elihu? And is it?--is it?--is it you? My blessed boy--my child-- My dead--my living child!" THE LAST OF THE "EURYDICE." BY SIR NOEL PATON. (Sunday, March 24, 1878.) The training ship _Eurydicé_-- As tight a craft, I ween, As ever bore brave men who loved Their country and their queen-- Built when a ship, sir, _was_ a ship, And not a steam-machine. Six months or more she had been out, Cruising the Indian Sea; And now, with all her canvas bent-- A fresh breeze blowing free-- Up Channel in her pride she came, The brave _Eurydicé_. On Saturday it was we saw The English cliffs appear, And fore and aft from man and boy Uprang one mighty cheer; While many a rough-and-ready hand Dashed off the gathering tear. We saw the heads of Dorset rise Fair in the Sabbath sun. We marked each hamlet gleaming white, The church spires one by one. We thought we heard the church bells ring To hail our voyage done! "Only an hour from Spithead, lads: Only an hour from home!" So sang the captain's cheery voice As we spurned the ebbing foam; And each young sea-dog's heart sang back, "Only an hour from home!" No warning ripple crisped the wave, To tell of danger nigh; Nor looming rack, nor driving scud; From out a smiling sky, With sound as of the tramp of doom, The squall broke suddenly, A hurricane of wind and snow From off the Shanklin shore. It caught us in its blinding whirl One instant, and no more;-- For ere we dreamt of trouble near, All earthly hope was o'er. No time to shorten sail--no time To change the vessel's course; The storm had caught her crowded masts With swift, resistless force. Only one shrill, despairing cry Rose o'er the tumult hoarse, And broadside the great ship went down Amid the swirling foam; And with her nigh four hundred men Went down in sight of home (Fletcher and I alone were saved) Only an hour from home! THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. BY H.W. LONGFELLOW. (September 13, 1852.) A mist was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun. It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips. Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover, Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away. Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon through the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite. And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel; Each answering each, with morning salutations, That all was well. And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Replied the distant forts, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports. Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure Awaken with its call! No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal Be seen upon his post! For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew and deeper The silence and the gloom. He did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden hoar; Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble, And groan from shore to shore. Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead: Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead. ENGLAND'S DEAD. BY FELICIA HEMANS. Son of the ocean isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is reared o'er Glory's bed. Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free, the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead. On Egypt's burning plains, By the pyramid o'erswayed, With fearful power the noon-day reigns, And the palm-trees yield no shade. But let the angry sun From Heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done! _There_ slumber England's dead. The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far, by Ganges' banks at night, Is heard the tiger's roar. But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone;-- _There_ slumber England's dead. Loud rush the torrent-floods The western wilds among, And free, in green Columbia's woods, The hunter's bow is strung. But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should _they_ reck whose task is done? _There_ slumber England's dead. The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, Like rose-leaves on the breeze. But let the storms rage on! Let the forest-wreaths be shed: For the Roncesvalles' field is won,-- _There_ slumber England's dead. On the frozen deep's repose 'Tis a dark and dreadful hour When round the ship the ice-fields close, And the northern-night-clouds lour; But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! _Their_ course with mast and flag is done, Even _there_ sleep England's dead. The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles? The seas and shores their grave? Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead. MEHRAB KHAN. BY SIR F.H. DOYLE. ["Mehrab Khan died, as he said he would, sword in hand, at the door of his own Zenana."--_Capture of Kelat_.] (1839.) With all his fearless chiefs around The Moslem leader stood forlorn, And heard at intervals the sound Of drums athwart the desert borne. To him a sign of fate, they told That Britain in her wrath was nigh, And his great heart its powers unrolled In steadiness of will to die. "Ye come, in your mechanic force, A soulless mass of strength and skill-- Ye come, resistless in your course, What matters it?--'Tis but to kill. A serpent in the bath, a gust Of venomed breezes through the door, Have power to give us back to dust-- Has all your grasping empire more? "Your thousand ships upon the sea, Your guns and bristling squares by land, Are means of death--and so may be A dagger in a damsel's hand. Put forth the might you boast, and try If it can shake my seated will; By knowing when and how to die, I can escape, and scorn you still. "The noble heart, as from a tower, Looks down on life that wears a stain; He lives too long who lives an hour Beneath the clanking of a chain. I breathe my spirit on my sword, I leave a name to honour known, And perish, to the last the lord Of all that man can call his own." Such was the mountain leader's speech; Say ye, who tell the bloody tale, When havoc smote the howling breach, Then did the noble savage quail? No--when through dust, and steel, and flame, Hot streams of blood, and smothering smoke, True as an arrow to its aim, The meteor-flag of England broke; And volley after volley threw A storm of ruin, crushing all, Still cheering on a faithful few, He would not yield his father's hall. At his yet unpolluted door He stood, a lion-hearted man, And died, A FREEMAN STILL, before The merchant thieves of Frangistan. THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR. BY SIR F.H. DOYLE. [Told to the author by the late Sir Charles James Napier.] Eleven men of England A breast-work charged in vain; Eleven men of England Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain. Slain; but of foes that guarded Their rock-built fortress well, Some twenty had been mastered, When the last soldier fell. Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way Across the sand-waves of the desert sea, Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay, Lord of their wild Truckee. These missed the glen to which their steps were bent, Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard, And, in that glorious error, calmly went To death without a word. The robber chief mused deeply, Above those daring dead, "Bring here," at length he shouted, "Bring quick, the battle thread. Let Eblis blast for ever Their souls, if Allah will: But we must keep unbroken The old rules of the Hill. "Before the Ghiznee tiger Leapt forth to burn and slay; Before the holy Prophet Taught our grim tribes to pray; Before Secunder's lances Pierced through each Indian glen; The mountain laws of honour Were framed for fearless men. "Still when a chief dies bravely, We bind with green one wrist-- Green for the brave, for heroes One crimson thread we twist. Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen, For these, whose life has fled, Which is the fitting colour, The green one, or the red?" "Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear Their green reward," each noble savage said; "To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, Who dares deny the red?" Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came; Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height Rolled back its loud acclaim. Once more the chief gazed keenly Down on those daring dead; From his good sword their heart's blood Crept to that crimson thread. Once more he cried, "The judgment, Good friends, is wise and true, But though the red be given, Have we not more to do? "These were not stirred by anger, Nor yet by lust made bold; Renown they thought above them, Nor did they look for gold. To them their leader's signal Was as the voice of God: Unmoved, and uncomplaining, The path it showed they trod. "As, without sound or struggle, The stars unhurrying march, Where Allah's finger guides them, Through yonder purple arch. These Franks, sublimely silent, Without a quickened breath, Went, in the strength of duty, Straight to their goal of death. "If I were now to ask you To name our bravest man, Ye all at once would answer, They called him Mehrab Khan. He sleeps among his fathers, Dear to our native land, With the bright mark he bled for Firm round his faithful hand. "The songs they sing of Roostrum Fill all the past with light; If truth be in their music, He was a noble knight. But were those heroes living, And strong for battle still, Would Mehrab Khan or Roostrum Have climbed, like these, the Hill?" And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave As chief, he chose himself what risks to run; Prince Roostrum lied, his forfeit life to save, Which these had never done." "Enough!" he shouted fiercely; "Doomed though they be to hell, Bind fast the crimson trophy Round _both_ wrists--bind it well. Who knows but that great Allah May grudge such matchless men, With none so decked in heaven, To the fiends' flaming den?" Then all those gallant robbers Shouted a stern "Amen!". They raised the slaughtered sergeant, They raised his mangled ten. And when we found their bodies Left bleaching in the wind, Around _both_ wrists in glory That crimson thread was twined. Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core, Rung like an echo to that knightly deed; He bade its memory live for evermore, That those who run may read. THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS. BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. ["Some Sikhs and a private of the Buffs having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the _Kotow_. The Sikhs obeyed, but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill."--_Times_.] _Last night_ among his fellow roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore; A drunken private of the Buffs Who never looked before. _To-day_ beneath the foeman's frown He stands in Elgin's place Ambassador from Britain's crown, And type of all her race. Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone, A heart with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord or axe or flame; He only knows that not through him Shall England come to shame. For Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd Like dreams, to come and go; Bright leagues of cherry blossom gleam'd One sheet of living snow; The smoke above his father's door, In grey, soft eddyings hung: Must he then watch it rise no more Doom'd by himself, so young? Yes, honour calls!--with strength like steel He put the vision by. Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went. Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed; Vain, those all-shattering guns; Unless proud England keep, untamed, The strong heart of her sons. So, let his name through Europe ring-- A man of mean estate, Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great. A FISHERMAN'S SONG. BY ALFRED H. MILES. Hurrah! the craft is dashing Athwart the briny sea; Hurrah! the wind is lashing The white sails merrily; The sun is shining overhead, The rough sea heaves below; We sail with every canvas spread, Yo ho! my lads, yo ho! Simple is our vocation, We seek no hostile strife; But 'mid the storm's vexation We succour human life; O, simple are our pleasures, We crave no miser's hoard, But haul the great sea's treasures To spread a frugal board. But if at usurpation We needs must strike a blow, Our hardy avocation Shall fit us for the foe; Then let the despot's strength compete Upon the open sea, And on the proudest of his fleet Our flag shall flutter free. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. BY LORD BYRON. Stop!--for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None: but the moral's truth tells simpler so. As the ground was before, thus let it be; How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?... There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell;-- But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet-- But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is! it is!--the cannon's opening roar! Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings; such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated! Who would guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier, ere the morning star: While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips--"The foe! they come, they come!" And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose-- The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard--and heard too have her Saxon foes-- How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass Grieving--if aught inanimate e'er grieves-- Over the unreturning brave--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure; when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low! Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal sound of strife; The morn the marshalling of arms; the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent! THE LAY OF THE BRAVE CAMERON. JOHN STUART BLACKIE. At Quatre Bras, when the fight ran high, Stout Cameron stood with wakeful eye, Eager to leap as a mettlesome hound, Into the fray with a plunge and a bound, But Wellington, lord of the cool command, Held the reins with a steady hand, Saying, "Cameron, wait, you'll soon have enough. Give the Frenchmen a taste of your stuff, When the Cameron men are wanted." Now hotter and hotter the battle grew, With tramp and rattle, and wild halloo, And the Frenchmen poured, like a fiery flood, Right on the ditch where Cameron stood. Then Wellington flashed from his steadfast stance On his captain brave a lightning glance, Saying, "Cameron, now have at them, boy, Take care of the road to Charleroi, Where the Cameron men are wanted." Brave Cameron shot like a shaft from a bow Into the midst of the plunging foe, And with him the lads whom he loved, like a torrent, Sweeping the rocks in its foamy current; And he fell the first in the fervid fray, Where a deathful shot had shove its way, But his men pushed on where the work was rough, Giving the Frenchmen a taste of their stuff, Where the Cameron men were wanted. 'Brave Cameron, then, front the battle's roar His foster-brother stoutly bore, His foster-brother with service true, Back to the village of Waterloo. And they laid him on the soft green sod, And he breathed his spirit there to God, But not till he heard the loud hurrah Of victory billowed from Quatre Bras, Where the Cameron men were wanted. By the road to Ghent they buried him then, This noble chief of the Cameron men, And not an eye was tearless seen That day beside the alley, green: Wellington wept--the iron man! And from every eye in the Cameron clan The big round drop in bitterness fell, As with the pipes he loved so well His funeral wail they chanted. And now he sleeps (for they bore him home, When the war was done across the foam), Beneath the shadow of Nevis Ben, With his sires, the pride of the Cameron men. Three thousand Highlandmen stood round, As they laid him to rest in his native ground; The Cameron brave, whose eye never quailed, Whose heart never sank, and whose hand never failed, Where a Cameron man was wanted. A SONG FOR STOUT WORKERS. BY JOHN STUART BLACKIE. Onward, brave men, onward go, Place is none for rest below; He who laggeth faints and fails. He who presses on prevails! Monks may nurse their mouldy moods Caged in musty solitudes; Men beneath the breezy sky March to conquer or to die! Work and live--this only charm Warms the blood and nerves the arm, As the stout pine stronger grows By each gusty blast that blows. On high throne or lonely sod, Fellow-workers we with God; Then most like to Him when we March through toil to victory. If there be who sob and sigh. Let them sleep or let them die; While we live we strain and strive, Working most when most alive! Where the fairest blossom grew, There the spade had most to do; Hearts that bravely serve the Lord, Like St. Paul, must wear the sword! Onward, brothers, onward go! Face to face to find the foe! Words are weak, and wishing fails, But the well-aimed blow prevails! AT THE BURIAL OF A VETERAN. "Hodie tibi, cras mihii." BY ALFRED H. MILES. Yours to-day and ours to-morrow, Hither, comrade, hence to go; Yours the joy and ours the sorrow, Yours the weal and ours the woe. What the profit of the stronger? Life is loss and death is gain; Though we live a little longer, Longer life is longer pain. Which the better for the weary-- Longer travel? Longer rest? Death is peace, and life is dreary: He must die who would be blest. You have passed across the borders, Death has led you safely home; We are standing, waiting orders, Ready for the word to come. Empty-handed, empty-hearted, All we love have gone before, And since they have all departed, We are loveless evermore. Yours to-day and ours to-morrow, Hither, comrade, hence to go; Yours the joy and ours the sorrow, Yours the weal and ours the woe. NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. I love contemplating--apart From all his homicidal glory-- The traits that soften to our heart Napoleon's story. 'Twas when his banners at Boulogne, Armed in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman. They suffered him,--I know not how, Unprisoned on the shore to roam; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home. His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain, half-way over, With envy--_they_ could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover. A stormy midnight watch, he thought, Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought To England nearer. At last, when care had banished sleep, He saw one morning, dreaming, doating, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating. He hid it in a cave, and wrought The livelong day, laborious, lurking, Until he launched a tiny boat, By mighty working. Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond Description wretched: such a wherry, Perhaps, ne'er ventured on a pond, Or crossed a ferry. For ploughing in the salt-sea field, It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,-- No sail--no rudder. From neighbouring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipped he would have passed The foaming billows. But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argo sorely jeering. Till tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing. With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger, And, in his wonted attitude, Addressed the stranger. "Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned, Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassioned." "I have no sweetheart," said the lad; "But,--absent years from one another,-- Great was the longing that I had To see my mother." "And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, "You've both my favour fairly won, A noble mother must have bred So brave a son." He gave the tar a piece of gold, And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England old, And safely landed. Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner, plain and hearty, But never changed the coin and gift Of Buonaparte. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. (January 16, 1809.) BY REV. CHARLES WOLFE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampant we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our weary task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We Carved not a line and we raised not a stone. But left him alone in _his_ glory. AT TRAFALGAR. (October 21, 1805.) _AN OLD MAN-O'-WARSMAN'S YARN_. BY GERALD MASSEY. Ay, ay, good neighbours, I have seen Him! sure as God's my life; One of his chosen crew I've been, Haven't I, old good wife? God bless your dear eyes! didn't you vow To marry me any weather, If I came back with limbs enow To keep my soul together? Brave as a lion was our Nel And gentle as a lamb: It warms my blood once more to tell The tale--gray as I am-- It makes the old life in me climb, It sets my soul aswim; I live twice over every time That I can talk of him. You should have seen him as he trod The deck, our joy, and pride; You should have seen him, like a god Of storm, his war-horse ride! You should have seen him as he stood Fighting for our good land, With all the iron of soul and blood Turned to a sword in hand. Our best beloved of all the brave That ever for freedom fought; And all his wonders of the wave For Fatherland were wrought! He was the manner of man to show How victories may be won; So swift you scarcely saw the blow; You looked--the deed was done. He sailed his ships for work; he bore His sword for battle-wear; His creed was "Best man to the fore"; And he was always there. Up any peak of peril where There was but room for one; The only thing he did not dare Was any death to shun. The Nelson touch his men he taught, And his great stride to keep; His faithful fellows round him fought Ten thousand heroes deep. With a red pride of life, and hot For him, their blood ran free; They "minded not the showers of shot No more than peas," said he. Napoleon saw our Sea-king thwart His landing on our Isle; He gnashed his teeth, he gnawed his heart At Nelson of the Nile, Who set his fleet in flames, to light The Lion to his prey, And lead Destruction through the night Upon his dreadful way. Around the world he drove his game, And ran his glorious race; Nor rested till he hunted them From off the ocean's face; Like that old wardog who, till death, Clung to the vessel's side Till hands were lopped, then with his teeth He held on till he died. Ay, he could do the deeds that set Old fighters' hearts afire; The edge of every spirit whet, And every arm inspire. Yet I have seen upon his face The tears that, as they roll, Show what a light of saintly grace May clothe a sailor's soul. And when our darling went to meet Trafalgar's judgment day, The people knelt down in the street To bless him on his way. He felt the country of his love Watching him from afar; It saw him through the battle move; His heaven was in that star. Magnificently glorious sight It was in that great dawn! Like one vast sapphire flashing light, The sea, just breathing shone. Their ships, fresh-painted, stood up tall And stately; ours were grim And weatherworn, but one and all In rare good fighting trim. Our spirits were all flying light, And into battle sped, Straining for it on wings of might, With feet of springy tread; The light of battle on each face, Its lust in every eye; Our sailor blood at swiftest pace To catch the victory nigh. His proudly wasted face, wave worn, Was loftily serene; I saw the brave bright spirit burn There, all too plainly seen; As though the sword this time was drawn Forever from the sheath; And when its work to-day was done, All would be dark in death. His eye shone like a lamp of night Set in the porch of power; The deed unborn was burning bright Within him at that hour! His purpose, welded to white heat, Cried like some visible fate, "To-day we must not merely _beat_, We must _annihilate_." He smiled to see the Frenchman show His reckoning for retreat, With Cadiz port on his lee bow, And held him then half beat. They flew no colours till we drew Them out to strike with there! Old _Victory_ for a prize or two Had flags enough to spare. Mast-high the famous signal ran; Breathless we caught each word: "_England expects that every man Will do his duty_." Lord, You should have seen our faces! heard Us cheering, row on row; Like men before some furnace stirred To a fiery fearful glow! 'Twas Collingwood our lee line led, And cut their centre through. "_See how he goes in!_" Nelson said, As his first broadside flew, And near four hundred foemen fall. Up went another cheer. "Ah! what would Nelson give," said Coll, "But to be with us here!" We grimly kept our vanward path; Over us hummed their shot; But, silently, we reined our wrath, Held on and answered not, Till we could grip them face to face, And pound them for our own, Or hug them in a war-embrace, Till we or both went down. How calm he was! when first he felt The sharp edge of that fight. Cabined with God alone he knelt; The prayer still lay in light Upon his face, that used to shine In battle--flash with life, As though the glorious blood ran wine, Dancing with that wild strife. "Fight for us, Thou Almighty one! Give victory once again! And if I fall, Thy will be done. Amen, Amen, Amen!" With such a voice he bade good-bye; The mournfullest old smile wore: "Farewell! God bless you, Blackwood, I Shall never see you more." And four hours after, he had done With winds and troubled foam: The Reaper was borne dead upon Our load of Harvest home-- Not till he knew the Old Flag flew Alone on all the deep; Then said he, "Hardy, is that you? Kiss me." And fell asleep. Well, 'twas his chosen death below The deck in triumph trod; 'Tis well. A sailor's soul should go From his good ship to God. He would have chosen death aboard, From all the crowns of rest; And burial with the Patriot sword Upon the Victor's breast. "_Not a great sinner_." No, dear heart, God grant in our death pain, We may have played as well our part, And feel as free from stain. We see the spots on such a star, Because it burned so bright; But on the other side they are All lost in greater light. And so he went upon his way, A higher deck to walk, Or sit in some eternal day And of the old time talk With sailors old, who, on that coast, Welcome the homeward bound, Where many a gallant soul we've lost And Franklin will be found. Where amidst London's roar and moil That cross of peace upstands, Like Martyr with his heavenward smile, And flame-lit, lifted hands, There lies the dark and moulder'd dust; But that magnanimous And manly Seaman's soul, I trust, Lives on in some of us. CAMPERDOWN. (October 11, 1797.) BY ALFRED H. MILES. We were lying calm and peaceful as an infant lies asleep, Rocked in the mighty cradle of the ever-restless deep, Or like a lion resting ere he rises to the fray, With eyes half closed in slumber and half open for the prey. We had waited long, and restless was the spirit of the fleet, For the long-expected conquest and the long-delayed defeat, When, uprose the mists of morning, as a curtain rolls away, For the high heroic action of some old chivalric play. And athwart the sea to starboard waved the colours high and free Of the famous fighting squadron that usurped the loyal sea. Quick the signal came for action, quick replied we with a cheer, For the friends at home behind us, and the foes before so near; Three times three the cheering sounded, and 'mid deafening hurrahs We sprang into position--five hundred lusty tars. And the cannons joined our shouting with a burly, booming cheer That aroused the hero's action, and awoke the coward's fear; And the lightning and the thunder gleamed and pealed athwart the scene, Till the noontide mist was greater than the morning mist had been, And the foeman and the stranger and the brother and the friend Were mingled in one seething mass the battle's end to end. With broken spars and splintered bulks the decks were strewn anon, While the rigging, torn and tangled, hung the shattered yards upon; Like a cataract of fire outpoured the steady cannonade, Till the strongest almost wavered and the bravest were dismayed. Like an endless swarm of locusts sprang they up our vessel's side, And scaled her burning bulwarks or fell backward in the tide, 'Twas a fearful day of carnage, such as none had known before, In the fiercest naval battles of those gallant days of yore. We had battled all the morning, 'mid the never-ceasing hail Of grape and spark and splinter, of cable shred, and sail; We had thrice received their onslaught, which we thrice had driven back, And were waiting, calm and ready, for the last forlorn attack; When a shout of exultation from out their ranks arose, A frenzied shout of triumph o'er their yet unconquered foes; For the stainless flag of England, that has braved a thousand years, Had been shot clean from the masthead; and they gave three hearty cheers, "A prize! a prize!" they shouted, from end to end the host, Till a broadside gave them answer, and for ever stilled their boast. Then a fearful struggle followed, as, to desperation spurred, They sought in deed the triumph so falsely claimed in word. 'Twas the purpose of a moment, and the bravest of our tars Plunged headlong in the boiling surf, amid the broken spars; He snatched the shot-torn colours, and wound them round his arm, Then climbed upon the deck again, and there stood safe and calm; He paused but for a moment--it was no time to stay-- Then he leaped into the rigging that had yet survived the fray; Higher yet he climbed and higher, till he gained a dizzy height, Then turned and paused a moment to look down upon the fight. Whistled wild the shots around him, as a curling, smoky wreath Formed a cloudy shroud to hide him from the enemy beneath. Beat his heart with proud elation as he firmly fixed his stand, And again the colours floated as he held them in his hand. Then a pistol deftly wielded, 'mid the battle's ceaseless blast, Fastened there the colours firmly, as he nailed them to that mast; Then as if to yield him glory--the smoke-clouds cleared away-- And we sent him up the loudest cheer that reach'd his ear that day, With new-born zeal and courage, dashing fiercely to the fight, To crown the day of battle with the triumph of the night. 'Tis a story oft repeated, 'tis a triumph often won, How a thousand hearts are strengthened by the bravery of one There was never dauntless courage of the loyal and the true That did not inspirit others unto deeds of daring too; There was never bright example, be the struggle what it might, That did not inflame the ardour of the others in the fight. Up, then, ye who would be heroes, and, before the strife is past, For the sake of those about you, "_nail the colours to the mast!_" For the flag is ever flying, and it floats above the free, On island and on continent, and up and down the sea; And the conflict ever rages--there are many foes to fight-- There are many ills to conquer, there are many wrongs to right, For the glory of the moment, for the triumph by-and-bye; For the love of truth and duty, up and dare, and do or die, And though fire and shot and whirlwind join to tear the standard down, Up and nail it to the masthead, as we did at Camperdown. THE ARMADA. BY LORD MACAULAY. Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise, I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great Fleet Invincible against her bore, in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay; The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall _Pinta_, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall; Many a light fishing-bark put out, to pry along the coast; And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post. With his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums: The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace: And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's eagle shield: So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! Ho! gunners! fire a loud salute! ho! gallants! draw your blades! Thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide! Our glorious _semper eadem!_ the banner of our pride! The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold-- The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold: Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright, and busy as the day; For swift to east, and swift to west, the ghastly war-flame spread-- High on St. Michael's Mount it shone--it shone on Beachy Head: Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves, The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless caves; O'er Longleat's towers, or Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge--the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town; And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down. The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood-red light: The bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke; At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear, And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street: And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike errand went; And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent: Southward, from Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright couriers forth; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; All night from tower to tower they sprang, they sprang from hill to hill; Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales; Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales; Till, twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height; Till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the Wrekin's crest of light; Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. MR. BARKER'S PICTURE. BY MAX ADELER. "Your charge against Mr. Barker, the artist here," said the magistrate, "is assault and battery, I believe?" "Yes, sir." "And your name is----" "Potts! I am art critic of the _Weekly Spy_." "State your case." "I called at Mr. Barker's studio upon his invitation to see his great picture, just finished, of 'George Washington cutting down the cherry-tree with his hatchet.' Mr. Barker was expecting to sell it to Congress for fifty thousand dollars. He asked me what I thought of it, and after I had pointed out his mistake in making the handle of the hatchet twice as thick as the tree, and in turning the head of the hatchet around, so that George was cutting the tree down with the hammer end, I asked him why he foreshortened George's leg so as to make it look as if his left foot was upon the mountain on the other side of the river." "Did Mr. Barker take it kindly?" asked the justice. "Well, he looked a little glum--that's all. And then when I asked him why he put a guinea-pig up in the tree, and why he painted the guinea-pig with horns, he said it was not a guinea-pig but a cow; and that it was not in the tree, but in the background. Then I said that, if I had been painting George Washington, I should not have given him the complexion of a salmon-brick, I should not have given him two thumbs on each hand, and I should have tried not to slue his right eye around so that he could see around the back of his head to his left ear. And Barker said, 'Oh, wouldn't you?' Sarcastic, your honour. And I said, 'No, I wouldn't'; and I wouldn't have painted oak-leaves on a cherry-tree; and I wouldn't have left the spectator in doubt as to whether the figure off by the woods was a factory chimney, or a steamboat, or George Washington's father taking a smoke." "Which was it?" asked the magistrate. "I don't know. Nobody will ever know. So Barker asked me what I'd advise him to do. And I told him I thought his best chance was to abandon the Washington idea, and to fix the thing up somehow to represent 'The Boy who stood on the Burning Deck.' I told him he might paint the grass red to represent the flames, and daub over the tree so's it would look like the mast, and pull George's foot to this side of the river so's it would rest somewhere on the burning deck, and maybe he might reconstruct the factory chimney, or whatever it was, and make it the captain, while he could arrange the guinea-pig to do for the captain's dog." "Did he agree?" "He said the idea didn't strike him. So then I suggested that he might turn it into Columbus discovering America. Let George stand for Columbus, and the tree be turned into a native, and the hatchet made to answer for a flag, while the mountain in the background would answer for the rolling billows of the ocean. He said he'd be hanged if it should. So I mentioned that it might perhaps pass for the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. Put George in black for the headsman, bend over the tree and put a frock on it for Mary, let the hatchet stand, and work in the guinea-pig and the factory chimney as mourners. Just as I had got the words out of my mouth, Barker knocked me clean through the picture. My head tore out Washington's near leg, and my right foot carried away about four miles of the river. We had it over and over on the floor for a while, and finally Barker whipped. I am going to take the law of him in the interests of justice and high art." So Barker was bound over, and Mr. Potts went down to the office of the _Spy_ to write up his criticism. THE WOODEN LEG. BY MAX ADELER. "Mr. Brown, you don't want to buy a first-rate wooden leg, do you? I've got one that I've been wearing for two or three years, and I want to sell it. I'm hard up for money; and although I'm attached to that leg, I'm willing to part with it, so's I kin get the necessaries of life. Legs are all well enough; they are handy to have around the house, and all that; but a man must attend to his stomach, if he has to walk about on the small of his back. Now, I'm going to make you an offer. That leg is Fairchild's patent; steel-springs, india-rubber joints, elastic toes and everything, and it's in better order now than it was when I bought it. It'd be a comfort to any man. It's the most luxurious leg I ever came across. If bliss ever kin be reached by a man this side of the tomb, it belongs to the person that gets that leg on and feels the consciousness creeping over his soul that it is his. Consequently, I say that when I offer it to you I'm doing a personal favour; and I think I see you jump at the chance, and want to clinch the bargain before I mention--you'll hardly believe it, I know--that I'll actually knock that leg down to you at four hundred dollars. Four hundred, did I say? I meant six hundred; but let it stand. I never back out when I make an offer; but it's just throwing that leg away--it is, indeed." "But I don't want an artificial leg," said Brown. "The beautiful thing about the limb," said the stranger, pulling up his trousers and displaying the article, "is that it is reliable. You kin depend on it. It's always there. Some legs that I have seen were treacherous--most always some of the springs bursting out, or the joints working backwards, or the toes turning down and ketching in things. Regular frauds. But it's almost pathetic the way this leg goes on year in and year out, like an old faithful friend, never knowing an ache or a pain, no rheumatism, nor any such foolishness as that, but always good-natured and ready to go out of its way to oblige you. A. man feels like a man when he gets such a thing under him. Talk about your kings and emperors and millionaires, and all that sort of nonsense! Which of 'em's got a leg like that? Which of 'em kin unscrew his knee-pan, and look at the gum thingamajigs in his calf? Which of 'em kin leave his leg downstairs in the entry on the hat-rack, and go to bed with only one cold foot? Why, it's enough to make one of them monarchs sick to think of such a convenience. But they can't help it. There's only one man kin buy that leg, and that's you. I want you to have it so bad that I'll deed it to you for fifty dollars down. Awful, isn't it. Just throwing it away: but take it, take it, if it does make my heart bleed to see it go out of the family." "Really, I have no use for such a thing," said Mr. Brown. "You can't think," urged the stranger, "what a benediction a leg like this is in a family. When you don't want to walk with it, it comes into play for the children to ride horsey on; or you kin take it off and stir the fire with it in a way that would depress the spirits of a man with a real leg. It makes the most efficient potato-masher ever you saw. Work it from the second joint, and let the knee swing loose; you kin tack carpets perfectly splendid with the heel; and when a cat sees it coming at him from the winder, he just adjourns, _sine die_, and goes down off the fence screaming. Now, you're probably afeared of dogs. When you see one approaching, you always change your base. I don't blame you; I used to be that way before I lost my home-made leg. But you fix yourself with this artificial extremity, and then what do you care for dogs? If a million of 'em come at you, what's the odds? You merely stand still and smile, and throw out your spare leg, and let 'em chaw, let 'em fool with that as much as they've a mind to, and howl and carry on, for you don't care. An' that's the reason why I say that when I reflect on how imposing you'd be as the owner of such a leg, I feel like saying, that if you insist on offering only a dollar and a half for it, why, take it; it's yours. I'm not the kinder man to stand on trifles. I'll take it off and wrap it up in paper for you; shall I?" "I'm sorry," said Brown, "but the fact is, I have no use for it. I've got two good legs already. If I ever lose one, why, maybe, then I'll----" "I don't think you exactly catch my idea on the subject," said the stranger. "Now, any man kin have a meat-and-muscle leg; they're as common as dirt. It's disgusting how monotonous people are about such things. But I take you for a man who wants to be original. You have style about you. You go it alone, as it were. Now, if I had your peculiarities, do you know what I'd do? I'd get a leg snatched off some way, so's I could walk around on this one. Or, it you hate to go to the expense of amputation, why not get your pantaloons altered, and mount this beautiful work of art just as you stand? A centipede, a mere ridicklous insect, has half a bushel of legs, and why can't a man, the grandest creature on earth, own three? You go around this community on three legs, and your fortune's made. People will go wild over you as the three-legged grocer; the nation will glory in you; Europe will hear of you; you will be heard of from pole to pole. It'll build up your business. People'll flock from everywheres to see you, and you'll make your sugar and cheese and things fairly hum. Look at it as an advertisement! Look at it any way you please, and there's money in it--there's glory, there's immortality. Now, look at it that way; and if it strikes you, I tell you what I'll do: I'll actually swap that imperishable leg off to you for two pounds of water-crackers and a tin cupful of Jamaica rum. Is it a go?" Then Brown weighed out the crackers, gave him a drink of rum, and told him if he would take them as a present and quit he would confer a favour. And he did. After emptying the crackers in his pockets, and smacking his lips over the rum, he went to the door, and as he opened it said,-- "Good-bye. But if you ever really do want a leg, Old Reliable is ready for you; it's yours. I consider that you've got a mortgage on it, and you kin foreclose at any time. I dedicate this leg to you. My will shall mention it; and if you don't need it when I die, I'm going to have it put in the savings bank to draw interest until you check it out." THE ENCHANTED SHIRT. BY COLONEL JOHN HAY. The King was sick. His cheek was red, And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night. But he said he was sick, and a king should know, And doctors came by the score, They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, And sent to the schools for more. At last two famous doctors came, And one was as poor as a rat,-- He had passed his life in studious toil, And never found time to grow fat. The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble: If they recovered they paid him well; If they died their heirs paid double. Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the King on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find. The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut." "Hang him up," roared the King in a gale-- In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; The other leech grew a shade pale; But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran-- _The King will be well if he sleeps one night In the Shirt of a Happy Man_. * * * * * Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spoke, But they found no Happy Man.... They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife, he said, And the other one had not. At last they came to a village gate, A beggar lay whistling there! He whistled and sang, and laughed and rolled On the grass in the soft June air. The weary courtiers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay; And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend! You seem to be happy to-day." "O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad." "This is our man," the courier said; "Our luck has led us aright. I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night." The merry blackguard lay back on the grass, And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it," said he, and he roared with the fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back." * * * * * Each day to the King the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Passed daily under his eyes. And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the air Of the free heaven into his room. And out he went in the world, and toiled In his own appointed way; And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the King was well and gay. JIM BLUDSO. BY COLONEL JOHN HAY. Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Because he don't live, you see: Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks, The night of the _Prairie Bell?_ He weren't no saint--them engineers Is all pretty much alike-- One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill And another one here, in Pike. A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row-- But he never funked, and he never lied, I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had-- To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the Pilot's bell; And if the _Prairie Bell_ took fire-- A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last-- The _Movastar_ was a better boat, But the _Belle_ she _wouldn't_ be passed. And so come tearin' along that night-- The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. The fire burst out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For the wilier-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal, roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,-- And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the _Prairie Belle_. He weren't no saint--but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He'd seen his duty, a dead-sure thing-- And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a going to fee too hard On a man that died for men. FREEDOM. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave? If ye do not feel the chain, When it works a brother's pain, Are ye not base slaves indeed,-- Slaves unworthy to be freed? Women! who shall one day bear Sons to breathe New England air, If ye hear, without a blush, Deeds to make the roused blood rush Like red lava through your veins, For your sisters now in chains,-- Answer! are ye fit to be Mothers of the brave and free? Is true Freedom but to break Fetters for our own dear sake, And, with leathern hearts forget That we owe mankind a debt? No! true freedom is to share All the chains our brothers wear, And, with heart and hand, to be Earnest to make others free! They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak; They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three. THE COORTIN'. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten. Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru' the winder; An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side, With half a cord o' wood in; There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, Ah' in amongst em rusted The ole queen's-arm that gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur; A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o' man, A1, Clean grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton, Nor dror a furrer straighter. He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-- All is, he wouldn't love 'em. But 'long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple; The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il. She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir: My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher. An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it. That night, I tell ye, she looked _some!_ She seemed to've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heerd a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-rasping on the scraper; All ways at once her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' loitered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle; His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But her'n went pity Zekle. An yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal--no--I come dasignin'--" "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin." To say why gals act so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebbe to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, "I'd better call agin;" Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" Thet last word prick'd him like a pin, An'--wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips, An' teary roun' the lashes. For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary. The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'. Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy; An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday. THE HERITAGE. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. The Rich Man's Son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold; And he inherits soft white hands And tender flesh that fears the cold-- Nor dares to wear a garment old: A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce could wish to hold in fee. The Rich Man's Son inherits cares: The bank may break--the factory burn; A breath may burst his bubble shares; And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn. The Rich Man's Son inherits wants: His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds, with brown arms bare-- And wearies in his easy-chair. What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit? Stout muscles, and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art: A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things; A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labour sings! What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit? A patience learnt of being poor; Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it: A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the Outcast bless his door. Oh! Rich Man's Son, there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten soft white hands-- This is the best crop from thy lands. A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee. * * * * * Oh! Poor Man's Son, scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And-makes rest fragrant and benign! Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both children of the same great God! Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-spent past. A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee. LADY CLARE. BY LORD TENNYSON. It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn; Lovers long betroth'd were they They two will wed the morrow morn; God's blessing on the day! "He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" "It was my cousin," said Lady Clare; "To-morrow he weds with me." "O God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare." "Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse," Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" "As God's above," said Alice the nurse, "I speak the truth: you are my child. "The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." "Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother," she said, "if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due." "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife." "If I'm a beggar born," she said, "I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by." "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all ye can." She said "Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man." "Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, "The man will cleave unto his right." "And he shall have it," the lady replied, "Tho' I should die to-night." "Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Alas! my child, I sinn'd for thee." "O mother, mother, mother," she said, "So strange it seems to me. "Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go." She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow'd her all the way. Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower. "O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?" "If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare." "Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "Your riddle is hard to read." O and proudly stood she up! Her heart within her did not fail: She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale. He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood. "If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the next in blood-- "If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare." BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. BY LORD TENNYSON. Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. BY LORD TENNYSON. In her ear he whispers gaily, "If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well." She replies, in accents fainter, "There is none I love like thee." He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof; Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's root. "I can make no marriage present; Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life." They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand; Summer woods about them blowing Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, "Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell." So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers. Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer; Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. O but she will love him truly! He shall have a cheerful home She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before; Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. And while now she wanders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, "All of this is mine and thine." Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the colour flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin; As it were with shame she blushes, And her Spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove; But he clasp'd her like a lover, And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirits sank; Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank; And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her, And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burden of an honour Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter, As she murmur'd "Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter Which did win my heart from me!" So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side; Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her, And he look'd at her and said, "Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed." Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest. DORA. BY LORD TENNYSON. With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought "I'll make them man and wife." Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son: I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wished this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answered short: "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack And never more darken my doors again." But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he looked at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law," And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!" And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he passed his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: "I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and the land was dark. But when the morrow came she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!" "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: "Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!" And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more." Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home, And I will beg of him to take thee back; But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch: they peep'd and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out And babbled for the golden seal that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother he cried out to come to her: And Allan set him down, and Mary said:-- "O Father!--if you let me call you so-- I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me-- I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd His face and pass'd--unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before." So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- "I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son. I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son. May God forgive me!--I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times, And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. MRS. B.'S ALARMS. BY JAMES PAYN. Mrs. B. is my wife; and her alarms are those produced by a delusion under which she labours that there are assassins, gnomes, vampires, or what not, in our house at night, and that it is my bounden duty to leave my bed at any hour or temperature, and to do battle with the same, in very inadequate apparel. The circumstances which attend Mrs. B.'s alarms are generally of the following kind. I am awakened by the mention of my baptismal name in that peculiar species of whisper which has something uncanny in its very nature, besides the dismal associations which belong to it, from the fact of its being used only in melodramas and sick-rooms. "_Henry, Henry, Henry!_" How many times she had repeated this I know not; the sound falls on my ear like the lapping of a hundred waves, or as the "Robin Crusoe, Robin Crusoe," of the parrot smote upon the ear of the terrified islander of Defoe; but at last I wake, to view, by the dim firelight, this vision: Mrs. B. is sitting up beside me, in a listening attitude of the very intensest kind; her nightcap (one with cherry-coloured ribbons, such as it can be no harm to speak about) is tucked back behind either ear; her hair--in paper--is rolled out of the way upon each side like a banner furled; her eyes are rather wide open, and her mouth very much so; her fingers would be held up to command attention, but that she is supporting herself in a somewhat absurd manner upon her hands. "_Henry_, did you hear _that_?" "What, my love?" "That noise. There it is again; there--there." The disturbance referred to is that caused by a mouse nibbling at the wainscot; and I venture to say so much in a tone of the deepest conviction. "No, no, Henry; it's not the least like that: it's a file working at the bars of the pantry-window. I will stake my existence, Henry, that it is a file." Whenever my wife makes use of this particular form of words I know that opposition is useless. I rise, therefore, and put on my slippers and dressing-gown. Mrs. B. refuses to let me have the candle, because she will die of terror if she is left alone without a light. She puts the poker into my hand, and with a gentle violence is about to expel me from the chamber, when a sudden thought strikes her. "Stop a bit, Henry," she exclaims, "until I have looked into the cupboards and places;" which she proceeds to do most minutely, investigating even the short drawers of a foot and a half square. I am at length dismissed upon my perilous errand, and Mrs. B. locks and double-locks the door behind me with a celerity that almost catches my retreating garment. My expedition therefore combines all the dangers of a sally, with the additional disadvantage of having my retreat into my own fortress cut off. Thus cumbrously but ineffectually caparisoned, I peramulate the lower stories of the house in darkness, in search of the disturber of Mrs. B.'s repose, which, I am well convinced, is behind the wainscot of her own apartment, and nowhere else. The pantry, I need not say, is as silent as the grave, and about as cold. The great clock in the kitchen looks spectral enough by the light of the expiring embers, but there is nothing there with life except black-beetles, which crawl in countless numbers over my naked ankles. There is a noise in the cellar such as Mrs. B. would at once identify with the suppressed converse of anticipated burglars, but which I recognise in a moment as the dripping of the small-beer cask, whose tap is troubled with a nervous disorganisation of that kind. The dining-room is chill and cheerless; a ghostly armchair is doing the grim honours of the table to three other vacant seats, and dispensing hospitality in the shape of a mouldy orange and some biscuits, which I remember to have left in some disgust, about----Hark! the clicking of a revolver? No! the warning of the great clock--one, two, three.... What a frightful noise it makes in the startled ear of night! Twelve o'clock. I left this dining-room, then, but three hours and a-half ago; it certainly does not look like the same room now. The drawing-room is also far from wearing its usual snug and comfortable appearance. Could we possibly have all been sitting in the relative positions to one another which these chairs assume? Or since we were there, has some spiritual company, with no eye for order left among them, taken advantage of the remains of our fire to hold a _réunion_? They are here even at this moment perhaps, and their gentlemen have not yet come up from the dining-room. I shudder from head to foot, partly at the bare idea of such a thing, partly from the naked fact of my exceedingly unclothed condition. They do say that in the very passage which I have now to cross in order to get to Mrs. B. again, my great-grandfather "walks"; in compensation, I suppose, for having been prevented by gout from taking that species of exercise while he was alive. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, I think, as I approach this spot; but I do not say so, for I am well-nigh speechless with the cold: yes, the cold. It is only my teeth that chatter. What a scream that was! There it comes again, and there is no doubt this time as to who is the owner of that terrified voice. Mrs. B.'s alarms have evidently taken some other direction. "Henry, Henry!" she cries, in tones of a very tolerable pitch. A lady being in the case, I fly upon the wings of domestic love along the precincts sacred to the perambulations of my great-grandfather. I arrive at my wife's chamber; the screams continue, but the door is locked. "Open, open!" shout I. "What on earth is the matter?" There is silence; then a man's voice--that is to say, my wife's voice in imitation of a man's--replies in tones of indignant ferocity, to convey the idea of a life-preserver being under the pillow of the speaker, and ready to his hand: "Who are you--what do you want?" "You very silly woman," I answered; not from unpoliteness, but because I find that that sort of language recovers and assures her of my identity better than any other--"why, it's I." The door is then opened about six or seven inches, and I am admitted with all the precaution which attends the entrance of an ally into a besieged garrison. Mrs. B., now leaning upon my shoulder, dissolves into copious tears, and points to the door communicating with my attiring-chamber. "There's sur--sur--somebody been snoring in your dressing-room," she sobs, "all the time you were away." This statement is a little too much for my sense of humour, and although sympathising very tenderly with poor Mrs. B., I cannot help bursting into a little roar of laughter. Laughter and fear are deadly enemies, and I can see at once that Mrs. B. is all the better for this explosion. "Consider, my love," I reason, "consider the extreme improbability of a burglar or other nefarious person making such a use of the few precious hours of darkness as to go to sleep in them! Why, too, should he take a bedstead without a mattress, which I believe is the case in this particular supposition of yours, when there were feather-beds unoccupied in other apartments? Moreover, would not this be a still greater height of recklessness in such an individual, should he have a habit of snor----" A slight noise in the dressing-room, occasioned by the Venetian blind tapping against the window, here causes Mrs. B. to bury her head with extreme swiftness, ostrichlike, beneath the pillow, so that the peroration of my argument is lost upon her. I enter the suspected chamber--this time with a lighted candle--and find my trousers, with the boots in them, hanging over the bedside something after the manner of a drunken marauder, but nothing more. Neither is there anybody reposing under the shadow of my boot-tree upon the floor. All is peace there, and at sixes and sevens as I left it upon retiring--as I had hoped--to rest. Once more I stretch my chilled and tired limbs upon the couch; sweet sleep once more begins to woo my eyelids, when "Henry, Henry!" again dissolves the dim and half-formed dream. "Are you _certain_, Henry, that you looked in the shower-bath? I am almost sure that I heard somebody pulling the string." No grounds, indeed, are too insufficient, no supposition too incompatible with reason, for Mrs. B. to build her alarms upon. Sometimes, although we lodge upon the second story, she imagines that the window is being attempted; sometimes, although the register may be down, she is confident that the chimney is being used as the means of ingress. Once, when we happened to be in London--where she feels, however, a good deal safer than in the country--we had a real alarm, and Mrs. B., since I was suffering from a quinsy, contracted mainly by my being sent about the house o' nights in the usual scanty drapery, had to be sworn in as her own special constable. "Henry, Henry!" she whispered upon this occasion, "there's a dreadful cat in the room." "Pooh, pooh!" I gasped; "it's only in the street; I've heard the wretches. Perhaps they are on the tiles." "No, Henry. There, I don't want you to talk, since it makes you cough; only listen to me. What am I to do, Henry? I'll stake my existence that there's a---- Ugh, what's that?" And, indeed, some heavy body did there and then jump upon our bed, and off again at my wife's interjection, with extreme agility. I thought Mrs. B. would have had a fit, but she didn't. She told me, dear soul, upon no account to venture into the cold with my bad throat. She would turn out the beast herself, single-handed. We arranged that she was to take hold of my fingers, and retain them, until she reached the fireplace, where she would find a shovel or other offensive weapon fit for the occasion. During the progress of this expedition, however, so terrible a caterwauling broke forth, as it seemed, from the immediate neighbourhood of the fender, that my disconcerted helpmate made a most precipitate retreat. She managed after this mishap to procure a light, and by a circuitous route, constructed of tables and chairs, to avoid stepping upon the floor, Mrs. B. obtained the desired weapon. It was then much better than a play to behold that heroic woman defying grimalkin from her eminence, and to listen to the changeful dialogue which ensued between herself and that far from dumb, though inarticulately speaking animal. "Puss, puss, pussy--poor pussy." "Miau, miau, miau," was the linked shrillness, long drawn out, of the feline reply. "Poor old puss, then, was it ill? Puss, puss. Henry, the horrid beast is going to fly at me! Whist, whist, cat." "Ps-s-s-s. ps-s-s-s, miau; ps-s-s-s-s-s-s-s," replied the other, in a voice like fat in the fire. "My dear love," cried I, almost suffocated with a combination of laughter and quinsy; "you have never opened the door; where is the poor thing to run to?" Mrs. B. had all this time been exciting the bewildered animal to frenzy by her conversation and shovel, without giving it the opportunity to escape, which, as soon as offered, it took advantage of with an expression of savage impatience partaking very closely indeed of the character of an oath. This is, however, the sole instance of Mrs. B.'s having ever taken it in hand to subdue her own alarms. It is I who, ever since her marriage, have done the duty, and more than the duty, of an efficient house-dog, which before that epoch, I understand, was wont to be discharged by one of her younger sisters. Not seldom, in these involuntary rounds of mine, I have become myself the cause of alarm or inconvenience to others. Our little foot-page, with a courage beyond his years, and a spirit worthy of a better cause, very nearly transfixed me with the kitchen spit as I was trying, upon one occasion, the door of his own pantry. Upon another nocturnal expedition, I ran against a human body in the dark--that turned out to be my brother-in-law's, who was also in search of robbers--with a shock to both our nervous systems such as they have not yet recovered from. It fell to my lot, upon a third, to discover one of the rural police up in our attics, where, in spite of the increased powers lately granted to the county constabulary, I could scarcely think he was entitled to be. I once presented myself, an uninvited guest, at a select morning entertainment--it was at 1.30 A.M.--given by our hired London cook to nearly a dozen of her male and female friends. No wonder that Mrs. B. had "staked her existence" that night that she had heard the area gate "go." When I consider the extremely free and unconstrained manner in which I was received, poker and all, by that assembly, my only surprise is that they did not signify their arrivals by double knocks at the front door. On one memorable night, and on one only, have I found it necessary to use that formidable weapon which habit has rendered as familiar to my hand as its flower to that of the Queen of Clubs. The grey of morning had just begun to steal into our bedchamber, when Mrs. B. ejaculated with unusual vigour, "Henry, Henry, they're in the front drawing-room; and they've just knocked down the parrot screen." "My love," I was about to observe, "your imaginative powers have now arrived at the pitch of _clairvoyance_," when a noise from the room beneath us, as if all the fireirons had gone off together with a bang, compelled me to acknowledge, to myself at least, that there was something in Mrs. B.'s alarms at last. I trod downstairs as noiselessly as I could, and in almost utter darkness. The drawing-room door was ajar, and through the crevice I could distinguish, despite the gloom, as many as three muffled figures. They were all of them in black clothing, and each wore over his face a mask of crape, fitting quite closely to his features. I had never been confronted by anything so dreadful before. Mrs. B. had cried "Wolf!" so often that I had almost ceased to believe in wolves of this description at all. Unused to personal combat, and embarrassed by the novel circumstance under which I found myself, I was standing undecided on the landing, when I caught that well-known whisper of "_Henry, Henry!_" from the upper story. The burglars caught it also. They desisted from their occupation of examining the articles of _vertu_ upon the chimney-piece, while their fiendish countenances relaxed into a hideous grin. One of them stole cautiously towards the door where I was standing. I hear his burglarious feet, I heard the "_Henry, Henry!_" still going on from above-stairs; I heard my own heart pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat within me. It was one of those moments in which one lives a life. The head of the craped marauder was projected cautiously round the door, as if to listen. I poised my weapon, and brought it down with unerring aim upon his skull. He fell like a bullock beneath the axe, and I sped up to my bedchamber with all the noiselessness and celerity of a bird. It was I who locked the door this time, and piled the washhand-stand, two band-boxes, and a chair against it with the speed of lightning. Was Mrs. B. out of her mind with terror that at such an hour as that she should indulge in a paroxysm of mirth? "Good heavens!" I cried, "be calm, my love; there are burglars in the house at last." "My dear Henry," she answered, laughing so that the tears quite stood in her eyes, "I am very sorry; I tried to call you back. But when I sent you downstairs, I quite forgot that this was the morning upon which I had ordered the sweeps!" One of those gentlemen was at that moment lying underneath with his skull fractured, and it cost me fifteen pounds to get it mended, besides the expense of a new drawing-room carpet. --_From "Humorous Stories" by James Payn. By permission of Messrs. Chatto & Windus_. SHELTERED. BY SARAH ORME JEWETT. It was a cloudy, dismal day, and I was all alone, For early in the morning John Earl and Nathan Stone Came riding up the lane to say--I saw they both looked pale-- That Anderson the murderer had broken out of jail. They only stopped a minute, to tell my man that he Must go to the four corners, where all the folks would be; They were going to hunt the country, for he only had been gone An hour or so when they missed him, that morning just at dawn. John never finished his breakfast; he saddled the old white mare. She seemed to know there was trouble, and galloped as free and fair And even a gait as she ever struck when she was a five-year-old: The knowingest beast we ever had, and worth her weight in gold. He turned in the saddle and called to me--I watched him from the door-- "I shan't be home to dinner," says he, "but I'll be back by four. I'd fasten the doors if I was you, and keep at home to-day;" And a little chill came over me as I watched him ride away. I went in and washed the dishes--I was sort of scary too. We had 'ranged to go away that day. I hadn't much to do, Though I always had some sewing work, and I got it and sat down; But the old clock tick-tacked loud at me, and I put away the gown. I thought the story over: how Anderson had been A clever, steady fellow, so far's they knew, till then. Some said his wife had tried him, but he got to drinking hard, Till last he struck her with an axe and killed her in the yard. The only thing I heard he said was, he was most to blame; But he fought the men that took him like a tiger. 'Twas a shame He'd got away; he ought to swing: a man that killed his wife And broke her skull in with an axe--he ought to lose his life! Our house stood in a lonesome place, the woods were all around, But I could see for quite a ways across the open ground; I couldn't help, for the life o' me, a-looking now and then All along the edge o' the growth, and listening for the men. I thought they would find Anderson: he couldn't run till night, For the farms were near together, and there must be a sight Of men out hunting for him; but when the clock struck three, A neighbour's boy came up with word that John had sent to me. He would be home by five o'clock. They'd scour the woods till dark; Some of the men would be off all night, but he and Andrew Clark Would keep watch round his house and ours--I should not stay alone. Poor John, he did the best he could, but what if he had known! The boy could hardly stop to tell that the se-lec'men had said They would pay fifty dollars for the man alive or dead, And I felt another shiver go over me for fear That John might get that money, though we were pinched that year. I felt a little easier then, and went to work again: The sky was getting cloudier, 'twas coming on to rain. Before I knew, the clock struck six, and John had not come back; The rain began to spatter down, and all the sky was black. I thought and thought, what shall I do if I'm alone all night? I wa'n't so brave as I am now. I lit another light, And I stirred round and got supper, but I ate it all alone. The wind was blowing more and more--I hate to hear it moan. I was cutting rags to braid a rug--I sat there by the fire; I wished I'd kep' the dog at home; the gale was rising higher; O own I had hard thoughts o' John; I said he had no right To leave his wife in that lonesome place alone that dreadful night. And then I thought of the murderer, afraid of God and man; I seemed to follow him all the time, whether he hid or ran; I saw him crawl on his hands and knees through the icy mud in the rain, And I wondered if he didn't wish he was back in his home again. I fell asleep for an hour or two, and then I woke with a start; A feeling come across me that took and stopped my heart; I was 'fraid to look behind me; then I felt my heart begin; And I saw right at the window-pane two eyes a-looking in. I couldn't look away from them--the face was white as clay. Those eyes, they make me shudder when I think of them to-day. I knew right off 'twas Anderson. I couldn't move nor speak; I thought I'd slip down on the floor, I felt so light and weak. "O Lord," I thought, "what shall I do?" Some words begun to come, Like some one whispered to me: I set there, still and dumb: "I was a stranger--took me in--in prison--visited me;" And I says, "O Lord, I couldn't; it's a murderer, you see!" And those eyes they watched me all the time, in dreadful still despair-- Most like the room looked warm and safe; he watched me setting there; And what 'twas made me do it, I don't know to this day, But I opened the door and let him in--a murderer at bay. He laid him right down on the floor, close up beside the fire. I never saw such a wretched sight: he was covered thick with mire; His clothes were torn to his very skin, and his hands were bleeding fast. I gave him something to tie 'em up, and all my fears were past. I filled the fire place up with wood to get the creature warm, And I fetched him a bowl o' milk to drink--I couldn't do him harm; And pretty soon he says, real low, "Do you know who I be?" And I says, "You lay there by the fire; I know you won't hurt me." I had been fierce as any one before I saw him there, But I pitied him--a ruined man whose life had started fair. I somehow or 'nother never felt that I was doing wrong, And I watched him laying there asleep almost the whole night long. I thought once that I heard the men, and I was half afraid That they might come and find him there; and so I went and staid Close to the window, watching, and listening for a cry; And he slept there like a little child--forgot his misery. I almost hoped John wouldn't come till he could get away; And I went to the door and harked awhile, and saw the dawn of day. 'Twas bad for him to have slept so long, but I couldn't make him go From the City of Refuge he had found; and he was glad, I know. It was years and years ago, but still I never can forget How grey it looked that morning; the air was cold and wet; Only the wind would howl sometimes, or else the trees would creak-- All night I'd 'a given anything to hear somebody speak. He heard me shut the door again, and started up so wild And haggard that I 'most broke down. I wasn't reconciled To have the poor thing run all day, chased like a wolf or bear; But I knew he'd brought it on himself; his punishment was fair. I gave him something more to eat; he couldn't touch it then, "God pity you, poor soul!" says I. May I not see again A face like his, as he stood in the door and looked which way to go! I watched him making towards the swamps, dead-lame and moving slow. He had hardly spoken a word to me, but as he went away He thanked me, and gave me such a look! 'twill last to my dying day. "May God have mercy on me, as you have had!" says he, And I choked, and couldn't say a word, and he limped away from me. John came home bright and early. He'd fell and hurt his head, And he stopped up to his father's; but he'd sent word, he said, And told the boy to fetch me there--my cousin, Johnny Black-- But he went off with some other folks, who thought they'd found the track. Oh yes, they did catch Anderson, early that afternoon And carried him back to jail again, and tried and hung him soon. Justice is justice! but I say, although they served him right, I'm glad I harboured the murderer that stormy April night. Some said I might have locked him up, and got the town reward; But I couldn't have done it if I'd starved, and I do hope the Lord Forgave it, if it was a sin; but I could never see 'Twas wrong to shelter a hunted man, trusting his life to me. _From "Harper's Magazine." By special permission of Harper & Brothers_. GUILD'S SIGNAL. BY BRET HARTE. [William Guild was engineer of the train which plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and Providence Railroad. It was his custom, as often as he passed his home, to whistle an "All's well" to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine.] Two low whistles, quaint and clear, That was the signal the engineer-- That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said-- Gave to his wife at Providence, As through the sleeping town, and thence, Out in the night, On to the light, Down past the farms, lying white, he sped! As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, Yet to the woman looking out, Watching and waiting, no serenade, Love song, or midnight roundelay Said what that whistle seemed to say: "To my trust true, So love to you! Working or wailing, good night!" it said. Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, Old commuters along the line, Brakemen and porters glanced ahead, Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, Pierced through the shadows of Providence: "Nothing amiss-- Nothing!--it is Only Guild calling his wife," they said. Summer and winter the old refrain Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead: Flew down the track when the red leaves burned Like living coals from the engine spurned; Sang as it flew: "To our trust true, First of all, duty. Good night!" it said. And then one night it was heard no more From Stonington over Rhode Island shore, And the folk in Providence smiled and said, As they turned in their beds, "The engineer Has once forgotten his midnight cheer." _One_ only knew, To his trust true, Guild lay under his engine dead. BILL MASON'S BRIDE. BY BRET HARTE. Half an hour till train time, sir, An' a fearful dark time, too; Take a look at the switch lights, Tom, Fetch in a stick when you're through. _On time?_ Well, yes, I guess so-- Left the last station all right; She'll come round the curve a-flyin'; Bill Mason comes up to-night. You know Bill? _No?_ He's engineer, Been on the road all his life-- I'll never forget the mornin' He married his chuck of a wife. 'Twas the summer the mill hands struck, Just off work, every one; They kicked up a row in the village And killed old Donevan's son. Bill hadn't been married mor'n an hour, Up comes a message from Kress, Orderin' Bill to go up there And bring down the night express. He left his gal in a hurry, And went up on Number One, Thinking of nothing but Mary, And the train he had to run. And Mary sat down by the window To wait for the night express; And, sir, if she hadn't 'a done so, She'd been a widow, I guess. For it must 'a been nigh midnight When the mill hands left the Ridge; They came down--the drunken devils, Tore up a rail from the bridge, But Mary heard 'em a-workin' And guessed there was something wrong-- And in less than fifteen minutes, Bill's train it would be along! She couldn't come here to tell us, A mile--it wouldn't 'a done; So she jest grabbed up a lantern, And made for the bridge alone. Then down came the night express, sir, And Bill was makin' her climb! But Mary held the lantern, A-swingin' it all the time. Well, by Jove! Bill saw the signal, And he stopped the night express, And he found his Mary cryin' On the track in her weddin' dress; Cryin' an' laughin' for joy, sir, An' holdin' on to the light-- Hello! here's the train--good-bye, sir, Bill Mason's on time to-night. THE CLOWN'S BABY. FROM "ST. NICHOLAS." It was out on the Western frontier, The miners, rugged and brown, Were gathered around the posters-- The circus had come to town! The great tent shone in the darkness, Like a wonderful palace of light, And rough men crowded the entrance; Shows didn't come every night. Not a woman's face among them, Many a face that was bad, And some that were very vacant, And some that were very sad. And behind a canvas curtain, In a corner of the place, The clown with chalk and vermilion Was making up his face. A weary-looking woman, With a smile that still was sweet, Sewed, on a little garment, With a cradle at her feet. Pantaloon stood ready and waiting, It was time for the going on; But the clown in vain searched wildly-- The "property baby" was gone. He murmured, impatiently hunting, "It's strange that I cannot find; There! I've looked in every corner; It must have been left behind!" The miners were stamping and shouting, They were not patient men; The clown bent over the cradle-- "I must take _you_, little Ben." The mother started and shivered, But trouble and want were near; She lifted her baby gently; "You'll be very careful, dear?" "Careful? You foolish darling"-- How tenderly it was said! What a smile shone thro' the chalk and paint-- "I love each hair of his head!" The noise rose into an uproar, Misrule for a time was king; The clown with a foolish chuckle, Bolted into the ring. But as, with a squeak and flourish, The fiddles closed their tune, "You hold him as if he was made of glass!" Said the clown to the pantaloon. The jovial fellow nodded; "I've a couple myself," he said, "I know how to handle 'em, bless you; Old fellow, go ahead!" The fun grew fast and furious, And not one of all the crowd Had guessed that the baby was alive, When he suddenly laughed aloud. Oh, that baby laugh! it was echoed From the benches with a ring, And the roughest customer there sprang up With "Boys, it's the real thing!" The ring was jammed in a minute, Not a man that did not strive For "a shot at holding the baby"-- The baby that was "alive!" He was thronged by kneeling suitors In the midst of the dusty ring, And he held his court right royally, The fair little baby king; Till one of the shouting courtiers, A man with a bold, hard face, The talk for miles of the country And the terror of the place, Raised the little king to his shoulder, And chuckled, "Look at that!" As the chubby fingers clutched his hair, Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!" There never was such a hatful Of silver, and gold, and notes; People are not always penniless Because they won't wear coats! And then "Three cheers for the baby!" I tell you those cheers were meant, And the way in which they were given Was enough to raise the tent. And then there was sudden silence, And a gruff old miner said, "Come, boys, enough of this rumpus; It's time it was put to bed." So, looking a little sheepish, But with faces strangely bright, The audience, somewhat lingering, Flocked out into the night. And the bold-faced leader chuckled, "He wasn't a bit afraid! He's as game as he is good-looking; Boys, that was a show that paid!" AUNT TABITHA. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Whatever I do and whatever I say, Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the way; When _she_ was a girl (forty summers ago), Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so. Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice-- But I like my own way, and I find it _so_ nice! And besides, I forget half the things I am told, But they all will come back to me--when I am old. If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt, He may chance to look in as I chance to look out; _She_ would never endure an impertinent stare, It is _horrid_, she says, and I mustn't sit there. A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own, But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone; So I take a lad's arm,--just for safety, you know,-- But Aunt Tabitha tells me, _they_ didn't do so. How wicked we are, and how good they were then! They kept at arm's length those detestable men; What an era of virtue she lived in!--but stay-- Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day? If the men _were_ so wicked--I'll ask my papa How he dared to propose to my darling mamma? Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! who knows? And what shall _I_ say if a wretch should propose? I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's _aunt_ must have been! And her _grand-aunt_--it scares me--how shockingly sad That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad! A martyr will save us, and nothing else can; Let _me_ perish to rescue some wretched young man Though when to the altar a victim I go, Aunt Tabitha'll tell me _she_ never did so! LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE. BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay An' wash the cups and saucers up, and brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread' an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you--Ef you Don't Watch Out! Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers, An' when he went to bed at night, away upstairs, His Mammy heered him holler, an' his daddy heered him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout, An' the gobble-uns'll git you--Ef you Don't Watch Out! An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood an' kin; An' onc't, when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big black things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the gobble-uns'll git you--Ef you Don't Watch Out! An' Little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp wick sputters, an' the wind goes _woo-oo!_ An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the gobble-uns'll get you--Ef you Don't Watch Out! THE LIMITATIONS OF YOUTH. BY EUGENE FIELD. I'd like to be a cowboy an' ride a fiery hoss Way out into the big and boundless West; I'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across, An' I'd pluck the bal'head eagle from his nest! With my pistols at my side I would roam the prarers wide, An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride-- If I darst; but I darsen't! I'd like to go to Afriky an' hunt the lions there, An' the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw! I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair, An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw! I'd chase the pizen snakes And the 'pottimus that makes His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes-- If I darst; but I darsen't! I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue, With a big black flag a-flyin' overhead; I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew, An' dye the sea a gouty, gory red! With my cutlass in my hand On the quarterdeck I'd stand And to deeds of heroism I'd incite my pirut band-- If I darst; but I darsen't! And, if I darst, I'd lick my pa for the times that he's licked me! I'd lick my brother an' my teacher, too. I'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea, An' I'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through! You bet! I'd run away From my lessons to my play, An' I'd shoo the hens, an' teaze the cat, an' kiss the girls all day-- If I darst; but I darsen't! RUBINSTEIN'S PLAYING. ANONYMOUS. "Jud, they say you have heard Rubinstein play when you were in New York?" "I did, in the cool." "Well, tell us all about it." "What! me? I might's well tell you about the creation of the world." "Come, now; no mock modesty. Go ahead." "Well, sir, he had the biggest, catty-cornerdest pianner you ever laid your eyes on; somethin' like a distracted billiard table on three legs. The lid was heisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't, he'd a-tore the intire sides clean out, and scattered them to the four winds of heaven." "Played well, did he?" "You bet he did; but don't interrupt me. When he first sat down he 'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin', and wish't he hadn't come. He tweedle-eedled a little on the trible, and twoodle-oodled some on the bass--just foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' in his way. And I says to the man settin' next to me, s' I, 'What sort of fool-playin' is that?' And he says, 'Hush!' But presently his hands began chasin' one 'nother up and down the keys, like a parcel of rats scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, though, and reminded me of a sugar-squirrel turning the wheel of a candy-cage. "'Now,' I says to my neighbour, 'he's a showin' off. He thinks he's a-doin' of it, but he ain't got no ide, no plan of nothin'. If he'd play a tune of some kind or other I'd----' "But my neighbour says 'Hush,' very impatient. "I was just about to git up and go home, bein' tired of that foolishness, when I heard a little bird waking away off in the woods, and callin' sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up, and I see that Rubin was beginnin' to take some interest in his business, and I set down agin. It was the peep of the day. The light came faint from the east, the breeze blowed gentle and fresh, some birds waked up in the orchard, then some more in the trees near the house, and all begun singin' together. People began to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a leetle more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was the broad day: the sun fairly blazed, the birds sang like they'd split their throats; all the leaves were movin' and flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and happy as a king. Seemed to me like there was a good breakfast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman anywhere. It was a fine mornin'. "And I says to my neighbour, 'That's music, that is.' "But he glared at me like he'd cut my throat. "Presently the wind turned; it began to thicken up and a kind of thick grey mist came over things; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain began to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground, some flashed up like long pearl earrings, and the rest rolled away like rubies. It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver streams running between golden gravels, and then the streams joined each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed silent, except that you could kinder see music, especially when the bushes on the bank moved as the music went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun didn't shine nor the birds sing; it was a foggy day, but not cold. "The most curious thing was the little white angel boy, like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music brook, and led it on and on, away out of the world, where no man ever was--_I_ never was, certain. I could see the boy just the same as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without any sunset, and shone on the graveyards, over the wall, and between the black, sharp-top trees splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies in the lift-up windows, and men that loved 'em, but never got a-nigh 'em, and played on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I could a-cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don't know who, better than the men with guitars did. "Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could a-got up and there and then preached a better sermon than any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing in the world left to live for--not a single thing; and yet I didn't want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't understand it. I hung my head and pulled out my han'kerchief, and blowed my nose well to keep from cryin'. My eyes is weak anyway; I didn't want anybody to be a-gazin' at me a-snivilin', and it's nobody business what I do with my nose. It's mine. But several glared at me as mad as mad. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He rip'd and he rar'd, he tip'd and he tar'd, and he charged like the grand entry at a circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt up my head ready to look at any man in the face, and not afear'd of nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass band, and a big ball, all going on at the same time. He lit into them keys like a thousand of bricks; he gave 'em no rest, day nor night; he set every livin' joint in me a-goin', and not bein' able to stand it no longer, I jumpt, sprang on to my seat, and jest hollered-- "'Go it, my Rube!' "Every man, woman, and child in the house riz on me, and shouted, 'Put him out! Put him out!' "'Put your great-grandmother's grizzly gray greenish cat into the middle of next month,' I says, 'Tech me if you dare! I paid my money, and you jest come a-nigh me!' "With that several policemen ran up, and I had to simmer down. But I would a fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was bound to hear Rube out or die. "He had changed his tune again. He hopt-light ladies, and tip-toed fine from end to end of the key-bord. He played soft, and low, and solemn. I heard the church bells over the hills. The candles in heaven were lit one by one; I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to play from the world's end to the world's end; and the angels went to prayers.... Then the music changed to water, full of feeling that couldn't be thought, and began to drop--drip, drop, drip, drop--clear and sweet, like tears of joy fallin' into a lake of glory. It was as sweet as a sweetheart sweetn'd with white sugar, mixed with powdered silver and seed diamonds. It was too sweet. I tell you, the audience cheered. Rubin, he kinder bowed, like he wanted to say, 'Much obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't interrupt me.' "He stopped a minute or two to fetch breath. Then he got mad. He runs his fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeve, he opened his coat-tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went for that old pianner. He slapt her face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he scratched her cheeks till she fairly yelled. She bellowed like a bull, she bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, and _then_ he wouldn't let her go. He ran a quarter stretch down the low grounds of the bass, till he got clean into the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, thro' the hollows and caves of perdition; and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got away out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And _then_ he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He for'ard two'd, he cross't over first gentleman, he cross't over first lady, he balanced two pards, he chassede right and left, back to your places, he all hands'd aroun', ladies to the right, promenade all, in and out, here and there, back and forth, up and down, perpetual motion, doubled, twisted and turned and tacked and tangled into forty-'leven thousand double bow knots. "By jinks! It _was_ a mixtery. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fecht up his right wing, he fecht up his left wing, he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company, by regiments, by brigades. He opened his cannon, siege guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve-pounders yonder, big guns, little guns, middle-size guns, round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortars, mines and magazines, every livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rock't--heaven and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninpences, glory, tenpenny nails, my Mary Ann, Hallelujah, Sampson in a sim-mon tree, Jerusalem, Tump Thompson in a tumbler cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-ruddle- uddle-uddle-uddle-raddle-addle-addle-addle-riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle- reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle-p-r-r-r-r-lang! per lang! per lang! p-r-r-r-r-r lang! Bang! "With that bang he lifted himself bodily into the air, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every single solitary key on that pianner at the same time. The thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi-demi-semi-quavers, and I know'd no mo'." OBITUARY. BY WILLIAM THOMSON. "Down the line I'll go," he said, "To reach the railway station." _Friends will please accept of this The only intimation_. THE EDITOR'S STORY. (_A YANKEE EDITOR IN ENGLAND_.) BY ALFRED H. MILES. The Editor dipp'd his pen in the ink; He smole a smile and he wunk a wink; He chuckled a chuck and he thunk a think. 'Twas a time of dearth Of news, and the earth Was rolling and bowling along on its axis With never a murmur concerning the taxes And never a ruse, or of rumour a particle Needing a special or claiming an article; In fact 'twas a terrible time for the papers, And puzzled the brains of the paragraph shapers, Till the whole world seem'd nothing but gases and vapours. And the Editor wrote: But I'm not going to quote, Far be it from me to set rumours afloat. Suffice it to say, The paper next day Contain'd such a slasher For Captain McClasher, The whole town declared it a regular smasher; And what made it worse he inserted a rubber, For the world-renowned millionaire, Alderman Grubber. Now the Captain, you know, was the son of a gun, He had fought many duels and never lost one; He'd met single handed a hundred wild niggers, All flashing their sabres and pulling their triggers, And made them all run whether mogul or fellah: With the flash of his eye and the bash of his 'brella He tore up rebellion's wild weeds by the root; and he Did more than Havelock to put down the mutiny. And then to be told by "a thief of an Editor" He'd been far too long his proud country's creditor For pensions unwork'd for and honours unwon, And that rather than fight he would more likely run; To be told, who had acted so gallant a part, He'd more pluck in his heels than he had in his heart! Why zounds! man--the words used they mostly make Dutch of-- (As warm as the chutney he'd eaten so much of) And he gave the poor table a terrible blow, As he said with an aspirate, "Hi----ll let 'em know." And Alderman Grubber was no less determined, Though his gown was all silk and its edge was all ermined, After thirty years' service to one corporation To be libelled at last with the foul allegation, He'd been "nicely paid for his work for the nation; That Town Hall and Workhouse, Exchange and Infirmary, Were all built on ground that by twistings and turnery, Had been bought through the nose at a fabulous rate From the patriot lord of the Grubber estate!" Why, turtle and turbot, hock, champagne and sherry, 'Twould rile the Archbishop of Canterbury! The Editor sat in his high-backed chair; He listen'd a hark, and he looked a stare, A sort of a mixture of humour and scare, As he heard a footfall on the foot of the stair: In a moment he buried his head in some "copy," As in walked the Captain as red as a poppy. "This the Editor's room, sir?" the thunderer shouted, In the tone which so often a phalanx had routed; While he nervously twiddled the "gamp" in his hand, Which so often had scatter'd a mutinous band. Now the Editor's views were as broad as the ocean (His heart represented its wildest commotion), In a moment he took in the whole situation (And double distilled it in heart palpitation): Then quickly arose with a dignified air, And the wave of a hand and a nod at a chair; Saying: "Yes, sir; it is, sir: be seated a minute, The Editor's _in_, and I'll soon send him _in it_." Then as quick as a flash of his own ready wit, He opened the door and got outside of it. He skipp'd with a bound o'er The stairs to the ground floor, And turning his feet bore Straight on for the street door; When--what could astound more--' The spot he was bound for Was guarded in force by that great butter tubber, The patriot millionaire, Alderman Grubber: A smart riding-whip impatiently cracking, The food for his vengeance the only thing lacking. "Is the Editor in?" said the voice that had thrilled, A thousand times over the big Town Hall filled! While the crack of the whip and the stamp of the feet, Made the Editor wish himself safe in the street. But an Editor's ever a man of resource, He is never tied down to one definite course: He shrank not a shrink nor waver'd a wave, He blank not a blink nor quaver'd a quave; But, pointing upstairs as he turn'd to the door, Said "Editor's room number two second floor." Like a lion let loose on his innocent prey, Strode the Alderman upstairs that sorrowful day: Like a tiger impatiently waiting his foe, The captain was pacing the room to and fro When the Alderman enter'd--but here draw a veil, There is much to be sad for and much to bewail. Whoever began it, or ended the fray, All they found in the room when they swept it next day, Was a large pile of fragments beyond all identity (Monument sad to the conflict's intensity). And the analyst said whom the coroner quested, The whole of the heap he had carefully tested, And all he could find in his search analytic (But tables and chairs and such things parenthetic), He wore as he turned, white, black, blue, green, and purple, Was one stone of chutney and two stone of turtle. And the Editor throve, as all editors should Who devote all their thought to the popular good: For the paper containing this little affair, Ran to many editions and sold everywhere. And the moral is plain, tho' you do your own writing, There are better plans than to do your own fighting! NAT RICKET. BY ALFRED H. MILES. Nat Ricket at cricket was ever a don As if you will listen I'll tell you anon; His feet were so nimble, his legs were so long, His hands were so quick and his arms were so strong, That no matter where, at long-leg or square, At mid-on, at mid-off, and almost mid-air, At point, slip, or long-stop, wherever it came, At long-on or long-off, 'twas always the same-- If Nat was the scout, back came whizzing the ball, And the verdict, in answer to Nat's lusty call, Was always "Run out," or else "No run" at all: At bowling, or scouting, or keeping the wicket, You'd not meet in an outing another Nat Ricket. Nat Ricket for cricket was always inclined, Even babyhood showed the strong bent of his mind: At TWO he could get in the way of the ball; At FOUR he could catch, though his hands were so small; At SIX he could bat; and before he was SEVEN He wanted to be in the county eleven. But that was the time, for this chief of his joys, When the Muddleby challenged the Blunderby boys: They came in a waggon that Farmer Sheaf lent them, With Dick Rick the carter, in whose charge he sent them. And as they came over the Muddleby hill, The cheer that resounded I think I hear still; And of all the gay caps that flew into the air, The top cap of all told Nat Ricket was there. They tossed up, and, winning The choice of the inning, The Blunderby boys took the batting in hand, And went to the wicket, While nimble Nat Ricket Put his _men_ in the field for a resolute stand; And as each sturdy scout took his usual spot, Our Nat roamed about and looked after the lot; And as they stood there, when the umpire called "Play," 'Twas a sight to remember for many a day, Nat started the bowling (and take my word, misters, There's no bowling like it for underhand twisters); And what with the pace and the screw and the aim, It was pretty hard _work_, was that Blunderby _game_; With Nat in the field to look after the ball, 'Twas a terrible struggle to get runs at all; Though they hit out their hardest a regular stunner, 'Twas rare that it reckoned for more than a oner; 'Twas seldom indeed that they troubled the scorer To put down a twoer, a threer, or fourer; And as for a lost ball, a fiver, or sixer, The Blunderby boys were not up to the trick, sir; Still they struggled full well, and at sixty the score The last wicket fell, and the innings was o'er. But then came the cheering,-- Nat Ricket appearing, A smile on his face and a bat in his hand, As he walked to the wicket,-- From hillside to thicket, They couldn't cheer more for a lord of the land. And when he began, 'twas a picture to see How the first ball went flying right over a tree, How the second went whizzing close up to the sky, And the third ball went bang in the poor umpire's eye; How he made poor point dance on his nimble young pins, As a ball flew askance and came full on his shins; How he kept the two scorers both working like niggers At putting down runs and at adding up figures; How he kept all the field in profuse perspiration With rushing and racing and wild agitation,-- Why, Diana and Nimrod, or both rolled together, Never hunted the stag as they hunted the leather. It was something like cricket, there's no doubt of that, When nimble Nat Ricket had hold of the bat. You may go to the Oval, the Palace, or Lord's, See the cricketing feats which each county affords, But you'll see nothing there which, for vigour and life, Will one moment compare with the passionate strife With which Muddleby youngsters and Blunderby boys Contend for the palm in this chief of their joys. I need hardly say, at the end of the day, The Muddleby boys had the best of the play,-- Tho' the bright-coloured caps of the Blunderby chaps Were as heartily waved as the others, perhaps; And as they drove off down the Blunderby lane, The cheering resounded again and again. And Nat and his party, they, too, went away; And I haven't seen either for many a day. Still, don't be surprised If you see advertised, The name of Nat Ricket Connected with cricket, In some mighty score or some wonderful catch, In some North and South contest or good county match. And if ever, when passing by cricketing places, You see people talking and pulling long faces, 'Cause some country bumpkin has beaten the Graces, Just step to the gate and politely enquire, And see if they don't say, "N. Ricket, Esq."; Or buy a "cor'ect card t' the fall o' th' last wicket," And see if it doesn't say "Mr. N. Ricket." For wherever you go, and whatever you see, In the north or the south of this land of the free, You never will find--and that all must agree-- Such a rickety, crickety fellow as he. 'SP�CIALLY JIM. FROM "HARPER'S MAGAZINE." I wus mighty good-lookin' when I wus young-- Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 'Späcially Jim. The likeliest one of 'em all wus he, Chipper an' han'som an' trim; But I toss'd up my head, an' made fun o' the crowd, 'Späcially Jim. I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men, And I wouldn't take stock in _him!_ But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 'Späcially Jim. I got _so_ tired o' havin' 'em roun' ('Späcially Jim!), I made up my mind I'd settle down An' take up with him; So we was married one Sunday in church, 'Twas crowded full to the brim, 'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 'Späcially Jim. 'ARRY'S ANCIENT MARINER. (_TOLD ON MARGATE JETTY_.) BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN. He was an ainshunt mariner Wot sailed the oshun blue; His craft it was the _Crazy Jane_ Wot was made of wood and glue. It sailed 'atween _Westminister_ And the Gulf of Timbucktoo; Its bulkhead was a putty one; Its cargo--no one knew. I've heerd as how when a storm came on It 'ud turn clean upside down, But I _never_ could make out as why Its skipper didn't drown. He was the most unwashedest Old salt I ever knowed: And all the things as he speaked about Was nearly always "blowed." One day he told me a straw'nry tale, But I don't think it were lies, Bekos he swore as it was true-- Tho' a big 'un as to size. He sez as how in the Biskey Bay They was sailin' along one night, When a _summat_ rose from the bilin' waves As give him a _norful_ fright. He wouldn't exzagerate, he sed-- No, he wouldn't, not if he died; But the head of that monster was most as big As a bloomin' mountain-side. Its eyes was ten times bigger 'an the moon; Its ears was as long as a street; And each of its eyelids--_without tellin' lies_-- Would have kivered an or'nary sheet. "And now," said he, "may I _never speak agin_ If I'm a-tellin' yer wrong, But the length o' that sarpint from head to tail Warn't a _ninch_ under _ten mile long_, "To the end of its tail there hung a great wale, And a-ridin' on its back was sharks; On the top of its head about two hundred seals Was a-havin' no end of larks. "Now, as to beleevin' of what I sez _next_ Yer can do as yer likes," sez he; "But this 'ere sarpint, or whatever he was, He ups and he _speaks_ to me. "Sez the sarpint, sez he, in a voice like a clap Of thunder, or a cannon's roar: 'Now say good-bye to the air and the sky For you'll never see land no more.' "I shivered like a sail wot's struck by a gale And I downs on my bended knees; And the tears rolls over my face like a sea, And I shrieks like a gull in a breeze. "Sez I, 'I'm an ainshunt old skipper, that's all, And I ain't never done nuffin wrong.' He sez, 'You old lubber, just stow that blubber, I'm a-going fer to haul yer along.' "Then he puts out a fin like a big barndoor-- Now this 'ere is real straight truth-- It sounds like a fable, but he tuk my bloomin' cable, _And he tied it to his left front tooth!_ "In another second more, at the bottom of the sea The _Crazy Jane_ was aground; Sez I, 'You oughter be ashamed of yerself, It's a one-der as I wasn't drowned.' "Then he calls on a porkeypine a-standin' quite near, Sez he, 'Look arter this barge,' 'A-begging your pardon that's a _wessel_' I sez: Sez he: 'Werry fine and large!' "With one of hiz eye-lashes, thick as a rope, He ties me on to his knoze, Then down in a cave right under the sea Like a flash of light we goes. "He tuk me up to his wife, who was A murmyaid with three tails; She was havin' of her dinner, and perlitely she sez, 'Will you have some o' these 'ere snails?' "So I sits me down by her buteful side-- She'd a face like a sunset sky; Her hair was a sort of a scarlety red, And her knoze was strait as a die. "I hadn't sot a minit wen sez she to me, 'Sammy, don't yer know me agane? Why, I'm the wife arter wot yer call'd yer ship; Sure enuf, it _was_ Craizy Jane-- "The wife as had bother'd me all my life, Until she got drown'd one day, When a-bathin' out o' one of them there masheens In this wery same Margit Bay. "The Sarpint was a-havin' of his dinner, and so She perposed as how we should fly-- But, sez I to meself, 'What, take _you_ back? Not if I knose it,' sez I. "'But how about them there tails?' I sez-- 'On shore _them_ will niver doo;' She sez, 'Yer silly, why, karn't yer see, They're only fixed on wi' a screw?' "So I tells her as how I'll go fetch the old ship Wile she's a-unscreuing of her tails; But when I gets back to the _Crazy Jane_ I finds there a couple of wales. "I jist had time to see the biggest of the two A-swallerin' of the ship right whole, And in one more momint he swallered me too, As true as I'm a livin' sole. "But when he got to the surfis of the sea, A summat disagreed with that wale, And he up with me and the _Crazy Jane_ and all-- And this 'ere's the end of my tail." * * * * * Then this old ainshunt mariner, he sez unto me-- And 'onesty was shinin' in hiz eyes-- "_It's jist the sort o' story wot no one won't beleeve-- But it's true, little nipper, if I dies_," THE AMATEUR ORLANDO. BY GEORGE T. LANIGAN. It was an Amateur Dram. Ass., (Kind hearer, although your Knowledge of French is not first-class, Don't call that Amature.) It was an Amateur Dram. Ass., The which did warfare wage On the dramatic works of this And every other age. It had a walking gentleman, A leading juvenile, First lady in book-muslin dressed. With a galvanic smile; Thereto a singing chambermaid, Benignant heavy pa, And oh, heavier still was the heavier vill- Ain, with his fierce "Ha! Ha!" There wasn't an author from Shakespeare down-- Or up--to Boucicault, These amateurs weren't competent To collar and assault. And when the winter time came round-- "Season" 's a stagier phrase-- The Am. Dram. Ass. assaulted one Of the Bard of Avon's plays. 'Twas _As You Like It_ that they chose; For the leading lady's heart Was set on playing _Rosalind_ Or some other page's part, And the President of the Am. Dram. Ass., A stalwart dry-goods clerk, Was cast for _Oriando_, in which _rôle_ He felt he'd make his mark. "I mind me," said the President, (All thoughtful was his face,) "When _Oriando_ was taken by Thingummy That _Charles_ was played by Mace. _Charles_ hath not many lines to speak, Nay, not a single length-- If find we can a Mussulman (That is, a man of strength), And bring him on the stage as _Charles_-- But, alas, it can't be did--" "It can," replied the Treasurer; "Let's get the Hunky Kid." This Hunky Kid of whom he spoke Belonged to the P.R.; He always had his hair cut short, And always had catarrh; His voice was gruff, his language rough, His forehead villainous low, And 'neath his broken nose a vast Expanse of jaw did show. He was forty-eight about the chest, And his fore-arm at the mid- Dle measured twenty-one and a-half-- Such was the Hunky Kid! The Am. Dram. Ass. they have engaged This pet of the P.R.; As _Charles the Wrestler_ he's to be A bright particular star. And when they put the programme out, Announce him thus they did: _Oriando_...Mr. ROMEO JONES; _Charles_...Mr. HUNKY KID. The night has come; the house is packed, From pit to gallery, As those who through the curtain peep Quake inwardly to see. A squeak's heard in the orchestra, As the leader draws across Th' intestines of the agile cat The tail of the noble hoss. All is at sea behind the scenes, Why do they fear and funk? Alas, alas, the Hunky Kid Is lamentably drunk! He's in that most unlovely stage Of half intoxication When men resent the hint they're tight As a personal imputation! "Ring up! Ring up!" _Orlando_ cried, "Or we must cut the scene; For _Charles the Wrestler_ is imbued With poisonous benzine; And every moment gets more drunk Than he before has been." The wrestling scene has come and _Charles_ Is much disguised in drink; The stage to him's an inclined plane, The footlights make him blink. Still strives he to act well his part Where all the honour lies, Though Shakespeare would not in his lines-- His language recognise. Instead of "Come, where is this young----?" This man of bone and brawn, He squares himself and bellows: "Time! Fetch your _Orlandos_ on!" "Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man," Fair _Rosalind_ said she, As the two wrestlers in the ring Grapple right furiously; But _Charles the Wrestler_ had no sense Of dramatic propriety. He seized on Mr. Romeo Jones, In Græco-Roman style: He got what they call a grape-vine lock On that leading juvenile; He flung him into the orchestra, And the man with the ophicleide, On whom he fell, he just said--well, No matter what--and died! When once the tiger has tasted blood And found that it is sweet, He has a habit of killing more Than he can possibly eat. And thus it was with the Hunky Kid; In his homicidal blindness, He lifted his hand against _Rosalind_ Not in the way of kindness; He chased poor _Celia_ off at L., At R.U.E. _Le Beau_, And he put such a head upon _Duke Fred_, In fifteen seconds or so, That never one of the courtly train Might his haughty master know. * * * * * And that's precisely what came to pass, Because the luckless carles Belonging to the Am. Dram. Ass. Cast the Hunky Kid for _Charles!_ --_New York World_. A BALLAD OF A BAZAAR. BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN. _First Day_. He was young, and she--enchanting! She had eyes of tender grey, Fringed with long and lovely lashes, As he passed they seemed to say, With a look that was quite killing, "Won't you buy a pretty flower? Come, invest--well, just a shilling, For the fairest in my bower!" Though that bower was full of blossoms, Yet the fairest of them all Was the pretty grey-eyed maiden Standing 'mong them, slim and tall, With her dainty arms uplifted O'er her figure as she stood Just inside the trellised doorway Fashioned out of rustic wood; And she pouted as he passed her, And that pout did so beguile, That he thought it more bewitching Than another's sweetest smile. Fair as tiny dew-dipped rosebuds Were the little rounded lips; And the youth ransacked his pockets In a rhapsody of grips. Then he went and told her plainly That he'd not a farthing left, But would gladly pledge his "Albert"; So with fingers quick and deft, She unloosed his golden watch-chain-- Coiled it round her own white arm, Said she'd keep it till the morrow As a _souvenir_--a charm. _Second Day_. Full of hope, and faith, and fondness, He went forth at early morn, And paced up and down the entrance, Like a man that was forlorn. Thus for hour on hour he waited, Till they opened the bazaar; Then she came with kindly greeting; "Ah, well, so then, there you are! Come, now, go in for a raffle-- Buy a ticket--half-a-crown." Ah, those eyes! who _could_ refuse them?-- And he put the money down. Then, enthralled, he stood and watched her-- Sought each movement of that face, With its wealth of witching beauty, And its glory and its grace. When the raffling was over, Thus she spake in tones of pain: "You are really most unlucky-- My--my _husband's_ won _your chain_!" A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS. BY THOMAS HOOD. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop--first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself? (My love, he's poking peas into his ear) Thou merry laughing sprite! With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow and unsoiled by sin-- (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air-- (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why Jane, he'll set his pinafore on fire) Thou imp of mirth and joy, In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents--(drat the boy! There goes my ink!) Thou cherub!--but of earth, Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail) Thou human honey-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny-- (Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint (Where _did_ he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous trials of dawning life-- (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball--bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistledown, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk-- (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove-- (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above.) 'TWAS EVER THUS. BY HENRY S. LEIGH. I never rear'd a young gazelle (Because, you see, I never tried); But, had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My rich and aged uncle JOHN Has known me long and loves me well, But still persists in living on-- I would he were a young gazelle! I never loved a tree or flower; But, if I _had_, I beg to say, The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower, Would soon have wither'd it away. I've dearly loved my uncle JOHN From childhood to the present hour, And yet he _will_ go living on-- I would he were a tree or flower! MISS MALONEY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION. BY MARY MAPES DODGE. Ovh! don't be talkin'. Is it howld on, ye say? An' didn't I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin' that thin ye could clutch me wid yer two hands. To think o' me toilin' like a nager for the six year I've been in Ameriky--bad luck to the day I iver left the owld counthry!--to be bate by the likes o' them! (faix, and I'll sit down when I'm ready, so I will, Ann Ryan; and ye'd better be listenin' than drawin' yer remarks). An' is it meself, with five good characters from respectable places, woud be herdin' wid the haythens? The saints forgive me, but I'd be buried alive sooner 'n put up wid it a day longer. Sure, an' I was the granehorn not to be lavin' at once-t when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter-man which was brought out from Californy. "He'll be here the night," says she. "And, Kitty, it's meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid him, for he's a furriner," says she, a kind o' lookin' off. "Sure, an' it's little I'll hinder nor interfare wid him, nor any other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff; for I minded me how them French waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their fingers, isn't company for no gurril brought up dacent and honest. Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the missus walked into me kitchen, smilin', and says, kind o' schared, "Here's Fing Wing, Kitty; an' ye'll have too much sinse to mind his bein' a little strange." Wid that she shoots the doore; and I, misthrustin' if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up, and--Howly fathers! may I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rayle haythen Chineser, a-grinnin' like he'd just come off a tay-box. If ye'll belave me, the crayther was that yeller it 'ud sicken ye to see him; and sorra stick was on him but a black night-gown over his trowsers, and the front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler, and a black tail a-hangin' down from it behind, wid his two feet stook into the haythenestest shoes yer ever set eyes on. Och! but I was upstairs afore ye could turn about, a-givin' the missus warnin', an' only stopt wid her by her raisin' me wages two dollars, an' playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid haythens, and taich 'em all in our power--the saints save us! Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn't be tellin'. Not a blissid thing cud I do, but he'd be lookin' on wid his eyes cocked up'ard like two poomp-handles; an' he widdout a speck or smitch o' whishkers on him, an' his finger-nails full a yard long. But it's dyin' ye'd be to see the missus a-larnin' him, an' he a-grinnin', an' waggin' his pig-tail (which was pieced out long wid some black stoof, the haythen chate!), and gettin' into her ways wonderful quick, I don't deny, imitatin', that sharp, ye'd be shurprised, an' ketchin an' copyin' things the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, yet don't want comin' to the knowledge o' the family--bad luck to him! Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an' would I be sittin' wid a haythen, an' he a-atin' wid drumsticks?--yes, an' atin' dogs an' cats unknownst to me, I warrant ye, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, till the thought made me that sick I could die. An' didn't the crayture proffer to help me a week ago come Toosday, an' me foldin' down me clane clothes for the ironin', an' fill his haythen mouth wid water, an' afore I could hinder, squirrit it through his teeth stret over the best linen table-cloth, and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a baby, the dirrity baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd been doin' till ye'd be dishtracted. It's yerself knows the tinder feet that's on me since ever I been in this counthry. Well, owin' to that, I fell into a way o' slippin' me shoes off when I'd be sittin' down to pale the praties, or the likes o' that; an' do ye mind, that haythen would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him to parin' apples or tomaterses. Did I lave for that? Faix, an' I didn't. Didn't he get me into trouble wid my missus, the haythen! Ye're aware yerself how the boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more'n'll go into anything dacently. So, for that matter, I'd now and then take out a sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper, and put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin'-blanket, the how it cuddent be bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn, the missus was a-spakin' pleasant an' respec'ful wid me in me kitchen, when the grocer boy comes in, and stands fornenst her wid his boondles; and she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call him by that name or any other but just haythen)--she motions to him, she does, for to take the boondles, an' emty out the sugar and what not where they belongs. If ye'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup of sugar, an' a han'ful o' tay, an' a bit o' chaze, right afore the missus, wrap, 'em into bits o' paper, an' I spacheless wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up wid the ironin'-blanket, an' pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein sly to put them in. Och! the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, an' missus sayin' "O Kitty!" in a way that 'ud cruddle yer blood. "He's a haythen nager," says I. "I've found yer out," says she, "I'll arrist him," says I. "It's yerself ought to be arristid," says she. "Yer won't," says I, "I will," says she. And so it went, till she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no lady, an' I give her warnin' an' left that instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore. --_Theophilus and Others_. THE HEATHEN CHINEE. BY BRET HARTE. _PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES (TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870)_. Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name! And I shall not deny, In regard to the same, What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise, Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand; It was Euchre. The same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland. Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive. But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made Were quite frightful to see,-- Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour,"-- And he went for that heathen Chinee. In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand; But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game "he did not understand." In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs,-- Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers,--that's wax. Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I am free to maintain. HO-HO OF THE GOLDEN BELT. _ONE OF THE "NINE STORIES OF CHINA."_ BY JOHN G. SAXE. A beautiful maiden was little Min-Ne, Eldest daughter of wise Wang-Ke; Her skin had the colour of saffron-tea, And her nose was flat as flat could be; And never was seen such beautiful eyes. Two almond-kernels in shape and size, Set in a couple of slanting gashes, And not in the least disfigured by lashes; And then such feet! You'd scarcely meet In the longest walk through the grandest street (And you might go seeking From Nanking to Peking) A pair was remarkably small and neat. Two little stumps, Mere pedal lumps, That toddle along with the funniest thumps In China, you know, are reckon'd trumps. It seems a trifle, to make such a boast of it; But how they _will_ dress it: And bandage and press it, By making the least, to make the most of it! As you may suppose, She had plenty of beaux Bowing around her beautiful toes, Praising her feet, and eyes, and nose In rapturous verse and elegant prose! She had lots of lovers, old and young: There was lofty Long, and babbling Lung, Opulent Tin, and eloquent Tung, Musical Sing, and, the rest among, Great Hang-Yu and Yu-be-Hung. But though they smiled, and smirk'd, and bow'd, None could please her of all the crowd; Lung and Tung she thought too loud; Opulent Tin was much too proud; Lofty Long was quite too tall; Musical Sing sung very small; And, most remarkable freak of all, Of great Hang-Yu the lady made game, And Yu-be-Hung she mocked the sama, By echoing back his ugly name! But the hardest heart is doom'd to melt; Love is a passion that _will_ be felt; And just when scandal was making free To hint "What a pretty old maid she'd be,"-- Little Min-Ne, Who but she? Married Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt! A man, I must own, of bad reputation, And low in purse, though high in station,-- A sort of Imperial poor relation, Who rank'd as the Emperor's second cousin Multiplied by a hundred dozen; And, to mark the love the Emperor felt, Had a pension clear Of three pounds a year, And the honour of wearing a Golden Belt! And gallant Ho-Ho Could really show A handsome face, as faces go In this Flowery Land, where, you must know, The finest flowers of beauty grow. He'd the very widest kind of jaws, And his nails were like an eagle's claws, And--though it may seem a wondrous tale-- (Truth is mighty and will prevail!) He'd a _queue_ as long as the deepest cause Under the Emperor's chancery laws! Yet how he managed to win Min-Ne The men declared they couldn't see; But all the ladies, over their tea, In this one point were known to agree: _Four gifts_ were sent to aid his plea: A smoking-pipe with a golden clog, A box of tea and a poodle dog, And a painted heart that was all aflame, And bore, in blood, the lover's name, Ah! how could presents pretty as these A delicate lady fail to please? She smoked the pipe with the golden clog, And drank the tea, and ate the dog, And kept the heart,--and that's the way The match was made, the gossips say. I can't describe the wedding-day, Which fell in the lovely month of May; Nor stop to tell of the Honey-moon, And how it vanish'd all too soon; Alas! that I the truth must speak, And say that in the fourteenth week, Soon as the wedding guests were gone, And their wedding suits began to doff, Min-Ne was weeping and "taking-on," For _he_ had been trying to "take her off." Six wives before he had sent to heaven, And being partial to number "seven," He wish'd to add his latest pet, Just, perhaps, to make up the set! Mayhap the rascal found a cause Of discontent in a certain clause In the Emperor's very liberal laws, Which gives, when a Golden Belt is wed, Six hundred pounds to furnish the bed; And if in turn he marry a score, With every wife six hundred more. First, he tried to murder Min-Ne With a special cup of poison'd tea, But the lady smelling a mortal foe, Cried, "Ho-Ho! I'm very fond of mild Souchong, But you, my love, you make it too strong." At last Ho-Ho, the treacherous man, Contrived the most infernal plan Invented since the world began; He went and got him a savage dog, Who'd eat a woman as soon as a frog; Kept him a day without any prog, Then shut him up in an iron bin, Slipp'd the bolt and locked him in; Then giving the key To poor Min-Ne, Said, "Love, there's something you _mustn't_ see In the chest beneath the orange-tree." * * * * * Poor mangled Min-Ne! with her latest breath She told her father the cause of her death; And so it reach'd the Emperor's ear, And his highness said, "It is very clear Ho-Ho has committed a murder here!" And he doom'd Ho-Ho to end his life By the terrible dog that kill'd his wife; But in mercy (let his praise be sung!) His thirteen brothers were merely hung, And his slaves bamboo'd in the mildest way, For a calendar month, three times a day. And that's the way that Justice dealt With wicked Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt! THE HIRED SQUIRREL. _A RUSSIAN FABLE_. BY LAURA SANFORD. A lion to the Squirrel said: "Work faithfully for me, And when your task is done, my friend, Rewarded you shall be With a barrel-full of finest nuts, Fresh from my own nut-tree." "My Lion King," the Squirrel said, "To this I do agree." The Squirrel toiled both day and night, Quite faithful to his hire; So hungry and so faint sometimes He thought he should expire. But still he kept his courage up, And tugged with might and main, "How nice the nuts will taste," he thought, "When I my barrel gain." At last, when he was nearly dead, And thin and old and grey, Quoth th' Lion: "There's no more hard work You're fit to do. I'll pay." A barrel-full of nuts he gave-- Ripe, rich, and big; but oh! The Squirrel's tears ran down his cheeks. He'd _lost his teeth_, you know! BALLAD OF THE TRAILING SKIRT. NEW YORK "LIFE." I met a girl the other day, A girl with golden tresses, Who wore the most bewitching air, And daintiest of dresses. I gazed at her with kindling eye And admiration utter-- Until I saw her silken skirt Was trailing in the gutter! "What senseless style is this?" I thought; "What new sartorial passion? And who on earth stands sponsor for The idiotic fashion?" I've asked a dozen maids or more, A tailor and his cutter, But no one knows why skirts are made To drag along the gutter. Alas for woman, fashion's slave; She does not seem to mind it. Her silk or satin sweeps the street And leaves no filth behind it. For all the dirt the breezes blow And all the germs that flutter May find a refuge in the gowns That swish along the gutter. What lovely woman wills to do She does without a reason. To interfere is waste of time, To criticise is treason. Man's only province is to work To earn his bread and butter-- And buy her all the skirts she wants To trail along the gutter. TO THE GIRL IN KHAKI. "MODERN SOCIETY." I put the question shyly, Lest you inform me dryly That women's ways are far beyond my ken; But was not khaki chosen For coats and breeks and hosen To render men invisible to men? Why, then, dear maid, do you Forsake your gayest hue And dress in viewless khaki spick and span? You charming little miss, It never can be this: To render you invisible to man! Not that at all? What then? You do _not_ fear the men: Perchance you only wish to hide your heart, And so, you fickle flirt, You don a khaki skirt To foil the deadly aim of Cupid's dart. THE TENDER HEART. BY HELEN GRAY CONE. She gazed upon the burnished brace Of partridges he showed with pride; Angelic grief was in her face; "How _could_ you do it, dear?" she sighed, "The poor, pathetic, moveless wings! The songs all hushed--oh, cruel shame!" Said he, "The partridge never sings." Said she, "The sin is quite the same. "You men are savage through and through. A boy is always bringing in Some string of bird's eggs, white or blue, Or butterfly upon a pin. The angle-worm in anguish dies, Impaled, the pretty trout to tease----" "My own, I fish for trout with flies----" "Don't wander from the question, please!" She quoted Burns's "Wounded Hare," And certain burning lines of Blake's, And Ruskin on the fowls of air, And Coleridge on the water-snakes. At Emerson's "Forbearance" he Began to feel his will benumbed; At Browning's "Donald" utterly His soul surrendered and succumbed. "Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls," He thought, "beneath the blessed sun!" He saw her lashes hung with pearls, And swore to give away his gun. She smiled to find her point was gained, And went, with happy parting words (He subsequently ascertained), To trim her hat with humming-birds. A SONG OF SARATOGA. BY JOHN G. SAXE. "Pray what do they do at the Springs?" The question is easy to ask: But to answer it fully, my dear, Were rather a serious task. And yet, in a bantering way, As the magpie or mocking-bird sings, I'll venture a bit of a song, To tell what they do at the Springs. _Imprimis_, my darling, they drink The waters so sparkling and clear; Though the flavour is none of the best, And the odour exceedingly queer; But the fluid is mingled, you know, With wholesome medicinal things; So they drink, and they drink, and they drink-- And that's what they do at the Springs! Then with appetites keen as a knife, They hasten to breakfast, or dine; The latter precisely at three, The former from seven till nine. Ye gods! what a rustle and rush, When the eloquent dinner-bell rings! Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat-- And that's what they do at the Springs! Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, Or loll in the shade of the trees; Where many a whisper is heard That never is heard by the breeze; And hands are commingled with hands, Regardless of conjugal rings: And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt-- And that's what they do at the Springs! The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, And music is shrieking away; Terpsichore governs the hour, And fashion was never so gay! An arm round a tapering waist-- How closely and fondly it clings! So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz-- And that's what they do at the Springs! In short--as it goes in the world-- They eat, and they drink, and they sleep; They talk, and they walk, and they woo; They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep; They read, and they ride, and they dance (With other remarkable things): They pray, and they play, and they PAY-- And _that's_ what they do at the Springs! THE SEA. BY EVA L. OGDEN. She was rich and of high degree; A poor and unknown artist he. "Paint me," she said, "a view of the sea." So he painted the sea as it looked the day That Aphrodite arose from its spray; And it broke, as she gazed in its face the while Into its countless-dimpled smile. "What a pokey stupid picture," said she; "I don't believe he _can_ paint the sea!" Then he painted a raging, tossing sea, Storming, with fierce and sudden shock, Wild cries, and writhing tongues of foam, A towering, mighty fastness-rock. In its sides above those leaping crests, The thronging sea-birds built their nests. "What a disagreeable daub!" said she; "Why it isn't anything like the sea!" Then he painted a stretch of hot, brown sand, With a big hotel on either hand, And a handsome pavilion for the band,-- Not a sign of the water to be seen Except one faint little streak of green. "What a perfectly exquisite picture," said she; "It's the very _image_ of the sea." --_Century Magazine_. A TALE OF A NOSE. BY CHARLES F. ADAMS. 'Twas a hard case, that which happened in Lynn. Haven't heard of it, eh? Well, then, to begin, There's a Jew down there whom they call "Old Mose," Who travels about, and buys old clothes. Now Mose--which the same is short for Moses-- Had one of the biggest kind of noses: It had a sort of an instep in it, And he fed it with snuff about once a minute. One day he got in a bit of a row With a German chap who had kissed his _frau_, And, trying to punch him _à la_ Mace, Had his nose cut off close up to his face. He picked it up from off the ground, And quickly back in its place 'twas bound, Keeping the bandage upon his face Until it had fairly healed in place. Alas for Mose! 'Twas a sad mistake Which he in his haste that day did make; For, to add still more to his bitter cup, He found he had placed it _wrong side up_. "There's no great loss without some gain;" And Moses says, in a jocular vein, He arranged it so for taking snuff, As he never before could get enough. One thing, by the way, he forgets to add, Which makes the arrangement rather bad: Although he can take his snuff with ease, He has to stand on his head to sneeze! LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS. BY CHARLES F. ADAMS. I haf von funny leedle poy Vot gomes schust to my knee-- Der queerest schap, der createst rogue As efer you dit see. He runs, und schumps, and schmashes dings In all barts off der house. But vot off dot? He vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. He get der measels und der mumbs, Und eferyding dot's oudt; He sbills mine glass of lager-bier, Foots schnuff indo mine kraut; He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese-- Dot vas der roughest chouse; I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss. He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo To make der schticks to beat it mit-- Mine cracious, dot vas drue! I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, He kicks oup such a touse! But nefer mind, der poys vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. He asks me questions sooch as dese: Who baints mine nose so red? Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt Vrom der hair ubon mine hed? Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene'er der glim I douse? How gan I all dese dings eggsblain To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss. I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest Und beaceful dimes enshoy, But ven he vas ashleep in ped, So quiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, "Dake anydings, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." DOT BABY OF MINE. BY CHARLES F. ADAMS. Mine cracious! Mine cracious! shust look here und see A Deutscher so habby as habby can pe. Der beoples all dink dat no prains I haf got, Vas grazy mit trinking, or someding like dot; Id vasn't pecause I trinks lager und vine, Id vas all on aggount of dot baby off mine. Dot schmall leedle vellow I dells you vas qveer; Not mooch pigger round as a goot glass off beer, Mit a bare-footed hed, and nose but a schpeck, A mout dot goes most to der pack of his neck, And his leedle pink toes mid der rest all combine To gife sooch a charm to dot baby off mine. I dells you dot baby vas von off der poys, Und beats leedle Yawcob for making a noise; He shust has pegun to shbeak goot English, too, Says "Mamma," und "Bapa," und somedimes "ah-goo!" You don't find a baby den dimes oudt off nine Dot vas qvite so schmart as dot baby off mine. He grawls der vloor over, und drows dings aboudt, Und puts efryding he can find in his mout; He durables der shtairs down, und falls vrom his chair, Und gifes mine Katrina von derrible schare. Mine hair stands like shquills on a mat borcupine Ven I dinks of dose pranks of dot baby off mine. Der vas someding, you pet, I don't likes pooty veil; To hear in der nighdt dimes dot young Deutscher yell, Und dravel der ped-room midout many clo'es, Vhile der chills down der sphine off mine pack quickly goes. Dose leedle shimnasdic dricks vasn't so fine Dot I cuts oop at nighdt mit dot baby off mine. Veil, dese leedle schafers vos goin' to pe men, Und all off dese droubles vill peen ofer den; Dey vill vear a vhite shirt-vront inshted of a bib, Und voudn't got tucked oop at nighdt in deir crib. Veil! veil! ven I'm feeple und in life's decline, May mine oldt age pe cheered by dot baby off mine. A DUTCHMAN'S MISTAKE. BY CHARLES F. ADAMS. I geeps me von leedle schtore town Proadway, und does a pooty goot peeznis, but I don't got mooch gapital to work mit, so I finds it hard vork to get me all der gredits vot I vould like. Last veek I hear about some goots dot a barty vas going to sell pooty sheap, und so I writes dot man if he vould gief me der refusal of dose goots for a gouple of days. He gafe me der refusal--dot is, he sait I gouldn't haf dem--but he sait he vould gall on me und see mine schtore, und den if mine schtanding in peesnis vas goot, berhaps ve might do somedings togedder. Veil, I vas behind mine gounter yesterday, ven a shentle-man gomes in and dakes me py der hant and says, "Mr. Schmidt, I pelieve." I says, "Yaw," und den I tinks to mine-self, dis vas der man vot has doze goots to sell, und I must dry to make some goot imbressions mit him, so ve gould do some peesnis. "Dis vas goot schtore," he says, looking roundt, "bud you don't got a pooty big shtock already." I vas avraid to let him know dot I only hat 'bout a tousand tollars vort of goots in der blace, so I says, "You ton't tink I hat more as dree tousand tollars in dis leedle schtore, vould you?" He says, "You ton't tole me! Vos dot bossible!" I says, "Yaw." I meant dot id vas bossible, dough id vasn't so, vor I vas like 'Shorge Vashingtons ven he cut town der "olt elm" on Poston Gommons mit his leedle hadchet, and gouldn't dell some lies aboud id. "Veil," says der shentleman, "I dinks you ought to know petter as anypody else vot you haf got in der schtore." Und den he takes a pig book vrom unter his arm and say, "Veil, I poots you town vor dree tousand tollars." I ask him vot he means py "Poots me town," und den he says he vas von off der tax-men, or assessors off broperty, und he tank me so kintly as nefer vas, pecause he say I vas sooch an honest Deutscher, und tidn't dry und sheat der gofermants. I dells you vot it vos, I tidn't veel any more petter as a hundert ber cent, ven dot man valks oudt of mine schtore, und der nexd dime I makes free mit strangers I vinds first deir peesnis oudt. THE OWL CRITIC. JAMES T. FIELDS, IN "HARPER'S MAGAZINE." "Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop! The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop! The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The _Daily_, the _Herald_, the _Post_, little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving. "Don't you see, Mister Brown," Cried the youth with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is, How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-- In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis! I make no apology, I've learned owl-eology. I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" And the barber kept on shaving. "I've _studied_ owls, And other night fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true; An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed. No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that attitude. He can't _do_ it, because 'Tis against all bird laws, Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches, An owl has a toe That _can't_ turn out so! I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! Mister Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd! To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!" And the barber kept on shaving. "Examine those eyes, I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; So unnatural they seem They'd, make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff. Do take that bird down: Have him stuffed again, Brown!" And the barber kept on shaving. "With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that. I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather, In fact, about _him_ there's not one natural feather." Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic. And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault this time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. I'm an owl; you're another, Sir Critic, good day!" And the barber kept on shaving. THE TRUE STORY OF KING MARSHMALLOW, O a jolly old fellow was King Marshmallow As ever wore a crown! At every draught of wine he quaffed, And at every joke of his jester he laughed, Laughed till the tears ran down-- O, he laughed Ha! Ha! and he laughed Ho! Ho! And every time that he laughed, do you know, The Lords in waiting they did just so. But Queen Bonniberry was not quite so merry; She sat and sighed all the while, And she turned very red and shook her head At everything Jingle the jester said, And never vouchsafed a smile. O, she sighed Ah me! and she sighed Heigh-oh! And every time that she sighed, do you know, The Ladies in waiting they did just so. Then the jester spoke just by way of a joke, (O he was a funny man!) And he said May it please your majesties, I wish to complain of those impudent fleas That bite me whenever they can! Then the king he laughed Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! And the queen she sighed Ah me!--Heigh-oh! While the Lords and the Ladies they did just so. As for that, my man, the king began, The fleas bite whoever they like, But the very first flea you chance to see, Wherever he may happen to be, You have my permission to strike! And the king he roared, Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! While the queen she sighed Ah me!--Heigh-oh! And the Lords and the Ladies they did just so. Just then Jingle sighted a flea that had lighted Right on--well, where _do_ you suppose? On Marshmallow's own royal face, and the clown In bringing his hand with a swift motion down Nearly ruined the poor monarch's nose. And the king he shrieked Ah! Ah! Oh! Oh! And the queen burst out laughing Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! While the Lords and the Ladies stood stupidly by And didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY (REV. R.H. BARHAM). The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! Bishop and abbot and prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight, and many a squire, With a great many more of lesser degree,-- In sooth a goodly company; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. Never, I ween, was a prouder seen, Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims! In and out through the motley rout, That little Jackdaw kept hopping about; Here and there like a dog in a fair, Over comfits and cakes, and dishes and plates, Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, Mitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all! With saucy air, he perch'd on the chair Where in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat; And he peer'd in the face of his Lordship's Grace With a satisfied look, as if he would say, "We two are the greatest folks here to-day!" The feast was over, the board was clear'd, The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd, And six little singing-boys,--dear little souls! In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, Came, in order due, two by two, Marching that grand refectory through! A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown, Carried lavender-water and eau de Cologne; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. One little boy more a napkin bore, Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in "permanent ink." The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white; From his finger he draws his costly turquoise; And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight by the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring! * * * * * There's a cry and a shout, and _no end_ of a rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about But the monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out; The friars are kneeling, and hunting, and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew off each plum-colour'd shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels; They turn up the dishes,--they turn up the plates,-- They take up the poker and poke out the grates, --They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs:-- But, no!--no such thing;--They can't find THE RING! And the Abbot declared that, "when nobody twigg'd it, Some rascal or other had popp'd in, and prigg'd it!" The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger and pious grief, He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of evil, and wake in a fright; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying, He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!-- Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise to no little surprise, Nobody seem'd one penny the worse! The day was gone, the night came on, The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn; When the Sacristan saw, on crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw; No longer gay, as on yesterday; His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;-- His pinions droop'd--he could hardly stand-- His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, so wasted each limb, That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM!-- That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing! That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!" The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say, "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower, he limp'd on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry door, When the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw! Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! --When those words were heard, that poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd. He grew sleek, and fat; in addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air, No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair. He hopp'd now about With a gait devout; At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied,--or if any one swore,-- Or slumber'd in prayer-time and happened to snore, That good Jackdaw would give a great "Caw," As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!" He long lived the pride of that country side, And at last in the odour of sanctity died; When, as words were too faint his merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a Saint! And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow, So they canonized him by the name of. Jim Crow! TUBAL CAIN. BY CHARLES MACKAY. Old Tubal Cain was a man of might In the days when earth was young; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright The strokes of his hammer rung; And he lifted high his brawny hand On the iron glowing clear, Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers, As he fashion'd the sword and spear. And he sang--"Hurra for my handiwork! Hurra for the Spear and Sword! Hurra for the hand that shall wield them well, For he shall be King and Lord!" To Tubal Cain came many a one, As he wrought by his roaring fire, And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade As the crown of his desire; And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted loud for glee, And gave him gifts of pearls and gold, And spoils of the forest free, And they sang--"Hurra for Tubal Cain, Who hath given us strength anew! Hurra for the smith, hurra for the fire, And hurra for the metal true!" But a sudden change came o'er his heart Ere the setting of the sun, And Tubal Cain was fill'd with pain For the evil he had done; He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was red with the blood they shed In their lust for carnage, blind. And he said--"Alas! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man!" And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe; And his hand forbore to smite the ore, And his furnace smoulder'd low. But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright courageous eye, And bared his strong right arm for work, While the quick flames mounted high. And he sang--"Hurra for my handiwork!" And the red sparks lit the air; "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;" And he fashion'd the First Plough-share! And men, taught wisdom from the Past, In friendship join'd their hands, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And plough'd the willing lands; And sang--"Hurra for Tubal Cain! Our staunch good friend is he; And for the ploughshare and the plough To him our praise shall be. But while Oppression lifts its head, Or a tyrant would be lord, Though we may thank him for the Plough, We'll not forget the Sword!" THE THREE PREACHERS. BY CHARLES MACKAY. There are three preachers, ever preaching, Fill'd with eloquence and power:-- One is old, with locks of white, Skinny as an anchorite; And he preaches every hour With a shrill fanatic voice, And a bigot's fiery scorn:-- "Backward! ye presumptuous nations; Man to misery is born! Born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer-- Born to labour and to pray; Backward!' ye presumptuous nations-- Back!--be humble and obey!" The second is a milder preacher; Soft he talks as if he sung; Sleek and slothful is his look, And his words, as from a book, Issue glibly from his tongue. With an air of self-content, High he lifts his fair white hands: "Stand ye still! ye restless nations; And be happy, all ye lands! Fate is law, and law is perfect; If ye meddle, ye will mar; Change is rash, and ever was so: We are happy as we are." Mightier is the younger preacher, Genius flashes from his eyes: And the crowds who hear his voice Give him, while their souls rejoice, Throbbing bosoms for replies. Awed they listen, yet elated, While his stirring accents fall:-- "Forward! ye deluded nations, Progress is the rule of all: Man was made for healthful effort; Tyranny has crush'd him long; He shall march from good to better, And do battle with the wrong. "Standing still is childish folly, Going backward is a crime: None should patiently endure Any ill that he can cure; Onward! keep the march of Time, Onward! while a wrong remains To be conquer'd by the right; While Oppression lifts a finger To affront us by his might; While an error clouds the reason Of the universal heart, Or a slave awaits his freedom Action is the wise man's part. "Lo! the world is rich in blessings: Earth and Ocean, flame and wind, Have unnumber'd secrets still, To be ransack'd when you will, For the service of mankind; Science is a child as yet, And her power and scope shall grow, And her triumphs in the future Shall diminish toil and woe; Shall extend the bounds of pleasure With an ever-widening ken, And of woods and wildernesses Make the homes of happy men. "Onward!--there are ills to conquer, Daily wickedness is wrought, Tyranny is swoln with Pride, Bigotry is deified, Error intertwined with Thought, Vice and Misery ramp and crawl;-- Root them out, their day has pass'd; Goodness is alone immortal; Evil was not made to last: Onward! and all earth shall aid us Ere our peaceful flag be furl'd."-- And the preaching of this preacher Stirs the pulses of the world. SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE. BY ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright. PATRIOTISM. BY LORD TENNYSON. Love thou thy land, with love far-brought From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Thro' future time by power of thought. True love turned round on fixed poles, Love that endures not sordid ends, For English natures, freemen, friends, Thy brothers, and immortal souls. But pamper not a hasty time, Nor feed with crude imaginings The herd, wild hearts, and feeble wings, That every sophister can lime. Deliver not the tasks of might To weakness, neither hide the ray From those, not blind, who wait for day, Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. Make knowledge circle with the winds; But let her herald, Reverence, fly Before her to whatever sky Bear seed of men and growth of minds. Watch what main currents draw the years: Cut Prejudice against the grain: But gentle words are always gain: Regard the weakness of thy peers: Nor toil for title, place, or touch Of pension, neither count on praise: It grows to guerdon after-days: Nor deal in watch-words overmuch: Not clinging to some ancient saw; Not master'd by some modern term; Not swift nor slow to change, but firm; And in its season bring the law; That from Discussion's lip may fall With Life, that, working strongly, binds-- Set in all lights by many minds, To close the interests of all. For Nature also, cold and warm, And moist and dry, devising long, Thro' many agents making strong, Matures the individual form. Meet is it changes should control Our being, lest we rust in ease. We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul. So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that, which flies, And work, a joint of state, that plies Its office, moved with sympathy. A saying, hard to shape in act; For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. Ev'n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloom-- The Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life. A slow-develop'd strength awaits Completion in a painful school; Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty States-- The warders of the growing hour, But vague in vapour, hard to mark; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power. Of many changes, aptly join'd, Is bodied forth the second whole. Regard gradation, lest the soul Of Discord race the rising wind; A wind to puff your idol-fires, And heap their ashes on the head; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires. O yet, if Nature's evil star Drive men in manhood, as in youth, To follow flying steps of Truth Across the brazen bridge of war-- If New and Old, disastrous feud, Must ever shock, like armed foes, And this be true, till time shall close, That Principles are rain'd in blood; Not yet the wise of heart would cease To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, But with his hand against the hilt Would pace the troubled land, like Peace; Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away-- Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes: And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke: To-morrow yet would reap to-day, As we bear blossom of the dead; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw Haste, half sister to Delay. TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. BY GERALD MASSEY. High hopes that burn'd like stars sublime, Go down i' the heaven of freedom; And true hearts perish in the time We bitterliest need 'em! But never sit we down and say There's nothing left but sorrow; We walk the wilderness to-day-- The promised land to-morrow! Our birds of song are silent now, Few are the flowers blooming, Yet life is in the frozen bough, And freedom's spring is coming; And freedom's tide creeps up alway, Though we may strand in sorrow; And our good bark, aground to-day, Shall float again to-morrow. 'Tis weary watching wave by wave, And yet the Tide heaves onward; We climb, like Corals, grave by grave, That pave a pathway sunward; We are driven back, for our next fray A newer strength to borrow, And where the Vanguard camps to-day The Rear shall rest to-morrow! Through all the long, dark night of years The people's cry ascendeth, And earth is wet with blood and tears: But our meek sufferance endeth! The few shall not for ever sway-- The many moil in sorrow; The powers of hell are strong to-day, The Christ shall rise to-morrow! Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes With smiling futures glisten! For lo! our day bursts up the skies Lean out your souls and listen! The world is rolling freedom's way, And ripening with her sorrow; Take heart! who bear the Cross to-day, Shall wear the Crown to-morrow! O youth! flame-earnest, still aspire With energies immortal! To many a heaven of desire Our yearning opes a portal; And though age wearies by the way, And hearts break in the furrow-- Youth sows the golden grain to-day-- The harvest comes to-morrow! Build up heroic lives, and all Be like a sheathen sabre, Ready to flash out at God's call-- O chivalry of labour! Triumph and toil are twins; though they Be singly born in sorrow, And 'tis the martyrdom to-day Brings victory to-morrow! RING OUT, WILD BELLS. BY LORD TENNYSON. Ring out wild bells to the' wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. RULE, BRITANNIA! BY JAMES THOMSON. When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sang this strain: "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves." The nations not so blest as thee, Must in their turns to tyrants fall While thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves." Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves." Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame To work _their_ woe and _thy_ renown. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves." To thee belongs the rural reign, Thy cities shall with commerce shine, All thine shall be the subject main, And ev'ry shore it circles, thine. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves." The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coasts repair; Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown'd, And manly hearts to guard the fair. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves." Printed by H. Virtue and Company, Limited, City Road, London. 
38579	----	RECITATIONS FOR THE SOCIAL CIRCLE. SELECTED AND ORIGINAL. [Illustration] BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. PUBLISHED BY THE CHRISTIAN HERALD. LOUIS KLOPSCH, Proprietor, BIBLE HOUSE, NEW YORK. Copyright, 1896. BY LOUIS KLOPSCH. INTRODUCTORY NOTE. In reading and recitation, the general tendency is to overdo. The quiet reserve force, which can be made apparent in the voice, will reach the heart and stir the soul when gesture and ranting fail. "Be bold! Be not too bold" should be the watchwords of the reciter. Self-possession, with a nervousness arising from an earnest desire to please, is the keynote to success. Never gesticulate if you can help it. When a gesture asserts itself to such an extent that you have made it before you realize it, be sure it was effective and graceful. It is a noble ambition to wish to sway the hearts and minds of others by the subtle modulations of the voice, and only he who feels the force of what he utters can hope to accomplish his end. The thought of the author must be pursued and overtaken. The sentiments between the lines must be enlisted before the voice will lend itself, in all its glorious power, to the tones that thrill and the music that charms. It is not always necessary to search for something your audience has never heard. It is far better to reveal hidden thought and new life in selections which are familiar. The hackneyed recitation, if rendered better than ever before, will win more applause than a fresh bit carelessly studied. Above all, use judgment in selection. The stout lady of fifty-two should avoid "Marco Bozarris" and "The Elf Child," and the young lady just home from boarding-school should not attempt the ponderous utterances of a Roman gladiator. Care in selection; fidelity in study; wisdom in the choice of occasion; modesty in delivery; earnestness of manner and sincerity of feeling throughout, must win at last. If you make failures, trace them to a lack in some one or more of these requisites and, by experience, learn to avoid a recurrence. Orators, like poets, are "born not made," but even the born speaker will fail at times unless these laws are considered and observed. Always render an author's lines as he wrote them. The chances are ten to one that every word carries its burden of thought, even though you may not have discerned it. Err on the conservative side if in doubt. Over-enthusiasm is less easily pardoned. Never select dialect verses or stories unless you have the unusual gift necessary to give them the piquancy and zest which attends a good imitation. Ask a dozen friends for an honest opinion on the subject and draw an average from their criticisms to guide you in your choice of selections. Don't lose your temper over a severe criticism. Search carefully through your list of abilities and see if there is not, perhaps, some foundation for kindly suggestion. It is often a great assistance, in memorizing the work of another, to make a written copy, but attention should be given to the making of a perfect copy, properly punctuated. Use the eye in memorizing. Oftentimes a mental picture of a page will recall a line which for an instant seems about to escape you. Use the ear as well and study the effect of various modulations of voice as you rehearse in private. Above all, use the best of your intelligence, earnestly, in studying and applying the thousand little nothings that in the aggregate make the perfect reader. CONTENTS. PAGE. A Dream of the Universe. By Jean Paul Richter, 95 A Friend of the Fly, 173 After-Dinner Speech by a Frenchman, 287 America for God. By T. DeWitt Talmage, 74 An Affectionate Letter, 198 An Appeal for Liberty. By Joseph Story, 296 An Hour of Horror, 218 Annie and Willie's Prayer. By Sophia P. Snow, 275 Answered Prayers, By Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 175 An Unaccountable Mystery. By Paul Denton, 80 A Rainy Day, 260 A Reasonable Request, 194 At the Stage Door. By James Clarence Harvey, 16 At the Stamp Window, 110 Becalmed. By Samuel K. Cowan, 182 Banford's Burglar Alarm, 314 Behind Time. By Freeman Hunt, 77 Bessie Kendrick's Journey. By Mrs. Annie E. Preston, 253 Better Things, 319 Bicycle Ride. By James Clarence Harvey, 236 By Special Request. By Frank Castles, 47 Charity, 308 Cut Behind. By T. DeWitt Talmage, 14 Daughter of the Desert. By James Clarence Harvey, 65 De Pint Wid Ole Pete, 215 Destiny of Our Country. By R. C. Winthrop, 188 Eloquence, the Study of. By Cicero, 11 Emulation (Up to Date). By James Clarence Harvey, 187 Extract from Blaine's Oration on James A. Garfield, 208 Fashionable, 261 Fast Mail and the Stage. By John H. Yates, 230 Frenchman and the Landlord. Anonymous, 18 Gentle Alice Brown. By W. S. Gilbert, 149 Get Acquainted With Yourself. By R. J. Burdette, 119 God in the Constitution. By T. DeWitt Talmage, 176 Good Old Way, 207 Good Reading. By John S. Hart, L.L.D., 41 Go Vay, Becky Miller, Go Vay, 220 Guild's Signal. By Francis Bret Harte, 21 His Last Court, 104 Hornets. By Bill Nye, 70 How "Old Mose" Counted Eggs, 272 How Shall I Love You? By Will C. Ferril, 212 Imperfectus. By James Clarence Harvey, 83 In Arabia. By James Berry Bensel, 37 In the Bottom Drawer, 185 It is a Winter Night. By Richard Henry Stoddard, 221 I Wonder. By James Clarence Harvey, 159 Katrina's Visit to New York, 138 Keenan's Charge. By George P. Lathrop, 97 Kittens and Babies. By Lizzie M. Hadley, 80 Land of Our Birth. By Lillie E. Barr, 239 Legend of the Ivy. By James Clarence Harvey, 34 Let Us Give Thanks, 258 Literary Attractions of the Bible. By Dr. Hamilton, 88 Little Brown Curl, 213 Little Feet, 259 Little Jim. By George R. Sims, 118 Little White Hearse. By J. W. Riley, 121 Lullaby, 114 Maid of Orleans. By J. E. Sagebeer, 144 Mark Twain and the Interviewer, 22 Mother, Home and Heaven, 56 Mother's Doughnuts. By Charles F. Adams, 87 Mother's Fool, 217 Mr. Winkle Puts on Skates. By Charles Dickens, 281 Mutation. By James Clarence Harvey, 164 My Mother's Bible. By George P. Morris, 286 New Year Ledger. By Amelia E. Barr, 39 No Objection to Children, 309 Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, 51 Old Uncle Jake, 298 Only a Song, 235 Our Own. By Margaret E. Sangster, 76 Our Heroes Shall Live. By Henry Ward Beecher, 113 Paul Revere's Ride. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 43 Penning a Pig. By James A. Bailey, 115 Praying for Papa, 180 Praying for Shoes. By Paul Hamilton Hayne, 58 Puzzled Dutchman, 227 Queen Vashti. By T. DeWitt Talmage, 131 Rabbi and the Prince. By James Clarence Harvey, 143 Resignation. By Longfellow, 196 Resurgam. By Eben E. Rexford, 262 Roman Legend. By James Clarence Harvey, 170 Rum's Devastation and Destiny. By William Sullivan, 60 Serenade. By Thomas Hood, 129 She Cuts His Hair, 294 Shwate Kittie Kehoe. By James Clarence Harvey, 155 Since She Went Home. By R. J. Burdette, 72 Six Love Letters, 165 Speech of Patrick Henry, 160 Story of the Little Rid Hin. By Mrs. Whitney, 232 Supporting the Guns, 30 The American Union. By Daniel Webster, 52 The Black Horse and His Rider. By Charles Sheppard, 290 The Book Canvasser. By Max Adeler, 264 The Children. By Charles Dickens, 306 The Children We Keep, 73 The Christmas Baby. By Will Carleton, 92 The Country's Greatest Evil, 156 The Crowded Street. By William Cullen Bryant, 252 The Dead Doll. By Margaret Vandegrift, 108 The Doorstep. By E. C. Stedman, 270 The Enchanted Shirt. By John Hay, 177 The Fatal Glass. By Laura U. Case, 137 The Fault of the Age. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 263 The Hot Axle. By T. DeWitt Talmage, 303 The Minister's Grievances, 204 The Misnomer. By Josie C. Malott, 269 The Modern Belle, 226 The Nameless Guest. By James Clarence Harvey, 112 The Old Oaken Bucket. By Samuel Woodworth, 279 The Pilot. By John B. Gough, 135 The Poppy Land Limited Express. By Edgar Wade Abbot, 55 The Prime of Life. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 29 There is a Tongue in Every Leaf, 257 There'll Be Room in Heaven, 122 The Retort Dis-courteous. By James Clarence Harvey, 125 The Teacher's Diadem, 240 The United States. By Daniel Webster, 35 The Whirling Wheel. By Tudor Jenks, 288 The Whistling Regiment. By James Clarence Harvey, 199 Tobe's Monument. By Elizabeth Kilham, 243 Useful Precepts for Girls, 100 W'en de Darky am A-whis'lin'. By S. Q. Lapius, 134 We're Building Two a Day! By Rev. Alfred J. Hough, 224 What the Little Girl Said, 221 Widder Budd, 102 Wind and Sea. By Bayard Taylor, 13 Woman's Pocket. By James M. Bailey, 84 Women of Mumbles Head. By Clement Scott, 190 Young America, 153 Zenobia's Defence. By William Ware, 126 RECITATIONS FOR THE SOCIAL CIRCLE. THE STUDY OF ELOQUENCE. BY CICERO. I cannot conceive anything more excellent, than to be able, by language, to captivate the affections, to charm the understanding, and to impel or restrain the will of whole assemblies, at pleasure. Among every free people, especially in peaceful, settled governments, this single art has always eminently flourished, and always exercised the greatest sway. For what can be more surprising than that, amidst an infinite multitude, one man should appear, who shall be the only, or almost the only man capable of doing what Nature has put in every man's power? Or, can anything impart such exquisite pleasure to the ear and to the intellect, as a speech in which the wisdom and dignity of the sentiments are heightened by the utmost force and beauty of expression? Is there anything so commanding, so grand, as that the eloquence of one man should direct the inclinations of the people, the consciences of judges, and the majesty of senates? Nay, farther, can aught be esteemed so great, so generous, so public-spirited, as to assist the suppliant, to rear the prostrate, to communicate happiness, to avert danger, and to save a fellow-citizen from exile? Can anything be so necessary, as to keep those arms always in readiness, with which you may defend yourself, attack the profligate, and redress your own, or your country's wrongs? But let us consider this accomplishment as detached from public business, and from its wonderful efficacy in popular assemblies, at the bar, and in the senate; can anything be more agreeable, or more endearing in private life, than elegant language? For the great characteristic of our nature, and what eminently distinguishes us from brutes, is the faculty of social conversation, the power of expressing our thoughts and sentiments by words. To excel mankind, therefore, in the exercise of that very talent which gives them the preference to the brute creation, is what everybody must not only admire, but look upon as the just object of the most indefatigable pursuit. And now, to mention the chief point of all, what other power could have been of sufficient efficacy to bring together the vagrant individuals of the human race; to tame their savage manners, to reconcile them to social life; and, after cities were founded, to mark out laws, forms, and constitutions, for their government?--Let me, in a few words, sum up this almost boundless subject. I lay it down as a maxim, that upon the wisdom and abilities of an accomplished orator, not only his own dignity, but the welfare of vast numbers of individuals, and even of the whole state, must greatly depend. THE WIND AND THE SEA. BY BAYARD TAYLOR. The Sea is a jovial comrade; He laughs, wherever he goes, And the merriment shines In the dimpling lines That wrinkle his hale repose. He lays himself down at the feet of the sun And shakes all over with glee, And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore In the mirth of the mighty sea. But the wind is sad and restless, And cursed with an inward pain; You may hark as you will, By valley or hill, But you hear him still complain. He wails on the barren mountain; Shrieks on the wintry sea; Sobs in the cedar and moans in the pine, And shivers all over the aspen tree. Welcome are both their voices, And I know not which is best, The laughter that slips From the ocean's lips, Or the comfortless wind's unrest. There's a pang in all rejoicing, A joy in the heart of pain, And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, Are singing the self-same strain. CUT BEHIND. BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE. The scene opens on a clear, crisp morning. Two boys are running to get on the back of a carriage, whose wheels are spinning along the road. One of the boys, with a quick spring, succeeds. The other leaps, but fails, and falls on the part of the body where it is most appropriate to fall. No sooner has he struck the ground than he shouts to the driver of the carriage, "Cut behind!" Human nature is the same in boy as in man--all running to gain the vehicle of success. Some are spry, and gain that for which they strive. Others are slow, and tumble down; they who fall crying out against those who mount, "Cut behind!" A political office rolls past. A multitude spring to their feet, and the race is on. Only one of all the number reaches that for which he runs. No sooner does he gain the prize, and begin to wipe the sweat from his brow, and think how grand a thing it is to ride in popular preferment, than the disappointed candidates cry out, "Incompetency! Stupidity! Fraud! Now let the newspapers of the other political party 'cut behind.'" There is a golden chariot of wealth rolling down the street. A thousand people are trying to catch it. They run, they jostle; they tread on each other. Push, and pull, and tug. Those talk most against riches who cannot get there. Clear the track for the racers! One of the thousand reaches the golden prize and mounts. Forthwith the air is full of cries, "Got it by fraud! Shoddy! Petroleum aristocracy! His father was a rag-picker! His mother was a washer-woman! I knew him when he blacked his own shoes! Pitch him off the back part of the golden chariot! Cut behind! cut behind!" In many eyes success is a crime. "I do not like you," said the snow-flake to the snow-bird. "Why?" said the snow-bird. "Because," said the snow-flake, "you are going _up_ and I am going _down_." We have to state that the man in the carriage, on the crisp morning, though he had a long lash-whip, with which he could have made the climbing boy yell most lustily, did not _cut behind_. He heard the shout in the rear, and said, "Good morning, my son. That is right; climb over and sit by me. Here are the reins; take hold and drive; was a boy myself once, and know what tickles youngsters." Thank God, there are so many in the world that never "cut behind," but are ready to give a fellow a ride whenever he wants it. There are hundreds of people whose chief joy it is to help others on. Now it is a smile, now a good word, now ten dollars. When such a kind man has ridden to the end of the earthly road, it will be pleasant to hang up the whip with which he drove the enterprises of a lifetime, and feel that with it he never "cut behind" at those who were struggling. AT THE STAGE DOOR. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. The curtain had fallen, the lights were dim, The rain came down with a steady pour; A white-haired man with a kindly face, Peered through the panes of the old stage door. "I'm getting too old to be drenched like that" He muttered and turning met face to face, The woman whose genius, an hour before, Like a mighty power had filled the place. "Yes, much too old," with a smile, she said, And she laid her hand on his silver hair; "You shall ride with me to your home to-night, For that is my carriage standing there." The old door-tender stood, doffing his hat And holding the door, but she would not stir, Though he said it was not for the "likes of him To ride in a kerridge with such as her." "Come, put out your lights," she said to him, "I've something important I wish to say, And I can't stand here in the draught you know-- I can tell you much better while on the way." So into the carriage the old man crept, Thanking her gratefully, o'er and o'er, Till she bade him listen while she would tell A story, concerning that old stage door. "It was raining in torrents, ten years ago This very night, and a friendless child Stood, shivering there, by that old stage door, Dreading her walk in a night so wild. She was only one of the 'extra' girls, But you gave her a nickle to take the car, And said 'Heaven bless ye, my little one, Ye can pay me back ef ye ever star.' "So you cast your bread on the waters then, And I pay you back, as my heart demands, And we're even now--no! not quite," she said, As she emptied her purse in his trembling hands. "And if ever you're needy and want a friend, You know where to come, for your little mite Put hope in my heart and made me strive To gain the success you have seen to-night." Then the carriage stopped, at the old man's door, And the gas-light shone on him, standing there: And he stepped to the curb, as she rolled away, While his thin lips murmured a fervent prayer. He looked at the silver and bills and gold, And he said: "She gives all this to me? My bread has come back a thousandfold, God bless her! God bless all such as she!" THE FRENCHMAN AND THE LANDLORD. ANONYMOUS. A shrewd and wealthy old landlord, away down in Maine, is noted for driving his "sharp bargains," by which he has amassed a large amount of property. He is the owner of a large number of dwelling-houses, and it is said of him that he is not over-scrupulous of his rental charges, whenever he can find a customer whom he knows to be responsible. His object is to lease his house for a term of years to the best tenants, and get the uttermost farthing in the shape of rent. A diminutive Frenchman called on him last winter, to hire a dwelling he owned in Portland, and which had long remained empty. References were given, and the landlord, ascertaining that the tenant was a man "after his own heart," immediately commenced to "Jew" him. He found that the tenement appeared to suit the Frenchman, and he placed an exorbitant price upon it; the leases were drawn and duly executed, and the tenant removed into his new quarters. Upon kindling fires in the house, it was found that the chimneys wouldn't "draw," and the building was filled with smoke. The window-sashes rattled in the wind at night, and the cold air rushed through a hundred crevices about the house until now unnoticed. The snow melted upon the roof, and the attics were drenched from the leakage. The rain pelted, and our Frenchman found a "natural" bathroom upon the second floor--but the lease was signed and the landlord chuckled. "I have been vat you sall call 'tuck in,' vis zis _maison_," muttered our victim to himself a week afterwards, "but _n'importe_, ve sal se vat ve _sal_ see." Next morning he arose bright and early, and passing down he encountered the landlord. "Ah ha!--_Bon jour, monsieur_," said he in his happiest manner. "Good day, sir. How do you like your house?" "Ah monsieur--elegant, beautiful, magnificent. _Eh bien_, monsieur, I have ze one regret!" "Ah! What is that?" "I sal live in zat house but tree little year." "How so?" "I have find by vot you call ze lease, zat you have give me ze house but for tree year, and I ver mooch sorrow for zat." "But you can have it longer if you wish--" "Ah, monsieur, sal be ver mooch glad if I can have zat house _so long as I please_--eh--monsieur?" "Oh, certainly, certainly, sir." "_Tres bien_, monsieur! I sal valk rite to your offees, and you sal give me vot you call ze lease for that _maison jes so long as I sal vant the house_. Eh, monsieur?" "Certainly, sir. You can stay there your lifetime, if you like." "Ah, monsieur--I have ver mooch tanks for zis accommodation." The old lease was destroyed and a new one was delivered in form to the French gentleman, giving him possession of the premises for "such a period as the lessee may desire the same, he paying the rent promptly, etc." The next morning our crafty landlord was passing the house just as the French-man's last load of furniture was being started from the door; an hour afterward, a messenger called on him with a legal tender, for the rent for eight days, accompanied with a note as follows: "Monsieur--I have been smoke--I have been drouned--I have been frees to death, in ze house vat I av hire of you for ze period as I may desire. I have stay in ze house _jes so long as I please_, and ze bearer of zis vill give you ze key! _Bon jour_, monsieur." It is needless to add that our landlord has never since been known to give up "a bird in the hand for one in the bush." GUILD'S SIGNAL. BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE, 1839. Two low whistles, quaint and clear, That was the signal the engineer-- That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said-- Gave to his wife at Providence, As through the sleeping town, and thence Out in the night, On to the light, Down past the farms, lying white, he sped! As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, Yet to the woman looking out, Watching and waiting, no serenade, Love-song, or midnight roundelay Said what that whistle seemed to say; "To my trust true, So love to you! Working or waiting. Good night!" it said. Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, Old commuters, along the line, Brakesmen and porters, glanced ahead, Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, Pierced through the shadows of Providence,-- "Nothing amiss-- Nothing!--it is Only Guild calling his wife," they said. Summer and winter, the old refrain Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, Pierced through the budding boughs o'er head, Flew down the track when the red leaves burned Like living coals from the engine spurned! Sang as it flew "To our trust true. First of all, duty! Good night!" it said. And then, one night, it was heard no more From Stonington over Rhode Island Shore, And the folk in Providence smiled and said, As they turned in their beds: "The engineer Has once forgotten his midnight cheer." _One_ only knew To his trust true, Guild lay under his engine, dead. MARK TWAIN AND THE INTERVIEWER. The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with "The Daily Thunderstorm," and added,-- "Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you." "Come to what?" "_Interview_ you." "Ah! I see. Yes--yes. Um! Yes--yes." I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said,-- "How do you spell it?" "Spell what?" "Interview." "Oh, my goodness? What do you want to spell it for?" "I don't want to spell it: I want to see what it means." "Well, this is astonishing, I must say. _I_ can tell you what it means, if you--if you"-- "Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too." "In, _in_, ter, _ter_, _inter_"-- "Then you spell it with an _I_?" "Why, certainly!" "Oh, that is what took me so long!" "Why, my _dear_ sir, what did _you_ propose to spell it with?" "Well, I--I--I hardly know. I had the Unabridged; and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition." "Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a _picture_ of it in even the latest e---- My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world; but you do not look as--as--intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm,--I mean no harm at all." "Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter, and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes--yes: they always speak of it with rapture." "I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious." "Indeed! I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?" "Ah, well--well--well--this is disheartening. It _ought_ to be done with a club, in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history?" "Oh, with pleasure,--with pleasure. I have a very bad memory; but I hope you will not mind. That is to say, it is an irregular memory, singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me." "Oh! it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can." "I will! I will put my whole mind on it." "Thanks! Are you ready to begin?" "Ready." _Question._ How old are you? _Answer._ Nineteen in June. _Q._ Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born? _A._ In Missouri. _Q._ When did you begin to write? _A._ In 1836. _Q._ Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now? _A._ I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow. _Q._ It does indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met? _A._ Aaron Burr. _Q._ But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen years---- _A._ Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for? _Q._ Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr? _A._ Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day; and he asked me to make less noise, and---- _Q._ But, good heavens! If you were at his funeral, he must have been dead; and, if he was dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not? _A._ I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way. _Q._ Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to you, and that he was dead? _A._ I didn't say he was dead. _Q._ But wasn't he dead? _A._ Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't. _Q._ What do _you_ think? _A._ Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my funeral. _Q._ Did you--However we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask about something else. What was the date of your birth? _A._ Monday, October 31, 1693. _Q._ What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old. How do you account for that? _A._ I don't account for it at all. _Q._ But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy. _A._ Why, have you noticed that? (_Shaking hands._) Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy; but somehow I couldn't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing! _Q._ Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters? _A._ Eh! I--I--I think so,--yes--but I don't remember. _Q._ Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard. _A._ Why, what makes you think that? _Q._ How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours? _A._ Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it, that _was_ a brother of mine. That's William, _Bill_ we called him. Poor old Bill! _Q._ Why, is he dead, then? _A._ Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it. _Q._ That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then? _A._ Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him. _Q._ _Buried_ him! Buried him without knowing whether he was dead or not? _A._ Oh, no! Not that. He was dead enough. _Q._ Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and you knew he was dead---- _A._ No, no! We only thought he was. _Q._ Oh, I see! He came to life again? _A._ I bet he didn't. _Q._ Well. I never heard anything like this. _Somebody_ was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery? _A._ Ah, that's just it! That's it exactly! You see we were twins,--defunct and I; and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill; and some think it was me. _Q._ Well, that _is_ remarkable. What do _you_ think? _A._ Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand; that was _me_. _That child was the one that was drowned._ _Q._ Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it, after all. _A._ You don't; well, _I_ do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heart-breaking troubles enough without adding this. _Q._ Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present; and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling me what peculiar circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man? _A._ Oh, it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery; and so he _got up, and rode with the driver_. * * * * * Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company; and I was sorry to see him go. THE PRIME OF LIFE. BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. I read the sentence or heard it spoken-- A stalwart phrase and with meaning rife-- And I said: "Now I know, by youth's sweet token, That this is the time called the 'prime of life.' "For my hopes soar over the loftiest mountain, And the future glows red, like a fair sunrise; And my spirits gush forth, like a spring-fed fountain, And never a grief in the heart of me lies." Yet later on, when with blood and muscle Equipped I plunged in the world's hard strife, When I loved its danger, and laughed at the tussle, "Why _this_," I said, "is the prime of life." And then, when the tide in my veins ran slower, And youth's first follies had passed away, When the fervent fires in my heart burned lower, And over my body my brain had sway, I said: "It is when, through the veiled ideal The vigorous reason thrusts a knife And rends the illusion, and shows us the real, Oh! this is the time called 'prime of life.'" Hut now when brain and body are troubled (For one is tired and one is ill, Yet my soul soars up with a strength redoubled And sits on the throne of my broken will), Now when on the ear of my listening spirit, That is turned away from the earth's harsh strife, The river of death sounds murmuring near it-- I know that _this_ "is the prime of life." SUPPORTING THE GUNS. Did you ever see a battery take position? It hasn't the thrill of a cavalry charge, nor the grimness of a line of bayonets moving slowly and determinedly on, but there is peculiar excitement about it that makes old veterans rise in the saddle and cheer. We have been fighting at the edge of the woods. Every cartridge-box has been emptied once and more, and a fourth of the brigade has melted away in dead and wounded and missing. Not a cheer is heard in the whole brigade. We know that we are being driven foot by foot, and that when we break back once more, the line will go to pieces and the enemy will pour through the gap. Here comes help! Down the crowded highway gallops a battery, withdrawn from some other position to save ours. The field fence is scattered while you could count thirty, and the guns rush for the hill behind us. Six horses to a piece, three riders to each gun. Over dry ditches where a farmer could not drive a wagon; through clumps of bushes, over logs a foot thick, every horse on the gallop, every rider lashing his team and yelling,--the sight behind us makes us forget the foe in front. The guns jump two feet high as the heavy wheels strike rock or log, but not a horse slackens his pace, not a cannoneer loses his seat. Six guns, six caissons, sixty horses, eighty men, race for the brow of the hill as if he who reached it first was to be knighted. A moment ago the battery was a confused mob. We look again and the six guns are in position, the detached horses hurrying away, the ammunition-chests open, and along our line runs the command: "Give them one more volley and fall back to support the guns!" We have scarcely obeyed when boom! boom! boom! opens the battery, and jets of fire jump down and scorch the green trees under which we fought and despaired. The shattered old brigade has a chance to breathe for the first time in three hours as we form a line of battle behind the guns and lie down. What grim, cool fellows these cannoneers are. Every man is a perfect machine. Bullets plash dust in their faces, but they do not wince. Bullets sing over and around them, but they do not dodge. There goes one to the earth, shot through the head as he sponged his gun. The machinery loses just one beat,--misses just one cog in the wheel, and then works away again as before. Every gun is using short-fuse shell. The ground shakes and trembles--the roar shuts out all sounds from a battle-line three miles long, and the shells go shrieking into the swamp to cut trees short off--to mow great gaps in the bushes--to hunt out and shatter and mangle men until their corpses cannot be recognized as human. You would think a tornado was howling through the forest, followed by billows of fire, and yet men live through it--aye! press forward to capture the battery! We can hear their shouts as they form for the rush. Now the shells are changed for grape and canister, and the guns are served so fast that all reports blend into one mighty roar. The shriek of a shell is the wickedest sound in war, but nothing makes the flesh crawl like the demoniac singing, purring, whistling grape-shot and the serpent-like hiss of canister. Men's legs and arms are not shot through, but torn off. Heads are torn from bodies and bodies cut in two. A round shot or shell takes two men out of the ranks as it crashes through. Grape and canister mow a swath and pile the dead on top of each other. Through the smoke we see a swarm of men. It is not a battle-line, but a mob of men desperate enough to bathe their bayonets in the flame of the guns. The guns leap from the ground, almost, as they are depressed on the foe--and shrieks and screams and shouts blend into one awful and steady cry. Twenty men out of the battery are down, and the firing is interrupted. The foe accept it as a sign of wavering, and come rushing on. They are not ten feet away when the guns give them a last shot. That discharge picks living men off their feet and throws them into the swamp, a blackened, bloody mass. Up now, as the enemy are among the guns! There is a silence of ten seconds, and then the flash and roar of more than three thousand muskets, and a rush forward with bayonets. For what? Neither on the right, nor left, nor in front of us is a living foe! There are corpses around us which have been struck by three, four and even six bullets, and nowhere on this acre of ground is a wounded man! The wheels of the guns cannot move until the blockade of dead is removed. Men cannot pass from caisson to gun without climbing over winrows of dead. Every gun and wheel is smeared with blood, every foot of grass has its horrible stain. Historians write of the glory of war. Burial parties saw murder where historians saw glory. A LEGEND OF THE IVY. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. In a quiet village of Germany, once dwelt a fair-haired maiden, Whose eyes were as blue as the summer sky and whose hair with gold was laden; Her lips were as red as a rose-bud sweet, with teeth, like pearls, behind them, Her smiles were like dreams of bliss, complete, and her waving curls enshrined them. Fond lovers thronged to the maiden's side, but of all the youth around her, One only had asked her to be his bride, and a willing listener found her, "Some time, we'll marry," she often said, then burst into song or laughter, And tripped away, while the lover's head hung low as he followed after. Impatient growing, at last he said, "The springtime birds are mating, Pray whisper, sweet, our day to wed; warm hearts grow cold from waiting." "Not yet," she smiled, with a fond caress; but he answered, "Now or never, I start for the Holy War unless I may call thee mine forever." "For the Holy War? Farewell!" she cried, with never a thought of grieving. His wish so often had been denied, she could not help believing His heart would wait till her budding life had blown to its full completeness. She did not know that a wedded wife holds a spell in her youthful sweetness. But alas! for the "Yes" too long delayed, he fought and he bravely perished; And alas! for the heart of the tender maid, and the love it fondly cherished; Her smile grew sad for all hope was gone; life's sands were swiftly fleeting, And just at the break of a wintry dawn, her broken heart ceased beating; And when, on her grave, at the early spring, bright flowers her friends were throwing, They knelt and there, just blossoming, they saw a strange plant growing, Its tender fingers, at first, just seen, crept on through the grass and clover, Till, at last, with a mound of perfect green, it covered the whole grave over; And often the village youth would stand by the vine-clad mound, in the gloaming, And holding a maiden's willing hand, would tell that the strange plant roaming Was the maiden's soul, which could not rest and with fruitless, fond endeavor, Went seeking the heart it loved the best, but sought in vain, forever. THE UNITED STATES. BY DANIEL WEBSTER. And now, Mr. President, instead of speaking of the possibility or utility of secession, instead of dwelling in these caverns of darkness, instead of groping with those ideas so full of all that is horrid and horrible, let us come out into the light of day; let us enjoy the fresh air of Liberty and Union; let us cherish those hopes which belong to us; let us devote ourselves to those great objects that are fit for our consideration and our action; let us raise our conceptions to the magnitude and the importance of the duties that devolve upon us; let our comprehension be as broad as the country for which we act, our aspirations as high as its certain destiny; let us not be pigmies in a case that calls for men. Never did there devolve on any generation of men higher trusts than now devolve upon us, for the preservation of this constitution, and the harmony and peace of all who are destined to live under it. Let us make our generation one of the strongest and brightest links in that golden chain, which is destined, I fondly believe, to grapple the people of all the states to this constitution, for ages to come. We have a great, popular, constitutional government, guarded by law and by judicature, and defended by the whole affections of the people. No monarchical throne presses these states together; no iron chain of military power encircles them; they live and stand upon a government popular in its form, representative in its character, founded upon principles of equality, and so constructed, we hope, as to last forever. In all its history it has been beneficent: it has trodden down no man's liberty; it has crushed no state. Its daily respiration is liberty and patriotism; its yet youthful veins are full of enterprise, courage, and honorable love of glory and renown. Large before, the country has now, by recent events, becomes vastly larger. This republic now extends, with a vast breadth, across the whole continent. The two great seas of the world wash the one and the other shore. We realize, on a mighty scale, the beautiful description of the ornamental edging of the buckler of Achilles-- "Now the broad shield complete, the artist crowned With his last hand, and poured the ocean round; In living silver seemed the waves to roll, And beat the buckler's verge, and bound the whole." IN ARABIA. BY JAMES BERRY BENSEL, 1856. "Choose thou between!" and to his enemy The Arab chief a brawny hand displayed, Wherein, like moonlight on a sullen sea, Gleamed the gray scimitar's enamelled blade. "Choose thou between death at my hand and thine! Close in my power, my vengeance I may wreak, Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like mine Is noble still. Thou hast thy choosing--speak!" And Ackbar stood. About him all the band That hailed his captor chieftain, with grave eyes His answer waited, while that heavy hand Stretched like a bar between him and the skies. Straight in the face before him Ackbar sent A sneer of scorn, and raised his noble head; "Strike!" and the desert monarch, as content, Rehung the weapon at his girdle red. Then Ackbar nearer crept and lifted high His arms toward the heaven so far and blue Wherein the sunset rays began to die, While o'er the band, a deeper silence grew. "Strike! I am ready! Did'st thou think to see A son of Gheva spill upon the dust His noble blood? Did'st hope to have my knee Bend at thy feet, and with one mighty thrust, "The life thou hatest flee before thee here? Shame on thee! on thy race! Art thou the one Who hast so long his vengeance counted dear? My hate is greater; I did strike thy son, "Thy one son, Noumid, dead before my face; And by the swiftest courser of my stud Sent to thy door his corpse. And one might trace Their flight across the desert by his blood. "Strike! for my hate is greater than thy own!" But with a frown the Arab moved away, Walked to a distant palm and stood alone With eyes that looked where purple mountains lay. This for an instant; then he turned again Toward the place where Ackbar waited still, Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain, Or with a hateful mission to fulfil. "Strike! for I hate thee!" Ackbar cried once more, "Nay, but my hate I cannot find!" said now His enemy. "Thy freedom I restore, Live, life were worse than death to such as thou." So with his gift of life, the Bedouin slept That night untroubled; but when dawn broke through The purple East, and o'er his eyelids crept The long, thin finger of the light, he drew A heavy breath and woke. Above him shone A lifted dagger--"Yea, he gave thee life, But I give death!" came in fierce undertone, And Ackbar died. It was dead Noumid's wife. The New Year Ledger. BY AMELIA E. BARR. I said one year ago, "I wonder, if I truly kept A list of days when life burnt low, Of days I smiled and days I wept, If good or bad would highest mount When I made up the year's account?" I took a ledger fair and fine, "And now," I said, "when days are glad, I'll write with bright red ink the line, And write with black when they are bad, So that they'll stand before my sight As clear apart as day and night. "I will not heed the changing skies, Nor if it shine nor if it rain; But if there comes some sweet surprise, Or friendship, love or honest gain, Why, then it shall be understood That day is written down as good. "Or if to anyone I love A blessing meets them on the way, That will to me a pleasure prove: So it shall be a happy day; And if some day, I've cause to dread Pass harmless by, I'll write it red. "When hands and brain stand labor's test, And I can do the thing I would, Those days when I am at my best Shall all be traced as very good. And in 'red letter,' too, I'll write Those rare, strong hours when right is might. "When first I meet in some grand book A noble soul that touches mine, And with this vision I can look Through some gate beautiful of time, That day such happiness will shed That golden-lined will seem the red. "And when pure, holy thoughts have power To touch my heart and dim my eyes, And I in some diviner hour Can hold sweet converse with the skies, Ah! then my soul may safely write: 'This day has been most good and bright.'" What do I see on looking back? A red-lined book before me lies, With here and there a thread of black, That like a gloomy shadow flies,-- A shadow it must be confessed, That often rose in my own breast. And I have found it good to note The blessing that is mine each day; For happiness is vainly sought In some dim future far away. Just try my ledger for a year, Then look with grateful wonder back, And you will find, there is no fear, The red days far exceed the black. GOOD READING THE GREATEST ACCOMPLISHMENT. BY JOHN S. HART, LL.D. There is one accomplishment, in particular, which I would earnestly recommend to you. Cultivate assiduously the ability to read well. I stop to particularize this, because it is a thing so very much neglected, and because it is such an elegant and charming accomplishment. Where one person is really interested by music, twenty are pleased by good reading. Where one person is capable of becoming a skillful musician, twenty may become good readers. Where there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of musical talent, there are twenty for that of good reading. The culture of the voice necessary for reading well, gives a delightful charm to the same voice in conversation. Good reading is the natural exponent and vehicle of all good things. It is the most effective of all commentaries upon the works of genius. It seems to bring dead authors to life again, and makes us sit down familiarly with the great and good of all ages. Did you ever notice what life and power the Holy Scriptures have when well read? Have you ever heard of the wonderful effects produced by Elizabeth Fry on the criminals of Newgate, by simply reading to them the parable of the Prodigal Son? Princes and peers of the realm, it is said, counted it a privilege to stand in the dismal corridors, among felons and murderers, merely to share with them the privilege of witnessing the marvelous pathos which genius, taste, and culture could infuse into that simple story. What a fascination there is in really good reading! What a power it gives one! In the hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, in the domestic and in the social circle, among chosen friends and companions, how it enables you to minister to the amusement, to the comfort, the pleasure of dear ones, as no other art or accomplishment can. No instrument of man's devising can reach the heart as does that most wonderful instrument, the human voice. It is God's special gift and endowment to his chosen creatures. Fold it not away in a napkin. If you would double the value of all your other acquisitions, if you would add immeasurably to your own enjoyment and to your power of promoting the enjoyment of others, cultivate, with incessant care, this divine gift. No music below the skies is equal to that of pure, silvery speech from the lips of a man or woman of high culture. PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Listen, my children, and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five-- Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year-- He said to his friend: "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light; One, if by land, and two if by sea, And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm." Then he said "Good-night," and, with muffled oar, Silently row'd to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay The "Somerset," British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night encampment on the hill. Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead, For, suddenly, all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,-- A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth And turned and lighted his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched, with eager search, The belfry tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight, A second lamp in the belfry burns. A hurry of hoofs in the village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark, Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; That was all; and yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He had left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides, And under the alders that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town; He heard the crowing of the cock And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river's fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock When he came to the bridge in Concord town; He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket ball. You know the rest; in the books you have read, How the British regulars fired and fled; How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the redcoats down the lane, Then crossing the fields, to emerge again Under the trees, at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere, And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,-- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the past, Through all our history to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed And the midnight message of Paul Revere. BY SPECIAL REQUEST. BY FRANK CASTLES. _A Lady Standing with one Hand on a Chair in a Somewhat Amateurish Attitude._ Our kind hostess has asked me to recite something, "by special request," but I really don't know what to do. I have only a very small _repertoire_, and I'm afraid you know all my stock recitations. What shall I do? (_Pause._) I have it; I'll give you something entirely original. I'll tell you about my last experience of reciting, which really is the cause of my being so nervous to-night. I began reciting about a year ago; I took elocution lessons with Mr. ----; no, I won't tell you his name, I want to keep him all to myself. I studied the usual things with him--the "Mercy" speech from the "Merchant of Venice," and Juliet's "Balcony scene," but I somehow never could imagine my fat, red-faced, snub-nosed old master (there! I've told you who he was), I never could fancy him as an ideal Romeo; he looked much more like Polonius, or the Ghost before he was a ghost--I mean as he probably was in the flesh. My elocution master told me that Shakespeare was not my forte, so I studied some more modern pieces. He told me I was getting on very well--"one of my most promising pupils," but I found that he said that to every one. Well, it soon became known that I recited (one must have _some_ little vices, you know, just to show up one's virtues). I received an invitation from Lady Midas for a musical evening last Friday, and in a postscript, "We hope you will favor us with a recitation." Very flattering, wasn't it? I went there fully primed with three pieces--"The Lifeboat," by Sims, "The Lost Soul," and Calverley's "Waiting." I thought that I had hit on a perfectly original selection; but I was soon undeceived. There were a great many people at Lady Midas', quite fifty, I should think, or perhaps two hundred; but I'm very bad at guessing numbers. We had a lot of music. A young man, with red hair and little twinkling light eyes, sang a song by De Lara, but it did not sound as well as when I heard the composer sing it. Then two girls played a banjo duet; then--no, we had another song first, then a girl with big eyes and an ugly dress--brown nun's veiling with yellow lace, and beads, and ribbons, and sham flowers and all sorts of horrid things, so ugly, I'm sure it was made at home. Well--where was I? Oh, yes!--she stood up and recited, what do you think? Why, "Calverley's Waiting!" Oh! I was so cross when it came to the last verses; you remember how they go (_imitating_)-- "'Hush! hark! I see a hovering form! From the dim distance slowly rolled; It rocks like lilies in a storm, And oh! its hues are green and gold. 'It comes, it comes! Ah! rest is sweet, And there is rest, my babe, for us!' She ceased, as at her very feet Stopped the St. John's Wood omnibus." Well, when I heard that I felt inclined to cry. Just imagine how provoking; one of the pieces I had been practicing for weeks past. Oh, it _was_ annoying! After that there was a violin solo, then another--no, then I had an ice, such a nice young man, just up from Aldershot, _very_ young, but _so_ amusing, and so full of somebody of "ours" who had won something, or lost something, I could not quite make out which. Then we came back to the drawing-room, and an elderly spinster, with curls, sang, "Oh that we two were Maying," and the young man from Aldershot said, "Thank goodness we aren't." Afterward I had another ice, not because I wanted it, not a bit, but the young man from Aldershot said he was _so_ thirsty. Then I saw a youth with long hair and badly-fitting clothes. I thought he was going to sing, but he wasn't; oh no! much worse! he recited. When I heard the first words I thought I should faint (_imitating_): "Been out in the lifeboat often? Aye, aye, sir, oft enough. When it's rougher than this? Lor' bless you, this ain't what _we_ calls rough." How well I knew the lines! Wasn't it cruel? However, I had one hope left--my "Lost Soul," a beautiful poem, serious and sentimental. The æsthetic youth was so tedious that the young man from Aldershot asked me to come into the conservatory, and really I was so vexed and disappointed that I think I would have gone into the coal-cellar if he had asked me. We went into the conservatory and had a nice long talk, all about----well, it would take too long to tell you now, and besides it would not interest _you_. All at once mamma came in, and I felt rather frightened at first (I don't know why), but she was laughing and smiling. "O, Mary," she said, "that æsthetic young man has been so funny; they encored 'The Lifeboat,' so he recited a very comic piece of poetry, that sent us all into fits of laughter, it was called 'The Fried Sole,' a parody on 'The Lost Soul' that you used to recite." Alas! my last hope was wrecked; I could not read after that! I believe I burst into tears. Anyhow, mamma hurried me off in a cab, and I cried all the way home and--and--I forgot to say good-night to the young man from Aldershot. Wasn't it a pity? And you see that's why I don't like to recite anything to-night. (_Some one from the audience comes up and whispers to her_). No! really, have I? How stupid! I'm told that I've been reciting all this time. I am so sorry; will you ever forgive me? I do beg pardon; I'll never do it again! (_Runs out._) NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. [Found in the Knapsack of a Soldier of the Civil War After He Had Been Slain in Battle.] Near the camp-fire's flickering light, In my blanket bed I lie, Gazing through the shades of night And the twinkling stars on high; O'er me spirits in the air Silent vigils seem to keep, As I breathe my childhood's prayer, "Now I lay me down to sleep." Sadly sings the whip-poor-will In the boughs of yonder tree; Laughingly the dancing rill Swells the midnight melody. Foemen may be lurking near, In the cañon dark and deep; Low I breathe in Jesus' ear: "I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep." 'Mid those stars one face I see-- One the Saviour turned away-- Mother, who in infancy Taught my baby lips to pray; Her sweet spirit hovers near In this lonely mountain-brake. Take me to her Saviour dear "If I should die before I wake." Fainter grows the flickering light, As each ember slowly dies; Plaintively the birds of night Fill the air with sad'ning cries; Over me they seem to cry: "You may never more awake." Low I lisp: "If I should die, I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take." Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take. THE AMERICAN UNION. BY DANIEL WEBSTER. I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings; and although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread further and further, they have not outrun its protection, or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below; nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the union should be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. While the union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that, in my day at least, that curtain may not rise! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind! When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious union; on states dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured, bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as, What is all this worth? nor those other words of delusion and folly, Liberty first, and union afterward; but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart, liberty and union now and forever, one and inseparable! THE POPPY LAND LIMITED EXPRESS. BY EDGAR WADE ABBOT. The first train leaves at six p. m. For the land where the poppy blows; The mother dear is the engineer, And the passenger laughs and crows. The palace car is the mother's arms; The whistle, a low, sweet strain: The passenger winks, and nods, and blinks, And goes to sleep in the train! At eight p. m. the next train starts For the poppy land afar, The summons clear falls on the ear: "All aboard for the sleeping-car!" But what is the fare to poppy land? I hope it is not too dear. The fare is this, a hug and a kiss, And it's paid to the engineer! So I ask of Him who children took On His knee in kindness great, "Take charge, I pray, of the trains each day, That leave at six and eight. "Keep watch of the passengers," thus I pray, "For to me they are very dear, And special ward, O gracious Lord, O'er the gentle engineer." MOTHER, HOME, AND HEAVEN. Mother, Home, and Heaven, says a writer, are three of the most beautiful words in the English language. And truly I think that they may be well called so--what word strikes so forcibly upon the heart as mother? Coming from childhood's sunny lips, it has a peculiar charm; for it speaks of one to whom they look and trust for protection. A mother is the truest friend we have; when trials heavy and sudden fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends, who rejoiced with us in our sunshine, desert us when troubles thicken around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts. The kind voice of a mother has often been the means of reclaiming an erring one from the path of wickedness to a life of happiness and prosperity. The lonely convict, immured in his dreary cell, thinks of the innocent days of his childhood, and feels that though other friends forsake him, he has still a guardian angel watching over him; and that, however dark his sins may have been, they have all been forgiven and forgotten by her. Mother is indeed a sweet name, and her station is indeed a holy one; for in her hands are placed minds, to be moulded almost at her will; aye, fitted to shine--not much, it is true, on earth, compared, if taught aright, with the dazzling splendor which awaits them in heaven. Home! how often we hear persons speak of the home of their childhood. Their minds seem to delight in dwelling upon the recollections of joyous days spent beneath the parental roof, when their young and happy hearts were as light and free as the birds who made the woods resound with the melody of their cheerful voices. What a blessing it is, when weary with care, and burdened with sorrow, to have a home to which we can go, and there, in the midst of friends we love, forget our troubles and dwell in peace and quietness. Heaven! that land of quiet rest--toward which those, who, worn down and tired with the toils of earth, direct their frail barks over the troubled waters of life, and after a long and dangerous passage, find it--safe in the haven of eternal bliss. Heaven is the home that awaits us beyond the grave. There the friendships formed on earth, and which cruel death has severed, are never more to be broken: and parted friends shall meet again, never more to be separated. It is an inspiring hope that, when we separate here on earth at the summons of death's angel, and when a few more years have rolled over the heads of those remaining, if "faithful unto death," we shall meet again in Heaven, our eternal _home_, there to dwell in the presence of our Heavenly Father, and go no more out forever. PRAYING FOR SHOES. BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. _A True Incident._ On a dark November morning, A lady walked slowly down The thronged, tumultuous thoroughfare Of an ancient seaport town. Of a winning and gracious beauty, The peace of her pure young face Was soft as the gleam of an angel's dream In the calms of a heavenly place. Her eyes were fountains of pity, And the sensitive mouth expressed A longing to set the kind thoughts free In music that filled her breast. She met, by a bright shop window, An urchin timid and thin, Who, with limbs that shook and a yearning look, Was mistily glancing in At the rows and varied clusters Of slippers and shoes outspread, Some shimmering keen, but of sombre sheen, Some purple and green and red. His pale lips moved and murmured; But of what, she could not hear. And oft on his folded hands would fall The round of a bitter tear. "What troubles you, child?" she asked him, In a voice like the May-wind sweet. He turned, and while pointing dolefully To his naked and bleeding feet, "I was praying for shoes," he answered; "Just look at the splendid show! I was praying to God for a single pair, The sharp stones hurt me so!" She led him, in museful silence, At once through the open door, And his hope grew bright, like a fairy light, That flickered and danced before! And there he was washed and tended And his small, brown feet were shod; And he pondered there on his childish prayer, And the marvelous answer of God. Above them his keen gaze wandered, How strangely from shop to shelf, Till it almost seemed that he fondly dreamed Of looking on God Himself. The lady bent over, and whispered, "Are you happier now, my lad?" He started, and all his soul flashed forth In a gratitude swift and glad. "Happy?--Oh, yes!--I am happy!" Then (wonder with reverence rife, His eyes aglow, and his voice sunk low), "Please tell me! Are you God's wife?" RUM'S DEVASTATION AND DESTINY. BY HON. WILLIAM SULLIVAN. [In a discourse delivered before the Massachusetts Society for the Suppression of Intemperance, on the twenty-third of May, 1832, Hon. William Sullivan, one of the vice-presidents of the society, gave an account of the discovery of the art of distilling wine from brandy, showing that it was made some five or six hundred years ago, by an alchemist who was in search of the means of acquiring "inexhaustible riches and perpetual youth." After having spoken of the origin of alcohol, the speaker imagines it to be "the office of history to announce the future, instead of recording the past," and assuming to stand beside the man who made the discovery, delivered the following eloquent address detailing the melancholy consequences of this discovery, and forecasting the blessings which shall result from the final overthrow of the rum fiend.] In your researches after that which you should, at once, have known to be impossible, by the laws of nature, you have opened a fountain of misery which shall flow for ages. You have not contented yourself with pressing out the juices of the fruits bestowed upon you, and converting these into strong drink which you needed not,--but you have taken this strong drink, and the harvest, which was given to you for food, and have drawn from these a liquid which is not food and which will not nourish nor sustain your earthly frame. This liquid shall be a curse upon you and your descendants. It shall be known wherever the arts of civilization are known. You shall call it the _elixir of life_. You shall believe it to be nutritious to the body and gladdening to the soul. The love of it shall grow with the use of it. It shall soothe the solitary hour and cheer the festive board. It shall charm away your griefs, and be the cause of your rejoicings. It shall be the inducement to communion and the bond of friendship. It shall be prized alike by the high and the low. It shall be the joy of princes as well as of the meanest of mortals. It shall be the stimulant to laborious toil, and the reward for labor done. It shall be bought and sold, and make the dealer therein rich. It shall yield abundant revenues to sovereignty. Hospitality shall be dishonored in not offering it to the guest, and the guest shall be disgraced in not receiving it at the hand of his host. But----it shall visit your limbs with palsy; it shall extinguish the pride of man; it shall make the husband hateful to the wife, and the wife loathsome to the husband; it shall annihilate the love of offspring; it shall make members of society a shame and a reproach to each other, and to all among whom they dwell. It shall steal from the virtuous and the honorable their good name, and shall make the strong and the vigorous to totter along the streets of cities. It shall pervert the law of habit, designed to strengthen you in the path of duty, and bind you in its iron chain. It shall disgrace the judge upon the bench, the minister in the sacred desk, and the senator in his exalted seat. It shall make your food tasteless, your mouth to burn as with a fever, and your stomach to tremble as with disease. It shall cause the besotted mother to overlay her newborn, unconscious that it dies beneath the pressure of her weight; the natural cravings of the infant shall make it strive to awaken her who has passed, unheeded, to her last long sleep. The son shall hide his face that he may not behold his father's depravity; and the father shall see the object of his fondest hopes turn to a foul and bloated carcass, that hurries to the grave. It shall turn the children of men into raving maniacs; and the broken ties of blood and affection shall find no relief but in the friendly coming of Death. As the seed which man commits to the earth comes forth into that which he converts into spirit, so shall this product of his own invention be as seed in his own heart, to bring forth violence, rapine and murder. It shall cause man to shut up his fellow-man in the solitude of the grated cell. The prisoner shall turn pale and tremble, in his loneliness, at the presence of his own thoughts; he shall come forth to die, in cold blood, by the hand of his fellow, with the spectacle of _religious homage on a scaffold_, and amid the gaze of curious thousands. Poverty shall be made squalid and odious, even so that Charity shall turn away her face in disgust. It shall attract the pestilence that walks, even at noon-day, in darkness, to the very vitals of the drunkard, as carrion invites the far-sighted birds of prey. The consumer of spirit shall be found dead in the highway, with the exhausted vessel by his side. Yea, the drunkard shall kindle a fire in his own bosom which shall not depart from him till he is turned to ashes. The dropsical drunkard shall die in his delirium, and the fluid which has gathered in his brain shall smell like spirit, and like spirit shall burn. A feeble frame, an imbecile mind, torturing pain and incurable madness shall be of the inheritance which drunkards bequeath, to run with their blood to innocent descendants. The wise men, who assemble in the halls; of legislation, shall be blind to this ruin, desolation, and misery. Nay, they shall license the sale of this poison, and shall require of dignified magistrates to certify how much thereof shall be sold for the "PUBLIC GOOD." This minister of woe and wretchedness shall roam over the earth at pleasure. It shall be found in every country of the Christian; it shall go into every city, into every village, and into every house. But it shall not visit the country of the heathen, nor spread woe and wretchedness among them, but by the hands of Christians. The light of reason shall at length break upon the benighted and afflicted world. The truth shall be told. It shall be believed. The causes of calamity shall be unveiled. The friends of the human race shall speak and be respected. Rational man shall be ashamed of his follies and his crimes, and humbled to the dust that he was so long ignorant of their origin. Governments shall be ashamed that they so long tolerated and sustained the most costly and cruel foe that man has ever encountered. Avarice itself shall be conscience-stricken and penitent. It shall remain where nature placed it for use; and it shall be odious in the sight of _Heaven_ and of _Earth_ to convert the fruits of the soil into poison. THE DAUGHTER OF THE DESERT. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. An opulent lord of Ispahan, In luxury, lolled on a silk divan, Dreaming the idle hours away In a cloud of smoke from his nargile. Weary with nothing to do in life, He thought, as he watched the smoky whirls, "'Twill be diversion to choose a wife From my peerless bevy of dancing-girls. There are beauties fair from every land-- Lustrous eyes from Samarcand, Dusky forms from the upper Nile, Teeth that glisten when red lips smile, Gypsy faces of olive hue, Stolen from some wild wandering clan, Fair complexions and eyes of blue, From the sunny isles of Cardachan, Regal beauties of queenly grace And sinuous sirens of unknown race; Some one among them will surely bless Hours that grow heavy with idleness." Then the slave that waited his lightest need, Fell on his knee, by the silk divan, And the swarthy, listening ear gave heed To the will of the lord of Ispahan. "Send hither my dancing-girls," he said, "And set me a feast to please the eye And tempt the palate, for this shall be A wedding breakfast before us spread, If the charm of beauty can satisfy And one of their number pleaseth me. I will wed no maiden of high degree With the tips of her fingers henna-stained And the dew of youth from her life-blood drained, But a child of nature wild and free." Then the slave bent low and said: "O Sire, A woman lingers beside the gate; Her eyes are aglow like coals of fire And she mourns as one disconsolate; And when we bid her to cease and go, Each eye grows bright, like an evening star, And she sayeth: 'The master will hear my woe, For I come from the deserts of Khandakar.'" "Bid her to enter," the master said, And the frown from his forehead swiftly fled. The hasty word on his lip way stayed As he thought of his youth, in the land afar, And the peerless eyes of a Bedouin maid, In the desert places of Khandakar. The woman entered and swift unwound The veil that mantled her face around, And in matchless beauty, she stood arrayed, In the scant attire of a Bedouin maid. The indolent lord of Ispahan Started back on the silk divan, For in form and feature, in very truth, It seemed the love of his early youth. The almond eyes and the midnight hair, The rosebud mouth and the rounded chin-- Time had not touched them; they still were fair, And the passion of yore grew strong within. Then she made him the secret Bedouin sign, Which only dishonor can fail to heed; The solemn pact of the races nine, To help each other in time of need. But her eyes beheld no answering sign, Though a crimson tide to his forehead ran, And the trembling maiden could not divine The will of the lord of Ispahan. With the sound of a rippling mountain brook, The voice of the woman her lips forsook; And thus her tale of despair began In the lordly palace of Ispahan: "On a stallion black as the midnight skies, From a desert I come, where my lover lies At death's dark verge; and the hostile clan That struck him down, are in Ispahan With slaves to sell, in the open street; And only because my steed was fleet Am I now free; but here I bide, For this morning the hard-rid stallion died. Out of your opulence, one swift steed Only a drop from the sea will be; A grain of sand on the shore, to my need; But the wealth of the whole, wide world to me. My soul to the soul of my loved one cries, At dawn or in darkness, whate'er betide, And the pain of longing all peace denies, To the heart that strains to my lover's side." "You shall mourn no more, but sit with me And rejoice in a scene of revelry; For the pleasures of life are the rights of man," Said the indolent lord of Ispahan. The curtains parted and noiseless feet Of dusky slaves stole over the floor. Their strong arms laden with burden sweet Of fruits and flowers a goodly store. Luscious peaches and apricots, Plucked from the sunniest garden spots; Syrian apples and cordials rare; Succulent grapes that filled the air With heavy sweetness, while rivers ran, From beakers of wine from Astrakhan; Cooling salvers of colored ice; Almonds powdered with fragrant spice; Smoking viands, on plates of gold, And carven vessels of price untold, Kindling the appetite afresh For dainty morsels of fowl and flesh. The musical notes of the mellow flute, From a source remote, rose higher and higher, With the quivering sounds from a hidden lute, The plaintive sweep of the tender lyre. Then a whirlwind of color filled the air-- A misty vapor of filmy lace, With gleams of silk and of round arms bare, In a mazy whirl of infinite grace; And the lustrous glow of tresses blent With the shimmer of pearls, from the Orient. The half-sobbed, breathless, sweet refrain, A swelling burst of sensuous sound, Sank lower to swell and sink again, Then died in silence most profound. The panting beauties with cheeks aglow, Scattered about on the rug-strewn floor, Like bright-hued leaves when the chill winds blow, Or tinted sea-shells along the shore. But the lord of the palace turned and cried; "Heavy and languid these maidens are." And he said, to the Bedouin at his side: "Teach them the dances of Khandakar." Her dark eyes lit with the flash of fire, And she said: "You will pity my need most dire? You will give me steed to fly afar, To my love in the deserts of Khandakar?" "Half that I own shall be yours," he said, "If the love of my youth that was under ban Comes back to me like a soul from the dead Bringing joy to the palace of Ispahan." She sprang to the floor with an agile bound. The music broke in a swirl of sound, Her hair from its fillet became unbound. And the dancing-girls that stood apart, Gazed rapt and speechless, with hand to heart, At the wild, untrammelled curves of grace Of the dancing-girl from the desert race. Not one of them half so fair to see; Not one as lithe in the sinuous twist Of twirling body and bending knee, Of supple ankle and curving wrist. The wilder the music, the wilder she; It seemed like the song of a bird set free To thrill in the heart of a cloud of mist And live on its own mad ecstasy. Spellbound and mute, on the silk divan, Sat the lord of the palace of Ispahan. But the thoughts of the master were drifting far To his youth in the deserts of Khandakar; To the time when another had danced as well, And listened with tenderness in her eyes, To the burning words his lips might tell, With kisses freighting her soft replies. And he had thought that her smile would bless His roving life, in the land afar, And cheer him in hours of loneliness, In the tents of the deserts of Khandakar. But the tribe had chosen the maid to wed With the powerful chief of a hostile clan, And the flattered woman had turned and fled From the pleading voice of a stricken man; Then out of the desert the lover sped, To become a great lord of Ispahan. And now this child, with the subtle grace Of the mother that bore her, had come to him With the desert's breath upon her face, Rousing within him a purpose grim. "By the beard of the Prophet! but you shall be The light and the joy of my life to me! As your mother was, you are to-day. Your lover, perchance, hath lived his span; You shall dry your maidenly tears and stay As the wife of the lord of Ispahan." That night, when the dusky shadows crept Across the tiles of the banquet-room, They found the form of a man who slept On a silk divan, in the gathering gloom. The window screens were wide to the air, And the hedge, where the fragrant roses grew, Was cleft and trodden to earth, just where A frightened fugitive might pass through. And the groom of the stables, heavy with wine, Wakened not at the prancing tread Of the milk-white steed and made no sign, As the Bedouin maid from the palace fled. And the indolent lord of Ispahan Seemed resting still, on the silk divan; But his heart was beating with love no more, In his eyes no light of passion gleamed; His listless fingers touched the floor, Where the crimson tide of his life-blood streamed, And he slept the last, long, dreamless sleep; For the end had come to life's brief span; And his jewelled dagger was handle deep, In the heart of the lord of Ispahan. HORNETS. BY BILL NYE. Last fall I desired to add to my rare collection a large hornet's nest. I had an embalmed tarantula and her porcelain-lined nest, and I desired to add to these the gray and airy house of the hornet. I procured one of the large size, after cold weather, and hung it in my cabinet by a string. I forgot about it until spring. When warm weather came something reminded me of it; I think it was a hornet. He jogged my memory in some way, and called my attention to it. Memory is not located where I thought it was. It seemed as though when ever he touched me he awakened a memory,--a warm memory, with a red place all around it. Then some more hornets came, and began to rake up old personalities. I remember that one of them lit on my upper lip. He thought it was a rosebud. When he went away it looked like a gladiolus bulb. I wrapped a wet sheet around it to take out the warmth and reduce the swelling, so that I could go through the folding doors, and tell my wife about it. Hornets lit all over me, and walked around on my person. I did not dare to scrape them off, because they were so sensitive. You have to be very guarded in your conduct toward a hornet. I remember once while I was watching the busy little hornet gathering honey and June-bugs from the bosom of a rose, years ago, I stirred him up with a club, more as a practical joke than anything, and he came and lit in my sunny hair;--that was when I wore my own hair--and he walked around through my gleaming tresses quite a while, making tracks as large as a water-melon all over my head. If he hadn't run out of tracks my head would have looked like a load of summer squashes. I remember I had to thump my head against the smoke-house in order to smash him; and I had to comb him out with a fine comb, and wear a waste-paper basket two weeks for a hat. Much has been said of the hornet; but he has an odd, quaint way after all, that is forever new. SINCE SHE WENT HOME. BY R. J. BURDETTE. Since she went home-- The evening shadows linger longer here, The winter days fill so much of the year, And even summer winds are chill and drear, Since she went home. Since she went home-- The robin's note has touched a minor strain, The old glad songs breathe but a sad refrain, And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain, Since she went home. Since she went home-- How still the empty room her presence blessed; Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed; My lonely heart has nowhere for its rest, Since she went home. Since she went home-- The long, long days have crept away like years, The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears, And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears, Since she went home. THE CHILDREN WE KEEP. The children kept coming, one by one, Till the boys were five and the girls were three, And the big brown house was alive with fun From the basement floor to the old roof-tree. Like garden flowers the little ones grew, Nurtured and trained with the tenderest care; Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in its dew, They bloomed into beauty, like roses rare. But one of the boys grew weary one day, And leaning his head on his mother's breast, He said, "I'm tired and cannot play; Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest." She cradled him close in her fond embrace, She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song, And rapturous love still lighted his face When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng. Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes, Who stood where the "brook and the river meet," Stole softly away into paradise Ere "the river" had reached her slender feet. While the father's eyes on the grave are bent, The mother looked upward beyond the skies; "Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent, Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise." The years flew by and the children began With longing to think of the world outside; And as each, in his turn, became a man, The boys proudly went from the father's side. The girls were women so gentle and fair That lovers were speedy to woo and win; And with orange blossoms in braided hair, The old home was left, the new home to begin. So, one by one, the children have gone,-- The boys were five and the girls were three; And the big brown house is gloomy and lone, With but two old folks for its company. They talk to each other about the past, As they sit together in eventide, And say, "All the children we keep at last Are the boy and the girl who in childhood died." AMERICA FOR GOD. BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE. But now what are the weapons by which, under our Omnipotent Leader, the real obstacles in the way of our country's evangelization, the ten thousand mile Sebastopols, are to be leveled? The first columbiad, with range enough to sweep from eternity to eternity, is the Bible, millions of its copies going out, millions on millions. Then there are all the Gospel batteries, manned by seventy thousand pastors and home missionaries, over the head of each one of whom is the shield of Divine protection, and in the right hand of each one the gleaming, two-edged sword of the Infinite Spirit! Hundreds of thousands of private soldiers for Christ, marching under the one-starred, blood-striped flag of Emanuel! On our side, the great and mighty theologians of the land the heavy artillery, and the hundreds of thousands of Christian children the infantry. They are marching on! Episcopacy, with the sublime roll of its liturgies; Methodism, with its battle-cry of "The sword of the Lord and John Wesley;" the Baptist Church, with its glorious navy sailing up our Oregons and Sacramentos and Mississippis; and Presbyterians, moving on with the battle-cry of "The sword of the Lord and John Knox." And then, after awhile will come the great tides of revival, sweeping over the land, the five hundred thousand conversions in 1857 eclipsed by the salvation of millions in a day, and the four American armies of the Lord's host marching toward each other, the Eastern army marching west, the Western army marching east, the Northern army marching south, the Southern army marching north; shoulder to shoulder! Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! until they meet mid-continent, having taken America for God! The thunder of the bombardment is already in the air, and when the last bridge of opposition is taken, and the last portcullis of Satan is lifted, and the last gun spiked, and the last tower dismantled, and the last charger of iniquity shall have been hurled back upon its haunches, what a time of rejoicing! OUR OWN. BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER. If I had known, in the morning, How wearily all the day The words unkind would trouble my mind That I said when you went away, I had been more careful, darling, Nor given you needless pain; But--we vex our own with look and tone We might never take back again. For though in the quiet evening You may give me the kiss of peace, Yet it well might be that never for me The pain of the heart should cease; How many go forth at morning Who never come home at night, And hearts have broken for harsh words spoken That sorrow can ne'er set right. We have careful thought for the stranger, And smiles for the sometime guest, But oft for our own the bitter tone, Though we love our own the best. Ah, lip with the curve impatient, Ah, brow with the shade of scorn, 'T were a cruel fate were the night too late To undue the work of morn. BEHIND TIME. BY FREEMAN HUNT. A railroad train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. A curve was just ahead, and beyond it was a station, at which the cars usually passed each other. The conductor was late, so late that the period during which the down train was to wait had nearly elapsed; but he hoped yet to pass the curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in eternity; and all because an engineer had been _behind time_. A great battle was going on. Column after column had been precipitated for eight mortal hours on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The summer sun was sinking to the west; re-inforcements for the obstinate defenders were already in sight; it was necessary to carry the position with one final charge, or everything would be lost. A powerful corps had been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in season all would yet be well. The great conqueror, confident in its arrival, formed his reserve into an attacking column, and ordered them to charge the enemy. The whole world knows the result. Grouchy failed to appear; the imperial guard was beaten back; Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St. Helena because one of his marshals was _behind time_. A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled against bankruptcy. As it had enormous assets in California, it expected remittances by a certain day; and, if the sums promised arrived, its credit, its honor, and its future prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed without bringing the gold. At last came the fatal day on which the firm had bills maturing to enormous amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at daybreak; but it was found, on inquiry, that she brought no funds, and the house failed. The next arrival brought nearly half a million to the insolvents, but it was too late; they were ruined because their agent, in remitting, had been _behind time_. A condemned man was led out for execution. He had taken human life, but under circumstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was active in his behalf. Thousands had signed petitions for a reprieve; a favorable answer had been expected the night before; and, though it had not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive in season. Thus the morning passed without the appearance of the messenger. The last moment had come. The prisoner took his place on the drop, the cap was drawn over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in the wind. Just at that moment a horse-man came into sight, galloping down hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, which he waved rapidly to the crowd. He was the express rider with the reprieve. But he had come too late. A comparatively innocent man had died an ignominious death, because a watch had been five minutes too slow, making its bearer arrive _behind time_. It is continually so in life. The best-laid plans, the most important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed because somebody is "behind time." There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply because they are "behind time." There are others who put off reformation year by year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because forever "_behind time_." Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. It is but a little period, yet it has often saved a fortune or redeemed a people. If there is one virtue that should be cultivated more than another by him who would succeed in life, it is punctuality; if there is one error that should be avoided, it is being _behind time_. KITTENS AND BABIES. BY LIZZIE M. HADLEY. There were two kittens, a black and a gray, And grandmamma said, with a frown, "It never will do to keep them both, The black one we'd better drown." "Don't cry, my dear," to tiny Bess, "One kitten's enough to keep; Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing late And time you were fast asleep." The morrow dawned, and rosy and sweet Came little Bess from her nap. The nurse said, "Go into mamma's room And look in grandma's lap." "Come here," said grandma, with a smile, From the rocking-chair where she sat, "God has sent you two little sisters; Now! what do you think of that?" Bess looked at the babies a moment, With their wee heads, yellow and brown, And then to grandma soberly said, "_Which one are you going to drown_?" AN UNACCOUNTABLE MYSTERY. BY PAUL DENTON. Intemperance is the strangest and most unaccountable mystery with which we have to deal. Why, as a rule, the human soul is passionately jealous of its own happiness, and tirelessly selfish as to its own interest. It delights to seek the sunshine and the flowers this side the grave: ardently hopes for heaven in the life to come. It flashes its penetrating thought through the dark chambers of the earth; or lighted by the lurid flames of smouldering, volcanic fires, wings them through buried ovens. It lights up the ocean's bed, melting its mysteries into solution, detecting its coral richness, and causing its buried pearls, which have rested for long centuries beneath the black waves, to glow with their long-hoarded beauty. It holds converse with the glittering planets of the skies and compels them to tell it of their mountain ranges, their landscapes, and their utility. It toys with the mad lightnings which break from the darkness, and guides death and destruction through the earth, until it allures the impetuous element into docility and subserviency. It bids the panting waters breathe their hot, heavy breath upon the piston-rod and make the locomotive a beautiful thing of life, majestically thundering its way over continents, screaming forth the music of civilization in the midst of wild forests and the heat of burning deserts, beneath scorching, torrid suns. It leaps over burning plains and scalding streams; restless and daring, it lights its casket over arctic zones and seas; and perhaps tiring of such incumbrance, deserts it in the cold shade of the ice mountain and speeds on untrammeled and alone. Franklin followed the beckonings of his tireless spirit until worn out and weary, his body laid down on the cold ice and slept. Kane coaxed himself home to the old churchyard, and then bade his spirit drop the machine it had so sadly wrenched and fly through earth or the eternities, as God might will. Livingstone marched through the jungles and cheerless forests of uninviting Africa, but his limbs were too feeble to keep up with his hungry soul, which tore itself from its burden and left it to crumble beneath the burning sun. And thus the soul flies from zone to zone and from world to world, sipping the sweets of wisdom, as the bee sucks honey from the flowers; reading lessons from the leaflet on the tree, studying the language of the soft whispering zephyr, and of the hurricane which springs from nothing into devastating power; and it is ever restless in its researches, for it seeks its own happiness and improvement in its new discoveries, and in a better knowledge of God's creation. Speak to the human soul of liberty, and swell it with gratitude, and, beaming with smiles, it will follow whereever you lead. Speak to it of its immortality and of the divine grandeur of its faculties, and, warmed by your appreciation, it will strive harder for a fuller development and brighter existence. Lead it among the roses, and it will seldom fail to light your pathway with smiles and to remind you of its gratitude. It loves to be noticed; loves to be assisted; loves to be made happy; loves to be warned of danger, and yet, with reference to that which pierces it with the most bleeding wounds, which more than anything else bars from it the sunlight and robs it of happiness--Intemperance--IT IS AS HEEDLESS AS THE STONE. IMPERFECTUS. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. I wonder if ever a song was sung, But the singer's heart sang sweeter! I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung, But the thought surpassed the meter! I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought, Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought! Or if ever a painter, with light and shade, The dream of his inmost heart portrayed! I wonder if ever a rose was found, And there might not be a fairer! Or if ever a glittering gem was ground, And we dreamed not of a rarer! Ah! never on earth do we find the best, But it waits for us in a Land of Rest, And a perfect thing we shall never behold, Till we pass the portals of shining gold. A WOMAN'S POCKET. BY JAMES M. BAILEY. The most difficult thing to reach is a woman's pocket. This is especially the case if the dress is hung up in a closet, and the man is in a hurry. We think we are safe in saying that he always is in a hurry on such an occasion. The owner of the dress is in the sitting room serenely engrossed in a book. Having told him that the article which he is in quest of is in her dress pocket in the closet she has discharged her whole duty in the matter and can afford to feel serene. He goes at the task with a dim consciousness that he has been there before, but says nothing. On opening the closet door and finding himself confronted with a number of dresses, all turned inside out and presenting a most formidable front, he hastens back to ask "Which dress?" and being told the brown one, and also asked if _she_ has so _many_ dresses that there need be any great effort to find the right one, he returns to the closet with alacrity, and soon has his hands on the brown dress. It is inside out like the rest,--a fact he does not notice, however, until he has made several ineffectual attempts to get his hand into it. Then he turns it around very carefully and passes over the pocket several times without knowing it. A nervous movement of his hands, and an appearance of perspiration on his forehead are perceptible. He now dives one hand in at the back, and feeling around, finds a place, and proceeds to explore it, when he discovers that he is following up the inside of a lining. The nervousness increases, also the perspiration. He twitches the dress on the hook, and suddenly the pocket, white, plump and exasperating, comes to view. Then he sighs the relief he feels and is mentally grateful he did not allow himself to use any offensive expressions. It is all right now. There is the pocket in plain view--not the inside but the outside--and all he has to do is to put his hand right around in the inside and take out the article. That is all. He can't help but smile to think how near he was to getting mad. Then he puts his hand around to the other side. He does not feel the opening. He pushes a little further--now he has got it; he shoves the hand down, and is very much surprised to see it appear opposite his knees. He had made a mistake. He tries again; again he feels the entrance and glides down it only to appear again as before. This makes him open his eyes and straighten his face. He feels of the outside of the pocket, pinches it curiously, lifts it up, shakes it, and, after peering closely about the roots of it, he says, "How funny!" and commences again. He does it calmly this time, because hurrying only makes matters worse. He holds up breadth after breadth, goes over them carefully, gets his hand first into a lining, then into the air again (where it always surprises him when it appears), and finally into a pocket, and is about to cry out with triumph, when he discovers that it is the pocket to another dress. He is mad now; the closet air almost stifles him; he is so nervous he can hardly contain himself, and the pocket looks at him so exasperatingly that he cannot help but "plug" it with his clenched fist, and immediately does it. Being somewhat relieved by this performance he has a chance to look about him, and sees that he has put his foot through a band-box and into the crown of his wife's bonnet; has broken the brim of his Panama hat which was hanging in the same closet, and torn about a yard of bugle trimming from a new cloak. All this trouble is due directly to his wife's infatuation in hanging up her dresses inside out, so he immediately starts after her, and impetuously urging her to the closet, excitedly and almost profanely intimates his doubts of their being a pocket in the dress, anyway. The cause of the unhappy disaster quietly inserts her hand inside the robe, and directly brings it forth with the sought for article in its clasp. He doesn't know why, but this makes him madder than anything else. MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS. BY CHARLES F. ADAMS. _El Dorado, 1851._ I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys, 'N feelin' kind o' blue, I thought I'd look in at "The Ranch," Ter find out what wuz new; When I seed this sign a-hangin' On a shanty by the lake: "Here's whar yer get your doughnuts Like yer mother used ter make." I've seen a grizzly show his teeth, I've seen Kentucky Pete Draw out his shooter, 'n advise A "tenderfoot" ter treat; But nuthin' ever tuk me down, 'N made my benders shake, Like that sign about the doughnuts That my mother used ter make. A sort o' mist shut out the ranch, 'N standin' thar instead, I seen an old, white farm-house, With its doors all painted red. A whiff came through the open door-- Wuz I sleepin' or awake? The smell wuz that of doughnuts Like my mother used ter make. The bees wuz hummin' round the porch Whar honeysuckles grew; A yellow dish of apple-sass Wuz settin' thar in view. 'N on the table, by the stove, An old-time "Johnny-cake," 'N a platter full of doughnuts Like my mother used ter make. A patient form I seemed ter see, In tidy dress of black, I almost thought I heard the words, "When will my boy come back?" 'N then--the old sign creaked: But now it was the boss who spake: 'Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts Like yer mother used ter make. Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up, 'N ez I've "struck pay gravel," I ruther think I'll pack my kit, Vamoose the ranch, 'n travel. I'll make the old folks jubilant, 'N if I don't mistake, I'll try some o' them doughnuts Like my mother used ter make. LITERARY ATTRACTIONS OF THE BIBLE. BY DR. HAMILTON. God made the present earth as the Home of Man; but had he meant it as a mere lodging, a world less beautiful would have served the purpose. There was no need for the carpet of verdure, or the ceiling of blue; no need for the mountains, and cataracts, and forests; no need for the rainbow, no need for the flowers. A big, round island, half of it arable, and half of it pasture, with a clump of trees in one corner, and a magazine of fuel in another, might have held and fed ten millions of people; and a hundred islands, all made in the same pattern, big and round, might have held and fed the population of the globe. But man is something more than the animal which wants lodging and food. He has a spiritual nature, full of keen perceptions and deep sympathies. He has an eye for the sublime and the beautiful, and his kind Creator has provided man's abode with affluent materials for these nobler tastes. He has built Mont Blanc, and molten the lake in which its image sleeps. He has intoned Niagara's thunder, and has breathed the zephyr which sweeps its spray. He has shagged the steep with its cedars, and be-sprent the meadow with its king-cups and daisies. He has made it a world of fragrance and music,--a world of brightness and symmetry,--a world where the grand and the graceful, the awful and lovely, rejoice together. In fashioning the Home of Man, the Creator had an eye to something more than convenience, and built, not a barrack, but a palace--not a Union work-house, but an Alhambra; something which should not only be very comfortable, but very splendid and very fair; something which should inspire the soul of its inhabitant, and even draw forth the "very good" of complacent Deity. God also made the Bible as the guide and oracle of man; but had He meant it as the mere lesson-book of duty, a volume less various and less attractive would have answered every end. But in giving that Bible, its divine Author had regard to the mind of man. He knew that man has more curiosity than piety, more taste than sanctity; and that more persons are anxious to hear some new, or read some beauteous thing, than to read or hear about God and the great salvation. He knew that few would ever ask, "What must I do to be saved?" till they came in contact with the Bible itself; and, therefore, He made the Bible not only an instructive book, but an attractive one,--not only true, but enticing. He filled it with marvelous incident and engaging history; with sunny pictures from Old World scenery, and affecting anecdotes from the patriarch times. He replenished it with stately argument and thrilling verse, and sprinkled it over with sententious wisdom and proverbial pungency. He made it a book of lofty thoughts and noble images,--a book of heavenly doctrine, but withal of earthly adaptation. In preparing a guide to immortality, Infinite Wisdom gave, not a dictionary, nor a grammar, but a Bible--a book which, in trying to reach the heart of man, should captivate his taste; and which, in transforming his affection, should also expand his intellect. The pearl is of great price; but even the casket is of exquisite beauty. The sword is of ethereal temper, and nothing cuts so keen as its double edge; but there are jewels on the hilt, an exquisite inlaying on the scabbard. The shekels are of the purest ore; but even the scrip which contains them is of a texture more curious than any which the artists of earth can fashion. The apples are gold; but even the basket is silver. The Bible contains no ornamental passages, nothing written for mere display; its steadfast purpose is, "Glory to God in the highest," and the truest blessedness of man; it abounds in passages of the purest beauty and stateliest grandeur, all the grander and all the more beautiful because they are casual and unsought. The fire which flashes from the iron hoof of the Tartar steed as he scours the midnight path is grander than the artificial firework; for it is the casual effect of speed and power. The clang of ocean as he booms his billows on the rock, and the echoing caves give chorus, is more soul-filling and sublime than all the music of the orchestra, for it is the music of that main so mighty that there is a grandeur in all it does,--in its sleep a melody, and in its march a stately psalm. And in the bow which paints the melting cloud there is a beauty which the stained glass or gorgeous drapery emulates in vain; for it is the glory which gilds beneficence, the brightness which bespeaks a double boon, the flush which cannot but come forth when both the sun and shower are there. The style of Scripture has all this glory. It has the gracefulness of a high utility; it has the majesty of intrinsic power; it has the charm of its own sanctity: it never labors, never strives, but, instinct with great realities and bent on blessed ends, it has all the translucent beauty and unstudied power which you might expect from its lofty object and all-wise Author. THE CHRISTMAS BABY. BY WILL CARLETON. "Tha'rt welcome, little bonny brid. But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did: Teimes are bad." _English Ballad._ Hoot! ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way, Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day, Knowin' that we already have three of ye, an' seven, An' tryin' to make yerself out a Christmas present o' Heaven? Ten of ye have we now, Sir, for this world to abuse; An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat, an' Nellie she have no shoes, An' Sammie he have no shirt, Sir (I tell it to his shame), An' the one that was just before ye we ain't had time to name! An, all o' the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folk fall; An' Boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all; An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight, An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night; An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somewhat to do, An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through, An' but for your poor dear mother a-doin' twice her part, Ye'd 'a seen us all in heaven afore _ye_ was ready to start! An' now _ye_ have come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound, A-weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound! With yer mother's eyes a flashin', yer father's flesh an' build, An' a big mouth an' stomach all ready for to be filled! No, no! don't cry, my baby! hush up, my pretty one! Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy--I only was just in fun. Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'us folks; But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes! Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest? come, sit upon my knee; I'll tell ye a secret, youngster, I'll name ye after me. Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play, An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day! Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old, But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold; An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, there, An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair! Say! when ye come from heaven, my little name-sake dear, Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here? That was yer little sister--she died a year ago, An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow! Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew Came here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you, I'd show 'em to the door, Sir, so quick they'd think it odd, Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from God! A DREAM OF THE UNIVERSE. BY JEAN PAUL RICHTER. Into the great vestibule of heaven, God called up a man from dreams, saying, "Come thou hither, and see the glory of my house." And, to the servants that stood around His throne, He said, "Take him, and undress him from his robes of flesh; cleanse his vision, and put a new breath into his nostrils; only touch not with any change his human heart,--the heart that weeps and trembles." It was done; and, with a mighty angel for his guide, the man stood ready for his infinite voyage; and from the terraces of heaven, without sound or farewell, at once they wheeled away into endless space. Sometimes, with solemn flight of angel wings, they fled through Saharas of darkness,--through wildernesses of death, that divided the world of life; sometimes they swept over frontiers that were quickening under the prophetic motions from God. Then, from a distance that is counted only in heaven, light dawned for a time through a sleepy film; by unutterable pace the light swept to them; they by unutterable pace to the light. In a moment, the rushing of planets was upon them; in a moment, the blazing of suns was around them. Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but were not revealed. On the right hand and on the left, towered mighty constellations, that by self-repetition and answers from afar, that by counter-positions, built up triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose archways--horizontal, upright--rested, rose--at altitudes by spans that seemed ghostly from infinitude. Without measure were the architraves, past number were the archways, beyond memory the gates. Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below; above was below,--below was above, to the man stripped of gravitating body; depth was swallowed up in height insurmountable; height was swallowed up in depth unfathomable. Suddenly, as thus they rode from infinite to infinite; suddenly, as thus they tilted over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose that systems more mysterious, that worlds more billowy, other heights and other depths, were coming--were nearing--were at hand. Then the man sighed, and stopped, and shuddered, and wept. His overladen heart uttered itself in tears; and he said, "Angel, I will go no farther; for the spirit of man acheth with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory of God. Let me lie down in the grave, and hide me from the persecutions of the Infinite; for end, I see, there is none." And from all the listening stars that shone around, issued a choral cry, "The man speaks truly; end there is none that ever yet we heard of." "End is there none?" the angel solemnly demanded: "Is there indeed no end, and is this the sorrow that kills you?" But no voice answered that he might answer himself. Then the angel threw up his glorious hands toward the heaven of heavens, saying, "End is there none to the universe of God! Lo, also there is no beginning!" KEENAN'S CHARGE. BY GEORGE P. LATHROP. (_Chancellorsville, May, 1863._) The sun had set; The leaves with dew were wet; Down fell a bloody dusk On the woods, that second of May, Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey, Tore through, with angry tusk. "They've trapped us, boys!"-- Rose from our flank a voice. With a rush of steel and smoke On came the Rebels straight, Eager as love and wild as hate: And our line reeled and broke; Broke and fled. No one staid--but the dead! With curses, shrieks and cries, Horses and wagons and men Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, And above us the fading skies. There's one hope, still,-- Those batteries parked on the hill! "Battery, wheel!" (mid the roar) "Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire A bugle rings "Trot"--and no more. The horses plunged, The cannon lurched and lunged, To join the hopeless rout. But suddenly rode a form Calmly in front of the human storm, With a stern, commanding shout: "Align those guns!" (We knew it was Pleasonton's) The cannoneers bent to obey, And worked with a will, at his word: And the black guns moved as if _they_ had heard. But ah, the dread delay! "To wait is crime; O God, for ten minutes' time!" The general looked around. There Keenan sat, like a stone, With his three hundred horse alone-- Less shaken than the ground. "Major, your men?" "Are soldiers, General." "Then, Charge, Major! Do your best: Hold the enemy back, at all cost, Till my guns are placed;--else the army is lost. You die to save the rest!" By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes For an instant,--clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: "I will." "Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank. Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Rose joyously, with a willing breath, Rose like a greeting hail to death. Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed; Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed; Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; And above in the air with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew. With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, And strong brown faces bravely pale For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes. Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame; Rode in and sabered and shot--and fell; Nor came one back his wounds to tell. And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, While the circle-stroke of his saber, swung Round his head like a halo there, luminous hung. Line after line, ay, whole platoons, Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons By the maddened horses were onward borne And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. So they rode, till there were no more to ride. But over them, lying there, shattered and mute, What deep echo rolls?--'Tis a death-salute From the cannon in place; for heroes, you braved Your fate not in vain: the army was saved! Over them now,--year following year, Over their graves the pine-cones fall, And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call; But they stir not again; they raise no cheer: They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. The rush of their charge is resounding still That saved the army at Chancellorsville. USEFUL PRECEPTS FOR GIRLS. First catch your lover. Hold him when you have him. Don't let go of him to catch every new one that comes along. Try to get very well acquainted with him before you take him for life. Unless you intend to support him, find out whether he earns enough to support you. Don't make up your mind he is an angel. Don't palm yourself off on him for one either. Don't let him spend his salary on you; that right should be reserved until after marriage. If you have any conscientious scruples about marrying a man with a mother, say so in time that he may either get rid of her to oblige you, or get rid of you to oblige her, as he thinks best. If you object to secret societies and tobacco, it is better to come with your objections now than to reserve them for curtain lectures hereafter. If your adorer happens to fancy a certain shade of hair, don't color bleach yours to oblige him. Remember your hair belongs to you and he doesn't. Be very sure it is the man you are in love with, and not the clothes he wears. Fortune and fashion are both so fickle it is foolish to take a stylish suit for better or worse. If you intend to keep three servants after marriage, settle the matter beforehand. The man who is making love to you may expect you to do your own washing. Don't try to hurry up a proposal by carrying on a flirtation with some other fellow. Different men are made of different material, and the one you want might go off in a fit of jealousy and forget to come back. If you have a love letter to write, do not copy it out of a "letter writer." If your young man ever happened to consult the same book he would know your sentiments were borrowed. Don't marry a man to oblige any third person in existence. It is your right to suit yourself in the matter. But remember at the same time that love is blind, and a little friendly advice from one whose advice is worth having may insure you a lifetime of happiness, or prevent one of misery. In love affairs always keep your eyes wide open, so that when the right man comes along you may see him. When you see him you will recognize him and the recognition will be mutual. If you have no fault to find with him personally, financially, conscientiously, socially, morally, politically, religiously, or in any other way, he is probably perfect enough to suit you, and you can afford to-- Believe in him; hope in him; love him; marry him! WIDDER BUDD. I'm fifty, I'm fair, and without a gray hair, An' I feel just ez young as a girl. When I think o' Zerubbabel Lee, I declare It sets me all into a whirl. Last night he waz here, an' I told him to "clear"-- An' my! How supprised he did look: Perhaps I wuz rash, but he's after my _cash_-- I see through his plans like a book. Some offers I've had that I cannot call bad; There was Deacon Philander Breezee; I'd a sartin sed _Yes_, when he wanted a kiss, Ef he hadn't so flustrated me. It took me so quick that it felt like a kick-- I flew all to pieces at once; Sez I, "You kin go--I'm not wanting a beau;" I acted, I know, like a dunce. Sez he, ez he rose, "I hev come to propose." I stopped him afore he began: Sez I, "You kin go, an' see Hepzibah Stow-- _I won't be tied down to a man_." "Mariar," ses he, "Widder Tompkins an' me Kin strike up a bargain, I know; An', seein' ez we can't decide to agree, I guess that I hed better go." He picked up his hat from the chair where it sat, An' solemnly started away. Sez I, with a look that I'm _sure_ he mistook, "You're perfectly welcome to stay." My face got ez red ez our old waggin-shed-- I thought for the land I should melt. Sez he, "I am done. Good night, leetle one," I _wish_ he'd a known how I felt. To-day, Isaac Beers, with his snickers and sneers, Whose face is ez ugly ez sin, Dropped in just to see about buyin' my steers, An' tickled the mole on my chin. Sez I, "You jest quit; I don't like you a bit; You can't come your sawder on me. You'd better behave till Jane's cold in her grave, Your manners is ruther too free." When dear David died (sniff--sniff), ez I sot by his side (sniff--sniff); He ketched up my hand in his own (sniff--sniff); He squeezed it awhile (sniff--sniff), an' he sez with a smile (sniff--sniff), "You'll soon be a widder alone (sniff--sniff--sniff), An' when I am gone (sniff--sniff) don't you fuss an' take on (sniff--sniff) Like old Widder Dorothy Day (sniff--sniff). Look out for your tin (sniff--sniff) if you marry agin (sniff--sniff), Nor throw your affections away (sniff--sniff--sniff)." My children hev grown, an' have homes o' their own-- They're doin' ez well ez they can (_wipes her eyes and nose_): An' I'm gettin' sick o' this livin' alone-- I wouldn't mind havin' a man. Fur David hez gone to the mansion above-- His body is cold in the ground, Ef you know of a man who would marry for love, Jest find him an' send him around. HIS LAST COURT. Old Judge Grepson, a justice of the peace, was never known to smile. He came to Arkansas years ago, and year after year, by the will of the voters, he held his place as magistrate. The lawyers who practiced in his court never joked with him, because every one soon learned that the old man never engaged in levity. Every morning, no matter how bad the weather might be, the old man took his place behind the bar which, with his own hands, he had made, and every evening, just at a certain time, he closed his books and went home. No one ever engaged him in private conversation, because he would talk to no one. No one ever went to his home, a little cottage among the trees in the city's outskirts, because he had never shown a disposition to make welcome the visits of those who even lived in the immediate vicinity. His office was not given him through the influence of "electioneering," because he never asked any man for his vote. He was first elected because, having been once summoned in a case of arbitration, he exhibited the executive side of such a legal mind that the people nominated and elected him. He soon gained the name of the "hard justice," and every lawyer in Arkansas referred to his decision. His rulings were never reversed by the higher courts. He showed no sentiment in decision. He stood upon the platform of a law which he made a study, and no one disputed him. One day, a woman, charged with misdemeanor, was arraigned before him. "The old man seems more than ever unsteady," remarked a lawyer as the magistrate took his seat. "I don't see how a man so old can stand the vexation of a court much longer." "I am not well to-day," said the Judge, turning to the lawyers, "and any cases that you may have you will please dispatch them to the best, and let me add, quickest of your ability." Every one saw that the old man was unusually feeble, and no one thought of a scheme to prolong a discussion, for all the lawyers had learned to reverence him. "Is this the woman?" asked the Judge. "Who is defending her?" "I have no defence, your Honor," the woman replied. "In fact, I do not think I need any, for I am here to confess my guilt. No man can defend me," and she looked at the magistrate with a curious gaze. "I have been arrested on a charge of disturbing the peace, and I am willing to submit my case. I am dying of consumption, Judge, and I know that any ruling made by the law can have but little effect on me;" and she coughed a hollow, hacking cough, and drew around her an old black shawl that she wore. The expression on the face of the magistrate remained unchanged, but his eyelids dropped and he did not raise them when the woman continued: "As I say, no man can defend me. I am too near that awful separation of soul and body. Years ago I was a child of brightest promise. I lived with my parents in Kentucky. Wayward and light-hearted, I was admired by all the gay society known in the neighborhood. A man came and professed his love for me. I don't say this, Judge, to excite your sympathy. I have many and many a time been drawn before courts, but I never before spoke of my past life." She coughed again and caught a flow of blood on a handkerchief which she pressed to her lips. "I speak of it now because I know that this is the last court on earth before which I will be arraigned. I was fifteen years old when I fell in love with the man. My father said he was bad, but I loved him. He came again and again, and when my father said that he should come no more I ran away and married him. My father said I should never come home again. I had always been his pride and had loved him dearly, but he said that I must never again come to his home,--my home, the home of my youth and happiness. How I longed to see him. How I yearned to put my head on his breast. My husband became addicted to drink. He abused me. I wrote to my father, asking him to let me come home, but the answer that came was 'I don't know you!' My husband died--yes, cursed God and died! Homeless and wretched, and with my little boy I went out into the world. My child died, and I bowed down and wept over a pauper's grave. I wrote to my father again, but he answered: 'I know not those who disobey my commandments!' I turned away from that letter, hardened. I spurned my teachings. Now I am here." Several lawyers rushed forward. A crimson stream flowed from her lips. They leaned her lifeless head back against the chair. The old magistrate had not raised his eyes; "Great God!" said a lawyer, "he is dead!" The woman was his daughter. THE DEAD DOLL. BY MARGARET VANDEGRIFT. You needn't be trying to comfort me--I tell you my dolly is dead! There's no use in saying she isn't with a crack like that in her head; It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out, that day, And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say. And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue, As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you? You might make her look all mended--but what do I care for looks? Why glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books! My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack! It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack Against that horrible brass thing that holds up that little shelf. Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself? I think you must be crazy--you'll get her another head! What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead! And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new Spring hat! And I took a sweet ribbon of her's last night to tie on that horrid cat! When my mamma gave me that ribbon--I was playing out in the yard-- She said to me most expressly, "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde." And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it; But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!" But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe I do, That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too. Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit! For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit. But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course; We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse; And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this, you see-- This dear little box--and we'll bury her there out under the maple tree. And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird; And he'll put what I tell him on it--yes, every single word! I shall say, "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead; She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head." AT THE STAMP WINDOW. Just before twelve o'clock yesterday fore-noon there were thirteen men and one woman at the stamp window of the post-office. Most of the men had letters to post for the out-going trains. The woman had something tied up in a blue match-box. She got there first, and she held the position with her head in the window and both elbows on the shelf. "Is there such a place in this country as Cleveland?" she began. "Oh, yes." "Do you send mail there?" "Yes." "Well, a woman living next door asked me to mail this box for her. I guess it's directed all right. She said it ought to go for a cent." "Takes two cents," said the clerk, after weighing it. "If there is writing inside it will be twelve cents." "Mercy on me, but how you do charge!" Here the thirteen men began to push up and hustle around and talk about one old match-box delaying two dozen business letters, but the woman had lots of time. "Then it will be two cents, eh?" "If there is no writing inside." "Well, there may be. I know she is a great hand to write. She's sending some flower seeds to her sister, and I presume she has told her how to plant 'm." "Two threes!" called out one of the crowd, as he tried to get to the window. "Hurry up!" cried another. "There ought to be a separate window here for women," growled a third. "Then it will take twelve cents?" she calmly queried, as she fumbled around for her purse. "Yes." "Well, I'd better pay it, I guess." From one pocket she took two coppers. From her reticule she took a three cent piece. From her purse she fished out a nickel; and it was only after a hunt of eighty seconds that she got the twelve cents together. She then consumed four minutes in licking on the stamps, asking where to post the box, and wondering if there really was any writing inside,--but woman proposes and man disposes. Twenty thousand dollars' worth of business was being detained by a twelve-cent woman, and a tidal wave suddenly took her away from the window. In sixty seconds the thirteen men had been waited on and gone their ways, and the woman returned to the window, handed in the box, and said: "Them stamps are licked on kind o' crooked, but it won't make any difference, will it?" THE NAMELESS GUEST. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. I wonder if ever the Angel of Death Comes down from the great Unknown, And soars away, on the wings of night, Unburdened and alone! I wonder if ever the angels' eyes, Are filled with pitying tears, As they grant to the souls, unfit for flight, A few more weary years! For it seems, at times, when the world is still, And the soft night winds are whist, As though some spirit were hovering near, In folds of dream-like mist, And I feel, though mortals are nowhere near, That I am not quite alone, And, with dreary thoughts of dying and death, My heart grows cold as stone. But whether 'tis death that hovers near, And knocks at the door of my heart, Or whether 'tis some bright angel, come To be of my life a part, I cannot tell, and I long in vain, The secret strange to know, While the moments of mirth and grief and pain, Move on in their ceaseless flow. And at night, when I kneel to a Higher Power And ask His tender care, One yearning cry of a wayward life Is the burden of my prayer, That I may bend, with willing lips, To kiss the chastening rod, And learn the way, through the golden gate, To the great white throne of God. OUR HEROES SHALL LIVE. BY HENRY WARD BEECHER. This brief extract from a splendid oration should be spoken in clear, defined tones, rather high pitch, the utterance slow, with a rather long pause after each question: Oh, tell me not that they are dead--that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives, and more heroic patriotism? Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. It _was_ your son, but now he is the nation's. He made your household bright: now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you. Now he is augmented, set free, and given to all. Before he was yours: he _is_ ours. He has died from the family, that he might live to the nation. Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected: and it shall by and by be confessed of our modern heroes, as it is of an ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his whole life. LULLABY. "Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green; Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen." Rockaby, lullaby, all the day long, Down to the land of the lullaby song. Babyland never again will be thine, Land of all mystery, holy, divine, Motherland, otherland, Wonderland, underland, Land of a time ne'er again to be seen; Flowerland, bowerland, Airyland, fairyland, Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green. Rockaby, baby, thy mother will keep Gentle watch over thine azure-eyed sleep; Baby can't feel what the mother-heart knows, Throbbing its fear o'er your quiet repose. Mother-heart knows how baby must fight Wearily on through the fast coming night; Battle unending, Honor defending, Baby must wage with the power unseen. Sleep now, O baby, dear! God and thy mother near; Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green. Rockaby, baby, the days will grow long; Silent the voice of the mother-love song, Bowed with sore burdens the man-life must own, Sorrows that baby must bear all alone. Wonderland never can come back again; Thought will come soon--and with reason comes pain, Sorrowland, motherland, Drearyland, wearyland, Baby and heavenland lying between. Smile, then, in motherland, Dream in the otherland, Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green. PENNING A PIG. JAMES M. BAILEY. Two families in Slawson had a somewhat singular experience several weeks ago. These families live in a double house, and each had a pen with two pigs. Last Friday the woman in one part discovered that her two pigs were free from their pen, and looking after geological specimens at the foot of the yard. She also discovered at the same time that the gate to a cabbage yard adjoining was open, and that the pigs might at any moment become ravished by a view of the glories within. Her husband being away she hurriedly secured the gate, and then set about to return the truants by the following ingenious plan: Taking a shovelful of corn, she approached as close to the animals as possible, and, holding the tempting morsel near enough for them to learn its inviting character, she screwed her face into an expression of winning sweetness, and backed slowly toward the pen. It was a beautiful illustration of woman's faith, and we regret to write that it did not work. The pigs took one snuff at the contents of the shovel, just to show that they took some interest in the matter, and, being convinced thereby that there was nothing injurious in the experiment, fell to rooting about again with renewed fervor. The nearer the woman came to the pen the straighter her face grew, and presently lost every vestige of solicitude, and assumed instead an expression of medium ferocity. What she may have done will never be known, as at this juncture her husband made his appearance on the back stoop, and, her eye resting upon him, she commenced to apostrophize him in the language married people alone are adepts at. After requesting somebody to show him the idiot who had left those hogs out that he might punch his head, he drove straight at the truants, and missed them, of course. Then he drove at them again with a clothes pole, and missed them again, although he made another pole by hitting that on a stone. Any one who has helped to drive one or two pigs will readily understand the number of articles that passed through the air, and the style of conversation the man kept up during the chase. Finally, he got one of the animals in a corner, and, being by this time utterly regardless of personal appearance or consequences, threw himself upon the brute, neatly scraping the fence with the top of his head, and falling upon the pig in such a way as to hold in abeyance every one of its muscles except those in the throat. These were at once put into active operation, and the man for a moment thought he had captured a planing-mill. Then he raised slowly, keeping a tight hold of the animal, and getting on his feet with a pig in his arms, struck out for the pen, preceded by his wife and the other woman, and closely and anxiously observed by all the neighbors for a half-mile around. In this way the procession laboriously moved. The pig, having worked its head within two inches of the man's ear, was pouring therein a tale of unparalleled distress, which, if not calculated to melt the stoutest heart, actually threatened to split open the stoutest head. The man was utterly powerless to remedy the horror, having both hands engaged, and could only twist his ear a little out of range, and scream at the top of his voice his plans for the future of "them hogs." On reaching the pen, and while in the act of dumping the howling viper over the side, the woman next door made an unfortunate discovery. _His_ hogs were in the pen; the truants were _hers_. The man, who was still holding the pig, and might have, with reason, taken a prominent part in the debate, contented himself by merely expressing a hope that he might be blessed, and then trudged around to the other pen, where he arrived after much unlooked for tribulation, and again hoisted the howling monster up to the top, when the woman next door made another and still more remarkable discovery. Her pigs were in their pen. "What's that?" screamed the man, who was so fixed he could not very well see into the pen, and was obliged to lift his voice to make himself heard above the din. "Them ain't my pigs," screamed the woman. "Why ain't they?" he yelled. "Cause my pigs are here," she shrieked back. It is needless to say that the strange animals were urged out of that garden without the use of subterfuge. LITTLE JIM. BY GEORGE R. SIMS. Our little Jim Was such a limb His mother scarce could manage him. His eyes were blue, And looked you through, And seemed to say, "I'll have my way!" His age was six, His saucy tricks But made you smile, Though all the while You said, "You limb, You wicked Jim, Be quiet, do!" Poor little Jim! Our eyes are dim When soft and low we speak of him. No clattering shoe Goes running through The silent room, Now wrapped in gloom. So still he lies, With fast-shut eyes, No need to say, Alas! to-day, "You little limb, You baby Jim, Be quiet, do!" GET ACQUAINTED WITH YOURSELF. BY R. J. BURDETTE. Telemachus, it will do you ever so much good if every once in a while you will go away by yourself for an hour or two and get real well acquainted with yourself. As a man thinketh, so he is. And you will never "know thyself" thoroughly unless now and then you get alone and sit down and talk to yourself, cross-examine yourself; learn what you know; what are your ambitions, your aims, your hopes,--what is your real character; because, my dear boy, your reputation may be one thing and your character quite another. Sometimes it does happen, in this faulty old world, that a really good man, a man whose character is above reproach, may bear the reputation of a rascal; and once in a while--two or three times in a while, in fact--a rascal wears the stolen reputation of an honest man. Go away now and then, my boy, and sit down all by yourself and think. Think of nothing under the sun only yourself. Yes, I know, my son, there are men who never think of anything else, and God never made more useless men; but that is because they do all their thinking about themselves publicly and loud. They never think alone. You will be honest with yourself when you are alone, my boy. A man is apt to be honest with himself in the dark. He does not pose in heroic postures when he has no audience. When he stands face to face with himself, with no human eye to watch him, and no human ear to listen to his confession, and only his Maker, who knows every secret motive and thought of his life to see and to listen, a man has to be honest. How could he be a hypocrite then? Get away from the crowd a little while every day, my boy. Stand one side and let the world run by, while you get acquainted with yourself, and see what kind of a fellow you are. Ask yourself hard questions about yourself. Find out all you can about yourself. Ascertain from original sources if you are really the manner of man people say you are. Find out if you are always honest; if you always tell the square, perfect truth in business deals; if your life is as good and upright at eleven o'clock at night as it is at noon; if you are as sound a temperance man on a fishing expedition as you are at a Sabbath-school picnic; if you are as good a boy when you go to Chicago as you are at home; if, in short, you really are the manner of young man your father hopes you are, your mother says you are, and your sweetheart believes you are. Get on intimate terms with yourself, my boy, and, believe me, every time you come out from one of those private interviews you will be a better, stronger, purer man. Don't forget this, Telemachus, and it will do you good. THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE. BY J. W. RILEY. As the little white hearse went glimmering by-- The man on the coal cart jerked his lines, And smutted the lid of either eye, And turned and stared at the business signs; And the street-car driver stopped and beat His hands on his shoulders and gazed up street Till his eye on the long track reached the sky-- As the little white hearse went glimmering by. As the little white hearse went glimmering by-- A stranger petted a ragged child In the crowded walk, and she knew not why, But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled; And a bootblack thrilled with a pleasure strange As a customer put back his change With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh-- As the little white hearse went glimmering by. As the little white hearse went glimmering by-- A man looked out of a window dim, And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry-- For a dead child even were dear to him! And he thought of his empty life and said: "Loveless alive and loveless dead, Nor wife nor child in earth or sky!"-- As the little white hearse went glimmering by. THERE'LL BE ROOM IN HEAVEN. She was a little old woman, very plainly dressed in black bombazine that had seen much careful wear; her bonnet was very old-fashioned, and people stared at her tottering up the aisle of the church, evidently bent on securing one of the best seats, for a great man preached that day. The house was filled with splendidly dressed people who had heard of the fame of the preacher, of his learning, his intellect and goodness, and they wondered at the presumption of the poor old woman. She must have been in her dotage, for she picked out the pew of the richest and proudest member of the church and took a seat. The three ladies who were seated there beckoned to the sexton, who bent over the intruder and whispered something, but she was hard of hearing, and smiled a little withered smile, as she said, gently: "Oh, I'm quite comfortable here, quite comfortable." "But you are not wanted here," said the sexton, pompously; "there is not room. Come with me, my good woman; I will see that you have a seat." "Not room," said the old woman, looking at her shrunken proportions, and then at the fine ladies. "Why, I'm not crowded a bit. I rode ten miles to hear the sermon to-day, because--" But here the sexton took her by the arm, shook her roughly in a polite underhand way, and then she took the hint. Her faded old eyes filled with tears, her chin quivered; but she rose meekly and left the pew. Turning quietly to the ladies, who were spreading their rich dresses over the space she left vacant, she said gently: "I hope, my dears, there'll be room in heaven for us all." Then she followed the pompous sexton to the rear of the church where, in the last pew, she was seated between a threadbare girl and a shabby old man. "She must be crazy," said one of the ladies in the pew which she had first occupied. "What can an ignorant old woman like her want to hear Dr. ---- preach for? She would not be able to understand a word he said." "Those people are so persistent! The idea of her forcing herself into our pew! Isn't that voluntary lovely? There's Dr. ---- coming out of the vestry. Is he not grand?" "Splendid! What a stately man! You know he has promised to dine with us while he is here." He was a commanding looking man, and as the organ voluntary stopped, and he looked over the great crowd of worshipers gathered in the vast church, he seemed to scan every face. His hand was on the Bible when suddenly he leaned over the reading desk and beckoned to the sexton, who obsequiously mounted the steps to receive a mysterious message. And then the three ladies in the grand pew were electrified to see him take his way the whole length of the church to return with the old woman, when he placed her in the front pew of all, its other occupants making willing room for her. The great preacher looked at her with a smile of recognition, and then the services proceeded, and he preached a sermon that struck fire from every heart. "Who was she?" asked the ladies who could not make room for her, as they passed the sexton at the door. "The preacher's mother," was the reply. THE RETORT DIS-COURTEOUS. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. Mr. Michael McGlynn, of Dublin town, And Dinny O'Doyle, of Kildare, Through the streets of the city, went up and down, A remarkably guileless pair. Said Michael to Dinny: "Me darlin' bhoy, Since the roise o' the mornin' sun, Niver a dhrop or a boite have Oi, Oi think I could ate a bun." Said Dinny to Michael: "Av coorse: av coorse! To ate is the woise man's part; Oi have a sinsation loike that mesilf, Oi think Oi could touch a tart." So the kindred souls of this guileless pair, An eating house speedily found, And before them a jar on the table sat, Full of horseradish, freshly ground. With a tablespoon, Mr. Michael McGlynn Took all that his mouth would hold, Then gasped for breath, while his head turned hot And his spine turned icy cold. The tears on his cheeks came rolling down, But he had no breath to swear, So he simply clutched at the tablecloth, And tore at his red, red hair. Amazed and surprised, Mr. Dinny O'Doyle Said: "Michael, me darlin' bhoy, Phwat's troublin' yer sowl? Phwat's wrong wid ye now? Phwat's the raison ye've tears in yer oi?" "Oh, nothin," said Michael; "my grandfather doid Some twenty-foive years ago, Oi chanced to remember the fine owld man, An' Oi couldn't help croiyin', ye know. "But, Dinny O'Doyle, doant mind it at all; How wake an' how choildish Oi same," Then he passed the horseradish and spoon and all; "Have some of this nice oice crame!" So Dinny dipped into the treacherous jar, And the tears quickly sprang to his eyes, While Michael McGlynn, who had got back his breath, Affected a strange surprise. "Phy, Dinny, me bhoy, ye're croiyin' yersilf," He said with a chuckle and grin; "Phwat's troublin' _yer_ sowl? Phwat's wrong wid _ye_ now? Is it wapin' ye are for a sin?" "Is it askin' ye are, phwat's makin' me croiy?" Said Dinny, "Oi'll spake as Oi'm bid, Oi'm croiyin' bekase Mr. Michael McGlynn, Didn't doi when his grandfather did." ZENOBIA'S DEFENCE. BY WILLIAM WARE. [Zenobia became Queen of Palmyra A. D. 267, after the murder of her husband, Odenatus. She was a woman of great energy and assumed the title of Queen of the East. She was deprived of her dominion by Aurelian A. D. 272, and died in retirement near Rome.] I am charged with pride and ambition. The charge is true, and I glory in its truth. Whoever achieved anything great in letters, arts, or arms, who was not ambitious? Cæsar was not more ambitious than Cicero. It was but in another way. All greatness is born of ambition. Let the ambition be a noble one, and who shall blame it? I confess I did once aspire to be queen, not only of Palmyra, but of the East. That I am. I now aspire to remain so. Is it not an honorable ambition? Does it not become a descendant of the Ptolemies and of Cleopatra? I am applauded by you all for what I have already done. You would not it should have been less. But why pause here? Is _so_ much ambition praiseworthy, and _more_ criminal? Is it fixed in nature that the limits of this empire should be Egypt on the one hand, the Hellespont and the Euxine on the other? Were not Suez and Armenia more natural limits? Or hath empire no natural limit, but is broad as the genius that can devise, and the power that can win? Rome has the West. Let Palmyra possess the East. Not that nature prescribes this and no more. The gods prospering, I mean that the Mediterranean shall not hem me in upon the west, or Persia on the east. Longinus is right,--I would that the world were mine. I feel, within, the will and the power to bless it, were it so. Are not my people happy? I look upon the past and the present, upon my nearer and remoter subjects, and ask, nor fear the answer, Whom have I wronged? What province have I oppressed, what city pillaged, what region drained with taxes? Whose life have I unjustly taken, or whose estates have I coveted or robbed? Whose honor have I wantonly assailed? Whose rights, though of the weakest and poorest, have I violated? I dwell, where I would ever dwell, in the hearts of my people. It is written in your faces, that I reign not more over you than within you. The foundation of my throne is not more power than love. Suppose, now, my ambition should add another province to our realm. Would that be an evil? The kingdoms already bound to us by the joint acts of ourselves and the late royal Odenatus, we found discordant and at war. They are now united and at peace. One harmonious whole has grown out of hostile and sundered parts. At my hands they receive a common justice and equal benefits. The channels of their commerce have I opened, and dug them deep and sure. Prosperity and plenty are in all their borders. The streets of our capital bear testimony to the distant and various industry which here seeks its market. This is no vain boasting: receive it not so, good friends. It is but the truth. He who traduces himself sins in the same way as he who traduces another. He who is unjust to himself, or less than just, breaks a law, as well as he who hurts his neighbor. I tell you what I am, and what I have done, that your trust for the future may not rest upon ignorant grounds. If I am more than just to myself, rebuke me. If I have over-stepped the modesty that became me, I am open to your censure, and I will bear it. But I have spoken that you may know your queen, not only by her acts, but by her admitted principles. I tell you, then, that I am ambitious, that I crave dominion, and while I live will reign. Sprung from a line of kings, a throne is my natural seat. I love it. But I strive, too--you can bear me witness that I do--that it shall be, while I sit upon it, an honored, unpolluted seat. If I can, I will hang a yet brighter glory around it. A SERENADE.[1] BY THOMAS HOOD. "Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" Thus I heard a father cry. "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! The brat will never shut an eye; Hither come, some power divine! Close his lids or open mine! "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! What the mischief makes him cry? Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Still he stares--I wonder why; Why are not the sons of earth Blind, like puppies, from their birth? "Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" Thus I heard the father cry; "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Mary, you must come and try! Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake-- The more I sing, the more you wake! "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Fie, you little creature, fie! Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Is no poppy-syrup nigh? Give him some, or give him all, I am nodding to his fall! "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Two such nights and I shall die! Lullaby, oh, lullaby! He'll be bruised, and so shall I-- How can I from bedposts keep, When I'm walking in my sleep? "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Sleep his very looks deny; Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Nature soon will stupefy-- My nerves relax--my eyes grow dim-- Who's that fallen, me or him?" FOOTNOTES: [1] This poem can be made very effective as a humorous recitation by the performer imitating a sleepy father vainly endeavoring to quiet a restless child. A doll, or something to represent one, should be held in the arms. QUEEN VASHTI. BY T. DEWITT TALMAGE. We stand amid the palaces of Shushan. The pinnacles are aflame with the morning light. The columns rise festooned and wreathed, the wealth of empires flashing from the grooves; the ceilings adorned with images of bird and beast, and scenes of prowess and conquest. The walls are hung with shields, and emblazoned until it seems that the whole round of splendors is exhausted. Each arch is a mighty leap of architectural achievement,--golden stars, shining down on glowing arabesque; hangings of embroidered work, in which mingle the blueness of the sky, the greenness of the grass and the whiteness of the sea foam; tapestries hung on silver rings, wedding together the pillars of marble. Pavilions reach out in every direction,--these for repose, filled with luxuriant couches, in which weary limbs sink until all fatigue is submerged; these for carousal, where kings drink down a kingdom at one swallow. Amazing spectacle! Light of silver dripping down over stairs of ivory on shields of gold; floors of stained marble, sunset red and night black, and inlaid with gleaming pearl. Why, it seems as if a heavenly vision of amethyst, and jacinth, and topaz, and chrysoprasus had descended and alighted upon Shushan. It seems as if a billow of celestial glory had dashed clear over heaven's battlements upon this metropolis of Persia. In connection with this palace there is a garden, where the mighty men of foreign lands are seated at a banquet. Under the spread of oak, and linden, and acacia, the tables are arranged. The breath of honey-suckle and frankincense fills the air. Fountains leap up into the light, the spray struck through with rainbows falling in crystalline baptism upon flowering shrubs--then rolling down through channels of marble, and widening out here and there into pools swirling with the finny tribes of foreign aquariums, bordered with scarlet anemones, hypericums, and many colored ranunculus; meats of rarest bird and beast smoking up amid wreaths of aromatics; the vases filled with apricots and almonds; the basket piled up with apricots, and dates, and figs, and oranges, and pomegranates; melons tastefully twined with leaves of acacia; the bright waters of Eulæus filling the urns, and sweating outside the rim in flashing beads amid the traceries; wine from the royal vats of Ispahan and Shiraz, in bottles of tinged shell, and lily-shaped cups of silver, and flagons and tankards of solid gold. The music rises higher, and the revelry breaks out into wilder transport, and the wine has flushed the cheek and touched the brain, and louder than all other voices are the hiccough of the inebriates, the gabble of fools, and the song of the drunkards. In another part of the palace Queen Vashti is entertaining the princesses of Persia at a banquet. Drunken Ahasuerus says to his servants: "Go out and fetch Vashti from that banquet with the women, and bring her to this banquet with the men, and let me display her beauty." The servants immediately start to obey the king's command, but there was a rule in Oriental society that no woman might appear in public without having her face veiled. Yet here was a mandate that no one dare dispute, demanding that Vashti come in unveiled before the multitude. However, there was in Vashti's soul a principle more regal than Ahasuerus, more brilliant than the gold of Shushan, of more wealth than the revenue of Persia, which commanded her to disobey the order of the King; and so all the righteousness and holiness and modesty of her nature rises up into one sublime refusal. She says: "I will not go into the banquet unveiled." Of course, Ahasuerus was infuriated; and Vashti, robbed of her position and her estate, is driven forth in poverty and ruin to suffer the scorn of a nation, and yet to receive the applause of after generations, who shall rise up to admire this martyr to kingly insolence. The last vestige of that feast is gone; the last garland has faded; the last arch has fallen; the last tankard has been destroyed, and Shushan is a ruin; but as long as the world stands there will be multitudes of men and women, familiar with the Bible, who will come into this picture-gallery of God and admire the divine portrait of Vashti, the Queen; Vashti, the veiled; Vashti, the sacrifice; Vashti, the silent. W'EN DE DARKY AM A-WHIS'LIN' IN DE CO'N. BY S. Q. LAPIUS. W'en de jewdraps 'gins to glisten, An' de east am growin' red, An' de catbird am a-singin' in de trees; W'en de swallers an' de martins Am a-quar'lin' in de shed, An' de hollyhocks am callin' to de bees; W'en de gray mule 'gins to whinny An' de porker 'gins to squeal, Den it's time to be a-wo'kin' in de mo'n, Kase de sun am climbin' higher An' de han's am in de field-- An' de darky am a whis'lin' in de c'on. W'en de fog hab lef' de valley, An' de blue am in de sky, An' de bees am wo'kin' in de medder lot; W'en de hollyhocks am drowsin', An' de sun am ridin' high, An' de dusty country road am blazin' hot; Den de darky 'gins to listen-- As de catbird quits his song-- Fo' de soundin' ob de welcome dinner-ho'n, Kase his knees am growin' wabbly, An' de rows am growin' long-- An' he's hoin' an' a-whis'lin' in de co'n! W'en de fiery sun am smilin' An' a-sinkin' in de wes', An' de shadders creep along de dusty road; W'en de martins am a-chatter'n' An' dey hurry home to res', An' de longes' row ob all am nea'ly hoed; W'en de bullfrog 'gins to holler, An' de cowbell down de lane 'Gins to tinkle in a way dat's mos' fo'lo'n, Den amid de gloomy echoes Comes dat soul-refreshin' strain-- Ob de darky as he whis'les in de co'n! THE PILOT. BY JOHN B. GOUGH. John Maynard was well known in the lake district as a God-fearing, honest, and intelligent man. He was pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. One summer afternoon--at that time those steamers seldom carried boats--smoke was seen ascending from below; and the captain called out, "Simpson, go below and see what the matter is down there." Simpson came up with his face as pale as ashes, and said, "Captain, the ship is on fire!" Then "Fire! fire! fire!" on shipboard. All hands were called up; buckets of water were dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large quantities of rosin and tar on board, and it was found useless to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and inquired of the pilot, "How far are we from Buffalo?" "Seven miles." "How long before we can reach there?" "Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam." "Is there any danger?" "Danger! Here, see the smoke bursting out!--go forward, if you would save your lives!" Passengers and crew--men, women and children--crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; clouds of smoke arose. The captain cried out through his trumpet, "John Maynard!" "Ay, ay, sir!" "Are you at the helm?" "Ay, ay, sir!" "How does she head?" "Southeast by east, sir." "Head her southeast and run her on shore," said the captain. Nearer, nearer, yet nearer she approached the shore. Again the captain cried out, "John Maynard!" The response came feebly this time, "Ay, ay, sir!" "Can you hold on five minutes longer, John?" he said. "By God's help, I will!" The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp; one hand was disabled; his knee upon the stanchion, his teeth set, his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship; every man, woman, and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to God. THE FATAL GLASS. BY LAURA U. CASE. He raised the cup to his pure, sweet lips-- Lips fresh from a mother's kisses; Merry the banquet hall that night, For youth and beauty were there, and bright The glittering lamps shone o'er them; And one had sung with a voice divine, A song in praise of the ruby wine, That graced the feast before them. Little he dreamed as he lightly quaffed The sparkling wine, that the first rare draught Was a link in the chain to bind him, And drag his soul, like a servile slave, Down slippery steps to a shameful grave, From a throne where love enshrined him. She raised the cup to her tainted lips-- Lips foul with the vilest curses-- In a loathsome haunt of sin and shame, Where Christian charity seldom came, With its holy words to teach them Of the pastures green and waters sweet-- Of her who wept at the Master's feet, Whose boundless love could reach them. Is love so dear, and life so cheap, That one poor soul, like a wandering sheep, Alone on the bleak, cold mountain, Should gladly turn from a life accursed, To drown the past and quench the thirst In draughts from a poisonous fountain? He raised the cup to his trembling lips-- Lips wrinkled by age and hunger; The meagre pittance he'd begged for food, Brightened the palm of the man who stood At his bar with his wines around him. He drank, and turned on tottering feet To the bitter storm and the cold, dark street, Where a corpse in the morn they found him. And oh! could those speechless lips have told Of the want and sorrow, hunger and cold He had known, or the answer given, When his trembling soul for entrance plead At the crystal gates, where One has said, "No drunkard shall enter Heaven!" KATRINA'S VISIT TO NEW YORK. Vell, von morning I says to Hans (Hans vos mein husband): "Hans, I tinks I goes down to New York, und see some sights in dot village." Und Hans he say: "Vell Katrina, you vork hard pooty mooch, I tinks it vould petter be dot you goes und rest yourself some." So I gets meinself ready righd avay quick und in two days I vos de shteam cars on vistling avay for New York. Ve vent so fast I tinks mein head vould shplit sometimes. De poles for dot delegraph vires goes by like dey vos mad und running a races demselves mit to see vich could go de fastest mit de oder. De engine vistled like sometimes it vos hurt bad, und screeched mit de pain, und de horses by dem fields vould run as dey vas scared. I vas pooty mooch as ten hours ven ve rushed into some houses so big enough as all our village, und de cars begin to shtop vith so many leetle jerks I dinks me I shall lose all de dinner vot I eat vile I vas coming all de vay apoudt. Vell, ven dem cars got shtopped, de peoples all got oudt und I picked mein traps oup und got oudt too. I had shust shtepped de blatform on, ven so mooch as ein hundert men, mit vips in dere hands, und dere fingers all in de air oup, asked me all at vonce, "Vere I go?" Und every one of dem fellers vanted me to go mit him to his hotel. But I tells em I guess not; I vas going mit my brudder-mit-law, vot keeps ein pakeshop on de Powery, vere it didn't cost me notings. So I got me in dot shtreet cars, und pays de man mit brass buttons on his coat to let me oudt mit de shtreet vere dot Yawcup Schneider leeves. Oh, my! vot lots of houses! De shtreets vos all ofer filled mit dem. Und so many peoples I tinks me dere must be a fire, or a barade, or some oxcitement vot gets de whole city in von blaces. It dakes me so mooch time to look at everytings I forgot me ven to got oudt und rides apast de blaces I vants to shtop to, und has to valk again pack mit dree or four shquares. But I vind me dot brudder-mit-law who vos make me so velcome as nefer vos. Vell, dot vos Saturday mit de afternoon. I vas tired mit dot day's travel und I goes me pooty quick to bed und ven I vakes in de morning de sun vas high oup in de shky. But I gets me oup und puts on mein new silk vrock und tinks me I shall go to some fine churches und hear ein grosse breacher. Der pells vas ringing so schveet I dinks I nefer pefore hear such music. Ven I got de shtreet on de beoples vos all going quiet und nice to dere blaces mit worship, und I makes oup my mind to go in von of dem churches so soon as von comes along. Pooty soon I comes to de von mit ein shteeples high oup in de shky und I goes in mit de beoples und sits me down on ein seat all covered mit a leetle mattress. De big organ vas blaying so soft it seemed likes as if some angels must be dere to make dot music. Pooty soon de breacher man shtood in de bulbit oup und read de hymn oudt, und all de beoples sing until de churches vos filled mit de shweetness. Den de breacher man pray, und read de Pible, und den he say dot de bulbit would be occupied by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas. Den dot man gommence to breach und he read mit his dext, "Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." He talks for so mooch as ein half hour already ven de beoples sings again und goes homes. I tells mein brudder-mit-law it vos so nice I tinks me I goes again mit some oder churches. So vot you tinks? I goes mit anoder churches dot afternoon und dot same Villiam R. Shtover vos dere und breach dot same sermon ofer again mit dot same dext, "Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." I tinks to my ownself--dot vos too bad, und I goes home und dells Yawcup, und he says, "Nefer mind, Katrina, to-night ve goes somevhere else to churches." So ven de night vas come und de lamps vos all lighted mit de shtreets, me und mein brudder-mit-law, ve goes over to dot Brooklyn town to hear dot Heinrich Vard Peecher. My but dot vos ein grosse church, und so many beobles vas dere, ve vas crowded mit de vall back. Ven de singing vas all done, a man vot vos sitting mit a leetle chair got oup und say dot de Rev. Heinrich Vard Peecher vas to de Vhite Mountains gone mit dot hay fever, but dot de bulbit vould be occupied on this occasion by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas. Und dot Villiam R. Shtover he gots mit dot bulbit oup und breaches dot same sermon mit dot same dext, "Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." Dot vos too bad again und I gets mad. I vos so mad I vish dot he got dot fever himself. Vell, von dot man vas troo Yawcup says to me, "Come, Katrina, ve'll go down to dot ferry und take de boat vot goes to New York!" Ven ve vas on dot boat de fog vas so tick dot you couldn't see your hands pehind your pack. De vistles vas plowing, und dem pells vos ringing, und von man shtepped up mit Yawcup und say "Vot vor dem pells pe ringing so mooch?" Und ven I looked around dere shtood dot Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas--und I said pooty quick: "Vot vor dem pells vas ringing? Vy for Simon's vife's mudder, vot must be died, for I hear dree times to-day already dot she vas sick mit ein fever." THE RABBI AND THE PRINCE. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. _Versified from the Talmud._ A monarch sat in serious thought, alone, But little reck'd he of his robe and throne; Naught valuing the glory of control, He sought to solve the future of his soul. "Why should I bow the proud, imperious knee, To mighty powers no mortal eye can see?" So mused he long and turned this question o'er, Then, with impatient tread, he paced the floor, Till maddened by conflicting trains of thought And speculation vague, which came to naught, With feverish haste he clutched a tasseled cord As desperate hands, in battle, clutch a sword. "Summon Jehoshua," the monarch cried. The white-haired Rabbi soon was at his side. *....*....*....* "I bow no more to powers I cannot see; Thy faith and learning shall be naught to me, Unless, before the setting of the sun, Mine eyes behold the uncreated one." *....*....*....* The Rabbi led him to the open air. The oriental sun with furious glare Sent down its rays, like beams of molten gold. The aged teacher, pointing, said: "Behold." "I cannot," said the Prince, "my dazzled eyes Refuse their service, turned upon the skies." *....*....*....* "Son of the dust," the Rabbi gently said And bowed, with reverence, his hoary head, "This one creation, thou canst not behold, Though by thy lofty state and pride made bold. How canst thou then behold the God of Light, Before whose face the sunbeams are as night? Thine eyes before this trifling labor fall, Canst gaze on him who hath created all? Son of the dust, repentance can atone; Return and worship God, who rules alone." THE MAID OF ORLEANS. BY J. E. SAGEBEER. It was just at the dawn of day, when the first rays of morning were breaking over Europe and dispelling the darkness of the Middle Ages. France and England were engaged in a desperate struggle, the one for existence, the other for a throne. All the western part of France had avowed the English cause, and the English king had been proclaimed at Paris, at Rouen and at Bordeaux, while the strongly fortified city of Orleans, the key to the French possessions, was besieged. The thunder and lightning of the battlefield are bad enough, but the starvation and pestilence of a besieged city are infinitely worse. The supplies of Orleans were exhausted; the garrison was reduced to a few desperate men, and the women and children had been abandoned to the English. But far away on the border of Germany, in the little village of Domremy, the Nazareth of France, God was raising up a deliverer for Orleans, a savior for the nation. The out-door life of a peasant girl had given to Joan of Arc a well-developed form, while the beauties of her soul and the spiritual tendencies of her nature must have given to her face that womanly beauty that never fails to win respect and love. Her standard was a banner of snowy silk; her weapon a sword, that from the day she first drew it from its scabbard until she finally laid it down upon the grave of St. Denis, was never stained with blood; and her inspiration was a self-sacrificing devotion to the will of God, to the rights of France and her king. Without a single opposing shot she passed under the very battlements of the besieging English, and entered Orleans with soldiers for empty forts and food for starving people. It needed no eloquent speech to incite the men of Orleans to deeds of valor and of vengeance. The ruins of their homes choked the streets; the desolated city was one open sepulchre, while the cries of half-starved children and the wails of heartbroken mothers, stirred them to such a mad frenzy of enthusiasm, that now, since a leader had come, they would have rushed headlong and thoughtlessly against the English forts as into a trap of death. And now the attack was planned and the lines were formed; and then as the crumbling walls of the city echoed back the wild shouts of the Orleanites, the maid of Domremy, waving her sword aloft and followed by her snowy banner, led her Frenchmen on to slaughter and to victory. Then from the English archers came flight after flight of swift-winged arrows, while the wild catapults threw clouds of death-laden stones crashing among the French. Broadsword and battle-axe clashed on shield and helmet, while the wild horses, mad with rage and pain, rushed with fierce yells upon the foe; but ever above the din and noise of battle, above death shouts and saber strokes, though the dust and smoke obscured her banner, ever could be heard the clear, ringing voice of their leader, shouting for victory and for France. An arrow pierced her bosom, but drawing it out with her own hand and throwing it aside, she showed the French her blood-stained corselet, and once more urged them on. As when the Archangel Michael, leading the heavenly cohorts, forced the rebellious angels to the very brink of hell, then hurled them over and so saved the throne of heaven, so did the maid of Orleans, leading on frenzied Frenchmen, press back the English step by step, and slaughtered rank by rank, till the whole army turned and fled, and Orleans was free and France was safe. And now her work was done. Would that some kindly voice had bade her now go home to tend the sheep and roll their white wool on her distaff! But she who had raised the siege of Orleans and led the way to Rheims, could not escape a jealous fate. The Duke of Burgundy had laid siege to Compiegne. Joan of Arc went to the rescue and was repulsed, and while bravely fighting in the rear of her retreating troops, fell prisoner to the recreant French and was sold by them to the English. For one long year she languished in her prison tower. Her keepers insulted her and called her a witch; and when in desperation she sprang from the tower and was taken up insensible, they loaded her poor body with chains, and two guards stayed in her cell day and night. Her trial came, but her doom was already sealed. The Bishop of Beauvais, with a hundred doctors of theology, were her judges. Without a particle of evidence against her, they convicted her of sorcery and sentenced her to be burnt at the stake. A howl of fiendish joy went up from the blood-thirsty court of Paris,--a howl of fiendish joy that made its way to every battlefield where she had fought; it rang against the rescued walls of Orleans and was echoed to the royal court at Rheims; it reached to the bottomless pit and made the imps of Satan dance with glee; it echoed through the halls of heaven and made the angels weep; but there was no rescuer for the helpless girl. Even the gladiator, forced into the fight, against his will, when fallen in the arena, his sword broken and the enemy's knee upon his breast, might yet hope for "thumbs down," and mercy from the hard-hearted Roman spectators. But not a single hand was raised to save the maid of Domremy, the saviour of Orleans. Had she not faithfully done her work? Had she not bled for them? Had she not saved the kingdom? And in all chivalrous France was there not a champion to take up the gauntlet in defence of a helpless girl? When she led their armies, their spears blazed in heaven's sunlight; now they would quench them in her blood. With scarcely time to think of death, she was hurried away to the public square and chained to the stake, and when the fagots were fired, more painful than the circling flames, she heard the mocking laugh of the angry crowd. Higher and higher rose the flames, until, pressing the cross to her heart, her unconscious head sank upon her bosom, and her pure spirit went up amid the smoke and soared away to heaven. GENTLE ALICE BROWN. BY W. S. GILBERT. [This is one of the Bab-Ballads, on which the very successful comic opera "Pinafore" was founded.] It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown, Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing. As Alice was a sitting at her window-sill one day, A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; She cast her eyes upon, and he looked so good and true, That she thought: "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!" And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten; A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode). But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes; So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed, The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed. "Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not, To discover that I was a most disreputable lot? Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!" The padre said: "Whatever have you been and gone and done?" "I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad, I've planned a little burglary and forged a little check, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!" The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear, And said: "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear; It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half a crown apiece. "Girls will be girls--you're very young, and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks-- Let's see--five crimes at half-a-crown--exactly twelve-and-six." "Oh, father!" little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap-- Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But, oh! there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet! "A pleasant looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, I've noticed at my window, as I've sat acatching flies; He passes by it every day as certain as can be-- I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me!" "For shame!" said father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band! "This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parent so! They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many, many years they've kept starvation from my doors; I never knew so criminal a family as yours! "The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; And if you marry any one respectable at all. Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?" The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown-- To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it. Good Robber Brown he muffled up his anger pretty well; He said: "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits. "I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two: Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do-- A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small." He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware; He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed. And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band. YOUNG AMERICA. The central figure was a bareheaded woman with a broom in her hand. She stood on the back step, and was crying: "George!" There was no response, but anybody who had been on the other side of the close-boarded fence at the foot of the garden might have observed two boys intently engaged in building a mud pie. "That's your mother hollerin' Georgie," said one of the two, placing his eye to a knothole and glancing through to the stoop. "I don't care," said the other. "Ain't you going in?" "No!" "Georgie!" came another call, short and sharp; "do you hear me?" There was no answer. "Where is she now?" inquired Georgie, putting in the filling of the pie. "On the stoop," replied his friend at the knothole. "What's she doin'?" "Ain't doin' nothin'." "George Augustus!" Still no answer. "You needn't think you can hide from me, young man, for I can see you, and if you don't come in here at once, I'll come out there in a way that you'll know it." Now this was an eminently natural statement, but hardly plausible as her eyes would have had to pierce an inch board fence to see Georgie; and even were this possible, it would have required a glance in that special direction, and not over the top of a pear tree in an almost opposite way. Even the boy at the knothole could hardly repress a smile. "What's she doin' now?" inquired Georgie. "She stands there yet." "I won't speak to you again, George Augustus," came the voice. "Your father will be home in a few minutes, and I shall tell him all about what you have done." Still no answer. "Ain't you afraid?" asked the conscientious young man, drawing his eye from the knothole to rest it. "No! she won't tell pa; she never does, she only says it to scare me." Thus enlightened and reassured, the guard covered the knothole again. "Ain't you acoming in here, young man?" again demanded the woman, "or do you want me to come out there to you with a stick? I won't speak to you again, sir!" "Is she comin'?" asked the baker. "No." "Which way is she lookin'?" "She's lookin' over in the other yard." "Do you hear me, I say?" came the call again. No answer. "George Augustus! do you hear your mother?" Still no answer. "Oh, you just wait, young man, till your father comes home, and he'll make you hear, I'll warrant ye." "She's gone in now," announced the faithful sentinel, withdrawing from his post. "All right! take hold of this crust and pull it down on that side, and that'll be another pie done," said the remorse-stricken George Augustus. SHWATE KITTIE KEHOE. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. Shwate Kittie Kehoe, Can ye tell, I do' know. Phwat the mischief's about ye that bothers me so? For there's that in yer eye. That I wish I may die If it doesn't pursue me wherever I go. Och hone! Shwate Kitty Kehoe. It's a livin' disgrace That yer shwate purty face Should be dhrivin' me sinses all over the place! I go this way an' that, Loike a man fur a hat, Wid the wind up an alley-way, runnin' a race. Och hone! Shwate Kittie Kehoe. Oh! Faith, but I'm sad, Fur to know that I'm mad, That only intinsifies all that is bad; But phwat can I do, Whin a shwate smile from you Turns everythin' rosy and makes me sowl glad? Och hone! Shwate Kittie Kehoe. Shwate Kittie Kehoe, I beg of ye, go To the outermost inds of the earth, I do' know; If ye'll only do this, Jist lave me wan kiss, An' I'll die whin yer sthartin', Shwate Kittie Kehoe. Och hone! Och hone! Shwate Kittie Kehoe. THE COUNTRY'S GREATEST EVIL. [A short speech by Vice-President Henry Wilson, delivered at the National Temperance Convention, in Chicago, June, 1875.] Forty years of experience and observation have taught me that the greatest evil of our country, next, at any rate, to the one that has gone down in fire and blood to rise no more, is the evil of intemperance. Every day's experience, every hour of reflection, teaches me that it is the duty of patriotism, the duty of humanity, the duty of Christianity, to live Christian lives, and to exert temperance influence among the people. There was a time, when I was younger than I am now, when I hoped to live long enough to see the cause which my heart loves and my judgment approves stronger than it is to-day. I may be mistaken, but it seems to me that the present is a rather dark and troubled night for that cause, and it is because it so seems to me that I believe it to be the duty of every honest, conscientious, self-sacrificing man of our country to speak and to work for the cause in every legitimate and proper way. And my reliance for the advancement of the cause of temperance is the same reliance which I have for the spread of the Gospel of our Divine Lord and Master. The heart, the conscience and the reason must be appealed to continually; and Christian men and women must remember that the heart of Christianity is temperance. If it costs a sacrifice, give it. What is sacrifice to doing good and lifting toward heaven our fellow-men? We have got to rely on appeals and addresses made to the heart of this nation, to the conscience of the people and the reason of the country. We have got to train up our children in the cause from infancy. We must teach it in the schools and everywhere by word, and above all by example; and it seems to me that Christian ministers, in this dark hour of our country, when they see so much intemperance, and what looks to some of us like a reaction, should make the voice of the pulpits of this land heard. Members of Christian churches should remember that they have something to do in this cause. If anything stands in the way of Christianity it is the drunkenness in our land. A word for temperance at this time is the strongest blow against the kingdom of Satan and for the cause of our Lord and Master. Suppose you have been disappointed. Suppose that many of your laws have failed. We know that we are right. We personally feel and see it. The evidence is around and about us that we cannot be mistaken in living total abstinence lives and recommending such a course to our neighbors. When it costs something to stand by the temperance cause, then is the hour to stand by it. If I could be heard to-day by the people of the land, by the patriotic young men of this country, full of life, vigor and hope, I would say that it is among the first, the highest, and the grandest duties, which the country, God, and the love of humanity impose, to work for the cause of _total abstinence_. I WONDER. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. I wonder if, under the grass-grown sod, The weary human heart finds rest! If the soul, with its woes, when it flies to God, Leaves all its pain, in the earth's cold breast! Or whether we feel, as we do to-day, That joy holds sorrow in hand, alway. I wonder if, after the kiss of death, The love that was sweet, in days of yore. Departs with the last, faint, fleeting breath, Or deeper grows than ever before! I wonder if, there in the great Unknown, Fond hearts grow weary when left alone! I think of the daily life I lead, Its broken dreams and its fitful starts, The hopeless hunger, the heart's sore need, The joy that gladdens, the wrong that parts, And wonder whether the coming years Will bring contentment, or toil and tears. SPEECH OF PATRICK HENRY. [Delivered before the Convention of Delegates of Virginia, March 23, 1775.] Mr. President: It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern our temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth,--to know the worst, and to provide for it! I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet! Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss! Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation,--the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them?--Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that, for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not already been exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done every thing that could be done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted, our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult, our supplications have been disregarded, and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free, if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending, if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained,--we must fight; I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us! They tell us, sir, that we are weak,--unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable; and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come! It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry: Peace, peace!--but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death! MUTATION. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. Upon the shores of No-man's-land, I met an angel, one whose wings Shed beams of light on either hand, As radiant as the sunrise brings. And happy souls, with eager tread, Passed up and down the sandy slope; "Oh, tell me your fair name!" I said; She turned and smiled, and answered: "Hope." Along the shores of No-man's-land, The angel walked, with folded wings, And shadows fell on every hand, The burden that the night-wind brings. With head turned backward, sad and slow She paced the sands, her eyelids wet, "Hope mourns," I said, and soft and low, The angel sighed: "I am Regret." SIX LOVE LETTERS "Are there any more of those letters?" When her father asked this question in an awful tone, Lucilla Richmond could not say No, and dared not say Yes, but as an intermediate course burst into tears and sobbed behind her handkerchief. "Bring them to me, Lucilla," said her father, as if she had answered him, as indeed she had; and the girl, trembling and weeping, arose to obey him. Then Mrs. Richmond, her daughter's own self grown older, came behind her husband's chair and patted him on the shoulder. "Please don't be hard with her, my dear," she said, coaxingly. "He's a nice young man, and it's all our fault, after all, as much as hers." "Perhaps you approve of the whole affair, ma'am," said Mr. Richmond. "I--no--that is I only--" gasped the little woman; and hearing Lucilla coming, she sank into a chair, blaming herself dreadfully for not having been present at all her daughter's music lessons during the past year. "It was inexcusable in a poor music teacher, who should have known his place," Mr. Richmond declared; and he clutched the little perfumed billet which had fallen into his hands, as he might a scorpion, and waited for the others with a look upon his face which told of no softening. At last six little white envelopes, tied together with blue ribbons, were laid at his elbow by his trembling daughter. "Lock these up until I return home this evening," he said to his wife; "I will read them then. Meanwhile Lucilla is not to see this music teacher on any pretence whatever." Mr. Richmond put on his hat and departed, and Lucilla and her mother took the opportunity of falling into each other's arms. "It is so naughty of you," said Mrs. Richmond. "But oh, dear, I can't blame you. It was exactly so with your father, and my father objected because of his poverty. He used to be very romantic himself in those old times. Such letters as he wrote to me. I have them in my desk yet. He said he'd die if I refused him." "So does Fred," said Lucilla. "And that life would be worthless without me, and about my being beautiful,--I'm sure he ought to sympathize a little," said Mrs. Richmond. She went into her own room to put the letters into her desk; and as she placed them into one of the pigeon holes, she saw in another a bundle, tied exactly as these were, and drew them out. These letters were to a Lucilla also, one who had received them twenty years before. A strange idea came into Mrs. Richmond's mind. When she left the desk she looked guilty and frightened. The dinner hour arrived, and with it came her husband, angered and more determined than ever. The meal was passed in silence; then, having adjourned to the parlor, Mr. Richmond seated himself in a great arm-chair, and demanded, in a voice of thunder: "Those absurd letters, if you please." "Six letters--six shameful pieces of deception, Lucilla," said the indignant parent. "I am shocked that a child of mine should practice such duplicity. Hem! let me see. Number one, I believe. June, and this is December. Half a year you have deceived us then, Lucilla. Let me see--ah! 'From the first moment I adored you,' bah! Nonsense. People don't fall in love in that absurd manner. 'With your smiles for a goal, I would win both fame and fortune, poor as I am!' Fiddlesticks, Lucilla. A man who has common sense would always wait until he had a fair commencement before he proposed to a girl. Praising your beauty, eh? 'The loveliest creature I ever saw!' Exaggeration, my dear. You are not plain, but such flattery is absurd. 'Must hear from you or die!' Dear, dear, dear--how absurd!" And Mr. Richmond dropped the first letter and picked another. "The same stuff," he commented. "I hope you do not believe a word he says. Ah! now in number three he calls you 'an angel!' He's romantic, upon my soul! And what is this? 'Those who forbid me to see you can find no fault with me but my poverty. I am honest--I am earnest in my efforts. I am by birth a gentleman, and I love you from the depths of my soul. Do not let them sell you for gold, Lucilla.' Great heavens, what impertinence to your parents!" "I don't remember Fred saying anything of that kind," said poor little Lucilla. "He never knew you would object." Mr. Richmond shook his head, frowned and then read on until the last sheet lay under his hand. Then with an ejaculation of rage, he sprang to his feet. "Infamous!" he cried! "I'll go to him this instant--I'll horsewhip him, I'll--I'll murder him! As for you, by Jove, I'll send you to a convent. Elope--elope with a music teacher! Here, John, call a cab, I----" "Oh, papa! you are crazy!" said Lucilla. "Frederick never proposed such a thing. Let me see the letter. Oh, that is not Fred's--upon my word it is not. Do look, papa, it is dated twenty years back, and Frederick's name is not Charles! Papa, these are your letters to mamma, written long ago. Mother's name is Lucilla, you know." Mr. Richmond sat down in his arm-chair in silence, very red in the face. "How did this occur?" he said, sternly; and little Mrs. Richmond, retreating into a corner, with her handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed: "I did it on purpose! You know, Charles, it's so long ago, and I thought you might not exactly remember how you fell in love with me at first sight; how papa and mamma objected, and how, at last, we ran away together; and it seemed to me if we could bring it back all plainly to you as it was then, we might let Lucilla marry the man she loves, who is good, if he is not rich. I do not need to be brought back any plainer myself; women have more time to remember, you know. And we've been very happy--have we not?" And certainly Mr. Richmond could not deny that. The little ruse was favorable to the young music teacher, who had really only been sentimental, and had not gone one half so far as an elopement; and in due course of time the two were married with all the pomp and grandeur befitting the nuptials of a wealthy merchant's daughter, with the perfect approbation of Lucilla's father. A ROMAN LEGEND. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. Hour by hour, with skillful pencil, wrought the artist, sad and lone, Day by day, he labored nobly, though to all the world unknown; He was brave, the youthful artist, but his soul grew weak and faint, As he strove to place before him, the fair features of a saint; Worn and weary, he strove vainly, for the touch of Heavenly grace, Till, one day, a radiant sunbeam fell upon the up-turned face, And the very air was flooded with a presence strangely sweet, For the soul, within the sunbeam, seemed to make the work complete; Swift as thought the artist's pencil deftly touched the features fair, Night came down, but one bright sunbeam left its soul imprisoned there; And around his dingy garret gazed the artist, wondering, For the work sublime illumed it like the palace of a king; And within the artist nature flamed his first fond love divine, Which bewildered all his senses, as with rare, old, ruby wine. Yearningly, he cried: "I love thee," to the radiant saintly face, But the never-ceasing answer was a look of Heavenly grace. Out into the world he wandered, questioning, searching everywhere, And the stars above, full often, heard his soul burst forth in prayer: "God in Heaven, in mercy, hear me! Hear thy suppliant's pleading cry, Lead, oh lead! my footsteps to her. Grant but this, or let me die." Friends forsook and want pursued him, still he struggled on alone, Till, at last, outworn and trembling, reason tottered on its throne, And he seemed the helpless plaything of some mad, relentless fate, Till the Sisterhood of Mercy found him lying at their gate; Made him welcome, gave him shelter and with ever-patient care Bathed his brow and brushed the tangled, matted tresses of his hair. Long he lingered on the borders of the holy-land of death, One fair Sister, by his bedside, counting low each fluttering breath. Softly fell the evening shadows, shutting out the golden glow, Of a gorgeous, lingering sunset, gilding all the earth below, When, upon his pillow turning, swift came to him hope's bright gleams, For the anxious face above him was the loved one of his dreams. But her life was one of mercy, and the band across her brow, Gave the spotless testimony of a maiden's holy vow. "Is this Heaven? Are you an angel?" swift he questioned her, the while She smoothed back his wavy tresses, only answering with a smile; "Tell me truly, couldst thou love me, since thou wouldst not let me die?" But she pointed to the band about her brow and breathed a sigh. In her hours of patient watching, she had learned the bitter truth, That the Sisterhood of Mercy has its anguish and its ruth; Nevermore she came, well-knowing, from temptation se must fly, For his eager, tender questions in her heart had found reply. Every morning he would question: "Will she come to me to-day?" And the tender, truthful Sisters shook their heads and turned away, For adown his classic features passed the shadow of his pain, As he closed his eyes and murmured: "She will never come again." In his dreams, one night, he fancied she had bent above his bed, And his loving arms reached upward, but the vision sweet had fled. Hopeless, in his great heart-hunger, through a storm of wind and rain, To his picture turned the artist, bowing low with grief and pain; Open wide he threw the shutters of his garret casement high, Heeding not the vivid lightning, as it flashed athwart the sky. On his lowly couch reclining, soon in weariness he slept, While the storm clouds o'er him thundering, long and loud their vigils kept. Wilder grew the night and fiercer blew the winds, until at last, Like a bird of prey or demon, through the shattered casement, passed The old shutter, rending, tearing every wondrous touch and trace Of the artist's patient labor, from the radiant, saintly face; And the jagged bands of lightning, as they flashed along the floor, Lit the crushed and crumpled canvas, worthless now forevermore. And the artist, slowly rising, groped his way across the room, Feeling, knowing he had lost her, though enshrouded in the gloom. Then besought his couch and murmured: "It is well, God knoweth best." And the sunbeams of the morning found a weary soul--at rest. A FRIEND OF THE FLY. With a fly-screen under one arm and a bundle of sticky fly-paper under the other, an honest agent entered a grocery store one day in the summer and said: "Why don't you keep 'em out?" "Who vash dot?" asked the grocery-man. "Why, the pesky flies. You've got 'em by the thousand in here, and the fly season has only begun. Shall I put fly-screens in the doors?" "What for?" "To keep the flies out." "Why should I keep der flies oudt? Flies like some shance to go aroundt und see der city de same ash agents. If a fly ish kept out on der street all der time he might ash vhell be a horse." "Yes, but they are a great nuisance. I'll put you up a screen door there for three dollars." "Not any for me. If a fly vhants to come in here, und he behaves himself in a respectable manner, I have notings to say. If he don't behave, I bounce him oudt pooty queek, und don't he forget her!" "Well, try this fly-paper. Every sheet will catch five hundred flies." "Who vhants to catch 'em?" "I do--you--everybody." "I don't see it like dot. If I put dot fly-paper on der counter somebody comes along und wipes his nose mit it, or somebody leans his elbow on her und vhalks off mit him. It would be shust like my boy Shake to come in und lick all der molasses off, to play a shoke on his fadder." "Say, I'll put down a sheet, and if it doesn't catch twenty flies in five minutes I'll say no more." "If you catch twenty flies I have to pry 'em loose mit a stick und let 'em go, und dot vhas too much work. No, my agent friendt; flies must have a shance to get along und take some comfort. I vhas poor once myself, und I know all about it." "I'll give you seven sheets for ten cents." "Oxactly, but I won't do it. It looks to me like shmall beesness for a big agent like you to go around mit some confidence games to shwindle flies. A fly vhas born to be a fly, und to come into my shtore ash often ash he likes. When he comes I shall treat him like a shentleman. I gif him a fair show. I don't keep an axe to knock him in der headt, und I don't put some molasses all oafer a sheet of paper und coax him to come und be all stuck up mit his feet till he can't fly away. You can pass along--I'm no such person like dot." ANSWERED PRAYERS. BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. I prayed for riches, and achieved success,-- All that I touched turned into gold. Alas! My cares were greater, and my peace was less When that wish came to pass. I prayed for glory; and I heard my name Sung by sweet children and by hoary men. But ah! the hurts, the hurts that come with fame! I was not happy then. I prayed for love, and had my soul's desire; Through quivering heart and body and through brain There swept the flame of its devouring fire; And there the scars remain. I prayed for a contented mind. At length Great light upon my darkened spirit burst. Great peace fell on me, also, and great strength. Oh! had that prayer been first! GOD IN THE AMERICAN CONSTITUTION. BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE. Not only because of the kindness of God to this nation in the past should such a reverential insertion be made, but because of the fact that we are going to want Divine interposition still further in our national history. This gold and silver question will never be settled until God settles it. This question of tariff and free trade will never be settled until God settles it. This question between the East and the West, which is getting hotter and hotter, and looks toward a Republic of the Pacific, will not be settled until God settles it. We needed God in the one hundred and twenty years of our past national life, and we will need Him still more in the next one hundred and twenty years. Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates of our glorious Constitution, and let the King of Glory come in! Make one line of that immortal document radiant with Omnipotence! Spell at least one word with Thrones! At the beginning, or at the close, or in the centre, recognize Him from whom as a nation we have received all the blessing of the past and upon whom we are dependent for the future. Print that one word "God," or "Lord," or "Eternal Father," or "Ruler of Nations," somewhere between the first word and the last. The Great Expounder of the Constitution sleeps at Marshfield, Massachusetts, the Atlantic Ocean still humming near his pillow of dust its prolonged lullaby; but is there not some one now living, who, in the white marble palace of the nation on yonder hill, not ten minutes away, will become the Irradiator of the Constitution by causing to be added the most tremendous word of our English vocabulary, the name of that Being before whom all nations must bow or go into defeat and annihilation,--"God?" THE ENCHANTED SHIRT. BY JOHN HAY. The king was sick. His cheek was red, And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night. But he said he was sick--and a king should know; And doctors came by the score; They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, And sent to the schools for more. At last two famous doctors came, And one was poor as a rat; He had passed his life in studious toil And never found time to grow fat. The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble; If they recovered, they paid him well, If they died, their heirs paid double. Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the king on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find. The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut." "Hang him up!" roared the king, in a gale, In a ten-knot gale of royal range; The other grew a shadow pale; But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran: "The king will be well if he sleeps one night In the shirt of a happy man." Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spake, But they found no happy man. They found poor men who would fain be rich, And rich who thought they were poor; And men who twisted their waists in stays, And women that short hose wore. They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife he said, And the other one had not. At last they came to a village gate; A beggar lay whistling there; He whistled and sang and laughed, and rolled On the grass in the soft June air. The weary couriers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay, And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend, Yon seem to be happy to-day." "Oh yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad." "This is our man," the courier said, "Our luck has led us aright. I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night." The merry blackguard lay back on the grass And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it, God wot," and he roared with fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back." Each day to the king the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Passed daily under his eyes. And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened the windows, and let in the air Of the free heaven into his room; And out he went in the world, and toiled In his own appointed way, And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the king was well and gay. PRAYING FOR PAPA. A man who had been walking for some time in the downward path, came out of his house and started down town for a night of carousal with some old companions he had promised to meet. His young wife had besought him with imploring eyes to spend the evening with her, and had reminded him of the time when evenings passed in her company were all too short. His little daughter had clung about his knees and coaxed in her pretty, wilful way for "papa" to tell her some bedtime stories, but habit was stronger than love for wife and child, and he eluded their tender questioning by the special sophistries the father of evil advances at such times from his credit fund, and went his way. But when he was a few blocks distant from his home, he found that in changing his coat he had forgotten to remove his wallet, and he could not go out on a drinking bout without money, even though he knew his family needed it, and his wife was economizing every day more and more in order to make up his deficits, and he hurried back and crept softly past the windows of the little house, in order that he might steal in and obtain it without running the gauntlet of either questions or caresses. But something stayed his feet; there was a fire in the grate within--for the night was chilly--and it lit up the little parlor and brought out in startling effects the pictures on the wall. But these were as nothing to the pictures on the hearth. There, in the soft glow of the fire-light knelt his child at the mother's feet, its small hands clasped in prayer, its fair head bowed; and as its rosy lips whispered each word with distinctness, the father listened, spell-bound to the spot: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." Sweet petition! The man himself, who stood there with bearded lips shut tightly together, had said that prayer once at his mother's knee. Where was that mother now? The sunset gates had long ago unbarred to let her through. But the child had not finished; he heard her say "God bless mamma, papa, and my ownself"--and there was a pause, and she lifted her troubled blue eyes to her mother's face. "God bless papa," prompted the mother, softly. "God bless papa," lisped the little one. "And--please send papa home sober"--he could not hear the mother as she said this, but the child followed in a clear, inspired tone: "God--bless--papa--and--please--send--him--home--sober. Amen." Mother and child sprang to their feet in alarm when the door opened so suddenly, but they were not afraid when they saw who it was, returned so soon. That night, when little Mamie was being tucked up in bed after such a romp with papa, she said in the sleepiest and most contented of voices: "Mamma, God answers most as quick as the telegraph, doesn't he?" BECALMED. BY SAMUEL, K. COWAN. It was as calm as calm could be; A death-still night in June; A silver sail on a silver sea, Under a silver moon. Not the least low air the still sea stirred; But all on the dreaming deep The white ship lay, like a white sea-bird, With folded wings, asleep. For a long, long month, not a breath of air; For a month, not a drop of rain; And the gaunt crew watched in wild despair, With a fever in throat and brain. And they saw the shore, like a dim cloud, stand On the far horizon-sea; It was only a day's short sail to the land, And the haven where they would be. Too faint to row--no signal brought An answer, far or nigh. Father, have mercy; leave them not Alone, on the deep, to die. And the gaunt crew prayed on the decks above; And the women prayed below: "One drop of rain, for Heaven's great love! Oh, Heaven, for a breeze to blow!" But never a shower from the cloud would burst, And never a breeze would come: O God, to think that man can thirst And starve in sight of home! But out to sea with the drifting tide The vessel drifted away-- Till the far-off shore, like the dim cloud, died; And the wild crew ceased to pray! Like fiends they glared, with their eyes aglow; Like beasts with hunger wild: But a mother prayed, in the cabin below, By the bed of her little child. It slept, and lo! in its sleep it smiled,-- A babe of summers three: "O Father, save my little child, Whatever comes to me!" Calm gleamed the sea, calm gleamed the sky, No cloud--no sail in view; And they cast them lots, for who should die To feed the starving crew! Like beasts they glared, with hunger wild, And their red-glazed eyes aglow, And the death-lot fell on the little child That slept in the cabin below! And the mother shrieked in wild despair: "O God, my child--my son. They will take his life, it is hard to bear; Yet, Father, Thy will be done." And she waked the child from its happy sleep, And she kneeled by the cradle bed; "We thirst, my child, on the lonely deep; We are dying, my child, for bread. "On the lone, lone sea no sail--no breeze; Not a drop of rain in the sky; We thirst--we starve--on the lonely seas; And thou, my child, must die!" She wept: what tears her wild soul shed Not I, but Heaven knows best. And the child rose up from its cradle bed, And crossed its hands on its breast: "Father," he lisped, "so good, so kind, Have pity on mother's pain: For mother's sake, a little wind; Father, a little rain!" And she heard them shout for the child from the deck, And she knelt on the cabin stairs: "The child!" they cry, "the child--stand back-- And a curse on your idiot prayers!" And the mother rose in her wild despair, And she bared her throat to the knife: "Strike--strike me--me; but spare, oh, spare My child, my dear son's life!" O God, it was a ghastly sight,-- Red eyes, like flaming brands, And a hundred belt-knives flashing bright In the clutch of skeleton hands! "Me--me--strike--strike, ye fiends of death!" But soft--through the ghastly air Whose falling tear was that? whose breath Waves through the mother's hair? A flutter of sail--a ripple of seas-- A speck on the cabin pane; O God; it's a breeze--a breeze-- And a drop of blessed rain! And the mother rushed to the cabin below, And she wept on the babe's bright hair. "The sweet rain falls the sweet winds blow; Father has heard thy prayer!" Bu the child had fallen asleep again, And lo! in its sleep it smiled. "Thank God," she cried, "for His wind and His rain! Thank God, for my little child!" IN THE BOTTOM DRAWER. I saw wife pull out the bottom drawer of the old family bureau this evening, and went softly out, and wandered up and down, until I knew that she had shut it up and gone to her sewing. We have some things laid away in that drawer which the gold of kings could not buy, and yet they are relics which grieve us until both our hearts are sore. I haven't dared look at them for a year, but I remember each article. There are two worn shoes, a little chip hat with part of the brim gone, some stockings, pants, a coat, two or three spools, bits of broken crockery, a whip and several toys. Wife--poor thing--goes to that drawer every day of her life, and prays over it, and lets her tears fall upon the precious articles; but I dare not go. Sometimes we speak of little Jack, but not often. It has been a long time, but somehow we can't get over grieving. He was such a burst of sunshine into our lives that his going away has been like covering our every-day existence with a pall. Sometimes, when we sit alone of an evening, I writing and she sewing, a child on the street will call out as our boy used to, and we will both start up with beating hearts and a wild hope, only to find the darkness more of a burden than ever. It is so still and quiet now. I look up at the window where his blue eyes used to sparkle at my coming, but he is not there. I listen for his pattering feet, his merry shout, and his ringing laugh; but there is no sound. There is no one to climb over my knees, no one to search my pockets and tease for presents: and I never find the chairs turned over, the broom down, or ropes tied to the door-knobs. I want some one to tease me for my knife; to ride on my shoulder; to lose my axe; to follow me to the gate when I go, and be there to meet me when I come; to call "good-night" from the little bed, now empty. And wife, she misses him still more; there are no little feet to wash, no prayers to say; no voice teasing for lumps of sugar, or sobbing with the pain of a hurt toe; and she would give her own life, almost, to awake at midnight, and look across to the crib and see our boy there as he used to be. So we preserve our relics; and when we are dead we hope that strangers will handle them tenderly, even if they shed no tears over them. EMULATION (UP TO DATE). BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. "He who would thrive must rise at five," The old folks used to say, And so, of course, to thrive the more, Tis better still to rise at four, And make a longer day. Still smarter he who wakes at three, And hurries out of bed; And he who would this man outdo Must rise when clocks are striking two, To earn his daily bread. To rise and run at stroke of one, Advantage still may keep; But he who would them all forestall Must never go to bed at all, And die for lack of sleep. DESTINY OF OUR COUNTRY. BY R. C. WINTHROP. Here, then, sir, I bring these remarks to a close. I have explained, to the best of my ability, the views which I entertain of the great questions of the day. Those views may be misrepresented hereafter, as they have been heretofore; but they cannot be misunderstood by any one who desires, or who is even willing, to understand them. Most gladly would I have found myself agreeing more entirely with some of the friends whom I see around me, and with more than one of those elsewhere, with whom I have always been proud to be associated, and whose lead, on almost all occasions, I have rejoiced to follow. Our tie, however, I am persuaded, still remains to us all--a common devotion to the Union of these States, and a common determination to sacrifice everything but principle to its preservation. Our responsibilities are indeed great. This vast republic, stretching from sea to sea, and rapidly outgrowing everything but our affections, looks anxiously to us, this day, to take care that it receives no detriment. Nor is it too much to say, that the eyes and the hearts of the friends of constitutional freedom throughout the world are at this moment turned eagerly here,--more eagerly than ever before,--to behold an example of successful republican institutions, and to see them come out safely and triumphantly from the fiery trial to which they are now subjected! I have the firmest faith that these eyes and these hearts will not be disappointed. I have the strongest belief that the visions and phantoms of disunion which now appall us will soon be remembered only like the clouds of some April morning, or "the dissolving views" of some evening spectacle. I have the fullest conviction that this glorious republic is destined to outlast all, all, at either end of the Union, who may be plotting against its peace, or predicting its downfall. "Fond, impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine cloud Raised by thy breath, can quench the orb of day? To morrow, it repairs its golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray!" Let us proceed in the settlement of the unfortunate controversies in which we find ourselves involved, in a spirit of mutual conciliation and concession:--let us invoke fervently upon our efforts the blessings of that Almighty Being who is "the author of peace and lover of concord:"--and we shall still find order springing out of confusion, harmony evoked from discord, and peace, union and liberty, once more reassured to our land! THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD. BY CLEMENT SCOTT. Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead, Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head! Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south; Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth; It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way, And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay. Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone, In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or when There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men. When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he! Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, Had saved some hundred lives apiece--at a shilling or so a head! So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar. Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns; Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love, Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above! Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head? It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew! And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew; And then the anchor parted--'twas a tussle to keep afloat! But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high! "God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye!" Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves. Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, And saw in the boiling breakers a figure,--a fighting form; It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath; It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death, It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships. They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more, Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore. There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land. 'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, But what are a couple of women with only a man to save? What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir--and then Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent, Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went! "Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper, "For God's sake, girls, come back!" As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. "Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea, "If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!" "Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale, "You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!" "_Come back!_" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town, We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!" "Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand! Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land! Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more, And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore." Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest-- Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, And many a hearty cheer was raised for "The Women of Mumbles Head!" A REASONABLE REQUEST. MR. DARNELLE ASKS HIS FIANCEE A FAVOR, AFTER THEIR ENGAGEMENT. "It is so sudden, Mr. Darnelle." "I know it is," responded the young man gently. He stood before her with his weight resting easily on one foot, his left elbow on the mantel-piece, his right arm behind him, and his whole attitude one of careless, unstudied ease and grace, acquired only by long and patient practice. "I know it is," he repeated. "Measured by ordinary standards and by the cold conventionalities of society, it is indeed sudden. We have known each other only twenty-four hours. Until 8.25 o'clock last night neither of us had ever heard of the other. Yet with the heart one day is as one hundred years. Could we have known one another better, darling," he went on, with a tremor in his cultivated B flat baritone voice, "if we had attended the theatre, the concert, the church and the oyster parlor together for a dozen seasons? Does not your heart beat responsive to mine?" "I will not pretend to deny, Mr. Darnelle," replied the young lady, with a rich blush mantling her cheek and brow, "that your avowal moves me strangely." "I know it--I feel it," he responded eagerly. "Love is not the slow, vegetable-like growth of years. It does not move in its course with the measured, leisurely step of a man working by the day. It springs up like a mushr--like an electric flash. It takes instant possession. It does not need to be jerked in, as it were. It needs not the agonized coaxing of--of a young man's first chin whiskers, my darling. It is here! You will forgive my presumption, will you not, and speak the words that tremble on your lips--the words that will fill my cup of joy to overflowing?" * * * * * The evening had passed like a beautiful dream. Mr. Darnelle, admonished by the clock that it was time to go, had risen reluctantly to his feet, and stood holding the hand of his beautiful betrothed. "My love," he said, in eager passionate accents, "now that you have blessed my life with a measureless, ineffable joy, and made all my future radiant with golden hope, you will not think I am asking too much if I plead for just one favor?" "What is it?" shyly responded the lovely maiden. "Will you please tell me your first name?" RESIGNATION. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside howso'er defended, But has one vacant chair! The air is full of farewells to the dying; And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying. Will not be comforted! Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead,--the child of our affection,-- But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives, whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child; But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face. And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest,-- We will be patient and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. AN AFFECTIONATE LETTER. _Tipperary, Ireland, September the ten._ MY DEAR NEPHEW: I have not heard anything of you sens the last time I wrote ye. I have moved from the place where I now live, or I should have written to you before. I did not know where a letter might find you first, but I now take my pen in hand to drop you a few lines, to inform you of the death of your own living uncle, Kilpatrick. He died very suddenly after a long illness of six months. Poor man, he suffered a great deal. He lay a long time in convulsions, perfectly quiet and speechless, and all the time talking incoherently and inquiring for water. I'm much at a loss to tell you what his death was occasioned by, but the doctor thinks it was caused by his last sickness, for he was not well ten days during his confinement. His age ye know jist as well as I can tell ye; he was 25 years old last March, lacking fifteen months; and if he had lived till this time he would be just six months dead. N. B. Take notis. I inclose to you a tin pound note, which ye father sends to ye unbeknown to me. Your mother often speaks of ye; she would like to send ye the brindle cow, and I would inclose her to ye but for the horns. I would beg of ye not to break the sale of this letter until two or three days after ye read it, for thin ye will be better prepared for the sorrowful news. PATRICK O'BRANIGAN. To Michael Glancy, No. -- Broad Street, United States of Ameriky, State of Massachusetts, in Boston. THE WHISTLING REGIMENT. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. [In the recitation which follows, the effect can be heightened by an accompaniment of the piano and by the whistling of strains from Annie Laurie, adapting the style to the sentiment of the verses. The melody should be played very softly, except where the battle is alluded to, and the whistling should be so timed that the last strain of Annie Laurie may end with the words, "would lay me down and die." The beat of the drums can be introduced with good effect, but it is better to omit it unless it can be done skilfully. It is well to state before reciting, that the escape described is not entirely imaginary as many prisoners made their way through underground passages from rebel prisons, during the Civil War. An asterisk (*) at the end of a line denotes where the whistling should commence, and a dagger (*t) where it should cease.] When the North and South had parted, and the boom of the signal gun Had wakened the Northern heroes, for the great deeds to be done, When the nation's cry for soldiers had echoed o'er hill and dale, When hot youth flushed with courage, while the mother's cheeks turned pale, In the woods of old New England, as the day sank down the west, A loved one stood beside me, her brown head on my breast. From the earliest hours of childhood our paths had been as one, Her heart was in my keeping, though I knew not when 'twas won; We had learned to love each other, in a half unspoken way, But it ripened to full completeness when the parting came, that day; Not a tear in the eyes of azure, but a deep and fervent prayer, That seemed to say: "God bless you, and guard you, everywhere." At the call for volunteers, her face was like drifted snow, She read in my eyes a question and her loyal heart said, "Go." As the roll of the drums drew nearer, through the leaves of the rustling trees,* The strains of Annie Laurie were borne to us, on the breeze. Then I drew her pale face nearer and said: "Brave heart and true, Your tender love and prayers shall bring me back to you." And I called her _my_ Annie Laurie and whispered to her that I For her sweet sake was willing--to lay me down and die. And I said: "Through the days of danger, that little song shall be Like a pass word from this hillside, to bring your love to me."[*t] Oh! many a time, at nightfall, in the very shades of death, When the picket lines were pacing their rounds with bated breath,* The lips of strong men trembled and brave breasts heaved a sigh, When some one whistled softly, "I'd lay me down and die."[*t] The tender little ballad our watchword soon became, And in place of Annie Laurie, each had a loved one's name. In the very front of battle, where the bullets thickest fly,* The boys from old New England oftimes went rushing by, And the rebel lines before us gave way where'er we went, For the gray coats fled in terror from the "whistling regiment." Amidst the roar of the cannon, and the shriek of the shells on high, Yon could hear the brave boys whistling: "I'd lay me down and die."[*t] But, Alas! Though truth is mighty and right will at last prevail, There are times when the best and bravest, by the wrong outnumbered, fail; And thus, one day, in a skirmish, but a half-hour's fight at most, A score of the whistling soldiers were caught by the rebel host. With hands fast tied behind us, we were dragged to a prison pen, Where, hollow-eyed and starving, lay a thousand loyal men. No roof but the vault of Heaven, no bed save the beaten sod, Shut in from the world around us, by a wall where the sentries trod. For a time our Annie Laurie brought cheer to that prison pen; A hope to the hearts of the living; a smile to the dying men. But the spark of Hope burned dimly, when each day's setting sun Dropped the pall of night o'er a comrade, whose sands of life were run. One night, in a dismal corner, where the shadows darkest fell, We huddled close together to hear a soldier tell The tales of dear New England and of loved ones waiting there, When, Hark! a soft, low whistle, pierced through the heavy air,* And the strain was Annie Laurie. Each caught the other's eye, And with trembling lips we answered, "I'd lay me down and die." From the earth, near the wall behind us, a hand came struggling through, With a crumpled bit of paper for the captive boys in blue. And the name! My God! 'Twas Annie, my Annie, true and brave, From the hills of old New England she had followed me to save.[*t] "Not a word or a sign, but follow, where'er you may be led, Bring four of your comrades with you," was all hat the writing said. Only eight were left of the twenty and lots were quickly thrown, Then our trembling fingers widened the space where the hand had shown. With a stealthy glance at the sentries, the prisoners gathered round, And the five whom fate had chosen stole silent underground, On, on, through the damp earth creeping, we followed our dusky guide, Till under a bank o'erhanging we came to the river side: "Straight over," a low voice whispered, "where you see yon beacon light," And ere we could say, "God bless you," he vanished into the night. Through the fog and damp of the river, when the moon was hid from sight, With a fond, old, faithful negro, brave Annie had crossed each night; And the long, dark, narrow passage had grown till we heard close by The notes of the dear old pass-word: "I'd lay me down and die." With oarlocks muffled and silent, we pushed out into the stream, When a shot rang out on the stillness. We could see by the musket gleam, A single sentry firing, but the balls passed harmless by, For the stars had hid their faces and clouds swept o'er the sky. O God! How that beacon burning, brought joy to my heart that night,* For I knew whose hand had kindled that fire to guide our flight. The new-born hope of freedom filled every arm with strength, And we pulled at the oars like giants till the shore was reached at length. We sprang from the skiff, half-fainting, once more in the land of the free, And the lips of my love were waiting to welcome and comfort me. In my wasted arms I held her, while the weary boys close by Breathed low, "For Annie Laurie, I'd lay me down and die."[*t] THE MINISTER'S GRIEVANCES. "Brethren," said the aged minister, as he stood up before the church meeting on New Year's Eve, "I am afraid we will have to part. I have labored among you now for fifteen years, and I feel that that is almost enough, under the peculiar circumstances in which I am placed. Not that I am exactly dissatisfied; but a clergyman who has been preaching to sinners for fifteen years for five hundred dollars a year, naturally feels that he is not doing a great work when Deacon Jones, acting as an officer of the church, pays his last quarter's salary in a promissory note at six months, and then, acting as an individual, offers to discount it for him at ten per cent if he will take it part out in clover seed and pumpkins. "I feel somehow as if it would take about eighty-four years of severe preaching to prepare the deacon for existence in a felicitous hereafter. Let me say, also, that while I am deeply grateful to the congregation for the donation party they gave me on Christmas, I have calculated that it would be far more profitable for me to shut my house and take to the woods than endure another one. I will not refer to the impulsive generosity which persuaded Sister Potter to come with a present of eight clothes pins; I will not insinuate anything against Brother Ferguson, who brought with him a quarter of a peck of dried apples of the crop of 1872; I shall not allude to the benevolence of Sister Tynhirst, who came with a pen-wiper and a tin horse for the baby; I shall refrain from commenting upon the impression made by Brother Hill, who brought four phosphorescent mackerel, possibly with an idea that they might be useful in dissipating the gloom in my cellar. I omit reference to Deacon Jones' present of an elbow of stove-pipe and a bundle of tooth-picks, and I admit that when Sister Peabody brought me sweetened sausage-meat, and salted and peppered mince-meat for pies, she did right in not forcing her own family to suffer from her mistake in mixing the material. But I do think I may fairly remark respecting the case of Sister Walsingham, that after careful thought I am unable to perceive how she considered that a present of a box of hair-pins to my wife justified her in consuming half a pumpkin pie, six buttered muffins, two platefuls of oysters, and a large variety of miscellaneous food, previous to jamming herself full of preserves, and proceeding to the parlor to join in singing 'There is rest for the weary!' Such a destruction of the necessaries of life doubtless contributes admirably to the stimulation of commerce, but it is far too large a commercial operation to rest solely upon the basis of a ten-cent box of hair-pins. "As for matters in the church, I do not care to discuss them at length. I might say much about the manner in which the congregation were asked to contribute clothing to our mission in Senegambia; we received nothing but four neckties and a brass breast-pin, excepting a second-hand carriage-whip that Deacon Jones gave us. I might allude to the frivolous manner in which Brother Atkinson, our tenor, converses with Sister Priestly, our soprano, during my sermons, and last Sunday he kissed her when he thought I was not looking; I might allude to the absent-mindedness which has permitted Brother Brown twice lately to put half a dollar on the collection-plate and take off two quarters and a ten-cent piece in change; and I might dwell upon the circumstance that while Brother Toombs, the undertaker, sings 'I would not live alway' with professional enthusiasm that is pardonable, I do not see why he should throw such unction into the hymn 'I am unworthy though I give my all,' when he is in arrears for two years' pew-rent, and is always busy examining the carpet-pattern when the plate goes round. I also----" But there Brother Toombs turned off the gas suddenly, and the meeting adjourned full of indignation at the good pastor. His resignation was accepted unanimously. THE GOOD OLD WAY. John Mann had a wife who was kind and true,-- A wife who loved him well; She cared for the house and their only child; But if I the truth must tell, She fretted and pined because John was poor And his business was slow to pay; But he only said, when she talked of change, "We'll stick to the good old way!" She saw her neighbors were growing rich And dwelling in houses grand; That she was living in poverty, With wealth upon every hand; And she urged her husband to speculate, To risk his earnings at play; But he only said, "My dearest wife, We'll stick to the good old way." For he knew that the money that's quickly got Is the money that's quickly lost; And the money that stays is the money earned At honest endeavor's cost. So he plodded along in his honest style, And he bettered himself each day, And he only said to his fretful wife, "We'll stick to the good old way." And at last there came a terrible crash, When beggary, want, and shame Came down on the homes of their wealthy friends, While John's remained the same; For he had no debts and he gave no trust, "My motto is this," he'd say,-- "It's a charm against panics of every kind,-- 'Tis stick to the good old way!" And his wife looked round on the little house That was every nail their own, And she asked forgiveness of honest John For the peevish mistrust she had shown; But he only said, as her tearful face Upon his shoulder lay, "The good old way is the best way, wife; We'll stick to the good old way." EXTRACT FROM BLAINE'S ORATION ON JAMES A. GARFIELD. [Delivered in the City of Washington, Monday, February 27, 1882.] On the morning of Saturday, July 2, the President was a contented and happy man--not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly happy. On his way to the railroad station, to which he drove slowly, in conscious enjoyment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted sense of leisure and keen anticipation of pleasure, his talk was all in the grateful and congratulatory vein. He felt that after four months of trial his administration was strong in its grasp of affairs, strong in popular favor and destined to grow stronger; that grave difficulties confronting him at his inauguration had been safely passed; that trouble lay behind him and not before him; that he was soon to meet the wife whom he loved, now recovering from an illness which had but lately disquieted and at times almost unnerved him; that he was going to his Alma Mater to renew the most cheerful associations of his young manhood and to exchange greetings with those whose deepening interest had followed every step of his upward progress from the day he entered upon his college course until he had attained the loftiest elevation in the gift of his countrymen. Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave. Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death--and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes whose lips may tell--what brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter rending of sweet household ties! Behind him a proud expectant nation; a great host of sustaining friends; a cherished and happy mother, wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged from childhood's days of frolic; the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day and every day rewarding a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demands. Before him, desolation and great darkness! And his soul was not shaken. His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound and universal sympathy. Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the centre of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the winepress alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the Divine decree. As the end drew near his early craving for the sea returned. The stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders; on its far sails, whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves, rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening, arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a farther shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning. HOW SHALL I LOVE YOU? WILL C. FERRIL. How shall I love you? I dream all day Dear, of a tenderer, sweeter way; Songs that I sing to you, words that I say, Prayers that are voiceless on lips that would pray; These may not tell of the love of my life; How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife? How shall I love you? Love is the bread Of life to a woman--the white and the red Of all the world's roses, the light that is shed On all the world's pathways, till life shall be dead! The star in the storm and the strength in the strife; How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife? Is there a burden your heart must bear? I shall kneel lowly and lift it, dear! Is there a thorn in the crown that you wear? Let it hide in my heart till a rose blossom there! For grief or for glory--for death or for life, So shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife. THE LITTLE BROWN CURL. A quaint old box with a lid of blue, All faded and worn with age; A soft little curl of a brownish hue, A yellow and half-written page. The letters, with never a pause nor dot, In a school-boy's hand are cast; The lines and the curl I may hold to-day, But the love of the boy is past. It faded away with our childish dreams, Died out like the morning mist, And I look with a smile on the silken curl That once I had tenderly kissed. One night in the summer--so long ago-- We played by the parlor door, And the moonlight fell, like a silver veil, Spreading itself on the floor. And the children ran on the graveled walk At play in their noisy glee; But the maddest, merriest fun just then Was nothing to John and me. For he was a stately boy of twelve, And I was not quite eleven-- We thought as we sat by the parlor door We had found the gate to heaven. That night when I lay on my snowy bed, Like many a foolish girl, I kissed and held to my little heart This letter and silken curl. I slept and dreamed of the time when I Should wake to a fairy life; And sleeping, blushed, when I thought that John Had called me his little wife. I have loved since then with a woman's heart, Have known all a woman's bliss, But never a dream of the after life Was ever so sweet as this. The years went by with their silver feet, And often I laughed with John At the vows we made by the parlor door When the moon and stars looked on. Ah? boyish vows were broken and lost, And a girl's first dream will end, But I dearly loved his beautiful wife, While he was my husband's friend. When at last I went to my childhood's home Far over the bounding wave, I missed my friend, for the violets grew And blossomed over his grave. To-day as I opened the old blue box, And looked on this soft brown curl, And read of the love John left for me When I was a little girl, There came to my heart a throb of pain, And my eyes grew moist with tears, For the childish love and the dear, dear friend, And the long-lost buried years. DE PINT WID OLE PETE. Upon the hurricane deck of one of our gunboats, an elderly looking darkey, with a very philosophical and retrospective cast of countenance, squatted on his bundle, toasting his shins against the chimney, and apparently plunged into a state of profound meditation. Finding, upon inquiry, that he belonged to the Ninth Illinois, one of the most gallantly behaved and heavy losing regiments at the Fort Donelson battle, I began to interrogate him upon the subject. "Were you in the fight?" "Had a little taste of it, sa." "Stood your ground, did you?" "No, sa, I runs." "Run at the first fire, did you?" "Yes, sa; and would hab run soona, had I know'd it was comin'." "Why, that wasn't very creditable to your courage." "Massa, dat isn't my line, sa; cookin's my profeshun." "Well, but have you no regard for your reputation?" "Yah, yah! reputation's nuffin to me by de side ob life." "Do you consider _your_ life worth more than other people's?" "It is worth more to me, sa." "Then you must value it very highly?" "Yes, sa, I does; more dan all dis world, more dan a million ob dollars, sa; for what would dat be wuth to a man wid the bref out ob him? Self-preserbation am de fust law wid me." "But why should you act upon a different rule from other men?" "Because different men set different values upon deir lives; mine is not in the market." "But if you lost it, you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you died for your country." "What satisfaction would dat be to me when de power ob feelin' was gone?" "Then patriotism and honor are nothing to you?" "Nuffin whatever, sa; I regard them as among the vanities." "If our soldiers were like you, traitors might have broken up the government without resistance." "Yes, sa; dar would hab been no help for it." "Do you think any of your company would have missed you, if you had been killed?" "Maybe not, sa; a dead white man ain't much to dese sogers, let alone a dead nigga; but I'd a missed myself, and dat was de pint wid me." MOTHER'S FOOL. "'Tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife, "These boys will make their mark in life; They were never made to handle a hoe, And at once to a college ought to go; There's Fred, he's little better than a fool, But John and Henry must go to school." "Well, really, wife," quote Farmer Brown, As he sat his mug of cider down, "Fred does more work in a day for me Than both his brothers do in three. Book larnin' will never plant one's corn, Nor hoe potatoes, sure's your born, Nor mend a rod of broken fence-- For my part give me common sense." But his wife was bound the roast to rule, And John and Henry were sent to school, While Fred, of course, was left behind Because his mother said he had no mind. Five years at school the students spent; Then into business each one went. John learned to play the flute and fiddle, And parted his hair, of course, in the middle; While his brother looked rather higher than he, And hung out a sign, "H. Brown, M. D." Meanwhile, at home, their brother Fred Had taken a notion into his head; But he quietly trimmed his apple trees, And weeded onions and planted peas, While somehow or other, by hook or crook, He managed to read full many a book. Until at last his father said He was getting "book larnin'" into his head; "But for all that," added Farmer Brown, "He's the smartest boy there is in town." The war broke out and Captain Fred A hundred men to battle led, And when the rebel flag came down, Went marching home as General Brown. But he went to work on the farm again, And planted corn and sowed his grain; He shingled the barn and mended the fence, Till people declared he had common sense. Now, common sense was very rare, And the State House needed a portion there; So the "family dunce" moved into town-- The people called him Governor Brown; And his brothers, who went to the city school, Came home to live with "mother's fool." AN HOUR OF HORROR. It was close upon the hour of midnight. A man sat alone in an upper room in a tumble-down tenement--a man whose face showed by his furrowed brow, glaring eyes and pallid lips the effects of a terrible mental struggle going on within him. Before him were several pages of manuscript, and his nervous hand convulsively clutching a pen, was rapidly adding to them. Close to his right hand and frequently touched by it as he plied his pen, was a gleaming, glittering object--ivory, silver and steel--a loaded revolver. The window beside him was open, and through it the cool breeze entered and fanned his fevered brow. The night without was calm and placid. Nature was lovely, bathed in the light of the summer moon; but the man was oblivious of the beauties of the night. He glanced at the clock now and then, and observing the long hand climbing up the incline toward the figure twelve, he redoubled his labor at his manuscript. Anon he glanced at the revolver on the desk beside him. He touched its ivory handle as if faltering in his resolution; and then went on with his writing. Hark! What sound is that that is borne upon the breeze of the summer night? A long, low wail, like the cry of a woman in mortal anguish. The man started like a guilty soul, dashed the dews of perspiration from his clammy brow, and uttered an incoherent exclamation. Again! again, that moaning, uncanny cry! The man heard it and groaned aloud. He dashed aside the last page of his manuscript, and glanced again at the clock. The hands marked the hour of midnight. He grasped the revolver with a resolute air and exclaimed through his clenched teeth: "It must be done!" And, going to the window, he fired twice. * * * There was a scattering sound in the backyard, and the next day a gray cat was found dead close to the woodshed. The story and the deed were done. GO VAY, BECKY MILLER, GO VAY! I don'd lofe you now von schmall little bit, My dream vas blayed oudt, so blease git up und git; Your false-heardted vays I can't got along mit-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! Vas all der young vomans so false-heardted like you, Mit a face nice und bright, but a heart black und plue, Und all der vhile schworing you lofed me so drue-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! Vy, vonce I t'ought you vas a shtar vay up high; I liked you so better as gogonut bie: But oh, Becky Miller, you hafe profed von big lie-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! You dook all de bresents vat I did bresent, Yes, gobbled up efery virst thing vot I sent; All der vhile mit anoder young rooster you vent-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! Vhen first I found oudt you vas such a big lie, I didn't know vedder to schmudder or die; Bud now, by der chingo, I don't efen cry-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! Don'd dry make belief you vas sorry aboudt, I don'd belief a dings vot coomes oudt by your moudt; Und besides I don'd care, for you vas blayed oudt-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay! IT IS A WINTER NIGHT. BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. It is a winter night, And the stilly earth is white, With the blowing of the lilies of the snow; Once it was as red, With the roses summer shed; But the roses fled with summer, long ago. We sang a merry tune, In the jolly days of June, As we danced adown the garden in the light, But now December's come, And our hearts are dark and dumb, As we huddle o'er the embers here to-night. WHAT THE LITTLE GIRL SAID. "Ma's upstairs changing her dress," said the freckle-faced little girl, tying her doll's bonnet strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person. "Oh, your mother needn't dress up for me," replied the female agent of the missionary society, taking a self-satisfied view of herself in the mirror. "Run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her every-day clothes, and not stand on ceremony." "Oh, but she hasn't got on her every-day clothes. Ma was all dressed up in her new brown silk dress, 'cause she expected Miss Dimmond to-day. Miss Dimmond always comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma doesn't mean to get left. When ma saw you coming she said, 'the dickens!' and I guess she was mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new dress, she'd have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don't have silk, and you'd ask her for money to buy hymn books to send 'em. Say, do the nigger ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up on and make it frizzy? Ma says she guesses that's all the good the books do 'em, if they ever get any books. I wish my doll was a heathen." "Why, you wicked little girl! what do you want of a heathen doll?" inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to get material for a homily on worldly extravagance. "So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about naked. Then she'd have hair to frizz, and I want a doll with truly hair and eyes that roll up like Deacon Silderback's when he says amen on Sunday. I ain't a wicked girl, either, 'cause Uncle Dick--you know Uncle Dick, he's been out West and swears awful and smokes in the house--he says I'm a holy terror, and he hopes I'll be an angel pretty soon. Ma'll be down in a minute, so you needn't take your cloak off. She said she'd box my ears if I asked you to. Ma's putting on that old dress she had last year, 'cause she didn't want you to think she was able to give much this time, and she needed a muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball islands needed religion. Uncle Dick says you oughter get to the islands, 'cause you'd be safe there, and the natives would be sorry they was such sinners anybody would send you to 'em. He says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you, 'less 'twas a blind one, an' you'd set a blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never hanker after any more missionary. Uncle Dick's awful funny, and makes ma and pa die laughing sometimes." "Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved wretch, and ought to have remained out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a horrid example for little girls like you." "Oh, I think he's nice. He showed me how to slide down the banisters, and he's teaching me to whistle when ma ain't around. That's a pretty cloak you've got, ain't it? Do you buy all your clothes with missionary money? Ma says you do." Just then the freckle-faced girl's ma came into the parlor and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek and said she was delighted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable chat. The little girl's ma cannot understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the missionary agent does should go right over to Miss Dimmond's and say such ill-natured things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip. "WE'RE BUILDING TWO A DAY!" BY REV. ALFRED J. HOUGH. [During the Freethinkers' Convention, at Watkins, N. Y., in response to statements that the churches throughout the land were losing all aggressive power, a message was received from Chaplain McCabe, of the Methodist Episcopal Church Extension Board saying in substance and speaking only of his own denomination, "All hail the power of Jesus' name; we're building two a day!"] The infidels, a motley band, In council, met and said: "The churches die all through the land, The last will soon be dead." When suddenly a message came, It filled them with dismay: "All hail the power of Jesus' name! We're building two a day." "We're building two a day," and still, In stately forests stored, Are shingle, rafter, beam, and sill, For churches of the Lord; And underpinning for the same, In quarries piled away; "All hail the power of Jesus' name! We're building two a day." The miners rend the hills apart, Earth's bosom is explored, And streams from her metallic heart In graceful molds are poured, For bells to sound our Saviour's fame From towers,--and, swinging, say, "All hail the power of Jesus' name! We're building two a day." The King of saints to war has gone, And matchless are His deeds; His sacramental hosts move on, And follow where He leads; While infidels His church defame, Her corner-stones we lay; "All hail the power of Jesus' name! We're laying two a day." The Christless few the cross would hide, The light of life shut out, And leave the world to wander wide Through sunless realms of doubt. The pulpits lose their ancient fame, Grown obsolete, they say; "All hail the power of Jesus' name! We're building two a day." "Extend," along the line is heard, "Thy walls, O Zion, fair!" And Methodism heeds the word, And answers everywhere. A new church greets the morning's flame, Another evening's gray. "All hail the power of Jesus' name! We're building two a day." When infidels in council meet Next year, with boastings vain, To chronicle the Lord's defeat, And count His churches slain, Oh then may we with joy proclaim, If we His call obey: "All hail the power of Jesus' name! We're building THREE a day." THE MODERN BELLE. The daughter sits in the parlor, And rocks in her easy-chair; She is dressed in silks and satins, And jewels are in her hair; She winks, and giggles, and simpers, And simpers, and giggles, and winks; And though she talks but little, It's vastly more than she thinks. Her father goes clad in russet-- All brown and seedy at that; His coat is out at the elbows, And he wears a shocking bad hat. He is hoarding and saving his dollars, So carefully, day by day, While she on her whims and fancies Is squandering them all away. She lies in bed of a morning Until the hour of noon, Then comes down, snapping and snarling Because she's called too soon. Her hair is still in papers, Her cheeks still bedaubed with paint-- Remains of last night's blushes Before she attempted to faint. Her feet are so very little, Her hands so snowy white, Her jewels so very heavy, And her head so very light; Her color is made of cosmetics-- Though this she'll never own; Her body is mostly cotton, And her heart is wholly stone. She falls in love with a fellow Who swells with a foreign air; He marries her for her money, She marries him for his hair-- One of the very best matches; Both are well mated in life; She's got a fool for a husband, And he's got a fool for a wife. THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. ANONYMOUS. _A Humorous Recitation._ One who does not believe in immersion for baptism was holding a protracted meeting, and one night preached on the subject of baptism. In the course of his remarks he said that some believe it necessary to go down in the water, and come up out of it, to be baptized. But this he claimed to be fallacy, for the preposition "into" of the Scriptures should be rendered differently, as it does not mean into at all times. "Moses," he said, "we are told, went up into the mountain; and the Saviour was taken up into a high mountain, etc. Now we do not suppose either went into a mountain but went unto it. So with going down into the water; it means simply going down close by or near to the water, and being baptized in the ordinary way, by sprinkling or pouring." He carried this idea out fully, and in due season closed his discourse, when an invitation was given for any one so disposed to rise and express his thoughts. Quite a number of his brethren arose and said they were glad they had been present on this occasion, that they were well pleased with the sound sermon they had just heard, and felt their souls greatly blessed. Finally, a corpulent gentleman of Teutonic extraction, a stranger to all, arose and broke the silence that was almost painful, as follows: "Mister Breacher, I is so glad I vash here to-night, for I has had explained to my mint some dings dat I never could pelief pefore. Oh, I is so glad dat into does not mean into at all, but shust close py or near to, for now I can pelief many dings vot I could not pelief pefore. We reat, Mr. Breacher, dat Taniel vos cast into de ten of lions, and came out alife. Now I neffer could pelief dat, for wilt peasts would shust eat him right off; but now it is fery clear to my mint. He vash shust close py or near to, and tid not get into de ten at all. Oh, I ish so glad I vash here to-night. Again we reat dat de Heprew children vas cast into de firish furnace, and dat always look like a beeg story too, for they would have been purnt up; but it ish all blain to my mint now, for dey was shust cast py or close to de firish furnace. Oh, I vas so glad I vos here to-night. And den, Mister Breacher, it ish said dat Jonah vash cast into de sea, and taken into de whale's pelly. Now I neffer could pelief dat. It alwish seemed to me to be a beeg fish story, but it ish all blain to my mint now. He vash not into de whale's pelly at all, but shump onto his pack and rode ashore. Oh, I vash so glad I vash here to-night. "And now, Mister Breacher, if you will shust exblain two more bassages of Scriptures, I shall be oh so happy dat I vas here to-night! One of dem ish vere it saish de vicked shall be cast into a lake dat burns mit fire and primstone alwish. Oh, Mister Breacher, shall I be cast into dat lake if I am vicked, or shust close py or near to--shust near enough to be comfortable? Oh, I hope you tell me I shall be cast only shust py a good veys off, and I vill pe so glad I vash here to-night. Do oder bassage is dat vich saish blessed are they who do these commandments, dat dey may have right to de dree of life, and enter in droo de gates of the city, and not shust close py or near to--shust near enough to see vat I have lost--and I shall pe so glad I vash here to-night." THE FAST MAIL AND THE STAGE. BY JOHN H. YATES. Lay by the weekly, Betsey, it's old like you and I, And read the morning's daily, with its pages scarcely dry. While you and I were sleepin', they were printing them to-day, In the city by the ocean, several hundred miles away. "How'd I get it?" Bless you, Betsey, you needn't doubt and laugh; It didn't drop down from the clouds nor come by telegraph; I got it by the lightning mail we've read about you know, The mail that Jonathan got up about a month ago. We farmers livin' 'round the hill went to the town to-day To see the fast mail catch the bags that hung beside the way; Quick as a flash from thundering clouds, whose tempest swept the sky, The bags were caught on board the train as it went roarin' by. We are seein' many changes in our fast declinin' years; Strange rumors now are soundin' in our hard-of-hearin' ears. Ere the sleep that knows no wakin' comes to waft us o'er the stream, Some great power may be takin' all the self-conceit from steam. Well do we remember, Betsey, when the post-man carried mails, Ridin' horseback through the forest 'long the lonely Indian trails, How impatiently we waited--we were earnest lovers then-- For our letters comin' slowly, many miles through wood and glen. Many times, you know, we missed them--for the post-man never came-- Then, not knowin' what had happened, we did each the other blame; Long those lover quarrels lasted, but the God who melts the proud Brought our strayin' hearts together and let sunshine through the cloud. Then at last the tidings reached us that the faithful post-man fell Before the forest savage with his wild terrific yell, And your letters lay and moldered, while the sweet birds sang above, And I was savin' bitter things about a woman's love. Long and tedious were the journeys--few and far between, the mails, In the days when we were courtin'--when we thrashed with wooden flails; Now the white winged cars are flyin' long the shores of inland seas. And younger lovers read _their_ letters 'mid luxury and ease. We have witnessed many changes in our three-score years and ten; We no longer sit and wonder at the discoveries of men; In the shadow of life's evenin' we rejoice that our dear boys Are not called to meet the hardships that embittered half our joys. Like the old mail through the forest, youthful years go slowly by; Like the fast mail of the present, manhood's years how swift they fly; We are sitting in the shadows; soon shall break life's brittle cord-- Soon shall come the welcome summons by the fast mail of the Lord. STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN. BY MRS. WHITNEY. Well, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould country, livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be herself, a little rid hin. Nice an' quiet she was, and niver did no kind o' harrum in her life. An' there lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, a crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould villain iv a fox, he laid awake o' nights, and he prowled around shly iv a day-time, thinkin' always so busy how he'd git the little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile her up for his shupper. But the wise little rid hin niver went intil her bit iv a house, but she locked the door afther her and pit the kay in her pocket. So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, an' he prowled, an' he laid awake nights, till he came all to skin an' bone, an' sorra a ha'porth o' the little rid hin could he git at. But at lasht there came a shcame intil his wicked ould head, an' he tuk a big bag one mornin', over his shouldher, an' he says till his mother, says he, "Mother, have the pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll bring the little rid hin to-night for our shupper." An' away he wint, over the hill, an' came crapin' shly an' soft through the woods to where the little rid hin lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An' shure, jist at the very minute that he got along, out comes the little rid hin out iv the door, to pick up shticks to bile her tay-kettle. "Begorra, now, but I'll have yees," says the shly ould fox, an' in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides behind the door. An' in comes the little rid hin, a minute afther, with her apron full of shticks, an' shuts too the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in her pocket. An' thin she turns round,--an' there stands the baste iv a fox in the corner. Well, thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a great fright and flutter to the big bame acrass the inside o' the roof, where the fox couldn't git at her! "Ah, ha!" says the fox, "I'll soon bring you out o' that!" An' he began to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter, an' fashter, an' fashter, on the floor, afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox whipped her up and popped her intil his bag, and stharted off home in a minute. An' he wint up the wood and down the wood, half the day long, with the little rid hin shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a know she knowed where she was at all, at all. She thought she was all biled an' ate up, an' finished shure! But, by an' by, she remimbered herself, an' pit her hand in her pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, and shnipped a big hole in the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone an' popped it intil the bag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door. An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big stone at his back thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the little rid hin was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in sight iv his din in the rocks' and shpied his ould mother awatchin' for him at the door, he says, "Mother! have ye the pot bilin'?" An' the ould mother says, "Sure, an' it is; an' have ye the little rid hin?" "Yes, jist here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in," says he. An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid o' the pot, an' the rashkill untied the bag, and hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk in the big, heavy shtone. An' the bilin' wather shplashed up all over the rogue iv a fox, an' his mother, an' schalded them both to death. An' the little rid hin lived safe in her house foriver afther. ONLY A SONG. It was only a simple ballad, Sung to a careless throng; There were none that knew the singer, And few that heeded the song; Yet the singer's voice was tender And sweet as with love untold; Surely those hearts were hardened That it left so proud and cold. She sang of the wondrous glory That touches the woods in spring, Of the strange, soul-stirring voices When "the hills break forth and sing;" Of the happy birds low warbling The requiem of the day, And the quiet hush of the valleys In the dusk of the gloaming gray. And one in a distant corner-- A woman worn with strife-- Heard in that song a message From the spring-time of her life. Fair forms rose up before her From the mist of vanished years; She sat in a happy blindness, Her eyes were veiled in tears. Then, when the song was ended, And hushed the last sweet tone, The listener rose up softly And went on her way alone Once more to her life of labor She passed; but her heart was strong; And she prayed, "God bless the singer! And oh, thank God for the song!" THE BICYCLE RIDE. BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. [Whether bicycle riding on Sunday be sinful or not, depends entirely upon the spirit in which it is done and the associations of the ride.] You have read of the ride of Paul Revere, And of Gilpin's ride, so fraught with fear; Skipper Ireson's ride in a cart, And the ride where Sheridan played a part; Calendar's ride on a brazen hack, And Islam's prophet on Al Borak; The fateful ride to Aix from Ghent, And a dozen others of like portent, But you never have heard of a bicycle spin Which was piously ended, though started in sin. Tom was a country parson's son, Fresh from college and full of fun, Fond of flirting with bright-eyed girls, Raving, in verse, over golden curls, Sowing a wild oat, here and there, In a way that made the parson stare And chide him sternly, when face to face, While, in private, he laughed at the young scape-grace. But the wildest passion the boy could feel Was the love he bore for his shining wheel. He rode it by night and he rode it by day, If he went two rods or ten miles away; And Deacon Smith was heard to remark That he met that "pesky thing in the dark And it went right by with a glint and a gleam And a wild 'hoot-toot' that made him scream; In spite of the fact that he knew right well That evil spirits were all in--well-- He wouldn't meet that thing again For a corn-crib full of good, ripe grain." One Sunday morning, the sun was bright, The bird's throats bursting with glad delight, The parson-mounted his plump old bay And jogged to the church, two miles away, While Tom wheeled round, ten miles or more And hid his wheel by the chancel door, And he thought, as he sat in the parson's pew, "I wonder what makes dad look so blue," Till it came like a flash to his active mind, He left his sermon and specs behind. Now the parson was old and his eyes were dim And he couldn't have read a line or a hymn, Without his specs for a mint of gold, And his head turned hot while his toes turned cold, And right in the midst of his mental shock, The parson deceived his trusting flock, And gave them eternal life and a crown From the book he was holding upside down. Tom, the rascal, five minutes before, Like an arrow had shot from the chancel door. The horses he frightened I never can tell, Nor how the old church folk were shocked, as well, And they said they feared that the parson's lad "Was a-gettin' wild" and would go to the bad, For 'twas wicked enough to set folks in a craze Without "ridin' sech races on Sabbath days," And they thought the length of the parson's prayer Had something to do with his fatherly care. While the truth of it was, which he afterwards dropped, He didn't know what he could do when he stopped. Of course you know how the story will end, The prayer was finished and duly "Amen'd," When Tom, all dust, to the pulpit flew And laid down the specs and the sermon too. Then the parson preached in a timid way, Of sinful pleasure on Sabbath-day, And he added a postscript, not in the text. Saying that, when they were sore perplexed, Each must decide as he chanced to feel. And Tom chuckled: "Sundays, I'll ride my wheel." THE LAND OF OUR BIRTH. BY LILLIE E. BARR. O! where is the land that each mortal loves best, The land that is dearest and fairest on earth? It is North, it is South, it is East, it is West; For this beautiful land is the land of our birth. 'Tis the home of our childhood; the fragrance and dew Of our innocent days are all linked with the spot; And its fields were so green, and its mountains so blue, That our hearts must be cold ere that land is forgot. We have wandered, perchance, far away from the place, But how often we see it in thought and in dreams! Feel its winds, as of old, blowing cool on our face, Hear the songs of its birds, and the plash of its streams. We may build grander homes than the home of our youth, On far loftier objects our eyes may be cast; But we never forget all its love and its truth; It has charms that will hallow it unto the last. We may learn other tongues, but that language is best That we lisped with our mothers in infancy's days-- The language she sung when she rocked us to rest, And gave us good counsel and comfort and praise. We may love other lands, but wherever we be The land that is greenest and fairest on earth Is the one that, perhaps, we may never more see-- The home of our fathers--the land of our birth. May its daughters and sons grow in beauty and worth! May the blessing of God give it freedom and rest! Be it northward, or southward, or eastward, or west, The land of our birth is of all lands the best. THE TEACHER'S DIADEM. Sitting 'mid the gathering shadows, weary with the Sabbath's care; Weary with the Sabbath's burdens, that she dearly loves to bear; For she sees a shining pathway, and she gladly presses on; 'Tis the first Great Teacher's footprints--it will lead where He has gone; With a hand that's never faltered, with a love that's ne'er grown dim, Long and faithfully she's labored, to His fold the lambs to bring. But to-night her soul grows heavy; through the closed lids fall the tears, As the children pass before her, that she's taught these many years; And she cries in bitter anguish: "Shall not one to me be given, To shine upon my coronet amid the hosts of heaven! Hear my prayer to-night, my Saviour, in Thy glorious home above; Give to me some little token--some approval of Thy love." Ere the words were scarcely uttered, banishing the evening gloom, Came a soft and shining radiance, bright'ning all within the room; And an angel in white raiment, brighter than the morning sun, Stood before her, pointing upward, while he softly whispered, "Come." As he paused, she heard the rustle of his starry pinions bright, And she quickly rose and followed, out into the stilly night; Up above the dim blue ether; up above the silver stars; On, beyond the golden portals; through the open pearly doors; Far across the sea of crystal, to the shining sapphire Throne, Where she heard amid the chorus, "Welcome, child; thy work's well done." Surely 'tis her Saviour speaking; 'tis His hands, aye, 'tis His feet; And she cries: "Enough! I've seen Him; all my joys are now complete." All forgot earth's care and sorrow; all forgot the starry crown; 'Twas enough e'en to be near Him; to behold Him on His Throne. "Not enough," the Saviour answered; "thou wouldst know through all these years, If in vain has been thy teaching, all thy labor and thy prayers; That from thee the end was hidden, did thy faith in me grow less? Thou hast asked some little token, I will grant thee thy request." From out a golden casket, inlaid with many a gem, He took--glist'ning with countless jewels--a regal diadem; Bright a name shone in each jewel, names of many scholars dear, Who she thought had passed unheeded all her earnest thought and care. "But," she asked, "how came these names here--names I never saw before?" And the Saviour smiling answered, "'Tis the fruit thy teachings bore; "'Tis the seed thy love hath planted, tended by my faithful hand; Though unseen by thee, it's budded, blossoming in many lands. Here are names from darkened Egypt, names from Afric's desert sands; Names from isles amid the ocean, names from India's sunny strands; Some from Greenland's frozen mountains, some from burning tropic plains; From where'er man's found a dwelling, here you'll find some chosen name. When thine earthly mission's ended, that in love to thee was given, This is the crown of thy rejoicing, that awaits thee here in heaven." Suddenly the bright light faded; all was dark within the room; And she sat amid the shadows of the Sabbath evening gloom; But a peaceful, holy incense rested on her soul like dew; Though the end from her was hidden, to her Master she'd be true; Sowing seed at morn and even, pausing not to count the gain; If her bread was on the waters, God would give it back again; If the harvest she had toiled for other hands than hers should reap, He'd repay her for her labor, who had bade her, "Feed my sheep." TOBE'S MONUMENT. BY ELIZABETH KILHAM. It was "after taps," a sultry, Southern-summer night. On the extreme edge of the encampment, on the side nearest the enemy, a sentinel paused in his walk, and peered cautiously out into the darkness. "Pshaw!" he said; "it's nothing but a dog." He was resuming his walk, when the supposed quadruped rose suddenly, and walked along on two feet in a manner so unmistakably human, that the sentinel lowered his musket once more, and shouted, "Halt! Advance, and give the counter-sign!" A faint, childish voice said, "Ain't got none, massa." "Well, there now!" said the sentinel, "if it ain't just a little darkey, and I guess I've frightened him half to death. Come here, snowball." The child crept up, and said, tremblingly: "'Deed, massa, I ain't got nuffin ter gib yer." "Well, who asked you to give me anything?" "Yer don ax me fer gib yer suffin jes' now; and I ain't got nuffin 'cep' my close what I got on." "Well, you needn't fret; I don't want 'em. Corporal of the guard! Post two." The corporal hastened to "post two," and found the sentinel with his hand on the shoulder of a little black boy, who, between fear, fatigue, and hunger, was unable to give any account of himself. "I'll take him to Captain Leigh," the corporal said; "he's officer of the day. Maybe he'll be able to get something out of him." The captain stood in front of his tent, looking out into the night, when the corporal and his charge approached. "Captain," said he, "here's a boy just come into the lines." "Very well; you can leave him here." At the first sound of the captain's voice the boy drew nearer to him, as knowing instinctively that he had found a friend. "You can go into that tent and sleep till morning," said the captain. "What is your name!" was Captain Leigh's first question the next morning. "Name Tobe." "Is that all?" "Dat's all, Mass Cap'n." "How old are you?" "Dunno, Massa Cap'n. Nobody nebber done tole me dat ar." "Where have you come from?" "Come fum de back o' Richmon', Mass Cap'n." "What did you come here for?" "All de res' ob 'em runned away; an' ole mass he wor so mad, I wor jes' feared o' my life. 'Sides, I t'ought I mought fin' my mammy ef I got 'mong der Unions." "Where is your mother?" "Dunno, Mass Cap'n. Ole mass done sol' her down in Georgy las' corn-shuckin', an' I ain't nebber heerd ob her sence. But I t'ought mebby she mought ha' runned 'way too, an' I'd fin' her wid der Unions." "Well, now, what are you going to do?" "Dunno, Mass Cap'n. I'd like ter stay 'long wid you." "What can you do?" "Kin wait on yer, Mass Cap'n; kin shine up boots, an'"--brightening up as his eyes, wandering round caught sight of the horses--"kin clean de hosses right smart." * * * "If I keep you with me you must be a good boy, and do as I tell you." "'Deed I will, Mass Cap'n. I'se do ebery work yer say, sho's yer born." So when the troops left Harrison's Landing, Tobe went too, in charge of the captain's horse and baggage; and, when the steamer was fairly under way, he brightened into a new creature as every revolution of the wheel placed a greater distance between himself and "old massa." * * * It proved that Tobe had told the truth about his skill in taking care of horses. Captain Leigh's horse had never looked so well as now, and the captain was delighted. Tobe turned out, moreover, to be a very good boy. But the army is not a very good place for boys. So one day Captain Leigh said:-- "Tobe, how would you like to go North?" "Whar's it at, Mass Cap'n?" "I mean my home at the North." "When is yer gwine, Mass Cap'n?" "I am not going at all now." "Does yer mean ter sen' me away from yer, Mass Cap'n?" Captain Leigh was touched, and answered him very gently,-- "Yes, I want to send you away from me now, because it will be better for you. But, when the war is over, I shall go home, and then you can stay with me always if you are a good boy." "I allus does jes' de t'ings yer tell me, Mass Cap'n." "I know you do. And, just because you do what I tell you so well I want to send you to my home, to run errands for my wife, and do what work she will give you in the house. And I have three little children--two little girls and a baby boy. I want you to go with them when they go out to play and take care of them. My home is in a very pleasant place in the country. Don't you think you would like to go there?" "Ef yer goes too, Mass Cap'n." "But, my boy, I can't possibly go now." "I'se do jes de t'ing yer say, Mass Cap'n. Ef yer tells me to go, I'se go. An' I'se jest do ebery word the missus say, an' I look af'r de chillens de bes' I knows, ontel yer comes dar. On'y please come right soon, Mass Cap'n." And, as the captain left the tent, Tobe laid his head upon his arm and cried as if his heart would break. Captain Leigh found a brother officer who was expecting to go home on a furlough, and who readily agreed to take charge of the boy in whom his friend was so deeply interested. But that night came news that made everybody give up the idea of a "furlough," or "going home." The Richmond government, being determined to "make the North feel the war as she had not felt it," had organized the "grand raid." An order came for Captain Leigh's regiment to march at daylight. "Tobe," said the captain, "you can go in one of the baggage-wagons. Strap up my blanket and poncho, and take them along; and these boots, take particular care of them, for it's not often I can get a pair of cavalry boots to fit as they do." "Yer needn't be feared, Mass Cap'n; I'se take care of 'em de bes' I knows." The main body of the raiders were reported on the line of the South Mountains, making for Gettysburg. Scouting expeditions were sent out from the Northern army in all directions, and a body of troops, including Captain Leigh's regiment, was ordered to proceed by the shortest route to Gettysburg and head the rebels off. One of the baggage-wagons broke down. The driver of another wagon stopped to help his comrade. The troops passed on, and the two wagons were left alone on the mountain. In one of them was Tobe with the captain's boots, over which he kept constant watch. The men worked busily at the wagon and Tobe sat watching them. Suddenly a tramping of horses' feet was heard, and a party of cavalry came round a turn in the road. "That's good," said one of the men; "there's some of the boys. If they'll wait a few minutes we can go along with 'em." "'Tain't none of our boys," said the other, after a keen glance; "them's rebs." At the word, Tobe slid down in the bottom of the wagon under some blankets, and lay silent and motionless with the boots clasped in his arms. As the soldiers advanced the officer said, apparently in reply to a question, "No, let the men go; we can't do anything with prisoners here. But we'll look through the wagon, and, if the Yanks have anything we want, 'all's fair in war.'" They reined their horses by the wagon, and, after a few short, sharp questions, proceeded to break open trunks and bags, and appropriate their contents. The soldiers were about finishing their examination, when one of them said, "What's that under the seat of that wagon?" "Oh! nothing but a torn blanket," said another. "'Tain't worth taking. We have got all we want." "There may be something under it, though." He pushed aside the blanket with his sabre, and there lay Tobe endeavoring, but unsuccessfully, to hide the boots under him. "Ah!" said the officer, "this is worth while. Here's just what I wanted. Come, boy, hand over those boots, quick." "'Deed, massa," said Tobe, "I can't gib 'em ter yer. Dey 'longs ter Mass Cap'n, an' he tole me take keer ob 'em mos' partic'lar." "Can't help that. I've got to have them, so pass them along." "Please, Massa," began Tobe; but the rebel cut him short. "Will you give me those boots? If you don't do it, and in double-quick time, too, I'll put a ball through your black skin. I won't ask you again. Now, will you give them up?" and he pulled out his pistol. "'Deed, massa, I can't, case Massa Cap'n"-- There was a sharp click, a flash, a long, sobbing moan, and Tobe lay motionless, the boots still clasped in his arms, and great drops of blood slowly gathering upon them. "Enemy in sight," shouted a picket riding up. The officer hastily gave an order, and the rebels dashed off at a furious speed a few moments before a party of Union cavalry, with Captain Leigh at their head, appeared, riding from the opposite direction. A few words sufficed for explanation. Captain Leigh laid his hand on Tobe's shoulder, and spoke his name. At the sound of the voice he loved so well, his eyes opened, and he said faintly, "Mass Cap'n, I done de bes' I knowed. I keep de boots.'" "O Tobe!" groaned the captain, "I wish you had given them up. I would have lost everything rather than have had this." "Mass Cap'n." "Yes, Tobe, what is it?" "De little chillens, Mass Cap'n; I meaned ter wait on 'em right smart. Tell 'em"--His voice grew fainter, and his eyes closed. "Yes, my boy: what shall I tell them?" "Tell 'em I didn't lose de boots; I kep 'em de bes'--I knowed." There was a faint sigh, a flutter of the eyelids, and the little life that had been so truly "de bes' he knowed" (ah! if we could all say that!) was ended. Very reverently Captain Leigh lifted the boots, all wet and stained with blood. "I will never wear those boots again," he said; "but I will never part with them. They shall be Tobe's monument." In the hall of Captain Leigh's house is a deep niche, and in it, on a marble slab covered with a glass case, stands a pair of cavalry boots with dark stains upon them, and on the edge of the slab, in golden letters, is the inscription: "In memory of Tobe, Faithful unto death." THE CROWDED STREET. BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Let me move slowly through the street, Filled with an ever-shifting train, Amid the sound of steps that beat The murmuring walks like autumn rain. How fast the flitting figures come! The mild, the fierce, the stony face-- Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace. They pass to toil, to strife, to rest-- To halls in which the feast is spread-- To chambers where the funeral guest In silence sits beside the dead. And some to happy homes repair, Where children pressing cheek to cheek, With mute caresses shall declare The tenderness they cannot speak. And some, who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more. Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, And dreams of greatness in thine eye! Go'st thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to die? Keen son of trade, with eager brow! Who is now fluttering in thy snare? Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, Or melt the glittering spires in air? Who of this crowd to-night shall tread The dance till daylight gleam again? Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold, dark hours, how slow the light; And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. Each where his tasks or pleasures call, They pass, and heed each other not. There is who heeds, who holds them all In His large love and boundless thought. These struggling tides of life, that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end. BESSIE KENDRICK'S JOURNEY. BY MRS. ANNIE A. PRESTON. "Cars stop twenty minutes!" called out Conductor Richardson at Allen's Junction. Then, as the train came to a dead halt, he jumped down upon the depot platform, ran along to the front of the long line of passenger cars, to where the engine was standing, and, swinging himself up into the cab, said to the engineer: "Frank; I want you to come back to the first passenger coach, and see a little girl that I don't know hardly what to make of." Frank nodded, and, without speaking, deliberately wiped his oily hands in a bunch of waste, took a look at his grim, dusty face in a narrow little mirror that hung beside the steam gauge, pulled off his short frock, put on a coat, changed his little black, greasy cap for a soft felt, taking these "dress-up" articles from the tender-box, where an engineer has something stowed away for all emergencies, and went back to the cars as requested. He entered the car and made his way to the seat where the conductor sat talking to a bright-looking little girl, about nine years old, oddly dressed in a woman's shawl and bonnet. Several of the passengers were grouped around the seat, evidently much interested in the child, who wore a sad, prematurely old countenance, but seemed to be neither timid nor confused. "Here is the engineer," said the conductor, kindly, as Frank approached. She held up her hand to him, with a winsome smile breaking over her pinched little face, and said: "My papa was an engineer before he became sick and went to live on a farm in Montana. He is dead, and my mamma is dead. She died first, before Willie and Susie. My papa used to tell me that after he should be dead there would be no one to take care of me, and then I must get on the cars and go to his old home in Vermont. And he said, 'cause I hadn't any ticket, I must ask for the engineer and tell him I am James Kendrick's little girl, and that he used to run on the M. & S. road." The pleading blue eyes were now suffused with tears; but she did not cry after the manner of childhood in general. Engineer Frank stooped down and kissed her very tenderly; and then, as he brushed the tears from his own eyes, said: "Well, my dear, so you are little Bessie Kendrick. I rather think a merciful Providence guided you on board this train." Then, turning around to the group of passengers, he went on: "I knew Jim Kendrick well. He was a man out of ten thousand. When I first came to Indiana, before I got acclimated, I was sick a great part of the time, so that I could not work, and I got homesick and discouraged. Could not keep my board bill paid up, to say nothing of my doctor's bill, and I didn't much care whether I lived or died. "One day, when the pay car came along and the men were getting their monthly pay, and there wasn't a cent coming to me, for I hadn't worked an hour for the last month, I felt so 'blue' that I sat down on a pile of railroad ties and leaned my elbows on my knees, with my head in my hands, and cried like a boy, out of sheer homesickness and discouragement. "Pretty soon one came along and said, in a voice that seemed like sweet music in my ears, for I hadn't found much real sympathy, although the boys were all good to me in their way: 'You've been having a rough time of it, and you must let me help you out.' "I looked up, and there stood Jim Kendrick, with his month's pay in his hand. He took out from the roll of bills a twenty-dollar note and held it out to me. "I knew he had a sickly wife and two or three children, and that he had a hard time of it himself to pull through from month to month, so I said, half-ashamed of the tears that were still streaming down my face, 'Indeed, I cannot take the money; you must need it yourself.' "'Indeed, you will take it, man,' said Jim. 'You will be all right in a few days, and then you can pay it back. Now come home with me to supper and see the babies. It will do you good.' "I took the note and accepted the invitation, and after that went to his house frequently, until he moved away, and I gradually lost sight of him. "I had returned the loan, but it was impossible to repay the good that little act of kindness did me, and I guess Jim Kendrick's little girl here won't want for anything if I can prevent it." Then turning to the child, whose bright eyes were wide open now, the engineer said to her: "I'll take you home with me when we get up to Wayne. My wife will fix you up, and we'll find out whether these Vermont folks want you or not. If they do, Mary or I shall go with you. But, if they don't care much about having you, you shall stay with us and be our girl, for we have none of our own. You look very much like your father, God bless him." Just then the eastern train whistled, Engineer Frank vanished out of the car door and went forward to the engine, wiping the tears with his coat sleeve, while the conductor and passengers could not suppress the tears this little episode evoked during the twenty minutes' stop at Allen's Junction. THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. There is a tongue in every leaf, A voice in every rill-- A voice that speaketh everywhere, In flood, and fire, through earth and air! A tongue that's never still! 'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused Through everything we see, That with our spirits communeth Of things mysterious--life and death, Time and eternity! I see Him in the blazing sun, And in the thunder-cloud; I hear Him in the mighty roar That rusheth through the forest hoar When winds are raging loud. I feel Him in the silent dews, By grateful earth betray'd; I feel Him in the gentle showers, The soft south wind, the breath of flowers, The sunshine and the shade. I see Him, hear Him, everywhere, In all things--darkness, light, Silence and sound; but, most of all, When slumber's dusty curtains fall, I' the silent hour of night. LET US GIVE THANKS. BY ELLEN ISABELLA TUPPER. For all that God in mercy sends: For health and children, home and friends, For comfort in the time of need, For every kindly word and deed, For happy thoughts and holy talk, For guidance in our daily walk-- For everything give thanks! For beauty in this world of ours, For verdant grass and lovely flowers, For song of birds, for hum of bees, For the refreshing summer breeze, For hill and plain, for streams and wood, For the great ocean's mighty flood-- In everything give thanks! For the sweet sleep which comes with night, For the returning morning's light, For the bright sun that shines on high, For the stars glittering in the sky; For these and everything we see, O Lord! our hearts we lift to Thee For everything give thanks! LITTLE FEET. Up from all the city's by-ways, From the breathless, sickening heat, To the wide-swung gate of heaven, Eager throng the little feet. Not a challenge has the warder For these souls so sinless white; Round each brow the Saviour's blessing Circles like a crown of light. See, the Lord Himself stands waiting, Wide His loving arms are spread; On his heart of hearts is pillowed Every weary baby's head. But below, with tear-wet faces, And with hearts all empty grown, Stand the mourning men and women, Vainly calling back their own. Upward floats the voice of mourning-- "Jesus, Master, dost thou care?" Aye, He feels each drop of anguish-- "He doth all our sorrows bear." Wipe thine eyes, O heavy laden; Look beyond the clouds and see, With your dear one on His bosom, Jesus stands and calls to thee. Waits with yearning, all unfathomed-- Love you cannot understand, Lures you upward with the beckoning Of your buried baby's hand. A RAINY DAY. Patter, patter, patter, On the window-pane; Drip, drip, drip, Comes the heavy rain. Now the little birdies Fly away to bed, And each tender blossom Droops its pretty head. But the little rootlets, In the earth below, Open wide their tiny mouths Where the rain-drops flow; And the thirsty grasses Soon grow fresh and green, With the pretty daisies Springing up between. FASHIONABLE. A fashionable woman In a fashionable pew; A fashionable bonnet Of a fashionable hue; A fashionable mantle And a fashionable gown; A fashionable Christian In a fashionable town; A fashionable prayer-book. And a fashionable choir; A fashionable chapel With a fashionable spire; A fashionable preacher With a fashionable speech; A fashionable sermon With a fashionable reach; A fashionable welcome At the fashionable door; A fashionable penny For the fashionable poor; A fashionable heaven And a fashionable hell; A fashionable Bible For this fashionable belle; A fashionable kneeling And a fashionable nod; A fashionable everything, But no fashionable God. RESURGAM. BY EBEN E. REXFORD. "There is no God," he said, and turned away From those who sought to lead him to the light; "Here is a violet, growing for a day, When winter comes, and all the world is white, It will be dead. And I am like the flower, To-day, here am I, and to-morrow, dust. Is life worth living for its little hour Of empty pleasure, if decay we must?" The autumn came, and under fallen leaves The little violet was hid away. "Dead! dead!" cried he. "Alas, all nature grieves For what she loves is destined to decay. Soon like the violet, in soft, damp earth I shall be hidden, and above my head A stone will tell the record of my birth And of my nothingness when I am dead." Spring came, and from the mold the little flower He had thought dead, sprung up to sweetest bloom. He saw it, and his heart was touched that hour, And grasped the earth-old mystery of the tomb. "God of the flower," he said, with reverent voice, "The violet lives again, and why not I? At last my blind eyes see, and I rejoice. The soul within me was not born to die!" THE FAULT OF THE AGE. BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. The fault of the age is a mad endeavor To leap to heights that were made to climb; By a burst of strength or a thought that is clever We plan to outwit and forestall Time. We scorn to wait for the thing worth having; We want high noon at the day's dim dawn, We find no pleasure in toiling and saving As our forefathers did in the good times gone. We force our roses before their season To bloom and blossom that we may wear; And then we wonder and ask the reason Why perfect buds are so few and rare. We crave the gain, but despise the getting; We want wealth, not as reward, but dower; And the strength that is wasted in useless fretting Would fell a forest or build a tower. To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning; To thirst for glory, yet fear the fight-- Why, what can it lead to at last but sinning, To mental languor and moral blight? Better the old slow way of striving And counting small gains when the year is done, Than to use our forces all in contriving And to grasp for pleasures we have not won. THE BOOK CANVASSER. BY MAX ADELER. He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said: "Mr. ----, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; splendid work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't take your name. "Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book and pointing to an engraving, "That's--lemme see--yes, that's Columbus, perhaps you've heard sumfin' about him? The publisher was telling me to-day before I started out that he discovered--No; was it Columbus that dis--Oh! yes. Columbus, he discovered America--was the first man here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he stayed on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a photograph, all of 'em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd but they say that's the way they dressed in them days. Look at this one. Now isn't that splendid? William Penn, one of the early settlers. I was reading t'other day about him. When he first arrived he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and when they shook some apples down, he set one on top of his son's head, and shot an arrow plump through it and never fazed him. They say it struck them Indians cold; he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn't he? Face shaved clean; he didn't wear a mustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is, that every man ought to have a picture of that Patriarch so's to see how the fust settlers looked and what kind of weskets they yoused to wear. See his legs; too! Trousers a little short maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. Subscription list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you? There's something nice. That I think, is--is--that's a--a--yes, to be sure, Washington--you recollect him, of course? Some people call him Father of his Country, George--Washington. He had no middle name, I believe. He lived about two hundred years ago and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton, and seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights to see her when the old man was asleep. The girl's family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don't he? He's got it in his eye. If it'd been me I'd gone over on a bridge, but he probably wanted to show off afore her; some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you'll conclude to take this I'll get the publisher to write out some more stories about him, and bring 'em round to you, so's you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so awful poor. "Less see! Who have we next? Ah! Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he is celebrated for, but I think it was a flying a--oh! yes, flying a kite, that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a kite, you know, like boys do now-a-days, and while she was a flickering up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree and hit him on the head;--then he discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you or me'd a been hit, it'd just a made us mad like as not and set us a ravin'. But men are so different. One man's meat's another man's pison. See what a double chin he's got. No beard on him, either, though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. He hasn't got on a sword and I reckon he was no soldier;--fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain't one, myself, and I think all the better of him for it. Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn't that gorgeous? See, how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while he lays on the ground, and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him up. Talk about woman's love! There it is for you. Modocs, I believe, Anyway some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the publisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and jumped forward and says to the man with the stick, 'Why don't you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if you kill him I'll never speak to you as long as I live,' or words like them, and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher and were married and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, isn't it? A good wife she made him, too, I'll bet, if she was a little copper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture? But Smith appears kinder sick, evidently thinks his goose is cooked, and I don't wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a discouraging club. And now we come to--to ah--to--Putnam--General Putnam:--he fought in the war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death. Leastways the publisher said somehow that way, and I oncet read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck, but maybe it was a mule, for they're pretty sure footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain't it? Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New Orleans. Broke up the rebel Legislature, and then when the Ku Kluxes got after him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em 'til they couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad. Hit straight from the shoulder and fetched his man every time. Andrew, his fust name was; and look how his hair stands up. And then, here's John Adams and Daniel Boone and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures, so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won't you?" THE MISNOMER. BY JOSIE C. MALOTT. It sounds rather queer, I must freely confess, To hear a man ask kind heaven to bless Himself and his neighbor, when over the way His drinking saloon stands open all day. _You_ may call it a "drug store," but doesn't God know? Can you hide from _His_ eye the sorrow and woe-- The pain and the anguish, the grief and the shame That comes from the house with a high-sounding name? Such ill gotten wealth will surely take wing And leave naught behind but the deadliest sting; And oh, the account must be settled some day, For the drug store saloon kept over the way. Can you face the just Judge and the souls you have wrecked? Oh, pause ere too late and note the effect. Do you know you're destroying both body and soul Of the men whose honor and manhood you've stole? Does the hard accusation arouse you to fright? Have you never looked at yourself in the light Of a thief, nay, worse, a murderer, too? God brands you as such, and you know it is true! They're the deadliest poisons you have for sale-- The liquors you keep--yet you always fail To mark them as such, and the men who drink Can have what they want if they bring you the "chink." _Don't_ call such a place a _drug store_, pray; But "drinking saloon," and you'd better say On the sign o'er the door in letters clear, "Ye abandon all hope who enter here!" THE DOORSTEP. BY E. C. STEDMAN. The conference-meeting through at last, We boys around the vestry waited To see the girls come tripping past Like snowbirds willing to be mated. Not braver he that leaps the wall By level musket-flashes litten, Than I, who stepped before them all, Who longed to see me get the mitten. But no; she blushed and took my arm! We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lover's by-way. I can't remember what we said, 'Twas nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory. The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, Her face with youth and health was beaming. The little hand outside her muff-- O sculptor, if you could but mould it! So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it. To have her with me there alone,-- 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended. The old folks, too, were almost home; Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, We heard the voices nearer come, Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. She took her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled; But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled. A cloud past kindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said, "Come, now or never! do it! _do it_!" My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth--I kissed her! Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, O, listless woman! weary lover! To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill I'd give--but who can live youth over? HOW "OLD MOSE" COUNTED EGGS. Old Mose, who sold eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived, but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the gate to make the purchases. "Have you any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?" she asked. "Yes, indeed I has. Jest got in ten dozen from the kentry." "Are they fresh?" "I gua'ntee 'em. I knows dey am fresh jest the same as ef I had led 'em myself." "I'll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket." "All right, mum." He counts, "One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. You kin rely on dem bein fresh. How's your son coming on at de school? He mus' be mos' grown." "Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank at Galveston." "Why, how ole am de boy?" "He is eighteen." "You don't tole me so. Eighteen and getting a salary already, eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's yore gal comin' on? She was mos' growed up de las' time I seed her." "She is married and living in Dallas." "Wall, I declar'. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be jess about--" "Thirty-three." "Am dat so?" (counting), "firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free. Hit am so singular dat you has sich old childruns. I can't b'leeve you has granchildruns. You don't look more den forty yeahs ole yerseff." "Nonsense, old man, I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old----" "Fifty-free? I jess dun gwinter beleeve hit, fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six--I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake--fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-tree, sixty-foah--Whew. Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time ob yeah when I feels I'se gettin' old myself. I ain't long fer dis world. You comes from an old family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years ole." "Seventy-two." "Dat's old, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine--and your mudder? She was one ob the noblest looking ladies I ebber see. You reminds me ob her so much. She libbed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done pass a centurion when she died." "No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died." "Den she warn't no chicken when she died. I know dat--ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight--dar 108 nice fresh eggs--jess nine dozen, and here am one moah egg in case I has discounted myself." Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said to her husband: "I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there and heard Old Mose count them myself and there were nine dozen." ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. BY MRS. SOPHIA P. SNOW. 'Twas the eve before Christmas, "Good-night" had been said, And Annie and Willie had crept into bed; There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes, And each little bosom was heaving with sighs, For to-night their stern father's command had been given That they should retire precisely at seven Instead of at eight--for they troubled him more With questions unheard of than ever before: He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, No such a creature as "Santa Claus" ever had been. And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year. And this was the reason that two little heads So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten, Not a word had been spoken by either till then, When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, And whispered, "Dear Annie, is 'ou fast as'eep?" "Why no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies, "I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes, For somehow it makes me so sorry because Dear papa has said there is no 'Santa Claus,' Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, For he came every year before mamma died; But, then, I've been thinking that she used to pray, And God would hear everything mamma would say, And maybe she asked him to send Santa Claus here With the sack full of presents he brought every year." "Well, why tan't we p'ay dest as mamma did den, And ask Dod to send him with p'esents aden?" "I've been thinking so too," and without a word more Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, And four little knees the carpet pressed, And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. "Now Willie, you know we must firmly believe That the presents we asked for we're sure to receive; You must wait very still till I say the 'Amen,' And by that you will know that your turn has come then." "Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me, And grant us the favor we are asking of thee. I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring. Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see That Santa Claus loves us as much as does he; Don't let him get fretful and angry again At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen." "Please, Desus, 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night, And b'ing us some p'esents before it is light; I want he should div' me a nice 'ittie s'ed, With bright shinin' 'unners, and all painted red; A box full of tandy, a book, and a toy, Amen, and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy." Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads, And with hearts light and cheerful, again sought their beds. They were lost soon in slumber, both peaceful and deep, And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep. Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten, Ere the father had thought of his children again: He seems now to hear Annie's half-suppressed sighs, And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. "I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, "And should not have sent them so early to bed; But then I was troubled; my feelings found vent, For bank stock to-day has gone down ten per cent But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this, And that I denied them the thrice-asked-for kiss: But, just to make sure, I'll go up to their door, For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." So saying, he softly ascended the stairs, And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers; His Annie's "Bless papa" drew forth the big tears, And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears. "Strange--strange--I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh, "How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh." "I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, "By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed." Then he turned to the stairs and softly went down, Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown, Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street-- A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet! Nor stopped he until he had bought every thing, From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring; Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store, That the various presents outnumbered a score. Then homeward he turned, when his holiday load, With Aunt Mary's help, in the nursery was stowed. Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree, By the side of a table spread out for her tea; A work-box well filled in the centre was laid And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed. A soldier in uniform stood by a sled "With bright shining runners, and all painted red." There were balls, dogs, and horses, books pleasing to see, And birds of all colors were perched in the tree! While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top, As if getting ready more presents to drop. And as the fond father the picture surveyed, He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid, And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear, "I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year; I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before, What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent more Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe, To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas Eve." So thinking, he gently extinguished the light, And, tripping down stairs, retired for the night. As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one. Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, And at the same moment the presents espied; Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found. They laughed and they cried, in their innocent glee, And shouted for papa to come quick and see What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night (Just the things that they wanted), and left before light; "And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low, "You'll believe there's a 'Santa Claus,' papa, I know;" While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, Determined no secret between them should be, And told in soft whispers how Annie had said That their dear blessèd mamma, so long ago dead, Used to kneel down by the side of her chair, And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer. "Den we dot up and prayed dust well as we tould, And Dod answered our prayers: now wasn't He dood?" "I should say that He was if He sent you all these, And knew just what presents my children would please. (Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf, 'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.)" Blind father! who caused your stern heart to relent, And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent? 'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly up stairs, And made you His agent to answer their prayers. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket, which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. That moss-covered bucket I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well. MR. WINKLE PUTS ON SKATES. BY CHARLES DICKENS. "Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, "what say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time." "Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen. "Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer. "You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle. "Ye-yes; O yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I--I--am rather out of practice!" "O, do skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so much." "O, it is so graceful," said another young lady. A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was "swanlike." "I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I have no skates." This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pairs, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down stairs; whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable. Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller having shoveled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvelous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions which they called a reel. All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet. "Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone, "off with you, and show 'em how to do it." "Stop, Sam, stop!" said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold of Sam's arm with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it is, Sam!" "Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up, sir!" This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice. "These--these--are very awkward skates," said Mr. Winkle, staggering. "Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. "Come; the ladies are all anxiety." "Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming." "Just going to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. "Now, sir, start off!" "Just hold me at first, Sam, will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There--that's right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam--not too fast!" Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller in a very singular and un-swanlike manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank--"Sam!" "Sir!" shouted back Mr. Weller. "Here! I want you." "Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor calling? Let go, sir." With a violent effort Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian, and in so doing administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck Wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance. "Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety. "Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard. "I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness. "No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle, hurriedly. "I really think you had better," said Allen. "Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle; "I'd rather not." "What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer. Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller and said, in a stern voice, "Take his skates off!" "No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle. "Take his skates off!" repeated Mr. Pickwick, firmly. The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it, in silence. "Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise. Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words: "You're a humbug, sir!" "A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting. "A humbug, sir! I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir!" With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel and rejoined his friends. MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. This book is all that's left me now! Tears will unbidden start,-- With faltering lip and throbbing brow I press it to my heart. For many generations past, Here is our family tree: My mother's hand this Bible clasped; She, dying, gave it me. Ah! well do I remember those Whose names these records bear, Who round the hearthstone used to close After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said, In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still! My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters, dear; How calm was my poor mother's look, Who leaned God's word to hear. Her angel-face--I see it yet! What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home! Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I've tried; Where all were false I found thee true, My counsellor and guide. The mines of earth no treasure give That could this volume buy: In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die. AFTER-DINNER SPEECH BY A FRENCHMAN. "Milors and Gentlemans--You excellent chairman, M. le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have say to me, 'Make de toast.' Den I say to him dat I have no toast to make; but he nudge my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is von toast dat nobody but von Frenchman can make proper; and, derefore, wid your kind permission, I vill make de toast. 'De brevete is de sole of de feet,' as you great philosophere, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing little vork of his, de Pronouncing Dictionaire; and, derefore, I vill not say ver moch to de point. "Ah! mes amis! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration magnifique of your Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von great privilege for von étranger to sit at de same table, and to eat de same food, as dat grand, dat majestique man, who are de tereur of de voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis, and who is also, I for to suppose, a halterman and de chief of you common scoundrel. Milors and gentlemans, I feel that I can perspire to no greatare honueur dan to be von common scoundrelman myself; but, hélas! dat plaisir are not for me, as I are not freeman of your great cité, not von liveryman servant of von you compagnies joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast. "Milors and Gentlemans! De immortal Shakispeare he have write, 'De ting of beauty are de joy for nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more entrancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking eye of de beautiful lady! It is de ladies who do sweeten the cares of life. It is de ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do cheer but not inebriate, and, derefore, vid all homage to dere sex, de toast dat I have to propose is, 'De Ladies! Heaven bless dem all!'" THE WHIRLING WHEEL. BY TUDOR JENKS. Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind! We rise in the morning only to find That Monday's but Tuesday, and Wednesday's the same, And Thursday's a change in nothing but name; A Friday and Saturday wind up the week; On Sunday we rest, and attempt to look meek. So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel! The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal. And although the dull round is a kind of a grind, It has compensations that we may find. Famine and slaughter and sieges no more Are likely to leave their cards at the door. Let others delight in adventurous lives-- We read their sore trials at home to our wives. So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel! The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal. The regular round, though a kind of a grind, Brings thoughts of contentment to quiet the mind: The babies sleep soundly in snug little beds; There's a tight little roof o'er the ringletted heads; The wife's welcome comes with the set of the sun, And the worker may rest, for the day's work is done. So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel! The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal. Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind, But the world's scenes are shifted by workmen behind. The star who struts central may show no more art Than the sturdy "first citizen" filling his part. When the king to our plaudits has graciously bowed, The crowd sees the king, while the king sees the crowd. So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel! The mill that we're grinding Works for our weal. When the great mill has stopped, and the work is complete, And the workers receive the reward that is meet, Who can tell what the Master shall say is the best? We but know that the worker who's aided the rest, Who has kept his wheel turning from morning to night, Who has not wronged his fellow, is not far from right. So set a firm shoulder And push on the wheel! The mill that we're grinding Shall work out our weal. THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER. BY CHARLES SHEPPARD. It was the seventh of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky was cloudless; the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and gold; the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the ground; from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel; on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet. Gates was sad and thoughtful as he watched the evolutions of the two armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground, and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart. Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they stood came a rider, upon a black horse, rushing toward the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air--he points to the distant battle, and, lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is the thickest, there, through intervals of cannon smoke, you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight to see that strange soldier and that noble black horse, dashing like a meteor, down the long columns of battle? Let us look for a moment into those dense war clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company of redcoat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. In this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches right in the path of a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now! cowards! advance another step and I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down." This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. "Now, upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer. They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider is heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused conflict--a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers. Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemiss' Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep--that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and, as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seized his rifle and started toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that Black Steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on toward the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec! come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now British cannon pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the Black Horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball. Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you shall see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming of Quebec. That rider of the Black Horse was Benedict Arnold. SHE CUT HIS HAIR. You can always tell a boy whose mother cuts his hair. Not because the edges of it look as if it had been chewed off by an absent-minded horse; but you can tell it by the way he stops on the streets and wriggles his shoulders. When a fond mother has to cut her boy's hair she is careful to guard against any annoyance and muss by laying a sheet on the carpet. It has never yet occurred to her to set him over a bare floor and put the sheet around his neck. Then she draws the front hair over his eyes, and leaves it there while she cuts that which is at the back; the hair which lies over his eyes appears to be surcharged with electric needles, and that which is silently dropping down over his shirtband appears to be on fire. She has unconsciously continued to push his head forward until his nose presses his breast, and is too busily engaged to notice the snuffling sound that is becoming alarmingly frequent. In the meantime he is seized with an irresistible desire to blow his nose, but recollects that his handkerchief is in the other room. Then a fly lights on his nose, and does it so unexpectedly that he involuntarily dodges and catches the points of the shears in his left ear. At this he commences to cry and wish he was a man. But his mother doesn't notice him. She merely hits him on the other ear to inspire him with confidence and goes on with the work. When she is through she holds his jacket-collar back from his neck, and with her mouth blows the short bits of hair from the top of his head down his back. He calls her attention to this fact, but she looks for a new place on his head and hits him there, and asks him why he didn't use a handkerchief. Then he takes his awfully disfigured head to the mirror and looks at it, and, young as he is, shudders as he thinks of what the boys on the street will say. AN APPEAL FOR LIBERTY. BY JOSEPH STORY. I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors--by the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil--by all you are, and all you hope to be--resist every object of disunion, resist every encroachment upon your liberties, resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother your public schools, or extinguish your system of public instruction. I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in woman, the love of your off-spring; teach them, as they climb your knees, or lean on your bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear them at the altar, as with their baptismal vows, to be true to their country, and never to forget or forsake her. I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons you are; whose inheritance you possess. Life can never be too short, which brings nothing but disgrace and oppression. Death never comes too soon, if necessary in defence of the liberties of your country. I call upon you, old men, for your counsels, and your prayers, and your benedictions. May not your gray hairs go down in sorrow to the grave, with the recollection that you have lived in vain. May not your last sun sink in the west upon a nation of slaves. No; I read in the destiny of my country far better hopes, far brighter visions. We, who are now assembled here, must soon be gathered to the congregation of other days. The time of our departure is at hand, to make way for our children upon the theatre of life. May God speed them and theirs. May he who, at the distance of another century, shall stand here to celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, happy, and virtuous people. May he have reason to exult as we do. May he, with all the enthusiasm of truth as well as of poetry, exclaim, that here is still his country. OLD UNCLE JAKE. He was bowed by many a year of service; he was white-woolled, thick-lipped, and a true son of Africa, yet a grand and knightly soul animated that dusky breast--a soul that many a scion of the blood royal might envy. The children loved him, the neighbors respected him, his own color looked up to him as a superior being, and they whose goods and chattels he had formerly been, were sure to heed his counsels in all important family matters. Aye, he had an honorable record. If his skin was black, his soul was white as the whitest and from lusty boyhood to the present there had been no need of "stripes" for Uncle Jake. He had been the playmate of "young marster," the boon companion in all 'possum hunts and fishing frolics, and when each had arrived at man's estate the goodfellowship contracted in youth knew no surcease. When the tocsin of war resounded through the South, and the call for volunteers was made, "marster" was one of the first to buckle on his armor and hasten to the front--doing so with greater heart as Uncle Jake was left in charge of those dearer than life to him. And royally did the poor unlettered African fulfil the trust committed to his keeping. He took upon himself the burden of all plantation matters and sooner than one hair on the heads of "missus or chillun" should be injured, he would have sacrificed his life freely any day. And when the war was over he positively refused to join in the hegira of his brethren, preferring rather to live on in the same old place that had witnessed his birth and the strength of his manhood's prime. In grateful recognition of his long servitude a comfortable cottage was built for him in a secluded nook of the plantation, in which, with his faithful old wife, he lived a peaceful and contented life, tilling the few acres which had been granted him and doing all sorts of odd jobs out of the pure love he bore old marse. But Uncle Jake was getting old now--more and more heavily the weight of years fell upon him--the whiter grew his locks until at last the time came when he could no longer pursue his accustomed duties, and all reluctant and unwilling he took to his bed never to rise again. For weeks and months he lingered on the "Border Land," attended by loving hands, and his slightest wish was gratified; indeed, so long he hovered between life and death, that those who loved him best began to cherish a faint hope that he would be spared to them. But the fiat had gone forth--Uncle Jake must die. One evening, just as the setting sun was flooding the fair landscape with his golden beams, a tearful group were assembled at his bedside, who had been hastily summoned thither to bid farewell to one who had been so true a friend to them all. There were marster and missus and their children and Jake's own wife and children, with a few of his fellow servants, all united in a democracy of grief that knew no distinction of caste in the supreme moment. No sound was heard save a half-suppressed sob now and then--the tick-tick of the clock on the rude mantel and the labored breathing of the dying man. For hours he had lain in a sort of stupor, broken only at intervals by delirious mutterings, when suddenly his eyes, in which was a preternatural brightness, opened and fixed themselves long and earnestly in turn upon each one of the faces bent so sorrowfully over him. Then in a feeble, fluttering voice, like the last effort of an expiring taper, he addressed his master, who was tenderly wiping the moisture from his brow: "Ole marse, I'se been a good and faithful servant to yer all dese years, has I not?" "Yes, Jake." "Ebber since we was boys togedder I'se lubed yer, and stuck to yer through thick and thin, and now dat Jake is goin' home yer doan' treasure up nothin' agin me, do yer, marse?" "No, no, Jake." "Old missus, come nearer, honey, Jake's eyes is gettin' mighty dim now, and he kan't see yer. Yer'll nebber forgit how Jake tuk keer of yer an' de chilluns when ole marster gone to de war? An' yer'll be kind to my wife and chilluns for my sake, won't yer?" "Yes, yes, Jake, I'll be kind to them, and I will never forget your fidelity, old friend." "T'ank de Lawd! I kin die happy now, when I'se know dat yer an' master will 'member me an' be kind to dem I'se leaving behind. An' de chillun--whar's de chillun? I'se wants ter tell 'em all goodby an' say a las' few words to dem, too." And in his eagerness, with a strength born of death, the old man half arose upon his elbow and laid a trembling hand upon the head of each of the awe-struck children. "God bless yer, chillun, one an' all. I lubs my own little picaninnies, but I lubs old marster's just as well. I doan' want none o' yer to forgit how Uncle Jake has trotted yer on his knee an' toted yer on his back an' keep' a watchful eye on yer, les' yet git into mischief by yer pranks. Promise me, chillun, dat you'll nebber forgit dese ting. It pleases Uncle Jake to think yer'll 'member him arter he's gone from yer sight for ebber." As well as they were able for their tears, the little ones gave the required promise, and greatly pleased, the old man sank back exhausted upon his pillow. After lying a few minutes with closed eyes, as if in sleep, he suddenly whispered: "Dinah, whar is you? I wants yer to cum closer ter me, honey, an' put yer arms around my neck an' lay yer cheek ter mine like yer used ter do when we was courtin' down in de huckleberry patch. I wants ter die in yer arms, ole wife. Yer is black, an' de white folks mought not be able ter see any booty in yer, but Jake knows what a true an' lovin' wife you'se bin ter him, an' he can see de booty dat's hidden out o' sight. I'se gwine ter cross ober der great wide ribber dey call Death, into a kentry whar' dere'll nebber be any mo' black skins--whar' I'll wear de white robe and de golden crown, an' I'se got ter wait fur yer dere. Dinah, my lub! my lub! Hark, honey! doan' yer hear de bells ob heaven a-ringing? An' doan' yer see de pearly gates a-openin' to let ole black Jake go frew? I'se a comin', holy angels--I'se a comin', blessed Lawd! Glory hallelewger! Ole Jake's mos' got ober de ribber. His feet is touchin' de water--but it's gettin' so cold, Dinah, honey--I can't feel de clasp of yer arms any mo'. I'se--" And with a last, long, fluttering sigh, as knightly and true a soul as ever dwelt in human breast took its light to a realm where there is indeed neither black nor white, nor bond nor free, but all are like unto the angels. THE HOT AXLE. BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE. The express train was flying from Cork to Queenstown; it was going like sixty--that is, about sixty miles an hour. No sight of Irish village to arrest our speed, no sign of a breakdown; and yet the train halted. We looked out of a window; saw a brakeman and a crowd of passengers gathering around the locomotive, and a dense smoke arising. What was the matter? _A hot axle!_ I thought then, as I think now, that is what is the matter with people everywhere. In this swift, "express" American life, we go too fast for our endurance. We think ourselves getting on splendidly, when, in the midst of our success, we come to a dead halt. What is the matter? The nerves or muscles or our brain give out; we make too many revolutions in an hour. _A hot axle!_ Men make the mistake of working according to their opportunities, and not according to their capacity of endurance. Can I be a merchant, and president of a bank, and a director in a life insurance company, and a school commission, and help edit a paper, and supervise the politics of our ward, and run for Congress? "I can!" the man says to himself. The store drives him; the bank drives him; the school drives him; politics drive him. He takes all the scoldings and frets and exasperations of each position. Some day, at the height of the business season, he does not come to the store. From the most important meeting of the bank directors he is absent. In the excitement of the most important political canvass he fails to be at the place appointed. What is the matter? His health has broken down; the train halts long before it gets to the station. _A hot axle!_ Literary men have great opportunities opening in this day. If they take all that open, they are dead men, or worse--_living_ men that ought to be dead. The pen runs so easy when you have good ink and smooth paper, and an easy desk to write on, and the consciousness of an audience of one, two, or three hundred thousand readers. So great is the invitation to literary work, that the professional men of the day are overdone. They sit, faint and fagged out, on the verge of newspapers and books; each one does the work of three. And these men sit up late nights and choke down chunks of meat without mastication, and scold their wives through irritability, and maul innocent authors, and run the physical machinery with a liver miserably given out. The driving shaft has gone fifty times a second. They stop at no station. The steam-chest is hot and swollen. The brain and digestion begins to smoke. Stop, ye flying quills! "Down brakes!" _A hot axle!_ Some of our young people have read--till they are crazed--of learned blacksmiths who at the forge conquered thirty languages; and shoemakers who, pounding sole-leather, got to be philosophers; and of milliners who, while their customers were at the glass trying on their spring hats, wrote a volume of first-rate poems. The fact is, no blacksmith ought to be troubled with more than five languages; and, instead of shoemakers becoming philosophers, we would like to turn our surplus supply of philosophers into shoemakers; and the supply of poetry is so much greater than the demand, that we wish milliners would stick to their business. Extraordinary examples of work and endurance may do us much good. Because Napoleon slept only four hours a night, hundreds of students have tried the experiment; but, instead of Austerlitz and Saragossa, there came of it only a sick headache and a botch of a recitation. Let us not go beyond our endurance, cutting short our days and making a wreck of our life work, but labor earnestly, zealously, intelligently for success; and in the twilight of old age peace and happiness will be ours--not the shattered and praised remains of a career disastrously checked. THE CHILDREN.[2] BY CHARLES DICKENS. When the lessons and tasks are ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, And the little ones gather around me To bid me "good-night" and be kissed; Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in a tender embrace! Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine and love on my face! And when they are gone I sit dreaming Of my childhood too lovely to last; Of love, that my heart will remember When it wakes to the pulse of the past. Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin, When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within. Oh, my heart grows weak as a woman's, And the fountain of feelings will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony Where the feet of the dear ones must go; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempests of fate blowing wild; Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child. They are idols of hearts and of households, They are angels of God in disguise, His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still beams in their eyes; Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild, And I know how Jesus could liken The kingdom of God to a child. Seek not a life for the dear ones All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have just as much shadow To temper the glare of the sun; I would pray God to guard them from evil, But my prayer would bound back to myself; Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself. The twig is so easily bended, I have banished the rule and the rod; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of God. My heart is a dungeon of darkness, Where I shut them from breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction, My love is the law of the school. I shall leave the old house in the autumn, To traverse its threshold no more-- Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones That meet me each morn at the door. I shall miss the good-nights and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green and the flowers That are brought every morning to me. I shall miss them at morn and eve, Their songs in the school and the street, Shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tramp of their delicate feet. When lessons and tasks are all ended, And death says the school is dismissed, May the little ones gather around me To bid me "good-night" and be kissed. FOOTNOTES: [2] Found in the desk of Charles Dickens after his death. CHARITY. When you meet with one suspected Of some secret deed of shame, And for this by all rejected As a thing of evil fame, Guard thine every look and action, Speak no word of heartless blame, For the slanderer's vile detraction Yet may soil thy goodly name. When you meet with one pursuing Ways the lost have entered in, Working out his own undoing With his recklessness and sin; Think, if placed in his condition, Would a kind word be in vain, Or a look of cold suspicion Win thee back to truth again? There are spots that bear no flowers, Not because the soil is bad, But the Summer's genial showers Never made their bosoms glad. Better have an act that's kindly Treated sometimes with disdain, Than, in judging others blindly, Doom the innocent to pain. NO OBJECTION TO CHILDREN. It was a block of yellow-brown houses in South Boston, looking as much like a sheet of gingerbread as anything. An express-wagon had just backed up to No. 21 in that block, and the driver, unloosing ropes here and there, proceeded to unpack the luggage. "What have we here?" exclaimed Mrs. Bacon, the downstairs tenant. "A menagerie, I do believe. Come here, John." There was, indeed, on the very top of the load a gray horse that in the twilight looked very real till one noticed the rockers on which it stood. But there was a kennel with a live terrier's head at the window, a bird-cage with its fluttering tenant, a crib and high chair besides, suggesting that the folks in the other part might, in the language of Mrs. Bacon, "make music." Now, the downstairs tenants, Mr. and Mrs. Bacon, were precise, orderly people, living, like many other city people, in desert-island fashion, and only hoping that everybody else would mind their own business. It had been for weeks their great comfort that the other part was unoccupied, and now this load of household goods brimming over with pets and their belongings was an unwelcome sight. There were no young Bacons--no, indeed! Plants did not flourish in their shaded windows nor canary birds splash water from their tiny baths upon the clear glass. No dog barked a noisy welcome when his master returned at night. No cat purred in her mistress's lap. The housekeeping of the Bacons was a fight against dirt, dust, sunshine and noise; and somehow pets bring all these. "Well, John," said Mrs. Bacon as she turned from the window and pulled the shade over the sacred glass, "there's an end to peace and quiet. We must keep the entry doors locked; and don't you be whistling round to attract a child. Give them an inch and they'll take an ell. If folks must have rocking horses and what goes with them, they ought to move into the country, where they will not be pestering other people." But, to the surprise of the Bacons, they were not pestered, only by the patter of little feet overhead, or a woman's voice singing cradle-songs or joining in her child's laughter. Crying there was, too, sometimes, but it was so soon hushed in motherly caresses that it seemed a sort of rainbow grievance only. At night, when the father came home, there was quite a joyful noise upstairs, at which time John's face was a little wistful. But the new family did not intrude for ever so small a favor. Mrs. Bacon took good care to keep out of sight whenever the new tenants were passing through the entry-way. One small pair of boots had considerable traveling to do up and down the stairs for a stroll on the sidewalk or to old Dorchester Heights, just beyond, for spoils of wild flowers. One day Little Boots came back from this favorite resort, and instead of climbing the stairs, as usual, strayed hesitatingly toward Mrs. Bacon's kitchen door. "Smells the gingerbread," soliloquized Mrs. Bacon, grimly. "Glad the door is locked." She glanced toward it to be sure; yes, it was locked, though the key had been transferred to another door. But shining through the keyhole was a very bright and sweet-looking star of an eye. Only a moment it twinkled, and then there was thrust in very gently the stem of a dandelion, and the small boots scampered away up the stairs. "Little mischief!" exclaimed Mrs. Bacon, and she would have pushed the intruding stem outside, but her hands were in the dough. "If he wanted a piece of gingerbread, why didn't he say so? Mebbe he was afraid of me; cats run like all possessed when they see me. I can't have my key-holes choked up with dandelion stems--that's so. Soon's I get my hands out of this it will walk into the stove, that dandelion will." But the dandelion was too fresh and perfect, and brought back the old childhood days to Mrs. Bacon so clearly that she changed her mind. There was an old horseradish bottle on the pantry-shelf which, filled with water, received the dandelion. There, resting in the kitchen window, it smiled all day. There was quite a commotion upstairs that night, and John and his wife, drowsily hearing it, thanked their stars that they were not routed by children's ails. The next day Mrs. Bacon's watchful ear caught the sound of "Little Boots" on the stairs, and again the blue eyes twinkled at the keyhole. This time the door opened in response: "Well, child, what is it? Want some gingerbread?" "Oh no, thank you, dear," said the little voice--a very hoarse little voice it was, and the throat was all wrapped in flannel. "I wanted to know if you liked my f'ower?" "See?" Mrs. Bacon pointed to the glorified horseradish bottle. "Is your name Mrs. Bacon, dear?" "Bacon--no 'dear' about it." "I like to call you 'dear.' Don't your little boy call you so?" "No." "Ally! Ally, child!" called the mother anxiously; "come back, darling; you'll get cold." "I'll take him up," responded Mrs. Bacon; and taking with unwonted tenderness the three-years-old darling, she landed him safely upstairs. "It's the croup," explained the mother. "He got cold yesterday, out for dandelions--his favorite flower, ma'am. Calls 'em preserved sunshine; saw me put up fruit last fall--there's where he got the idea; though, as to telling where he gets all his ideas, that beats me. The doctor says he's that kind of a child the croup is likely to go hard with. Scares me to death to hear him cough." "Goose oil is good for croup," remarked Mrs. Bacon. "Did you ever try it?" asked the new neighbor, innocently. "Me? No use for it. Got a bottle, though. Have it if you like." Alas! the doctor's prophecy was true. The fatal disease developed that very night. * * * * * Little boots are still and starry eyes shine afar off now. As he lay in his beautiful last sleep, a flower amid the white flowers, a woman's brown hand slipped a few dandelions tenderly--oh, so tenderly!--into the dainty cold fingers. "That is right, Mrs. Bacon, dear," said the poor mother. "'Preserved sunshine!' That's what he is to us." The new tenants have moved into the country, and No. 21, upper tenement, is again to let. Mrs. Bacon hopes the landlord will add to his advertisement, "No objection to children." BANFORD'S BURGLAR-ALARM. "Another Daring Burglary!" read Mrs. Banford, as she picked up the morning: paper. "Lucullus," she said, turning to her husband, "this is the fourth outrage of the kind in this town within a week, and if you don't procure a burglar-alarm, or adopt some other means of security, I shall not remain in this house another night. Some morning we'll get up and find ourselves murdered and the house robbed if we have to depend on the police for protection." Banford assured his wife that he would have the matter attended to at once. Then he left the house and didn't return until evening. When Mrs. B. asked him if he had given a second thought to the subject which she had broached in the morning, he drew a newspaper from his pocket, and said: "See here, Mirandy! There's no use o' foolin' away money on one o' those new-fangled burglar-alarms. Economy is wealth. Here's a capital idea suggested in this paper--cheap, simple and effective." And then he read the suggestion about hanging a tin pan on the chamber-door. "I tell you, Mirandy! the man who conceived that brilliant notion is a heaven-born genius--a boon to mankind; and his name should go ringing down the corridors of time with those of such brilliant intellect as Watt, Morse, Edison, and other successful scientific investigators. You see, the least jar of the door will dislodge the pan, and the noise occasioned thereby will not only awaken the occupants of the room, but will also scare the burglar half to death, and perhaps the pan will strike him on the head and fracture his skull. It is a glorious scheme, and the fact that it was not utilized years ago is the most remarkable thing about it." "Well," assented Mrs. B. in less sanguine tones, "it may be better than nothing, and it won't cost anything; and as Susan has gone out to spend the night with her sick sister, and we'll be all alone, I'll hunt up the pans now." Accordingly, each inside door was crowned with a tin pan and left slightly ajar. Banford also thoughtfully placed a six-shooter under his pillow and stood a base-ball bat within easy reach. "Now, Mirandy," he courageously observed, as they were preparing to retire, "if you are awakened by a noise during the night, don't scream and jump out of bed. Just lie still, or some o' the bullets I fire at the burglar may go through you and kill you. Let me wrestle with the intruder, and I'll soon make him regret that he had not postponed being born for a few centuries!" Then they turned down the gas with a feeling of increased security, and were soon asleep. About half-past midnight they were awakened by a noise that sounded like a sharp clap of thunder, followed by a wail that almost chilled the marrow in their bones. "Goodness!" screamed Mrs. B., in a voice swollen with terror, as she dived under the bed-clothes. "We'll be murdered in a minute. Shoot him, Lucullus! Quick--shoot him!" Banford, after considerable nervous fumbling under the pillow, grasped his revolver with an unsteady hand and discharged its six barrels in rapid succession, but not with very gratifying results. One bullet shattered the mirror in the bureau; another plowed a furrow along the ceiling; another splintered the bed-post; a fourth perforated a portrait of his wife's mother; and the other two left their imprint on the walls. "D-d-don't be fuf-fuf-frightened, M-mirandy," said Banford, encouragingly, his articulation sounding as if it had "collided" with an Arctic wave: "I gug-guess I've kik-kik-killed him. He'll not kik-kik-come here--" At this juncture there was a noise in an adjoining room, as if a two-ton meteorite had crashed through a boiler-foundry, and Mrs. B. uttered a series of ear-piercing shrieks that would have scared the life out of any burglar. "M-mirandy," stammered the frightened and demoralized Banford, grasping the base-ball bat and swinging it around with such reckless promiscuousness that he struck his terror-stricken wife on the head, "Mum-mirandy, the house is fuf-full of midnight mum-marauders, and we'll be bub-bub-butchered in cold bub-bub-blood! Save yourself and don't mum-mind about me!" And leaping out of bed, he sprang through a window on to the roof of a back building, and accidentally rolled off into the yard, fifteen feet below, just as another burglar-alarm went off with a clamor almost as deafening and harrowing as an amateur orchestra. Mrs. B., thinking she had been hit by the burglar, emitted a fresh outburst of shrieks, while her husband lay groaning in the back yard, with a sprained ankle and a frightful gash in his head. A policeman had now been awakened by the uproar, and boldly mounting the front stoop, he pulled the door-bell out by the roots without evoking a response. Then he hesitated. "If a foul murder has been committed," he mused, "the assassin has already made good his escape." This thought gave him courage, and he forced an entrance. In the entry he collided with a hat-rack, which he mistook for the outlaw, and almost demolished it with several whacks of his club. Then he made a careful reconnaissance, and dislodged one of the burglar-alarms. "Spare my life," he yelled to his imaginary assailant, "and I'll let you escape!" He thought he had been stabbed with a frying-pan. He rushed out of the house and secured the assistance of four of his fellow-officers, and a search of the building was resumed. Mrs. Banford was found in bed unconscious. Her husband was found in the yard in nearly a similar condition; and the burglar was found under the sofa, shivering with fear, and with his tail clasped tightly between his legs. The cause of the panic was soon explained. Mrs. Banford had overlooked the presence of her pet dog in the house, and this innocent animal, in running from one room to another, had dislodged the "cheap and effective" burglar-alarms. BETTER THINGS. BY GEORGE MACDONALD. Better to smell the violet cool, than sip the glowing wine; Better to hark a hidden brook, than watch a diamond shine. Better the love of a gentle heart, than beauty's favor proud; Better the rose's living seed, than roses in a crowd. Better to love in loneliness, than to bask in love all day; Better the fountain in the heart, than the fountain by the way. Better be fed by a mother's hand, than eat alone at will; Better to trust in God, than say: "My goods my storehouse fill." Better to be a little wise, than in knowledge to abound; Better to teach a child, than toil to fill perfection's round. Better to sit at a master's feet, than thrill a listening State; Better suspect that thou art proud, than be sure that thou art great. Better to walk the real unseen, than watch the hour's event; Better the "Well done!" at the last, than the air with shouting rent. Better to have a quiet grief, than a hurrying delight; Better the twilight of the dawn, than the noonday burning bright. Better a death when work is done, than earth's most favored birth; Better a child in God's great house, than the king of all the earth. 
11921	----	by the Internet Archive Children's Library and University of Florida. THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON READING BOOK LONDON: PRINTED AND PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE OF THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS, 198, STRAND. 1851. THIRD EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS AND CORRECTIONS * * * * * [Illustration: PRINCE ALBERT IN HIS ROBES AS CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE.] * * * * * INTRODUCTION. [Illustration: INTRODUCTION.] To read and speak with elegance and ease, Are arts polite that never fail to please; Yet in those arts how very few excel! Ten thousand men may read--not one read well. Though all mankind are speakers in a sense, How few can soar to heights of eloquence! The sweet melodious singer trills her lays, And listening crowds go frantic in her praise; But he who reads or speaks with feeling true, Charms and delights, instructs, and moves us too. Browne. To deprive Instruction of the terrors with which the young but too often regard it, and strew flowers upon the pathways that lead to Knowledge, is to confer a benefit upon all who are interested in the cause of Education, either as Teachers or Pupils. The design of the following pages is not merely to present to the youthful reader some of the masterpieces of English literature in prose and verse, arranged and selected in such a manner as to please as well as instruct, but to render them more agreeable to the eye and the imagination by Pictorial Representations, in illustration of the subjects. It is hoped that this design has not been altogether unsuccessful, and that the ILLUSTRATED LONDON READING BOOK will recommend itself both to old and young by the appropriateness of the selections, their progressive arrangement, the fidelity of their Illustrations, and the very moderate price at which it is offered to the public. It has not been thought necessary to prefix to the present Volume any instructions in the art of Elocution, or to direct the accent or intonation of the student by the abundant use of italics or of large capitals. The principal, if not the only secrets of good reading are, to speak slowly, to articulate distinctly, to pause judiciously, and to feel the subject so as, if possible, "to make all that passed in the mind of the Author to be felt by the Auditor," Good oral example upon these points is far better for the young Student than the most elaborate written system. A series of Educational Works, in other departments of study, _similarly illustrated,_ and at a price equally small, is in preparation. Among the earliest to be issued, may be enumerated a Sequel and Companion to the ILLUSTRATED LONDON READING BOOK, designed for a more advanced class of Students, and consisting of extracts from English Classical Authors, from the earliest periods of English Literature to the present day, with a copious Introductory Chapter upon the arts of Elocution and Composition. The latter will include examples of Style chosen from the beauties of the best Authors, and will also point out by similar examples the Faults to be avoided by all who desire to become, not simply good Readers and Speakers, but elegant Writers of their native language. Amongst the other works of which the series will be composed, may be mentioned, profusely Illustrated Volumes upon Geographical, Astronomical, Mathematical, and General Science, as well as works essential to the proper training of the youthful mind. _January_, 1850. [Illustration] CONTENTS. Abbey, Account of Strata Florida Adam and Eve in Paradise (MILTON) Alfred, Anecdote of King (BEAUTIES OF HISTORY) Alfred, Character of King (HUME) Angling, Lines on (DOUBLEDAY) Antioch, The Siege of (POPULAR DELUSIONS) Artillery Tactics Athens, Present Appearance of Attock, Description of the Fort of Bacon, Remarks on Lord (D'ISRAELI) Balloons, Account of Baltic, Battle of the (CAMPBELL) Beetle, The Bell, The Founding of the (MACKAY) Bible, Value of the (BUCK) Birds, Appropriateness of the Songs of (DR. JENNER) Bower-Birds, Description of the Bridges, Account of Tubular Railway Bunyan's Wife, Anecdote of (LORD CAMPBELL) Bushmen, Account of the Caesar, Character of Julius (MIDDLETON) Canada, Intense Cold of (SIR F. HEAD) Canary, Account of the Charity (PRIOR) Chatterton, Lines by Cheerfulness, Description of (ADDISON) China, Account of the Great Wall of Christian Freedom (POLLOCK) Clarendon, Account of Lord Cobra di Capello, Description of the Condors, Account of Cruelty to Animals, Wickedness of (JENYNS) Culloden Battle-field, Description of (HIGHLAND NOTE-BOOK) Cyprus, Description of Danish Encampment, Account of a Deity, Omniscience of the (ADDISON) Dogs, A Chapter on Dove, Return of the (MACKAY) Edward VI., Character of (BURNET) Elegy in a Country Churchyard (GRAY) Elizabeth (Queen), at Tilbury Fort (ENGLISH HISTORY) Envy, Wickedness of (DR. JOHNSON) Faith's Guiding Star (ELIZA COOK) Farewell (BARTON) Filial Love (DR. DODD) Fortitude (BLAIR) Fox, Description of the Long-eared Frederick of Prussia and his Page (BEAUTIES OF HISTORY) Gambier Islanders, Account of Gelert (W. SPENCER) Gentleness, Character of (BLAIR) Goldsmith, Remarks on the Style of (CAMPBELL) Goliah Aratoo, Description of the Greece, Isles of (BYRON) Greece, The Shores of (BYRON) Gresham, Account of Sir Thomas Grief, The First (MRS. HEMANS) Grouse, Description of the Hagar and Ishmael, Story of Hampden, Account of John Hercules, The Choice of (TATLER) Holly Bough (MACKAY) Hope (CAMPBELL) Iguana, Description of the Industry, Value of (BLAIR) Integrity (DR. DODD) Ivy in the Dungeon (MACKAY) "Jack The Giant Killer," Origin of (CARLYLE) Jalapa, Description of Jewels, Description of the Crown Joppa, Account of Jordan, Description of the River Jordan's Banks (BYRON) Juggernaut, Account of the Car of Kaffir Chiefs, Account of Kaffir Letter-carrier, Account of Kangaroo, Description of the Knowledge, on the Attainment of (DR. WATTS) Leopard, Description of the Black Lighthouse, Description of Hartlepool Lilies (MRS. HEMANS) Mangouste, Description of the Mariana (TENNYSON) Mariners of England (CAMPBELL) Martello Towers, Account of Mary's (Queen) Bower, at Chatsworth Microscope, Revelations of the (DR. MANTELL) Midnight Thoughts (YOUNG) Mill-stream, Lines on a (MARY HOWITT) Music, Remarks on (USHER) Napoleon, Character of (GENERAL FOY) Nature and its Lord Nature, The Order of (POPE) Naval Tactics Nests of Birds, Construction of (STURM) Niagara, Account of the Falls of (SIR JAMES ALEXANDER) Nightingale and Glowworm (COWPER) Olive, Description of the Othello's History (SHAKESPEARE) Owls, Account of Owls, (Two) and the Sparrow (GAY) Palm-Tree, Account of the Palm-Tree, Lines on a (MRS. HEMANS) Parrot, Lines on a (CAMPBELL) Patmos, Description of the Isle of Paul and Virginia, Supposed Tombs of Pekin, Description of Peter the Hermit Preaching the First Crusade (POPULAR DELUSIONS) Poetry, Rise of, among the Romans (SPENCE) Polar Regions, Description of the Pompeii, Account of Poor, The Afflicted (CRABBE) Pyramid Lake, Account of the Railway Tunnels, Difficulties of Rainbow, Account of a Lunar Rattlesnake, Account of the (F.T. BUCKLAND) Rome, Lines on (ROGERS) Rookery, Dialogue about a (EVENINGS AT HOME) Sardis, Description of Schoolboy's Pilgrimage (JANE TAYLOR) Seasons (THOMSON) Shakspeare, Remarks on Sheep, Description of Thibetan Sierra Nevada, Description of the (FREMONT'S TRAVEL) Siloam, Account of the Pool of Sleep, Henry IV.'s Soliloquy on (SHAKSPEARE) Sloth, Description of the Smyrna, Description of Staffa, Description of (HIGHLAND NOTE-BOOK) Stag, The hunted (SIR W. SCOTT) Starling, Story of a (STERNE) St. Bernard, Account of the Dogs of (THE MENAGERIES) St. Cecilia, Ode to (DRYDEN) Stepping-stones, The (WORDSWORTH) Stony Cross, Description of Stream, the Nameless (MACKAY) Study, Remarks on (LORD BACON) Sun Fish, Capture of a (CAPTAIN BEDFORD, R.N.) Sydney, Generosity of Sir Philip (BEAUTIES of HISTORY) Tabor, Description of Mount Tapir, Description of the Telegraph, Account of the Electric (SIR F. HEAD) Time, What is it? (REV. J. MARSDEN) Turkish Customs Tyre, the Siege of (LANGHORNE'S PLUTARCH) Una and the Lion (SPENSER) Universe, Grandeur of the (ADDISON) Vocabulary Waterloo, Description of the Field of Winter Thoughts (THOMSON) Writing, On Simplicity in (HUME) * * * * * THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON READING BOOK * * * * * THE SCHOOLBOY'S PILGRIMAGE. [Illustration: Letter N.] Nothing could be more easy and agreeable than my condition when I was first summoned to set out on the road to learning, and it was not without letting fall a few ominous tears that I took the first step. Several companions of my own age accompanied me in the outset, and we travelled pleasantly together a good part of the way. We had no sooner entered upon our path, than we were accosted by three diminutive strangers. These we presently discovered to be the advance-guard of a Lilliputian army, which was seen advancing towards us in battle array. Their forms were singularly grotesque: some were striding across the path, others standing with their arms a-kimbo; some hanging down their heads, others quite erect; some standing on one leg, others on two; and one, strange to say, on three; another had his arms crossed, and one was remarkably crooked; some were very slender, and others as broad as they were long. But, notwithstanding this diversity of figure, when they were all marshalled in line of battle, they had a very orderly and regular appearance. Feeling disconcerted by their numbers, we were presently for sounding a retreat; but, being urged forward by our guide, we soon mastered the three who led the van, and this gave us spirit to encounter the main army, who were conquered to a man before we left the field. We had scarcely taken breath after this victory, when, to our no small dismay, we descried a strong reinforcement of the enemy, stationed on the opposite side. These were exactly equal in number to the former army, but vastly superior in size and stature; they were, in fact, a race of giants, though of the same species with the others, and were capitally accoutred for the onset. Their appearance discouraged us greatly at first, but we found their strength was not proportioned to their size; and, having acquired much skill and courage by the late engagement, we soon succeeded in subduing them, and passed off the field in triumph. After this we were perpetually engaged with small bands of the enemy, no longer extended in line of battle, but in small detachments of two, three, and four in company. We had some tough work here, and now and then they were too many for us. Having annoyed us thus for a time, they began to form themselves into close columns, six or eight abreast; but we had now attained so much address, that we no longer found them formidable. After continuing this route for a considerable way, the face of the country suddenly changed, and we began to enter upon a vast succession of snowy plains, where we were each furnished with a certain light weapon, peculiar to the country, which we flourished continually, and with which we made many light strokes, and some desperate ones. The waters hereabouts were dark and brackish, and the snowy surface of the plain was often defaced by them. Probably, we were now on the borders of the Black Sea. These plains we travelled across and across for many a day. Upon quitting this district, the country became far more dreary: it appeared nothing but a dry and sterile region, the soil being remarkably hard and slatey. Here we saw many curious figures, and we soon found that the inhabitants of this desert were mere ciphers. Sometimes they appeared in vast numbers, but only to be again suddenly diminished. Our road, after this, wound through a rugged and hilly country, which was divided into nine principal parts or districts, each under a different governor; and these again were reduced into endless subdivisions. Some of them we were obliged to decline. It was not a little puzzling to perceive the intricate ramifications of the paths in these parts. Here the natives spoke several dialects, which rendered our intercourse with them very perplexing. However, it must be confessed that every step we set in this country was less fatiguing and more interesting. Our course at first lay all up hill; but when we had proceeded to a certain height, the distant country, which is most richly variegated, opened freely to our view. I do not mean at present to describe that country, or the different stages by which we advance through its scenery. Suffice it to say, that the journey, though always arduous, has become more and more pleasant every stage; and though, after years of travel and labour, we are still very far from the Temple of Learning, yet we have found on the way more than enough to make us thankful to the kindness of the friends who first set us on the path, and to induce us to go forward courageously and rejoicingly to the end of the journey. JANE TAYLOR. * * * * * PEKIN. Pekin, or Peking, a word which in Chinese means "Northern Capital," has been the chief city of China ever since the Tartars were expelled, and is the residence of the Emperor. The tract of country on which it stands is sandy and barren; but the Grand Canal is well adapted for the purpose of feeding its vast population with the produce of more fertile provinces and districts. A very large portion of the centre of the part of Pekin called the Northern City is occupied by the Emperor with his palaces and gardens, which are of the most beautiful description, and, surrounded by their own wall, form what is called the "Prohibited City." [Illustration: GRAND CANAL AT THE ENTRANCE TO PEKIN.] The Grand Canal, which runs about five hundred miles, without allowing for windings, across the kingdom of China, is not only the means by which subsistence is brought to the inhabitants of the imperial city, but is of great value in conveying the tribute, a large portion of the revenue being paid in kind. Dr. Davis mentions having observed on it a large junk decorated with a yellow umbrella, and found on enquiry that it had the honour of bearing the "Dragon robes," as the Emperor's garments are called. These are forwarded annually, and are the peculiar tribute of the silk districts. The banks of the Grand Canal are, in many parts through which it flows, strongly faced with stone, a precaution very necessary to prevent the danger of inundations, from which some parts of this country are constantly suffering. The Yellow River so very frequently overflows its banks, and brings so much peril and calamity to the people, that it has been called "China's Sorrow;" and the European trade at Canton has been very heavily taxed for the damage occasioned by it. The Grand Canal and the Yellow River, in one part of the country, run within four or five miles of each other, for about fifty miles; and at length they join or cross each other, and then run in a contrary direction. A great deal of ceremony is used by the crews of the vessels when they reach this point, and, amongst other customs, they stock themselves abundantly with live cocks, destined to be sacrificed on crossing the river. These birds annoy and trouble the passengers so much by their incessant crowing on the top of the boats, that they are not much pitied when the time for their death arrives. The boatmen collect money for their purchase from the passengers, by sending red paper petitions called _pin_, begging for aid to provide them with these and other needful supplies. The difficulties which the Chinese must have struggled against, with their defective science, in this junction of the canal and the river, are incalculable; and it is impossible to deny them the praise they deserve for so great an exercise of perseverance and industry. * * * * * THE GOLIAH ARATOO. The splendid family of parrots includes about one hundred and sixty species, and, though peculiar to the warmer regions of the world, they are better known in England than any other foreign bird. From the beauty of their plumage, the great docility of their manners, and the singular faculty they possess of imitating the human voice, they are general favourites, both in the drawingroom of the wealthy and the cottage of humble life. The various species differ in size, as well as in appearance and colour. Some (as the macaws) are larger than the domestic fowl, and some of the parakeets are not larger than a blackbird or even a sparrow. The interesting bird of which our Engraving gives a representation was recently brought alive to this country by the captain of a South-seaman (the _Alert_), who obtained it from a Chinese vessel from the Island of Papua, to whom the captain of the _Alert_ rendered valuable assistance when in a state of distress. In size this bird is one of the largest of the parrot tribe, being superior to the great red Mexican Macaw. The whole plumage is black, glossed with a greenish grey; the head is ornamented with a large crest of long pendulous feathers, which it erects at pleasure, when the bird has a most noble appearance; the orbits of the eyes and cheeks are of a deep rose-colour; the bill is of great size, and will crack the hardest fruit stones; but when the kernel is detached, the bird does not crush and swallow it in large fragments, but scrapes it with the lower mandible to the finest pulp, thus differing from other parrots in the mode of taking food. In the form of its tongue it differs also from other birds of the kind. A French naturalist read a memoir on this organ before the Academy of Sciences at Paris, in which he aptly compared it, in its uses, to the trunk of an elephant. In its manners it is gentle and familiar, and when approached raises a cry which may be compared to a hoarse croaking. In its gait it resembles the rook, and walks much better than most of the climbing family. [Illustration: GOLIAH ARATOO.] From the general conformation of the parrots, as well as the arrangement and strength of their toes, they climb very easily, assisting themselves greatly with their hooked bill, but walk rather awkwardly on the ground, from the shortness and wide separation of their legs. The bill of the parrot is moveable in both mandibles, the upper being joined to the skull by a membrane which acts like a hinge; while in other birds the upper beak forms part of the skull. By this curious contrivance they can open their bills widely, which the hooked form of the beak would not otherwise allow them to do. The structure of the wings varies greatly in the different species: in general they are short, and as their bodies are bulky, they cannot consequently rise to any great height without difficulty; but when once they gain a certain distance they fly easily, and some of them with rapidity. The number of feathers in the tail is always twelve, and these, both in length and form, are very varied in the different species, some being arrow or spear-shaped, others straight and square. In eating, parrots make great use of the feet, which they employ like hands, holding the food firmly with the claws of one, while they support themselves on the other. From the hooked shape of their bills, they find it more convenient to turn their food in an outward direction, instead of, like monkeys and other animals, turning it towards their mouths. The whole tribe are fond of water, washing and bathing themselves many times during the day in streams and marshy places; and having shaken the water from their plumage, seem greatly to enjoy spreading their beautiful wings to dry in the sun. * * * * * THE PARROT. A DOMESTIC ANECDOTE. [Illustration: Letter T.] The deep affections of the breast, That Heaven to living things imparts, Are not exclusively possess'd By human hearts. A parrot, from the Spanish Main, Full young, and early-caged, came o'er, With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mulla's shore. To spicy groves, where he had won His plumage of resplendent hue-- His native fruits, and skies, and sun-- He bade adieu. For these he changed the smoke of turf, A heathery land and misty sky; And turn'd on rocks and raging surf His golden eye. But, petted, in our climate cold, He lived and chatter'd many a day; Until, with age, from green and gold His wings grew grey. At last, when blind and seeming dumb, He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, A Spanish stranger chanced to come To Mulla's shore. He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech, The bird in Spanish speech replied: Flapt round his cage with joyous screech-- Dropt down and died. CAMPBELL. * * * * * THE STARLING. [Illustration: Letter T.] 'Tis true, said I, correcting the proposition--the Bastile is not an evil to be despised; but strip it of its towers, fill the fosse, unbarricade the doors, call it simply a confinement, and suppose it is some tyrant of a distemper, and not a man which holds you in it, the evil vanishes, and you bear the other half without complaint. I was interrupted in the heyday of this soliloquy, with a voice which I took to be of a child, which complained "It could not get out." I looked up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, or child, I went out without further attention. In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over; and looking up, I saw it was a starling, hung in a little cage; "I can't get out, I can't get out," said the starling. I stood looking at the bird; and to every person who came through the passage, it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approached it with the same lamentation of its captivity. "I can't get out," said the starling. "Then I will let you out," said I, "cost what it will;" so I turned about the cage to get at the door--it was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces; I took both hands to it. The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it, as if impatient. "I fear, poor creature," said I, "I cannot set thee at liberty." "No," said the starling; "I can't get out, I can't get out," said the starling. [Illustration: STARLING.] I vow, I never had my affections more tenderly awakened; nor do I remember an incident in my life, where the dissipated spirits to which my reason had been a bubble were so suddenly called home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were they chaunted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastile, and I heavily walked up-stairs unsaying every word I had said in going down them. STERNE. * * * * * THE CAR OF JUGGERNAUT. [Illustration: Letter J.] Juggernaut is the principal idol worshipped by the Hindoos, and to his temple, which is at Pooree, are attached no less than four thousand priests and servants; of these one set are called Pundahs. In the autumn of the year they start on a journey through India, preaching in every town and village the advantages of a pilgrimage to Juggernaut, after which they conduct to Pooree large bodies of pilgrims for the Rath Justra, or Car Festival, which takes place in May or June. This is the principal festival, and the number of devotees varies from about 80,000 to 150,000. No European, Mussulman, or low cast Hindoo is admitted into the temple; we can therefore only speak from report of what goes on inside. Mr. Acland, in his manners and customs of India, gives us the following amusing account of this celebrated idol:-- "Juggernaut represents the ninth incarnation of Vishnoo, a Hindoo deity, and consists of a mere block of sacred wood, in the centre of which is said to be concealed a fragment of the original idol, which was fashioned by Vishnoo himself. The features and all the external parts are formed of a mixture of mud and cow-dung, painted. Every morning the idol undergoes his ablutions; but, as the paint would not stand the washing, the priests adopt a very ingenious plan--they hold a mirror in front of the image and wash his reflection. Every evening he is put to bed; but, as the idol is very unwieldy, they place the bedstead in front of him, and on that they lay a small image. Offerings are made to him by pilgrims and others, of rice, money, jewels, elephants, &c., the Rajah of Knoudah and the priests being his joint treasurers. On the day of the festival, three cars, between fifty and sixty feet in height, are brought to the gate of the temple; the idols are then taken out by the priests, Juggernaut having golden arms and diamond eyes for that one day, and by means of pulleys are hauled up and placed in their respective carriages: to these enormous ropes are attached, and the assembled thousands with loud shouts proceed to drag the idols to Juggernaut's country-house, a small temple about a mile distant. This occupies several days, and the idols are then brought back to their regular stations. The Hindoos believe that every person who aids in dragging the cars receives pardon for all his past sins; but the fact that people throw themselves under the wheels of the cars, appears to have been an European conjecture, arising from the numerous deaths that occur from accidents at the time the immense cars are in progress." [Illustration: CAR OF JUGGERNAUT.] These cars have an imposing air, from their great size and loftiness: the wheels are six feet in diameter; but every part of the ornament is of the meanest and most paltry description, save only the covering of striped and spangled broad-cloth, the splendid and gorgeous effect of which makes up in a great measure for other deficiencies. During the period the pilgrims remain at Pooree they are not allowed to eat anything but what has been offered to the idol, and that they have to buy at a high price from the priests. * * * * * CYPRUS. [Illustration: Letter C.] Cyprus, an island in the Levant, is said to have taken its name from the number of shrubs of that name with which it once abounded. From this tall shrub, the cypress, its ancient inhabitants made an oil of a very delicious flavour, which was an article of great importance in their commerce, and is still in great repute among Eastern nations. It once, too, abounded with forests of olive trees; and immense cisterns are still to be seen, which have been erected for the purpose of preserving the oil which the olive yielded. Near the centre of the island stands Nicotia, the capital, and the residence of the governor, who now occupies one of the palaces of its ancient sovereigns. The palaces are remarkable for the beauty of their architecture, but are abandoned by their Turkish masters to the destructive hand of time. The church of St. Sophia, in this place, is built in the Gothic style, and is said to have been erected by the Emperor Justinian. Here the Christian Kings of Cyprus were formerly crowned; but it is now converted into a mosque. The island was formerly divided into nine kingdoms, and was famous for its superb edifices, its elegant temples, and its riches, but can now boast of nothing but its ruins, which will tell to distant times the greatness from which it has fallen. The southern coast of this island is exposed to the hot winds from all directions. During a squall from the north-east, the temperature has been described as so scorching, that the skin instantly peeled from the lips, a tendency to sneeze was excited, accompanied with great pain in the eyes, and chapping of the hands and face. The heats are sometimes so excessive, that persons going out without an umbrella are liable to suffer from _coup de soleil_, or sun-stroke; and the inhabitants, especially of the lower class, in order to guard against it, wrap up their heads in a large turban, over which in their journeys they plait a thick shawl many times folded. They seldom, however, venture out of their houses during mid-day, and all journeys, even those of caravans, are performed in the night. Rains are also rare in the summer season, and long droughts banish vegetation, and attract numberless columns of locusts, which destroy the plants and fruits. [Illustration: CYPRUS.] The soil, though very fertile, is rarely cultivated, the Greeks being so oppressed by their Turkish masters that they dare not cultivate the rich plains which surround them, as the produce would be taken from them; and their whole object is to collect together during the year as much grain as is barely sufficient to pay their tax to the Governor, the omission of which is often punished by torture or even by death. The carob, or St. John's bread-tree, is plentiful; and the long thick pods which it produces are exported in considerable quantities to Syria and Egypt. The succulent pulp which the pod contains is sometimes employed in those countries instead of sugar and honey, and is often used in preserving other fruits. The vine grows here perhaps in greater perfection than in any other part of the world, and the wine of the island is celebrated all over the Levant. * * * * * THE RATTLESNAKE. [Illustration: Letter T.] This terrible reptile is found in great abundance on the continent of America; and if its instinct induced it to make use of the dreadful means of destruction and self-defence which it possesses, it would become so great a scourge as to render the parts in which it is found almost uninhabitable: but, except when violently irritated, or for the purpose of self-preservation, it seldom employs the fatal power bestowed upon it. The rattlesnake inserts its poison in the body of its victim by means of two long sharp-pointed teeth or fangs, which grow one on each side of the forepart of the upper jaw. The construction of these teeth is very singular; they are hollow for a portion of their length, and in each tooth is found a narrow slit communicating with the central hollow; the root of the fang rests on a kind of bag, containing a certain quantity of a liquid poison, and when the animal buries his teeth in his prey, a portion of this fluid is forced through these openings and lodged at the bottom of the wound. Another peculiarity of these poison teeth is, that when not in use they turn back, as it were, upon a hinge, and lie flat in the roof of the animal's mouth. The name of rattlesnake is given to it on account of the singular apparatus with which the extremity of its tail is furnished. This consists of a series of hollow horn-like substances, placed loosely one behind the other in such a manner as to produce a kind of rattling noise when the tail is shaken; and as the animal, whenever it is enraged, always carries its tail raised up, and produces at the same time a tremulous motion in it, this provision of nature gives timely notice of its dangerous approach. The number of pieces of which this rattle is formed points out the age of the snake, which acquires a fresh piece every year. Some specimens have been found with as many as from forty to fifty, thus indicating a great age. [Illustration: RATTLESNAKE AND YOUNG.] The poison of the Viper consists of a yellowish liquid, secreted in a glandular structure (situated immediately below the skin on either side of the head), which is believed to represent the parotid gland of the higher animals. If a viper be made to bite something solid, so as to avoid its poison, the following are the appearances under the microscope:--At first nothing is seen but a parcel of salts nimbly floating in the liquor, but in a very short time these saline particles shoot out into crystals of incredible tenuity and sharpness, with something like knots here and there, from which these crystals seem to proceed, so that the whole texture in a manner represents a spider's web, though infinitely finer and more minute. These spiculae, or darts, will remain unaltered on the glass for some months. Five or six grains of this viperine poison, mixed with half an ounce of human blood, received in a warm glass, produce no visible effects, either in colour or consistence, nor do portions of this poisoned blood, mixed with acids or alkalies, exhibit any alterations. When placed on the tongue, the taste is sharp and acrid, as if the tongue had been struck with something scalding or burning; but this sensation goes off in two or three hours. There are only five cases on record of death following the bite of the viper; and it has been observed that the effects are most virulent when the poison has been received on the extremities, particularly the fingers and toes, at which parts the animal, when irritated (as it were, by an innate instinct), always takes its aim. F.T. BUCKLAND * * * * * ORIGIN OF "JACK THE GIANT-KILLER." [Illustration: Letter A.] After various adventures, Thor, accompanied by Thialfi and Loke, his servants, entered upon Giantland, and wandered over plains--wild uncultivated places--among stones and trees. At nightfall they noticed a house; and as the door, which indeed formed one whole side of the house, was open, they entered. It was a simple habitation--one large hall, altogether empty. They stayed there. Suddenly, in the dead of the night, loud voices alarmed them. Thor grasped his hammer, and stood in the doorway, prepared for fight. His companions within ran hither and thither, in their terror, seeking some outlet in that rude hall: they found a little closet at last, and took refuge there. Neither had Thor any battle; for lo! in the morning it turned out that the noise had been only the snoring of a certain enormous, but peaceable, giant--the giant Skrymir, who lay peaceably sleeping near by; and this, that they took for a house, was merely his glove thrown aside there: the door was the glove-wrist; the little closet they had fled into was the thumb! Such a glove! I remark, too, that it had not fingers, as ours have, but only a thumb, and the rest undivided--a most ancient rustic glove! Skrymir now carried their portmanteau all day; Thor, however, who had his suspicions, did not like the ways of Skrymir, and determined at night to put an end to him as he slept. Raising his hammer, he struck down into the giant's face a right thunderbolt blow, of force to rend rocks. The giant merely awoke, rubbed his cheek, and said, "Did a leaf fall?" Again Thor struck, as soon as Skrymir again slept, a better blow than before; but the giant only murmured, "Was that a grain of sand!" Thor's third stroke was with both his hands (the "knuckles white," I suppose), and it seemed to cut deep into Skrymir's visage; but he merely checked his snore, and remarked, "There must be sparrows roosting in this tree, I think." At the gate of Utgard--a place so high, that you had to strain your neck bending back to see the top of it--Skrymir went his way. Thor and his companions were admitted, and invited to take a share in the games going on. To Thor, for his part, they handed a drinking-horn; it was a common feat, they told him, to drink this dry at one draught. Long and fiercely, three times over, Thor drank, but made hardly any impression. He was a weak child, they told him; could he lift that cat he saw there? Small as the feat seemed, Thor, with his whole godlike strength, could not: he bent up the creature's back, could not raise its feet off the ground--could at the utmost raise one foot. "Why, you are no man," said the Utgard people; "there is an old woman that will wrestle you." Thor, heartily ashamed, seized this haggard old woman, but could not throw her. [Illustration: THE GIANT SKRYMIR.] And now, on their quitting Utgard--the chief Jotun, escorting them politely a little way, said to Thor--"You are beaten, then; yet, be not so much ashamed: there was deception of appearance in it. That horn you tried to drink was the sea; you did make it ebb: but who could drink that, the bottomless? The cat you would have lifted--why, that is the Midgard Snake, the Great World Serpent--which, tail in mouth, girds and keeps up the whole created world. Had you torn that up, the world must have rushed to ruin. As for the old woman, she was Time, Old Age, Duration: with her what can wrestle? No man, nor no god, with her. Gods or men, she prevails over all! And then, those three strokes you struck--look at these valleys--your three strokes made these." Thor looked at his attendant Jotun--it was Skrymir. It was, say old critics, the old chaotic rocky earth in person, and that glove house was some earth cavern! But Skrymir had vanished. Utgard, with its sky-high gates, when Thor raised his hammer to smite them, had gone to air--only the giant's voice was heard mocking; "Better come no more to Jotunheim!" CARLYLE. * * * * * VALUE OF THE BIBLE. What an invaluable blessing it is to have the Bible in our own tongue. It is not only the oldest, but the best book in the world. Our forefathers rejoiced when they were first favoured with the opportunity of reading it for themselves. Infidels may reject, and the licentious may sneer; but no one who ever wished to take away this foundation-stone, could produce any other equal to it, on which the structure of a pious mind, a solid hope, a comfortable state, or wise conduct, could be raised. We are told, that when Archbishop Crammer's edition of the Bible was printed in 1538, and fixed to a desk in all parochial churches, the ardour with which men flocked to read it was incredible. They who could, procured it; and they who could not, crowded to read it, or to hear it read in churches. It was common to see little assemblies of mechanics meeting together for that purpose after the labour of the day. Many even learned to read in their old age, that they might have the pleasure of instructing themselves from the Scriptures. It is recorded of Edward VI., that upon a certain occasion, a paper which was called for in the council-chamber happened to be out of reach; the person concerned to produce it took a Bible that lay near, and, standing upon it, reached down the paper. The King, observing what was done, ran to the place, and taking the Bible in his hands kissed it, and laid it up again. This circumstance, though trifling in itself, showed his Majesty's great reverence for that _best of all books_; and his example is a striking reproof to those who suffer their Bibles to lie covered with dust for months together, or who throw them about as if they were only a piece of useless lumber. BUCK'S _Anecdotes_. * * * * * NATURE AND ITS LORD. [Illustration: Letter T.] There's not a leaf within the bower, There's not a bird upon the tree, There's not a dew-drop on the flower, But bears the impress, Lord, of Thee! Thy hand the varied leaf design'd, And gave the bird its thrilling tone; Thy power the dew-drops' tints combined, Till like a diamond's blaze they shone! Yes, dew-drops, leaves, and buds, and all-- The smallest, like the greatest things-- The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball, Alike proclaim thee King of Kings. But man alone to bounteous heaven Thanksgiving's conscious strains can raise; To favour'd man alone 'tis given, To join the angelic choir in praise! * * * * * THE STEPPING-STONES. The struggling rill insensibly is grown Into a brook of loud and stately march, Cross'd ever and anon by plank or arch; And for like use, lo! what might seem a zone Chosen for ornament--stone match'd with stone In studied symmetry, with interspace [Illustration] For the clear waters to pursue their race Without restraint. How swiftly have they flown-- Succeeding, still succeeding! Here the child Puts, when the high-swoll'n flood runs fierce and wild, His budding courage to the proof; and here Declining manhood learns to note the sly And sure encroachments of infirmity-- Thinking how fast time runs--life's end how near. WORDSWORTH. * * * * * HUMANITY. During the retreat of the famous King Alfred at Athelney, in Somersetshire, after the defeat of his forces by the Danes, the following circumstance happened, which shows the extremities to which that great man was reduced, and gives a striking proof of his pious and benevolent disposition:--A beggar came to his little castle, and requested alms. His Queen informed him that they had only one small loaf remaining, which was insufficient for themselves and their friends, who were gone abroad in quest of food, though with little hopes of success. But the King replied, "Give the poor Christian the one half of the loaf. He that could feed live thousand with five loaves and two fishes, can certainly make that half of the loaf suffice for more than our necessities." Accordingly the poor man was relieved; and this noble act of charity was soon recompensed by a providential store of fresh provisions, with which his people returned. Sir Philip Sydney, at the battle near Zutphen, displayed the most undaunted courage. He had two horses killed under him; and, whilst mounting a third, was wounded by a musket-shot out of the trenches, which broke the bone of his thigh. He returned about mile and a half on horseback to the camp; and being faint with the loss of blood, and parched with thirst from the heat of the weather, he called for drink. It was presently brought him; but, as he was putting the vessel to his mouth, a poor wounded soldier, who happened to be carried along at that instant, looked up to it with wistful eyes. The gallant and generous Sydney took the flagon from his lips, just when he was going to drink, and delivered it to the soldier, saying, "Thy necessity is greater than mine." Frederick, King of Prussia, one day rang his bell and nobody answered; on which he opened the door and found his page fast asleep in an elbow-chair. He advanced toward him, and was going to awaken, him, when he perceived a letter hanging out of his pocket. His curiosity prompting him to know what it was, he took it out and read it. It was a letter from the young man's mother, in which she thanked him for having sent her part of his wages to relieve her in her misery, and finished with telling; him that God would reward him for his dutiful affection. The King, after having read it, went back softly into his chamber, took a bag full of ducats, and slipped it with the letter into the page's pocket. Returning to his chamber, he rang the bell so violently that he awakened the page, who instantly made his appearance. "You have had a sound sleep," said the King. The page was at a loss how to excuse himself and, putting his hand into his pocket by chance, to his utter astonishment he there found a purse of ducats. He took it out, turned pale, and looking at the bag, burst into tears without being able to utter a single word. "What is that?" said the King; "what is the matter?" "Ah, sire!" said the young man, throwing himself on his knees, "somebody seeks my ruin! I know nothing of this money which I have just found in my pocket!" "My young friend," replied Frederick, "God often does great things for us even in our sleep. Send that to your mother, salute her on my part, and assure her that I will take care of both her and you." _Beauties of History_. * * * * * THE SPANIELS OF THE MONKS OF ST. BERNARD. The convent of the Great St. Bernard is situated near the top of the mountain known by that name, near one of the most dangerous passes of the Alps, between Switzerland and Savoy. In these regions the traveller is often overtaken by the most severe weather, even after days of cloudless beauty, when the glaciers glitter in the sunshine, and the pink flowers of the rhododendron appear as if they were never to be sullied by the tempest. But a storm suddenly comes on; the roads are rendered impassable by drifts of snow; the avalanches, which are huge loosened masses of snow or ice, are swept into the valleys, carrying trees and crags of rock before them. [Illustration: CONVENT OF MONT ST. BERNARD.] The hospitable monks, though their revenue is scanty, open their doors to every stranger that presents himself. To be cold, to be weary, to be benighted, constitutes the title to their comfortable shelter, their cheering meal, and their agreeable converse. But their attention to the distressed does not end here. They devote themselves to the dangerous task of searching for those unhappy persons who may have been overtaken by the sudden storm, and would perish but for their charitable succour. Most remarkably are they assisted in these truly Christian offices. They have a breed of noble dogs in their establishment, whose extraordinary sagacity often enables them to rescue the traveller from destruction. Benumbed with cold, weary in the search of a lost track, his senses yielding to the stupefying influence of frost, the unhappy man sinks upon the ground, and the snow-drift covers him from human sight. It is then that the keen scent and the exquisite docility of these admirable dogs are called into action. Though the perishing man lie ten or even twenty feet beneath the snow, the delicacy of smell with which they can trace him offers a chance of escape. They scratch away the snow with their feet; they set up a continued hoarse and solemn bark, which brings the monks and labourers of the convent to their assistance. To provide for the chance that the dogs, without human help, may succeed in discovering the unfortunate traveller, one of them has a flask of spirits round his neck, to which the fainting man may apply for support; and another has a cloak to cover him. Their wonderful exertions are often successful; and even where they fail of restoring him who has perished, the dogs discover the body, so that it may be secured for the recognition of friends; and such is the effect of the cold, that the dead features generally preserve their firmness for the space of two years. One of these noble creatures was decorated with a medal, in commemoration of his having saved the lives of twenty-two persons, who, but for his sagacity, must have perished. Many travellers, who have crossed the pass of St. Bernard, have seen this dog, and have heard, around the blazing fire of the monks, the story of his extraordinary career. He perished about the year 1816, in an attempt to convey a poor traveller to his anxious family. _The Menageries._ [Illustration: HEAD OF ST. BERNARD DOG.] * * * * * JOPPA. Joppa is the principal sea-port town of Palestine and it is very often mentioned in Scripture. Hiram, King of Tyre, is said to have sent cedars of Lebanon by sea to Joppa, for the building of Solomon's Temple; and from Joppa the disobedient Jonah embarked, when ordered by God to go and preach to the people of Nineveh. It was at Joppa that the apostle Peter lived, for some time, with one Simon, a tanner, whose house was by the sea-shore; and it was on the flat roof of this dwelling that he saw the wonderful vision, which taught him not to call any man common or unclean. [Illustration: JOPPA.] Tabitha or Dorcas, the pious woman who spent all her life in working for the poor, and in giving alms to those who needed relief, lived in Joppa; and here it pleased God that she should be taken ill and die, and her body was laid out in the usual manner before burial, in an upper chamber of the house where she lived. The apostle Peter, to whom this pious woman had been well known, was then at Lydda, not far from Joppa, and the disciples sent to tell him of the heavy loss the Church had met with in the death of Dorcas, and begged that he would come and comfort them. The apostle directly left Lydda and went over to Joppa. He was, by his own desire, taken to the room where the corpse lay, and was much moved when he saw the tears of the poor women who had been fed and clothed by the charity of Dorcas, and who were telling each other how much good she had been the means of doing them. Peter desired to be left alone with the body, and then he knelt down and prayed, and, receiving strength from God, he turned to the body and cried, "Tabitha, arise!" She then, like one awaking from sleep, opened her eyes, and when she saw Peter she sat up. He then took her by the hand, and she arose and was presented alive to those who, thinking she was dead, had so lately been mourning for her loss. This was the first miracle performed by the apostles, and it greatly surprised the people of Joppa, who began one and all to believe that Peter was really a preacher sent by God. The name of Joppa signified beautiful. It was built upon the side of a rocky mountain, which rises from the sea-shore, and all around it were lovely gardens, full of vines, figs, and other fruits. * * * * * THE AMERICAN TAPIR. There are but three known species of the Tapir, two of which--the Peccary and the Tapir--are natives of South America, the other of Sumatra and Malacca. Its anatomy is much like that of the rhinoceros, while in general form the tapir reminds us of the hog. It is a massive and powerful animal, and its fondness for the water is almost as strong as that displayed by the hippopotamus. It swims and dives admirably, and will remain submerged for many minutes, rising to the surface for breath, and then again plunging in. When hunted or wounded, it always, if possible, makes for the water; and in its nightly wanderings will traverse rivers and lakes in search of food, or for pleasure. The female is very attentive to her young one, leading it about on the land, and accustoming it at an early period to enter the water, where it plunges and plays before its parent, who seems to act as its instructress, the male taking no share in the work. The tapir is very common in the warm regions of South America, where it inhabits the forests, leading a solitary life, and seldom stirring from its retreat during the day, which it passes in a state of tranquil slumber. During the night, its season of activity, it wanders forth in search of food, which consists of water-melons, gourds, young shoots of brushwood, &c.; but, like the hog, it is not very particular in its diet. Its senses of smell and hearing are extremely acute, and serve to give timely notice of the approach of enemies. Defended by its tough thick hide, it is capable of forcing its way through the thick underwood in any direction it pleases: when thus driving onwards, it carries its head low, and, as it were, ploughs its course. The most formidable enemy of this animal, if we except man, is the jaguar; and it is asserted that when that tiger of the American forest throws itself upon the tapir, the latter rushes through the most dense and tangled underwood, bruising its enemy, and generally succeeds in dislodging him. The snout of the tapir greatly reminds one of the trunk of the elephant; for although it is not so long, it is very flexible, and the animal makes excellent use of it as a crook to draw down twigs to the mouth, or grasp fruit or bunches of herbage: it has nostrils at the extremity, but there is no finger-like appendage. In its disposition the tapir is peaceful and quiet, and, unless hard pressed, never attempts to attack either man or beast; when, however, the hunter's dogs surround it, it defends itself very vigorously with its teeth, inflicting terrible wounds, and uttering a cry like a shrill kind of whistle, which is in strange contrast with the massive bulk of the animal. [Illustration: AMERICAN TAPIR.] The Indian tapir greatly resembles its American relative; it feeds on vegetables, and is very partial to the sugar-cane. It is larger than the American, and the snout is longer and more like the trunk of the elephant. The most striking difference, however, between the eastern and western animal is in colour. Instead of being the uniform dusky-bay tint of the American, the Indian is strangely particoloured. The head, neck, fore-limbs, and fore-quarters are quite black; the body then becomes suddenly white or greyish-white, and so continues to about half-way over the hind-quarters, when the black again commences abruptly, spreading over the legs. The animal, in fact, looks just as if it were covered round the body with a white horse-cloth. Though the flesh of both the Indian and American tapir is dry and disagreeable as an article of food, still the animal might be domesticated with advantage, and employed as a beast of burthen, its docility and great strength being strong recommendations. * * * * * THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. Waterloo is a considerable village of Belgium, containing about 1600 inhabitants; and the Field of Waterloo, so celebrated as the scene of the battle between two of the greatest generals who ever lived, is about two miles from it. It was very far from a strong position to be chosen for this purpose, but, no doubt, was the best the country afforded. A gently rising ground, not steep enough in any part to prevent a rush of infantry at double-quick time, except in the dell on the left of the road, near the farm of La Haye Sainte; and along the crest of the hill a scrubby hedge and low bank fencing a narrow country road. This was all, except La Haye Sainte and Hougoumont. This _chateau_, or country-seat, one of those continental residences which unite in them something of the nature of a castle and a farm-house, was the residence of a Belgic gentleman. It stands on a little eminence near the main road leading from Brussels to Nivelles. The buildings consisted of an old tower and a chapel, and a number of offices, partly surrounded by a farm-yard. The garden was enclosed by a high and strong wall; round the garden was a wood or orchard, which was enclosed by a thick hedge, concealing the wall. The position of the place was deemed so important by the Duke of Wellington, that he took possession of the Château of Goumont, as it was called, on the 17th of June, and the troops were soon busily preparing for the approaching contest, by perforating the walls, making loop-holes for the fire of the musketry, and erecting scaffolding for the purpose of firing from the top. The importance of this place was also so well appreciated by Bonaparte, that the battle of the 18th began by his attacking Hougoumont. This name, which was bestowed upon it by the mistake of our great commander, has quite superseded the real one of Château Goumont. The ruins are among the most interesting of all the points connected with this memorable place, for the struggle there was perhaps the fiercest. The battered walls, the dismantled and fire-stained chapel, which remained standing through all the attack, still may be seen among the wreck of its once beautiful garden; while huge blackened beams, which have fallen upon the crumbling heaps of stone and plaster, are lying in all directions. On the field of battle are two interesting monuments: one, to the memory of the Hon. Sir Alexander Gordon, brother to the Earl of Aberdeen, who there terminated a short but glorious career, at the age of twenty-nine, and "fell in the blaze of his fame;" the other, to some brave officers of the German Legion, who likewise died under circumstances of peculiar distinction. There is also, on an enormous mound, a colossal lion of bronze, erected by the Belgians to the honour of the Prince of Orange, who was wounded at, or near, to the spot. Against the walls of the church of the village of Waterloo are many beautiful marble tablets, with the most affecting inscriptions, records of men of various countries, who expired on that solemn and memorable occasion in supporting a common cause. Many of these brave men were buried in a cemetery at a short distance from the village. [Illustration: FIELD OF WATERLOO] * * * * * THE TWO OWLS AND THE SPARROW. [Illustration: Letter T.] Two formal Owls together sat, Conferring thus in solemn chat: "How is the modern taste decay'd! Where's the respect to wisdom paid? Our worth the Grecian sages knew; They gave our sires the honour due: They weigh'd the dignity of fowls, And pry'd into the depth of Owls. Athens, the seat of earned fame, With gen'ral voice revered our name; On merit title was conferr'd, And all adored th' Athenian bird." "Brother, you reason well," replies The solemn mate, with half-shut eyes: "Right: Athens was the seat of learning, And truly wisdom is discerning. Besides, on Pallas' helm we sit, The type and ornament of wit: But now, alas! we're quite neglected, And a pert Sparrow's more respected." A Sparrow, who was lodged beside, O'erhears them sooth each other's pride. [Illustration] And thus he nimbly vents his heat: "Who meets a fool must find conceit. I grant you were at Athens graced, And on Minerva's helm were placed; But ev'ry bird that wings the sky, Except an Owl, can tell you why. From hence they taught their schools to know How false we judge by outward show; That we should never looks esteem, Since fools as wise as you might seem. Would you contempt and scorn avoid, Let your vain-glory be destroy'd: Humble your arrogance of thought, Pursue the ways by Nature taught: So shall you find delicious fare, And grateful farmers praise your care; So shall sleek mice your chase reward, And no keen cat find more regard." GAY. * * * * * THE BEETLE. See the beetle that crawls in your way, And runs to escape from your feet; His house is a hole in the clay, And the bright morning dew is his meat. But if you more closely behold This insect you think is so mean, You will find him all spangled with gold, And shining with crimson and green. Tho' the peacock's bright plumage we prize, As he spreads out his tail to the sun, The beetle we should not despise, Nor over him carelessly run. They both the same Maker declare-- They both the same wisdom display, The same beauties in common they share-- Both are equally happy and gay. And remember that while you would fear The beautiful peacock to kill, You would tread on the poor beetle here, And think you were doing no ill. But though 'tis so humble, be sure, As mangled and bleeding it lies, A pain as severe 'twill endure, As if 'twere a giant that dies. [Illustration] * * * * * THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL. [Illustration: Letter H.] Hark! how the furnace pants and roars, Hark! how the molten metal pours, As, bursting from its iron doors, It glitters in the sun. Now through the ready mould it flows, Seething and hissing as it goes, And filling every crevice up, As the red vintage fills the cup-- _Hurra! the work is done!_ Unswathe him now. Take off each stay That binds him to his couch of clay, And let him struggle into day! Let chain and pulley run, With yielding crank and steady rope, Until he rise from rim to cope, In rounded beauty, ribb'd in strength, Without a flaw in all his length-- _Hurra! the work is done!_ The clapper on his giant side Shall ring no peal for blushing bride, For birth, or death, or new-year tide, Or festival begun! A nation's joy alone shall be The signal for his revelry; And for a nation's woes alone His melancholy tongue shall moan-- _Hurra! the work is done!_ Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear, His long, loud summons shall we hear, When statesmen to their country dear Their mortal race have run; When mighty Monarchs yield their breath, And patriots sleep the sleep of death, Then shall he raise his voice of gloom, And peal a requiem o'er their tomb-- _Hurra! the work is done!_ Should foemen lift their haughty hand, And dare invade us where we stand, Fast by the altars of our land We'll gather every one; And he shall ring the loud alarm, To call the multitudes to arm, From distant field and forest brown, And teeming alleys of the town-- _Hurra! the work is done!_ And as the solemn boom they hear, Old men shall grasp the idle spear, Laid by to rust for many a year, And to the struggle run: Young men shall leave their toils or books, Or turn to swords their pruning-hooks; And maids have sweetest smiles for those Who battle with their country's foes-- _Hurra! the work is done!_ And when the cannon's iron throat Shall bear the news to dells remote, And trumpet blast resound the note-- That victory is won; When down the wind the banner drops, And bonfires blaze on mountain tops, His sides shall glow with fierce delight, And ring glad peals from morn to night-- _Hurra! the work is done!_ But of such themes forbear to tell-- May never War awake this bell To sound the tocsin or the knell-- Hush'd be the alarum gun. Sheath'd be the sword! and may his voice But call the nations to rejoice That War his tatter'd flag has furl'd, And vanish'd from a wiser world-- _Hurra! the work is done!_ Still may he ring when struggles cease-- Still may he ring for joy's increase, For progress in the arts of peace, And friendly trophies won; When rival nations join their hands, When plenty crowns the happy lands, When Knowledge gives new blessings birth, And Freedom reigns o'er all the earth-- _Hurra! the work is done!_ MACKAY. [Illustration: FOUNDING OF THE BELL.] * * * * * NAPOLEON. With his passions, and in spite of his errors, Napoleon was, taking him all in all, the greatest warrior of modern times. He carried into battle a stoical courage, a profoundly calculated tenacity, a mind fertile in sudden inspirations, which, by unlooked-for resources, disconcerted the plans of his enemy. Let us beware of attributing a long series of success to the organic power of the masses which he set in motion. The most experienced eye could scarcely discover in them any thing but elements of disorder. Still less, let it be said, that he was a successful captain because he was a mighty Monarch. Of all his campaigns, the most memorable are the campaign of the Adige, where the general of yesterday, commanding an army by no means numerous, and at first badly appointed, placed himself at once above Turenne, and on a level with Frederick; and the campaign in France in 1814, when, reduced to a handful of harrassed troops, he combated a force of ten times their number. The last flashes of Imperial lightning still dazzled the eyes of our enemies; and it was a fine sight to see the bounds of the old lion, tracked, hunted down, beset--presenting a lively picture of the days of his youth, when his powers developed themselves in the fields of carnage. Napoleon possessed, in an eminent degree, the faculties requisite for the profession of arms; temperate and robust; watching and sleeping at pleasure; appearing unawares where he was least expected: he did not disregard details, to which important results are sometimes attached. The hand which had just traced rules for the government of many millions of men, would frequently rectify an incorrect statement of the situation of a regiment, or write down whence two hundred conscripts were to be obtained, and from what magazine their shoes were to be taken. A patient, and an easy interlocutor, he was a home questioner, and he could listen--a rare talent in the grandees of the earth. He carried with him into battle a cool and impassable courage. Never was mind so deeply meditative, more fertile in rapid and sudden illuminations. On becoming Emperor he ceased not to be the soldier. If his activity decreased with the progress of age, that was owing to the decrease of his physical powers. In games of mingled calculation and hazard the greater the advantages which a man seeks to obtain the greater risks he must run. It is precisely this that renders the deceitful science of conquerors so calamitous to nations. [Illustration: NAPOLEON.] Napoleon, though naturally adventurous, was not deficient in consistency or method; and he wasted neither his soldiers nor his treasures where the authority of his name sufficed. What he could obtain by negotiations or by artifice, he required not by force of arms. The sword, although drawn from the scabbard, was not stained with blood unless it was impossible to attain the end in view by a manoeuvre. Always ready to fight, he chose habitually the occasion and the ground: out of fifty battles which he fought, he was the assailant in at least forty. Other generals have equalled him in the art of disposing troops on the ground; some have given battle as well as he did--we could mention several who have received it better; but in the manner of directing an offensive campaign he has surpassed all. The wars in Spain and Russia prove nothing in disparagement of his genius. It is not by the rules of Montecuculi and Turenne, manoeuvring on the Renchen, that we ought to judge of such enterprises: the first warred to such or such winter quarters; the other to subdue the world. It frequently behoved him not merely to gain a battle, but to gain it in such a manner as to astound Europe and to produce gigantic results. Thus political views were incessantly interfering with the strategic genius; and to appreciate him properly, we must not confine ourselves within the limits of the art of war. This art is not composed exclusively of technical details; it has also its philosophy. To find in this elevated region a rival of Napoleon, we must go back to the times when the feudal institutions had not yet broken the unity of the ancient nations. The founders of religion alone have exercised over their disciples an authority comparable with that which made him the absolute master of his army. This moral power became fatal to him, because he strove to avail himself of it even against the ascendancy of material force, and because it led him to despise positive rules, the long violation of which will not remain unpunished. When pride was bringing Napoleon towards his fall, he happened to say, "France has more need of me than I have of France." He spoke the truth: but why had he become necessary? Because he had committed the destiny of France to the chances of an interminable war: because, in spite of the resources of his genius, that war, rendered daily more hazardous by his staking the whole of his force and by the boldness of his movements, risked, in every campaign, in every battle, the fruits of twenty years of triumph: because his government was so modelled that with him every thing must be swept away, and that a reaction, proportioned to the violence of the action, must burst forth at once both within and without. But Napoleon saw, without illusion, to the bottom of things. The nation, wholly occupied in prosecuting the designs of its chief, had previously not had time to form any plans for itself. The day on which it should have ceased to be stunned by the din of arms, it would have called itself to account for its servile obedience. It is better, thought he, for an absolute prince to fight foreign armies than to have to struggle against the energy of the citizens. Despotism had been organized for making war; war was continued to uphold despotism. The die was cast--France must either conquer Europe, or Europe subdue France. Napoleon fell--he fell, because with the men of the nineteenth century he attempted the work of an Attila and a Genghis Khan; because he gave the reins to an imagination directly contrary to the spirit of his age; with which, nevertheless, his reason was perfectly acquainted; because he would not pause on the day when he felt conscious of his inability to succeed. Nature has fixed a boundary, beyond which extravagant enterprises cannot be carried with prudence. This boundary the Emperor reached in Spain, and overleaped in Russia. Had he then escaped destruction, his inflexible presumption would have caused him to find elsewhere a Bayleu and a Moscow. GENERAL FOY. * * * * * ROME. [Illustration] I am in Rome! Oft as the morning ray Visits these eyes, waking at once, I cry, Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me? And from within a thrilling voice replies-- Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts Rush on my mind--a thousand images; And I spring up as girt to run a race! Thou art in _Rome!_ the city that so long Reign'd absolute--the mistress of the world! The mighty vision that the Prophet saw And trembled; that from nothing, from the least, The lowliest village (what, but here and there A reed-roof'd cabin by a river side?) Grew into everything; and, year by year, Patiently, fearlessly working her way O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea; Not like the merchant with his merchandise, Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring; But hand to hand and foot to foot, through hosts, Through nations numberless in battle array, Each behind each; each, when the other fell, Up, and in arms--at length subdued them all. Thou art in _Rome!_ the city where the Gauls, Entering at sun-rise through her open gates, And through her streets silent and desolate Marching to slay, thought they saw gods, not men; The city, that by temperance, fortitude, And love of glory tower'd above the clouds, Then fell--but, falling, kept the highest seat, And in her loveliness, her pomp of woe, Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild, Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age, Its empire undiminish'd. There, as though Grandeur attracted grandeur, are beheld All things that strike, ennoble; from the depths Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece-- Her groves, her temples--all things that inspire Wonder, delight! Who would not say the forms. Most perfect most divine, had by consent Flock'd thither to abide eternally Within those silent chambers where they dwell In happy intercourse? ROGERS. * * * * * THE ROOKERY [Illustration: Letter I.] Is that a rookery, papa? _Mr. S._ It is. Do you hear what a cawing the birds make? _F_. Yes; and I see them hopping about among the boughs. Pray, are not rooks the same with crows? _Mr. S._ They are a species of crow. But they differ from the carrion crow and raven, in not feeding upon dead flesh, but upon corn and other seeds and grass, though, indeed, they pick up beetles and other insects and worms. See what a number of them have alighted on yonder ploughed field, almost blackening it over. They are searching for grubs and worms. The men in the field do not molest them, for they do a great deal of service by destroying grubs, which, if suffered to grow to winged insects, would injure the trees and plants. _F_. Do all rooks live in rookeries? _Mr. S._ It is their nature to associate together, and they build in numbers of the same, or adjoining trees. They have no objection to the neighbourhood of man, but readily take to a plantation of tall trees, though it be close to a house; and this is commonly called a rookery. They will even fix their habitations on trees in the midst of towns. _F_. I think a rookery is a sort of town itself. _Mr. S._ It is--a village in the air, peopled with numerous inhabitants; and nothing can be more amusing than to view them all in motion, flying to and fro, and busied in their several occupations. The spring is their busiest time. Early in the year they begin to repair their nests, or build new ones. [Illustration: CROW.] _F_. Do they all work together, or every one for itself? _Mr. S._ Each pair, after they have coupled, builds its own nest; and, instead of helping, they are very apt to steal the materials from one another. If both birds go out at once in search of sticks, they often find at their return the work all destroyed, and the materials carried off. However, I have met with a story which shows that they are not without some sense of the criminality of thieving. There was in a rookery a lazy pair of rooks, who never went out to get sticks for themselves, but made a practice of watching when their neighbours were abroad, and helping themselves from their nests. They had served most of the community in this manner, and by these means had just finished their own nest; when all the other rooks, in a rage, fell upon them at once, pulled their nest in pieces, beat them soundly, and drove them from their society. _F_. But why do they live together, if they do not help one another? _Mr. S._ They probably receive pleasure from the company of their own kind, as men and various other creatures do. Then, though they do not assist one another in building, they are mutually serviceable in many ways. If a large bird of prey hovers about a rookery for the purpose of carrying away the young ones, they all unite to drive him away. And when they are feeding in a flock, several are placed as sentinels upon the trees all round, to give the alarm if any danger approaches. _F_. Do rooks always keep to the same trees? _Mr. S._ Yes; they are much attached to them, and when the trees happen to be cut down, they seem greatly distressed, and keep hovering about them as they are falling, and will scarcely desert them when they lie on the ground. _F_. I suppose they feel as we should if our town was burned down, or overthrown by an earthquake. _Mr. S._ No doubt. The societies of animals greatly resemble those of men; and that of rooks is like those of men in the savage state, such as the communities of the North American Indians. It is a sort of league for mutual aid and defence, but in which every one is left to do as he pleases, without any obligation to employ himself for the whole body. Others unite in a manner resembling more civilised societies of men. This is the case with the heavers. They perform great public works by the united efforts of the whole community--such as damming up streams and constructing mounds for their habitations. As these are works of great art and labour, some of them probably act under the direction of others, and are compelled to work, whether they will or not. Many curious stories are told to this purpose by those who have observed them in their remotest haunts, where they exercise their full sagacity. _F_. But are they all true? _Mr. S._ That is more than I can answer for; yet what we certainly know of the economy of bees may justify us in believing extraordinary things of the sagacity of animals. The society of bees goes further than that of beavers, and in some respects beyond most among men themselves. They not only inhabit a common dwelling, and perform great works in common, but they lay up a store of provision, which is the property of the whole community, and is not used except at certain seasons and under certain regulations. A bee-hive is a true image of a commonwealth, where no member acts for himself alone, but for the whole body. _Evenings at Home._ [Illustration: A HERONRY.] * * * * * PALMS. These beautiful trees may be ranked among the noblest specimens of vegetation; and their tall, slender, unbranched stems, crowned by elegant feathery foliage, composed of a cluster of gigantic leaves, render them, although of several varieties, different in appearance from all other trees. In some kinds of palm the stem is irregularly thick; in others, slender as a reed. It is scaly in one species, and prickly in another. In the _Palma real_, in Cuba, the stem swells out like a spindle in the middle. At the summit of these stems, which in some cases attain an altitude of upwards of 180 feet, a crown of leaves, either feathery or fan-shaped (for there is not a great variety in their general form), spreads out on all sides, the leaves being frequently from twelve to fifteen feet in length. In some species the foliage is of a dark green and shining surface, like that of a laurel or holly; in others, silvery on the under-side, as in the willow; and there is one species of palm with a fan-shaped leaf, adorned with concentric blue and yellow rings, like the "eyes" of a peacock's tail. [Illustration: PALMS OF ARIMATHEA.] The flowers of most of the palms are as beautiful as the trees. Those of the _Palma real_ are of a brilliant white, rendering them visible from a great distance; but, generally, the blossoms are of a pale yellow. To these succeed very different forms of fruit: in one species it consists of a cluster of egg-shaped berries, sometimes seventy or eighty in number, of a brilliant purple and gold colour, which form a wholesome food. South America contains the finest specimens, as well as the most numerous varieties of palm: in Asia the tree is not very common; and of the African palms but little is yet known, with the exception of the date palm, the most important to man of the whole tribe, though far less beautiful than the other species. * * * * * THE PALM-TREE. [Illustration: Letter I.] It waved not through an Eastern sky, Beside a fount of Araby; It was not fann'd by Southern breeze In some green isle of Indian seas; Nor did its graceful shadow sleep O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew, 'Midst foliage of no kindred hue: Through the laburnum's dropping gold Rose the light shaft of Orient mould; And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. Strange look'd it there!--the willow stream'd Where silv'ry waters near it gleam'd; The lime-bough lured the honey-bee To murmur by the Desert's tree, And showers of snowy roses made A lustre in its fan-like shade. There came an eve of festal hours-- Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers; Lamps, that from flow'ring branches hung, On sparks of dew soft colours flung; And bright forms glanced--a fairy show, Under the blossoms to and fro. But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng, Seem'd reckless all of dance or song: He was a youth of dusky mien, Whereon the Indian sun had been; Of crested brow, and long black hair-- A stranger, like the Palm-tree, there. And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, Glittering athwart the leafy glooms: He pass'd the pale green olives by, Nor won the chesnut flowers his eye; But when to that sole Palm he came, Then shot a rapture through his frame. To him, to him its rustling spoke; The silence of his soul it broke. It whisper'd of his own bright isle, That lit the ocean with a smile. Aye to his ear that native tone Had something of the sea-wave's moan. His mother's cabin-home, that lay Where feathery cocoos fringe the bay; The dashing of his brethren's oar, The conch-note heard along the shore-- All through his wak'ning bosom swept: He clasp'd his country's tree, and wept. Oh! scorn him not. The strength whereby The patriot girds himself to die; The unconquerable power which fills The foeman battling on his hills: These have one fountain deep and clear, The same whence gush'd that child-like tear!-- MRS. HEMANS. * * * * * A CHAPTER ON DOGS. [Illustration: Letter N.] Newfoundland Dogs are employed in drawing sledges laden with fish, wood, and other articles, and from their strength and docility are of considerable importance. The courage, devotion, and skill of this noble animal in the rescue of persons from drowning is well known; and on the banks of the Seine, at Paris, these qualities have been applied to a singular purpose. Ten Newfoundland dogs are there trained to act as servants to the Humane Society; and the rapidity with which they cross and re-cross the river, and come and go, at the voice of their trainer, is described as being most interesting to witness. Handsome kennels have been erected for their dwellings on the bridges. * * * * * DALMATIAN DOG. There is a breed of very handsome dogs called by this name, of a white colour, thickly spotted with black: it is classed among the hounds. This species is said to have been brought from India, and is not remarkable for either fine scent or intelligence. The Dalmatian Dog is generally kept in our country as an appendage to the carriage, and is bred up in the stable with the horses; it consequently seldom receives that kind of training which is calculated to call forth any good qualities it may possess. [Illustration: DALMATIAN DOG.] * * * * * TERRIER. The Terrier is a valuable dog in the house and farm, keeping both domains free from intruders, either in the shape of thieves or vermin. The mischief effected by rats is almost incredible; it has been said that, in some cases, in the article of corn, these little animals consume a quantity in food equal in value to the rent of the farm. Here the terrier is a most valuable assistant, in helping the farmer to rid himself of his enemies. The Scotch Terrier is very common in the greater part of the Western Islands of Scotland, and some of the species are greatly admired. Her Majesty Queen Victoria possesses one from Islay--a faithful, affectionate creature, yet with all the spirit and determination that belong to his breed. [Illustration: HEAD OF THE SCOTCH TERRIER.] * * * * * THE GREYHOUND. The modern smooth-haired Greyhound of England is a very elegant dog, not surpassed in speed and endurance by that of any other country. Hunting the deer with a kind of greyhound of a larger size was formerly a favourite diversion; and Queen Elizabeth was gratified by seeing, on one occasion, from a turret, sixteen deer pulled down by greyhounds upon the lawn at Cowdry Park, in Sussex. [Illustration: HEAD OF THE GREYHOUND.] * * * * * OLD ENGLISH HOUND. The dog we now call the Staghound appears to answer better than any other to the description given to us of the old English Hound, which was so much valued when the country was less enclosed, and the numerous and extensive forests were the harbours of the wild deer. This hound, with the harrier, were for many centuries the only hunting dogs. [Illustration: HEAD OF THE OLD ENGLISH HOUND.] * * * * * SHEPHERD'S DOG. Instinct and education combine to fit this dog for our service: the pointer will act without any great degree of instruction, and the setter will crouch; but the Sheep Dog, especially if he has the example of an older one, will, almost without the teaching of his master, become everything he could wish, and be obedient to every order, even to the slightest motion of the hand. If the shepherd's dog be but with his master, he appears to be perfectly content, rarely mingling with his kind, and generally shunning the advances of strangers; but the moment duty calls, his eye brightens, he springs up with eagerness, and exhibits a sagacity, fidelity, and devotion rarely equalled even by man himself. [Illustration: HEAD OF THE SHEPHERDS DOG.] * * * * * BULL-DOG. Of all dogs, none surpass in obstinacy and ferocity the Bull-dog. The head is broad and thick, the lower jaw generally projects so that the under teeth advance beyond the upper, the eyes are scowling, and the whole expression calculated to inspire terror. It is remarkable for the pertinacity with which it maintains its hold of any animal it may have seized, and is, therefore, much used in the barbarous practice of bull-baiting, so common in some countries, and but lately abolished in England. [Illustration: HEAD OF THE BULL-DOG.] [Illustration] * * * * * LORD BACON. [Illustration: Letter I.] In those prescient views by which the genius of Lord Bacon has often anticipated the institutions and the discoveries of succeeding times, there was one important object which even his foresight does not appear to have contemplated. Lord Bacon did not foresee that the English language would one day be capable of embalming all that philosophy can discover, or poetry can invent; that his country would at length possess a national literature of its own, and that it would exult in classical compositions, which might be appreciated with the finest models of antiquity. His taste was far unequal to his invention. So little did he esteem the language of his country, that his favourite works were composed in Latin; and he was anxious to have what he had written in English preserved in that "universal language which may last as long as books last." It would have surprised Bacon to have been told that the most learned men in Europe have studied English authors to learn to think and to write. Our philosopher was surely somewhat mortified, when, in his dedication of the Essays, he observed, that, "Of all my other works, my Essays have been most current; for that, as it seems, they come home to men's business and bosoms." It is too much to hope to find in a vast and profound inventor, a writer also who bestows immortality on his language. The English language is the only object, in his great survey of art and of nature, which owes nothing of its excellence to the genius of Bacon. He had reason, indeed, to be mortified at the reception of his philosophical works; and Dr. Rowley, even, some years after the death of his illustrious master, had occasion to observe, "His fame is greater, and sounds louder in foreign parts abroad than at home in his own nation; thereby verifying that Divine sentence, 'A Prophet is not without honour, save in his own country and in his own house,'" Even the men of genius, who ought to have comprehended this new source of knowledge thus opened to them, reluctantly entered into it: so repugnant are we to give up ancient errors, which time and habit have made a part of ourselves. D'ISRAELI. [Illustration: STATUE OF LORD BACON.] * * * * * THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. [Illustration: SYRIAN LILY.] Flowers! when the Saviour's calm, benignant eye Fell on your gentle beauty; when from you That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew. Eternal, universal as the sky; Then in the bosom of your purity A voice He set, as in a temple shrine, That Life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine. And though too oft its low, celestial sound By the harsh notes of work-day care is drown'd, And the loud steps of vain, unlist'ning haste, Yet the great lesson hath no tone of power, Mightier to reach the soul in thought's hush'd hour, Than yours, meek lilies, chosen thus, and graced. MRS. HEMANS. * * * * * POMPEII. [Illustration: Letter T.] The earliest and one of the most fatal eruptions of Mount Vesuvius that is mentioned in history took place in the year 79, during the reign of the Emperor Titus. All Campagna was filled with consternation, and the country was overwhelmed with devastation in every direction; towns, villages, palaces, and their inhabitants were consumed by molten lava, and hidden from the sight by showers of volcanic stones, cinders, and ashes. Pompeii had suffered severely from an earthquake sixteen years before, but had been rebuilt and adorned with many a stately building, particularly a magnificent theatre, where thousands were assembled to see the gladiators when this tremendous visitation burst upon the devoted city, and buried it to a considerable depth with the fiery materials thrown from the crater. "Day was turned to night," says a classic author, "and night into darkness; an inexpressible quantity of dust and ashes was poured out, deluging land, sea, and air, and burying two entire cities, Pompeii and Herculaneum, whilst the people were sitting in the theatre." [Illustration: POMPEII--APARTMENT IN "THE HOUSE OF THE HUNTER"] Many parts of Pompeii have, at various times, been excavated, so as to allow visitors to examine the houses and streets; and in February, 1846, the house of the Hunter was finally cleared, as it appears in the Engraving. This is an interesting dwelling, and was very likely the residence of a man of wealth, fond of the chase. A painting on the right occupies one side of the large room, and here are represented wild animals, the lion chasing a bull, &c. The upper part of the house is raised, where stands a gaily-painted column--red and yellow in festoons; behind which, and over a doorway, is a fresco painting of a summer-house perhaps a representation of some country-seat of the proprietor, on either side are hunting-horns. The most beautiful painting in this room represents a Vulcan at his forge, assisted by three dusky, aged figures. In the niche of the outward room a small statue was found, in _terra cotta_ (baked clay). The architecture of this house is singularly rich in decoration, and the paintings, particularly those of the birds and vases, very bright vivid. [Illustration: PORTABLE KITCHEN, FOUND AT POMPEII.] At this time, too, some very perfect skeletons were discovered in a house near the theatre, and near the hand of one of them were found thirty-seven pieces of silver and two gold coins; some of the former were attached to the handle of a key. The unhappy beings who were perished may have been the inmates of the dwelling. We know, from the account written by Pliny, that the young and active had plenty of time for escape, and this is the reason why so few skeletons have been found in Pompeii. In a place excavated at the expense of the Empress of Russia was found a portable kitchen (represented above), made of iron, with two round holes for boiling pots. The tabular top received the fire for placing other utensils upon, and by a handle in the front it could be moved when necessary. * * * * * THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM. A Nightingale that all day long Had cheer'd the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when even-tide was ended-- Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite: When, looking eagerly around, He spied, far off upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glowworm by his spark: So stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent:-- "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, "As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song; For 'twas the self-same power Divine Taught you to sing and me to shine, That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night." The songster heard his short oration, And, warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else. COWPER. * * * * * THE INVISIBLE WORLD REVEALED BY THE MICROSCOPE. A fact not less startling than would be the realisation of the imaginings of Shakespeare and of Milton, or of the speculations of Locke and of Bacon, admits of easy demonstration, namely, that the air, the earth, and the waters teem with numberless myriads of creatures, which are as unknown and as unapproachable to the great mass of mankind, as are the inhabitants of another planet. It may, indeed, be questioned, whether, if the telescope could bring within the reach of our observation the living things that dwell in the worlds around us, life would be there displayed in forms more diversified, in organisms more marvellous, under conditions more unlike those in which animal existence appears to our unassisted senses, than may be discovered in the leaves of every forest, in the flowers of every garden, and in the waters of every rivulet, by that noblest instrument of natural philosophy, the Microscope. [Illustration: LARVA OF THE COMMON GNAT. A. The body and head of the larva (magnified). B. The respiratory apparatus, situated in the tail. C. Natural size.] To an intelligent person, who has previously obtained a general idea of the nature of the Objects about to be submitted to his inspection, a group of living animalcules, seen under a powerful microscope for the first time, presents a scene of extraordinary interest, and never fails to call forth an expression of amazement and admiration. This statement admits of an easy illustration: for example, from some water containing aquatic plants, collected from a pond on Clapham Common, I select a small twig, to which are attached a few delicate flakes, apparently of slime or jelly; some minute fibres, standing erect here and there on the twig, are also dimly visible to the naked eye. This twig, with a drop or two of the water, we will put between two thin plates of glass, and place under the field of view of a microscope, having lenses that magnify the image of an object 200 times in linear dimensions. Upon looking through the instrument, we find the fluid swarming with animals of various shapes and magnitudes. Some are darting through the water with great rapidity, while others are pursuing and devouring creatures more infinitesimal than themselves. Many are attached to the twig by long delicate threads, several have their bodies inclosed in a transparent tube, from one end of which the animal partly protrudes and then recedes, while others are covered by an elegant shell or case. The minutest kinds, many of which are so small that millions might be contained in a single drop of water, appear like mere animated globules, free, single, and of various colours, sporting about in every direction. Numerous species resemble pearly or opaline cups or vases, fringed round the margin with delicate fibres, that are in constant oscillation. Some of these are attached by spiral tendrils; others are united by a slender stem to one common trunk, appearing like a bunch of hare-bells; others are of a globular form, and grouped together in a definite pattern, on a tabular or spherical membranous case, for a certain period of their existence, and ultimately become detached and locomotive, while many are permanently clustered together, and die if separated from the parent mass. They have no organs of progressive motion, similar to those of beasts, birds, or fishes; and though many species are destitute of eyes, yet possess an accurate perception of the presence of other bodies, and pursue and capture their prey with unerring purpose. [Illustration: FOOT OF COMMON HOUSE-FLY.] [Illustration: HAIR, GREATLY MAGNIFIED. A. Hairs of the Bat. B. Of the Mole. C. Of the Mouse.] _Mantell's Thoughts on Animalcules._ * * * * * THE CANARY. This bird, which is now kept and reared throughout the whole of Europe, and even in Russia and Siberia, on account of its pretty form, docility, and sweet song, is a native of the Canary Isles. On the banks of small streams, in the pleasant valleys of those lovely islands, it builds its nest in the branches of the orange-trees, of which it is so fond, that even in this country the bird has been known to find its way into the greenhouse, and select the fork of one of the branches of an orange-tree on which to build its nest, seeming to be pleased with the sweet perfume of the blossoms. [Illustration: CANARY.] The bird has been known in Europe since the beginning of the sixteenth century, when a ship, having a large number of canaries on board destined for Leghorn, was wrecked on the coast of Italy. The birds having regained their liberty, flew to the nearest land, which happened to be the island of Elba, where they found so mild a climate that they built their nests there and became very numerous. But the desire to possess such beautiful songsters led to their being hunted after, until the whole wild race was quite destroyed. In Italy, therefore, we find the first tame canaries, and here they are still reared in great numbers. Their natural colour is grey, which merges into green beneath, almost resembling the colours of the linnet; but by means of domestication, climate, and being bred with other birds, canaries may now be met with of a great variety of colours. But perhaps there is none more beautiful than the golden-yellow, with blackish-grey head and tail. The hen canary lays her eggs four or five times a year, and thus a great number of young are produced. As they are naturally inhabitants of warm climates, and made still more delicate by constant residence in rooms, great care should be taken in winter that this favourite bird be not exposed to cold air, which, however refreshing to it in the heat of summer, is so injurious in this season that it causes sickness and even death. To keep canaries in a healthy and happy state, it is desirable that the cage should be frequently hung in brilliant daylight, and, if possible, placed in the warm sunshine, which, especially when bathing, is very agreeable to them. The more simple and true to-nature the food is, the better does it agree with them; and a little summer rapeseed mixed with their usual allowance of the seed to which they have given their name, will be found to be the best kind of diet. As a treat, a little crushed hempseed or summer cabbage-seed may be mixed with the canary-seed. The beautiful grass from which the latter is obtained is a pretty ornament for the garden; it now grows very abundantly in Kent. The song of the canary is not in this country at all like that of the bird in a state of nature, for it is a kind of compound of notes learned from other birds. It may be taught to imitate the notes of the nightingale, by being placed while young with that bird. Care must be taken that the male parent of the young canary be removed from the nest before the young ones are hatched, or it will be sure to acquire the note of its parent. The male birds of all the feathered creation are the only ones who sing; the females merely utter a sweet chirrup or chirp, so that from the hen canary the bird will run no risk of learning its natural note. * * * * * INDUSTRY AND APPLICATION. Diligence, industry, and proper improvement of time are material duties of the young. To no purpose are they endowed with the best abilities, if they want activity for exerting them. Unavailing, in this case, will be every direction that can be given them, either for their temporal or spiritual welfare. In youth the habits of industry are most easily acquired; in youth the incentives to it are strong, from ambition and from duty, from emulation and hope, from all the prospects which the beginning of life affords. If, dead to these calls, you already languish in slothful inaction, what will be able to quicken the more sluggish current of advancing years? Industry is not only the instrument of improvement, but the foundation of pleasure. Nothing is so opposite to the true enjoyment of life as the relaxed and feeble state of an indolent mind. He who is a stranger to industry, may possess, but he cannot enjoy. For it is labour only which gives the relish to pleasure. It is the appointed vehicle of every good man. It is the indispensable condition of our possessing a sound mind in a sound body. Sloth is so inconsistent with both, that it is hard to determine whether it be a greater foe to virtue or to health and happiness. Inactive as it is in itself, its effects are fatally powerful. Though it appear a slowly-flowing stream, yet it undermines all that is stable and flourishing. It not only saps the foundation of every virtue, but pours upon you a deluge of crimes and evils. It is like water which first putrefies by stagnation, and then sends up noxious vapours and fills the atmosphere with death. Fly, therefore, from idleness, as the certain parent both of guilt and of ruin. And under idleness I include, not mere inaction only, but all that circle of trifling occupations in which too many saunter away their youth; perpetually engaged in frivolous society or public amusements, in the labours of dress or the ostentation of their persons. Is this the foundation which you lay for future usefulness and esteem? By such accomplishments do you hope to recommend yourselves to the thinking part of the world, and to answer the expectations of your friends and your country? Amusements youth requires: it were vain, it were cruel, to prohibit them. But, though allowable as the relaxation, they are most culpable as the business, of the young, for they then become the gulf of time and the poison of the mind; they weaken the manly powers; they sink the native vigour of youth into contemptible effeminacy. BLAIR. * * * * * THE RIVER JORDAN. [Illustration] The river Jordan rises in the mountains of Lebanon, and falls into the little Lake Merom, on the banks of which Joshua describes the hostile Kings as pitching to fight against Israel. After passing through this lake, it runs down a rocky valley with great noise and rapidity to the Lake of Tiberias. In this part of its course the stream is almost hidden by shady trees, which grow on each side. As the river approaches the Lake of Tiberias it widens, and passes through it with a current that may be clearly seen during a great part of its course. It then reaches a valley, which is the lowest ground in the whole of Syria, many hundred feet below the level of the Mediterranean Sea. It is so well sheltered by the high land on both sides, that the heat thus produced and the moisture of the river make the spot very rich and fertile. This lovely plain is five or six miles across in parts, but widens as it nears the Dead Sea, whose waters cover the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, destroyed for the wickedness of their inhabitants. * * * * * ON JORDAN'S BANKS. On Jordan's banks the Arab camels stray, On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray-- The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep; Yet there--even there--O God! thy thunders sleep: There, where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone; There, where thy shadow to thy people shone-- Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire (Thyself none living see and not expire). Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear-- Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear! How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod? How long thy temple worshipless, O God! BYRON. * * * * * FORTITUDE. Without some degree of fortitude there can be no happiness, because, amidst the thousand uncertainties of life, there can be no enjoyment of tranquillity. The man of feeble and timorous spirit lives under perpetual alarms. He sees every distant danger and tremble; he explores the regions of possibility to discover the dangers that may arise: often he creates imaginary ones; always magnifies those that are real. Hence, like a person haunted by spectres, he loses the free enjoyment even of a safe and prosperous state, and on the first shock of adversity he desponds. Instead of exerting himself to lay hold on the resources that remain, he gives up all for lost, and resigns himself to abject and broken spirits. On the other hand, firmness of mind is the parent of tranquillity. It enables one to enjoy the present without disturbance, and to look calmly on dangers that approach or evils that threaten in future. Look into the heart of this man, and you will find composure, cheerfulness, and magnanimity; look into the heart of the other, and you will see nothing but confusion, anxiety, and trepidation. The one is a castle built on a rock, which defies the attacks of surrounding waters; the other is a hut placed on the shore, which every wind shakes and every wave overflows. BLAIR. * * * * * THE IVY IN THE DUNGEON. [Illustration: Letters "The".] The Ivy in a dungeon grew Unfed by rain, uncheer'd by dew; Its pallid leaflets only drank Cave-moistures foul, and odours dank. But through the dungeon-grating high There fell a sunbeam from the sky: It slept upon the grateful floor In silent gladness evermore. The ivy felt a tremor shoot Through all its fibres to the root; It felt the light, it saw the ray, It strove to issue into day. It grew, it crept, it push'd, it clomb-- Long had the darkness been its home; But well it knew, though veil'd in night, The goodness and the joy of light. Its clinging roots grew deep and strong; Its stem expanded firm and long; And in the currents of the air Its tender branches flourish'd fair. It reach'd the beam--it thrill'd, it curl'd, It bless'd the warmth that cheers the world; It rose towards the dungeon bars-- It look'd upon the sun and stars. It felt the life of bursting spring, It heard the happy sky-lark sing. It caught the breath of morns and eves, And woo'd the swallow to its leaves. By rains, and dews, and sunshine fed, Over the outer wall it spread; And in the daybeam waving free, It grew into a steadfast tree. Upon that solitary place Its verdure threw adorning grace. The mating birds became its guests, And sang its praises from their nests. Wouldst know the moral of the rhyme? Behold the heavenly light, and climb! Look up, O tenant of the cell, Where man, the prisoner, must dwell. To every dungeon comes a ray Of God's interminable day. On every heart a sunbeam falls To cheer its lonely prison walls. The ray is TRUTH. Oh, soul, aspire To bask in its celestial fire; So shalt thou quit the glooms of clay, So shaft thou flourish into day. So shalt thou reach the dungeon grate, No longer dark and desolate; And look around thee, and above, Upon a world of light and love. MACKAY. [Illustration] * * * * * THE NESTS OF BIRDS. [Illustration: Letter H.] How curious is the structure of the nest of the goldfinch or chaffinch! The inside of it is lined with cotton and fine silken threads; and the outside cannot be sufficiently admired, though it is composed only of various species of fine moss. The colour of these mosses, resembling that of the bark of the tree on which the nest is built, proves that the bird intended it should not be easily discovered. In some nests, hair, wool, and rushes are dexterously interwoven. In some, all the parts are firmly fastened by a thread, which the bird makes of hemp, wool, hair, or more commonly of spiders' webs. Other birds, as for instance the blackbird and the lapwing, after they have constructed their nest, plaster the inside with mortar, which cements and binds the whole together; they then stick upon it, while quite wet, some wool or moss, to give it the necessary degree of warmth. The nests of swallows are of a very different construction from those of other birds. They require neither wood, nor hay, nor cords; they make a kind of mortar, with which they form a neat, secure, and comfortable habitation for themselves and their family. To moisten the dust, of which they build their nest, they dip their breasts in water and shake the drops from their wet feathers upon it. But the nests most worthy of admiration are those of certain Indian birds, which suspend them with great art from the branches of trees, to secure them from the depredations of various animals and insects. In general, every species of bird has a peculiar mode of building; but it may be remarked of all alike, that they always construct their nests in the way that is best adapted to their security, and to the preservation and welfare of their species. [Illustration: SWALLOW PREPARING A WALL FOR HER NEST.] [Illustration: BLACKBIRD BUILDING HER NEST.] Such is the wonderful instinct of birds with respect to the structure of their nests. What skill and sagacity! what industry and patience do they display! And is it not apparent that all their labours tend towards certain ends? They construct their nests hollow and nearly round, that they may retain the heat so much the better. They line them with the most delicate substances, that the young may lie soft and warm. What is it that teaches the bird to place her nest in a situation sheltered from the rain, and secure against the attacks of other animals? How did she learn that she should lay eggs--that eggs would require a nest to prevent them from falling to the ground and to keep them warm? Whence does she know that the heat would not be maintained around the eggs if the nest were too large; and that, on the other hand, the young would not have sufficient room if it were smaller? By what rules does she determine the due proportions between the nest and the young which are not yet in existence? Who has taught her to calculate the time with such accuracy that she never commits a mistake, in producing her eggs before the nest is ready to receive them? Admire in all these things the power, the wisdom, and the goodness of the Creator! STURM. * * * * * THE BUSHMEN. [Illustration: Letter T.] The Bosjesmans, or Bushmen, appear to be the remains of Hottentot hordes, who have been driven, by the gradual encroachments of the European colonists, to seek for refuge among the inaccessible rocks and sterile desert of the interior of Africa. Most of the hordes known in the colony by the name of Bushmen are now entirely destitute of flocks or herds, and subsist partly by the chase, partly on the wild roots of the wilderness, and in times of scarcity on reptiles, grasshoppers, and the larvae of ants, or by plundering their hereditary foes and oppressors, the frontier Boers. In seasons when every green herb is devoured by swarms of locusts, and when the wild game in consequence desert the pastures of the wilderness, the Bushman finds a resource in the very calamity which would overwhelm an agricultural or civilized community. He lives by devouring the devourers; he subsists for weeks and months on locusts alone, and also preserves a stock of this food dried, as we do herrings or pilchards, for future consumption. The Bushman retains the ancient arms of the Hottentot race, namely, a javelin or assagai, similar to that of the Caffres, and a bow and arrows. The latter, which are his principal weapons both for war and the chase, are small in size and formed of slight materials; but, owing to the deadly poison with which the arrows are imbued, and the dexterity with which they are launched, they are missiles truly formidable. One of these arrows, formed merely of a piece of slender reed tipped with bone or iron, is sufficient to destroy the most powerful animal. But, although the colonists very much dread the effects of the Bushman's arrow, they know how to elude its range; and it is after all but a very unequal match for the fire-lock, as the persecuted natives by sad experience have found. The arrows are usually kept in a quiver, formed of the hollow stalk of a species of aloe, and slung over the shoulder; but a few, for immediate use, are often stuck in a band round the head. A group of Bosjesmans, comprising two men, two women, and a child, were recently brought to this country and exhibited at the Egyptian Hall, in Piccadilly. The women wore mantles and conical caps of hide, and gold ornaments in their ears. The men also wore a sort of skin cloak, which hung down to their knees, over a close tunic: the legs and feet were bare in both. Their sheep-skin mantles, sewed together with threads of sinew, and rendered soft and pliable by friction, sufficed for a garment by day and a blanket by night. These Bosjesmans exhibited a variety of the customs of their native country. Their whoops were sometimes so loud as to be startling, and they occasionally seemed to consider the attention of the spectators as an affront. [Illustration: BUSHMEN.] * * * * * CHARACTER OF ALFRED, KING OF ENGLAND. The merit of this Prince, both in private and public life, may with advantage be set in opposition to that of any Monarch or citizen which the annals of any age or any nation can present to us. He seems, indeed, to be the realisation of that perfect character, which, under the denomination of a sage or wise man, the philosophers have been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imagination than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to practice; so happily were all his virtues tempered together, so justly were they blended, and so powerfully did each prevent the other from exceeding its proper bounds. He knew how to conciliate the most enterprising spirit with the coolest moderation; the most obstinate perseverance with the easiest flexibility; the most severe justice with the greatest lenity; the greatest rigour in command with the greatest affability of deportment; the highest capacity and inclination for science, with the most shining: talents for action. His civil and his military virtues are almost equally the objects of our admiration, excepting only, that the former, being more rare among princes, as well as more useful, seem chiefly to challenge our applause. Nature also, as if desirous that so bright a production of her skill should be set in the fairest light, had bestowed on him all bodily accomplishments, vigour of limbs, dignity of shape and air, and a pleasant, engaging, and open countenance. Fortune alone, by throwing him into that barbarous age, deprived him of historians worthy to transmit his fame to posterity; and we wish to see him delineated in more lively colours, and with more particular strokes, that we may at least perceive some of those small specks and blemishes, from which, as a man, it is impossible he could be entirely exempted. HUME. * * * * * THE FIRST GRIEF. [Illustration: Letter O.] Oh! call my brother back to me, I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee-- Where is my brother gone? The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track; I care not now to chase its flight-- Oh! call my brother back. The flowers run wild--the flowers we sow'd Around our garden-tree; Our vine is drooping with its load-- Oh! call him back to me. "He would not hear my voice, fair child-- He may not come to thee; The face that once like spring-time smiled, On earth no more thou'lt see [Illustration] "A rose's brief bright life of joy, Such unto him was given; Go, thou must play alone, my boy-- Thy brother is in heaven!" And has he left the birds and flowers, And must I call in vain, And through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again? And by the brook, and in the glade, Are all our wand'rings o'er? Oh! while my brother with me play'd, Would I had loved him more!-- MRS. HEMANS. * * * * * ON CRUELTY TO INFERIOR ANIMALS [Illustration: Letter M.] Man is that link of the chain of universal existence by which spiritual and corporeal beings are united: as the numbers and variety of the latter his inferiors are almost infinite, so probably are those of the former his superiors; and as we see that the lives and happiness of those below us are dependant on our wills, we may reasonably conclude that our lives and happiness are equally dependant on the wills of those above us; accountable, like ourselves, for the use of this power to the supreme Creator and governor of all things. Should this analogy be well founded, how criminal will our account appear when laid before that just and impartial judge! How will man, that sanguinary tyrant, be able to excuse himself from the charge of those innumerable cruelties inflicted on his unoffending subjects committed to his care, formed for his benefit, and placed under his authority by their common Father? whose mercy is over all his works, and who expects that his authority should be exercised, not only with tenderness and mercy, but in conformity to the laws of justice and gratitude. But to what horrid deviations from these benevolent intentions are we daily witnesses! no small part of mankind derive their chief amusements from the deaths and sufferings of inferior animals; a much greater, consider them only as engines of wood or iron, useful in their several occupations. The carman drives his horse, and the carpenter his nail, by repeated blows; and so long as these produce the desired effect, and they both go, they neither reflect or care whether either of them have any sense of feeling. The butcher knocks down the stately ox, with no more compassion than the blacksmith hammers a horseshoe; and plunges his knife into the throat of the innocent lamb, with as little reluctance as the tailor sticks his needle into the collar of a coat. If there are some few who, formed in a softer mould, view with pity the sufferings of these defenceless creatures, there is scarce one who entertains the least idea that justice or gratitude can be due to their merits or their services. The social and friendly dog is hanged without remorse, if, by barking in defence of his master's person and property, he happens unknowingly to disturb his rest; the generous horse, who has carried his ungrateful master for many years with ease and safety, worn out with age and infirmities, contracted in his service, is by him condemned to end his miserable days in a dust-cart, where the more he exerts his little remains of spirit, the more he is whipped to save his stupid driver the trouble of whipping some other less obedient to the lash. Sometimes, having been taught the practice of many unnatural and useless feats in a riding-house, he is at last turned out and consigned to the dominion of a hackney-coachman, by whom he is every day corrected for performing those tricks, which he has learned under so long and severe a discipline. The sluggish bear, in contradiction to his nature, is taught to dance for the diversion of a malignant mob, by placing red-hot irons under his feet; and the majestic bull is tortured by every mode which malice can invent, for no offence but that he is gentle and unwilling to assail his diabolical tormentors. These, with innumerable other acts of cruelty, injustice, and ingratitude, are every day committed, not only with impunity, but without censure and even without observation; but we may be assured that they cannot finally pass away unnoticed and unretaliated. The laws of self-defence undoubtedly justify us in destroying those animals who would destroy us, who injure our properties, or annoy our persons; but not even these, whenever their situation incapacitates them from hurting us. I know of no right which we have to shoot a bear on an inaccessible island of ice, or an eagle on the mountain's top; whose lives cannot injure us, nor deaths procure us any benefit. We are unable to give life, and therefore ought not wantonly to take it away from the meanest insect, without sufficient reason; they all receive it from the same benevolent hand as ourselves, and have therefore an equal right to enjoy it. God has been pleased to create numberless animals intended for our sustenance; and that they are so intended, the agreeable flavour of their flesh to our palates, and the wholesome nutriment which it administers to our stomachs, are sufficient proofs: these, as they are formed for our use, propagated by our culture, and fed by our care, we have certainly a right to deprive of life, because it is given and preserved to them on that condition; but this should always be performed with all the tenderness and compassion which so disagreeable an office will permit; and no circumstances ought to be omitted, which can render their executions as quick and easy as possible. For this Providence has wisely and benevolently provided, by forming them in such a manner that their flesh becomes rancid and unpalateable by a painful and lingering death; and has thus compelled us to be merciful without compassion, and cautious of their sufferings, for the sake of ourselves: but, if there are any whose tastes are so vitiated, and whose hearts are so hardened, as to delight in such inhuman sacrifices, and to partake of them without remorse, they should be looked upon as demons in human shape, and expect a retaliation of those tortures which they have inflicted on the innocent, for the gratification of their own depraved and unnatural appetites. So violent are the passions of anger and revenge in the human breast, that it is not wonderful that men should persecute their real or imaginary enemies with cruelty and malevolence; but that there should exist in nature a being who can receive pleasure from giving pain, would be totally incredible, if we were not convinced, by melancholy experience, that there are not only many, but that this unaccountable disposition is in some manner inherent in the nature of man; for, as he cannot be taught by example, nor led to it by temptation, or prompted to it by interest, it must be derived from his native constitution; and it is a remarkable confirmation of what revelation so frequently inculcates--that he brings into the world with him an original depravity, the effects of a fallen and degenerate state; in proof of which we need only to observe, that the nearer he approaches to a state of nature, the more predominant this disposition appears, and the more violently it operates. We see children laughing at the miseries which they inflict on every unfortunate animal which comes within their power; all savages are ingenious in contriving, and happy in executing, the most exquisite tortures; and the common people of all countries are delighted with nothing so much as bull-baitings, prize-fightings, executions, and all spectacles of cruelty and horror. Though civilization may in some degree abate this native ferocity, it can never quite extirpate it; the most polished are not ashamed to be pleased with scenes of little less barbarity, and, to the disgrace of human nature, to dignify them with the name of sports. They arm cocks with artificial weapons, which nature had kindly denied to their malevolence, and with shouts of applause and triumph see them plunge them into each other's hearts; they view with delight the trembling deer and defenceless hare, flying for hours in the utmost agonies of terror and despair, and, at last, sinking under fatigue, devoured by their merciless pursuers; they see with joy the beautiful pheasant and harmless partridge drop from their flight, weltering in their blood, or, perhaps, perishing with wounds and hunger, under the cover of some friendly thicket to which they have in vain retreated for safety; they triumph over the unsuspecting fish whom they have decoyed by an insidious pretence of feeding, and drag him from his native element by a hook fixed to and tearing out his entrails; and, to add to all this, they spare neither labour nor expense to preserve and propagate these innocent animals, for no other end but to multiply the objects of their persecution. What name would we bestow on a superior being, whose whole endeavours were employed, and whose whole pleasure consisted in terrifying, ensnaring, tormenting, and destroying mankind? whose superior faculties were exerted in fomenting animosities amongst them, in contriving engines of destruction, and inciting them to use them in maiming and murdering each other? whose power over them was employed in assisting the rapacious, deceiving the simple, and oppressing the innocent? who, without provocation or advantage, should continue from day to day, void of all pity and remorse, thus to torment mankind for diversion, and at the same time endeavour with his utmost care to preserve their lives and to propagate their species, in order to increase the number of victims devoted to his malevolence, and be delighted in proportion to the miseries he occasioned. I say, what name detestable enough could we find for such a being? yet, if we impartially consider the case, and our intermediate situation, we must acknowledge that, with regard to inferior animals, just such a being is a sportsman. JENYNS. * * * * * PETER THE HERMIT, AND THE FIRST CRUSADE. It was in Palestine itself that Peter the Hermit first conceived the grand idea of rousing the powers of Christendom to rescue the Christians of the East from the thraldom of the Mussulman, and the Sepulchre of Jesus from the rude hands of the Infidel. The subject engrossed his whole mind. Even in the visions of the night he was full of it. One dream made such an impression upon him, that he devoutly believed the Saviour of the world Himself appeared before him, and promised him aid and protection in his holy undertaking. If his zeal had ever wavered before, this was sufficient to fix it for ever. Peter, after he had performed all the penances and duties of his pilgrimage, demanded an interview with Simeon, the Patriarch of the Greek Church at Jerusalem. Though the latter was a heretic in Peter's eyes, yet he was still a Christian, and felt as acutely as himself for the persecutions heaped by the Turks upon the followers of Jesus. The good prelate entered fully into his views, and, at his suggestion, wrote letters to the Pope, and to the most influential Monarchs of Christendom, detailing the sorrows of the faithful, and urging them to take up arms in their defence. Peter was not a laggard in the work. Taking an affectionate farewell of the Patriarch, he returned in all haste to Italy. Pope Urban II. occupied the apostolic chair. It was at that time far from being an easy seat. His predecessor, Gregory, had bequeathed him a host of disputes with the Emperor Henry IV., of Germany; and he had made Philip I., of France, his enemy. So many dangers encompassed him about that the Vatican was no secure abode, and he had taken refuge in Apulia, under the protection of the renowned Robert Guiscard. Thither Peter appears to have followed him, though the spot in which their meeting took place is not stated with any precision by ancient chroniclers or modern historians. Urban received him most kindly, read with tears in his eyes the epistle from the Patriarch Simeon, and listened to the eloquent story of the Hermit with an attention which showed how deeply he sympathised with the woes of the Christian Church. [Illustration: PETER THE HERMIT PREACHING THE FIRST CRUSADE.] Enthusiasm is contagious, and the Pope appears to have caught it instantly from one whose zeal was so unbounded. Giving the Hermit full powers, he sent him abroad to preach the Holy War to all the nations and potentates of Christendom. The Hermit preached, and countless thousands answered to his call. France, Germany, and Italy started at his voice, and prepared for the deliverance of Zion. One of the early historians of the Crusade, who was himself an eye-witness of the rapture of Europe, describes the personal appearance of the Hermit at this time. He says that there appeared to be something of divine in everything which he said or did. The people so highly reverenced him, that they plucked hairs from the mane of his mule, that they might keep them as relics. While preaching, he wore, in general, a woollen tunic, with a dark-coloured mantle which fell down to his heels. His arms and feet were bare, and he ate neither flesh nor bread, supporting himself chiefly upon fish and wine. "He set out," said the chronicler, "from whence I know not; but we saw him passing through towns and villages, preaching everywhere, and the people surrounding him in crowds, loading him with offerings, and celebrating his sanctity with such great praises, that I never remember to have seen such honours bestowed upon any one." Thus he went on, untired, inflexible, and full of devotion, communicating his own madness to his hearers, until Europe was stirred from its very depths. _Popular Delusions._ * * * * * FAITH'S GUIDING STAR. [Illustration: Letter W.] We find a glory in the flowers When snowdrops peep and hawthorn blooms; We see fresh light in spring-time hours, And bless the radiance that illumes. The song of promise cheers with hope, That sin or sorrow cannot mar; God's beauty fills the daisyed slope, And keeps undimm'd Faith's guiding star. We find a glory in the smile That lives in childhood's happy face, Ere fearful doubt or worldly guile Has swept away the angel trace. The ray of promise shineth there, To tell of better lands afar; God sends his image, pure and fair, To keep undimm'd Faith's guiding star. We find a glory in the zeal Of doating breast and toiling brain; Affection's martyrs still will kneel, And song, though famish'd, pour its strain. They lure us by a quenchless light, And point where joy is holier far; They shed God's spirit, warm and bright, And keep undimm'd Faith's guiding star. We muse beside the rolling waves; We ponder on the grassy hill; We linger by the new-piled graves, And find that star is shining still. God in his great design hath spread, Unnumber'd rays to lead afar; They beam the brightest o'er the dead, And keep undimm'd Faith's guiding star. ELIZA COOK. * * * * * QUEEN ELIZABETH'S ADDRESS TO HER ARMY AT TILBURY FORT, IN 1588. My loving people! we have been persuaded by some that are careful of our safety, to take heed how we commit ourself to armed multitudes, for fear of treachery; but, I assure you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people. Let tyrants fear: I have always so behaved myself, that, under God, I have placed my chief strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and good-will of my subjects. And, therefore, I am come among you at this time, not for my recreation or sport, but being resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live or die among you all, and to lay down for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honour and my blood--even in the dust. I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart of a King, and the heart of a King of England, too! and think foul scorn, that Parma, or Spain, or any Prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realms; to which, rather than dishonour should grow by me, I myself will take up arms--I myself will be your general, your judge, and the rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know already, by your forwardness, that you have deserved rewards and crowns; and we do assure you, on the word of a Prince, they shall be duly paid you. In the meantime, my Lieutenant-General shall be in my stead, than whom never Prince commanded more noble and worthy subject; nor do I doubt, by your obedience to my General, by your concord in the camp, and your valour in the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over the enemies of my God, my kingdom, and my people. _English History._ [Illustration] * * * * * JALAPA. [Illustration: Letter T.] The city of Jalapa, in Mexico, is very beautifully situated at the foot of Macultepec, at an elevation of 4335 feet above the level of the sea; but as this is about the height which the strata of clouds reach, when suspended over the ocean, they come in contact with the ridge of the Cordillera Mountains; this renders the atmosphere exceedingly humid and disagreeable, particularly in north-easterly winds. In summer, however, the mists disappear; the climate is perfectly delightful, as the extremes of heat and cold are never experienced. On a bright sunny day, the scenery round Jalapa is not to be surpassed. Mountains bound the horizon, except on one side, where a distant view of the sea adds to the beauty of the scene. Orizaba, with its snow-capped peak, appears so close, that one imagines that it is within a few hours' reach, and rich evergreen forests clothe the surrounding hills. In the foreground are beautiful gardens, with fruits of every clime--the banana and fig, the orange, cherry, and apple. The town is irregularly built, but very picturesque; the houses are in the style of the old houses of Spain, with windows down to the ground, and barred, in which sit the Jalapenas ladies, with their fair complexions and black eyes. Near Jalapa are two or three cotton factories, under the management of English and Americans: the girls employed are all Indians, healthy and good-looking; they are very apt in learning their work, and soon comprehend the various uses of the machinery. In the town there is but little to interest the stranger, but the church is said to have been founded by Cortez, and there is also a Franciscan convent. The vicinity of Jalapa, although poorly cultivated, produces maize, wheat, grapes, and jalap, from which plant the well-known medicine is prepared, and the town takes its name. A little lower down the Cordillera grows the vanilla, the bean of which is so highly esteemed for its aromatic flavour. [Illustration: TOWN OF JALAPA, IN MEXICO] The road from Jalapa to the city of Mexico constantly ascends, and the scenery is mountainous and grand; the villages are but few, and fifteen or twenty miles apart, with a very scanty population. No signs of cultivation are to be seen, except little patches of maize and chilé, in the midst of which is sometimes to be seen an Indian hut formed of reeds and flags. The mode of travelling in this country is by diligences, but these are continually attacked and robbed; and so much is this a matter of course, that the Mexicans invariably calculate a certain sum for the expenses of the road, including the usual fee for the banditti. Baggage is sent by the muleteers, by which means it is ensured from all danger, although a long time on the road. The Mexicans never think of resisting these robbers, and a coach-load of eight or nine is often stopped and plundered by one man. The foreigners do not take matters so quietly, and there is scarcely an English or American traveller in the country who has not come to blows in a personal encounter with the banditti at some period or other of his adventures. * * * * * CONDORS. [Illustration: Letter C.] Condors are found throughout the whole range of the Cordilleras, along the south-west coast of South America, from the Straits of Magellan to the Rio Negro. Their habitations are almost invariably on overhanging ledges of high and perpendicular cliffs, where they both sleep and breed, sometimes in pairs, but frequently in colonies of twenty or thirty together. They make no nest, but lay two large white eggs on the bare rock. The young ones cannot use their wings for flight until many months after they are hatched, being covered, during that time, with only a blackish down, like that of a gosling. They remain on the cliff where they were hatched long after having acquired the full power of flight, roosting and hunting in company with the parent birds. Their food consists of the carcases of guanacoes, deer, cattle, and other animals. The condors may oftentimes be seen at a great height, soaring over a certain spot in the most graceful spires and circles. Besides feeding on carrion, the condors will frequently attack young goats and lambs. Hence, the shepherd dogs are trained, the moment the enemy passes over, to run out, and, looking upwards, to bark violently. The people of Chili destroy and catch great numbers. Two methods are used: one is to place a carcase within an inclosure of sticks on a level piece of ground; and when the condors are gorged, to gallop up on horseback to the entrance, and thus inclose them; for when this bird has not space to run, it cannot give its body sufficient momentum to rise from the ground. The second method is to mark the trees in which, frequently to the number of five or six together, they roost, and then at night to climb up and noose them. They are such heavy sleepers that this is by no means a difficult task. The condor, like all the vulture tribe, discovers his food from a great distance; the body of an animal is frequently surrounded by a dozen or more of them, almost as soon as it has dropped dead, although five minutes before there was not a single bird in view. Whether this power is to be attributed to the keenness of his olfactory or his visual organs, is a matter still in dispute; although it is believed, from a minute observation of its habits in confinement, to be rather owing to its quickness of sight. [Illustration: CONDORS.] * * * * * OMNISCIENCE AND OMNIPRESENCE OF THE DEITY. I was yesterday, about sun-set, walking in the open fields, till the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused myself with all the richness and variety of colours which appeared in the western parts of heaven; in proportion as they faded away and went out, several stars and planets appeared one after another, till the whole firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was exceedingly heightened and enlivened by the season of the year, and the rays of all those luminaries that passed through it. The Galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the full moon rose at length in that clouded majesty which Milton takes notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was more finely shaded, and disposed among softer lights, than that which the sun had before discovered to us. As I was surveying the moon walking in her brightness, and taking her progress among the constellations, a thought arose in me, which I believe very often perplexes and disturbs men of serious and contemplative natures. David himself fell into it in that reflection, "When I consider the heavens the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, what is man that though art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou regardest him!" In the same manner, when I consider that infinite host of stars, or, to speak more philosophically, of suns, which were then shining upon me, with those innumerable sets of planets or worlds, which were moving round their respective suns; when I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another heaven of suns and worlds rising still above this which we discovered, and these still enlightened by a superior firmament of luminaries, which are planted at so great a distance, that they may appear to the inhabitants of the former as the stars do to us; in short, while I pursued this thought, I could not but reflect on that little insignificant figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's works. Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the creation, with all the host of planetary worlds that move about him, utterly extinguished and annihilated, they would not be missed more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The space they possess is so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole, it would scarce make a blank in creation. The chasm would be imperceptible to an eye that could take in the whole compass of nature, and pass from one end of creation to the other; as it is possible there may be such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at present more exalted than ourselves. We see many stars by the help of glasses, which we do not discover with our naked eyes; and the finer our telescopes are, the more still are our discoveries. Huygenius carries this thought so far, that he does not think it impossible there may be stars whose light is not yet travelled down to us since their first creation. There is no question but the universe has certain bounds set to it; but when we consider that it is the work of infinite power, prompted by infinite goodness, with an infinite space to exert itself in, how can our imagination set any bounds to it? To return, therefore, to my first thought, I could not but look upon myself with secret horror, as a being that was not worth the smallest regard of one who had so great a work under his care and superintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked amidst the immensity of nature, and lost among that infinite variety of creatures, which in all probability swarm through all these immeasurable regions of matter. In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I considered that it took its rise from those narrow conceptions which we are apt to entertain of the Divine nature. We ourselves cannot attend to many different objects at the same time. If we are careful to inspect some things, we must of course neglect others. This imperfection which we observe in ourselves is an imperfection that cleaves in some degree to creatures of the highest capacities, as they are creatures, that is, beings of finite and limited natures. The presence of every created being is confined to a certain measure of space, and consequently his observation is stinted to a certain number of objects. The sphere in which we move, and act, and understand, is of a wider circumference to one creature than another, according as we rise one above another in the scale of existence. But the widest of these our spheres has its circumference. When therefore we reflect on the Divine nature, we are so used and accustomed to this imperfection in ourselves, that we cannot forbear in some measure ascribing it to Him in whom there is no shadow of imperfection. Our reason indeed assures us that his attributes are infinite; but the poorness of our conceptions is such, that it cannot forbear setting bounds to every thing it contemplates, till our reason comes again to our succour and throws down all those little prejudices which rise in us unawares, and are natural to the mind of man. We shall, therefore, utterly extinguish this melancholy thought of our being overlooked by our Maker in the multiplicity of his works, and the infinity of those objects among which He seems to be incessantly employed, if we consider, in the first place, that He is omnipresent; and in the second, that He is omniscient. If we consider Him in his omnipresence; his being passes through, actuates, and supports the whole frame of nature. His creation, and every part of it, is full of Him. There is nothing He has made that is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which He does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the substance of every being, whether material or immaterial, and as intimately present to it as that being is to itself. It would be an imperfection in Him, were He able to move out of one place into another, or to draw himself from any thing He has created, or from any part of that space which He diffused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, to speak of Him in the language of the old philosophers, He is a being whose centre is everywhere and his circumference nowhere. In the second place, He is omniscient as well as omnipresent. His omniscience indeed necessarily and naturally flows from his omnipresence. He cannot but be conscious of every motion that arises in the whole material world which He thus essentially pervades; and of every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every part of which He is thus intimately united. Several moralists have considered the creation as the temple of God, which He has built, with his own hands, and which is filled with his presence. Others have considered infinite space as the receptacle, or rather the habitation of the Almighty; but the noblest and most exalted way of considering this infinite space, is that of Sir Isaac Newton, who calls it the _se sorium_ of the Godhead. Brutes and men have their _sensoriola_, or little _sensoriums_, by which they apprehend the presence and perceive the actions of a few objects that lie contiguous to them. Their knowledge and observation turn within a very narrow circle. But, as God Almighty cannot but perceive and know everything in which He resides, infinite space gives room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it were, an organ to omniscience. Were the soul separate from the body, and with one glance of thought should start beyond the bounds of the creation, should it millions of years continue its progress through infinite space with the same activity, it would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator, and encompassed round with the immensity of the Godhead. While we are in the body, He is not less present with us, because He is concealed from us. "Oh, that I knew where I might find Him!" says Job. "Behold I go forward, but He is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive Him; on the left hand, where He does work, but I cannot behold Him; He hideth himself on the right hand, that I cannot see Him." In short, reason as well as revelation assures us that He cannot be absent from us, notwithstanding He is undiscovered by us. In this consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but regard everything that has being, especially such of his creatures who fear they are not regarded by Him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular, which is apt to trouble them on this occasion; for, as it is impossible He should overlook any of his creatures, so we may be confident that He regards, with an eye of mercy, those who endeavour to recommend themselves to his notice, and in unfeigned humility of heart think themselves unworthy that He should be mindful of them. _Spectator_. * * * * * THE MILL STREAM. [Illustration] Long trails of cistus flowers Creep on the rocky hill, And beds of strong spearmint Grow round about the mill; And from a mountain tarn above, As peaceful as a dream, Like to a child unruly, Though school'd and counsell'd truly, Roams down the wild mill stream! The wild mill stream it dasheth In merriment away, And keeps the miller and his son So busy all the day. Into the mad mill stream The mountain roses fall; And fern and adder's-tongue Grow on the old mill wall. The tarn is on the upland moor, Where not a leaf doth grow; And through the mountain gashes, The merry mill stream dashes Down to the sea below. But in the quiet hollows The red trout groweth prime, For the miller and the miller's son To angle when they've time. Then fair befall the stream That turns the mountain mill; And fair befall the narrow road That windeth up the hill! And good luck to the countryman, And to his old grey mare, That upward toileth steadily, With meal sacks laden heavily, In storm as well as fair! And good luck to the miller, And to the miller's son; And ever may the mill-wheel turn While mountain waters run! MARY HOWITT. * * * * * ENVY. [Illustration: Letter E.] Envy is almost the only vice which is practicable at all times, and in every place--the only passion which can never lie quiet for want of irritation; its effects, therefore, are everywhere discoverable, and its attempts always to be dreaded. It is impossible to mention a name, which any advantageous distinction has made eminent, but some latent animosity will burst out. The wealthy trader, however he may abstract himself from public affairs, will never want those who hint with Shylock, that ships are but boards, and that no man can properly be termed rich whose fortune is at the mercy of the winds. The beauty adorned only with the unambitious graces of innocence and modesty, provokes, whenever she appears, a thousand murmurs of detraction and whispers of suspicion. The genius, even when he endeavours only to entertain with pleasing; images of nature, or instruct by uncontested principles of science, yet suffers persecution from innumerable critics, whose acrimony is excited merely by the pain of seeing others pleased--of hearing applauses which another enjoys. The frequency of envy makes it so familiar that it escapes our notice; nor do we often reflect upon its turpitude or malignity, till we happen to feel its influence. When he that has given no provocation to malice, but by attempting to excel in some useful art, finds himself pursued by multitudes whom he never saw with implacability of personal resentment; when he perceives clamour and malice let loose upon him as a public enemy, and incited by every stratagem of defamation; when he hears the misfortunes of his family or the follies of his youth exposed to the world; and every failure of conduct, or defect of nature, aggravated and ridiculed; he then learns to abhor those artifices at which he only laughed before, and discovers how much the happiness of life would be advanced by the eradication of envy from the human heart. Envy is, indeed, a stubborn weed of the mind, and seldom yields to the culture of philosophy. There are, however, considerations which, if carefully implanted, and diligently propagated, might in time overpower and repress it, since no one can nurse it for the sake of pleasure, as its effects are only shame, anguish, and perturbation. It is, above all other vices, inconsistent with the character of a social being, because it sacrifices truth and kindness to very weak temptations. He that plunders a wealthy neighbour, gains as much as he takes away, and improves his own condition in the same proportion as he impairs another's; but he that blasts a flourishing reputation, must be content with a small dividend of additional fame, so small as can afford very little consolation to balance the guilt by which it is obtained. I have hitherto avoided mentioning that dangerous and empirical morality, which cures one vice by means of another. But envy is so base and detestable, so vile in its original, and so pernicious in its effects, that the predominance of almost any other quality is to be desired. It is one of those lawless enemies of society, against which poisoned arrows may honestly be used. Let it therefore be constantly remembered, that whoever envies another, confesses his superiority; and let those be reformed by their pride, who have lost their virtue. Almost every other crime is practised by the help of some quality which might have produced esteem or love, if it had been well employed; but envy is a more unmixed and genuine evil; it pursues a hateful end by despicable means, and desires not so much its own happiness as another's misery. To avoid depravity like this, it is not necessary that any one should aspire to heroism or sanctity; but only that he should resolve not to quit the rank which nature assigns, and wish to maintain the dignity of a human being. DR. JOHNSON. * * * * * THE OLIVE. No tree is more frequently mentioned by ancient authors, nor was any more highly honoured by ancient nations, than the olive. By the Greeks it was dedicated to the goddess of wisdom, and formed the crown of honour given to their Emperors and great men, as with the Romans. It is a tree of slow growth, but remarkable for the great age it attains; never, however, becoming a very large tree, though sometimes two or three stems rise from the same root, and reach the height of from twenty to thirty feet. The leaves grow in pairs, lanceolate in shape, of a dull green on the upper, and hoary on the under side. Hence, in countries where the olive is extensively cultivated, the scenery is of a dull character, from this colour of the foliage. The fruit is oval in shape, with a hard strong kernel, and remarkable from the outer fleshy part being that in which much oil is lodged, and not, as is usual, in the seed. It ripens from August to September. Of the olive-tree two varieties are particularly distinguished: the long-leafed, which is cultivated in the south of France and in Italy; and the broad-leafed in Spain, which has its fruit much longer than that of the former kind. [Illustration: OLIVE TREES, GETHSEMANE.] That the olive grows to a great age, has long been known. Pliny mentions one which the Athenians of his time considered to be coëval with their city, and therefore 1600 years old; and near Terni, in the vale of the cascade of Marmora, there is a plantation of very old trees, supposed to consist of the same plants that were growing there in the time of Pliny. Lady Calcott states that on the mountain road between Tivoli and Palestrina, there is an ancient olive-tree of large dimensions, which, unless the documents are purposely falsified, stood as a boundary between two possessions even before the Christian era. Those in the garden of Olivet or Gethsemane are at least of the time of the Eastern Empire, as is proved by the following circumstance:--In Turkey every olive-tree found standing by the Mussulmans, when they conquered Asia, pays one medina to the treasury, while each of those planted since the conquest is taxed half its produce. The eight olives of which we are speaking are charged only eight medinas. By some it is supposed that these olive-trees may have been in existence even in the time of our Saviour; the largest is about thirty feet in girth above the roots, and twenty-seven feet high. * * * * * ACCORDANCE BETWEEN THE SONGS OF BIRDS AND THE DIFFERENT ASPECTS OF THE DAY. [Illustration: Letter T.] There is a beautiful propriety in the order in which Nature seems to have directed the singing-birds to fill up the day with their pleasing harmony. The accordance between their songs and the external aspect of nature, at the successive periods of the day at which they sing, is quite remarkable. And it is impossible to visit the forest or the sequestered dell, where the notes of the feathered tribes are heard to the greatest advantage, without being impressed with the conviction that there is design in the arrangement of this sylvan minstrelsy.-- [Illustration: THE ROBIN.] First the robin (and not the lark, as has been generally imagined), as soon as twilight has drawn its imperceptible line between night and day, begins his lovely song. How sweetly does this harmonise with the soft dawning of the day! He goes on till the twinkling sun-beams begin to tell him that his notes no longer accord with the rising scene. Up starts the lark, and with him a variety of sprightly songsters, whose lively notes are in perfect correspondence with the gaiety of the morning. The general warbling continues, with now and then an interruption by the transient croak of the raven, the scream of the jay, or the pert chattering of the daw. The nightingale, unwearied by the vocal exertions of the night, joins his inferiors in sound in the general harmony. The thrush is wisely placed on the summit of some lofty tree, that its loud and piercing notes may be softened by distance before they reach the ear; while the mellow blackbird seeks the inferior branches. [Illustration: THE LARK.] [Illustration: THE LINNET.] Should the sun, having been eclipsed by a cloud, shine forth with fresh effulgence, how frequently we see the goldfinch perch on some blossomed bough, and hear its song poured forth in a strain peculiarly energetic; while the sun, full shining on his beautiful plumes, displays his golden wings and crimson crest to charming advantage. The notes of the cuckoo blend with this cheering concert in a pleasing manner, and for a short time are highly grateful to the ear. But sweet as this singular song is, it would tire by its uniformity, were it not given in so transient a manner. At length evening advances, the performers gradually retire, and the concert softly dies away. The sun is seen no more. The robin again sends up his twilight song, till the more serene hour of night sets him to the bower to rest. And now to close the scene in full and perfect harmony; no sooner is the voice of the robin hushed, and night again spreads in gloom over the horizon, than the owl sends forth his slow and solemn tones. They are more than plaintive and less than melancholy, and tend to inspire the imagination with a train of contemplations well adapted to the serious hour. Thus we see that birds bear no inconsiderable share in harmonizing some of the most beautiful and interesting scenes in nature. DR. JENNER. * * * * * CHARACTER OF EDWARD VI. Thus died Edward VI., in the sixteenth year of his age. He was counted the wonder of his time; he was not only learned in the tongues and the liberal sciences, but he knew well the state of his kingdom. He kept a table-book, in which he had written the characters of all the eminent men of the nation: he studied fortification, and understood the mint well. He knew the harbours in all his dominions, with the depth of the water, and way of coming into them. He understood foreign affairs so well, that the ambassadors who were sent into England, published very extraordinary things of him in all the courts of Europe. He had great quickness of apprehension, but being distrustful of his memory, he took notes of everything he heard that was considerable, in Greek characters, that those about him might not understand what he writ, which he afterwards copied out fair in the journal that he kept. His virtues were wonderful; when he was made to believe that his uncle was guilty of conspiring the death of the other councillors, he upon that abandoned him. Barnaby Fitzpatrick was his favourite; and when he sent him to travel, he writ oft to him to keep good company, to avoid excess and luxury, and to improve himself in those things that might render him capable of employment at his return. He was afterwards made Lord of Upper Ossory, in Ireland, by Queen Elizabeth, and did answer the hopes this excellent King had of him. He was very merciful in his nature, which appeared in his unwillingness to sign the warrant for burning the Maid of Kent. He took great care to have his debts well paid, reckoning that a Prince who breaks his faith and loses his credit, has thrown up that which he can never recover, and made himself liable to perpetual distrust and extreme contempt. He took special care of the petitions that were given him by poor and opprest people. But his great zeal for religion crowned all the rest--it was a true tenderness of conscience, founded on the love of God and his neighbour. These extraordinary qualities, set off with great sweetness and affability, made him universally beloved by his people. BURNET. * * * * * THE HUNTED STAG. [Illustration: Letter W.] What sounds are on the mountain blast, Like bullet from the arbalast? Was it the hunted quarry past Right up Ben-ledi's side? So near, so rapidly, he dash'd, Yon lichen'd bough has scarcely plash'd Into the torrent's tide. Ay! the good hound may bay beneath, The hunter wind his horn; He dared ye through the flooded Teith, As a warrior in his scorn! Dash the red rowel in the steed! Spur, laggards, while ye may! St. Hubert's staff to a stripling reed, He dies no death to-day! "Forward!" nay, waste not idle breath, Gallants, ye win no greenwood wreath; His antlers dance above the heath, Like chieftain's plumed helm; Right onward for the western peak, Where breaks the sky in one white streak, See, Isabel, in bold relief, To Fancy's eye, Glenartney's chief, Guarding his ancient realm. So motionless, so noiseless there, His foot on rock, his head in air, Like sculptor's breathing stone: Then, snorting from the rapid race, Snuffs the free air a moment's space, Glares grimly on the baffled chase, And seeks the covert lone. Hunting has been a favourite sport in Britain for many centuries. Dyonisius (B.C. 50) tells us that the North Britons lived, in great part, upon the food they procured by hunting. Strabo states that the dogs bred in Britain were highly esteemed on the Continent, on account of their excellent qualities for hunting; and Caesar tells us that venison constituted a great portion of the food of the Britons, who did not eat hares. Hunting was also in ancient times a Royal and noble sport: Alfred the Great hunted at twelve years of age; Athelstan, Edward the Confessor, Harold, William the Conqueror, William Rufus, and John were all good huntsmen; Edward II. reduced hunting to a science, and established rules for its practice; Henry IV. appointed a master of the game; Edward III. hunted with sixty couples of stag-hounds; Elizabeth was a famous huntswoman; and James I. preferred hunting to hawking or shooting. The Bishops and Abbots of the middle ages hunted with great state. Ladies also joined in the chase from the earliest times; and a lady's hunting-dress in the fifteenth century scarcely differed from the riding-habit of the present day. SIR WALTER SCOTT. [Illustration: THE DEER-STALKER'S RETURN.] * * * * * JOHN BUNYAN AND HIS WIFE. [Illustration: Letter E.] Elizabeth his wife, actuated by his undaunted spirit, applied to the House of Lords for his release; and, according to her relation, she was told, "they could do nothing; but that his releasement was committed to the Judges at the next assizes." The Judges were Sir Matthew Hale and Mr. Justice Twisden; and a remarkable contrast appeared between the well-known meekness of the one, and fury of the other. Elizabeth came before them, and, stating her husband's case, prayed for justice: "Judge Twisden," says John Bunyan, "snapt her up, and angrily told her that I was a convicted person, and could not be released unless I would promise to preach no more. _Elizabeth_: 'The Lords told me that releasement was committed to you, and you give me neither releasement nor relief. My husband is unlawfully in prison, and you are bound to discharge him.' _Twisden_: 'He has been lawfully convicted.' _Elizabeth_: 'It is false, for when they said "Do you confess the indictment?" he answered, "At the meetings where he preached, they had God's presence among them."' _Twisden_: 'Will your husband leave preaching? if he will do so, then send for him.' _Elizabeth_: 'My Lord, he dares not leave off preaching as long as he can speak. But, good my Lords, consider that we have four small children, one of them blind, and that they have nothing to live upon while their father is in prison, but the charity of Christian people.' _Sir Matthew Hale_: 'Alas! poor woman.' _Twisden_: 'Poverty is your cloak, for I hear your husband is better maintained by running up and down a-preaching than by following his calling?' _Sir Matthew Hale_: 'What is his calling?' _Elizabeth_: 'A tinker, please you my Lord; and because he is a tinker, and a poor man, therefore he is despised and cannot have justice.' _Sir Matthew Hale_: 'I am truly sorry we can do you no good. Sitting here we can only act as the law gives us warrant; and we have no power to reverse the sentence, although it may be erroneous. What your husband said was taken for a confession, and he stands convicted. There is, therefore, no course for you but to apply to the King for a pardon, or to sue out a writ of error; and, the indictment, or subsequent proceedings, being shown to be contrary to law, the sentence shall be reversed, and your husband shall be set at liberty. I am truly sorry for your pitiable case. I wish I could serve you, but I fear I can do you no good.'" Little do we know what is for our permanent good. Had Bunyan then been discharged and allowed to enjoy liberty, he no doubt would have returned to his trade, filling up his intervals of leisure with field-preaching; his name would not have survived his own generation, and he could have done little for the religious improvement of mankind. The prison doors were shut upon him for twelve years. Being cut off from the external world, he communed with his own soul; and, inspired by Him who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire, he composed the noblest of allegories, the merit of which was first discovered by the lowly, but which is now lauded by the most refined critics, and which has done more to awaken piety, and to enforce the precepts of Christian morality, than all the sermons that have been published by all the prelates of the Anglican Church. LORD CAMPBELL'S _Lives of the Judges._ * * * * * THE LONG-EARED AFRICAN FOX. This singular variety of the Fox was first made known to naturalists in 1820, after the return of De Laland from South Africa. It is an inhabitant of the mountains in the neighbourhood of the Cape of Good Hope, but it is so rare that little is known of its habits in a state of nature. The Engraving was taken from a specimen which has been lately placed in the Zoological Society's gardens in the Regent's Park. It is extremely quick of hearing, and there is something in the general expression of the head which suggests a resemblance to the long-eared bat. Its fur is very thick, and the brush is larger than that of our common European fox. The skin of the fox is in many species very valuable; that of another kind of fox at the Cape of Good Hope is so much in request among the natives as a covering for the cold season, that many of the Bechuanas are solely employed in hunting the animal down with dogs, or laying snares in the places to which it is known to resort. [Illustration] In common with all other foxes, those of Africa are great enemies to birds which lay their eggs upon the ground; and their movements are, in particular, closely watched by the ostrich during the laying season. When the fox has surmounted all obstacles in procuring eggs, he has to encounter the difficulty of getting at their contents; but even for this task his cunning finds an expedient, and it is that of pushing them forcibly along the ground until they come in contact with some substance hard enough to break them, when the contents are speedily disposed of. The natives, from having observed the anxiety of the ostrich to keep this animal from robbing her nest, avail themselves of this solicitude to lure the bird to its destruction; for, seeing that it runs to the nest the instant a fox appears, they fasten a dog near it, and conceal themselves close by, and the ostrich, on approaching to drive away the supposed fox, is frequently shot by the real hunter. The fur of the red fox of America is much valued as an article of trade, and about 8000 are annually imported into England from the fur countries, where the animal is very abundant, especially in the wooded parts. Foxes of various colours are also common in the fur countries of North America, and a rare and valuable variety is the black or silver fox. Dr. Richardson states that seldom more than four or five of this variety are taken in a season at one post, though the hunters no sooner find out the haunts of one, than they use every art to catch it, because its fur fetches six times the price of any other fur produced in North America. This fox is sometimes found of a rich deep glossy black, the tip of the brush alone being white; in general, however, it is silvered over the end of each of the long hairs of the fur, producing a beautiful appearance. The Arctic fox resembles greatly the European species, but is considerably smaller; and, owing to the great quantity of white woolly fur with which it is covered, is somewhat like a little shock dog. The brush is very large and full, affording an admirable covering for the nose and feet, to which it acts as a muff when the animal sleeps. The fur is in the greatest perfection during the months of winter, when the colour gradually becomes from an ashy grey to a full and pure white, and is extremely thick, covering even the soles of the feet. Captain Lyon has given very interesting accounts of the habits of this animal, and describes it as being cleanly and free from any unpleasant smell: it inhabits the most northern lands hitherto discovered. [Illustration: SYRIAN FOX.] * * * * * MOUNT TABOR. The Plain of Esdraelon, in Palestine, is often mentioned in sacred history, as the great battle-field of the Jewish and other nations, under the names of the Valley of Mejiddo and the Valley of Jizreel, and by Josephus as the Great Plain. The convenience of its extent and situation for military action and display has, from the earliest periods of history down to our own day, caused its surface at certain intervals to be moistened with the blood, and covered with the bodies of conflicting warriors of almost every nation under heaven. This extensive plain, exclusive of three great arms which stretch eastward towards the Valley of the Jordan, may be said to be in the form of an acute triangle, having the measure of 13 or 14 miles on the north, about 18 on the east, and above 20 on the south-west. Before the verdure of spring and early summer has been parched up by the heat and drought of the late summer and autumn, the view of the Great Plain is, from its fertility and beauty, very delightful. In June, yellow fields of grain, with green patches of millet and cotton, chequer the landscape like a carpet. The plain itself is almost without villages, but there are several on the slopes of the inclosing hills, especially on the side of Mount Carmel. On the borders of this plain Mount Tabor stands out alone in magnificent grandeur. Seen from the south-west its fine proportions present a semi-globular appearance; but from the north-west it more resembles a truncated cone. By an ancient path, which winds considerably, one may ride to the summit, where is a small oblong plain with the foundations of ancient buildings. The view from the summit is declared by Lord Nugent to be the most splendid he could recollect having ever seen from any natural height. The sides of the mountain are mostly covered with bushes and woods of oak trees, with occasionally pistachio trees, presenting a beautiful appearance, and affording a welcome and agreeable shade. There are various tracks up its sides, often crossing each other, and the ascent generally occupies about an hour. The crest of the mountain is table-land, 600 or 700 yards in height from north to south, and about half as much across, and a flat field of about an acre occurs at a level of some 20 or 25 feet lower than the eastern brow. There are remains of several small ruined tanks on the crest, which still catch the rain water dripping through the crevices of the rock, and preserve it cool and clear, it is said, throughout the year. [Illustration: MOUNT TABOR.] The tops of this range of mountains are barren, but the slopes and valleys afford pasturage, and are capable of cultivation, from the numerous springs which are met with in all directions. Cultivation is, however, chiefly found on the seaward slopes; there many flourishing villages exist, and every inch of ground is turned to account by the industrious natives. [Illustration: FIG TREE.] [Illustration: SYCAMORE.] Here, amidst the crags of the rocks, are to be seen the remains of the renowned cedars with which Lebanon once abounded; but a much larger proportion of firs, sycamores, mulberry trees, fig trees, and vines now exist. * * * * * UNA AND THE LION. [Illustration: Letter S.] She, that most faithful lady, all this while, Forsaken, woful, solitary maid, Far from the people's throng, as in exile, In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray'd To seek her knight; who, subtlely betray'd By that false vision which th' enchanter wrought, Had her abandon'd. She, of nought afraid, Him through the woods and wide wastes daily sought, Yet wish'd for tidings of him--none unto her brought. One day, nigh weary of the irksome way, From her unhasty beast she did alight; And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay In secret shadow, far from all men's sight: From her fair head her fillet she undight, And laid her stole aside; her angel face, As the great eye that lights the earth, shone bright, And made a sunshine in that shady place, That never mortal eye beheld such heavenly grace. It fortun'd that, from out the thicket wood A ramping lion rushed suddenly, And hunting greedy after savage blood, The royal virgin helpless did espy; At whom, with gaping mouth full greedily To seize and to devour her tender corse, When he did run, he stopp'd ere he drew nigh, And loosing all his rage in quick remorse, As with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force. Then coming near, he kiss'd her weary feet, And lick'd her lily hand with fawning tongue, As he her wronged innocence did meet: Oh! how can beauty master the most strong, And simple truth subdue intent of wrong! His proud submission, and his yielded pride, Though dreading death, when she had marked long, She felt compassion in her heart to slide, And drizzling tears to gush that might not be denied. And with her tears she pour'd a sad complaint, That softly echoed from the neighbouring wood; While sad to see her sorrowful constraint, The kingly beast upon her gazing stood: With pity calm'd he lost all angry mood. At length, in close breast shutting up her pain, Arose the virgin born of heavenly brood, And on her snowy palfrey rode again To seek and find her knight, if him she might attain. The lion would not leave her desolate, But with her went along, as a strong guard Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard: Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward, And when she waked, he waited diligent With humble service to her will prepared. From her fair eyes he took commandment, And ever by her looks conceived her intent. SPENSER. * * * * * DANISH ENCAMPMENT. [Illustration: Letter S.] Seven miles from the sea-port of Boston, in Lincolnshire, lies the rural town of Swineshead, once itself a port, the sea having flowed up to the market-place, where there was a harbour. The name of Swineshead is familiar to every reader of English history, from its having been the resting-place of King John, after he lost the whole of his baggage, and narrowly escaped with his life, when crossing the marshes from Lynn to Sleaford, the castle of which latter place was then in his possession. The King halted at the Abbey, close to the town of Swineshead, which place he left on horseback; but being taken ill, was moved in a litter to Sleaford, and thence to his castle at Newark, where he died on the following day, in the year 1216. Apart from this traditional interest, Swineshead has other antiquarian and historical associations. The circular Danish encampment, sixty yards in diameter, surrounded by a double fosse, was, doubtless, a post of importance, when the Danes, or Northmen, carried their ravages through England in the time of Ethelred I., and the whole country passed permanently into the Danish hands about A.D. 877. The incessant inroads of the Danes, who made constant descents on various parts of the coast, burning the towns and villages, and laying waste the country in all directions, led to that stain upon the English character, the Danish massacre. The troops collected to oppose these marauders always lost courage and fled, and their leaders, not seldom, set them the example. In 1002, peace was purchased for a sum of £24,000 and a large supply of provisions. Meantime, the King and his councillors resolved to have recourse to a most atrocious expedient for their future security. It had been the practice of the English Kings, from the time of Athelstane, to have great numbers of Danes in their pay, as guards, or household troops; and these, it is said, they quartered on their subjects, one on each house. The household troops, like soldiers in general, paid great attention to their dress and appearance, and thus became very popular with the generality of people; but they also occasionally behaved with great insolence, and were also strongly suspected of holding secret intelligence with their piratical countrymen. It was therefore resolved to massacre the Hus-carles, as they were called, and their families, throughout England. Secret orders to this effect were sent to all parts, and on St. Brice's day, November 13th, 1002, the Danes were everywhere fallen on and slain. The ties of affinity (for many of them had married and settled in the country) were disregarded; even Gunhilda, sister to Sweyn, King of Denmark, though a Christian, was not spared, and with her last breath she declared that her death would bring the greatest evils upon England. The words of Gunhilda proved prophetic. Sweyn, burning for revenge and glad of a pretext for war, soon made his appearance on the south coast, and during four years he spread devastation through all parts of the country, until the King Ethelred agreed to give him £30,000 and provisions as before for peace, and the realm thus had rest for two years. But this short peace was but a prelude to further disturbances; and indeed for two centuries, dating from the reign of Egbert, England was destined to become a prey to these fierce and fearless invaders. [Illustration: DANISH ENCAMPMENT AT SWINESHEAD, LINCOLNSHIRE.] The old Abbey of Swineshead was demolished in 1610, and the present structure, known as Swineshead Abbey, was built from the materials. * * * * * THE NAMELESS STREAM [Illustration: Letter B.] Beautiful stream! By rock and dell There's not an inch in all thy course I have not track'd. I know thee well: I know where blossoms the yellow gorse; I know where waves the pale bluebell, And where the orchis and violets dwell. I know where the foxglove rears its head, And where the heather tufts are spread; I know where the meadow-sweets exhale, And the white valerians load the gale. I know the spot the bees love best, And where the linnet has built her nest. I know the bushes the grouse frequent, And the nooks where the shy deer browse the bent. I know each tree to thy fountain head-- The lady birches, slim and fair; [Illustration] The feathery larch, the rowans red, The brambles trailing their tangled hair; And each is link'd to my waking thought By some remembrance fancy-fraught. [Illustration] Yet, lovely stream, unknown to fame, Thou hast oozed, and flow'd, and leap'd, and run, Ever since Time its course begun, Without a record, without a name. I ask'd the shepherd on the hill-- He knew thee but as a common rill; I ask'd the farmer's blue-eyed daughter-- She knew thee but as a running water; I ask'd the boatman on the shore (He was never ask'd to tell before)-- Thou wert a brook, and nothing more. Yet, stream, so dear to me alone, I prize and cherish thee none the less That thou flowest unseen, unpraised, unknown, In the unfrequented wilderness. Though none admire and lay to heart How good and beautiful thou art, Thy flow'rets bloom, thy waters run, And the free birds chaunt thy benison. Beauty is beauty, though unseen; And those who love it all their days, Find meet reward in their soul serene, And the inner voice of prayer and praise. * * * * * STAFFA. [Illustration: Letter H.] Having surveyed the various objects in Iona, we sailed for a spot no less interesting. Thousands have described it. Few, however, have seen it by torch or candle light, and in this respect we differ from most tourists. All description, however, of this far-famed wonder must be vain and fruitless. The shades of night were fast descending, and had settled on the still waves and the little group of islets, called the Treshnish Isles, when our vessel approached the celebrated Temple of the Sea. We had light enough to discern its symmetry and proportions; but the colour of the rock--a dark grey--and the minuter graces of the columns, were undistinguishable in the evening gloom. The great face of the rock is the most wonderful production of nature we ever beheld. It reminded us of the west front of York or Lincoln cathedral--a resemblance, perhaps, fanciful in all but the feelings they both excite--especially when the English minster is seen by moonlight. The highest point of Staffa at this view is about one hundred feet; in its centre is the great cave, called Fingal's Cave, stretching up into the interior of the rock a distance of more than 200 feet. After admiring in mute astonishment the columnar proportions of the rock, regular as if chiselled by the hand of art, the passengers entered a small boat, and sailed under the arch. The boatmen had been brought from Iona, and they instantly set themselves to light some lanterns, and form torches of old ropes and tar, with which they completely illuminated the ocean hall, into which we were ushered. The complete stillness of the scene, except the low plashing of the waves; the fitful gleams of light thrown first on the walls and ceiling, as the men moved to and fro along the side of the stupendous cave; the appearance of the varied roof, where different stalactites or petrifactions are visible; the vastness and perfect art or semblance of art of the whole, altogether formed a scene the most sublime, grand, and impressive ever witnessed. The Cathedral of Iona sank into insignificance before this great temple of nature, reared, as if in mockery of the temples of man, by the Almighty Power who laid the beams of his chambers on the waters, and who walketh upon the wings of the wind. Macculloch says that it is with the morning sun only that the great face of Staffa can be seen in perfection; as the general surface is undulating and uneven, large masses of light or shadow are thus produced. We can believe, also, that the interior of the cave, with its broken pillars and variety of tints, and with the green sea rolling over a dark red or violet-coloured rock, must be seen to more advantage in the full light of day. Yet we question whether we could have been more deeply sensible of the beauty and grandeur of the scene than we were under the unusual circumstances we have described. The boatmen sang a Gaelic _joram_ or boat-song in the cave, striking their oars very violently in time with the music, which resounded finely through the vault, and was echoed back by roof and pillar. One of them, also, fired a gun, with the view of producing a still stronger effect of the same kind. When we had fairly satisfied ourselves with contemplating the cave, we all entered the boat and sailed round by the Clamshell Cave (where the basaltic columns are bent like the ribs of a ship), and the Rock of the Bouchaille, or the herdsman, formed of small columns, as regular and as interesting as the larger productions. We all clambered to the top of the rock, which affords grazing for sheep and cattle, and is said to yield a rent of £20 per annum to the proprietor. Nothing but the wide surface of the ocean was visible from our mountain eminence, and after a few minutes' survey we descended, returned to the boat, and after regaining the steam-vessel, took our farewell look of Staffa, and steered on for Tobermory. _Highland Note-Book_. [Illustration: FINGAL'S CAVE, STAFFA.] * * * * * ON CHEERFULNESS. [Illustration: Letter I.] I have always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I consider as an act, the former as a habit of the mind. Mirth is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are often raised into the greatest transports of mirth, who are subject to the greatest depressions of melancholy: on the contrary, cheerfulness, though it does not give the mind such an exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity. Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too wanton and dissolute for a state of probation, and as filled with a certain triumph and insolence of heart that is inconsistent with a life which is every moment obnoxious to the greatest dangers. Writers of this complexion have observed, that the sacred Person who was the great pattern of perfection, was never seen to laugh. Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these exceptions; it is of a serious and composed nature; it does not throw the mind into a condition improper for the present state of humanity, and is very conspicuous in the characters of those who are looked upon as the greatest philosophers among the heathen, as well as among those who have been deservedly esteemed as saints and holy men among Christians. If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard to ourselves, to those we converse with, and the great Author of our being, it will not a little recommend itself on each of these accounts. The man who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind, is not only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers and faculties of the soul; his imagination is always clear, and his judgment undisturbed; his temper is even and unruffled, whether in action or solitude. He comes with a relish to all those goods which nature has provided for him, tastes all the pleasures of the creation which are poured about him, and does not feel the full weight of those accidental evils which may befall him. If we consider him in relation to the persons whom he converses with, it naturally produces love and good-will towards him. A cheerful mind is not only disposed to be affable and obliging, but raises the same good-humour in those who come within its influence. A man finds himself pleased, he does not know why, with the cheerfulness of his companion: it is like a sudden sunshine, that awakens a secret delight in the mind, without her attending to it. The heart rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows out into friendship and benevolence towards the person who has so kindly an effect upon it. When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its third relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant, habitual gratitude to the great Author of nature. There are but two things which, in my opinion, can reasonably deprive us of this cheerfulness of heart. The first of these is the sense of guilt. A man who lives in a state of vice and impenitence, can have no title to that evenness and tranquillity of mind which is the health of the soul, and the natural effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerfulness in an ill man deserves a harder name than language can furnish us with, and is many degrees beyond what we commonly call folly or madness. Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme Being, and consequently of a future state, under whatsoever title it shelters itself, may likewise very reasonably deprive a man of this cheerfulness of temper. There is something so particularly gloomy and offensive to human nature in the prospect of non-existence, that I cannot but wonder, with many excellent writers, how it is possible for a man to outlive the expectation of it. For my own part, I think the being of a God is so little to be doubted, that it is almost the only truth we are sure of, and such a truth as we meet with in every object, in every occurrence, and in every thought. If we look into the characters of this tribe of infidels, we generally find they are made up of pride, spleen, and cavil: it is indeed no wonder that men who are uneasy to themselves, should be so to the rest of the world; and how is it possible for a man to be otherwise than uneasy in himself, who is in danger every moment of losing his entire existence and dropping into nothing? The vicious man and Atheist have therefore no pretence to cheerfulness, and would act very unreasonably should they endeavour after it. It is impossible for any one to live in good-humour and enjoy his present existence, who is apprehensive either of torment or of annihilation--of being miserable or of not being at all. After having mentioned these two great principles, which are destructive of cheerfulness in their own nature, as well as in right reason, I cannot think of any other that ought to banish this happy temper from a virtuous mind. Pain and sickness, shame and reproach, poverty and old age; nay, death itself, considering the shortness of their duration and the advantage we may reap from them, do not deserve the name of evils. A good mind may bear up under them with fortitude, with indolence, and with cheerfulness of heart. The tossing of a tempest does not discompose him, which he is sure will bring him to a joyful harbour. A man who uses his best endeavours to live according to the dictates of virtue and right reason, has two perpetual sources of cheerfulness, in the consideration of his own nature and of that Being on whom he has a dependence. If he looks into himself, he cannot but rejoice in that existence which is so lately bestowed upon him, and which, after millions of ages, will be still new and still in its beginning. How many self-congratulations naturally arise in the mind when it reflects on this its entrance into eternity, when it takes a view of those improvable faculties which in a few years, and even at its first setting out, have made so considerable a progress, and which will be still receiving an increase of perfection, and consequently an increase of happiness! The consciousness of such a being spreads a perpetual diffusion of joy through the soul of a virtuous man, and makes him look upon himself every moment as more happy than he knows how to conceive. The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind is its consideration of that Being on whom we have our dependence, and in whom, though we behold Him as yet but in the first faint discoveries of his perfections, we see every thing that we can imagine as great, glorious, and amiable. We find ourselves every where upheld by his goodness and surrounded with an immensity of love and mercy. In short, we depend upon a Being whose power qualifies Him to make us happy by an infinity of means, whose goodness and truth engage Him to make those happy who desire it of Him, and whose unchangeableness will secure us in this happiness to all eternity. Such considerations, which every one should perpetually cherish in his thoughts, will banish from us all that secret heaviness of heart which unthinking men are subject to when they lie under no real affliction, all that anguish which we may feel from any evil that actually oppresses us, to which I may likewise add those little cracklings of mirth and folly, that are apter to betray virtue than support it; and establish in us such an even and cheerful temper, as makes us pleasing to ourselves, to those with whom we converse, and to Him whom we are made to please. ADDISON. * * * * * STONY CROSS. [Illustration: Letter T.] This is the place where King William Rufus was accidentally shot by Sir Walter Tyrrel. There has been much controversy on the details of this catastrophe; but the following conclusions, given in the "Pictorial History of England," appear to be just:--"That the King was shot by an arrow in the New Forest; that his body was abandoned and then hastily interred, are facts perfectly well authenticated; but some doubts may be entertained as to the precise circumstances attending his death, notwithstanding their being minutely related by writers who were living at the time, or who flourished in the course of the following century. Sir Walter Tyrrel afterwards swore, in France, that he did not shoot the arrow; but he was, probably, anxious to relieve himself from the odium of killing a King, even by accident. It is quite possible, indeed, that the event did not arise from chance, and that Tyrrel had no part in it. The remorseless ambition of Henry might have had recourse to murder, or the avenging shaft might have been sped by the desperate hand of some Englishman, tempted by a favourable opportunity and the traditions of the place. But the most charitable construction is, that the party were intoxicated with the wine they had drunk at Malwood-Keep, and that, in the confusion consequent on drunkenness, the King was hit by a random arrow." In that part of the Forest near Stony Cross, at a short distance from Castle Malwood, formerly stood an oak, which tradition affirmed was the tree against which the arrow glanced that caused the death of Rufus. Charles II. directed the tree to be encircled by a paling: it has disappeared; but the spot whereon the tree grew is marked by a triangular stone, about five feet high, erected by Lord Delaware, upwards of a century ago. The stone has since been faced with an iron casting of the following inscription upon the three sides:-- "Here stood the oak-tree on which an arrow, shot by Sir Walter Tyrrel at a stag, glanced and struck King William II., surnamed Rufus, on the breast; of which stroke he instantly died, on the 2nd of August, 1100. "King William II., surnamed Rufus, being slain, as before related, was laid in a cart belonging to one Purkess, and drawn from hence to Winchester, and buried in the cathedral church of that city. "That where an event so memorable had happened might not hereafter be unknown, this stone was set up by John Lord Delaware, who had seen the tree growing in this place, anno 1745." Stony Cross is a favourite spot for pic-nic parties in the summer. It lies seven miles from Ringwood, on a wide slope among the woods. From the road above, splendid views over the country present themselves. [Illustration: STONY CROSS, NEW FOREST.] * * * * * GELERT. [Illustration: Letter T.] The spearman heard the bugle sound, And cheerily smiled the morn; And many a brach, and many a hound, Attend Llewellyn's horn. And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a louder cheer: "Come, Gelert! why art thou the last Llewellyn's horn to hear? "Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam-- The flower of all his race! So true, so brave--a lamb at home, A lion in the chase?" That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart or hare; And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there. Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied, When, near the portal-seat, His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet. But when he gained the castle-door, Aghast the chieftain stood; The hound was smear'd with gouts of gore-- His lips and fangs ran blood! Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, Unused such looks to meet; His favourite check'd his joyful guise, And crouch'd and lick'd his feet. Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd (And on went Gelert too), And still where'er his eyes were cast, Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view! O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found, The blood-stain'd cover rent, And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent. He call'd his child--no voice replied; He search'd--with terror wild; Blood! blood! he found on every side, But nowhere found the child! "Hell-hound! by thee my child's devour'd!" The frantic father cried, And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side! His suppliant, as to earth he fell, No pity could impart; But still his Gelert's dying yell Pass'd heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Some slumberer waken'd nigh: What words the parent's joy can tell, To hear his infant cry! Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap, His hurried search had miss'd: All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kiss'd! Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread; But the same couch beneath Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead-- Tremendous still in death! [Illustration: SYRIAN WOLF.] Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain, For now the truth was clear; The gallant hound the wolf had slain To save Llewellyn's heir. Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe-- "Best of thy kind, adieu! The frantic deed which laid thee low, This heart shall ever rue!" And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture deck'd; And marbles, storied with his praise, Poor Gelert's bones protect. Here never could the spearman pass, Or forester, unmoved; Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewellyn's sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear; And oft, as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would hear Poor Gelert's dying yell. W. SPENCER. * * * * * THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA. [Illustration: Letter T.] The important feature which the Great Wall makes in the map of China, entitles this vast barrier to be considered in a geographical point of view, as it bounds the whole north of China along the frontiers of three provinces. It was built by the first universal Monarch of China, and finished about 205 years before Christ: the period of its completion is an historical fact, as authentic as any of those which the annals of ancient kingdoms have transmitted to posterity. It was built to defend the Chinese Empire from the incursions of the Tartars, and is calculated to be 1500 miles in length. The rapidity with which this work was completed is as astonishing as the wall itself, for it is said to have been done in five years, by many millions of labourers, the Emperor pressing three men out of every ten, in his dominions, for its execution. For about the distance of 200 leagues, it is generally built of stone and brick, with strong square towers, sufficiently near for mutual defence, and having besides, at every important pass, a formidable and well-built fortress. In many places, in this line and extent, the wall is double, and even triple; but from the province of Can-sih to its eastern extremity, it is nothing but a terrace of earth, of which the towers on it are also constructed. The Great Wall, which has now, even in its best parts, numerous breaches, is made of two walls of brick and masonry, not above a foot and a half in thickness, and generally many feet apart; the interval between them is filled up with earth, making the whole appear like solid masonry and brickwork. For six or seven feet from the earth, these are built of large square stones; the rest is of blue brick, the mortar used in which is of excellent quality. The wall itself averages about 20 feet in height, 25 feet in thickness at the base, which diminishes to 15 feet at the platform, where there is a parapet wall; the top is gained by stairs and inclined planes. The towers are generally about 40 feet square at the base, diminishing to 30 feet a the top, and are, including battlements, 37 feet in height. At some spots the towers consist of two stories, and are thus much higher. The wall is in many places carried over the tops of the highest and most rugged rocks; and one of these elevated regions is 5000 feet above the level of the sea. [Illustration: MILITARY MANDARIN.] [Illustration: THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA.] Near each of the gates is a village or town; and at one of the principal gates, which opens on the road towards India, is situated Sinning-fu, a city of large extent and population. Here the wall is said to be sufficiently broad at the top to admit six horsemen abreast, who might without inconvenience ride a race. The esplanade on its top is much frequented by the inhabitants, and the stairs which give ascent are very broad and convenient. [Illustration: CHINESE SOLDIER.] * * * * * THE TOMBS OF PAUL AND VIRGINIA. [Illustration: Letter T.] This delicious retreat in the island of Mauritius has no claims to the celebrity it has attained. It is not the burial-place of Paul and Virginia; and the author of "Recollections of the Mauritius" thus endeavours to dispel the illusion connected with the spot:-- [Illustration: TOMBS OF PAUL AND VIRGINIA.] "After having allowed his imagination to depict the shades of Paul and Virginia hovering about the spot where their remains repose--after having pleased himself with the idea that he had seen those celebrated tombs, and given a sigh to the memory of those faithful lovers, separated in life, but in death united--after all this waste of sympathy, he learns at last that he has been under a delusion the whole time--that no Virginia was there interred--and that it is a matter of doubt whether there ever existed such a person as Paul! What a pleasing illusion is then dispelled! How many romantic dreams, inspired by the perusal of St. Pierre's tale, are doomed to vanish when the truth is ascertained! The fact is, that these tombs have been built to gratify the eager desire which the English have always evinced to behold such interesting mementoes. Formerly only one was erected; but the proprietor of the place, finding that all the English visitors, on being conducted to this, as the tomb of Virginia, always asked to see that of Paul also, determined on building a similar one, to which he gave that appellation. Many have been the visitors who have been gratified, consequently, by the conviction that they had looked on the actual burial-place of that unfortunate pair. These 'tombs' are scribbled over with the names of the various persons who have visited them, together with verses and pathetic ejaculations and sentimental remarks. St. Pierre's story of the lovers is very prettily written, and his description of the scenic beauties of the island are correct, although not even his pen can do full justice to them; but there is little truth in the tale. It is said that there was indeed a young lady sent from the Mauritius to France for education, during the time that Monsieur de la Bourdonnais was governor of the colony--that her name was Virginia, and that she was shipwrecked in the _St. Geran_. I heard something of a young man being attached to her, and dying of grief for her loss; but that part of the story is very doubtful. The 'Bay of the Tomb,' the 'Point of Endeavour,' the 'Isle of Amber,' and the 'Cape of Misfortune,' still bear the same names, and are pointed out as the memorable spots mentioned by St. Pierre." [Illustration: Letter O.] Oh! gentle story of the Indian Isle! I loved thee in my lonely childhood well, On the sea-shore, when day's last purple smile Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell And dying cadence lent a deeper spell Unto thine ocean pictures. 'Midst thy palms And strange bright birds my fancy joy'd to dwell, And watch the southern Cross through midnight calms, And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless'd Thy vision of sweet love--kind, trustful, true-- Lighting the citron-groves--a heavenly guest-- With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. Even then my young heart wept o'er this world's power, To reach and blight that holiest Eden flower. MRS. HEMANS. * * * * * THE MANGOUSTE. The Mangoustes, or Ichneumons, are natives of the hotter parts of the Old World, the species being respectively African and Indian. In their general form and habits they bear a great resemblance to the ferrets, being bold, active, and sanguinary, and unrelenting destroyers of birds, reptiles, and small animals, which they take by surprise, darting rapidly upon them. Beautiful, cleanly, and easily domesticated, they are often kept tame in the countries they naturally inhabit, for the purpose of clearing the houses of vermin, though the poultry-yard is not safe from their incursions. The Egyptian mangouste is a native of North Africa, and was deified for its services by the ancient Egyptians. Snakes, lizards, birds, crocodiles newly hatched, and especially the eggs of crocodiles, constitute its food. It is a fierce and daring animal, and glides with sparkling eyes towards its prey, which it follows with snake-like progression; often it watches patiently for hours together, in one spot, waiting the appearance of a mouse, rat, or snake, from its lurking-place. In a state of domestication it is gentle and affectionate, and never wanders from the house or returns to an independent existence; but it makes itself familiar with every part of the premises, exploring every hole and corner, inquisitively peeping into boxes and vessels of all kinds, and watching every movement or operation. [Illustration: THE MANGOUSTE.] The Indian mangouste is much less than the Egyptian, and of a beautiful freckled gray. It is not more remarkable for its graceful form and action, than for the display of its singular instinct for hunting for and stealing eggs, from which it takes the name of egg-breaker. Mr. Bennett, in his account of one of the mangoustes kept in the Tower, says, that on one occasion it killed no fewer than a dozen full-grown rats, which were loosened to it in a room sixteen feet square, in less than a minute and a half. Another species of the mangouste, found in the island of Java, inhabiting the large teak forests, is greatly admired by the natives for its agility. It attacks and kills serpents with excessive boldness. It is very expert in burrowing in the ground, which process it employs ingeniously in the pursuit of rats. It possesses great natural sagacity, and, from the peculiarities of its character, it willingly seeks the protection of man. It is easily tamed, and in its domestic state is very docile and attached to its master, whom it follows like a dog; it is fond of caresses, and frequently places itself erect on its hind legs, regarding every thing that passes with great attention. It is of a very restless disposition, and always carries its food to the most retired place to consume it, and is very cleanly in its habits; but it is exclusively carnivorous and destructive to poultry, employing great artifice in surprising chickens. * * * * * CULLODEN. [Illustration: Letter C.] Culloden Moor--the battle-field--lies eastward about a mile from Culloden House. After an hour's climbing up the heathy brae, through a scattered plantation of young trees, clambering over stone dykes, and jumping over moorland rills and springs, oozing from the black turf and streaking its sombre surface with stripes of green, we found ourselves on the table-land of the moor--a broad, bare level, garnished with a few black huts, and patches of scanty oats, won by patient industry from the waste. We should premise, however, that there are some fine glimpses of rude mountain scenery in the course of the ascent. The immediate vicinage of Culloden House is well wooded; the Frith spreads finely in front; the Ross-shire hills assume a more varied and commanding aspect; and Ben Wyvis towers proudly over his compeers, with a bold pronounced character. Ships were passing and re-passing before us in the Frith, the birds were singing blithely overhead, and the sky was without a cloud. Under the cheering influence of the sun, stretched on the warm, blooming, and fragrant heather, we gazed with no common interest and pleasure on this scene. On the moor all is bleak and dreary--long, flat, wide, unvarying. The folly and madness of Charles and his followers, in risking a battle on such ground, with jaded, unequal forces, half-starved, and deprived of rest the preceding night, has often been remarked, and is at one glance perceived by the spectator. The Royalist artillery and cavalry had full room to play, for not a knoll or bush was there to mar their murderous aim. Mountains and fastnesses were on the right, within a couple of hours' journey, but a fatality had struck the infatuated bands of Charles; dissension and discord were in his councils; and a power greater than that of Cumberland had marked them for destruction. But a truce to politics; the grave has closed over victors and vanquished: "Culloden's dread echoes are hush'd on the moors;" and who would awaken them with the voice of reproach, uttered over the dust of the slain? The most interesting memorials of the contest are the green grassy mounds which mark the graves of the slain Highlanders, and which are at once distinguished from the black heath around by the freshness and richness of their verdure. One large pit received the Frasers, and another was dug for the Macintoshes. _Highland Note-Book_. [Illustration] * * * * * ATHENS. The most striking object in Athens is the Acropolis, or Citadel--a rock which rises abruptly from the plain, and is crowned with the Parthenon. This was a temple dedicated to the goddess Minerva, and was built of the hard white marble of Pentelicus. It suffered from the ravages of war between the Turks and Venetians, and also more recently in our own time. The remnant of the sculptures which decorated the pediments, with a large part of the frieze, and other interesting remains, are now in what is called the Elgin collection of the British Museum. During the embassy of Lord Elgin at Constantinople, he obtained permission from the Turkish government to proceed to Athens for the purpose of procuring casts from the most celebrated remains of sculpture and architecture which still existed at Athens. Besides models and drawings which he made, his Lordship collected numerous pieces of Athenian sculpture in statues, capitals, cornices, &c., and these he very generously presented to the English Government, thus forming a school of Grecian art in London, to which there does not at present exist a parallel. In making this collection he was stimulated by seeing the destruction into which these remains were sinking, through the influence of Turkish barbarism. Some fine statues in the Parthenon had been pounded down for mortar, on account of their affording the whitest marble within reach, and this mortar was employed in the construction of miserable huts. At one period the Parthenon was converted into a powder magazine by the Turks, and in consequence suffered severely from an explosion in 1656, which carried away the roof of the right wing. [Illustration: ATHENS.] At the close of the late Greek war Athens was in a dreadful state, being little more than a heap of ruins. It was declared by a Royal ordinance of 1834 to be the capital of the new kingdom of Greece, and in the March of that year the King laid the foundation-stone of his palace there. In the hill of Areopagus, where sat that famous tribunal, we may still discover the steps cut in the rock by which it was ascended, the seats of the judges, and opposite to them those of the accuser and accused. This hill was converted into a burial-place for the Turks, and is covered with their tombs. Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might--thy grand in soul? Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were-- First in the race that led to Glory's goal; They won, and passed away. Is this the whole? A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. Here let me sit, upon this massy stone, The marble column's yet unshaken base; Here, son of Saturn, was thy fav'rite throne-- Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. It may not be--nor ev'n can Fancy's eye Restore what time hath labour'd to deface: Yet these proud pillars, claiming sigh, Unmoved the Moslem sits--the light Greek carols by. BYRON. [Illustration: THE PNYX AT ATHENS.] * * * * * THE ISLES OF GREECE. [Illustration: Letter T.] The Isles of Greece! the Isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung-- Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all except their sun is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute, To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." The mountains look on Marathon-- And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persian's grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A King sat on the rocky brow, Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships by thousands lay below, And men in nations--all were his! He counted them at break of day-- And when the sun set, where were they? And where were they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now-- The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear. Must _we_ but weep o'er days more blest? Must _we_ but blush?--Our fathers bled Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae! What! silent still? and silent all? Ah! no!--the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head-- But one--arise! we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain--in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call-- How answers each bold Bacchanal? You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave-- Think ye he meant them for a slave? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine; He served--but served Polycrates-- A tyrant: but our masters then Were still at least our countrymen. The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend-- That tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock and Perga's shore Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidian blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks-- They have a King who buys and sells; In native swords and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells: But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves! Place me on Sunium's marble steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There swan-like let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-- Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! BYRON. [Illustration: CORINTH.] * * * * * THE SIEGE OF ANTIOCH. [Illustration: Letter B.] Baghasihan, the Turkish Prince, or Emir of Antioch, had under his command an Armenian of the name of Phirouz, whom he had entrusted with the defence of a tower on that part of the city wall which overlooked the passes of the mountains. Bohemund, by means of a spy, who had embraced the Christian religion, and to whom he had given his own name at baptism, kept up a daily communication with this captain, and made him the most magnificent promises of reward if he would deliver up his post to the Crusaders. Whether the proposal was first made by Bohemund or by the Armenian, is uncertain, but that a good understanding soon existed between them is undoubted; and a night was fixed for the execution of the project. Bohemund communicated the scheme to Godfrey and the Count of Toulouse, with the stipulation that, if the city were won, he, as the soul of the enterprise, should enjoy the dignity of Prince of Antioch. The other leaders hesitated: ambition and jealousy prompted them to refuse their aid in furthering the views of the intriguer. More mature consideration decided them to acquiesce, and seven hundred of the bravest knights were chosen for the expedition, the real object of which, for fear of spies, was kept a profound secret from the rest of the army. [Illustration: ANTIOCH.] Everything favoured the treacherous project of the Armenian captain, who, on his solitary watch-tower, received due intimation of the approach of the Crusaders. The night was dark and stormy: not a star was visible above; and the wind howled so furiously as to overpower all other sounds. The rain fell in torrents, and the watchers on the towers adjoining to that of Phirouz could not hear the tramp of the armed knights for the wind, nor see them for the obscurity of the night and the dismalness of the weather. When within bow-shot of the walls, Bohemund sent forward an interpreter to confer with the Armenian. The latter urged them to make haste and seize the favourable interval, as armed men, with lighted torches, patrolled the battlements every half-hour, and at that instant they had just passed. The chiefs were instantly at the foot of the wall. Phirouz let down a rope; Bohemund attached to it a ladder of hides, which was then raised by the Armenian, and held while the knights mounted. A momentary fear came over the spirits of the adventurers, and every one hesitated; at last Bohemund, encouraged by Phirouz from above, ascended a few steps on the ladder, and was followed by Godfrey, Count Robert of Flanders, and a number of other knights. As they advanced, others pressed forward, until their weight became too great for the ladder, which, breaking, precipitated about a dozen of them to the ground, where they fell one upon the other, making a great clatter with their heavy coats of mail. For a moment they thought all was lost; but the wind made so loud a howling, as it swept in fierce gusts through the mountain gorges, and the Orontes, swollen by the rain, rushed so noisily along, that the guards heard nothing. The ladder was easily repaired, and the knights ascended, two at a time, and reached the platform in safety. When sixty of them had thus ascended, the torch of the coming patrol was seen to gleam at the angle of the wall. Hiding themselves behind a buttress, they awaited his coming in breathless silence. As soon as he arrived at arm's length, he was suddenly seized; and before he could open his lips to raise an alarm, the silence of death closed them up for ever. They next descended rapidly the spiral staircase of the tower, and, opening the portal, admitted the whole of their companions. Raymond of Toulouse, who, cognizant of the whole plan, had been left behind with the main body of the army, heard at this instant the signal horn, which announced that an entry had been effected, and advancing with his legions, the town was attacked from within and from without. Imagination cannot conceive a scene more dreadful than that presented by the devoted city of Antioch on that night of horror. The Crusaders fought with a blind fury, which fanaticism and suffering alike incited. Men, women, and children were indiscriminately slaughtered, till the streets ran in gore. Darkness increased the destruction; for, when the morning dawned the Crusaders found themselves with their swords at the breasts of their fellow-soldiers, whom they had mistaken to be foes. The Turkish commander fled, first to the citadel, and, that becoming insecure, to the mountains, whither he was pursued and slain, and his gory head brought back to Antioch as a trophy. At daylight the massacre ceased, and the Crusaders gave themselves up to plunder. _Popular Delusions_. * * * * * ANGLING. [Illustration: Letter G.] Go, take thine angle, and with practised line, Light as the gossamer, the current sweep; And if thou failest in the calm, still deep, In the rough eddy may a prize be thine. Say thou'rt unlucky where the sunbeams shine; Beneath the shadow where the waters creep Perchance the monarch of the brook shall leap-- For Fate is ever better than Design. Still persevere; the giddiest breeze that blows For thee may blow with fame and fortune rife. Be prosperous; and what reck if it arose Out of some pebble with the stream at strife, Or that the light wind dallied with the boughs: Thou art successful--such is human life. DOUBLEDAY. * * * * * MARIANA. Mariana in the moated grange.--_Measure for Measure_. [Illustration] With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all; The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange-- Uplifted was the clinking latch, Weeded and worn the ancient thatch, Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary-- He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, weary, I would that I were dead!" Her tears fell with the dews at even-- Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary-- He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, weary, I would that I were dead!" Upon the middle of the night, Waking, she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light; From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her. Without hope of change, In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, weary, I would that I were dead!" About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept; And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by, a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark; For leagues, no other tree did dark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary-- He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, weary, I would that I were dead!" And ever, when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away In the white curtain, to and fro She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary-- He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, weary, I would that I were dead!" All day, within the dreary house, The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue-fly sang i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mould'ring wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd through the doors; Old footsteps trod the upper floors; Old voices called her from without: She only said, "My life is dreary-- He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, weary, I would that I were dead!" The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moated sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping towards his western bower. Then said she, "I am very dreary-- He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, weary, I would that I were dead!" TENNYSON. * * * * * RISE OF POETRY AMONG THE ROMANS. The Romans, in the infancy of their state, were entirely rude and unpolished. They came from shepherds; they were increased from the refuse of the nations around them; and their manners agreed with their original. As they lived wholly on tilling their ground at home, or on plunder from their neighbours, war was their business, and agriculture the chief art they followed. Long after this, when they had spread their conquests over a great part of Italy, and began to make a considerable figure in the world--even their great men retained a roughness, which they raised into a virtue, by calling it Roman spirit; and which might often much better have been called Roman barbarity. It seems to me, that there was more of austerity than justice, and more of insolence than courage, in some of their most celebrated actions. However that be, this is certain, that they were at first a nation of soldiers and husbandmen: roughness was long an applauded character among them; and a sort of rusticity reigned, even in their senate-house. [Illustration: ANCIENT ROMAN CENTURION.] In a nation originally of such a temper as this, taken up almost always in extending their territories, very often in settling the balance of power among themselves, and not unfrequently in both these at the same time, it was long before the politer arts made any appearance; and very long before they took root or flourished to any degree. Poetry was the first that did so; but such a poetry as one might expect among a warlike, busied, unpolished people. Not to enquire about the songs of triumph mentioned even in Romulus's time, there was certainly something of poetry among them in the next reign, under Numa; a Prince who pretended to converse with the Muses as well as with Egeria, and who might possibly himself have made the verses which the Salian priests sang in his time. Pythagoras, either in the same reign, or if you please some time after, gave the Romans a tincture of poetry as well as of philosophy; for Cicero assures us that the Pythagoreans made great use of poetry and music; and probably they, like our old Druids, delivered most of their precepts in verse. Indeed, the chief employment of poetry in that and the following ages, among the Romans, was of a religious kind. Their very prayers, and perhaps their whole liturgy, was poetical. They had also a sort of prophetic or sacred writers, who seem to have written generally in verse; and were so numerous that there were above two thousand of their volumes remaining even to Augustus's time. They had a kind of plays too, in these early times, derived from what they had seen of the Tuscan actors when sent for to Rome to expiate a plague that raged in the city. These seem to have been either like our dumb-shows, or else a kind of extempore farces--a thing to this day a good deal in use all over Italy and in Tuscany. In a more particular manner, add to these that extempore kind of jesting dialogues begun at their harvest and vintage feasts, and carried on so rudely and abusively afterwards as to occasion a very severe law to restrain their licentiousness; and those lovers of poetry and good eating, who seem to have attended the tables of the richer sort, much like the old provincial poets, or our own British bards, and sang there to some instrument of music the achievements of their ancestors, and the noble deeds of those who had gone before them, to inflame others to follow their great examples. [Illustration: ANCIENT ROMAN SHOES.] [Illustration: ANCIENT ROMAN TORCHES.] [Illustration: ANCIENT ROMAN DRINKING-BOTTLE.] [Illustration: ANCIENT ALABASTER BOX.] The names of almost all these poets sleep in peace with all their works; and, if we may take the word of the other Roman writers of a better age, it is no great loss to us. One of their best poets represents them as very obscure and very contemptible; one of their best historians avoids quoting them as too barbarous for politer ears; and one of their most judicious emperors ordered the greatest part of their writings to be burnt, that the world might be troubled with them no longer. All these poets, therefore, may very well be dropped in the account, there being nothing remaining of their works, and probably no merit to be found in them if they had remained. And so we may date the beginning of the Roman poetry from Livius Andronicus, the first of their poets of whom anything does remain to us; and from whom the Romans themselves seem to have dated the beginning of their poetry, even in the Augustan age. [Illustration: ANCIENT ROMAN MILL.] The first kind of poetry that was followed with any success among the Romans, was that for the stage. They were a very religious people; and stage plays in those times made no inconsiderable part in their public devotions; it is hence, perhaps, that the greatest number of their oldest poets, of whom we have any remains, and, indeed, almost all of them, are dramatic poets. SPENCE. * * * * * CHARACTER OF JULIUS CAESAR. [Illustration: Letter C.] Caesar was endowed with every great and noble quality that could exalt human nature, and give a man the ascendant in society. Formed to excel in peace as well as war; provident in council; fearless in action, and executing what he had resolved with an amazing celerity; generous beyond measure to his friends; placable to his enemies; and for parts, learning, and eloquence, scarce inferior to any man. His orations were admired for two qualities, which are seldom found together, strength and elegance: Cicero ranks him among the greatest orators that Rome ever bred; and Quintilian says, that he spoke with the same force with which he fought; and if he had devoted himself to the bar, would have been the only man capable of rivalling Cicero. Nor was he a master only of the politer arts; but conversant also with the most abstruse and critical parts of learning; and, among other works which he published, addressed two books to Cicero on the analogy of language, or the art of speaking and writing correctly. He was a most liberal patron of wit and learning, wheresoever they were found; and out of his love of those talents, would readily pardon those who had employed them against himself; rightly judging, that by making such men his friends, he should draw praises from the same fountain from which he had been aspersed. His capital passions were ambition and love of pleasure, which he indulged in their turns to the greatest excess; yet the first was always predominant--to which he could easily sacrifice all the charms of the second, and draw pleasure even from toils and dangers, when they ministered to his glory. For he thought Tyranny, as Cicero says, the greatest of goddesses; and had frequently in his mouth a verse of Euripides, which expressed the image of his soul, that if right and justice were ever to be violated, they were to be violated for the sake of reigning. This was the chief end and purpose of his life--the scheme that he had formed from his early youth; so that, as Cato truly declared of him, he came with sobriety and meditation to the subversion of the republic. He used to say, that there were two things necessary to acquire and to support power--soldiers and money; which yet depended mutually upon each other: with money, therefore, he provided soldiers, and with soldiers extorted money, and was, of all men, the most rapacious in plundering both friends and foes; sparing neither prince, nor state, nor temple, nor even private persons who were known to possess any share of treasure. His great abilities would necessarily have made him one of the first citizens of Rome; but, disdaining the condition of a subject, he could never rest till he made himself a Monarch. In acting this last part, his usual prudence seemed to fail him; as if the height to which he was mounted had turned his head and made him giddy; for, by a vain ostentation of his power, he destroyed the stability of it; and, as men shorten life by living too fast, so by an intemperance of reigning he brought his reign to a violent end. MIDDLETON. [Illustration: COIN OF CAESAR AUGUSTUS.] [Illustration: COIN OF THE EMPEROR TIBERIUS.] * * * * * SIEGE OF TYRE. It appeared to Alexander a matter of great importance, before he went further, to gain the maritime powers. Upon application, the Kings of Cyprus and Phoenicea made their submission; only Tyre held out. He besieged that city seven months, during which time he erected vast mounds of earth, plied it with his engines, and invested it on the side next the sea with two hundred gallies. He had a dream in which he saw Hercules offering him his hand from the wall, and inviting him to enter; and many of the Tyrians dreamt "that Apollo declared he would go over to Alexander, because he was displeased with their behaviour in the town," Hereupon, the Tyrians, as if the God had been a deserter taken in the fact, loaded his statue with chains, and nailed the feet to the pedestal, not scrupling to call him an _Alexandrist_. In another dream, Alexander thought he saw a satyr playing before him at some distance, and when he advanced to take him, the savage eluded his grasp. However, at last, after much coaxing and taking many circuits round him, be prevailed with him to surrender himself. The interpreters, plausibly enough, divided the Greek name for _satyr_ into two, _Sa Tyros_, which signifies _Tyre is thine_. They still show us a fountain near which Alexander is said to have seen that vision. [Illustration: CITY OF TYRE.] About the middle of the siege, he made an excursion against the Arabians who dwelt about Anti-Libanus. Here he ran a great risk of his life, on account of his preceptor Lysimachus, who insisted on attending him--being, as he alleged, neither older nor less valiant than Phoenix; but when they came to the hills and quitted their horses to march up on foot, the rest of the party got far before Alexander and Lysimachus. Night came on, and, as the enemy was at no great distance, the King would not leave his preceptor, borne down with fatigue and with the weight of years. Therefore, while he was encouraging and helping him forward, he was insensibly separated from the troop, and had a cold and dark night to pass in an exposed and dismal situation. In this perplexity, he observed at a distance a number of scattered fires which the enemy had lighted; and depending upon his swiftness and activity as well as being accustomed to extricate the Macedonians out of every difficulty, by taking a share in the labour and danger, he ran to the next fire. After having killed two of the barbarians who watched it, he seized a lighted brand and hastened with it to his party, who soon kindled a great fire. The sight of this so intimidated the enemy, that many of them fled, and those who ventured to attack him were repulsed with considerable slaughter. By this means he passed the night in safety, according to the account we have from Charis. [Illustration: COIN OF TYRE.] As for the siege, it was brought to a termination in this manner: Alexander had permitted his main body to repose themselves after the long and severe fatigues they had undergone, and ordered only some small parties to keep the Tyrians in play. In the meantime, Aristander, his principal soothsayer, offered sacrifices; and one day, upon inspecting the entrails of the victim, he boldly asserted among those around him that the city would certainly be taken that month. As it happened to be the last day of that month, his assertion was received with ridicule and scorn. The King perceiving he was disconcerted, and making it a point to bring the prophecies of his minister to completion, gave orders that the day should not be called the 30th, but the 28th of the month; at the same time he called out his forces by sound of trumpet, and made a much more vigorous assault than he at first intended. The attack was violent, and those who were left behind in the camp quitted it, to have a share in it and to support their fellow-soldiers, insomuch that the Tyrians were forced to give out, and the city was taken that very day. LANGHORNE'S _Plutarch_. * * * * * THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. [Illustration: Letter T.] The river Niagara takes its rise in the western extremity of Lake Erie, and, after flowing about thirty-four miles, empties itself into Lake Ontario. It is from half a mile to three miles broad; its course is very smooth, and its depth considerable. The sides above the cataract are nearly level; but below the falls, the stream rushes between very lofty rocks, crowned by gigantic trees. The great body of water does not fall in one complete sheet, but is separated by islands, and forms three distinct falls. One of these, called the Great Fall, or, from its shape, the Horse-shoe Fall, is on the Canadian side. Its beauty is considered to surpass that of the others, although its height is considerably less. It is said to have a fall of 165 feet; and in the inn, which is about 300 yards from the fall, the concussion of air caused by this immense cataract is so great, that the window-frames, and, indeed, the whole house, are continually in a tremulous motion, and in winter, when the wind drives the spray in the direction of the buildings, the whole scene is coated with sheets of ice. [Illustration: THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.] The great cataract is seen by few travellers in its winter garb. I had seen it several years before in all the glories of autumn, its encircling woods, happily spared by the remorseless hatchet, and tinted with the brilliant hues peculiar to the American "Fall." Now the glory had departed; the woods were still there, but were generally black, with occasional green pines; beneath the grey trunks was spread a thick mantle of snow, and from the brown rocks inclosing the deep channel of the Niagara River hung huge clusters of icicles, twenty feet in length, like silver pipes of giant organs. The tumultuous rapids appeared to descend more regularly than formerly over the steps which distinctly extended across the wide river. The portions of the British, or Horse-shoe Fall, where the waters descend in masses of snowy whiteness, were unchanged by the season, except that vast sheets of ice and icicles hung on their margin; but where the deep waves of sea-green water roll majestically over the steep, large pieces of descending ice were frequently descried on its surface. No rainbows were now observed on the great vapour-cloud which shrouds for ever the bottom of the Fall; but we were extremely fortunate to see now plainly what I had looked for in vain at my last visit, the _water-rockets_, first described by Captain Hall, which shot up with a train of vapour singly, and in flights of a dozen, from the abyss near Table Rock, curved towards the east, and burst and fell in front of the cataract. Vast masses of descending fluid produce this singular effect, by means of condensed air acting on portions of the vapour into which the water is comminuted below. Altogether the appearance was most startling. It was observed at 1 P.M. from the gallery of Mr. Barnett's museum. The broad sheet of the American Fall presented the appearance of light-green water and feathery spray, also margined by huge icicles. As in summer, the water rushing from under the vapour-cloud of the two Falls was of a milky whiteness as far as the ferry, when it became dark and interspersed with floating masses of ice. Here, the year before, from the pieces of ice being heaped and crushed together in great quantities, was formed a thick and high bridge of ice, completely across the river, safe for passengers for some time; and in the middle of it a Yankee speculator had erected a shanty for refreshments. Lately, at a dinner party, I heard a staff-officer of talent, but who was fond of exciting wonder by his narratives, propose to the company a singular wager,--a bet of one hundred pounds that he would go over the Falls of Niagara and come out alive at the bottom! No one being inclined to take him up, after a good deal of discussion as to how this perilous feat was to be accomplished, the plan was disclosed. To place on Table Rock a crane, with a long arm reaching over the water of the Horse-shoe Fall; from this arm would hang, by a stout rope, a large bucket or cask; this would be taken up some distance above the Fall, where the mill-race slowly glides towards the cataract; here the adventurer would get into the cask, men stationed on the Table Rock would haul in the slack of the rope as he descended, and the crane would swing him clear from the cataract as he passed over. Here is a chance for any gentleman sportsman to immortalize himself! SIR JAMES ALEXANDER. * * * * * THE SLOTH. [Illustration] The Sloth, in its wild condition, spends its whole life on the trees, and never leaves them but through force or accident; and, what is more extraordinary, it lives not _upon_ the branches, like the squirrel and the monkey, but _under_ them. Suspended from the branches, it moves, and rests, and sleeps. So much of its anatomical structure as illustrates this peculiarity it is necessary to state. The arm and fore-arm of the sloth, taken together, are nearly twice the length of the hind legs; and they are, both by their form and the manner in which they are joined to the body, quite incapacitated from acting in a perpendicular direction, or in supporting it upon the earth, as the bodies of other quadrupeds are supported by their legs. Hence, if the animal be placed on the floor, its belly touches the ground. The wrist and ankle are joined to the fore-arm and leg in an oblique direction; so that the palm or sole, instead of being directed downwards towards the surface of the ground, as in other animals, is turned inward towards the body, in such a manner that it is impossible for the sloth to place the sole of its foot flat down upon a level surface. It is compelled, under such circumstances, to rest upon the external edge of the foot. This, joined to other peculiarities in the formation, render it impossible for sloths to walk after the manner of ordinary quadrupeds; and it is indeed only on broken ground, when he can lay hold of stones, roots of grass, &c., that he can get along at all. He then extends his arms in all directions in search of something to lay hold of; and when he has succeeded, he pulls himself forward, and is then enabled to trail himself along in the exceedingly awkward and tardy manner which has procured for him his name. Mr. Waterton informs us that he kept a sloth for several months in his room, in order to have an opportunity of observing his motions. If the ground were rough he would pull himself forward in the manner described, at a pretty good pace; and he invariably directed his course towards the nearest tree. But if he was placed upon a smooth and well-trodden part of the road, he appeared to be in much distress. Within doors, the favourite position of this sloth was on the back of a chair; and after getting all his legs in a line on the topmost part of it, he would hang there for hours together, and often with a low and plaintive cry would seem to invite the notice of his master. The sloth does not suspend himself head downward, like the vampire bat, but when asleep he supports himself from a branch parallel to the earth. He first seizes the branch with one arm, and then with the other; after which he brings up both his legs, one by one, to the same branch; so that, as in the Engraving, all the four limbs are in a line. In this attitude the sloth has the power of using the fore paw as a hand in conveying food to his mouth, which he does with great address, retaining meanwhile a firm hold of the branch with the other three paws. In all his operations the enormous claws with which the sloth is provided are of indispensable service. They are so sharp and crooked that they readily seize upon the smallest inequalities in the bark of the trees and branches, among which the animal usually resides, and also form very powerful weapons of defence. The sloth has been said to confine himself to one tree until he has completely stripped it of its leaves; but Mr. Waterton says, "During the many years I have ranged the forests, I have never seen a tree in such a state of nudity; indeed, I would hazard a conjecture, that, by the time the animal had finished the last of the old leaves, there would be a new crop on the part of the tree it had stripped first, ready for him to begin again--so quick is the process of vegetation in these countries. There is a saying among the Indians, that when the wind blows the sloth begins to travel. In calm weather he remains tranquil, probably not liking to cling to the brittle extremities of the branches, lest they should break with him in passing from one tree to another; but as soon as the wind arises, and the branches of the neighbouring trees become interwoven, the sloth then seizes hold of them and travels at such a good round pace, that any one seeing him, as I have done, pass from tree to tree, would never think of calling him a sloth." * * * * * SIERRA NEVADA, OR SNOWY RANGE OF CALIFORNIA. "The dividing ridge of the Sierra Nevada is in sight from this encampment. Accompanied by Mr. Preuss, I ascended to-day the highest peak to the right, from which we had a beautiful view of a mountain lake at our feet, about 15 miles in length, and so entirely surrounded by mountains that we could not discover an outlet. We had taken with us a glass, but though we enjoyed an extended view, the valley was half hidden in mist, as when we had seen it before. Snow could be distinguished on the higher parts of the coast mountains; eastward, as far as the eye could extend, it ranged over a terrible mass of broken snowy mountains, fading off blue in the distance. The rock composing the summit consists of a very coarse, dark, volcanic conglomerate: the lower parts appeared to be of a very slatey structure. The highest trees were a few scattered cedars and aspens. From the immediate foot of the peak we were two hours in reaching the summit, and one hour and a quarter in descending. The day had been very bright, still, and clear, and spring seems to be advancing rapidly. While the sun is in the sky the snow melts rapidly, and gushing springs cover the face of the mountain in all the exposed places, but their surface freezes instantly with the disappearance of the sun. "The Indians of the Sierra make frequent descents upon the settlements west of the Coast Range, which they keep constantly swept of horses; among them are many who are called Christian Indians, being refugees from Spanish missions. Several of these incursions occurred while we were at Helvetia. Occasionally parties of soldiers follow them across the Coast Range, but never enter the Sierra." [Illustration: SIERRA NEVADA, UPPER CALIFORNIA.] The party had not long before passed through a beautiful country. The narrative says:--"During the earlier part of the day our ride had been over a very level prairie, or rather a succession of long stretches of prairie, separated by lines and groves of oak timber, growing along dry gullies, which are tilled with water in seasons of rain; and perhaps, also, by the melting snows. Over much of this extent the vegetation was spare; the surface showing plainly the action of water, which, in the season of flood, the Joaquin spreads over the valley. About one o'clock, we came again among innumerable flowers; and, a few miles further, fields of beautiful blue-flowering _lupine_, which seems to love the neighbourhood of water, indicated that we were approaching a stream. We here found this beautiful shrub in thickets, some of them being twelve feet in height. Occasionally, three or four plants were clustered together, forming a grand bouquet, about ninety feet in circumference, and ten feet high; the whole summit covered with spikes of flowers, the perfume of which is very sweet and grateful. A lover of natural beauty can imagine with what pleasure we rode among these flowering groves, which filled the air with a light and delicate fragrance. We continued our road for about half a mile, interspersed through an open grove of live oaks, which, in form, were the most symmetrical and beautiful we had yet seen in this country. The ends of their branches rested on the ground, forming somewhat more than a half sphere of very full and regular figure, with leaves apparently smaller than usual. The Californian poppy, of a rich orange colour, was numerous to-day. Elk and several bands of antelope made their appearance. Our road now was one continued enjoyment; and it was pleasant riding among this assemblage of green pastures, with varied flowers and scattered groves, and, out of the warm, green spring, to look at the rocky and snowy peaks where lately we had suffered so much." Again, in the Sierra Nevada:--"Our journey to-day was in the midst of an advanced spring, whose green and floral beauty offered a delightful contrast to the sandy valley we had just left. All the day snow was in sight on the butt of the mountain, which frowned down upon us on the right; but we beheld it now with feelings of pleasant security, as we rode along between green trees and on flowers, with humming-birds and other feathered friends of the traveller enlivening the serene spring air. As we reached the summit of this beautiful pass, and obtained a view into the eastern country, we saw at once that here was the place to take leave of all such pleasant scenes as those around us. The distant mountains were now bald rocks again; and, below, the land had any colour but green. Taking into consideration the nature of the Sierra Nevada, we found this pass an excellent one for horses; and, with a little labour, or, perhaps, with a more perfect examination of the localities, it might be made sufficiently practicable for waggons." FREMONT'S _Travels_. * * * * * THE GROUSE. [Illustration: Letter W.] We have but few European birds presenting more points of interest in their history than the Grouse, a species peculiar to the northern and temperate latitudes of the globe. Dense pine forests are the abode of some; others frequent the wild tracts of heath-clad moorland, while the patches of vegetation scattered among the rocky peaks of the mountains, afford a congenial residence to others. Patient of cold, and protected during the intense severities of winter by their thick plumage, they give animation to the frozen solitude long after all other birds have retired from the desolate scenery. Their food consists of the tender shoots of pines, the seeds of plants, the berries of the arbutus and bilberry, the buds of the birch and alder, the buds of the heather, leaves, and grain. The nest is very simply constructed, consisting of dried grasses placed upon the ground and sheltered among the herbage. Two species of this bird, called forest grouse, are indigenous in England: one is the black grouse, common in the pine woods of Scotland and of the northern part of England, and elsewhere; the other is the capercailzie or cock of the woods. Formerly, in Ireland, and still more recently in Scotland, this noble bird, the most magnificent of the whole of the grouse tribe, was abundant in the larger woods; but it gradually disappeared, from the indiscriminate slaughter to which it was subject. Selby informs us that the last individual of this species in Scotland was killed about forty years ago, near Inverness. It still abounds in the pine forests of Sweden and Norway, and an attempt has been made by the Marquis of Breadalbane to re-introduce it into Scotland. The red grouse, or moor grouse, is found in Scotland; and it is somewhat singular that this beautiful bird should not be known on the Continent, abundant as it is on the moorlands of Scotland, England, and Ireland. The breeding season of the red grouse is very early in spring, and the female deposits her eggs, eight or ten in number, in a high tuft of heather. The eggs are peculiarly beautiful, of a rich brown colour, spotted with black, and both herself and her mate attend the young with great assiduity. The brood continue in company during the winter, and often unite with other broods, forming large packs, which range the high moorlands, being usually shy and difficult of approach. Various berries, such as the cranberry, the bilberry, together with the tender shoots of heath, constitute the food of this species. The plumage is a rich colouring of chestnut, barred with black. The cock grouse in October is a very handsome bird, with his bright red comb erected above his eyes, and his fine brown plumage shining in the sun. [Illustration: GROUSE.] The ptarmigan grouse is not only a native of Scotland but of the higher latitudes of continental Europe, and, perhaps, the changes of plumage in none of the feathered races are more remarkable than those which the ptarmigans undergo. Their full summer plumage is yellow, more or less inclining to brown, beautifully barred with zig-zag lines of black. Their winter dress is pure white, except that the outer tail-feathers, the shafts of the quills, and a streak from the eye to the beak are black. This singular change of plumage enables it, when the mountains are covered with snow, to escape the observation of the eagle, Iceland falcon, and the snowy owl: the feathers become much fuller, thicker, and more downy; the bill is almost hidden, and the legs become so thickly covered with hair-like feathers, as to resemble the legs of some well-furred quadruped. * * * * * PATMOS. [Illustration: Letter P.] Patmos affords one of the few exceptions which are to be found to the general beauty and fertility of the islands of the Aegean Sea. Its natural advantages, indeed, are very few, for the whole of the island is little else than one continued rock, rising frequently into hills and mountains. Its valleys are seldom susceptible of cultivation, and scarcely ever reward it. Almost the only spot, indeed, in which it has been attempted, is a small valley in the west, where the richer inhabitants have a few gardens. On account of its stern and desolate character, the island was used, under the Roman Empire, as a place of banishment; and here the Apostle St. John, during the persecution of Domitian, was banished, and wrote the book of the Revelations. The island now bears the name of Patino and Palmosa, but a natural grotto in the rock is still shown as the place where St. John resided. "In and around it," says Mr. Turner, "the Greeks have dressed up one of their tawdry churches; and on the same site is a school attached to the church, in which a few children are taught reading and writing." [Illustration: PATMOS.] Patmos used to be a famous resort of pirates. Dr. Clarke, after describing with enthusiasm the splendid scene which he witnessed in passing by Patmos, with feelings naturally excited by all the circumstances of local solemnity, and "the evening sun behind the towering cliffs of Patmos, gilding the battlements of the Monastery of the Apocalypse with its parting rays; the consecrated island, surrounded by inexpressible brightness, seeming to float upon an abyss of fire, while the moon, in milder splendour, was rising full over the opposite expanse," proceeds to remark, "How very different were the reflections caused upon leaving the deck, by observing a sailor with a lighted match in his hand, and our captain busied in appointing an extraordinary watch for the night, as a precaution against the pirates who swarm in these seas." These wretches, as dastardly as they were cruel, the instant they boarded a vessel, put every individual of the crew to death. They lurked about the isle of Fouri, to the north of Patmos, in great numbers, taking possession of bays and creeks the least frequented by other mariners. After they had plundered a ship, they bored a hole through her bottom, and took to their boats again. The knights of Malta were said to be amongst the worst of these robbers. In the library of the Monastery, which is built on the top of a mountain, and in the middle of the chief town, may be seen bulls from two of the Popes, and a protection from the Emperor Charles the Sixth, issued to protect the island from their incursions. Though deficient in trees, Patmos now abounds in flowering plants and shrubs. Walnuts and other fruit trees grow in the orchards; and the wine of Patmos is the strongest and best flavoured of any in the Greek islands. The view of Patmos from the highest point is said to be very curious. The eye looks down on nothing but mountains below it; and the excessive narrowness of the island, with the curious form of its coast, have an extraordinary appearance. * * * * * SHAKSPEARE. [Illustration: Letter M.] Memorable in the history of genius is the 23rd of April, as being at once the day of the birth and death of Shakspeare; and these events took place on the same spot, for at Stratford-upon-Avon this illustrious dramatist was born, in the year 1564, and here he also died, in 1616. It has been conjectured, that his first dramatic composition was produced when he was but twenty-five years old. He continued to write for the stage for a great number of years; occasionally, also, appearing as a performer: and at length, having, by his exertions, secured a fortune of two or three hundred a year, retired to his native town, where he purchased a small estate, and spent the remainder of his days in ease and honour. [Illustration: THE CHANDOS PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE.] When Washington Irving visited Stratford-upon-Avon, he was led to make the following elegant reflections on the return of the poet to his early home:--"He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favours, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honour among his kindred and his early friends. And when the weary heart and failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink in sleep in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast a heavy look upon his pastoral home, could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it covered with renown; that his name should become the boast and glory of his native place; that his ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious treasure; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb!" The accredited birth-place of Shakspeare has always been regarded with great interest: it is situate in a street in Stratford, retaining its ancient name of Henley, being the road to Henley-in-Arden. In 1574, here stood two houses, with a garden and orchard attached to each; and these houses were then purchased by John Shakspeare, whose son William was born in one of them, which still remains, though altered according to modern fashion. Its gable roofs are destroyed. Divided and subdivided into smaller tenements, part was converted into a little inn; part, the residence of a female who formerly showed the room where Shakspeare first saw the light, and the low-roofed kitchen where his mother taught him to read. The walls of the room in which he was born are literally covered with thousands of names, inscribed in homage by pilgrims from every region where the glory of Shakspeare is known. At the time when Shakspeare's father bought this house, it was, no doubt, quite a mansion, as compared with the majority of the houses in Stratford; but he little guessed the fame that would attach itself to this birth-place of his gifted son; long, we trust, to be preserved for the gratification of future generations of visitors to the hallowed spot. Besides his plays, Shakspeare was the author of several other poetical productions, and especially of a collection of sonnets. [Illustration: SHAKSPEARE'S HOUSE, STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.] * * * * * THE RETURN OF THE DOVE. [Illustration] There hope in the Ark at the dawning of day, When o'er the wide waters the Dove flew away; But when ere the night she came wearily back With the leaf she had pluck'd on her desolate track, The children of Noah knelt down and adored, And utter'd in anthems their praise to the Lord. Oh bird of glad tidings! oh joy in our pain! Beautiful Dove! thou art welcome again. When peace has departed the care-stricken breast, And the feet of the weary one languish for rest; When the world is a wide-spreading ocean of grief, How blest the return of the Bird and the Leaf! Reliance on God is the Dove to our Ark, And Peace is the olive she plucks in the dark. The deluge abates, there is sun after rain-- Beautiful Dove! thou art welcome again! MACKAY. [Illustration: SYRIAN DOVE.] * * * * * COBRA DI CAPELLO--HOODED SNAKE. [Illustration: Letter T.] There are several varieties of this venomous serpent, differing in point of colour; and the aspic of Egypt, with which Cleopatra destroyed herself, is said to be a very near ally to this species; but the true cobra is entirely confined to India. The danger which accompanies the bite of this reptile, its activity when excited, the singularity of its form, and the gracefulness of its action, combine to render it one of the most remarkable animals of the class to which it belongs. When in its ordinary state of repose the neck is of the same diameter as the head; but when surprised or irritated, the skin expands laterally in a hood-like form, which is well known to the inhabitants of India as the symptom of approaching danger. Notwithstanding the fatal effects of the bite of these serpents, the Indian jugglers are not deterred from capturing and taming them for exhibition, which they do with singular adroitness, and with fearful interest to the unpractised observer. They carry the reptiles from house to house in a small round basket, from which they issue at the sound of a sort of flute, and execute certain movements in cadence with the music. The animal from which our Engraving was taken is now in the menagerie of the Zoological Society in the Regent's Park, and is probably one of the finest which has ever reached England alive. The Indian mangouste is described to be the most deadly enemy of the cobra di capello, and the battles between them have been frequently described. The serpent, when aware of the approach of the mangouste, rises on its tail, and with neck dilated, its head advanced, and eyes staring, awaits with every look of rage and fear the attack of its foe. The mangouste steals nearer and nearer, and creeping round, endeavours to get an opportunity of springing on the serpent's back; and whenever it misses its purpose and receives a bite, it runs perhaps some distance, to eat the mangouste-grass, which is an antidote against the poison: it then returns to the attack, in which it is commonly victorious. The bite of the cobra di capello is not so immediately fatal as is commonly supposed; fowls have been known to live two days after being bitten, though they frequently die within half an hour. The snake never bites while its hood is closed, and as long as this is not erected the animal may be approached, and even handled with impunity; even when the hood is spread, while the creature continues silent, there is no danger. The fearful hiss is at once the signal of aggression and of peril. Though the cobra is so deadly when under excitement, it is, nevertheless, astonishing to see how readily it is appeased, even in the highest state of exasperation, and this merely by the droning music with which its exhibitors seem to charm it. [Illustration: COBRA DI CAPELLO.] The natives of India have a superstitious feeling with regard to this snake; they conceive that it belongs to another world, and when it appears in this, it is only as a visitor. In consequence of this notion they always avoid killing it, if possible. * * * * * THE PYRAMID LAKE. [Illustration: Letter P.] Perhaps of all the localities of the Oregon territory so vividly described in Captain Fremont's adventurous narrative, the Pyramid Lake, visited on the homeward journey from the Dallas to the Missouri river, is the most beautiful. The exploring party having reached a defile between mountains descending rapidly about 2000 feet, saw, filling up all the lower space, a sheet of green water some twenty miles broad. "It broke upon our eyes," says the narrator, "like the ocean: the neighbouring peaks rose high above us, and we ascended one of them to obtain a better view. The waves were curling to the breeze, and their dark green colour showed it to be a body of deep water. For a long time we sat enjoying the view, for we had become fatigued with mountains, and the free expanse of moving waves was very grateful. It was like a gem in the mountains, which, from our position, seemed to enclose it almost entirely. At the eastern end it communicated with the line of basins we had left a few days since; and on the opposite side it swept a ridge of snowy mountains, the foot of the great Sierra. We followed a broad Indian trail or tract along the shore of the lake to the southward. For a short space we had room enough in the bottom, but, after travelling a short distance, the water swept the foot of the precipitous mountains, the peaks of which are about 3000 feet above the lake. We afterwards encamped on the shore, opposite a very remarkable rock in the lake, which had attracted our attention for many miles. It rose according to our estimation 600 feet above the level of the water, and, from the point we viewed it, presented a pretty exact outline of the great pyramid of Cheops. Like other rocks along the shore, it seemed to be encrusted with calcareous cement. This striking feature suggested a name for the lake, and I called it Pyramid Lake. Its elevation above the sea is 4890 feet, being nearly 700 feet higher than the Great Salt Lake, from which it lies nearly west." The position and elevation of Pyramid Lake make it an object of geographical interest. It is the nearest lake to the western river, as the Great Salt Lake is to the eastern river, of the great basin which lies between the base of the Rocky Mountains and the Sierra Nevada, and the extent and character of which it is so desirable to know. Many parts of the borders of this lake appear to be a favourite place of encampment for the Indians, whose number in this country is estimated at 140,000. They retain, still unaltered, most of the features of the savage character. They procure food almost solely by hunting; and to surprise a hostile tribe, to massacre them with every exercise of savage cruelty, and to carry off their scalps as trophies, is their highest ambition. Their domestic behaviour, however, is orderly and peaceable; and they seldom kill or rob a white man. Considerable attempts have been made to civilize them, and with some success; but the moment that any impulse has been given to war and hunting, they have instantly reverted to their original habits. [Illustration: PYRAMID LAKE, OREGON TERRITORY.] * * * * * ADAM AND EVE IN PARADISE. Now came still evening on, and twilight grey Had in her sober livery all things clad. Silence accompanied: for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk--all but the wakeful nightingale: She, all night long, her am'rous descant sung. Silence was pleased. Now glow'd the firmament With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest; till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length, Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw-- When Adam thus to Eve: "Fair consort, the hour Of night, and all things now retired to rest, 'Mind us of like repose: since God hath set Labour and rest, as day and night, to men Successive; and the timely dew of sleep, Now falling with soft slumberous weight, Inclines our eyelids."-- [Illustration] To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorn'd: "My author and disposer, what thou bidst Unargued I obey. So God ordains. With thee conversing I forget all time, All seasons and their change: all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn--her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After short show'rs; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening mild--then silent night, With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these the gems of heav'n, her starry train: But neither breath of morn, when she ascends With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower Glistering with dew, nor fragrance after showers, Nor grateful evening mild; nor silent night, With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon Or glitt'ring starlight, without thee is sweet."-- Thus talking, hand in hand alone they pass'd On to their blissful bower. Thus at their shady lodge arrived, both stood, Both turn'd, and under open sky adored The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven, Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe, And starry pole. "Thou also madest the night, Maker Omnipotent! and Thou the day, Which we, in our appointed work employ'd, Have finish'd; happy in our mutual help And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place, For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt, falls to the ground. But Thou hast promised from us two a race To fill the earth, who shall with us extol Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep." MILTON. * * * * * OLIVER GOLDSMITH. [Illustration: Letter G.] Goldsmith's poetry enjoys a calm and steady popularity. It inspires us, indeed, with no admiration of daring design or of fertile invention; but it presents within its narrow limits a distinct and unbroken view of poetical delightfulness. His descriptions and sentiments have the pure zest of nature. He is refined without false delicacy, and correct without insipidity. Perhaps there is an intellectual composure in his manner, which may, in some passages, be said to approach to the reserved and prosaic; but he unbends from this graver strain of reflection to tenderness, and even to playfulness, with an ease and grace almost exclusively his own; and connects extensive views of the happiness and interests of society with pictures of life that touch the heart by their familiarity. He is no disciple of the gaunt and famished school of simplicity. He uses the ornaments which must always distinguish true poetry from prose; and when he adopts colloquial plainness, it is with the utmost skill to avoid a vulgar humility. There is more of this sustained simplicity, of this chaste economy and choice of words, in Goldsmith than in any other modern poet, or, perhaps, than would be attainable or desirable as a standard for every writer of rhyme. In extensive narrative poems, such a style would be too difficult. There is a noble propriety even in the careless strength of great poems, as in the roughness of castle walls; and, generally speaking, where there is a long course of story, or observation of life to be pursued, such excursite touches as those of Goldsmith would be too costly materials for sustaining it. His whole manner has a still depth of feeling and reflection, which gives back the image of nature unruffled and minutely. His chaste pathos makes him an insulating moralist, and throws a charm of Claude-like softness over his descriptions of homely objects, that would seem only fit to be the subjects of Dutch painting; but his quiet enthusiasm leads the affections to humble things without a vulgar association, and he inspires us with a fondness to trace the simplest recollections of Auburn, till we count the furniture of its ale-house, and listen to the varnished clock that clicked behind the door. CAMPBELL. * * * * * HAGAR AND ISHMAEL. [Illustration: Letter H.] Hagar and Ishmael departed early on the day fixed for their removal, Abraham furnishing them with the necessary supply of travelling provisions. "And Abraham arose up early in the morning, and took bread and a bottle of water, and gave it unto Hagar, putting it on her shoulder, and she went away." The bottle here mentioned was probably made of the skin of a goat, sewn up, leaving an opening in one of the legs to serve as a mouth. Such skin bottles are still commonly used in Western Asia for water, and are borne slung across the shoulders, just as that of Hagar was placed. It seems to have been the intention of Hagar to return to her native country, Egypt; but, in spite of the directions she received, the two travellers lost their way in the southern wilderness, and wandered to and fro till the water, which was to have served them on the road, was altogether spent. The lad, unused to hardship, was soon worn out. Overcome by heat and thirst, he seemed at the point of death, when the afflicted mother laid him down under one of the stunted shrubs of this dry and desert region, in the hope of his getting some relief from the slight damp which the shade afforded. The burning fever, however, continued unabated; and the poor mother, forgetting her own sorrow, destitute and alone in the midst of a wilderness, went to a little distance, unable to witness his lingering sufferings, and then "she lifted up her voice and wept." But God had not forgotten her: a voice was heard in the solitude, and an Angel of the Lord appeared, uttering words of comfort and promises of peace. He directed her to a well of water, which, concealed by the brushwood, had not been seen by her. Thus encouraged, Hagar drew a refreshing draught, and hastening to her son, "raised him by the hand," and gave him the welcome drink, which soon restored him. This well, according to the tradition of the Arabs, who pay great honour to the memory of Hagar, is Zemzem, near Mecca. [Illustration: HAGAR AND ISHMAEL.] After this, we have no account of the history of Ishmael, except that he established himself in the wilderness of Paran, near Mount Sinai, and belonged to one of the tribes by which the desert was frequented. He was married, by his mother, to a countrywoman of her own, and maintained himself and his family by the produce of his bow. Many of the Arabian tribes have been proud to trace their origin to this son of the Patriarch Abraham. * * * * * THE HOLLY BOUGH. [Illustration: Letter Y.] Ye who have scorn'd each other, Or injured friend or brother, In this fast fading year; Ye who, by word or deed, Have made a kind heart bleed, Come gather here. Let sinn'd against, and sinning, Forget their strife's beginning, And join in friendship now; Be links no longer broken, Be sweet forgiveness spoken Under the Holly-bough. Ye who have loved each other, Sister and friend and brother, In this fast fading year; Mother and sire and child, Young man and maiden mild, Come gather here; And let your hearts grow fonder, As Memory shall ponder Each past unbroken vow: Old loves and younger wooing Are sweet in the renewing Under the Holly-bough. Ye who have nourish'd sadness. Estranged from hope and gladness, In this fast fading year; Ye with o'erburden'd mind, Made aliens from your kind, Come gather here. Let not the useless sorrow Pursue you night and morrow, If e'er you hoped, hope now-- Take heart, uncloud your faces, And join in our embraces Under the Holly-bough. MACKAY [Illustration: THE HOLLY CART.] * * * * * THE UNIVERSE. To us who dwell on its surface, the earth is by far the most extensive orb that our eyes can any where behold; but, to a spectator placed on one of the planets, it looks no larger than a spot. To beings who dwell at still greater distances, it entirely disappears. That which we call alternately the morning and the evening star, as in the one part of the orbit she rides foremost in the procession of night, in the other ushers in and anticipates the dawn, is a planetary world, which, with the five others that so wonderfully vary their mystic dance, are in themselves dark bodies, and shine only by reflection; have fields, and seas, and skies of their own; are furnished with all accommodations for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be the abodes of intellectual life. All these, together with our earthly habitation, are dependent on the sun, receive their light from his rays, and derive their comfort from his benign agency. The sun, which seems to us to perform its daily stages through the sky, is, in this respect, fixed and immovable; it is the great axle about which the globe we inhabit, and other more spacious orbs, wheel their stated courses. The sun, though apparently smaller than the dial it illuminates, is immensely larger than this whole earth, on which so many lofty mountains rise, and such vast oceans roll. A line extending from side to side through the centre of that resplendent orb, would measure more than 800,000 miles: a girdle formed to go round its circumference, would require a length of millions. Are we startled at these reports of philosophers? Are we ready to cry out in a transport of surprise, "How mighty is the Being who kindled such a prodigious fire, and keeps alive from age to age such an enormous mass of flame!" Let us attend our philosophic guides, and we shall be brought acquainted with speculations more enlarged and more inflaming. The sun, with all its attendant planets, is but a very little part of the grand machine of the universe; every star, though in appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upon a lady's ring, is really a vast globe like the sun in size and in glory; no less spacious, no less luminous, than the radiant source of the day: so that every star is not barely a world, but the centre of a magnificent system; has a retinue of worlds irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its attractive influence--all which are lost to our sight. That the stars appear like so many diminutive points, is owing to their immense and inconceivable distance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it is, since a ball shot from a loaded cannon, and flying with unabated rapidity, must travel at this impetuous rate almost 700,000 years, before it could reach the nearest of these twinkling luminaries. While beholding this vast expanse I learn my own extreme meanness, I would also discover the abject littleness of all terrestrial things. What is the earth, with all her ostentatious scenes, compared with this astonishingly grand furniture of the skies? What, but a dim speck hardly perceptible in the map of the universe? It is observed by a very judicious writer, that if the sun himself, which enlightens this part of the creation, were extinguished, and all the host of planetary worlds which move about him were annihilated, they would not be missed by an eye that can take in the whole compass of nature any more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The bulk of which they consist, and the space which they occupy, are so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole, that their loss would leave scarce a blank in the immensity of God's works. If, then, not our globe only, but this whole system, be so very dimunitive, what is a kingdom or a country? What are a few lordships, or the so-much-admired patrimonies of those who are styled wealthy? When I measure them with my own little pittance, they swell into proud and bloated dimensions; but when I take the universe for my standard, how scanty is their size, how contemptible their figure; they shrink into pompous nothings! ADDISON. * * * * * ODE TO ST. CECILIA. [Illustration] Now strike the golden lyre again: A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark, the horrid sound Has raised up his head, As awaked from the dead, And amazed, he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise: See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain. Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew. Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods! The Princes applaud, with a furious joy; And the King seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from the sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down. DRYDEN * * * * * SATIN BOWER-BIRDS. The Satin Bower-Bird was one of the earliest known species in the Australian fauna, and probably received the name of _Satin Grakle_, by which it was described in Latham's "General History of Birds," from the intensely black glossy plumage of the adult male. But, although the existence of this bird was noticed by most of the writers on the natural history of Australia subsequent to Latham, it appears that no suspicion of its singular economy had extended beyond the remotest settlers, until Mr. Gould, whose great work on the "Birds of Australia" is known to every one, unravelled the history of the _bowers_, which had been discovered in many parts of the bush, and which had been attributed to almost every possible origin but the right one. The bower, as will be seen by the Illustration, is composed of twigs woven together in the most compact manner, and ornamented with shells and feathers, the disposition of which the birds are continually altering. They have no connexion with the nest, and are simply playing-places, in which the birds divert themselves during the months which precede nidification. [Illustration: BOWER BIRDS.] The birds themselves are nearly as large as a jackdaw. The female is green in colour, the centre of the breast feathers yellowish; the unmoulted plumage of the male is similar: the eyes of both are brilliant blue. * * * * * THE POOL OF SILOAM. [Illustration: Letter T.] The fountain and pool of Siloam, whose surplus waters flow in a little streamlet falling into the lake Kedron, is situate near the ancient walls of the city of Jerusalem. Mr. Wild tells us "that the fountain of Siloam is a mineral spring of a brackish taste, and somewhat of the smell of the Harrowgate water, but in a very slight degree." It is said to possess considerable medicinal properties, and is much frequented by pilgrims. "Continuing our course," says he, "around the probable line of the ancient walls, along the gentle slope of Zion, we pass by the King's gardens, and arrive at the lower pool of Siloam, placed in another indentation in the wall. It is a deep square cistern lined with masonry, adorned with columns at the sides, and having a flight of steps leading to the bottom, in which there was about two feet of water. It communicates by a subterraneous passage with the fountain, from which it is distant about 600 yards. The water enters the pool by a low arched passage, into which the pilgrims, numbers of whom are generally to be found around it, put their heads, as part of the ceremony, and wash their clothes in the purifying stream that rises from it." During a rebellion in Jerusalem, in which the Arabs inhabiting the Tillage of Siloam were the ringleaders, they gained access to the city by means of the conduit of this pool, which again rises within the mosque of Omar. This passage is evidently the work of art, the water in it is generally about two feet deep, and a man may go through it in a stooping position. When the stream leaves the pool, it is divided into numbers of little aqueducts, for the purpose of irrigating the gardens and pleasure-grounds which lie immediately beneath it in the valley, and are the chief source of their fertility, for, as they are mostly formed of earth which has been carried from other places, they possess no original or natural soil capable of supporting vegetation. As there is but little water in the pool during the dry season, the Arabs dam up the several streams in order to collect a sufficient quantity in small ponds adjoining each garden, and this they all do at the same time, or there would be an unfair division of the fertilizing fluid. These dams are generally made in the evening and drawn off in the morning, or sometimes two or three times a day; and thus the reflux of the water that they hold gives the appearance of an ebb and flow, which by some travellers has caused a report that the pool of Siloam is subject to daily tides. [Illustration: THE POOL OF SILOAM.] There are few towns, and scarcely any metropolitan town, in which the natural supply of water is so inadequate as at Jerusalem; hence the many and elaborate contrivances to preserve the precious fluid, or to bring it to the town by aqueducts. * * * * * WINTER THOUGHTS. [Illustration: Letter A.] Ah! little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround-- They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah! little think they, while they dance along How many feel this very moment death, And all the sad variety of pain: How many sink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring flame! how many bleed By shameful variance betwixt man and man! How many pine in want and dungeon glooms, Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs! how many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery! Sore pierced by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty! How many shake With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse, Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, They furnish matter for the Tragic Muse! Even in the vale where Wisdom loves to dwell, With Friendship, Peace, and Contemplation join'd, How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop In deep retired distress. How many stand Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, And point the parting anguish! Thought fond man Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, That one incessant struggle render life-- One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, Vice in its high career would stand appall'd, And heedless, rambling impulse learn to think; The conscious heart of Charity would warm, And her wide wish Benevolence dilate; The social tear would rise, the social sigh, And into clear perfection gradual bliss, Refining still, the social passions work. THOMSON. * * * * * BRITISH TROOPS IN CANADA. [Illustration: Letter R.] Really winter in Canada must be felt to be imagined; and when felt can no more be described by words, than colours to a blind man or music to a deaf one. Even under bright sun-shine, and in a most exhilirating air, the biting effect of the cold upon the portion of our face that is exposed to it resembles the application of a strong acid; and the healthy grin which the countenance assumes, requires--as I often observed on those who for many minutes had been in a warm room waiting to see me--a considerable time to relax. In a calm, almost any degree of cold is bearable, but the application of successive doses of it to the face by wind, becomes, occasionally, almost unbearable; indeed, I remember seeing the left cheek of nearly twenty of our soldiers simultaneously frost-bitten in marching about a hundred yards across a bleak open space, completely exposed to a strong and bitterly cold north-west wind that was blowing upon us all. The remedy for this intense cold, to which many Canadians and others have occasionally recourse, is--at least to my feelings it always appeared--infinitely worse than the disease. On entering, for instance, the small parlour of a little inn, a number of strong, able-bodied fellows are discovered holding their hands a few inches before their faces, and sitting in silence immediately in front of a stove of such excruciating power, that it really feels as if it would roast the very eyes in their sockets; and yet, as one endures this agony, the back part is as cold as if it belonged to what is called at home "Old Father Christmas." As a further instance of the climate, I may add, that several times, while my mind was very warmly occupied in writing my despatches, I found my pen full of a lump of stuff that appeared to be honey, but which proved to be frozen ink; again, after washing in the morning, when I took up some money that had lain all night on my table, I at first fancied it had become sticky, until I discovered that the sensation was caused by its freezing to my fingers, which, in consequence of my ablutions, were not perfectly dry. [Illustration: WINTER DRESS OF BRITISH TROOPS IN CANADA.] Notwithstanding, however, this intensity of cold, the powerful circulation of the blood of large quadrupeds keeps the red fluid, like the movement of the waters in the great lakes, from freezing; but the human frame not being gifted with this power, many people lose their limbs, and occasionally their lives, from cold. I one day inquired of a fine, ruddy, honest-looking man, who called upon me, and whose toes and instep of each foot had been truncated, how the accident happened? He told me that the first winter he came from England he lost his way in the forest, and that after walking for some hours, feeling pain in his feet, he took off his boots, and from the flesh immediately swelling, he was unable to put them on again. His stockings, which were very old ones, soon wore into holes; and as rising on his insteps he was hurriedly proceeding he knew not where, he saw with alarm, but without feeling the slightest pain, first one toe and then another break off, as if they had been pieces of brittle stick, and in this mutilated state he continued to advance till he reached a path which led him to an inhabited log house, where he remained suffering great pain till his cure was effected. Although the sun, from the latitude, has considerable power, it appears only to illuminate the sparkling snow, which, like the sugar on a bridal cake, conceals the whole surface. The instant, however, the fire of heaven sinks below the horizon, the cold descends from the upper regions of the atmosphere with a feeling as if it were poured down upon the head and shoulders from a jug. SIR FRANCIS HEAD. * * * * * BALLOONS. The idea of constructing a machine which should enable us to rise into and sail through the air, seems often to have occupied the attention of mankind, even from remote times, but it was never realised until within the last sixty or seventy years. The first public ascent of a fire-balloon in France, in 1783, led to an experiment on the part of Joseph Mongolfier. He constructed a balloon of linen, lined with paper, which, when inflated by means of burning chopped straw and coal, was found to be capable of raising 500 pounds weight. It was inflated in front of the Palace at Versailles, in the presence of the Royal family, and a basket, containing a sheep, a duck, and a cock, was attached to it. It was then liberated, and ascended to the height of 1500 feet. It fell about two miles from Versailles; the animals were uninjured, and the sheep was found quietly feeding near the place of its descent. Monsieur Mongolfier then constructed one of superior strength, and a M. de Rozier ventured to take his seat in the car and ascend three hundred feet, the height allowed by the ropes, which were not cut. This same person afterwards undertook an aerial voyage, descending in safety about five miles from Paris, where the balloon ascended. But this enterprising voyager in the air afterwards attempted to travel in a balloon with sails. This was formed by a singular combination of balloons--one inflated with hydrogen gas, and the other a fire-balloon. The latter, however, catching fire, the whole apparatus fell from the height of about three-quarters of a mile, with the mangled bodies of the voyagers attached to the complicated machinery. [Illustration: GREEN'S BALLOON, ASCENDING FROM VAUXHALL GARDENS.] A Frenchman named Tester, in 1786, also made an excursion in a balloon with sails; these sails or wings aided in carrying his balloon so high, that when he had reached an elevation of 3000 feet, fearing his balloon might burst, he descended into a corn-field in the plain of Montmorency. An immense crowd ran eagerly to the spot; and the owner of the field, angry at the injury his crop had sustained, demanded instant indemnification. Tester offered no resistance, but persuaded the peasants that, having lost his wings, he could not possibly escape. The ropes were seized by a number of persons, who attempted to drag the balloon towards the village; but as, during the procession, it had acquired considerable buoyancy, Tester suddenly cut the cords, and, rising in the air, left the disappointed peasants overwhelmed in astonishment. After being out in a terrible thunder-storm, he descended uninjured, about twelve hours from the time of his first ascent. * * * * * SIR THOMAS GRESHAM. [Illustration: Letter A.] Among the worthies of this country who, after a successful and honourable employment of their talent in life, have generously consulted the advantage of generations to come after them, few names appear more conspicuous than that of Sir Thomas Gresham, the founder of Gresham College, and of the Royal Exchange, London. He was born in that city about the year 1518, the second son of Sir Richard Gresham, who served the office of sheriff in 1531, and that of Lord Mayor in 1537. He received a liberal education at the University, and is mentioned in high terms as having distinguished himself at Cambridge, being styled "that noble and most learned merchant." His father at this time held the responsible position of King's merchant, and had the management of the Royal monies at Antwerp, then the most important seat of commerce in Europe; and when his son Sir Thomas succeeded him in this responsible appointment, he not only established his fame as a merchant, but secured universal respect and esteem. After the accession of Queen Elizabeth, his good qualities attracted the peculiar notice of her Majesty, who was pleased to bestow on him the honour of knighthood; and at this time he built the noble house in Bishopsgate-street, which after his death was converted to the purposes of a College of his own foundation. In the year 1564, Sir Thomas made an offer to the Corporation of London, that, if the City would give him a piece of ground, he would erect an Exchange at his own expense; and thus relieve the merchants from their present uncomfortable mode of transacting business in the open air. The liberal offer being accepted, the building, which was afterwards destroyed in the Great Fire of London, was speedily constructed, at a very great expense, and ornamented with a number of statues. Nor did Gresham's persevering benevolence stop here: though he had so much to engross his time and attention, he still found leisure to consider the claims of the destitute and aged, and in his endowment of eight alms-houses with a comfortable allowance for as many decayed citizens of London, displayed that excellent grace of charity which was his truest ornament. In person Sir Thomas was above the middle height, and handsome when a young man, but he was rendered lame by a fall from his horse during one of his journeys in Flanders. Sir Thomas Gresham's exemplary life terminated suddenly on the 21st of November, 1579, after he had just paid a visit to the noble building which he had so generously founded. [Illustration: SIR THOMAS GRESHAM.] * * * * * ON THE ATTAINMENT OF KNOWLEDGE. Let the enlargement of your knowledge be one constant view and design in life; since there is no time or place, no transactions, occurrences, or engagements in life, which exclude us from this method of improving the mind. When we are alone, even in darkness and silence, we may converse with our own hearts, observe the working of our own spirits, and reflect upon the inward motions of our own passions in some of the latest occurrences in life; we may acquaint ourselves with the powers and properties, the tendencies and inclinations both of body and spirit, and gain a more intimate knowledge of ourselves. When we are in company, we may discover something more of human nature, of human passions and follies, and of human affairs, vices and virtues, by conversing with mankind, and observing their conduct. Nor is there any thing more valuable than the knowledge of ourselves and the knowledge of men, except it be the knowledge of God who made us, and our relation to Him as our Governor. When we are in the house or the city, wheresoever we turn our eyes, we see the works of men; when we are abroad in the country, we behold more of the works of God. The skies and the ground above and beneath us, and the animal and vegetable world round about us, may entertain our observation with ten thousand varieties. Fetch down some knowledge from the clouds, the stars, the sun, the moon, and the revolutions of all the planets. Dig and draw up some valuable meditations from the depths of the earth, and search them through the vast oceans of water. Extract some intellectual improvement from the minerals and metals; from the wonders of nature among the vegetables and herbs, trees and flowers. Learn some lessons from the birds and the beasts, and the meanest insect. Read the wisdom of God, and his admirable contrivance in them all: read his almighty power, his rich and various goodness, in all the works of his hands. From the day and the night, the hours and the flying minutes, learn a wise improvement of time, and be watchful to seize every opportunity to increase in knowledge. From the vices and follies of others, observe what is hateful in them; consider how such a practice looks in another person, and remember that it looks as ill or worse in yourself. From the virtue of others, learn something worthy of your imitation. From the deformity, the distress, or calamity of others, derive lessons of thankfulness to God, and hymns of grateful praise to your Creator, Governor, and Benefactor, who has formed you in a better mould, and guarded you from those evils. Learn also the sacred lesson of contentment in your own estate, and compassion to your neighbour under his miseries. From your natural powers, sensations, judgment, memory, hands, feet, &c., make this inference, that they were not given you for nothing, but for some useful employment to the honour of your Maker, and for the good of your fellow-creatures, as well as for your own best interest and final happiness. DR. WATTS. * * * * * THIBETAN SHEEP. The enterprising traveller, Moorcroft, during his journey across the vast chain of the Himalaya Mountains, in India, undertaken with the hope of finding a passage across those mountains into Tartary, noticed, in the district of Ladak, the peculiar race of sheep of which we give an Engraving. Subsequent observations having confirmed his opinion as to the quality of their flesh and wool, the Honourable East India Company imported a flock, which were sent for a short time to the Gardens of the Zoological Society, Regent's Park. They were then distributed among those landed proprietors whose possessions are best adapted, by soil and climate, for naturalising in the British Islands this beautiful variety of the mountain sheep. The wool, the flesh, and the milk of the sheep appear to have been very early appreciated as valuable products of the animal: with us, indeed, the milk of the flock has given place to that of the herd; but the two former still retain their importance. Soon after the subjugation of Britain by the Romans, a woollen manufactory was established at Winchester, situated in the midst of a district then, as now, peculiarly suited to the short-woolled breed of sheep. So successful was this manufacture, that British cloths were soon preferred at Rome to those of any other part of the Empire, and were worn by the most opulent on festive and ceremonial occasions. From that time forward, the production of wool in this island, and the various manufactures connected with it, have gone on increasing in importance, until it has become one of the chief branches of our commerce. [Illustration: THIBETAN SHEEP.] * * * * * NAVAL TACTICS. [Illustration: Letter O.] On being told the number and size of the sails which a vessel can carry (that is to say, can sail with, without danger of being upset), the uninitiated seldom fail to express much surprise. This is not so striking in a three-decker, as in smaller vessels, because the hull of the former stands very high out of the water, for the sake of its triple rank of guns, and therefore bears a greater proportion to its canvas than that of a frigate or a smaller vessel. The apparent inequality is most obvious in the smallest vessels, as cutters: and of those kept for pleasure, and therefore built for the purpose of sailing as fast as possible, without reference to freight or load, there are many the hull of which might be entirely wrapt up in the mainsail. It is of course very rarely, if ever, that a vessel carries at one time all the sail she is capable of; the different sails being usually employed according to the circumstances of direction of wind and course. The sails of a ship, when complete, are as follows:-- The lowermost sail of the mast, called thence the _mainsail_, or _foresail_; the _topsail_, carried by the _topsail-yard_; the _top-gallant-sail_; and above this there is also set a _royal_ sail, and again above this, but only on emergencies, a sail significantly called a _sky-sail_. Besides all this, the three lowermost of these are capable of having their surface to be exposed to the wind increased by means of _studding_ sails, which are narrow sails set on each side beyond the regular one, by means of small _booms_ or yards, which can be slid out so as to extend the lower yards and topsail-yards: the upper parts of these additional sails hang from small yards suspended from the principal ones, and the boom of the lower studding-sails is hooked on to the chains. Thus each of the two principal masts, the fore and main, are capable of bearing no less than thirteen distinct sails. If a ship could be imagined as cut through by a plane, at right angles to the keel, close to the mainmast, the _area_, or surface, of all the sails on this would be five or six times as great as that of the section or profile of the hull! The starboard studding-sails are on the fore-mast, and on both sides of the main-top-gallant and main-royal; but, in going nearly before a wind, there is no advantage derived from the stay-sails, which, accordingly, are not set. The flying-jib is to be set to assist in steadying the motion. The mizen-mast, instead of a lower square-sail like the two others, has a sail like that of a cutter, lying in the plane of the keel, its bottom stretched on a boom, which extends far over the taffarel, and the upper edge carried by a _gaff_ or yard sloping upwards, supported by ropes from the top of the mizen-mast. All these sails, the sky-sails excepted, have four sides, as have also the sprit-sails on the bowsprit, jib-boom, &c.; and all, except the sail last mentioned on the mizen, usually lie across the ship, or in planes forming considerable angles with the axis or central line of the ship. There are a number of sails which lie in the same plane with the keel, being attached to the various _stays_ of the masts; these are triangular sails, and those are called _stay-sails_ which are between the masts: those before the fore-mast, and connected with the bowsprit, are the _fore stay-sail_, the _fore-topmast-stay-sail_, the _jib_, sometimes a _flying jib_, and another called a _middle jib_, and there are two or three others used occasionally. Thus it appears that there are no less than fifty-three different sails, which are used at times, though, we believe, seldom more than twenty are _set_ at one time, for it is obviously useless to extend or set a sail, if the wind is prevented from filling it by another which intercepts the current of air. The higher the wind, the fewer the sails which a ship can carry; but as a certain number, or rather quantity, of canvas is necessary in different parts of the ship to allow of the vessel being steered, the principal sails, that is, the _courses_ or lower sails, and the top-sails, admit of being reduced in extent by what is termed _reefing_: this is done by tying up the upper part of the sail to the yard by means of rows of strings called _reef-points_ passing through the canvas; this reduces the depth of the sail, while its width is unaltered on the yard, which is therefore obliged to be lowered on the mast accordingly. [Illustration: SHORTENING SAIL IN A STORM.] [Illustration: PREPARING TO MAKE SAIL.] [Illustration: LOOSED SAILS.] Ships are principally distinguished as those called merchantmen, which belong to individuals or companies, and are engaged in commerce; and men-of-war, or the national ships, built for the purposes of war. The latter receive their designation from the number of their decks, or of the guns which they carry. The largest are termed ships of the line, from their forming the line of battle when acting together in fleets; and are divided into first-rates, second-rates, third-rates, &c. First-rates include all those carrying 100 guns and upwards, with a company of 850 men and upwards; second-rates mount 90 to 100 guns, and so on, down to the sixth-rates; but some ships of less than 44 guns are termed frigates. [Illustration: TOP-GALLANT-SAILS HOME.] [Illustration: SAIL ON THE STARBOARD TACK.] [Illustration: REEFING TOPSAILS.] [Illustration: DOUBLE-REEFED TOPSAILS.] There are three principal masts in a complete ship: the first is the main-mast, which stands in the centre of the ship; at a considerable distance forward is the fore-mast; and at a less distance behind, the mizen-mast. These masts, passing through the decks, are fixed firmly in the keel. There are added to them other masts, which can be taken down or raised--hoisted, as it is termed at sea--at pleasure: these are called top-masts, and, according to the mast to which each is attached--main, fore, or mizen-topmast. When the topmast is carried still higher by the addition of a third, it receives the name of top-gallant-mast. The yards are long poles of wood slung across the masts, or attached to them by one end, and having fixed to them the upper edge of the principal sails. They are named upon the same plan as the masts; for example, the main-yard, the fore-top-sail-yard, and so on. The bowsprit is a strong conical piece of timber, projecting from the stem of a ship, and serving to support the fore-mast, and as a yard or boom on which certain sails are moveable. According as the wind blows from different points, in regard to the course the ship is sailing, it is necessary that the direction of the yards should be changed, so as to form different angles with the central line or with the keel; this is effected by ropes brought from the ends of the yards to the mast behind that to which these belong, and then, passing through blocks, they come down to the deck: by pulling one of these, the other being slackened, the yard is brought round to the proper degree of inclination; this is termed bracing the yards, the ropes being termed braces. * * * * * THE CHOICE OF HERCULES. When Hercules was in that part of his youth in which it was natural for him to consider what course of life he ought to pursue, he one day retired into a desert, where the silence and solitude of the place very much favoured his meditations. As he was musing on his present condition, and very much perplexed in himself on the state of life he should choose, he saw two women, of a larger stature than ordinary, approaching towards him. One of them had a very noble air, and graceful deportment; her beauty was natural and easy, her person clean and unspotted, her eyes cast towards the ground with an agreeable reserve, her motion and behaviour full of modesty, and her raiment as white as snow. The other had a great deal of health and floridness in her countenance, which she had helped with an artificial white and red; and she endeavoured to appear more graceful than ordinary in her mien, by a mixture of affectation in all her gestures. She had a wonderful confidence and assurance in her looks, and all the variety of colours in her dress, that she thought were the most proper to shew her complexion to advantage. She cast her eyes upon herself, then turned them on those that were present, to see how they liked her, and often looked on the figure she made in her own shadow. Upon her nearer approach to Hercules, she stepped before the other lady, who came forward with a regular, composed carriage, and running up to him, accosted him after the following manner:-- "My dear Hercules!" says she, "I find you are very much divided in your thoughts upon the way of life that you ought to choose; be my friend, and follow me; I will lead you into the possession of pleasure, and out of the reach of pain, and remove you from all the noise and disquietude of business. The affairs of either war or peace shall have no power to disturb you. Your whole employment shall be to make your life easy, and to entertain every sense with its proper gratifications. Sumptuous tables, beds of roses, clouds of perfume, concerts of music, crowds of beauties, are all in readiness to receive you. Come along with me into this region of delights, this world of pleasure, and bid farewell for ever to care, to pain, to business." Hercules, hearing the lady talk after this manner, desired to know her name, to which she answered--"My friends, and those who are well acquainted with me, call me Happiness; but my enemies, and those who would injure my reputation, have given me the name of Pleasure." By this time the other lady was come up, who addressed herself to the young hero in a very different manner:--"Hercules," says she, "I offer myself to you because I know you are descended from the gods, and give proofs of that descent by your love of virtue and application to the studies proper for your age. This makes me hope you will gain, both for yourself and me, an immortal reputation. But before I invite you into my society and friendship, I will be open and sincere with you, and must lay this down as an established truth, that there is nothing truly valuable which can be purchased without pains and labour. The gods have set a price upon every real and noble pleasure. If you would gain the favour of the Deity, you must be at the pains of worshipping Him; if the friendship of good men, you must study to oblige them; if you would be honoured by your country, you must take care to serve it; in short, if you would be eminent in war or peace, you must become master of all the qualifications that can make you so. These are the only terms and conditions upon which I can propose happiness." The Goddess of Pleasure here broke in upon her discourse:--"You see," said she, "Hercules, by her own confession, the way to her pleasures is long and difficult; whereas that which I propose is short and easy." "Alas!" said the other lady, whose visage glowed with passion, made up of scorn and pity, "what are the pleasures you propose? To eat before you are hungry; drink before you are athirst; sleep before you are tired; to gratify appetites before they are raised, and raise such appetites as Nature never planted. You never heard the most delicious music, which is the praise of one's-self; nor saw the most beautiful object, which is the work of one's own hands. Your votaries pass away their youth in a dream of mistaken pleasures, while they are hoarding up anguish, torment, and remorse for old age. As for me, I am the friend of gods and of good men; an agreeable companion to the artizan; an household guardian to the fathers of families; a patron and protector of servants; an associate in all true and generous friendships. The banquets of my votaries are never costly, but always delicious; for none eat or drink of them who are not invited by hunger or thirst. Their slumbers are sound, and their wakings cheerful. My young men have the pleasure of hearing themselves praised by those who are in years; and those who are in years, of being honoured by those who are young. In a word, my followers are favoured by the gods, beloved by their acquaintance, esteemed by their country, and after the close of their labours honoured by posterity." We know, by the life of this memorable hero, to which of these two ladies he gave up his heart; and I believe every one who reads this will do him the justice to approve his choice. _Tatler_. * * * * * STRATA FLORIDA ABBEY. [Illustration] The remains of Strata Florida Abbey, in South Wales, are most interesting in many points of view, more especially as the relics of a stately seminary for learning, founded as early as the year 1164. The community of the Abbey were Cistercian monks, who soon attained great celebrity, and acquired extensive possessions. A large library was founded by them, which included the national records from the earliest periods, the works of the bards and the genealogies of the Princes and great families in Wales. The monks also compiled a valuable history of the Principality, down to the death of Llewellyn the Great. When Edward I. invaded Wales, he burned the Abbey, but it was rebuilt A.D. 1294. Extensive woods once flourished in the vicinity of Strata Florida, and its burial-place covered no less than 120 acres. A long list of eminent persons from all parts of Wales were here buried, and amongst them David ap Gwillim, the famous bard. The churchyard is now reduced to small dimensions; but leaden coffins, doubtless belonging to once celebrated personages, are still found, both there and at a distance from the cemetery. A few aged box and yew-trees now only remain to tell of the luxuriant verdure which once grew around the Abbey; and of the venerable pile itself little is left, except an arch, and the fragment of a fine old wall, about forty feet high. A small church now stands within the enclosure, more than commonly interesting from having been built with the materials of the once celebrated Abbey of Strata Florida. * * * * * KAFFIR CHIEFS. [Illustration] In the warm summer months a thin kind of petticoat constitutes the sole bodily attire of the Kaffir Chiefs; but in winter a cloak is used, made of the skins of wild beasts, admirably curried. The head, even in the hottest weather, is never protected by any covering, a fillet, into which a feather of the ostrich is stuck, being generally worn; and they seldom wear shoes, except on undertaking a long journey, when they condescend to use a rude substitute for them. The bodies of both sexes are tattooed; and the young men, like the fops of more civilized nations, paint their skins and curl their hair. Their arms are the javelin, a large shield of buffalo-hide, and a short club. The women exhibit taste in the arrangement of their dress, particularly for that of the head, which consists of a turban made of skin, and profusely ornamented with beads, of which adornment both men and women are very fond. A mantle of skin, variously bedecked with these and other showy trinkets, is worn; and the only distinction between the dress of the chieftains' wives and those of a lower rank consists in a greater profusion of ornaments possessed by the former, but of which all are alike vain. There is no change of dress, the whole wardrobe of the female being that which she carries about with her and sleeps in, for bed-clothes they have none. The grain which they chiefly cultivate is a kind of millet: a small quantity of Indian corn and some pumpkins are likewise grown; but a species of sugar-cane is produced in great abundance, and of this they are extremely fond. Their diet, however, is chiefly milk in a sour curdled state. They dislike swine's flesh, keep no poultry, are averse to fish, but indulge in eating the flesh of their cattle, which they do in a very disgusting way. Although naturally brave and warlike, they prefer an indolent pastoral life, hunting being an occasional pastime. Much light was thrown on the condition and future prospects of this people in 1835, by some papers relative to the Cape of Good Hope, which were laid before the English Government. From these it appeared that a system of oppression and unjustifiable appropriation on the part of the whites, have from time to time roused the savage energies of the Kaffirs, and impelled them to make severe reprisals upon their European spoilers. The longing of the Cape colonists for the well-watered valleys of the Kaffirs, and of the latter for the colonial cattle, which are much superior to their own, still are, as they have always been, the sources of irritation. Constant skirmishes took place, until, at length, in 1834, the savages poured into the colony in vast numbers, wasted the farms, drove off the cattle, and murdered not a few of the inhabitants. An army of 4000 men was marched against the invaders, who were driven far beyond the boundary-line which formerly separated Kaffirland from Cape Colony, and not only forced to confine themselves within the new limits prescribed, but to pay a heavy fine. Treaties have been entered into, and tracts of country assigned to the Kaffir chiefs of several families, who acknowledge themselves to be subjects of Great Britain, and who are to pay a fat ox annually as a quit-rent for the lands which they occupy. Macomo, one of the Kaffir Chiefs, is a man of most remarkable character and talent, and succeeded his father, Gaika, who had been possessed of much greater power and wider territories than the son, but had found himself compelled to yield up a large portion of his lands to the colonists. Macomo received no education; all the culture which his mind ever obtained being derived from occasional intercourse with missionaries, after he had grown to manhood. From 1819, the period of Gaika's concessions, up to the year 1829, he with his tribe dwelt upon the Kat river, following their pastoral life in peace, and cultivating their corn-fields. Suddenly they were ejected from their lands by the Kat river, on the plea that Gaika had ceded these lands to the colony. Macomo retired, almost without a murmur, to a district farther inland, leaving the very grain growing upon his fields. He took up a new position on the banks of the river Chunice, and here he and his tribe dwelt until 1833, when they were again driven out to seek a new home, almost without pretence. On this occasion Macomo did make a remonstrance, in a document addressed to an influential person of the colony. "In the whole of this savage Kaffir's letter, there is," says Dr. Philip, "a beautiful simplicity, a touching pathos, a confiding magnanimity, a dignified remonstrance, which shows its author to be no common man. It was dictated to an interpreter." [Illustration] "As I and my people," writes Macomo, "have been driven back over the Chunice, without being informed why, I should be glad to know from the Government what evil we have done. I was only told that we _must_ retire over the Chunice, but for what reason I was not informed. It was agreed that I and my people should live west of the Chunice, as well as east of it. When shall I and my people be able to get rest?" * * * * * RAILWAY TUNNELS. [Illustration: Letter O.] Of the difficulties which occasionally baffle the man of science, in his endeavours to contend with the hidden secrets of the crust of the earth which we inhabit, the Kilsby Tunnel of the London and North-western Railway presents a striking example. The proposed tunnel was to be driven about 160 feet below the surface. It was to be, as indeed it is, 2399 yards in length, with two shafts of the extraordinary size of sixty feet in diameter, not only to give air and ventilation, but to admit light enough to enable the engine-driver, in passing through it with a train, to see the rails from end to end. In order correctly to ascertain, and honestly to make known to the contractors the nature of the ground through which this great work was to pass, the engineer-in-chief sank the usual number of what are called "trial shafts;" and, from the result, the usual advertisements for tenders were issued, and the shafts, &c. having been minutely examined by the competing contractors, the work was let to one of them for the sum of £99,000. In order to drive the tunnel, it was deemed necessary to construct eighteen working shafts, by which, like the heavings of a mole, the contents of the subterranean gallery were to be brought to the surface. This interesting work was in busy progress, when, all of a sudden, it was ascertained, that, at about 200 yards from the south end of the tunnel, there existed, overlaid by a bed of clay, forty feet thick, a hidden quicksand, which extended 400 yards into the proposed tunnel, and which the trial shafts on each side of it had almost miraculously just passed without touching. Overwhelmed at the discovery, the contractor instantly took to his bed; and though he was justly relieved by the company from his engagement, the reprieve came too late, for he actually died. The general opinion of the several eminent engineers who were consulted was against proceeding; but Mr. R. Stephenson offered to undertake the responsibility of the work. His first operation was to lower the water with which he had to contend, and it was soon ascertained that the quicksand in question covered several square miles. The tunnel, thirty feet high by thirty feet broad, was formed of bricks, laid in cement, and the bricklayers were progressing in lengths averaging twelve feet, when those who were nearest the quicksand, on driving into the roof, were suddenly almost overwhelmed by a deluge of water, which burst in upon them. As it was evident that no time was to be lost, a gang of workmen, protected by the extreme power of the engines, were, with their materials, placed on a raft; and while, with the utmost celerity, they were completing the walls of that short length, the water, in spite of every effort to keep it down, rose with such rapidity, that, at the conclusion of the work, the men were so near being jammed against the roof, that the assistant-engineer jumped overboard, and then swimming, with a rope in his mouth, he towed the raft to the nearest working shaft, through which he and his men were safely lifted to daylight, or, as it is termed by miners, "to grass." The water now rose in the shaft, and, as it is called, "drowned the works" but, by the main strength of 1250 men, 200 horses, and thirteen steam-engines, not only was the work gradually completed, but, during day and night for eight months, the almost incredible quantity of 1800 gallons of water per minute was raised, and conducted away. The time occupied from the laying of the first brick to the completion was thirty months. [Illustration: DEEP CUTTING NEAR THE TUNNEL.] * * * * * SUN FISH. While lying in Little Killery Bay, on the coast of Connemara, in her Majesty's surveying ketch _Sylvia_, we were attracted by a large fin above the surface, moving with an oscillatory motion, somewhat resembling the action of a man sculling at the stern of a boat; and knowing it to be an unusual visitor, we immediately got up the harpoon and went in chase. In the meantime, a country boat came up with the poor animal, and its crew inflicted upon it sundry blows with whatever they could lay their hands on--oars, grappling, stones, &c.--but were unsuccessful in taking it; and it disappeared for some few minutes, when it again exhibited its fin on the other side of the Bay. The dull and stupid animal permitted us to place our boat immediately over it, and made no effort to escape. The harpoon never having been sharpened, glanced off without effect; but another sailor succeeded in securing it by the tail with a boat-hook, and passing the bight of a rope behind its fins, we hauled it on shore, under Salrock House, the residence of General Thompson, who, with his family, came down to inspect this strange-looking inhabitant of the sea. We were well soused by the splashing of its fins, ere a dozen hands succeeded in transporting this heavy creature from its native abode to the shore, where it passively died, giving only an occasional movement with its fins, or uttering a kind of grunt. [Illustration: SIDE VIEW OF SUN FISH.] [Illustration: FRONT VIEW OF SUN FISH.] This animal, I believe, is a specimen of the Sun-fish (_Orthagoriscus_). It has no bony skeleton; nor did we, in our rather hasty dissection, discover any osseous structure whatever, except (as we were informed by one who afterwards inspected it) that there was one which stretched between the large fins. Its jaws also had bony terminations, unbroken into teeth, and parrot-like, which, when not in use, are hidden by the envelopement of the gums. The form of the animal is preserved by an entire cartilaginous case, of about three inches in thickness, covered by a kind of shagreen skin, so amalgamated with the cartilage as not to be separated from it. This case is easily penetrable with a knife, and is of pearly whiteness, more resembling cocoa-nut in appearance and texture than anything else I can compare it with. The interior cavity, containing the vital parts, terminates a little behind the large fins, where the cartilage was solid, to its tapered extremity, which is without a caudal fin. Within, and around the back part, lay the flesh, of a coarse fibrous texture, slightly salmon-coloured. The liver was such as to fill a common pail, and there was a large quantity of red blood. The nostril, top of the eye, and top of the gill-orifice are in line, as represented in the Engraving. The dimensions are as under:-- Eye round, and like that of an ox, 2-1/4 inches diameter. Gill-orifice, 4 inches by 2-1/4 inches. Dorsal and anal fins equal, 2 ft. 2 in. long, by 1 ft. 3 in. wide. Pectoral fins, 10 in. high by 8 broad. Length of fish, 6 ft. Depth, from the extremities of the large fins, 7 ft. 4 in. Extreme breadth at the swelling under the eye, only 20 in. Weight, 6 cwt. 42 lb. CAPTAIN BEDFORD, R.N. * * * * * BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. [Illustration: Letter O.] Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand-- And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like Leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line; It was ten of April morn, by the chime, As they drifted on their path: There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time. But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of Oak!" our Captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom: Then ceased, and all is wail As they strike the shatter'd sail, Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave, "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save; So peace instead of death let us bring. But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With their crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King." Then Denmark bless'd our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day, While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep-- Ellsinore! Brave hearts! to Britain's pride, Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died With the gallant, good Riou-- Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave: While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave. CAMPBELL. * * * * * ARTILLERY TACTICS. [Illustration: Letter C.] Cannon took their name from the French word _Canne_, a reed. Before their invention, machines were used for throwing enormous stones. These were imitated from the Arabs, and called _ingenia_, whence engineer. The first cannon were made of wood, wrapped up in numerous folds of linen, and well secured by iron hoops. The true epoch of the use of metallic cannon cannot be ascertained; it is certain, however, that they were in use about the middle of the 14th century. The Engraving beneath represents a field-battery gun taking up its position in a canter. The piece of ordnance is attached, or "limbered up" to an ammunition carriage, capable of carrying two gunners, or privates, whilst the drivers are also drilled so as to be able to serve at the gun in action, in case of casualties. [Illustration: TAKING UP POSITION.] Having reached its destination, and been detached or "unlimbered" from the front carriage, we next see the action of loading; the ramrod having at its other extremity a sheep-skin mop, larger than the bore of the piece, and called "a sponge." This instrument, before loading, is invariably used, whilst the touch-hole or "vent" is covered by the thumb of the gunner especially numbered off for this important duty; and the air being thus excluded, the fire, which often remains within the bore, attached to either portions of cartridge-case or wadding, is extinguished. Serious accidents have been known to occur from a neglect of this important preliminary to loading; as a melancholy instance, a poor fellow may be seen about the Woolwich barracks, _both_ of whose arms were blown off above the elbow joint, whilst ramming home a cartridge before the sponge had been properly applied. [Illustration: LOADING.] [Illustration: FIRING IN RETREAT.] If it is deemed essential to keep up a fire upon the enemy during a temporary retreat, or in order to avoid an overwhelming body of cavalry directed against guns unsupported by infantry, in that case the limber remains as close as possible to the field-piece, as shown in the Engraving above. Skilful provisions are made against the various contingencies likely to occur in action. A wheel may he shattered by the enemy's shot, and the gun thereby disabled for the moment: this accident is met by supporting the piece upon a handspike, firmly grasped by one or two men on each side, according to the weight of the gun, whilst a spare wheel, usually suspended at the back of "the tumbril," or ammunition waggon, is obtained, and in a few moments made to remedy the loss, as represented above. [Illustration: DISABLED WHEEL.] [Illustration: DISMANTLING A GUN.] The extraordinary rapidity with which a gun can be dislodged from its carriage, and every portion of its complicated machinery scattered upon the ground, is hardly to be believed unless witnessed; but the wonder is increased tenfold, on seeing with what magical celerity the death-dealing weapon can be put together again. These operations will be readily understood by an examination of the Illustrations. In that at the foot of page 175 the cannon is lying useless upon the earth; one wheel already forms the rude resting-place of a gunner, whilst the other is in the act of being displaced. By the application of a rope round the termination of the breech, and the lifting of the trail of the carriage, care being previously taken that the trunnions are in their respective sockets, a very slight exertion of manual labour is required to put the gun into fighting trim. That we may be understood, we will add that the trunnions are the short round pieces of iron, or brass, projecting from the sides of the cannon, and their relative position can be easily ascertained by a glance at the gun occupying the foreground of the Illustration where the dismantling is depicted. To perform the labour thus required in managing cannon, is called to serve the guns. [Illustration: MOUNTING A GUN.] Cannon are cast in a solid mass of metal, either of iron or brass; they are then bored by being placed upon a machine which causes the whole mass to turn round very rapidly. The boring tool being pressed against the cannon thus revolving, a deep hole is made in it, called the bore. * * * * * THE TREE KANGAROO AND BLACK LEOPARD. The ordinary mode in which the Kangaroos make their way on the ground, as well as by flight from enemies, is by a series of bounds, often of prodigious extent. They spring from their hind limbs alone, using neither the tail nor the fore limbs. In feeding, they assume a crouching, hare-like position, resting on the fore paws as well as on the hinder extremities, while they browse on the herbage. In this attitude they hop gently along, the tail being pressed to the ground. On the least alarm they rise on the hind limbs, and bound to a distance with great rapidity. Sometimes, when excited, the old male of the great kangaroo stands on tiptoe and on his tail, and is then of prodigious height. It readily takes to the water, and swims well, often resorting to this mode of escape from its enemies, among which is the dingo, or wild dog of Australia. [Illustration: TREE KANGAROO, AND BLACK LEOPARD.] Man is, however, the most unrelenting foe of this inoffensive animal. It is a native of New Holland and Van Diemen's Land, and was first discovered by the celebrated navigator Captain Cook, in 1770, while stationed on the coast of New South Wales. In Van Diemen's Land the great kangaroo is regularly hunted with fox-hounds, as the deer or fox in England. The Tree Kangaroo, in general appearance, much resembles the common kangaroo, having many of that animal's peculiarities. It seems to have the power of moving very quickly on a tree; sometimes holding tight with its fore feet, and bringing its hind feet up together with a jump; at other times climbing ordinarily. * * * * * In the island of Java a black variety of the Leopard is not uncommon, and such are occasionally seen in our menageries; they are deeper than the general tint, and the spots show in certain lights only. Nothing can exceed the grace and agility of the leopards; they bound with astonishing ease, climb trees, and swim, and the flexibility of the body enables them to creep along the ground with the cautious silence of a snake on their unsuspecting prey. In India the leopard is called by the natives the "tree-tiger," from its generally taking refuge in a tree when pursued, and also from being often seen among the branches: so quick and active is the animal in this situation, that it is not easy to take a fair aim at him. Antelopes, deer, small quadrupeds, and monkeys are its prey. It seldom attacks a man voluntarily, but, if provoked, becomes a formidable assailant. It is sometimes taken in pitfalls and traps. In some old writers there are accounts of the leopard being taken in trap, by means of a mirror, which, when the animal jump against it, brings a door down upon him. * * * * * CHARITY. [Illustration: Letter D.] Did sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, Than ever man pronounced or angel sung; Had I all knowledge, human and divine That thought can reach, or science can define; And had I power to give that knowledge birth, In all the speeches of the babbling earth, Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire, To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire; Or had I faith like that which Israel saw, When Moses gave them miracles and law: Yet, gracious Charity, indulgent guest, Were not thy power exerted in my breast, Those speeches would send up unheeded pray'r; That scorn of life would be but wild despair; A cymbal's sound were better than my voice; My faith were form, my eloquence were noise. [Illustration] Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind, Softens the high, and rears the abject mind; Knows with just reins, and gentle hand, to guide Betwixt vile shame and arbitrary pride. Not soon provoked, she easily forgives; And much she suffers, as she much believes. Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives; She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives; Lays the rough paths of peevish nature even, And opens in each heart a little heaven. Each other gift, which God on man bestows, Its proper bounds, and due restriction knows; To one fix'd purpose dedicates its power; And finishing its act, exists no more. Thus, in obedience to what Heaven decrees, Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall cease; But lasting Charity's more ample sway, Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay, In happy triumph shall for ever live, And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive. As through the artist's intervening glass, Our eye observes the distant planets pass, A little we discover, but allow That more remains unseen than art can show; So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve, Its feeble eye intent on things above, High as we may we lift our reason up, By faith directed, and confirm'd by hope; Yet are we able only to survey Dawnings of beams and promises of day; Heav'n's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight-- Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispell'd; The Son shall soon be face to face beheld, In all his robes, with all his glory on, Seated sublime on his meridian throne. Then constant Faith, and holy Hope shall vie, One lost in certainty, and one in joy: Whilst thou, more happy pow'r, fair Charity, Triumphant sister, greatest of the three, Thy office, and thy nature still the same, Lasting thy lamp, and unconsumed thy flame, Shall still survive-- Shall stand before the host of heav'n confest, For ever blessing, and for ever blest. PRIOR. * * * * * SARDIS. [Illustration: Letter S.] Sardis, the ancient capital of the kingdom of Lydia, is situated on the river Pactolus, in the fertile plain below Mount Tmolus. Wealth, pomp, and luxury characterised this city from very ancient times. The story of Croesus, its last King, is frequently alluded to by historians, as affording a remarkable example of the instability of human greatness. This Monarch considered himself the happiest of human beings, but being checked by the philosopher Solon for his arrogance, he was offended, and dismissed the sage from his Court with disgrace. Not long afterwards, led away by the ambiguous answers of the oracles, he conducted a large army into the field against Cyrus, the future conqueror of Babylon, but was defeated, and obliged to return to his capital, where he shut himself up. Hither he was soon followed and besieged by Cyrus, with a far inferior force; but, at the expiration of fourteen days, the citadel, which had been deemed impregnable, was taken by a stratagem, and Croesus was condemned to the flames. When the sentence was about to be executed, he was heard to invoke the name of Solon, and the curiosity of Cyrus being excited, he asked the cause; and, having heard his narrative, ordered him to be set free, and subsequently received him into his confidence. [Illustration: SARDIS.] Under the Romans, Sardis declined in importance, and, being destroyed by an earthquake, for some time lay desolate, until it was rebuilt by the Roman Emperor Tiberius. The situation of Sardis is very beautiful, but the country over which it looks is almost deserted, and the valley is become a swamp. The hill of the citadel, when seen from the opposite bank of the Hermus, appears of a triangular form; and at the back of it rise ridge after ridge of mountains, the highest covered with snow, and many of them bearing evident marks of having been jagged and distorted by earthquakes. The citadel is exceedingly difficult of ascent; but the magnificent view which it commands of the plain of the Hermus, and other objects of interest, amply repays the risk and fatigue. The village, small as it is, boasts of containing one of the most remarkable remains of antiquity in Asia; namely, the vast Ionic temple of the heathen goddess Cybele, or the earth, on the banks of the Pactolus. In 1750, six columns of this temple were standing, but four of them have since been thrown down by the Turks, for the sake of the gold which they expected to find in the joints. Two or three mills and a few mud huts, inhabited by Turkish herdsmen, contain all the present population of Sardis. * * * * * MARTELLO TOWERS. [Illustration: Letter A.] At a time when there appeared to be good reason for believing that the invasion of England was contemplated, the Government turned their attention to the defence of such portions of the coast as seemed to present the greatest facility for the landing of a hostile force. As the Kentish coast, from East Were Bay to Dymchurch, seemed more especially exposed, a line of Martello Towers was erected between these two points, at a distance from each other of from one-quarter to three-quarters of a mile. Other towers of the same kind were erected on various parts of the coast where the shore was low, in other parts of England, but more particularly in the counties of Sussex and Suffolk. Towers of this construction appear to have been adopted, owing to the resistance that was made by the Tower of Martella, in the Island of Corsica, to the British forces under Lord Hood and General Dundas, in 1794. This tower which was built in the form of an obtruncated cone--like the body of a windmill--was situated in Martella, or Martle Bay. As it rendered the landing of the troops difficult, Commodore Linzee anchored in the bay to the westward, and there landed the troops on the evening of the 7th of February, taking possession of a height that commanded the tower. As the tower impeded the advance of the troops, it was the next day attacked from the bay by the vessels _Fortitude_ and _Juno_; but after a cannonade of two hours and a half, the ships were obliged to haul off, the _Fortitude_ having sustained considerable damage from red-hot shot discharged from the tower. The tower, after having been cannonaded from the height for two days, surrendered; rather, it would appear, from the alarm of the garrison, than from any great injury that the tower had sustained. The English, on taking possession of the fort, found that the garrison had originally consisted of thirty-three men, of whom two only were wounded, though mortally. The walls were of great thickness, and bomb-proof; and the parapet consisted of an interior lining of rush matting, filled up to the exterior of the parapet with sand. The only guns they had were two 18-pounders. The towers erected between East Were Bay and Dymchurch (upwards of twenty) were built of brick, and were from about 35 feet to 40 feet high: the entrance to them was by a low door-way, about seven feet and a half from the ground; and admission was gained by means of a ladder, which was afterwards withdrawn into the interior. A high step of two feet led to the first floor of the tower, a room of about thirteen feet diameter, and with the walls about five feet thick. Round this room were loopholes in the walls, at such an elevation, that the men would be obliged to stand on benches in the event of their being required to oppose an attack of musketry. Those benches were also used as the sleeping-places of the garrison. On this floor there was a fire-place, and from the centre was a trap-door leading downwards to the ammunition and provision rooms. The second floor was ascended by similar means. [Illustration: MARTELLO TOWER ON THE KENTISH COAST.] * * * * * TURKISH CUSTOMS. [Illustration: Letter C.] Characteristically indolent, the fondness for a sedentary life is stronger, perhaps, with the Turks, than with any other people of whom we read. It is difficult to describe the gravity and apathy which constitute the distinguishing features of their character: everything in their manners tends to foster in them, especially in the higher classes, an almost invincible love of ease and luxurious leisure. The general rule which they seem to lay down for their guidance, is that taking the trouble to do anything themselves which they can possibly get others to do for them; and the precision with which they observe it in some of the minutest trifles of domestic life is almost amusing. A Turkish gentleman, who has once composed his body upon the corner of a sofa, appears to attach a certain notion of grandeur to the keeping of it there, and it is only something of the gravest importance that induces him to disturb his position. If he wishes to procure anything that is within a few steps of him, he summons his slaves by clapping his hands (the Eastern mode of "ringing the bell"), and bids them bring it to him: his feelings of dignity would be hurt by getting up to reach it himself. Of course, this habit of inaction prevails equally with the female sex: a Turkish lady would not think of picking up a fallen handkerchief, so long as she had an attendant to do it for her. As may be supposed, the number of slaves in a Turkish household of any importance is very great. [Illustration: TURKISH FEMALE SLAVE.] The position of women in Eastern countries is so totally unlike that which they hold in our own happy land, that we must refer expressly to it, in order that the picture of domestic life presented to us in the writings of all travellers in the East may be understood. Amongst all ranks, the wife is not the friend and companion, but the slave of her husband; and even when treated with kindness and affection, her state is still far below that of her sisters in Christian lands. Even in the humblest rank of life, the meal which the wife prepares with her own hands for her husband, she must not partake of with him. The hard-working Eastern peasant, and the fine lady who spends most of her time in eating sweet-meats, or in embroidery, are both alike dark and ignorant; for it would be accounted a folly, if not a sin, to teach them even to read. Numerous carriers, or sellers of water, obtain their living in the East by supplying the inhabitants with it. They are permitted to fill their water-bags, made of goat-skins, at the public fountains. This goat-skin of the carrier has a long brass spout, and from this the water is poured into a brass cup, for any one who wishes to drink. Many of these are employed by the charitable, to distribute water in the streets; and they pray the thirsty to partake of the bounty offered to them in the name of God, praying that Paradise and pardon may be the lot of him who affords the refreshing gift. [Illustrated: TURKISH WATER-CARRIER] The Dancing Dervises are a religious order of Mohamedans, who affect a great deal of patience, humility, and charity. Part of their religious observance consists in dancing or whirling their bodies round with the greatest rapidity imaginable, to the sound of a flute; and long practice has enabled them to do this without suffering the least inconvenience from the strange movement. In Eastern countries, the bread is generally made in the form of a large thin cake, which is torn and folded up, almost like a sheet of paper; it can then be used (as knives and forks are not employed by the Orientals) for the purpose of rolling together a mouthful of meat, or supping up gravy and vegetables, at the meals. [Illustration: DANCING DERVISE.] * * * * * ON STUDY. Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. The chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring; for ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of business. For expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots, and marshalling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is sloth; to use them too much for ornament, is affectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humour of a scholar. They perfect nature, and are perfected by experience; for natural abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by duty; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them: for they teach not their own use, but that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by observation. Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted; not to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but that should be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner sorts of books; else distilled books are like common distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man. And, therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. BACON. * * * * * THE SHORES OF GREECE. He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled; The first dark day of nothingness. The last of danger and distress: Before Decay's effacing fingers, Have swept the lines where beauty lingers, And mark'd the mild, angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there; The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek. And, but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not--wins not--weeps not--now; And, but for that chill, changeless brow, Whose touch thrills with mortality, And curdles to the gazer's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon: Yes, but for these, and these alone Some moments--ay, one treacherous hour-- He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, The first, last look by death reveal'd. Such is the aspect of this shore; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet--so deadly fair-- We start, for soul is wanting there: Hers is the loveliness in death That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty, with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb: Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of feeling past away! Spark of that flame--perchance of Heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth! BYRON. [Illustration: SUBTERRANEAN CHAPEL, GREECE.] * * * * * THE FORT OF ATTOCK. [Illustration: Letter A.] Attock is a fort and small town in the Punjaub, on the left or east bank of the Indus, 942 miles from the sea, and close below the place where it receives the water of the Khabool river, and first becomes navigable. The name, signifying _obstacle_, is supposed to have been given to it under the presumption that no scrupulous Hindoo would proceed westward of it; but this strict principle, like many others of similar nature, is little acted on. Some state that the name was given by the Emperor Akbar, because he here found much difficulty in crossing the river. The river itself is at this place frequently by the natives called Attock. Here is a bridge, formed usually of from twenty to thirty boats, across the stream, at a spot where it is 537 feet wide. In summer, when the melting of the snows in the lofty mountains to the north raises the stream so that the bridge becomes endangered, it is withdrawn, and the communication is then effected by means of a ferry. The banks of the river are very high, so that the enormous accession which the volume of water receives during inundation scarcely affects the breadth, but merely increases the depth. The rock forming the banks is of a dark-coloured slate, polished by the force of the stream, so as to shine like black marble. Between these, "one clear blue stream shot past." The depth of the Indus here is thirty feet in the lowest state, and between sixty and seventy in the highest, and runs at the rate of six miles an hour. There is a ford at some distance above the confluence of the river of Khabool; but the extreme coldness and rapidity of the water render it at all times very dangerous, and on the slightest inundation quite impracticable. The bridge is supported by an association of boatmen, who receive the revenue of a village allotted for this purpose by the Emperor Akbar, and a small daily pay as long as the bridge stands, and also levy a toll on all passengers. On the right bank, opposite Attock, is Khyrabad--a fort built, according to some, by the Emperor Akbar, according to others by Nadir Shah. This locality is, in a military and commercial point of view, of much importance, as the Indus is here crossed by the great route which, proceeding from Khabool eastward through the Khyber Pass into the Punjaub, forms the main line of communication between Affghanistan and Northern India. The river was here repeatedly crossed by the British armies, during the late military operations in Affghanistan; and here, according to the general opinion, Alexander, subsequently Timur, the Tartar conqueror, and, still later, Nadir Shah, crossed; but there is much uncertainty on these points. [Illustration: THE FORT OF ATTOCK.] The fortress was erected by the Emperor Akbar, in 1581 to command the passage; but, though strongly built of stone on the high and steep bank of the river, it could offer no effectual resistance to a regular attack, being commanded by the neighbouring heights. Its form is that of a parallelogram: it is 800 yards long and 400 wide. The population of the town, which is inclosed within the walls of the fort, is estimated at 2000. * * * * * THE ORDER OF NATURE. [Illustration: Letter S.] See through this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. Above, how high progressive life may go! Around, how wide! how deep extend below! Vast chain of Being! which from God began, Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see No glass can reach; from Infinity to thee From thee to Nothing.--On superior pow'rs Were we to press, inferior might on ours; Or in the full creation leave a void, Where one step broken the great scale's destroyed From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, Tenth or ten-thousandth, breaks the chain alike. And, if each system in gradation roll Alike essential to th' amazing whole, The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the whole must fall. Let earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, Planets and suns run lawless through the sky; Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd, Being on being wreck'd, and world on world, Heav'n's whole foundations to the centre nod, And Nature trembles to the throne of God: All this dread Order break--for whom? for thee? Vile worm!--Oh, madness! pride! impiety! What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, Or hand to toil, aspired to be the head? What if the head, the eye, or ear, repined To serve--mere engines to the ruling Mind? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this general frame: Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains, The great directing Mind of All ordains. All are but parts of one stupendous whole Whose body Nature is, and God the Soul: That changed through all, and yet in all the same, Great is in earth as in th' ethereal frame, Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. Cease then, nor Order Imperfection name: Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. Submit--in this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee; All Chance, Direction which thou canst not see; All Discord, Harmony not understood; All partial Evil, universal Good: And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, One truth is clear, WHATEVER is, is RIGHT. POPE. * * * * * LORD CLARENDON. [Illustration: Letter T.] This celebrated statesman, who flourished in the reigns of Charles I. and II., took a prominent part in the eventful times in which he lived. He was not of noble birth, but the descendant of a family called Hyde, which resided from a remote period at Norbury, in Cheshire. He was originally intended for the church, but eventually became a lawyer, applying himself to the study of his profession with a diligence far surpassing that of the associates with whom he lived. In 1635, he attracted the notice of Archbishop Laud, which may be regarded as the most fortunate circumstance of his life, as it led to his introduction to Charles I. In consequence of the ability displayed by him in the responsible duties he was called to perform, that Monarch offered him the office of Solicitor-General. But this Hyde declined, preferring, as he said, to serve the King in an unofficial capacity. After the battle of Naseby, Hyde was appointed one of the council formed to attend, watch over, and direct the Prince of Wales. After hopelessly witnessing for many months a course of disastrous and ill-conducted warfare in the West, the council fled with the Prince, first to the Scilly Islands, near Cornwall, and thence to Jersey. From this place, against the wishes of Hyde, the Prince, in 1640, repaired to his mother, Henrietta, at Paris, leaving Hyde at Jersey, where he remained for two years, engaged in the composition of his celebrated "History of the Rebellion." In May, 1648, Hyde was summoned to attend the Prince at the Hague; and here they received the news of the death of Charles I., which is said to have greatly appalled them. After faithfully following the new King in all his vicissitudes of fortune, suffering at times extreme poverty, he attained at the Restoration the period of his greatest power. In 1660, his daughter Anne was secretly married to the Duke of York; but when, after a year, it was openly acknowledged, the new Lord Chancellor received the news with violent demonstrations of indignation and grief. Hyde, in fact, never showed any avidity for emoluments or distinction; but when this marriage was declared, it became desirable that some mark of the King's favour should be shown, and he was created Earl of Clarendon. He subsequently, from political broils, was compelled to exile himself from the Court, and took up his residence at Montpellier, where, resuming his literary labours, he completed his celebrated History, and the memoir of his life. After fruitlessly petitioning King Charles II. for permission to end his days in England, the illustrious exile died at Rouen, in 1674, in the sixty-fifth year of his age. [Illustration: STATUE OF LORD CLARENDON.] * * * * * OWLS. [Illustration: Letter I.] It is now generally known that the Owl renders the farmer important service, by ridding him of vermin, which might otherwise consume the produce of his field; but in almost every age and country it has been regarded as a bird of ill omen, and sometimes even as the herald of death. In France, the cry or hoot is considered as a certain forerunner of misfortune to the hearer. In Tartary, the owl is looked upon in another light, though not valued as it ought to be for its useful destruction of moles, rats, and mice. The natives pay it great respect, because they attribute to this bird the preservation of the founder of their empire, Genghis Khan. That Prince, with his army, happened to be surprised and put to flight by his enemies, and was forced to conceal himself in a little coppice. An owl settled on the bush under which he was hid, and his pursuers did not search there, as they thought it impossible the bird would perch on a place where any man was concealed. Thenceforth his countrymen held the owl to be a sacred bird, and every one wore a plume of its feathers on his head. One of the smallest of the owl tribe utters but one melancholy note now and then. The Indians in North America whistle whenever they chance to hear the solitary note; and if the bird does not very soon repeat his harmless cry, the speedy death of the superstitious hearer is foreboded. It is hence called the death bird. The voices of all carnivorous birds and beasts are harsh, and at times hideous; and probably, like that of the owl, which, from the width and capacity of its throat, is in some varieties very powerful, may be intended as an alarm and warning to the birds and animals on which they prey, to secure themselves from the approach of their stealthy foe. Owls are divided into two groups or families--one having two tufts of feathers on the head, which have been called ears or horns, and are moveable at pleasure, the others having smooth round heads without tufts. The bills are hooked in both. There are upwards of sixty species of owls widely spread over almost every part of the known world; of these we may count not fewer than eight as more or less frequenting this country. One of the largest of the tribe is the eagle hawk, or great horned owl, the great thickness of whose plumage makes it appear nearly as large as the eagle. Some fine preserved specimens of this noble-looking bird may be seen in the British Museum. It is a most powerful bird; and a specimen was captured, with great difficulty, in 1837, when it alighted upon the mast-head of a vessel off Flamborough-head. The amiable naturalist, Mr. Waterton, who took especial interest in the habits of the owl, writes thus on the barn owl:--"This pretty aerial wanderer of the night often comes into my room, and, after flitting to and fro, on wing so soft and silent that he is scarcely heard, takes his departure from the same window at which he had entered. I own I have a great liking for the bird; and I have offered it hospitality and protection on account of its persecutions, and for its many services to me; I wish that any little thing I could write or say might cause it to stand better with the world than it has hitherto done." [Illustration: OWLS IN A CASTLE KEEP.] * * * * * CHATTERTON. [Illustration] This gifted young poet was the son of a schoolmaster at Bristol, where he was born, in 1752. On the 24th of August, 1770, he was found dead, near a table covered with the scraps of writings he had destroyed, in a miserable room in Brook-street, Holborn. In Redcliffe churchyard, Bristol, a beautiful monument has been erected to the memory of the unfortunate poet. O God! whose thunders shake the sky, Whose eye this atom globe surveys, To Thee, my only rock, I fly-- Thy mercy in thy justice praise. Oh, teach me in the trying hour, When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own Thy power, Thy goodness love, Thy justice fear. Ah! why, my soul, dost thou complain, Why, drooping, seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain, For God created all to bless. But, ah! my breast is human still: The rising sigh, the falling tear, My languid vitals' feeble rill, The sickness of my soul declare. CHATTERTON. * * * * * SMYRNA. [Illustration: Letter T.] This city and sea-port of Natolia, in Asia, is situate towards the northern part of a peninsula, upon a long and winding gulf of the same name, which is capable of containing the largest navy in the world. The city is about four miles round, presenting a front of a mile long to the water; and when approached by sea, it resembles a capacious amphitheatre with the ruins of an ancient castle crowning its summit. The interior of the city, however, disappoints the expectations thus raised, for the streets are narrow, dirty, and ill-paved, and there is now scarcely a trace of those once splendid edifices which rendered Smyrna one of the finest cities in Asia Minor. The shops are arched over, and have a handsome appearance: in spite of the gloom which the houses wear, those along the shore have beautiful gardens attached to them, at the foot of which are summer-houses overhanging the sea. The city is subject to earthquakes and the plague, which latter, in 1814, carried off above 50,000 of the inhabitants. About midnight, in July, 1841, a fire broke out at Smyrna, which, from the crowded state of the wooden houses, the want of water, and the violence of the wind, was terribly destructive. About 12,000 houses were destroyed, including two-thirds of the Turkish quarter, most of the French and the whole of the Jewish quarters, with many bazaars and several mosques, synagogues, and other public buildings. It was calculated that 20,000 persons were deprived of shelter and food, and the damage was estimated at two millions sterling. [Illustration: SMYRNA.] The fine port of Smyrna is frequented by ships from all nations, freighted with valuable cargoes, both outward and inward. The greater part of the trading transactions is managed by Jews, who act as brokers, the principals meeting afterwards to conclude the bargains. In 1402 Smyrna was taken by Tamerlane, and suffered very severely. The conqueror erected within its walls a tower constructed of stones and the heads of his enemies. Soon after, it came under the dominion of the Turks, and has been subsequently the most flourishing city in the Levant, exporting and importing valuable commodities to and from all parts of the world. * * * * * GENTLENESS. [Illustration: Letter I.] I begin with distinguishing true gentleness from passive tameness of spirit, and from unlimited compliance with the manners of others. That passive tameness which submits, without opposition, to every encroachment of the violent and assuming, forms no part of Christian duty; but, on the contrary, is destructive of general happiness and order. That unlimited complaisance, which on every occasion falls in with the opinions and manners of others, is so far from being a virtue, that it is itself a vice, and the parent of many vices. It overthrows all steadiness of principle; and produces that sinful conformity with the world which taints the whole character. In the present corrupted state of human manners, always to assent and to comply is the very worst maxim we can adopt. It is impossible to support the purity and dignity of Christian morals without opposing the world on various occasions, even though we should stand alone. That gentleness, therefore, which belongs to virtue, is to be carefully distinguished from the mean spirit of cowards, and the fawning assent of sycophants. It renounces no just right from fear. It gives up no important truth from flattery. It is indeed not only consistent with a firm mind, but it necessarily requires a manly spirit, and a fixed principle, in order to give it any real value. Upon this solid ground only, the polish of gentleness can with advantage be superinduced. It stands opposed, not to the most determined regard for virtue and truth, but to harshness and severity, to pride and arrogance, to violence and oppression. It is properly that part of the great virtue of charity, which makes us unwilling to give pain to any of our brethren. Compassion prompts us to relieve their wants. Forbearance prevents us from retaliating their injuries. Meekness restrains our angry passions; candour, our severe judgments. Gentleness corrects whatever is offensive in our manners, and, by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to alleviate the burden of common misery. Its office, therefore, is extensive. It is not, like some other virtues, called forth only on peculiar emergencies; but it is continually in action, when we are engaged in intercourse with men. It ought to form our address, to regulate our speech, and to diffuse itself over our whole behaviour. We must not, however, confound this gentle "wisdom which is from above" with that artificial courtesy, that studied smoothness of manners, which is learned in the school of the world. Such accomplishments the most frivolous and empty may possess. Too often they are employed by the artful as a snare; too often affected by the hard and unfeeling as a cover to the baseness of their minds. We cannot, at the same time, avoid observing the homage, which, even in such instances, the world is constrained to pay to virtue. In order to render society agreeable, it is found necessary to assume somewhat that may at least carry its appearance. Virtue is the universal charm. Even its shadow is courted, when the substance is wanting. The imitation of its form has been reduced into an art; and in the commerce of life, the first study of all who would either gain the esteem or win the hearts of others, is to learn the speech and to adopt the manners of candour, gentleness, and humanity. But that gentleness which is the characteristic of a good man has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart; and let me add, nothing except what flows from the heart can render even external manners truly pleasing. For no assumed behaviour can at all times hide the real character. In that unaffected civility which springs from a gentle mind there is a charm infinitely more powerful than in all the studied manners of the most finished courtier. True gentleness is founded on a sense of what we owe to HIM who made us, and to the common nature of which we all share. It arises from reflections on our own failings and wants, and from just views of the condition and the duty of man. It is native feeling heightened and improved by principle. It is the heart which easily relents; which feels for every thing that is human, and is backward and slow to inflict the least wound. It is affable in its address, and mild in its demeanour; ever ready to oblige, and willing to be obliged by others; breathing habitual kindness towards friends, courtesy to strangers, long-suffering to enemies. It exercises authority with moderation; administers reproof with tenderness; confers favours with ease and modesty. It is unassuming in opinion, and temperate in zeal. It contends not eagerly about trifles; slow to contradict, and still slower to blame; but prompt to allay dissension and to restore peace. It neither intermeddles unnecessarily with the affairs, nor pries inquisitively into the secrets of others. It delights above all things to alleviate distress; and if it cannot dry up the falling tear, to sooth at least, the grieving heart. Where it has not the power of being useful, it is never burdensome. It seeks to please rather than to shine and dazzle, and conceals with care that superiority, either of talent or of rank, which is oppressive to those who are beneath it. In a word, it is that spirit and that tenour of manners which the Gospel of Christ enjoins, when it commands us "to bear one another's burdens; to rejoice with those who rejoice, and to weep with those who weep; to please every one his neighbour for his good; to be kind and tender-hearted; to be pitiful and courteous; to support the weak, and to be patient towards all men." BLAIR. * * * * * THE IGUANA. The Iguana (_Cyclura colei_) is not only of singular aspect, but it may be regarded as the type of a large and important group in the Saurian family, which formed so conspicuous a feature in the ancient fauna of this country. The iguana attains a large size in Jamaica, whence the present specimen was obtained, not unfrequently approaching four feet in length. In colour it is a greenish grey. It is entirely herbivorous, as are all its congeners. Its principal haunt in Jamaica is the low limestone chain of hills, along the shore from Kingston Harbour and Goat Island, on to its continuation in Vere. [Illustration: THE IGUANA.] The iguanas which are occasionally taken in the savannahs adjacent to this district are considered by Mr. Hill (an energetic correspondent of the Zoological Society who resides in Spanish Town, and who has paid great attention to the natural history of the island) to be only stray visitants which have wandered from the hills. The allied species of _Cyclura_, which are found on the American continent, occur in situations of a very different character, for they affect forests on the bank of rivers, and woods around springs, where they pass their time in trees and in the water, living on fruits and leaves. This habit is preserved by the specimen in the Zoological Society's Gardens, which we have seen lying lazily along an elevated branch. Its serrated tail is a formidable weapon of defence, with which, when alarmed or attacked, it deals rapid blows from side to side. When unmolested it is harmless and inoffensive, and appears to live in perfect harmony with the smaller species of lizards which inhabit the same division of the house. * * * * * HENRY IV.'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP. How many thousands of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O gentle Sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness; Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull God! why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch, A watch-case to a common larum-bell? Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast, Seal up the shipboy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge; And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaf'ning clamours in the slipp'ry shrouds, That with the hurly Death itself awakes: Can'st thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repose To the wet seaboy in an hour so rude, And in the calmest and the stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a King? Then, happy lowly clown! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. SHAKSPEARE * * * * * ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. [Illustration] The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herds Mind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! [Illustration] Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Pow'r, And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour-- The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their tombs no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull, cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, [Illustration] Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dew away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt' ring his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless lore. "One morn, I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." [Illustration: THE EPITAPH.] Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth-- Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis'ry all he had--a tear; He gain'd from Heav'n, 'twas all he wish'd--a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode; (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God. GRAY. * * * * * THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH. [Illustration: Letter M.] Marvellous indeed have been the productions of modern scientific investigations, but none surpass the wonder-working Electro-magnetic Telegraphic Machine; and when Shakspeare, in the exercise of his unbounded imagination, made _Puck_, in obedience to _Oberon's_ order to him-- "Be here again Ere the leviathan can swim a league." reply-- "I'll put a girdle round the earth In forty minutes"-- how little did our immortal Bard think that this light fanciful offer of a "fairy" to "the King of the Fairies" would, in the nineteenth century, not only be substantially realised, but surpassed as follows:-- The electric telegraph would convey intelligence more than twenty-eight thousand times round the earth, while Puck, at his vaunted speed, was crawling round it only ONCE! On every instrument there is a dial, on which are inscribed the names of the six or eight stations with which it usually communicates. When much business is to be transacted, a boy is necessary for each of these instruments; generally, however, one lad can, without practical difficulty, manage about three; but, as the whole of them are ready for work by night as well as by day, they are incessantly attended, in watches of eight hours each, by these satellite boys by day and by men at night. As fast as the various messages for delivery, flying one after another from the ground-floor up the chimney, reach the level of the instruments, they are brought by the superintendent to the particular one by which they are to be communicated; and its boy, with the quickness characteristic of his age, then instantly sets to work. His first process is by means of the electric current to sound a little bell, which simultaneously alarms all the stations on his line; and although the attention of the sentinel at each is thus attracted, yet it almost instantly evaporates from all excepting from that to the name of which he causes the electric needle to point, by which signal the clerk at that station instantly knows that the forthcoming question is addressed to _him_; and accordingly, by a corresponding signal, he announces to the London boy that he is ready to receive it. By means of a brass handle fixed to the dial, which the boy grasps in each hand, he now begins rapidly to spell off his information by certain twists of his wrists, each of which imparts to the needles on his dial, as well as to those on the dial of his distant correspondent, a convulsive movement designating the particular letter of the telegraphic alphabet required. By this arrangement he is enabled to transmit an ordinary-sized word in three seconds, or about twenty per minute. In the case of any accident to the wire of one of his needles, he can, by a different alphabet, transmit his message by a series of movements of the single needle, at the reduced rate of about eight or nine words per minute. While a boy at one instrument is thus occupied in transmitting to--say Liverpool, a message, written by its London author in ink which is scarcely dry, another boy at the adjoining instrument is, by the reverse of the process, attentively reading the quivering movements of the needles of his dial, which, by a sort of St. Vitus's dance, are rapidly spelling to him a message, _viâ_ the wires of the South Western Railway, say from Gosport, which word by word he repeats aloud to an assistant, who, seated by his side, writes it down (he receives it about as fast as his attendant can conveniently write it); on a sheet of; paper, which, as soon as the message is concluded, descends to the "booking-office." When inscribed in due form, it is without delay despatched to its destination, by messenger, cab, or express, according to order. SIR F.B. HEAD. [Illustration: WORKING THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH.] * * * * * THE RAINBOW. How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast-- A thousand fathoms down! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor let the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man. CAMPBELL. [Illustration: A LUNAR RAINBOW.] The moon sometimes exhibits the extraordinary phenomenon of an iris or rainbow, by the refraction of her rays in drops of rain during the night-time. This appearance is said to occur only at the time of full moon, and to be indicative of stormy and rainy weather. One is described in the _Philosophical Transactions_ as having been seen in 1810, during a thick rain; but, subsequent to that time, the same person gives an account of one which perhaps was the most extraordinary of which we have any record. It became visible about nine o'clock, and continued, though with very different degrees of brilliancy, until past two. At first, though a strongly marked bow, it was without colour, but afterwards became extremely vivid, the red, green, and purple being the most strongly marked. About twelve it was the most splendid in appearance. The wind was very high at the time, and a drizzling rain falling occasionally. * * * * * HOPE [Illustration: THOMAS CAMPBELL, "THE BARD OF HOPE."] At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey, The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus from afar each dim-discovered scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been; And every form that fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden, grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe. Won by their sweets, in nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; Then, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! What viewless forms th' Eolian organ play, And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious care away! Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds and ocean's wildest shore. Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields His bark, careering o'er unfathom'd fields; Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar Where Andes, giant of the western star, With meteor-standard to the winds unfurl'd, Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world. Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form! Rocks, waves, and winds the shatter'd bark delay-- Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, And sing to charm the spirit of the deep. Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul. His native hills that rise in happier climes; The grot that heard his song of other times; His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossom'd vale, Rush in his thought; he sweeps before the wind, And treads the shore he sigh'd to leave behind! _Pleasures of Hope._ * * * * * LIGHTHOUSES. [Illustration: Letter H.] Hartlepool Lighthouse is a handsome structure of white freestone--the building itself being fifty feet in height; but, owing to the additional height of the cliff, the light is exhibited at an elevation of nearly eighty-five feet above high-water mark. On the eastern side of the building is placed a balcony, supporting a lantern, from which a small red light is exhibited, to indicate that state of the tide which will admit of the entrance of ships into the harbour; the corresponding signal in the daytime being a red ball hoisted to the top of the flag-staff. The lighthouse is furnished with an anemometer and tidal gauge; and its appointments are altogether of the most complete description. It is chiefly, however, with regard to the system adopted in the lighting arrangements that novelty presents itself. The main object, in the instance of a light placed as a beacon to warn mariners of their proximity to a dangerous coast, is to obtain the greatest possible intensity and amount of penetrating power. A naked or simple light is therefore seldom, if ever employed; but whether it proceed from the combustion of oil or gas, it is equally necessary that it should be combined with some arrangement of optical apparatus, in order that the rays emitted may be collected, and projected in such a direction as to render them available to the object in view; and in all cases a highly-polished metal surface is employed as a reflector. [Illustration: HARTLEPOOL LIGHTHOUSE.] In the Hartlepool Lighthouse the illuminative medium is _gas_. The optical apparatus embraces three-fourths of the circumference of the circle which encloses the light, and the whole of the rays emanating from that part of the light opposed to the optical arrangement are reflected or refracted (as the case may be), so that they are projected from the lighthouse in such a direction as to be visible from the surface of the ocean. * * * * * INTEGRITY. [Illustration: Letter C.] Can anything (says Plato) be more delightful than the hearing or the speaking of truth? For this reason it is that there is no conversation so agreeable that of a man of integrity, who hears without any intention to betray, and speaks without any intention to deceive. As an advocate was pleading the cause of his client in Rome, before one of the praetors, he could only produce a single witness in a point where the law required the testimony of two persons; upon which the advocate insisted on the integrity of the person whom he had produced, but the praetor told him that where the law required two witnesses he would not accept of one, though it were Cato himself. Such a speech, from a person who sat at the head of a court of justice, while Cato was still living, shows us, more than a thousand examples, the high reputation this great man had gained among his contemporaries on account of his sincerity. [Illustration] 2. As I was sitting (says an ancient writer) with some senators of Bruges, before the gate of the Senate-House, a certain beggar presented himself to us, and with sighs and tears, and many lamentable gestures, expressed to us his miserable poverty, and asked our alms, telling us at the same time, that he had about him a private maim and a secret mischief, which very shame restrained him from discovering to the eyes of men. We all pitying the case of the poor man, gave him each of us something, and departed. One, however, amongst us took an opportunity to send his servant after him, with orders to inquire of him what that private infirmity might be which he found such cause to be ashamed of, and was so loth to discover. The servant overtook him, and delivered his commission: and after having diligently viewed his face, breast, arms, legs, and finding all his limbs in apparent soundness, "Why, friend," said he, "I see nothing whereof you have any such reason to complain." "Alas! sir," said the beggar, "the disease which afflicts me is far different from what you conceive, and is such as you cannot discern; yet it is an evil which hath crept over my whole body: it has passed through my very veins and marrow in such a manner that there is no member of my body that is able to work for my daily bread. This disease is by some called idleness, and by others sloth." The servant, hearing this singular apology, left him in great anger, and returned to his master with the above account; but before the company could send again to make further inquiry after him, the beggar had very prudently withdrawn himself. 3. Action, we are assured, keeps the soul in constant health; but idleness corrupts and rusts the mind; for a man of great abilities may by negligence and idleness become so mean and despicable as to be an incumbrance to society and a burthen to himself. When the Roman historians described an extraordinary man, it generally entered into his character, as an essential, that he was _incredibili industriâ, diligentiâ singulari_--of incredible industry, of singular diligence and application. And Cato, in Sallust, informs the Senate, that it was not so much the arms as the industry of their ancestors, which advanced the grandeur of Rome, and made her mistress of the world. DR. DODD. * * * * * RAFT OF GAMBIER ISLANDERS The group in the Pacific Ocean called the Gambier Islands are but thinly inhabited, but possess a good harbour. Captain Beechey, in his "Narrative of a Voyage to the Pacific and Behring's Straits," tells us that several of the islands, especially the largest, have a fertile appearance. The Captain gives an interesting account of his interview with some of the natives, who approached the ship in rafts, carrying from sixteen to twenty men each, as represented in the Engraving. [Illustration: RAFT OF GAMBIER ISLANDERS.] "We were much pleased," says the Captain, "with the manner of lowering their matting sail, diverging on different courses, and working their paddles, in the use of which they had great power, and were well skilled, plying them together, or, to use a nautical phrase, 'keeping stroke.' They had no other weapons but long poles, and were quite naked, with the exception of a banana leaf cut into strips, and tied about their loins; and one or two persons wore white turbans." They timidly approached both the ship and the barge, but would upset any small boats within their reach; not, however, from any malicious intention, but from thoughtlessness and inquisitiveness. Captain Beechey approached them in the gig, and gave them several presents, for which they, in return, threw him some bundles of paste, tied up in large leaves, which was the common food of the natives. They tempted the Captain and his crew with cocoa-nuts and roots, and invited their approach by performing ludicrous dances; but, as soon as the visitors were within reach, all was confusion. A scuffle ensued, and on a gun being fired over their heads, all but four instantly plunged into the sea. The inhabitants of these islands are stated to be well-made, with upright and graceful figures. Tattooing seems to be very commonly practised, and some of the patterns are described as being very elegant. * * * * * CHRISTIAN FREEDOM. "He is the freeman whom the truth makes free," Who first of all the bands of Satan breaks; Who breaks the bands of sin, and for his soul, In spite of fools, consulteth seriously; In spite of fashion, perseveres in good; In spite of wealth or poverty, upright; Who does as reason, not as fancy bids; Who hears Temptation sing, and yet turns not Aside; sees Sin bedeck her flowery bed, And yet will not go up; feels at his heart The sword unsheathed, yet will not sell the truth; Who, having power, has not the will to hurt; Who feels ashamed to be, or have a slave, Whom nought makes blush but sin, fears nought but God; Who, finally, in strong integrity Of soul, 'midst want, or riches, or disgrace Uplifted, calmly sat, and heard the waves Of stormy Folly breaking at his feet, Nor shrill with praise, nor hoarse with foal reproach, And both despised sincerely; seeking this Alone, the approbation of his God, Which still with conscience witness'd to his peace. This, this is freedom, such as Angels use, And kindred to the liberty of God! POLLOCK. * * * * * THE POLAR REGIONS. The adventurous spirit of Englishmen has caused them to fit out no less than sixty expeditions within the last three centuries and a half, with the sole object of discovering a north-west passage to India. Without attempting even to enumerate these baffled essays, we will at once carry our young readers to these dreary regions--dreary, merely because their capabilities are unsuited to the necessities which are obvious to all, yet performing their allotted office in the economy of the world, and manifesting the majesty and the glory of our great Creator. [Illustration: SIR JAMES ROSS'S SHIPS BESET IN A PACK OF ICE.] Winter in the Arctic Circle is winter indeed: there is no sun to gladden with his beams the hearts of the voyagers; but all is wrapt in darkness, day and night, save when the moon chances to obtrude her faint rays, only to make visible the desolation of the scene. The approach of winter is strongly marked. Snow begins to fall in August, and the ground is covered to the depth of two or three feet before October. As the cold augments, the air bears its moisture in the form of a frozen fog, the icicles of which are so sharp as to be painful to the skin. The surface of the sea steams like a lime-kiln, caused by the water being still warmer than the superincumbent atmosphere. The mist at last clears, the water having become frozen, and darkness settles on the land. All is silence, broken only by the bark of the Arctic fox, or by the loud explosion of bursting rocks, as the frost penetrates their bosoms. The crews of exploring vessels, which are frozen firmly in the ice in winter, spend almost the whole of their time in their ships, which in Sir James Ross's expedition (in 1848-49) were well warmed and ventilated. Where there has not been sufficient warmth, their provisions--even brandy--became so frozen as to require to be cut by a hatchet. The mercury in a barometer has frozen so that it might be beaten on an anvil. As Sir James Ross went in search of Sir John Franklin, he adopted various methods of letting him know (if alive) of assistance being at hand. Provisions were deposited in several marked places; and on the excursions to make these deposits, they underwent terrible fatigue, as well as suffered severely from what is termed "snow blindness." But the greatest display of ingenuity was in capturing a number of white foxes, and fastening copper collars round their necks, on which was engraved a notice of the position of the ships and provisions. It was possible that these animals, which are known to travel very far in search of food, might be captured by the missing voyagers, who would thus be enabled to avail themselves of the assistance intended for them by their noble countrymen. The little foxes, in their desire to escape, sometimes tried to gnaw the bars of their traps; but the cold was so intense, that their tongues froze to the iron, and so their captors had to kill them, to release them from their misery, for they were never wantonly destroyed. The great Painter of the Universe has not forgotten the embellishment of the Pole. One of the most beautiful phenomena in nature is the Aurora Borealis, or northern lights. It generally assumes the form of an arch, darting flashes of lilac, yellow, or white light towards the heights of heaven. Some travellers state that the aurora are accompanied by a crackling or hissing noise; but Captain Lyon, who listened for hours, says that this is not the case, and that it is merely that the imagination cannot picture these sudden bursts of light as unaccompanied by noise. We will now bid farewell to winter, for with returning summer comes the open sea, and the vessels leave their wintry bed. This, however, is attended with much difficulty and danger. Canals have to be cut in the ice, through which to lead the ships to a less obstructed ocean; and, after this had been done in Sir James Ross's case, the ships were hemmed in by a pack of ice, fifty miles in circumference, and were carried along, utterly helpless, at the rate of eight or ten miles daily, for upwards of 250 miles--the navigators fearing the adverse winds might drive them on the rocky coast of Baffin's Bay. At length the wind changed, and carried them clear of ice and icebergs (detached masses of ice, sometimes several hundred feet in height) to the open sea, and back to their native land. With all its dreariness, we owe much to the ice-bound Pole; to it we are indebted for the cooling breeze and the howling tempest--the beneficent tempest, in spite of all its desolation and woe. Evil and good in nature are comparative: the same thing does what is called harm in one sense, but incalculable good in another. So the tempest, that causes the wreck, and makes widows of happy wives and orphans of joyous children, sets in motion air that would else be stagnant, and become the breath of pestilence and the grave. [Illustration: MIDSUMMER NIGHT IN THE ARCTIC REGIONS.] * * * * * THE CROWN JEWELS. [Illustration: Letter A.] All the Crown Jewels, or Regalia, used by the Sovereign on great state occasions, are kept in the Tower of London, where they have been for nearly two centuries. The first express mention made of the Regalia being kept in this palatial fortress, occurs in the reign of Henry III., previously to which they were deposited either in the Treasury of the Temple, or in some religious house dependent upon the Crown. Seldom, however, did the jewels remain in the Tower for any length of time, for they were repeatedly pledged to meet the exigences of the Sovereign. An inventory of the jewels in the Tower, made by order of James I., is of great length; although Henry III., during the Lincolnshire rebellion, in 1536, greatly reduced the value and number of the Royal store. In the reign of Charles II., a desperate attempt was made by Colonel Blood and his accomplices to possess themselves of the Royal Jewels. The Regalia were originally kept in a small building on the south side of the White Tower; but, in the reign of Charles I., they were transferred to a strong chamber in the Martin Tower, afterwards called the Jewel Tower. Here they remained until the fire in 1840; when being threatened with destruction from the flames which were raging near them, they were carried away by the warders, and placed for safety in the house of the Governor. In 1841 they were removed to the new Jewel-House, which is much more commodious than the old vaulted chamber in which they were previously shown. [Illustration: QUEEN'S CROWN.] The QUEEN'S, or IMPERIAL CROWN was made for the coronation of her present Majesty. It is composed of a cap of purple velvet, enclosed by hoops of silver, richly dight with gems, in the form shown in our Illustration. The arches rise almost to a point instead of being depressed, are covered with pearls, and are surmounted by an orb of brilliants. Upon this is placed a Maltese or cross pattee of brilliants. Four crosses and four _fleurs-de-lis_ surmount the circlet, all composed of diamonds, the front cross containing the "inestimable sapphire," of the purest and deepest azure, more than two inches long, and an inch broad; and, in the circlet beneath it, is a rock ruby, of enormous size and exquisite colour, _said_ to have been worn by the Black Prince at the battle of Cressy, and by Henry V. at the battle of Agincourt. The circlet is enriched with diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies. This crown was altered from the one constructed expressly for the coronation of King George IV.: the superb diadem then weighed 5-1/2 lb., and was worn by the King on his return in procession from the Abbey to the Hall at Westminster. [Illustration: OLD IMPERIAL CROWN.] The OLD IMPERIAL CROWN (St. Edward's) is the one whose form is so familiar to us from its frequent representation on the coin of the realm, the Royal arms, &c. It was made for the coronation of Charles II., to replace the one broken up and sold during the Civil Wars, which was said to have been worn by Edward the Confessor. It is of gold, and consists of two arches crossing at the top, and rising from a rim or circlet of gold, over a cap of crimson velvet, lined with white taffeta, and turned up with ermine. The base of the arches on each side is covered by a cross pattee; between the crosses are four _fleurs-de-lis_ of gold, which rise out of the circle: the whole of these are splendidly enriched with pearls and precious stones. On the top, at the intersection of the arches, which are somewhat depressed, are a mound and cross of gold the latter richly jewelled, and adorned with three pearls, one on the top, and one pendent at each limb. [Illustration: PRINCE OF WALES'S CROWN.] The PRINCE OF WALES'S CROWN is of pure gold, unadorned with jewels. On occasions of state, it is placed before the seat occupied by the Heir-Apparent to the throne in the House of Lords. [Illustration: QUEEN'S DIADEM.] [Illustration: TEMPORAL SCEPTRE.] The QUEEN'S DIADEM was made for the coronation of Marie d'Este, consort of James II., it is adorned with large diamonds, and the upper edge of the circlet is bordered with pearls. The TEMPORAL SCEPTRE of Queen Victoria is of gold, 2 feet 9 inch in length; the staff is very plain, but the pommel is ornamented with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. The _fleurs-de-lis_ with which this sceptre was originally adorned have been replaced by golden leaves, bearing the rose, shamrock, and thistle. The cross is variously jewelled, and has in the centre a large table diamond. [Illustration: SPIRITUAL SCEPTRE.] Her Majesty's SPIRITUAL SCEPTRE, Rod of Equity, or Sceptre with the Dove, is also of gold, 3 feet 7 inches long, set with diamonds and other precious stones. It is surmounted by an orb, banded with rose diamonds, bearing a cross, on which is the figure of a dove with expanded wings. The QUEEN'S IVORY SCEPTRE was made for Maria d'Este, consort of James II. It is mounted in gold, and terminated by a golden cross, bearing a dove of white onyx. [Illustration: AMPULLA.] The ampulla is an antique vessel of pure gold, used for containing the holy oil at coronations. It resembles an eagle with expanded wings, and is finely chased: the head screws off at the middle of the neck for pouring in the oil; and the neck being hollow to the beak the latter serves as a spout, through which the consecrated oil is poured into [Illustration: ANOINTING SPOON.] The ANOINTING SPOON, which is also of pure gold: it has four pearls in the broadest part of the handle, and the bowl of the spoon is finely chased within and without; by its extreme thinness, it appears to be ancient. [Illustration: QUEEN'S CORONATION BRACELETS.] The ARMILLAE, or BRACELETS, are of solid fine gold, chased, 1-1/2 inch in breadth, edged with rows of pearls. They open by a hinge, and are enamelled with the rose, _fleur-de-lis_, and harp. [Illustration: IMPERIAL ORB.] The IMPERIAL ORB, or MOUND, is an emblem of sovereignty, said to have been derived from Imperial Rome, and to have been first adorned with the cross by Constantine, on his conversion to Christianity. It first appears among the Royal insignia of England on the coins of Edward the Confessor. This orb is a ball of gold, 6 inches in diameter, encompassed with a band of gold, set with emeralds, rubies, and pearls. On the top is a remarkably fine amethyst, nearly 1-1/2 inch high, which serves as the foot or pedestal of a rich cross of gold, 32 inches high, encrusted with diamonds; having in the centre, on one side, a sapphire, and an emerald on the other; four large pearls at the angles of the cross, a large pearl at the end of each limb, and three at the base; the height of the orb and cross being 11 inches. The QUEEN'S ORB is of smaller dimensions than the preceding, but of similar materials and fashion. [Illustration: GOLDEN SALT-CELLAR OF STATE.] [Illustration: STATE SALT-CELLARS.] The SALT-CELLARS are of singular form and rich workmanship. The most noticeable is--the _Golden Salt-cellar of State,_ which is of pure gold, richly adorned with jewels, and grotesque figures in chased work. Its form is castellated: and the receptacles for the salt are formed by the removal of the tops of the turrets. In the same chamber with the Crowns, Sceptres, and other Regalia used in the ceremonial of the Coronation, is a very interesting collection of plate, formerly used at Coronation festivals; together with fonts, &c. Amongst these are The QUEEN'S BAPTISMAL FONT, which is of silver, gilt, tastefully chased, and surmounted by two figures emblematical of the baptismal rite: this font was formerly used at the christening of the Royal family; but a new font of more picturesque design, has lately be n manufactured for her Majesty. [Illustration: QUEEN'S BAPTISMAL FONT.] There are, besides, in the collection, a large Silver Wine Fountain, presented by the corporation of Plymouth to Charles II.; two massive Coronation Tankards, of gold; a Banqueting Dish, and other dishes and spoons of gold, used at Coronation festivals; besides a beautifully-wrought service of Sacramental Plate, employed at the Coronation, and used also in the Chapel of St. Peter in the Tower. * * * * * WHAT IS TIME? [Illustration: Letter I.] I ask'd an aged man, a man of cares, Wrinkled and curved, and white with hoary hairs: "Time is the warp of life," he said; "Oh tell The young, the fair, the gay, to weave 't well!" I ask'd the ancient, venerable dead-- Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled: From the cold grave a hollow murmur flow'd-- "Time sow'd the seed we reap in this abode!" I ask'd a dying sinner, ere the tide Of life had left his veins: "Time?" he replied, "I've lost it! Ah, the treasure!" and he died. I ask'd the golden sun and silver spheres, Those bright chronometers of days and years: They answer'd: "Time is but a meteor's glare," And bade me for Eternity prepare. I ask'd the Seasons, in their annual round, Which beautify or desolate the ground; And they replied (no oracle more wise): "'Tis Folly's blank, and Wisdom's highest prize!" I ask'd a spirit lost, but oh! the shriek That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak. It cried, "A particle! a speck! a mite Of endless years--duration infinite!" Of things inanimate, my dial I Consulted, and it made me this reply: "Time is the season fair of living well-- The path of glory, or the path of hell." I ask'd my Bible, and methinks it said: "Time is the present hour--the past is fled: Live! live to-day; to-morrow never yet On any human being rose or set." I ask'd old Father Time himself at last, But in a moment he flew swiftly past-- His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind. I ask'd the mighty Angel who shall stand One foot on sea, and one on solid land; "By Heaven!" he cried, "I swear the mystery's o'er; Time was," he cried, "but time shall be no more!" REV. J. MARSDEN. * * * * * SIMPLICITY IN WRITING. [Illustration: Letter F.] Fine writing, according to Mr. Addison, consists of sentiments which are natural without being obvious. There cannot be a juster and more concise definition of fine writing. Sentiments which are merely natural affect not the mind with any pleasure, and seem not worthy to engage our attention. The pleasantries of a waterman, the observations of a peasant, the ribaldry of a porter or hackney-coachman; all these are natural and disagreeable. What an insipid comedy should we make of the chit-chit of the tea-table, copied faithfully and at full length! Nothing can please persons of taste but nature drawn with all her graces and ornament--_la belle nature_; or, if we copy low life, the strokes must be strong and remarkable, and must convey a lively image to the mind. The absurd _naïveté_ of Sancho Panza is represented in such inimitable colours by Cervantes, that it entertains as much as the picture of the most magnanimous hero or softest lover. The case is the same with orators, philosophers, critics, or any author who speaks in his own person without introducing other speakers or actors. If his language be not elegant, his observations uncommon, his sense strong and masculine, he will in vain boast his nature and simplicity. He may be correct, but he never will be agreeable. 'Tis the unhappiness of such authors that they are never blamed nor censured. The good fortune of a book and that of a man are not the same. The secret deceiving path of life, which Horace talks of--_fallentis semita vitae_--may be the happiest, lot of the one, but is the greatest misfortune that the other can possibly fall into. On the other hand, productions which are merely surprising, without being natural, can never give any lasting entertainment to the mind. To draw chimaeras is not, properly speaking, to copy or imitate. The justness of the representation is lost, and the mind is displeased to find a picture which bears no resemblance to any original. Nor are such excessive refinements more agreeable in the epistolary or philosophic style, than in the epic or tragic. Too much ornament is a fault in every kind of production. Uncommon expressions, strong flashes of wit, pointed similes, and epigrammatic turns, especially when laid too thick, are a disfigurement rather than any embellishment of discourse. As the eye, in surveying a Gothic building, is distracted by the multiplicity of ornaments, and loses the whole by its minute attention to the parts; so the mind, in perusing a work overstocked with wit, is fatigued and disgusted with the constant endeavour to shine and surprise. This is the case where a writer over-abounds in wit, even though that wit should be just and agreeable. But it commonly happens to such writers, that they seek for their favourite ornaments even where the subject affords them not; and by that means have twenty insipid conceits for one thought that is really beautiful. There is no subject in critical learning more copious than this of the just mixture of simplicity and refinement in writing; and, therefore, not to wander in too large a field, I shall confine myself to a few general observations on that head. First, I observe, "That though excesses of both kinds are to be avoided, and though a proper medium ought to be studied in all productions; yet this medium lies not in a point, but admits of a very considerable latitude." Consider the wide distance, in this respect, between Mr. Pope and Lucretius. These seem to lie in the two greatest extremes of refinement and simplicity which a poet can indulge himself in, without being guilty of any blameable excess. All this interval may be filled with poets, who may differ from each other, but may be equally admirable, each in his peculiar style and manner. Corneille and Congreve, who carry their wit and refinement somewhat farther than Mr. Pope (if poets of so different a kind can be compared together), and Sophocles and Terence, who are more simple than Lucretius, seem to have gone out of that medium wherein the most perfect productions are to be found, and are guilty of some excess in these opposite characters. Of all the great poets, Virgil and Racine, in my opinion, lie nearest the centre, and are the farthest removed from both the extremities. My second observation on this head is, "That it is very difficult, if not impossible, to explain by words wherein the just medium betwixt the excesses of simplicity and refinement consists, or to give any rule by which we can know precisely the bounds betwixt the fault and the beauty." A critic may not only discourse very judiciously on this head without instructing his readers, but even without understanding the matter perfectly himself. There is not in the world a finer piece of criticism than Fontenelle's "Dissertation on Pastorals;" wherein, by a number of reflections and philosophical reasonings, he endeavours to fix the just medium which is suitable to that species of writing. But let any one read the pastorals of that author, and he will be convinced, that this judicious critic, notwithstanding his fine reasonings, had a false taste, and fixed the point of perfection much nearer the extreme of refinement than pastoral poetry will admit of. The sentiments of his shepherds are better suited to the toilets of Paris than to the forests of Arcadia. But this it is impossible to discover from his critical reasonings. He blames all excessive painting and ornament, as much as Virgil could have done had he written a dissertation on this species of poetry. However different the tastes of men may be, their general discourses on these subjects are commonly the same. No criticism can be very instructive which descends not to particulars, and is not full of examples and illustrations. 'Tis allowed on all hands, that beauty, as well as virtue, lies always in a medium; but where this medium is placed is the great question, and can never be sufficiently explained by general reasonings. I shall deliver it as a third observation on this subject, "That we ought to be more on our guard against the excess of refinement than that of simplicity; and that because the former excess is both less beautiful and more dangerous than the latter." It is a certain rule that wit and passion are entirely inconsistent. When the affections are moved, there is no place for the imagination. The mind of man being naturally limited, it is impossible all his faculties can operate at once; and the more any one predominates, the less room is there for the others to exert their vigour. For this reason a greater degree of simplicity is required in all compositions, where men and actions and passions are painted, than in such as consist of reflections and observations. And as the former species of writing is the more engaging and beautiful, one may safely, upon this account, give the preference to the extreme of simplicity above that of refinement. We may also observe, that those compositions which we read the oftenest, and which every man of taste has got by heart, have the recommendation of simplicity, and have nothing surprising in the thought when divested of that elegance of expression and harmony of numbers with which it is cloathed. If the merit of the composition lies in a point of wit, it may strike at first; but the mind anticipates the thought in the second perusal, and is no longer affected by it. When I read an epigram of Martial, the first line recalls the whole; and I have no pleasure in repeating to myself what I know already. But each line, each word in Catullus has its merit; and I am never tired with the perusal of him. It is sufficient to rim over Cowley once; but Parnel, after the fiftieth reading, is fresh as at the first. Besides, it is with books as with women, where a certain plainness of manner and of dress is more engaging than that glare of paint and airs and apparel which may dazzle the eye but reaches not the affections. Terence is a modest and bashful beauty, to whom we grant every thing, because he assumes nothing, and whose purity and nature make a durable though not a violent impression upon us. But refinement, as it is the less beautiful, so it is the more dangerous extreme, and what we are the aptest to fall into. Simplicity passes for dulness when it is not accompanied with great elegance and propriety. On the contrary, there is something surprising in a blaze of wit and conceit. Ordinary readers are mightily struck with it, and falsely imagine it to be the most difficult, as well as most excellent way of writing. Seneca abounds with agreeable faults, says Quinctilian--_abundat dulcibus vitiis_; and for that reason is the more dangerous and the more apt to pervert the taste of the young and inconsiderate. I shall add, that the excess of refinement is now more to be guarded against than ever; because it is the extreme which men are the most apt to fall into, after learning has made great progress, and after eminent writers have appeared in every species of composition. The endeavour to please by novelty leads men wide of simplicity and nature, and fills their writings with affectation and conceit. It was thus that the age of Claudius and Nero became so much inferior to that of Augustus in taste and genius; and perhaps there are at present some symptoms of a like degeneracy of taste, in France as well as in England. HUME. * * * * * JOHN HAMPDEN. The celebrated patriot, John Hampden, was descended from an ancient family in Buckinghamshire, where he was born in 1594. On leaving the University, he entered the inns of court, where he made considerable progress in the study of the law. He was chosen to serve in the Parliament which assembled at Westminster, February, 1626, and served in all the succeeding Parliaments in the reign of Charles I. That Monarch having quarrelled with his Parliament, was obliged to have recourse to the open exercise of his prerogative in order to supply himself with money. From the nobility he desired assistance; from the City of London he required a loan of £100,000. The former contributed but slowly; the latter at length gave a flat denial. To equip a fleet, an apportionment was made, by order of the Council, amongst all the maritime towns, each of which was required, with the assistance of the adjoining counties, to furnish a certain number of vessels or amount of shipping. The City of London was rated at twenty ships. And this was the first appearance in the present reign of ship-money--a taxation which had once been imposed by Elizabeth, on a great emergency, but which, revived and carried further by Charles, produced the most violent discontent. [Illustration: STATUE OF JOHN HAMPDEN.] In 1636, John Hampden became universally known by his intrepid opposition to the ship-money, as an illegal tax. Upon this he was prosecuted, and his conduct throughout the transaction gained him great credit and reputation. When the Long Parliament began, the eyes of all were fixed upon him as the father of his country. On the 3rd of January, 1642, the King ordered articles of high treason, and other misdemeanours, to be prepared against Lord Kimbolton, Mr. Hampden, and four other members of the House of Commons, and went to the House to seize them, but they had retired. Mr. Hampden afterwards made a celebrated speech in the House to clear himself from the charge brought against him. In the beginning of the civil war Hampden commanded a regiment of foot, and did good service at the battle of Edgehill; but he received a mortal wound in an engagement with Prince Rupert, in Chalgrave-field, in Oxfordshire, and died in 1648. Hampden is said to have possessed in a high degree talents for gaining and preserving popular influence, and great courage, industry, and strength of mind, which procured him great ascendancy over other men. * * * * * OTHELLO'S HISTORY. [Illustration: Letter H.] Her father loved me; oft invited me; Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year: the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have past. I ran it through, even from my boyish days To the very moment that he bade me tell it. Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving incidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And 'portance in my travels' history; Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak--such was the process; And of the cannibals that each other eat-- The Anthropophagi--and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to bear Would Desdemona seriously incline: still the house affairs would draw her thence; Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, She'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse; which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgrimage relate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard But not intentively: I did consent; And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs; She swore--in faith 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful; She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd That Heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me; And bade me if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake; She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used: Here comes the lady; let her witness it. SHAKSPEARE. * * * * * FILIAL LOVE. [Illustration: Letter V.] Verily duty to parents is of the first consequence; and would you, my young friends, recommend yourselves to the favour of your God and Father, would you imitate the example of your adorable Redeemer, and be made an inheritor of his precious promises; would you enjoy the peace and comforts of this life, and the good esteem of your fellow-creatures--Reverence your parents; and be it your constant endeavour, as it will be your greatest satisfaction, to witness your high sense of, and to make some returns for the obligations you owe to them, by every act of filial obedience and love. Let their commands be ever sacred in your ears, and implicitly obeyed, where they do not contradict the commands of God: pretend not to be wiser than they, who have had so much more experience than yourselves; and despise them not, if haply you should be so blest as to have gained a degree of knowledge or of fortune superior to them. Let your carriage towards them be always respectful, reverent, and submissive; let your words be always affectionate and humble, and especially beware of pert and ill-seeming replies; of angry, discontented, and peevish looks. Never imagine, if they thwart your wills, or oppose your inclinations, that this ariseth from any thing but love to you: solicitous as they have ever been for your welfare, always consider the same tender solicitude as exerting itself, even in cases most opposite to your desires; and let the remembrance of what they have done and suffered for you, ever preserve you from acts of disobedience, and from paining those good hearts which have already felt so much for you, their children. The Emperor of China, on certain days of the year, pays a visit to his mother, who is seated on a throne to receive him; and four times on his feet, and as often on his knees, he makes her a profound obeisance, bowing his head even to the ground. Sir Thomas More seems to have emulated this beautiful example; for, being Lord Chancellor of England at the same time that his father was a Judge of the King's Bench, he would always, on his entering Westminster Hall, go first to the King's Bench, and ask his father's blessing before he went to sit in the Court of Chancery, as if to secure success in the great decisions of his high and important office. DR. DODD. * * * * * QUEEN MARY'S BOWER, CHATSWORTH. [Illustration: Letter W.] When the widowed Mary, Queen of Scots, left France, where she had dwelt since her fifth year--where she had shared in the education of the French King's own daughters, in one of the convents of the kingdom, and been the idol of the French Court and people, it is said that, as the coast of the happy land faded from her view, she continued to exclaim, "Farewell, France! farewell, dear France--I shall never see thee more!" And her first view of Scotland only increased the poignancy of these touching regrets. So little pains had been taken to "cover over the nakedness and poverty of the land," that tears sprang into her eyes, when, fresh from the elegant luxurious Court of Paris, she saw the wretched ponies, with bare, wooden saddles, or dirty and ragged trappings, which had been provided to carry her and her ladies from the water-side to Holyrood. And then the palace itself; how different from the palaces in which she had lived in France! Dismal and small, it consisted only of what is now the north wing. The state-room and the bed-chamber which were used by her yet remain, with the old furniture, and much of the needle-work there is said to have been the work of her hands. During her long and melancholy imprisonment in England, the art of needle-work and reading were almost her only mode of relieving the dreary hours. From the moment Mary of Scotland took the fatal resolution of throwing herself upon the supposed kindness and generosity of Elizabeth, her fate was sealed, and it was that of captivity, only to be ended by death. She was immediately cut off from all communication with her subjects, except such as it was deemed proper to allow; and was moved about from place to place, the better to ensure her safety. The hapless victim again and again implored Elizabeth to deal generously and justly with her. "I came," said she, in one of her letters, "of mine own accord; let me depart again with yours: and if God permit my cause to succeed, I shall be bound to you for it." But her rival was unrelenting, and, in fact, increased the rigours of her confinement. Whilst a prisoner at Chatsworth, she had been permitted the indulgence of air and exercise; and the bower of Queen Mary is still shown in the noble grounds of that place, as a favourite resort of the unfortunate captive. But even this absolutely necessary indulgence was afterwards denied; she was wholly confined to the Castle of Fotheringay, and a standing order was issued that "she should be shot if she attempted to escape, or if others attempted to rescue her." [Illustration: QUEEN MARY'S BOWER, AT CHATSWORTH.] Burns, in his "Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots," touchingly expresses the weary feelings that must have existed in the breast of the Royal captive:-- "Oh, soon to me may summer suns Nae mair light up the morn! Nae mair to me the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn! And in the narrow house of death, Let winter round me rave; And the next flowers that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave." * * * * * TUBULAR RAILWAY BRIDGES. In the year 1850, a vast line of railway was completed from Chester to Holyhead, for the conveyance of the Royal mails, of goods and passengers, and of her Majesty's troops and artillery, between London and Dublin--Holyhead being the most desirable point at which to effect this communication with Ireland. Upon this railway are two stupendous bridges, which are the most perfect examples of engineering skill ever executed in England, or in any other country. The first of these bridges carries the railway across the river Conway, close to the ancient castle built by Edward I. in order to bridle his new subjects, the Welsh. The Conway bridge consists of a tube, or long, huge chest, the ends of which rest upon stone piers, built to correspond with the architecture of the old castle. The tube is made of wrought-iron plates, varying in thickness from a quarter of an inch to one inch, riveted together, and strengthened by irons in the form of the letter T; and, to give additional strength to the whole, a series of cells is formed at the bottom and top of the tube, between an inner ceiling and floor and the exterior plates; the iron plates which form the cells being riveted and held in their places by angle irons. The space between the sides of the tube is 14 feet; and the height of the whole, inclusive of the cells, is 22 feet 3-1/2 inches at the ends, and 25 feet 6 inches at the centre. The total length of the tube is 412 feet. One end of the tube is fixed to the masonry of the pier; but the other is so arranged as to allow for the expansion of the metal by changes of the temperature of the atmosphere, and it therefore, rests upon eleven rollers of iron, running upon a bed-plate; and, that the whole weight of the tube may not be carried by these rollers, six girders are carried over the tube, and riveted to the upper parts of its sides, which rest upon twelve balls of gun-metal running in grooves, which are fixed to iron beams let into the masonry. The second of these vast railway bridges crosses the Menai Straits, which separate Caernarvon from the island of Anglesey. It is constructed a good hundred feet above high-water level, to enable large vessels to sail beneath it; and in building it, neither scaffolding nor centering was used. The abutments on either side of the Straits are huge piles of masonry. That on the Anglesey side is 143 feet high, and 173 feet long. The wing walls of both terminate in splendid pedestals, and on each are two colossal lions, of Egyptian design; each being 25 feet long, 12 feet high though crouched, 9 feet abaft the body, and each paw 2 feet 1 inches. Each weighs 30 tons. The towers for supporting the tube are of a like magnitude with the entire work. The great Britannia Tower, in the centre of the Straits, is 62 feet by 52 feet at its base; its total height from the bottom, 230 feet; it contains 148,625 cubic feet of limestone, and 144,625 of sandstone; it weighs 20,000 tons; and there are 387 tons of cast iron built into it in the shape of beams and girders. It sustains the four ends of the four long iron tubes which span the Straits from shore to shore. The total quantity of stone contained in the bridge is 1,500,000 cubic feet. The side towers stand at a clear distance of 460 feet from the great central tower; and, again, the abutments stand at a distance from the side towers of 230 feet, giving the entire bridge a total length of 1849 feet, corresponding with the date of the year of its construction. The side or land towers are each 62 feet by 52 feet at the base, and 190 feet high; they contain 210 tons of cast iron. [Illustration: CONWAY CASTLE AND TUBULAR BRIDGE.] The length of the great tube is exactly 470 feet, being 12 feet longer than the clear space between the towers, and the greatest span ever yet attempted. The greatest height of the tube is in the centre--30 feet, and diminishing towards the end to 22 feet. Each tube consists of sides, top and bottom, all formed of long, narrow wrought-iron plates, varying in length from 12 feet downward. These plates are of the same manufacture as those for making boilers, varying in thickness from three-eighths to three-fourths of an inch. Some of them weigh nearly 7 cwt., and are amongst the largest it is possible to roll with any existing machinery. The connexion between top, bottom, and sides is made much more substantial by triangular pieces of thick plate, riveted in across the corners, to enable the tube to resist the cross or twisting strain to which it will be exposed from the heavy and long-continued gales of wind that, sweeping up the Channel, will assail it in its lofty and unprotected position. The rivets, of which there are 2,000,000--each tube containing 327,000--are more than an inch in diameter. They are placed in rows, and were put in the holes red hot, and beaten with heavy hammers. In cooling, they contracted strongly, and drew the plates together so powerfully that it required a force of from 1 to 6 tons to each rivet, to cause the plates to slide over each other. The weight of wrought iron in the great tube is 1600 tons. Each of these vast bridge tubes was constructed on the shore, then floated to the base of the piers, or bridge towers, and raised to its proper elevation by hydraulic machinery, the largest in the world, and the most powerful ever constructed. For the Britannia Bridge, this consisted of two vast presses, one of which has power equal to that of 30,000 men, and it lifted the largest tube six feet in half an hour. The Britannia tubes being in two lines, are passages for the up and down trains across the Straits. Each of the tubes has been compared to the Burlington Arcade, in Piccadilly; and the labour of placing this tube upon the piers has been assimilated to that of raising the Arcade upon the summit of the spire of St. James's Church, if surrounded with water. Each line of tube is 1513 feet in length; far surpassing in size any piece of wrought-iron work ever before put together; and its weight is 5000 tons, being nearly equal to that of two 120-gun ships, having on board, ready for sea, guns, provisions, and crew. The plate-iron covering of the tubes is not thicker than the hide of an elephant, and scarcely thicker than the bark of an oak-tree; whilst one of the large tubes, if placed on its end in St. Paul's churchyard, would reach 107 feet higher than the cross of the cathedral. [Illustration: CONSTRUCTING THE BRITANNIA TUBULAR BRIDGE.] * * * * * THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. Ye mariners of England! Who guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze, Your glorious standard launch again, To match another foe, And sweep through the deep While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages long and loud, And the stormy tempests blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave; Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages long and loud, And the stormy tempests blow. Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep: With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages long and loud, And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor-flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. CAMPBELL. * * * * * KAFFIR LETTER-CARRIER. "I knew" (says the pleasing writer of "Letters from Sierra Leone") "that the long-looked-for vessel had at length furled her sails and dropped anchor in the bay. She was from England, and I waited, expecting every minute to feast my eyes upon at least one letter; but I remembered how unreasonable it was to suppose that any person would come up with letters to this lonely place at so late an hour, and that it behoved me to exercise the grace of patience until next day. However, between ten and eleven o'clock, a loud shouting and knocking aroused the household, and the door was opened to a trusty Kroo messenger, who, although one of a tribe who would visit any of its members in their own country with death, who could 'savey white man's book,' seemed to comprehend something of our feelings at receiving letters, as I overheard him exclaim, with evident glee, 'Ah! massa! here de right book come at last.' Every thing, whether a brown-paper parcel, a newspaper, an official despatch, a private letter or note is here denominated a 'book,' and this man understood well that newspapers are never received so gladly amongst 'books' from England as letters." The Kaffir, in the Engraving, was sketched from one employed to convey letters in the South African settlements; he carries his document in a split at the end of a cane. [Illustration: KAFFIR LETTER-CARRIER.] It is a singular sight in India to see the catamarans which put off from some parts of the coast, as soon as ships come in sight, either to bear on board or to convey from thence letters or messages. These frail vessels are composed of thin cocoa-tree logs, lashed together, and big enough to carry one, or, at most, two persons. In one of these a small sail is fixed, and the navigator steers with a little paddle; the float itself is almost entirely sunk in the water, so that the effect is very singular--a sail sweeping along the surface with a man behind it, and apparently nothing to support them. Those which have no sails are consequently invisible and the men have the appearance of treading the water and performing evolutions with a racket. In very rough weather the men lash themselves to their little rafts but in ordinary seas they seem, though frequently washed off, to regard such accidents as mere trifles, being naked all but a wax cloth cap in which they keep any letters they may have to convey to ships in the roads, and swimming like fish. Their only danger is from sharks, which are said to abound. These cannot hurt them while on their floats; but woe be to them if they catch them while separated from that defence. Yet, even then, the case is not quite hopeless, since the shark can only attack them from below; and a rapid dive, if not in very deep water, will sometimes save them. * * * * * THE SEASONS. SPRING. [Illustration: Letter C.] Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come, And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud, While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend. * * * * * Hail! Source of Being! Universal Soul Of heaven and earth! Essential Presence, hail; To Thee I bend the knee; to Thee my thought Continual climb; who, with a master hand. Hast the great whole into perfection touch'd. By Thee the various vegetative tribes, Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves, Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew: By Thee disposed into congenial soils, Stands each attractive plant, and sucks and swells The juicy tide--a twining mass of tubes. At thy command the vernal sun awakes The torpid sap, detruded to the root By wintry winds, that now in fluent dance, And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads All this innumerous-colour'd scene of things. As rising from the vegetable world My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend My panting Muse! And hark! how loud the woods Invite you forth in all your gayest trim. Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh, pour The mazy running soul of melody Into my varied verse! while I deduce From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, The symphony of spring, and touch a theme Unknown to fame, the passion of the groves. [Illustration: SPRING.] SUMMER. [Illustration: Letter F.] From bright'ning fields of ether fair disclosed, Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes, In pride of youth, and felt through nature's depth: He comes attended by the sultry hours, And ever-fanning breezes on his way; While from his ardent look the turning Spring Averts his blushing face, and earth and skies, All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves. * * * * * Cheer'd by the milder beam, the sprightly youth Speeds to the well-known pool, whose crystal depth A sandy bottom shows. Awhile he stands Gazing the inverted landscape, half afraid To meditate the blue profound below; Then plunges headlong down the circling flood. His ebon tresses, and his rosy cheek, Instant emerge: and through the obedient wave, At each short breathing by his lip repell'd, With arms and legs according well, he makes, As humour leads, an easy-winding path; While from his polish'd sides a dewy light Effuses on the pleased spectators round. This is the purest exercise of health. The kind refresher of the Summer heats: Nor, when cold Winter keens the brightening flood, Would I, weak-shivering, linger on the brink. Thus life redoubles, and is oft preserved By the bold swimmer, in the swift elapse Of accident disastrous. [Illustration: SUMMER.] AUTUMN. [Illustration: Letter C.] Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn nodding o'er the yellow plain Comes jovial on, the Doric reed once more, Well pleased, I tune. Whatever the wintry frost Nitrous prepared, the various-blossom'd Spring Put in white promised forth, and Summer suns Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view, Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme. * * * * * Hence from the busy, joy-resounding fields In cheerful error let us tread the maze Of Autumn, unconfined; and taste, revived, The breath of orchard big with bending fruit. Obedient to the breeze and beating ray, From the deep-loaded bough a mellow shower Incessant melts away. The juicy pear Lies in a soft profusion scatter'd round. A various sweetness swells the gentle race, By Nature's all-refining hand prepared; Of tempered sun, and water, earth, and air, In ever-changing composition mix'd. Such, falling frequent through the chiller night, The fragrant stores, the wide projected heaps Of apples, which the lusty-handed year, Innumerous, o'er the blushing orchard shakes. [Illustration: AUTUMN.] WINTER. [Illustration: Letter S.] See, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train-- Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme, These--that exalt the soul to solemn thought And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms; Congenial horrors, hail: with frequent foot, Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life, When nursed by careless solitude I lived, And sung of nature with unceasing joy; Pleased have I wander'd through your rough domain, Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure; Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst, Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brew'd In the grim evening sky. * * * * * Nature! great parent! whose unceasing hand Rolls round the seasons of the changeful year, How mighty, how majestic are thy works! With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul, That sees astonish'd, and astonish'd sings! Ye, too, ye winds! that now begin to blow With boisterous sweep, I raise my voice to you. Where are your stores, ye powerful beings, say, Where your aerial magazines reserved To swell the brooding terrors of the storm? In what far distant region of the sky, Hush'd in deep silence, sleep ye when 'tis calm? * * * * * 'Tis done; dread Winter spreads his latest glooms, And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. How dead the vegetable kingdom lies! How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends His desolate domain. Behold, fond man! See here thy pictured life! Pass some few years Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent strength, And sober autumn fading into age, The pale concluding winter comes at last The shuts the scene. Ah! whither now are fled Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes Of happiness? those longings after fame? Those restless cares? those busy bustling days? Those gay-spent festive nights? those veering thoughts, Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life? All now are vanish'd; virtue sole survives, Immortal, never-failing friend of man-- His guide to happiness on high. THOMSON. [Illustration: WINTER.] [Illustration: AND PALE CONCLUDING WINTER COMES AT LAST, AND SHUTS THE SCENE.] * * * * * ON MUSIC. [Illustration: Letter T.] There are few who have not felt the charms of music, and acknowledged its expressions to be intelligible to the heart. It is a language of delightful sensations, that is far more eloquent than words: it breathes to the ear the clearest intimations; but how it was learned, to what origin we owe it, or what is the meaning of some of its most affecting strains, we know not. We feel plainly that music touches and gently agitates the agreeable and sublime passions; that it wraps us in melancholy, and elevates us to joy; that it dissolves and inflames; that it melts us into tenderness, and rouses into rage: but its strokes are so fine and delicate, that, like a tragedy, even the passions that are wounded please; its sorrows are charming, and its rage heroic and delightful. As people feel the particular passions with different degrees of force, their taste of harmony must proportionably vary. Music, then, is a language directed to the passions; but the rudest passions put on a new nature, and become pleasing in harmony: let me add, also, that it awakens some passions which we perceive not in ordinary life. Particularly the most elevated sensation of music arises from a confused perception of ideal or visionary beauty and rapture, which is sufficiently perceivable to fire the imagination, but not clear enough to become an object of knowledge. This shadowy beauty the mind attempts, with a languishing curiosity, to collect into a distinct object of view and comprehension; but it sinks and escapes, like the dissolving ideas of a delightful dream, that are neither within the reach of the memory, nor yet totally fled. The noblest charm of music, then, though real and affecting, seems too confused and fluid to be collected into a distinct idea. Harmony is always understood by the crowd, and almost always mistaken by musicians. The present Italian taste for music is exactly correspondent to the taste for tragi-comedy, that about a century ago gained ground upon the stage. The musicians of the present day are charmed at the union they form between the grave and the fantastic, and at the surprising transitions they make between extremes, while every hearer who has the least remainder of the taste of nature left, is shocked at the strange jargon. If the same taste should prevail in painting, we must soon expect to see the woman's head, a horse's body, and a fish's tail, united by soft gradations, greatly admired at our public exhibitions. Musical gentlemen should take particular care to preserve in its full vigour and sensibility their original natural taste, which alone feels and discovers the true beauty of music. If Milton, Shakspeare, or Dryden had been born with the same genius and inspiration for music as for poetry, and had passed through the practical part without corrupting the natural taste, or blending with it any prepossession in favour of sleights and dexterities of hand, then would their notes be tuned to passions and to sentiments as natural and expressive as the tones and modulations of the voice in discourse. The music and the thought would not make different expressions; the hearers would only think impetuously; and the effect of the music would be to give the ideas a tumultuous violence and divine impulse upon the mind. Any person conversant with the classic poets, sees instantly that the passionate power of music I speak of, was perfectly understood and practised by the ancients--that the Muses of the Greeks always sung, and their song was the echo of the subject, which swelled their poetry into enthusiasm and rapture. An inquiry into the nature and merits of the ancient music, and a comparison thereof with modern composition, by a person of poetic genius and an admirer of harmony, who is free from the shackles of practice, and the prejudices of the mode, aided by the countenance of a few men of rank, of elevated and true taste, would probably lay the present half-Gothic mode of music in ruins, like those towers of whose little laboured ornaments it is an exact picture, and restore the Grecian taste of passionate harmony once more to the delight and wonder of mankind. But as from the disposition of things, and the force of fashion, we cannot hope in our time to rescue the sacred lyre, and see it put into the hands of men of genius, I can only recall you to your own natural feeling of harmony and observe to you, that its emotions are not found in the laboured, fantastic, and surprising compositions that form the modern style of music: but you meet them in some few pieces that are the growth of wild unvitiated taste; you discover them in the swelling sounds that wrap us in imaginary grandeur; in those plaintive notes that make us in love with woe; in the tones that utter the lover's sighs, and fluctuate the breast with gentle pain; in the noble strokes that coil up the courage and fury of the soul, or that lull it in confused visions of joy; in short, in those affecting strains that find their way to the inmost recesses of the heart, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.--_Milton_. USHER. * * * * * THE AFFLICTED POOR. Say ye--oppress'd by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose, Who press the downy couch while slaves advance With timid eye to read the distant glance; Who with sad pray'rs the weary doctor tease, To name the nameless, ever new disease; Who with mock patience dire complaint endure, Which real pain, and that alone, can cure: How would ye bear in real pain to lie, Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Where all that's wretched paves the way for death? Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between, Save one dull pane that coarsely patch'd gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: There, on a matted flock with dust o'erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head! For him no hand the cordial cup supplies, Nor wipes the tear which stagnates in his eyes; No friends, with soft discourse, his pangs beguile. Nor promise hope till sickness wears a smile. CRABBE. [Illustration: GEORGE CRABBE.] * * * * * MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS. [Illustration: Letter T.] Thou, who didst put to flight Primeval silence, when the morning stars, Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball: O Thou! whose word from solid darkness struck That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul; My soul which flies to thee, her trust her treasure, As misers to their gold, while others rest: Through this opaque of nature and of soul, This double night, transmit one pitying ray, To lighten and to cheer. Oh, lead my mind, (A mind that fain would wander from its woe,) Lead it through various scenes of life and death, And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. Nor less inspire my conduct, than my song; Teach my best reason, reason; my best will Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear; Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, pour'd On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain. The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss; to give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours. Where are they? with the years beyond the flood! It is the signal that demands dispatch: How much is to be done! My hopes and fears Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down--on what? A fathomless abyss! A dread eternity! How surely mine! And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man! How passing wonder He who made him such! Who center'd in our make such strange extremes-- From different natures, marvellously mix'd: Connexion exquisite! of distant worlds Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity; A beam ethereal--sullied and absorpt! Though sullied and dishonour'd, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! insect infinite! A worm! a god! I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost. At home a stranger. Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own. How reason reels! Oh, what a miracle to man is man! Triumphantly distress'd! what joy! what dread Alternately transported and alarm'd! What can preserve my life, or what destroy? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; Legions of angels can't confine me there. 'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof. While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread, What though my soul fantastic measures trod O'er fairy fields, or mourn'd along the gloom Of pathless woods, or down the craggy steep Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool, Or scaled the cliff, or danced on hollow winds With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain! Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature Of subtler essence than the trodden clod: Active, aerial, towering, unconfined, Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. Even silent night proclaims my soul immortal: Even silent night proclaims eternal day! For human weal Heaven husbands all events; Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain. YOUNG. * * * * * FAREWELL. [Illustration: Letter N.] Nay, shrink not from that word "Farewell!" As if 'twere friendship's final knell-- Such fears may prove but vain: So changeful is life's fleeting day, Whene'er we sever, Hope may say, We part to meet again! E'en the last parting earth can know, Brings not unutterable woe To souls that heav'nward soar: For humble Faith, with steadfast eye, Points to a brighter world on high, Where hearts, that here at parting sigh, May meet--to part no more! BARTON. [Illustration] * * * * * VOCABULARY OF WORDS USED IN THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON READING BOOK. * * * * * [We have considered that it would be useful to the young reader to have a ready means of reference, in the READING BOOK itself, to all unusual words of one syllable, and all the words of two syllables and above, that occur in the various lessons. In the following pages will be found, properly accentuated, all the more difficult polysyllables, with their meanings, derived from Johnson, Walker, and other competent authorities.] * * * * * ABA'NDON, _v.a._ give up; resign, or quit; forsake; leave ABI'LITY, _s._ capacity; qualification; power A'BJECT, _a._ mean; being of no hope or regard; destitute ABLU'TION, _s._ the act of cleansing or washing clean; water used in washing ABO'LISH, _v.a._ make void; put an end to; destroy ABO'UND, _v.n._ have in great plenty; be in great plenty ABRE'AST, _ad._ side by side ABRU'PTLY, _ad._ hastily; suddenly; without the due forms of preparation A'BSOLUTE, _a._ positive; certain; unlimited A'BSTRACT, _s._ the smaller quantity containing the virtue or power of the greater ABSTRU'SE, _a._ hidden; difficult ABU'NDANT, _a._ plentiful ABU'TMENT, _s._ that which borders upon another ACA'DEMY, _s._ (from _Academus_, an Athenian, who founded a public school at Athens, which after him was called Academia, _Latin_), place of education; an assembly or society of men, uniting for the promotion of some art A'CCENT, _s._ the sound of a syllable; a modification of the voice expressive of the passions or sentiments; the marks made upon syllables to regulate their pronunciation A'CCIDENT, _s._ that which happens unforeseen; chance ACCO'MPANY, _v.n._ associate with; become a companion to ACCO'MPLICE, _s._ an associate; partner ACCO'MPLISHMENT, _s._ ornament of mind or body; acquirement ACCO'ST, _v.a._ speak to; address; salute ACCO'UNT, _s._ the state or result of a computation--as, the _account_ stands thus between us; narrative; value ACCO'UTRE, _v.a._ dress; equip A'CCURACY, _s._ exactness; nicety ACCU'STOM, _v._ to habituate; to inure ACQUI'RE, _v.a._ gain; obtain; attain A'CRID, _a._ having a hot biting taste; bitter A'CRIMONY, _s._ sharpness; severity; bitterness of thought or language ACRO'POLIS, _s._ a citadel; the highest part of a city ACTI'VITY, _s._ quickness; nimbleness ACU'TE, _a._ sharp, not blunt; sharp, not dull; not stupid; vigorous; powerful in operation ADAMA'NTINE, _a._ made of adamant; having the qualities of adamant, viz. hardness, indissolubility ADA'PT, _v.a._ admit, justify; yield; permit ADIEU', _ad._ used elliptically for _à Dieu je vous commende_, at the parting of friends; farewell A'DMIRABLE, _a._ to be admired; of power to excite wonder ADMIRA'TION, _s._ wonder ADMI'T, _v.a._ suffer to enter; allow ADO'PT, _v.a._ take a son by choice; make him a son who is not so by birth; place any person or thing in a nearer relation than they have by nature or something else ADRO'ITNESS, _s._ dexterity; readiness ADU'LT, _s._ a person above the age of boyhood or girlhood ADVA'NCE, _v.a._ improve; forward; propose ADVA'NTAGE, _s._ superiority; opportunity ADVE'NTURE, _s._ chance; hazard; an enterprise in which something must be left to hazard ADVE'NTURER, _s._ he that puts himself into the hands of chance ADVE'NTUROUS, _a._ bold; daring; courageous; inclined to adventures ADVE'RSITY, _s._ affliction; calamity; misfortune; the public misery ADVE'RTISEMENT, _s._ something advertised; the public notice of a thing A'DVOCATE, _s._ he that pleads a cause AE'OLIAN, _a._ an epithet applied to lyric poetry, because Sappho and Alcaeus were natives of Lesbos in Aeolia, and wrote in the Aeolic dialect AE'RIAL, _a._ belonging to the air; lofty AFFABI'LITY, _s._ civility; condescension; easiness of manners AFFE'CT, _v.a._ act upon; produce effect in any other thing; move the passions; aim at; aspire to AFFECTA'TION, _s._ an elaborate appearance; false pretence AFFE'CTION, _s._ state of being affected by any cause or agent; love; kindness; good-will to some person; passionate regard AFFE'CTIONATE, _a._ full of affection; fond; tender; warm; benevolent AFFI'NITY, _s._ connection with AGGRE'SSION, _s._ first act of injury A'GONY, _s._ the pangs of death; any violent pain in body or mind AGRE'EABLE, _a._ suitable to; pleasing A'GRICULTURE, _s._ the science of making land productive A'LABASTER, _s._ a kind of soft marble, easier to cut and less durable than the other kinds ALA'RUM, _s._ notice of any approaching danger; any tumult or disturbance A'LIEN, _s._ foreigner; stranger A'LKALI, _s._ any substance which, when mingled with acid, produces effervescence and fermentation ALLEGO'RY, _s._ a figurative discourse, in which something is contained other than is literally understood ALLE'VIATE, _v.a._ make light; ease; soften ALLO'W, _v.a._ permit; give leave A'LPHABET, _s._ the order of the letters, or elements of speech ALTERA'TION, _s._ the act of changing; the change made A'LTITUDE, _s._ height of place; space measured upward AL'TOGETHER, _ad._ completely; without exception AMA'LGAMATE, _v.a._ to unite metals with silver AMA'ZEMENT, _s._ height of admiration; astonishment AMBI'GUOUS, _a._ using doubtful expressions; doubtful; having two meanings AMBI'TION, _s._ the desire of preferment or honour; the desire of anything great or excellent AMBI'TIOUS, _a._ fond of power; desirous of power AME'RICAN, _s._ native of America A'METHYST, _s._ a precious stone of a violet colour A'MIABLE, _a._ kind; gentle; good natured; loving; not selfish AMMUNI'TION, _s._ military stores, applied to artillery AMPHITHE'ATRE, _s._ a building in a circular or oval form, having its area encompassed with rows of seats one above another AMPU'LLA, _s._ (pronounced _am-poo-la_) a vessel of pure gold, used for containing the holy oil at coronations AMU'SE, _v.a._ entertain with tranquillity; draw on from time to time ANA'LOGY, _s._ resemblance between things with regard to some circumstances or effects ANATO'MICAL, _a._ relating or belonging to anatomy ANA'TOMY, _s._ the art of dissecting the body; the doctrine of the structure of the body A'NCESTOR, _s._ one from whom a person descends A'NCIENT, _a._ old; past; former A'NECDOTE, _s._ something yet unpublished; biographical history; personal history ANEMO'METER, _s._ an instrument to measure the force of the wind ANGE'LIC, _a._ resembling angels; belonging to angels A'NIMAL, _s._ a living creature ANIMA'LCULE, _s._ a small animal, generally applied to those which cannot be seen without a microscope ANIMO'SITY, _s._ vehemence of hatred; passionate malignity ANNIHILATE, _v.a._ reduce to nothing; destroy ANNO'Y, _v.a._ incommode; vex; tease; molest A'NNUAL, _a._ that comes yearly A'NTELOPE, _s._ a goat with curled or wreathed horns ANTHROPO'PHAGI, _s._ man-eaters; cannibals ANTI'CIPATE, _v.a._ take an impression of something which is not yet as if it really was A'NTIQUARY, _s._ a man studious of antiquity ANTI'QUE, _a._ ancient; old; odd; of old fashion ANTI'QUITY, _s._ old times; remains of old times A'NTRE, _s._ a cavern ANXI'ETY, _s._ perplexity; lowness of spirits ANXIOUS, _a._ disturbed about some uncertain event A'PATHY, _s._ exemption from feeling or passion APO'CALYPSE, _s._ the Book of Revelations APO'LOGY, _s._ defence; excuse APO'STLE, _s._ a person sent with commands, particularly applied to those whom our Saviour deputed to preach the Gospel APOSTO'LIC, _a._ delivered or taught by the Apostles APPARA'TUS, _s._ tools; furniture; show; instruments APPE'AR, _v.n._ be visible; in sight APPEARANCE, _s._ the act of coming into sight; phenomenon; apparition; presence APPE'NDAGE, _s._ something added to another thing without being necessary to its essence A'PPETITE _s._ hunger; violent longing APPLA'USE _s._ approbation loudly expressed; praise APPLICATION, _s._ close study; intenseness of thought; attention; the act of applying; the act of applying anything to another. APPORTIONMENT, _s._ dividing into portions APPRECIATE, _v.a._ set a price on anything; esteem APPRO'ACH, _v n._ draw near; somewhat resemble APPROBATION, _s._ the act of approving, or expressing himself pleased, or satisfied; support APPRO'PRIATENESS, _s._ a fitness to be appropriated APPROPRIATION, _s._ the application of something to a certain purpose AQUA'TIC, _a._ that inhabits the water; that grows in the water A'QUEDUCT, _s._ a conveyance, tunnel, or way made for carrying water ARA'TOO, _s._ a bird of the parrot kind AR'BALIST, _s._ a naturalist who make trees his study A'RBITRABY, _o._ despotic; absolute; depending on no rule ARBU'TUS, _s._ a strawberry tree ARCA'DE, _s._ a continued arch; a walk arched over ARCHBI'SHOP, _s._ a bishop of the first class, who superintends the conduct of other bishops ARCHITE'CTURE, _s._ the art or science of building A'RCTIC, _a._ northern; lying under the Arctos or Bear A'RDUOUS, _a._ lofty; difficult ARI'SE, _v.n._ mount upward; get up; proceed ARMI'LLA, _s._ a bracelet, or jewel worn on the arm A'RMY, _s._ collection of armed men; a great number AROMA'TIC, _a._ spicy; fragrant; strong-scented ARRI'VE, _v.n._ reach any place; happen ARRA'NGE, _v.a._ put in the proper order for any purpose ARRA'NGEMENT, _s._ the act of putting In proper order, the state of being put in order ARRA'Y, _s._ order, chiefly of war; dress A'RROGANCE, _s._ the act or quality of taking much upon one's self A'RROW, _s._ the pointed weapon which is shot from a bow A'RTICLE, _s._ a part of speech; a single clause of an account; term ARTI'CULATE, _v.a._ form words; speak as a man; draw up in articles; make terms A'RTIFICE, _s._ trick; fraud; stratagem; art; trade ARTIFI'CIAL, _a._ made by art; not natural ARTI'LLERY, _s._ weapons of war; cannon; great ordinance A'RTISAN, _s._ professor of any art ASCE'NDANCY, _s._ influence; power ASPE'RSE, _v.a._ bespatter with censure or calumny A'SPIC, _s._ the name of a small serpent ASSA'ILANT, _s._ one that assails ASSE'MBLY, _s._ a company met together ASSE'RT, _v.a._ to declare positively; maintain; to defend either by words or actions; claim ASSIDU'ITY, _s._ diligence ASSI'MILATE, _v.a._ bring to a likeness; turn to its own nature by digestion ASSISTANCE, _s._ help ASSISTANT, _s._ a helper ASSI'ZE, _s._ a jury; any court of justice; the ordinance or statute ASSO'CIATE, _s._ a partner; a confederate; a companion ASSU'RE, _v.a._ give confidence by a firm promise ASTO'NISHMENT, _s._ amazement ASTRO'NOMY, _s._ the science of the motions, distances, &c. of the stars A'THEISM, _s._ the disbelief of a god ATHE'NIAN, _s._ a native of Athens A'TMOSPHERE, _s._ the air that encompasses the solid earth on all sides ATRO'CIOUS, _a._ wicked in a high degree; enormous ATTA'CH, _v.a._ arrest; fix one's interest; win; lay hold on ATTA'CK, _v.a._ to make an assault ATTA'IN, _v.a._ gain; procure; reach ATTAINMENT, _s._ an acquisition; an accomplishment ATTE'MPT, _v.a._ venture upon; try; endeavour ATTE'NDANT, _s._ one that attends; one that is present at anything ATTENTION, _s._ the act of attending; the act of bending the mind upon it ATTE'NTIVE, _a._ regardful; full of attention ATTI'RE, _s._ clothing; dress; equipment A'TTITUDE, _s._ position; expression ATTRA'CT, _v.a._ draw to something; allure; invite ATTRA'CTIVE, _a._ having the power to draw anything; inviting ATTRIBUTE, _v.a._ to ascribe; to yield as due; to impute as a cause AU'DITOR, _s._ a hearer AURO'RA-BOREA'LIS, _a._ electrical light streaming in the night from the north; the northern lights or streamers AUSTE'RITY, _s._ severity; cruelty AUTHENTIC, _a._ genuine AU'THOR, _s._ the first beginner or mover of anything; a writer in general AUTHO'RITY, _s._ power; rule; influence; support; legal power AU'TUMN, _s._ the season of the year between summer and winter AVAILABLE, _a._ profitable; powerful; advantageous AVALA'NCHE, _s._ immense mass of snow or ice A'VERAGE, _s._ a middle proportion AVI'DITY, _s._ eagerness; voracity; greediness AVO'ID, _v.a._ shun; shift off; quit AWA'KE, _v.a._ rouse out of sleep; put into new action AW'KWARD, _a._ clumsy; inelegant; unready A'ZURE, _s._ blue; faint blue ** BA'CCHANALS, _s._ the drunken feasts of Bacchus; fabulous personages who assisted at the festivals of Bacchus BALCO'NY, _s._ a frame before the window of a room BALLO'ON, _s._ a large hollow ball of silk, filled with gas, which makes it rise in the air BA'NDIT, _s._ a man outlawed BA'NISH, _v.a._ condemn to leave one's country; drive away BA'NISHMENT, _s._ the act of banishing another; the state of being banished BARBA'RIAN, _s._ a savage; a man uncivilized BA'RBAROUS, _a._ savage; ignorant; cruel BA'RREN, _a._ unfruitful; sterile; scanty BARRIC'ADE, _v.a._ stop up a passage; hinder by stoppage BASA'LT, _s._ a variety of trap rock BASA'LTIC, _a._ relating to basalt BASTI'LE, _s._ (pronounced _basteel_) a jail; formerly the state prison of France BA'TTER, _v.a._ beat; shatter; beat down BA'TTLE, _s._ a fight; an encounter between opposite enemies BEA'CON, _s._ something raised on an eminence to direct BEA'RABLE, _a._ that which is capable of being borne BEAU'TY, _s._ a particular grace or feature; a beautiful person BECO'ME, _v.a._ befit; be suitable to the person BEDE'CK, _v.a._ to deck; to adorn; to grace BE'DSTEAD, _s._ the frame on which the bed is placed BEHI'ND, _ad._ out of sight; not yet in view; remaining BEHO'VE, _v.n._ to be fit BELI'EVE, _v.n._ to have a firm persuasion of anything BENEFA'CTOR, _s._ one that does good BE'NEFIT, _s._ a kindness; a favour conferred; an advantage BENE'VOLENT, _a._ kind; having good-will BENI'GHT, _v.a._ involve in darkness; surprise with the coming on of night BENI'GNANT, _a._ kind; generous; liberal BE'NISON, _s._ a blessing BENU'MB, _v.a._ make torpid; stupify BESIE'GE, _v.a._ to beleaguer; to lay siege to BESPRE'NT, _v. def._ besprinkled BESTO'W, _v.a._ give; confer upon; lay up BETWE'EN, _prep._ in the middle space; from one to another; noting difference of one from another BI'LBERRY, _s._ the fruit of a plant so called BO'ATMAN, _s._ he that manages a boat BO'DY, _s._ material substance of an animal; matter; person; collective mass; main part; main army BO'RDER, _s._ edge; edge of a country; a bank raised round a garden and set with flowers BO'UNTEOUS, _a._ liberal; kind; generous BOUQUE'T, _s._ (pronounced _boo-kay_) a nosegay BOWSPRI'T, _s._ (a sea term) the mast that runs out at the bow of a ship BRA'CELET, _s._ an ornament for the arms BRA'CH, _s._ a she hound BRA'CKISH, _a._ salt; somewhat salt BRI'LLIANCY, _s._ brightness; lustre BRI'LLIANT, _s._ a diamond of the finest cut BRI'LLIANT, _a._ shining; sparkling; full of lustre BU'BBLE, _s._ a small bladder of water; anything which wants solidity and firmness BU'LKY, _a._ of great size or stature BU'LWARK, _s._ a fortification; a security BUO'YANCY, _s._ the quality of floating BU'RDENSOME, _a._ grievous BU'RIAL, _s._ interment; the act of putting anything under earth or water BU'RY, _v.a._ inter; put in the grave; conceal BU'TTRESS, _s._ a prop; a wall built to support another CA'DENCE, _s._ the fall of the voice; state of sinking, decline CALA'MITY, _s._ misfortune; cause of misery; distress CA'LCULATE, _v.a._ reckon; adjust CAL'CULA'TION, _s._ a practice or manner of reckoning; a reckoning CA'LEDO'NIANS, _s._ the ancient inhabitants of Scotland CAMPA'IGN, _s._ a large, open, level tract of land; the time for which any army keeps the field CA'NADA, _s._ a province of the British possessions in America CANA'L, _s._ any course of water made by art; a passage through which any of the juices of the body flow CANA'RY, _s._ an excellent singing-bird--so called from its native place, the Canary Islands CA'NNIBAL, _s._ a savage that eats his fellow-men taken in war CA'PABLE, _a._ susceptible; intelligent; qualified for; able to receive; capacious; able to understand CAPA'CIOUS, _a._ wide; large CAPA'CITY, _s._ power; ability; state; condition; character CAPERCA'ILZIE, _s._ (pronounced _cap-per-kail-zeh_) cock of the wood CA'PITAL, _s._ the upper part of a pillar; the chief city of a nation or kingdom CA'PITAL, _a._ applied to letters--large, such as are written at the beginning or heads of books CA'PTAIN, _s._ a chief commander CA'PTIVE, _s._ a prisoner CAPTI'VITY, _s._ imprisonment; subjection by the fate of war; bondage; slavery; servitude CA'PTURE, _v.a._ take prisoner; bring into a condition of servitude CA'RAVAN, _s._ a conveyance; a troop or body of merchants or pilgrims, as they travel in the East CARE'ER, _s._ a course; full speed; course of action CA'RGO, _s._ the lading of a ship CARNI'VOROUS, _a._ flesh-eating CA'ROB, _s._ a plant bearing a nutritious fruit so called CA'RRIAGE, _s._ the act of carrying or transporting; vehicle; conduct CA'RRION, _s._ the carcase of something not proper for food CA'RRONA'DE, _s._ a short iron cannon CA'RRY, _v.a._ convey from a place; transport; bring forward; bear CAR'TILAGE, _s._ a smooth and solid body, softer than a bone, but harder than a ligament CARTILA'GINOUS, _a._ consisting of cartilages CA'RTRIDGE, _s._ a case of paper or parchment filled with gunpowder, used for greater expedition in loading CASCA'DE, _s._ a cataract; a waterfall CA'STELLATED, _a._ that which is turretted or built in the form of a castle CATAMARA'N, _s._ a rude species of boat CA'TARACT, _s._ a waterfall CATA'STROPHE, _s._ a final event CATHE'DRAL, _s._ the head church of a diocese CA'VALRY, _s._ horse soldiery CA'VERN, _s._ a hollow place in the ground CA'VIL, _s._ a false or frivolous objection CA'VITY, _s._ a hole; a hollow place CE'DAR, _s._ a kind of tree; it is evergreen, and produces flowers CE'LEBRATE, _v.a._ praise; commend; mention in a set or solemn manner CELE'BRITY, _s._ transaction publicly splendid CELE'RITY, _s._ quickness CELE'STIAL, _a._ heavenly CE'METERY, _s._ a place where the dead are deposited CE'NTRE, _s._ the middle CE'NTURY, _s._ a hundred years CEREMO'NIOUS, _a._ full of ceremony CE'REMONY, _s._ form in religion; form of civility CE'RTAIN, _a._ sure; unquestionable; regular; particular kind CHAO'TIC, _a._ confused CHA'PTER, _s._ a division of a book; the place in which assemblies of the clergy are held CHARACTERI'SE, _v.a._ to give a character of the particular quality of any man CHARACTERI'STIC, _s._ that which constitutes the character CHARACTERI'STICALLY, _ad._ constituting the character CHA'RITY, _s._ kindness; love; good-will; relief given to the poor CHA'TEAU, _s._ (pronounced _shat-oh_) a castle CHA'TTER, _v.a._ make a noise by collision of the teeth; talk idly or carelessly CHE'RUB, _s._ a celestial spirit, next in order to the seraphim CHRI'STENDOM, _s._ the collective body of Christianity CHRI'STIAN, _s._ a professor of the religion of Christ CHRO'NICLE, _s._ a register of events in order of time; a history CHRO'NICLER, _s._ a writer of chronicles; a historian CHRONO'METER, _s._ an instrument for the exact measuring of time CI'PHER, _s._ a figure, as 1, 2 CI'RCUIT, _s._ a circular band CI'RCUIT, _s._ ring; round; stated journey repeated at intervals CIRCU'MFERENCE, _s._ the space enclosed in a circle CIRCUMSCRI'BE, _v.a._ enclose in certain lines or boundaries; bound; Limit CI'RCUMSTANCE, _s._ something relative to a fact; incident; event CI'STERN, _s._ a receptacle of water for domestic uses; reservoir CI'STUS, _s._ rock-rose CI'TADEL, _s._ a fortress; a place of defence CI'TIZEN, _s._ a freeman of a city; townsman CI'TY, _s._ a corporate town that hath a bishop CI'VIL, _a._ political; not foreign; gentle; well bred; polite CIVI'LITY, _s._ politeness; complaisance CI'VILIZA'TION, _s._ civilising manners CI'VILIZE, _v.a._ reclaim from savageness and brutality CLA'MOUR, _s._ noise; tumult; disturbance CLA'RION, _s._ a trumpet CLI'MATE, _s._ a region, or tract of land, differing from another by the temperature of the air CLU'STER, _s._ a bunch CO'GNIZANCE, _s._ trial; a badge by which one is known COLLE'CT, _v.a._ gather together; bring into one place; gain from observation COLLO'QUIAL, _a._ that relates to common conversation COLO'NIAL, _a._ that which relates to a colony CO'LONIST, _s._ one that colonises; one that dwells in a colony COLO'SSAL, _a._ of enormous magnitude; large CO'LOUR, _s._ the appearance of bodies to the eye only; hue; appearance CO'LUMN, _s._ a round pillar; a long file or row of troops; half a page, when divided into two equal parts by a line passing down the middle COLU'MNAR, _a._ formed in columns COMBINA'TION, _s._ a union; a joining together CO'MFORTABLE, _a._ admitting comfort; dispensing comfort COMMA'NDER, _s._ a general; chief; leader COMMEMORA'TION, _s._ an act of public celebration COMME'NCE, _v.a._ to begin CO'MMERCE, _s._ intercourse; exchange of one thing for another; trade COMME'RCIAL, _a._ that which relates to commerce CO'MMINUTE, _v.a._ to grind; to pulverise COMMO'DITY, _s._ wares; merchandise COMMONWE'ALTH, _s._ a polity; an established form of civilized life; public; republic COMMU'NICATE, _v.a._ impart knowledge; reveal COMMU'NITY, _s._ the commonwealth; the body politic; common possession COMPA'NION, _s._ a partner; an associate CO'MPANY, _s._ persons assembled together; a band; a subdivision of a regiment of foot CO'MPARABLE, _a._ capable of being compared; of equal regard COMPA'RE, _v.n._ make one thing the measure of another; find a likeness of one thing with another COMPA'RISON, _s._ the act of comparing; state of being compared; comparative estimate COMPE'TE, _v.a._ to vie; to contend; to strive; to endeavour to outstrip COMPLA'INT, _s._ representation of pains or injuries; malady; remonstrance against COMPLAI'SANCE, _s._ civility; desire of pleasing COMPLE'TION, _s._ accomplishment; act of fulfilling COMPLI'ANCE, _s._ the act of yielding to any design or demand CO'MPLICATE, _v.a._ to render difficult and incomprehendable; to join one with another COMPOSI'TION, _s._ a mass formed by mingling different ingredients; written work COMPREHE'ND, _v.a._ comprise; include; conceive; understand CONCE'AL, _v.a._ hide; keep secret; cover CONCE'IT, _s._ vain pride CONCE'NTRIC, _a._ having one common centre CONCE'PTION, _s._ the act of conceiving; state of being conceived; notion; sentiment CONCE'SSION, _s._ the act of granting or yielding CONCI'LIATE, _v.a._ to gain; to win; to reconcile CONCI'SE, _a._ short; brief; not longer than is really needful CONCO'CT, _v.a._ to devise CO'NCORD, _s._ agreement between persons or things; peace; union; a compact CONCU'SSION, _s._ the state of being shaken CONDE'NSE, _v.n._ to grow close and weighty CONDI'TION, _s._ rank; property; state CO'NDOR, _s._ a monstrous bird in America CONDU'CT, _v.a._ lend; accompany; manage CONE, _s._ a solid body, of which the base is circular, but which ends in a point CONFE'R, _v.a._ compare; give; bestow; contribute; conduce CO'NFERENCE, _s._ formal discourse; an appointed meeting for discussing some point by personal debate CONFE'SS, _v.a._ acknowledge a crime; own; avow; grant CONFI'NEMENT, _s._ imprisonment; restraint of liberty CO'NFLUENCE, _s._ the joining together of rivers; a concourse; the act of joining together CONFORMA'TION, _s._ the form of things as relating to each other; the act of producing suitableness or conformity to anything CONFO'RMITY, _s._ similitude; consistency CONGE'NER, _s._ a thing of the same kind or nature CONGE'NIAL, _a._ partaking of the same genius CONGLO'MERATE, _v.a._ to gather into a ball, like a ball of thread CO'NICAL, _a._ in the shape of a cone CONJE'CTURE, _s._ guess; imperfect knowledge; idea CONNEC'TION, _s._ union CO'NQUER, _v.a._ gain by conquest; win; subdue CO'NQUEROR, _s._ a victor; one that conquers CO'NQUEST, _s._ a victory CO'NSCIENCE, _s._ the faculty by which we judge of the goodness or wickedness of ourselves CO'NSCIOUS, _a._ endowed with the power of knowing one's own thoughts and actions; bearing witness by the dictates of conscience to anything CONSCRI'PTION, _s._ an enrolling or registering CO'NSECRATE, _v.a._ to make sacred; to canonize CO'NSEQUENCE, _s._ that which follows from any cause or principle; effect of a cause CO'NSEQUENT, _a._ following by rational deduction; following as the effect of a cause CONSI'DERABLE, _a._ worthy of consideration; important; valuable CONSI'ST, _v.n._ subsist; be composed; be comprised CONSI'STENCE, _s._ state with respect to material existence; degree of denseness or rarity CONSI'STENCY, _s._ adhesion; agreement with itself or with any other thing CONSPI'CUOUS, _a._ obvious to the sight CO'NSTANT, _a._ firm; fixed; certain; unvaried CONSTELLA'TION, _s._ a cluster of fixed stars; an assemblage of splendours CONSTERNA'TION, _s._ astonishment; amazement; wonder CO'NSTITUTE, _v.a._ give formal existence; produce; erect; appoint another in an office CONSTRU'CT, _v.a._ build; form; compile CONSTRU'CTION, _s._ the act of building; structure; form of building CONSTR'UCTIVE, _a._ by construction CONSU'MPTION, _s._ the act of consuming; waste; a disease; a waste of muscular flesh CO'NTACT, _s._ touch; close union CONTA'GIOUS, _a._ infectious; caught by approach CONTA'IN, _v.a._ hold; comprehend; restrain CONTE'MPLATE, _v.a._ study; meditate; muse; think studiously with long attention CONTEMPLA'TION, _s._ meditation; studious thought CONTE'MPLATIVE, _a._ given to thought or study CONTE'MPORARY, _s._ one who lives at the same time with another CONTE'MPTIBLE, _a._ worthy of contempt, of scorn; neglected; despicable CO'NTEST, _s._ dispute; difference; debate CONTE'ST, _v.a._ to strive; to vie; to contend CONTI'GUOUS, _a._ meeting so as to touch CO'NTINENT, _s._ land not disjoined by the sea from other lands; that which contains anything; one of the quarters of the globe CONTI'NGENCY, _s._ accidental possibility CONTI'NUE, _v.n._ remain in the same state; last; persevere CONTRA'CT, _v.a._ to shrink up; to grow short; to bargain CO'NTRARY, _a._ opposite; contradictory; adverse CONTRI'VANCE, _s._ the act of contriving; scheme; plan; plot CONVE'NIENCE, _s._ fitness; ease; cause of ease CONVE'NIENT, _a._ fit; suitable; proper; well adapted CO'NVENT, _s._ an assembly of religious persons; a monastery; a nunnery CO'NVERSE, _s._ conversation; acquaintance; familiarity CONVE'RSION, _s._ change from one state to another CONVE'RT, _v.a._ change into another substance; change from one religion to another; turn from a bad to a good life; apply to any use CONVE'Y, _v.a._ carry; transport from one place to another; bring; transfer CONVU'LSIVE, _a._ that gives twitches or spasms CO'PIOUS, _a._ plentiful; abundant CO'PPICE, _s._ a low wood; a place overrun with brushwood CO'RDIAL, _a._ reviving; hearty; sincere CORONA'TION, _s._ the act of crowning a King CORPORA'TION, _s._ a body politic, constituted by Royal charter CORPO'REAL, _a._ having a body; material; not spiritual CORRE'CT, _v.a._ punish; discipline; remark faults; take away fault CORRESPONDENCE, _s._ intercourse; relation; friendship CO'UNCILLOR, _s._ one that gives counsel COU'NTENANCE, _s._ the form of the face; air; look; calmness of look; patronage CO'UNTRY, _s._ a tract of land; a region; rural parts CO'URAGE, _s._ bravery; boldness CO'VERING, _s._ dress; anything spread over another CRA'FTY, _a._ cunning; knowing; scheming; politic CRA'TER, _s._ the bowl, opening, or funnel of a volcano CREA'TION, _s._ the act of creating; universe CREA'TOR, _s._ the Divine Being that created all things CRE'ATURE, _s._ a being created; a general term for man CRE'VICE, _s._ a crack; a cleft; a narrow opening CRI'MINAL, _s._ a man accused; a man guilty of a crime CRI'MINA'LITY, _s._ the act of being guilty of a crime CRI'TIC, _s._ a judge; otherwise a censurer CRI'TICAL, _a._ relating to criticism CRO'CODILE, _s._ an amphibious voracious animal, in shape like a lizard CROO'KED, _a._ bent; winding; perverse CRU'ELTY, _s._ inhumanity; savageness; act of intentional affliction CRU'SADE, _s._ an expedition against the infidels; a holy war CRY'STAL, _s._ crystals are hard, pellucid, and naturally colourless bodies, of regular angular figures CU'LPABLE, _a._ criminal; guilty; blamable CU'LTIVATE, _v.a._ forward or improve the product of the earth by manual industry; improve CULTIVA'TION, _s._ improvement in general CU'POLA, _s._ a dome CU'RFEW, _s._ an evening peal, by which the Conqueror willed that every man should rake up his fire and put out his light CURIO'SITY, _s._ inquisitiveness; nice experiment; an object of curiosity; rarity CU'RIOUS, _a._ inquisitive; desirous of information; difficult to please; diligent about; elegant; neat; artful CU'RRENT, _a._ passing from hand to hand; authoritative; common; what is now passing CU'STOM, _s._ habit; fashion; practice of buying of certain persons CY'MBAL, _s._ a kind of musical instrument CY'PRESS, _s._ a tall straight tree. It is the emblem of mourning DALMA'TIA, _s._ a province of Austria DALMA'TIAN, _a._ belonging to Dalmatia DA'MAGE, _s._ mischief; hurt; loss DA'NGER, _s._ risk; hazard; peril DA'NGEROUS, _a._ hazardous; perilous DA'STARDLY, _ad._ cowardly; mean; timorous DA'UNTED, _a._ discouraged DECE'PTION, _s._ the act or means of deceiving; cheat; fraud; the state of being deceived DECLI'NE, _v.a._ shun; avoid; refuse; bring down DE'CORATE, _v.a._ adorn; embellish; beautify DECORA'TION, _s._ ornament; added beauty DE'DICATE, _v.a._ to inscribe DEFA'CE, _v.a._ destroy; raze; ruin; disfigure DEFE'CTIVE, _a._ wanting the just quantity; full of defects; imperfect; faulty DEFE'NCE, _s._ guard; protection; resistance DEFI'CIENCY, _s._ want; something less than is necessary; imperfection DEGE'NERACY, _s._ departure from the virtue of our ancestors DEGE'NERATE, _a._ unworthy; base DE'ITY, _s._ divinity; the nature and essence of God; fabulous Rod; the supposed divinity of a heathen god DE'LICACY, _s._ daintiness; softness; feminine beauty; nicety; gentle treatment; smallness DE'LICATE, _s._ fine; soft; pure; clear; unable to bear hardships; effeminate DELI'CIOUS, _a._ sweet; delicate; agreeable DELI'GHT, _v.a._ please; content; satisfy DELI'NEATE, _v.a._ to paint; to represent; to describe DELI'VER, _v.a._ set free; release; give; save; surrender DE'LUGE, _v.a._ flood DE'LUGE, _v.a._ drown; lay totally under water; overwhelm; cause to sink DEME'ANOUR, _s._ carriage; behaviour DEMO'LISH, _v.a._ raze; destroy; swallow up DEMONSTRA'TION, _s._ the highest degree of argumental evidence DENO'MINATE, _v.a._ to name anything DEPA'RTMENT, _s._ separate allotment; province or business assigned to a particular person DEPO'RTMENT, _s._ carriage; bearing DEPO'SIT, _s._ a pledge; anything given as a security DEPO'SIT, _v.a._ lay up; lay aside DEPRA'VITY, _s._ corruption DE'PREDA'TION, _s._ a robbing; a spoiling; waste DEPRI'VE, _v.a._ bereave one of a thing; hinder; debar from DE'RVISE, _s._ a Turkish priest DESCE'NDANT, _s._ the offspring of an ancestor DESCRI'BE, _v.a._ mark out; define DESCRI'PTION, _s._ the sentence or passage in which anything is described DESCRY', _v.a._ give notice of anything suddenly discovered; detect; discover DE'SERT, _s._ a wilderness; solitude; waste country DESE'RVE, _v.a._ be entitled to reward or punishment DESI'GN, _s._ an intention; a purpose; a scheme DESIGNA'TION, _s._ appointment; direction; intention to design DESI'RE, _v.a._ wish; long for; intreat DE'SOLATE, _a._ without inhabitants; solitary; laid waste DESPA'TCH, _s._ to send away hastily; to do business quickly; to put to death DE'SPERATE, _a._ without hope; rash; mad; furious DE'SPICABLE, _a._ worthy of scorn; contemptible DESPI'SE, _v.a._ scorn; condemn; slight; abhor DE'SPOTISM, _s._ absolute power DESTINA'TION, _s._ the place where it was our destiny to go; fate; doom DE'STINE, _v.a._ doom; devote DE'STINY, _s._ doom; fate DE'STITUTE, _a._ forsaken; abject; in want of DESTRO'Y, _v.a._ lay waste; make desolate; put an end to DESTRU'CTION, _s._ the act of destroying; the state of being destroyed; ruin DETA'CH, _v.a._ separate; disengage DETA'CHMENT, _s._ a body of troops sent out from the main army DETE'R, _v.a._ fright from anything DETERMINA'TION, _s._ absolute direction to a certain end; the result of deliberation; judicial decision DETE'RMINE, _v.a._ fix; settle; resolve; decide DETE'STABLE, _a._ hateful; abominable; odious DETRA'CTION, _s._ the withdrawing or taking off from a thing DETRU'DE, _v.a._ thrust down; force into a lower place DEVASTA'TION, _s._ waste; havoc; desolation; destruction DEVE'LOP, _v.a._ to disentangle; to disengage from something that enfolds and conceals DEVIA'TION, _s._ the act of quitting the right way; wandering DEVO'TE, _v.a._ dedicate; consecrate DE'VOTEE, _s._ one erroneously or superstitiously religious; a bigot DEVO'TION, _s._ piety; prayer; strong affection; power DE'XTEROUS, _a._ subtle; full of expedients; expert; active; ready DIABO'LICAL, _a._ devilish DI'ADEM, _s._ the mark of Royalty worn on the head DI'AL, _s._ a plate marked with lines, where a hand or shadow shows the hour DI'ALECT, _s._ subdivision of a language; style; manner of expression DI'ALOGUE, _s._ a discussion between two persons DIA'METER, _s._ the straight line which, passing through the centre of a circle, divides it into two equal parts DI'AMOND, _s._ the most valuable and hardest of all the gems; a brilliant DI'FFER, _v.n._ be distinguished from; contend; be of a contrary opinion DI'FFERENT, _a._ distinct; unlike; dissimilar DIFFICULTY, _s._ hardness; something hard to accomplish; distress; perplexity in affairs DI'GNITY, _s._ rank of elevation; grandeur of mien; high place DILA'TE, _v n._ widen; grow wide; speak largely DI'LIGENCE, _s._ industry; assiduity DIMI'NISH, _v.a._ to make less DIMI'NUTIVE, _a._ small; narrow; contracted DIRE'CT, _v.a._ aim at a straight line; regulate; order; command; adjust; mark out a certain course DIRE'CTION, _s._ tendency of motion impressed by a certain impulse; order; command; prescription DIRE'CTLY, _ad._ immediately; apparently; in a straight line DISAGRE'EABLE, _a._ unpleasing; offensive DISA'STROUS, _a._ calamitous DISCI'PLE, _s._ a scholar; one that professes to receive instruction from another DISCIPLINE, _s._ education; the art of cultivating the mind; a state of subjection DISCONCE'RT, _v.a._ unsettle the mind; discompose DISCOU'RAGE, _v.a._ depress; deprive of confidence DISCO'VER, _v.a._ disclose; bring to light; find out DISCO'VERY, _s._ the act of finding anything hidden DISCRI'MINATION, _s._ the state of being distinguished from other persons or things; the mark of distinction DISHO'NOUR, _s._ reproach; disgrace; ignominy DISLO'DGE, _v.a._ to go to another place; to drive or remove from a place DISMA'NTLE, _v.a._ strip; deprive of a dress; strip a town of its outworks; loose DISMA'Y, _s._ fall of courage; desertion of mind DISOBE'DIENCE, _s._ the act of disobeying; inattention to the words of those who have right to command DISO'RDER, _s._ irregularity; tumult; sickness DISPA'RAGEMENT, _s._ reproach; disgrace; indignity DISPLA'Y, _v.a._ exhibit; talk without restraint DISPOSI'TION, _s._ order; method; temper of mind DISQUI'ETUDE, _s._ uneasiness DI'SREGARD, _v.a._ to slight; to neglect DI'SSIPATE, _v.a._ scatter every way; disperse; scatter the attention DISSO'LVE, _v.n._ be melted; fall to nothing DISTANCE, _s._ remoteness in place; retraction of kindness; reserve DISTE'MPER, _s._ disease; malady; bad constitution of the mind DISTI'NCTION, _s._ the act of discerning one as preferable to the other; note of difference; honourable note of superiority; discernment DISTINCTLY, _ad._ not confusedly; plainly; clearly DISTRE'SS, _s._ calamity; misery; misfortune DISTRI'BUTE, _v.a._ to deal out; to dispensate DI'STRICT, _s._ region; country; territory DIVE'RGE, _v.n._ send various ways from one point DIVE'RSIFY, _v.a._ make different from another DIVE'RSION, _s._ the act of turning anything off from its course DIVE'RSITY, _s._ difference; dissimilitude; unlikeness; variety DIVI'DE, _v.a._ part one whole in different pieces; separate; deal out DI'VIDEND, _s._ a share DO'CILE, _a._ teachable; easily instructed; tractable DOMA'IN, _s._ dominion; possession; estate; empire DOME'STIC, _a._ belonging to the house; private DOME'STICATE, _v.a._ make domestic; withdraw from the public DOMI'NION, _s._ sovereign authority; power; territory DO'RSAL, _a._ pertaining to the back DO'UBLE, _a._ two of a sort; in pairs; twice as much DRAMA'TIC, _a._ representable by action DRA'MATIST, _s._ author of dramatic compositions DRAW'INGROOM, _s._ a room to which company withdraw--originally withdrawing-room DRE'ADFUL, _a._ terrible; frightful DRE'ARINESS, _s._ gloominess; sorrowfulness DRE'ARY, _a._ sorrowful; gloomy; dismal; horrid DU'CAT, _s._ a coin struck by Dukes; in silver valued at about four shillings and sixpence, in gold at nine shillings and sixpence DURA'TION, _s._ power of continuance; length of continuance DU'RING, _prep._ for the time of the continuance EA'RLY, _ad._ soon; betimes EA'RTHQUAKE, _s._ tremour or convulsion of the earth EA'STERN, _a._ belonging to the east; lying to the east; oriental EA'SY, _a._ not difficult; ready; contented; at rest ECLI'PSE, _s._ an obscuration of the heavenly luminaries; darkness; obscuration ECO'NOMY, _s._ frugality; discretion of expense; system of matter E'DIFICE, _s._ a fabric; a building EDI'TION, _s._ publication of anything, particularly of a book EDUCA'TION, _s._ formation of manners in youth EFFE'CT, _s._ that which is produced by an operating cause; success; purpose; meaning; consequence EFFE'CTUAL, _a._ productive of effects; expressive of facts EFFE'MINACY, _s._ softness; unmanly delicacy E'FFLUENCE, _s._ what issues from some other principle E'FFULGENCE, _s._ lustre; brightness; splendour EFFU'SE, _v.a._ to pour out; to spill, to shed EJA'CULATION, _s._ an exclamation ELA'BORATE, _a._ finished with care ELE'CTRIC, _a._ relating to electricity ELE'CTRO-MA'GNETISM, _s._ a branch of electrical science E'LEGANCE, _s._ beauty, rather soothing than striking; beauty without grandeur E'LEGY, _s._ a mournful song; short poem without points or turns E'LEPHANT, _s._ a large quadruped E'LEVA'TED, _a._ exalted; raised up; progressed in rank ELEVA'TION, _s._ the act of raising up aloft; exaltation ELOCU'TION, _s._ the power of fluent speech; the power of expression; eloquence; flow of language E'LOQUENCE, _s._ the power or speaking with fluency and elegance ELU'DE, _v.a._ to mock by unexpected escape E'MANATE, _v.a._ to issue; to flow from something else EMBA'LM, _v.a._ impregnate a body with aromatics, that it may resist putrefaction EMBA'RK, _v.n._ to go on board a ship; to engage in any affair EMBROI'DERY, _s._ variegated work; figures raised upon a ground E'MERALD, _s._ a precious stone of a green colour EME'RGE, _v.n._ to issue; to proceed; to rise EME'RGENCY, _s._ the act of rising into view; any sudden occasion; pressing necessity E'MINENCE, _s._ loftiness; height; summit; distinction E'MINENT, _a._ celebrated; renowned EMI'T, _v.a._ to send forth; to let fly; to dart EMO'LUMENT, _s._ profit; advantage E'MPEROR, _s._ a monarch of title and dignity superior to a king EMPLO'Y, _v.a._ busy; keep at work; use as materials; trust with the management of any affairs; use as means E'MULATE, _v.a._ to vie EMULA'TION, _s._ rivalry; desire of superiority ENA'BLE, _v.a._ make able; confer power ENCA'MPMENT, _s._ the act of encamping or pitching tents; a camp ENCHA'NTMENT, _s._ magical charms; spells; irresistible influence ENCI'RCLING, _a._ environing; surrounding ENCLO'SE, _v.a._ part from things or grounds common by a fence; surround; encompass ENCOU'NTER, _v.a._ meet face to face; attack ENCRO'ACHMENT, _s._ an unlawful gathering in upon another man; advance into the territories or rights of another ENDA'NGER, _v.a._ put in hazard; incur the danger of ENDU'RANCE, _s._ continuance; lastingness; delay E'NEMY, _s._ foe; antagonist; any one who regards another with malevolence ENERGE'TIC, _a._ operative; active; vigorous E'NERGY, _s._ activity; quickness; vigour ENGA'GE, _v.a._ employ; stake; unite; enlist; induce; fight ENGINE'ER, _s._ one who manages engines; one who directs the artillery of an army ENGRA'VER, _s._ a cutter in wood or other matter ENGRA'VING, _s._ the work of an engraver ENGRO'SS, _v.a._ thicken; increase in bulk; fatten; to copy in a large hand ENJO'Y, _v.a._ feel or perceive with pleasure; please; delight ENLA'RGEMENT, _s._ increase; copious discourse ENNO'BLE, _v.a._ to dignify; to exalt; to make famous ENO'RMOUS, _a._ wicked beyond the common measure; exceeding in bulk the common measure ENQUI'RY, _s._ interrogation; examination; search ENRA'GE, _v.a._ irritate; make furious ENSNA'RE, _v.a._ entrap; entangle in difficulties or perplexities E'NTERPRISE, _s._ an undertaking of hazard; an arduous attempt E'NTERPRISING, _a._ fond of enterprise ENTHU'SIASM, _s._ a vain belief of private revelation; beat of imagination; elevation of fancy E'NTRAILS, _s._ the intestines; internal parts ENU'MERATE, _v.a._ reckon up singly; number ENVE'LOPEMENT, _s._ covering; inwrapment E'PIC, _a._ narrative EPI'STLE, _s._ a letter EPI'STOLARY, _a._ transacted by letters; relating to letters E'QUAL, _a._ even; uniform; in just proportion EQUITY, _s._ justice; impartiality ERE'CT, _a._ upright; bold; confident ERE'CT, _v.a._ raise; build; elevate; settle E'RMINE, _s._ an animal found in cold countries, of which the fur is valuable, and used for the adornment of the person. A fur worn by judges in England ERRO'NEOUS, _a._ wrong; unfounded; false; misled by error ERU'PTION, _s._ the act of bursting out; sudden excursion of a hostile kind ESCO'RT, _v.a._ convoy; guard from place to place ESPE'CIAL, _a._ principal; chief ESPE'CIALLY, _ad._ principally; chiefly; in an uncommon degree ESPLANA'DE, _s._ the empty space between a citadel and the outskirts of a town ESSE'NTIAL, _a._ necessary to the constitution or existence of anything; important in the highest degree ESTA'BLISHMENT, _s._ settlement; fixed state ESTRA'NGE, _v.a._ keep at a distance; withdraw ETE'RNAL, _a._ without beginning or end; perpetual; unchanging ETE'RNALLY, _ad._ incessantly; for evermore ETE'RNITY, _s._ duration without beginning or end ETHE'REAL, _a._ belonging to the higher regions EVA'PORATE, _v.a._ to drive away in fumes E'VENING, _s._ the close of the day; beginning of night EVE'NTUALLY, _ad._ in the event; in the last result E'VIDENT, _a._ plain; notorious EXA'CT, _a._ nice; not deviating from rule; careful EXA'MINE, _v.a._ search into; make inquiry into EXA'MPLE, _s._ copy or pattern E'XCAVATE, _v.a._ hollow; cut into hollows EXCE'L, _v.a._ to outgo in good qualities; to surpass E'XCELLENCE, _s._ the state of abounding in any good quality; dignity; goodness E'XCELLENT, _a._ eminent in any good quality; of great value EXCE'PT, _prep._ exclusively of; unless EXCE'SSIVE, _a._ beyond the common proportion EXCI'TE, _v.a._ rouse; animate EXCLU'DE, _v.a._ shut out; debar EXCLU'SIVE, _a._ having the power of excluding or denying admission EXCRU'CIATE, _v.a._ torture; torment EXCU'RSION, _s._ an expedition into some distant part EXCU'RSIVE, _a._ rambling; deviating EXECU'TION, _s._ performance; practice; slaughter EXE'MPLARY, _a._ such as may give warning to others; such as may attract notice and imitation E'XERCISE, _s._ labour of the mind or body EXE'RTION, _s._ the act of exerting; effort EXHI'BIT, _v.a._ to offer to view; show; display EXHIBI'TION, _s._ the act of exhibiting; display EXHI'LARATE, _v.a._ make cheerful; cheer; enliven EXI'STENCE, _s._ state of being EXPA'ND, _v.a._ to spread; to extend on all sides EXPA'NSE, _s._ a body widely extended without inequalities EXPE'DIENT, _s._ that which helps forward as means to an end EXPEDI'TION, _s._ an excursion EXPE'L, _v.a._ drive away; banish; eject EXPE'RIENCE, _s._ knowledge gained by practice EXPE'RIENCED, _a._ wise by long practice EXPE'RIMENT, _s._ a trial of anything EXPI'RE, _v.a._ breathe out; close; bring to an end EXPLO'SION, _s._ an outburst; a sudden crash EXPO'RT, _v.a._ carry out of a country EXPO'SE, _v.a._ lay open; make bare; put in danger EXPRE'SSION, _s._ the form of language in which any thoughts are uttered; the act of squeezing out anything E'XQUISITE, _a._ excellent; consummate; complete EXTE'MPORE, _ad._ without premeditation; suddenly EXTE'ND, _v.a._ stretch out; diffuse; impart EXTE'NSIVE, _a._ large; wide; comprehensive EXTE'RIOR, _a._ outward; external EXTE'RNAL, _a._ outward EXTI'NGUISH, _v.a._ put out; destroy; obscure EXTI'RPATE, _v.a._ root out; eradicate E'XTRACT, _s._ the chief parts drawn from anything EXTRAO'RDINARY, _a._ different from common order and method; eminent; remarkable EXTRA'VAGANT, _a._ wasteful; not saving; otherwise, improbable, false EXTRE'MELY, _ad._ greatly; very much; in the utmost degree EXTRE'MITY, _s._ the utmost point; highest degree; parts at the greatest distance FACI'LITY, _s._ ease; dexterity; affability FA'CTORY, _s._ a house or district inhabited by traders in a distant country; traders embodied in one place FA'CULTY, _s._ the power of doing anything; ability FAMI'LIAR, _a._ domestic; free; well known; common; unceremonious FAMI'LIARITY, _s._ easiness of conversation; acquaintance FA'MILY, _s._ those who live in the same house; household; race; clans FA'MOUS, _a._ renowned; celebrated FANA'TICISM, _s._ madness; frenzy; insanity FANTA'STIC, _a._ whimsical; fanciful; imaginary FA'RTHER, _ad._ at a greater distance; beyond this FA'SHION, _v.a._ form; mould; figure; make according to the rule prescribed by custom FA'TAL, _a._ deadly; mortal; appointed by destiny FATI'GUE, _s._ weariness FATI'GUE, _v.a._ tire; weary FAUN, _s._ a kind of rural deity FA'VOURITE, _s._ a person or thing beloved; one regarded with favour FE'ATHER, _s._ plume of birds FE'ATURE, _s._ the cast or make of the face; any lineament or single part of the face FE'ELING, _s._ the sense of touch; sensibility; tenderness; perception FERMENTA'TION, _s._ a slow motion of the particles of a mixed body, arising usually from the operation of some active acid matter; as when leaven or yeast ferments bread or wort FERO'CITY, _s._ savageness; wildness; fierceness FE'RTILE, _a._ fruitful; abundant; plenteous FERTI'LITY, _s._ abundance; fruitfulness FE'STAL, _a._ festive; joyous; gay FE'STIVAL, _a._ time of feast; anniversary-day of civil or religious joy FESTO'ON, _s._ In architecture, an ornament of carved work in the form of a wreath or garland of flowers or leaves twisted together FEU'DAL, _a._ dependant; held by tenure FI'BRE, _s._ a small thread or string FI'CTION, _s._ a fanciful invention; a probable or improbable invention; a falsehood; a lie FIDE'LITY, _s._ honesty; faithful adherence FI'GURE, _s._ shape; person; stature; the form of anything as terminated by the outline FI'LIAL, _a._ pertaining to a son; befitting a son; becoming the relation of a son FI'RMAMENT, _s._ sky; heavens FLA'GON, _s._ a vessel with a narrow mouth FLA'MBEAU, _s._ (pronounced _flam-bo_) a lighted torch FLA'VOUR, _s._ power of pleasing the taste; odour FLEUR-DE-LIS, _s._ (French for a lily, pronounced _flúr-de-lee_) a term applied in architecture and heraldry FLE'XIBLE, _a._ capable of being bent; pliant; not brittle; complying: obsequious; ductile; manageable FLOAT, _v.n._ to swim on the surface of water; to move without labour in a fluid; to pass with a light irregular course; _v.a._ to cover with water FLO'RIDNESS, _s._ freshness of colour FLO'URISH, _v.a._ and _v.n._ yield; prosper; wield; adorn FLU'CTUATE, _v.n._ roll to and again, as water in agitation; be in an uncertain state FLU'ID, _a._ anything not solid FLU'TTER, _v.n._ move irregularly; take short flights with great agitation of the wines FO'LIAGE, _s._ leaves; tuft of leaves FO'LLOWING, _a._ coming after another FOME'NT, _v.a._ cherish with heat; encourage FO'REFATHER, _s._ ancestor FO'REIGN, _a._ not in this country; not domestic; remote; not belonging to FO'REPART, _s._ anterior part FO'REST, _s._ a wild uncultivated tract of ground, with wood FO'RMER, _a._ before another in time; the first of two FO'RMIDABLE, _a._ terrible; dreadful; tremendous FORTIFICA'TION, _s._ the science of military architecture; a place built for strength FO'RTITUDE, _s._ courage; bravery; strength FO'RWARD, _v.a._ hasten; quicken; advance FO'RWARD, _a._ warm; earnest; quick; ready FO'RWARD, _ad._ onward; straight before FO'RWARDNESS, _s._ eagerness; ardour; quickness; confidence FOSSE, _s._ a ditch; a moat FOUNDA'TION, _s._ the basis or lower parts of an edifice; the act of fixing the basis; original; rise FRA'GMENT, _s._ a part broken from the whole; an imperfect piece FRA'NTIC, _a._ mad; deprived of understanding FREE'STONE, _s._ stone commonly used in building, so called because it can be cut freely in all directions FREIGHT, _s._ anything with which a ship is loaded; the money due for transportation of goods FRE'QUENT, _a._ often done; often seen; often occurring FRE'SCO, _s._ coolness; shade; duskiness; a picture not drawn in glaring light, but in dusk FRI'CTION, _s._ the act of rubbing two bodies together FRI'VOLOUS, _a._ trifling; wasteful; dawdling FRO'NTIER, _s._ the limit; the utmost verge of any territory FU'RNACE, _s._ a large fire FU'RNISH, _v.a._ supply with what is necessary; fit up; equip; decorate GA'BLE, _s._ the sloping roof of a building GA'LAXY, _s._ the Milky Way GA'LLANT, _a._ brave; daring; noble G'ALLEY, _a._ a vessel used in the Mediterranean GA'RDEN, _s._ piece of ground enclosed and cultivated GA'RMENT, _s._ anything by which the body is covered GA'RRISON, _s._ fortified place, stored with soldiers GAUGE, _s._ a measure; a standard GENEA'LOGY, _s._ history of the succession of families GE'NERAL, _a._ common; usual; extensive, though not universal; public GENERA'TION, _s._ a family; a race; an age GE'NEROUS, _a._ noble of mind; magnanimous; open of heart GE'NIAL, _a._ that gives cheerfulness, or supports life; natural; native GE'NTLE, _a._ soft; mild; tame; meek; peaceable GEOGRA'PHICAL, _a._ that which relates to geography GEO'GRAPHY, _s._ knowledge of the earth GE'STURE, _s._ action or posture expressive of sentiment GI'ANT, _s._ a man of size above the ordinary rate of men; a man unnaturally large GIGA'NTIC, _a._ suitable to a giant; enormous GLA'CIER, _s._ a mountain of ice GLA'NDULAR, _a._ having glands GLI'STER, _v.n._ shine; to be bright GLO'BULE, _s._ a small particle of matter of a round figure, as the red particles of the blood GLO'RIOUS, _a._ noble; excellent; illustrious GLO'SSY, _a._ shiny; smoothly polished GO'RGEOUS, _a._ fine; magnificent; gaudy; showy GO'SLING, _s._ a young goose; a catkin on nut-trees and pines GO'SSAMER, _s._ the web of a male spider GOUT, _s._ a disease attended with great pain GO'VERNOR, _s._ one who has the supreme direction; a tutor GRADA'TION, _s._ regular progress from one degree to another; order; arrangement GRA'DUALLY, _ad._ by degrees; step by step GRA'NDEUR, _s._ splendour of appearance; magnificence GRANGE, _s._ a farm GRATIFICA'TION, _s._ pleasure; something gratifying GRA'TITUDE, _s._ duty to benefactors; desire to return benefits GRA'VITY, _s._ weight; tendency to the centre; seriousness; solemnity GROTE'SQUE, _a._ distorted of figure; unnatural GUARD, _s._ part of the hilt of a sword; a man or body of men whose business is to watch GUIDE, _s._ director; regulator HABITATION, _s._ place of abode; dwelling HABI'TUALLY, _ad._ customarily; by habit HA'GGARD, _a._ deformed; ugly HARA'NGUE, _v.n._ make a speech HA'RMONIZE, _v.a._ to adjust in fit proportion HARPO'ON, _s._ a bearded dart, with a line fastened to the handle, with which whales are struck and caught HA'ZARDOUS, _a._ perilous, dangerous HE'AVY, _a._ weighty; burdened; depressed HE'RALDRY, _s._ the art or office of a herald; registers of genealogies HE'RBAGE, _s._ grass; pasture; herbs collectively HERBI'VOROUS, _a._ that eats herbs HERE'DITARY, _a._ possessed or claimed by right of inheritance; descending by inheritance HE'RETIC, _s._ one who propagates his private opinions in opposition to the Catholic Church HE'YDAY, _s._ frolic; wildness HI'DEOUS, _a._ frightful; ugly HIPPOPO'TAMUS, _s._ a large animal--the river horse HISTO'RIAN, _s._ a writer of facts and events HISTO'RICAL, _a._ that which relates to history HI'STORY, _s._ narration; the knowledge of facts and events HO'LLOW, _a._ excavated; not solid; not sound HO'NEY, _s._ a sweet substance produced by bees HO'NOUR, _s._ dignity; fame; reputation; glory HO'RIZON, _s._ the line that terminates the view HO'SPITABLE, _a._ giving entertainment to strangers; kind to strangers HO'TTENTO'T, _s._ a native of the south of Africa HOWE'VER, _ad._ in whatsoever manner; at all events; happen what will; yet HOWI'TZER, _s._ a kind of bomb HU'MAN, _a._ having the qualities of a man; belonging to man HUMA'NITY, _s._ the nature of man; benevolence HU'MBLE, _a._ not proud; modest; low HU'MID, _a._ wet; moist; watery HUMI'LITY, _s._ freedom from pride; modesty HU'NDRED, _s._ a company or body consisting of a hundred. HU'RRICANE, _s._ a blast; a tempest HYDRAU'LIC, _a._ relating to the conveyance of water through pipes HY'DROGEN, _s._ a gas, one of the component parts of the atmosphere I'CEBERG, _s._ a hill of ice; a moving island of ice I'CICLE, _s._ a pendent shoot of ice I'DOL, _s._ an image worshipped as God; one loved or honoured to adoration IGNO'BLE, _a._ mean of birth; worthless IGUA'NA, _s._ a reptile of the lizard species ILLE'GAL, _a._ unlawful ILLUMINA'TION, _s._ brightness; splendour ILLU'MINATIVE, _a._ having the power to give light ILLU'SION, _s._ mockery; false show ILLU'STRATE, _v.a._ brighten with light; brighten with honour; explain; clear ILLUSTRA'TION, _s._ explanation; example; exposition ILLU'STRIOUS, _a._ conspicuous; noble; eminent I'MAGE, _s._ a statue; a picture; an idol; a copy IMA'GINARY, _a._ fanciful; poetical IMAGINATION, _s._ fancy; conception; contrivance; scheme I'MITATE, _v.a._ copy; counterfeit; resemble IMMATE'RIAL, _a._ incorporeal; unimportant IMMEA'SURABLE, _a._ immense; not to be measured IMME'DIATELY, _ad._ without the intervention of any other cause or event IMME'NSE, _a._ unlimited; unbounded; infinite I'MMINENT, _a._ unavoidable; perilous IMMO'RTALISE, _v.a._ to render immortal IMMORTA'LITY, _s._ exemption from death; life never to end IMPA'RT, _v.a._ grant; give; communicate IMPA'RTIAL, _a._ indifferent; disinterested; just IMPA'SSABLE, _a._ not to be passed; not admitting passage IMPA'SSIBLE, _a._ incapable of suffering IMPA'TIENT, _a._ not able to endure; hasty; eager IMPERCE'PTIBLE, _a._ not to be discovered; not to be perceived; small IMPERFE'CTION, _s._ defect; failure; fault IMPE'RIAL, _a._ belonging to an emperor, king, or queen; regal; monarchical IMPE'RIOUS, _a._ commanding; powerful IMPE'TUOUS, _a._ violent; forcible; vehement IMPLA'CABILITY, _s._ irreconcileable enmity IMPLI'CITLY, _ad._ with unreserved confidence IMPO'RT, _v.a._ carry into any country from abroad IMPO'RTANCE, _s._ thing imported, or implied; consequence; matter IMPO'RTANT, _a._ momentous; weighty; of great consequence; forcible IMPO'SE, _v.a._ lay on as a burden or penalty; deceive; fix on IMPO'SSIBLE, _a._ that which cannot be; that which cannot be done IMPRE'GNABLE, _a._ invincible; unsubdueable IMPRE'SSION, _s._ the act of pressing one body upon another; mark made by pressure; image fixed in the mind IMPULSE, _s._ communicated love; the effect of one body upon another IMPU'NITY, _s._ freedom from punishment; exemption from punishment INABI'LITY, _s._ want of power; impotence INACCE'SSIBLE, _a._ not to be reached or approached INA'CTIVE, _a._ sluggish; slothful; not quick INCA'LCULABLE, _a._ that which cannot be counted INCAPA'CITATE, _v.a._ disable; weaken; disqualify INCARNA'TION, _s._ the act of assuming body INCE'NTIVE, _s._ that which kindles; that which provokes; that which encourages; spur INCE'SSANT, _a._ unceasing; continual I'NCIDENT, _s._ something happening beside the main design; casualty INCLO'SURE, _s._ a place surrounded or fenced in INCLU'DE, _v.a._ comprise; shut INCONCE'IVABLE, _a._ incomprehensible INCONSI'DERABLE, _a._ unworthy of notice; unimportant INCONSI'STENT, _a._ contrary; absurd; incompatible INCRE'DIBLE, _a._ surpassing belief; not to be credited INCU'LCATE, _v.a._ impress by frequent admonitions INCU'RSION, _s._ an expedition INDENTA'TION, _s._ an indenture; having a wavy figure I'NDICATE, _v.a._ show; point out INDI'CTMENT, _s._ an accusation presented in a court of justice INDIGNA'TION, _s._ wrath; anger INDISCRI'MINATE, _a._ without choice; impartially INDISPE'NSABLE, _a._ not to be spared; necessary INDIVI'DUAL, _a._ single; numerically one; undivided; separate from others of the same species INDU'CE, _v.a._ persuade; enforce; bring into view INDU'LGENCE, _s._ fond kindness; tenderness; favour granted INDU'STRIOUS, _a._ diligent; laborious I'NDUSTRY, _s._ diligence; cheerful labour INEQUA'LITY, _s._ difference of comparative quantity INE'VITABLE, _a._ unavoidable INEXHA'USTIBLE, _a._ not to be spent or consumed; incapable of being spent INEXPRE'SSIBLE, _a._ not to be told; unutterable I'NFANTRTY, _s._ a body of foot soldiers; foot soldiery INFA'TUATE, _v.a._ to strike with folly; to deprive of understanding INFE'RIOR, _a._ lower in place, station, or value I'NFIDEL, _s._ an unbeliever; a Pagan; one who rejects Christianity I'NFINITE, _a._ unbounded; unlimited; immense INFINITE'SSIMAL, _a._ infinitely divided INFI'NITY, _s._ immensity; endless number INFI'RMITY, _s._ weakness of age or temper; weakness; malady INFLA'TE, _v.a._ to swell; to make larger INFLE'XIBLE, _a._ not to be bent; immoveable; not to be changed INFLI'CT, _v.a._ to impose as a punishment I'NFLUENCE, _s._ power of directing or modifying INFLUE'NTIAL, _a._ exerting influence or power INGE'NIOUS, _a._ witty; inventive INGENU'ITY, _s._ wit; invention; genius; subtlety INGLO'RIOUS, _a._ void of honour; mean; without glory INGRA'TITUDE, _s._ unthankfulness INHA'BITANT, _s._ dweller; one that lives in a place INHE'RENT, _a._ existing in something else, so as to be inseparable from it; innate INI'MITABLE, _a._ not able to be imitated; that which is incapable of imitation INJU'RIOUS, _a._ hurtful; baneful; capable of injuring; that which injures; destructive INJU'STICE, _s._ iniquity; wrong INNU'MEROUS, _a._ innumerable; too many to be counted INQUI'SITIVE, _a._ curious; busy in search; active to pry into everything INSCRI'PTION, _s._ something written or engraved; title I'NSECT, _s._ a small animal. Insects are so called from a separation in the middle of their bodies, whereby they are cut into two parts, which are joined together by a small ligature, as we see in wasps and common flies INSE'NSIBLY, _ad._ imperceptibly; in such a manner as is not discovered by the senses INSE'RT, _v.a._ place in or among other things INSI'DIOUS, _a._ sly; diligent to entrap; treacherous INSI'GNIA, _s._ ensigns; arms INSIGNI'FICANT, _a._ unimportant INSI'PID, _a._ tasteless; void of taste INSIPI'DITY, _s._ want of taste; want of life or spirit I'NSOLENCE, _s._ petulant contempt INSPE'CT, _v.a._ to examine; to look over INSPE'CTION, _s._ prying examination; superintendence INSPIRA'TION, _s._ infusion of ideas into the mind by divine power; the act of drawing breath INSTABI'LITY, _s._ inconstancy; fickleness I'NSTANT, _a._ _instant_ is such a part of duration wherein we perceive no succession; present or current month I'NSTANTLY, _ad._ immediately I'NSTINCT, _s._ natural desire or aversion; natural tendency INSTITU'TION, _s._ establishment; settlement; positive law INSTRU'CT, _v.a._ teach; form by precept; form authoritatively; educate; model; form INSTRU'CTION, _s._ the act of teaching; information INSUFFI'CIENT, _a._ inadequate to any need, use, or purpose; unfit INTE'GRITY, _s._ honesty; straightforwardness; uprightness INTELLE'CTUAL, _a._ relating to the understanding; mental; transacted by the understanding INTE'LLIGENCE, _s._ commerce of information; spirit; understanding INTE'LLIGIBLE, _a._ possible to be understood INTE'MPERANCE, _s._ the act of overdoing something INTE'NSE, _a._ excessive; very great INTE'R, _v.a._ cover under ground; to bury INTERCE'PT, _v.a._ to hinder; to stop I'NTERCOURSE, _s._ commerce; communication I'NTEREST, _s._ concern; advantage; good; influence over others INTERE'ST, _v.n._ affect; move; touch with passion INTERLO'CUTOR, _s._ a dialogist; one that talks with another INTERME'DIATE, _a._ intervening; interposed INTE'RMINABLE, _a._ immense; without limits INTE'RPRETER, _s._ one that interprets INTERRU'PT, _v.a._ hinder the process of anything by breaking in upon it INTERSE'CTION, _s._ point where lines cross each other I'NTERSPACE, _s._ space between INTERSPE'RSE, _v.a._ to scatter here and there among other things INTERVE'NE, _v.n._ to come between I'NTERVIEW, _s._ mutual sight; sight of each other INTERWE'AVE, _v.a._ to intermingle; to mix one with another in a regular texture I'NTIMATE, _a._ inmost; inward; near; familiar INTONA'TION, _s._ the act of thundering INTO'XICATE, _v.a._ to inebriate; to make drunk I'NTRICATE, _a._ entangled; perplexed; obscure INTRI'GUER, _s._ one that intrigues INTRI'NSIC, _a._ inward; real; true INTRODU'CTION, _s._ the act of bringing anything into notice or practice; the preface or part of a book containing previous matter INTRU'DER, _s._ one who forces himself into company or affairs without right or welcome INUNDA'TION, _s._ the overflow of waters; the flood; a confluence of any kind INVA'LUABLE, _a._ precious above estimation INVA'RIABLE, _a._ unchangeable; constant INVESTIGATION, _s._ the act of investigating; the state of being investigated INVI'NCIBLE, _a._ not capable of being conquered INVI'SIBLE, _a._ not to be seen I'RIS, _s._ the rainbow; the circle round the pupil of the eye IRRA'DIATE, _v.a._ brighten; animate by heat or light; illuminate IRRE'GULAR, _a._ deviating from rule, custom, or nature I'RRIGATE, _v.a._ wet; moisten; water I'RRITATE, _v.a._ provoke; tease; agitate IRRITA'TION, _s._ provocation; stimulation I'SLAND, _s._ a tract of land surrounded by water I'SSUE, _v.a._ send forth ITA'LIC, _s._ a letter in the Italian character JA'VELIN, _s._ a spear; a dart; an implement of war JE'ALOUSY, _s._ suspicion in love; suspicious fear; suspicious caution JE'WEL, _s._ a precious stone; a teem JO'CUND, _a._ merry; gay; lively JO'URNEY, _s._ the travel of a day; passage from place to place JO'YOUS, _a._ glad; gay; merry; giving joy JUDI'CIOUS, _a._ prudent; wise; skilful JU'GGLER, _s._ one who practises sleight of hand JU'NCTION, _s._ union; coalition JU'STIFY, _v.a._ clear from imputed guilt; maintain KANGARO'O, _s._ an animal found in Australia KE'RNEL, _s._ anything included in a husk; the seeds of pulpy fruits KI'NGDOM, _s._ the territories subject to a monarch; a different class or order of beings, as the mineral kingdom; a region KNI'GHTHOOD, _s._ the character or dignity of a knight KNO'WLEDGE, _s._ information KNU'CKLE, _s._ joints of the fingers, protuberant when the fingers close LABU'RNUM, _s._ a kind of tree LA'MENTABLE, _a._ deplorable LAMENTA'TION, _s._ expression of sorrow; audible grief LA'NCEOLATE, _a._ in a lance-like form LA'NDSCAPE, _s._ the prospect of a country; a picture of the prospect of a country LA'NGUAGE, _s._ human speech; style; manner of expression LA'NGUOR, _s._ faintness; softness; inattention LA'RVA, _s._ an insect in the caterpillar state LA'TENT, _a._ concealed; invisible LA'TERALLY, _ad._ by the side LA'TITUDE, _s._ latent diffusion; a certain degree reckoned from the Equator LA'TTER, _a._ lately done or past; mentioned last of two LA'VA, _s._ molten substance projected from volcanoes LE'AFLET, _s._ a small leaf LE'GION, _s._ a body of Roman soldiers, consisting of about five thousand; military force; a great number LE'NITY, _s._ mildness; gentleness LENS, _s._ a glass spherically convex on both sides LEVA'NT, _s._ east, particularly those coasts of the Mediterranean east of Italy LEVI'ATHAN, _s._ a water-animal mentioned in the Book of Job LI'ABLE, _a._ subject; not exempt LI'BERAL, _a._ not mean; generous; bountiful LI'BERATE, _v.a._ free from confinement LI'BERTY, _s._ freedom, as opposed to slavery; privilege; permission LICE'NTIOUSNESS, _s._ boundless liberty; contempt of just restraint LI'CHEN, _s._ moss LIEUTE'NANT, _s._ a deputy; in war, one who holds the next rank to a superior of any denomination LI'GHTHOUSE, _s._ a house built either upon a rock or some other place of danger, with a light, in order to warn ships of danger LI'NEAR, _a._ composed of lines; having the form of lines LI'QUID, _a._ not solid; fluid; soft; clear LI'QUOR, _s._ anything liquid; strong drink, in familiar language LI'STEN, _v.a._ hear; attend LI'TERALLY, _ad._ with close adherence to words LI'TERARY, _a._ respecting letters; regarding learning LI'TERATURE, _s._ learning; skill in letters LI'TURGY, _s._ form of prayer LOCA'LITY, _s._ existence in place LOCOMO'TIVE, _a._ changing place; having the power of removing or changing place LO'CUST, _s._ a devouring insect LU'DICROUS, _a._ fantastic; laughable; whimsical LU'MINARY, _a._ any body which gives light LU'MINOUS, _a._ shining; enlightened LU'NAR, _a._ that which relates to the moon LU'PINE, _s._ a kind of pulse LUXU'RIANT, _a._ superfluously plentiful MACHINE, _s._ an engine; any complicated work in which one part contributes to the motion of another MACHI'NERY, _s._ enginery; complicated workmanship MAGAZI'NE, _s._ a storehouse MA'GICAL, _a._ acted or performed by secret and invisible powers MAGNANI'MITY, _s._ greatness of mind MAGNA'NIMOUS, _a._ of great mind; of open heart MAGNI'FICENT, _a._ grand in appearance; splendid; otherwise, pompous MAJE'STIC, _a._ august; having dignity; grand MAJO'RITY, _s._ the state of being greater; the greater number; the office of a major MALE'VOLENCE, _s._ ill-will; inclination to hurt others MA'LICE, _s._ hatred; enmity; desire of hurting MALI'CIOUS, _a._ desirous of hurting; with wicked design MALI'GNANT, _a._ envious; malicious; mischievous MALI'GNITY, _s._ ill-will; enmity MA'NDIBLE, _s._ a jaw MA'NKIND, _s._ the race or species of human beings MA'NNER, _s._ form; method; way; mode; sort MANUFA'CTORY, _s._ a place where a manufacture is carried on MANOEUVRE, _s._ a stratagem; a trick MARA'UDER, _s._ a soldier that roves in quest of plunder MA'RGIN, _s._ the brink; the edge MA'RINER, _s._ a seaman MA'RITIME, _a._ that which relates to the sea MA'RSHAL, _v.a._ arrange; rank in order MA'RTYR, _s._ one who by his death bears witness to the truth MA'RVELLOUS, _a._ wonderful; strange; astonishing MA'SONRY, _s._ the craft or performance of a mason MA'SSACRE, _s._ butchery; murder MA'SSIVE, _a._ heavy; weighty; ponderous; bulky; continuous MA'STERPIECE, _s._ chief excellence MATE'RIAL, _a._ consisting of matter; not spiritual; important MATHEMA'TICS, _s._ that science which contemplates whatever is capable of being numbered or measured MA'XIM, _s._ general principle; leading truth ME'ASURE, _s._ that by which anything is measured; proportion; quantity; time; degree MECHA'NIC, _s._ a workman MECHA'NICAL, _a._ constructed by the laws of mechanics ME'DAL, _s._ a piece of metal stamped in honour of some remarkable performance MEDI'CINAL, _a._ having the power of healing; belonging to physic MEDITA'TION, _s._ deep thought; contemplation ME'DIUM, _s._ the centre point between two extremes ME'LANCHOLY, _a._ gloomy; dismal; sorrowful ME'LLOW, _a._ soft with ripeness; soft; unctuous MELO'DIOUS, _a._ musical; harmonious ME'MBRANE, _s._ a web of several sorts of fibres, interwoven for the wrapping up some parts; the fibres give them an elasticity, whereby they can contract and closely grasp the parts they contain MEMBRA'NOUS, _a._ consisting of membranes ME'MOIR, _s._ an account of anything ME'MORABLE, _a._ worthy of memory; not to be forgotten ME'MORY, _s._ the power of retaining or recollecting things past; recollection MENA'GERIE, _s._ a place for keeping foreign birds and other curious animals ME'NTION, _v.a._ to express in words or in writing ME'RCHANDISE, _s._ commerce; traffic; wares; anything to be bought or sold ME'RCHANTMAN, _s._ a ship of trade META'LLIC, _a._ partaking of metal; consisting of metal ME'TEOR, _s._ any body in the air or sky that is of a transitory nature ME'TRICAL, _a._ pertaining to metre or numbers; consisting of verses METROPO'LITAN, _a._ belonging to a metropolis MI'CROSCOPE, _s._ an optical instrument, contrived to give to the eye a large appearance of many objects which could not otherwise be seen MI'LITARY, _a._ engaged in the life of a soldier; soldierlike warlike; pertaining to war; affected by soldiers MIND, _s._ intellectual capacity; memory; opinion MI'NERAL, _s._ fossil body; something dug out of mines MI'NSTER, _s._ a monastery; a cathedral church MI'NSTRELSY, _s._ music; instrumental harmony MINU'TE, _a._ small; little; slender MI'RACLE, _s._ a wonder; something above human power MIRA'CULOUS, _a._ done by miracle MI'RROR, _s._ a looking-glass MI'SERY, _s._ wretchedness; calamity; misfortune MISFO'RTUNE, _s._ calamity; ill-luck MI'SSILE, _s._ something thrown by the hand MI'SSIONARY, _s._ one sent to propagate religion MI'XTURE, _s._ the act of mixing; that which is added and mixed MO'ATED, _a._ surrounded with canals by way of defence MO'DERATE, _a._ temperate; not excessive MODERA'TION, _s._ state of keeping a due mean between extremities MO'DESTY, _s._ decency; purity of manners MODULA'TION, _s._ the act of forming anything to certain proportion; harmony MO'LTEN, _part. pass._ the state of being melted MO'MENT, _s._ an individual particle of time; force; importance MOME'NTUM, _s._ the quantity of motion in a moving body MO'NARCH, _s._ a sovereign; a ruler; a king or queen MO'NASTERY, _s._ a residence of monks MO'NEY, _s._ metal coined for the purposes of commerce MO'NKEY, _s._ an animal bearing some resemblance to man; a word of contempt, or slight kindness MO'NUMENT, _s._ anything by which the memory of persons or things is preserved; a memorial; a tomb MO'RALIST, _s._ one who teaches the duties of life MORA'LITY, _s._ the doctrine of the duties of life MO'RNING, _s._ the first part of the day MO'RTAR, _s._ a cement for fixing bricks together; otherwise, a kind of cannon for firing bomb-shells; a kind of vessel in which anything is broken by a pestle MO'RTIFY, _v.a._ destroy vital properties, or active powers; vex; humble; depict; corrupt; die away MO'SLEM, _s._ a Mussulman; relating to the Mahometan form of religion MOSQUE, _s._ a Mahometan temple MO'TION, _s._ the act of changing place; action; agitation; proposal made MO'ULDED, _v.n._ be turned to dust; perish in dust MO'UNTAINOUS, _a._ hilly; full of mountains; huge MO'VEABLE, _a._ capable of being moved; portable MULETE'ER, _s._ mule-driver; horse-boy MULTIPLI'CITY, _s._ more than one of the same kind; state of being many MU'LTITUDE, _s._ a large crowd of people; a vast assembly MU'RMUR, _v.n._ grumble; utter secret and sullen discontent MU'SSULMAN, _s._ a Mahometan believer MU'TILATE, _v.a._ deprive of some essential part MU'TUALLY, _ad._ reciprocally; in return MY'RIAD, _s._ the number of ten thousand; proverbially any great number NA'RROW, _a._ not broad or wide; small; close; covetous; near NA'TION, _s._ a people distinguished from another people NA'TIVE, _a._ original; natural NA'TIVE, _s._ one born in any place NA'TURAL, _a._ produced or effected by nature; not forced; tender NA'TURALIST, _s._ one who studies nature, more especially as regards inferior animals, plants, &c. NA'TURE, _s._ constitution of an animated body; regular course of things; disposition of mind; native state or properties of anything; sort; species NAU'TICAL, _a._ that which relates to a sailor NA'VIGABLE, _a._ capable of being passed by ships or boats NAVIGA'TOR, _s._ a sailor; seaman NE'CESSARY, _a._ needful NECE'SSITY, _s._ compulsion; want; need; poverty NEGO'TIATION, _s._ treaty of business NEI'GHBOURHOOD, _s._ vicinity; place adjoining NE'ITHER, _pron._ not either; nor one nor other NICHE, _s._ a hollow hi which a statue may be placed NIDIFICA'TION, _s._ the act of building nests NI'MBLY, _ad._ quickly; speedily; actively NI'TROUS, _a._ impregnated with nitre NOBI'LITY, _s._ high-mindedness; the highest class of people in civilized life NO'BLE, _a._ magnificent; great; illustrious NO'TICE, _s._ remark; heed; regard; information NOTWITHSTA'NDING, _conj._ although; nevertheless NO'XIOUS, _a._ hurtful; harmful; baneful; guilty NU'MBER, _s._ many; more than one. NU'MBERLESS, _a._ more than can be reckoned NU'MEROUS, _a._ containing many; consisting of many NU'TRIMENT, _s._ food OBE'DIENCE, _s._ submission to authority OBE'ISANCE, _s._ courtesy O'BJECT, _s._ that about which any power or faculty is employed OBJE'CTION, _s._ adverse argument; criminal charge; fault found; the act of opposing anything OBLI'QUE, _a._ not direct; not parallel; not perpendicular OBLI'VION, _s._ forgetfulness OBNO'XIOUS, _a._ hateful; hurtful; injurious OBSERVA'TION, _s._ the act of observing, noticing, or remarking; note; remark OBSE'RVE, _v.a._ watch; regard attentively note; obey; follow O'BSTINACY, _s._ stubbornness OBSTRU'CT, _v.a._ block up; oppose; hinder OCCA'SION, _s._ occurrence; casualty; incident; opportunity; convenience OCCA'SION, _v.a._ cause; produce; influence O'CCUPY, _v.a._ possess; keep; take up; employ; use OFFE'NSIVE, _a._ displeasing; disgusting; injurious O'FFER, _v.a._ present itself; be at hand; be present O'FFER, _v.a._ propose; present; sacrifice O'FFICE, _s._ a public charge or employment; agency; business OLFA'CTORY, _a._ having the sense of smelling O'LIVE, _s._ a plant producing oil; the fruit of the tree; the emblem of peace O'MINOUS, _a._ exhibiting bad tokens of futurity OMI'SSION, _s._ neglect of duty; neglect to do something OMNI'POTENT, _s._ the Almighty OMNIPRE'SENCE, _s._ unbounded presence OMNI'SCIENCE, _s._ boundless knowledge; infinite wisdom O'NSET, _s._ attack; storm; assault O'PAL, _s._ a precious stone O'PALINE, _a._ resembling opal OPPORTU'NITY, _s._ convenience; suitableness of circumstances to any end OPPRE'SS, _v.a._ crush by hardship or unreasonable severity; overpower; subdue OPPRE'SSOR, _s._ one who harasses others with unreasonable or unjust severity O'PTICAL, _a._ relating to the science of optics O'PTICS, _s._ the science of the nature and laws of vision O'PULENT, _a._ rich O'RACLE, _s._ something delivered by supernatural wisdom; the place where, or persons of whom, the determinations of heaven are inquired O'RAL, _a._ delivered by mouth; not written O'RATOR, _s._ a public speaker; a man of eloquence O'RBIT, _s._ a circle; path of a heavenly body O'RCHARD, _s._ a garden of fruit trees O'RCHIS, _s._ a kind of flowering plant O'RDER, _s._ method; regularity; command; a rank or class; rule O'RDINANCE, _s._ law; rule; appointment O'RDINARY, _a._ established; regular; common; of low rank O'RDNANCE, _s._ cannon; great guns O'RGAN, _s._ natural instrument: as the tongue is the organ of speech. A musical instrument ORGA'NIC, _a._ consisting of various parts co-operating with each other O'RGANISM, _s._ organic structure O'RIENT, _a._ eastern; oriental; bright; gaudy ORI'GINAL, _a._ primitive; first O'RNAMENT, _v.a._ embellish; decorate OSCILLA'TION, _a._ the act of moving backward or forward like a pendulum O'SSEOUS, _a._ bony; resembling bone OSTENTA'TION, _s._ outward show; pride of riches or power OSTRICH, _s._ a large bird OTHERWISE, _ad._ in a different manner; by other causes; in other respects OU'TLET, _s._ passage outward OU'TSET, _s._ setting out; departure OU'TWARD, _a._ external; opposed to _inward_. OVERFLO'W, _v.a._ deluge; drown; overrun; fill beyond the brim OVERTA'KE, _v.a._ catch anything by pursuit; come up to something going before OVERTHRO'W, _v.a._ turn upside down; throw down; ruin; defeat; destroy OVERWHE'LM, _v.a._ crush underneath something violent and weighty; overlook gloomily PACI'FIC, _a._ mild; gentle; appeasing PA'LACE, _a._ a royal house PA'LTRY, _a._ worthless; contemptible; mean PA'RADISE, _s._ the blissful region in which the first pair were placed; any place of felicity PA'RALLEL, _a._ extending in the same direction; having the same tendency PARALLE'LOGRAM, _s._ in geometry, a right-lined four-sided figure, whose opposite sides are parallel and equal PA'RAPET, _s._ a wall breast high PA'RCEL, _s._ a small bundle; a part of a whole PA'RDON, _s._ forgiveness PARO'CHIAL, _a._ belonging to a parish PARO'TIDA-SA'LIVART, _a._ glands so named because near the ear PA'RTICLE, _s._ any small quantity of a greater substance; a word unvaried by inflection PARTICULAR, _s._ a single instance; a minute detail of things singly enumerated. IN PARTICULAR, peculiarly; distinctly PARTICULARLY, _ad._ in an extraordinary degree; distinctly PA'SSAGE, _s._ act of passing; road; way; entrance or exit; part of a book PA'SSENGER, _s._ traveller; a wayfarer; one who hires in any vehicle the liberty of travelling PA'SSIONATE, _a._ moved by passion; easily moved to anger PA'SSIVE, _a._ unresisting; suffering; not acting PA'STORAL, _a._ rural; rustic; imitating shepherds PATHE'TIC, _a._ affecting the passions; moving PA'THOS, _s._ passion; warmth; affection of the mind PA'THWAY, _s._ a road; a narrow way to be passed on foot. PA'TIENCE, _s._ the power of suffering; perseverance PA'TIENTLY, _ad._ with steadfast resignation; with hopeful confidence PA'TRIARCH, _a._ one who governs by paternal right; the father and ruler of a family PA'THIMONY, _s._ an estate possessed by inheritance PA'TRIOT, _s._ one who loves his country PA'TRON, _s._ one who countenances, supports, or protects; defender PEA'CEABLE, _a._ not quarrelsome; not turbulent PE'CTORAL, _a._ belonging to the breast PECU'LIAR, _a._ appropriate; not common to other things; particular PECULIARITY, _s._ particularity; something found only in one PE'DESTAL, _a._ the lower member of a pillar; the basis of a statue PE'DIMENT, _s._ an ornament that finishes the fronts of buildings, and serves as a decoration over gates PE'NANCE, _s._ infliction, either public or private, suffered as an expression of repentance for sin PE'NDULOUS, _a._ hanging PE'NETRATE, _v.a._ enter beyond the surface; make way into a body; affect the mind PENINSULA, _s._ laud almost surrounded by water PE'NURY, _s._ poverty; indigence PE'OPLE, _s._ a nation; the vulgar PERCEI'VE, _v.a._ discover by some sensible effects; know; observe PERCE'PTIBLE, _a._ such as may be known or observed PERFECTION, _s._ the state of being perfect PERFO'RM, _v.a._ execute; do; accomplish PE'RFORATE, _v.a._ pierce with a tool; bore PERHA'PS, _ad._ peradventure; may be PE'RIL, _s._ danger; hazard; jeopardy PE'RIOD, _s._ length of duration; a complete sentence from one full stop to another; the end or conclusion PE'RISIH, _v.n._ die; be destroyed; be lost; come to nothing PE'RMANENT, _a._ durable; unchanged; of long continuance PERNI'CIOUS, _a._ destructive; baneful PERPENDICULAR, _a._ a straight line up and down PERPE'TUAL, _a._ never-ceasing; continual PERPLE'X, _v.a._ disturb; distract; tease; plague PERPLE'XITY, _s._ anxiety; entanglement PE'RSECUTE, _v.a._ to harass or pursue with malignity PERSEVE'RANCE, _s._ persistence in any design or attempt; constancy in progress PERTINA'CITY, _s._ obstinacy; stubbornness; constancy PERTURBA'TION, _s._ restlessness; disturbance PERU'SAL, _s._ the act of reading PETI'TION, _s._ request; entreaty; single branch or article of prayer PHA'LANX, _s._ a troop of men closely embodied PHENO'MENON, _s._ appearance PHILOSOPHER, _s._ a man deep in knowledge PHILOSOPHICAL, _a._ belonging to philosophy PHILO'SOPHY, _s._ moral or natural knowledge PHY'SICAL, _a._ relating to nature or to natural philosophy; medicinal; relating to health PICTO'RIAL, _a._ produced by a painter PIC'TURESQUE, _a._ beautiful; magnificent PI'LCHARD, _s._ a kind of fish PI'LGRIMAGE, _s._ a long journey PI'OUS, _a._ careful of the duties owed by created beings to God; godly; religious PI'RATE, _s._ a sea robber PISTA'CHIO, _s._ a dry fruit of an oblong figure PI'TIABLE, _a._ that which deserves pity PLA'CABLE, _a._ willing or able to be appeased PLA'INTIVE, _a._ complaining; lamenting; expressive of sorrow PLA'NETARY, _a._ pertaining to the planets; produced by the planets PLANTATION, _s._ a place planted; a colony PLAU'SIBLY, _ad._ with fair show PLEA'SANT, _a._ delightful; cheerful; merry PLEA'SANTRY, _s._ merriment; lively talk PLEA'SURE, _s._ delight PLE'NTIFUL, _a._ copious; fruitful; abundant PLI'ABLE, _a._ flexible; easy to be bent; easy to be persuaded; capable of being plied PLI'ANT, _a._ bending; flexible; easy to take a form PLU'MAGE, _s._ feathers; suit of feathers PNY'X, _s._ a place where assemblies of the people were held PO'ETRY, _s._ sublime thought expressed in sublime language POI'GNANCY, _s._ power of irritation; sharpness POI'SON, _s._ that which taken into the body destroys or injures life; anything infectious or malignant POLI'TE, _a._ glossy; smooth; elegant of manners POLITICAL, _a._ that which relates to politics; that which relates to public affairs; also cunning, skilful PO'PULAR, _a._ vulgar; familiar; well known POPULARITY, _a._ state of being favoured by the people; representation suited to vulgar conception POPULA'TION, _s._ the state of a country with respect to numbers of people PO'RTABLE, _a._ manageable by the hand; supportable PO'RTION, _s._ a part; an allotment PORTMA'NTEAU, _s._ a chest, or bag, in which clothes are carried POSI'TION, _s._ state of being placed; situation PO'SITIVE, _o._ absolute; particular; real; certain POSSE'SS, _v.a._ have as an owner; be master of; seize; obtain POSSESSION, _s._ property; the thing possessed POSSIBLE, _a._ having the power to be or to be done; not contrary to the nature of things POSTE'RITY, _s._ succeeding generations PO'TENTATE, _s._ monarch; prince; sovereign PO'WER, _s._ command; authority; ability; strength; faculty of the mind PRACTICABLE, _a._ capable of being practised PRA'CTICAL, _o._ relating to action; not merely speculative. PRAE'TOR, _s._ a functionary among the ancient Romans PRAI'RIE, _s._ a meadow PRECAUTION, _s._ preservative caution; preventive measures PRECE'PTOR, _s._ a teacher; an Instructor PRE'CINCT, _s._ outward limit; boundary PRECI'PITOUS, _a._ headlong; steep PREDECE'SSOR, _s._ one who was in any state or place before another; ancestor PREDOMINANCE, _s._ prevalence; ascendancy PREDOMINANT, _a._ prevalent; ascendant; supreme influence PREDOMINATE, _v.n._ prevail; be supreme in influence PREFI'X, _v.a._ appoint beforehand; settle; establish; put before another thing PRELI'MINARY, _a._ previous; introductory PREJUDICE, _s._ prepossession; judgment formed beforehand; mischief; injury PREPARATION, _s._ anything made by process of operation; previous measures PREROGATIVE, _s._ an exclusive or peculiar privilege PRE'SCIENT, _a._ foreknowing; prophetic PRESENT, _a._ not past; not future; ready at hand; not absent; being face to face; being now in view PRESE'NT, _v.a._ offer; exhibit PRESE'RVE, _v.a._ save; keep; defend from destruction or any evil PRESU'MPTION, _s._ arrogance; blind confidence PREVE'NT, _v.a._ hinder; obviate; obstruct PRINCIPAL, _a._ chief; capital; essential; important; considerable PRINCIPLE, _s._ constituent part; original cause PRO'BABLE, _a._ likely PRO'BABLY, _a._ very likely PROBA'TION, _s._ proof; trial; noviciate PROCEE'D, _v.n._ pass from one thing or place to another; go forward; issue; arise; carry on; act; transact PRO'CESS, _s._ course of law; course PROCE'SSION, _s._ a train marching in ceremonious solemnity PRODI'GIOUS, _a._ enormous; amazing; monstrous PRO'DUCE, _s._ amount; profit; that which anything yields or brings PRODU'CE, _v.a._ offer to the view or notice; bear; cause; effect PRODU'CTION, _s._ the act of producing; fruit; product; composition PROFESSION, _s._ vocation; known employment PROFU'SE, _a._ lavish; too liberal PROFUSION, _s._ extravagance; abundance PRO'GRESS, _s._ course; advancement; motion forward PROHI'BIT, _v.a._ forbid; debar; hinder PROJE'CT, _v.a._ throw out; scheme; contrive; form in the mind PRO'PAGATE, _v.a._ extend; widen; promote PRO'PER, _a._ fit; exact; peculiar PRO'PHECY, _s._ a declaration of something to come PROPHE'TIC, _a._ foreseeing or foretelling future events PROPORTION, _s._ symmetry; form; size; ratio PROPOSITION, _s._ one of the three parts of a regular argument, in which anything is affirmed or denied; proposal PROPRIETOR, _s._ possessor in his own right PROPRI'ETY, _s._ accuracy; justness PROSA'IC, _a._ belonging to or resembling prose PROTE'CTOR, _s._ defender; supporter; guardian PROTRU'DE, _v.a._ thrust forward PROVI'DE, _v.a._ procure; furnish; supply; stipulate PROVIDE'NTIAL, _a._ effected by Providence; referrible to Providence PRO'VINCE, _s._ a conquered country; a region PROVINCIAL, _a._ that which relates to provinces PROVISION, _s._ the act of providing beforehand; measures taken beforehand; stock collected; victuals PROVOCATION, _s._ an act or cause by which anger is raised; an appeal to a judge PROXI'MITY, _s._ nearness PTA'RMIGAN, _s._ (pronounced _tár-mi-gan_) a bird of the grouse species PU'BLIC, _s._ the people; general view; open view PU'LLEY, _s._ a small wheel turning on a pivot, with a furrow on its outside, in which a rope runs PU'NISH, _v.a._ to chastise; to afflict with penalties or death for some crime PU'NISHED, _a._ chastised PU'PIL, _s._ a scholar; one under the care of a tutor PU'RCHASE, _v.a._ acquire; buy for a price PU'RITY, _s._ clearness; freedom from foulness or dirt; freedom from guilt; innocence PU'RPOSE, _v.t._ intention; design; instance PU'TRIFY, _v.n._ to rot PU'ZZLE, _v.a._ perplex; confound; tease; entangle PY'RAMID, _s._ a solid figure, whose base is a polygon and whose sides are plain triangles, their several points meeting in one PYTHA'GORAS, _s._ the originator of the present system universe PYTHAGORE'ANS, _s._ followers of Pythagoras QUALIFICATION, _s._ accomplishment; that which makes any person or thing fit for anything QUA'NTITY, _s._ any indeterminate weight or measure; bulk or weight; a portion; a part QUA'RRY, _s._ game flown at by a hawk; a stone mine RA'DIANT, _a._ shining; emitting rays RAMIFICA'TION, _s._ division or separation into branches; small branches; branching out RA'NCID, _a._ strong scented RAPA'CIOUS, _a._ given to plunder; seizing by violence RAPI'DITY, _s._ celerity; velocity; swiftness RA'PTURE, _s._ transport; haste RA'TTLE, _s._ a quick noise nimbly repeated; empty and loud talk; a plant RA'TTLESNAKE, _s._ a kind of serpent, which has a rattle at the end of its tail REA'CTION, _s._ the reciprocation of any impulse or force impressed, made by the body on which such an impression is made RE'ALISE, _v.a._ bring into being or act; convert money into land. REA'SON, _s._ the power by which man deduces one proposition from another; cause; ground or principle; motive; moderation REASONABLENESS, _s._ the faculty of reason REASONING, _s._ an argument REBE'LLION, _s._ insurrection against lawful authority RECE'DE, _v.n._ fall back; retreat; desist RECEI'VE, _v.a._ obtain; admit; entertain as a guest RE'CENT, _a._ new; late; fresh RECE'PTACLE, _s._ a vessel or place into which anything is received RECOGNITION, _s._ review; renovation of knowledge; acknowledgment; memorial RECOLLE'CTION, _s._ recovery of notion; revival in the memory RECOMME'ND, _v.a._ make acceptable; praise another; commit with prayers RECOMMENDA'TION, _s._ the act of recommending; that which secures to one a kind reception from another RE'COMPENSE, _s._ reward; compensation RECOMPENSE, _v.a._ repay; reward; redeem RE'CORD, _s._ register; authentic memorial RECREA'TION, _s._ relief after toil or pain; amusement; diversion RE'CTIFY, _v.a._ to make right RE'CTITUDE, _s._ straightness; rightness; uprightness REDE'MPTION, _s._ ransom; relief; purchase of God's favour by the death of Christ REDU'CE, _v.a._ bring back; subdue; degrade REFLECTION, _s._ that which is reflected; thought thrown back upon the past; attentive consideration REFLE'CTOR, _s._ considerer REFRA'CT, _v.n._ break the natural course of rays REFU'LGENT, _a._ bright; splendid REGA'LIA, _s._ ensigns of Royalty REGA'RD, _v.a._ observe; remark; pay attention to RE'GIMENT, _s._ a body of soldiers under one colonel RE'GION, _s._ tract of land; country RE'GULAR, _a._ methodical; orderly REINFO'RCE, _v.a._ strengthen again REJE'CT, _v.a._ cast off; refuse; throw aside RE'LATIVE, _s._ a near friend; a relation; a kinsman RE'LATIVE, _a._ having relation RELAXATION, _s._ the act of loosening RELA'XED, _a._ slackened; loosened; let loose; diverted; eased; refreshed RELEA'SE, _v.a._ quit; let go; slacken; free from RELE'NT, _v.n._ slacken; remit; soften; melt RE'LIC, _s._ that which remains RELIE'VE, _v.a._ ease pain or sorrow; succour by assistance; support; assist RELI'GION, _s._ a system of divine faith and worship RELU'CTANT, _a._ unwilling; acting with repugnance REMAI'N, _v.n._ continue; endure; be left REMAINDER, _s._ the part left REMA'RKABLE, _a._ observable; worthy of note RE'MEDY, _s._ a medicine by which any illness is cured; that which counteracts any evil; reparation REME'MBER, _v.a._ bear in mind; not to REMO'NSTRANCE, _s._ strong representation REMO'RSELESS, _a._ without remorse RE'NDER, _v.a._ restore; give back; represent; exhibit; give REPEA'T, _v.a._ use again; do again; speak again REPO'RT, _s._ rumour; popular fame; sound; loud noise RE'PRESENT, _v.a._ exhibit; describe; personate; exhibit to show REPRESENTA'TION, _s._ image; likeness; public exhibition REPRIE'VE, _s._ respite after sentence of death REPRI'SAL, _s._ something seized by way of retaliation for robbery or injury RE'PTILE, _s._ an animal that creeps on many feet REPU'BLIC, _s._ commonwealth; a government without a King or other hereditary head REPU'GNANT, _a._ disobedient; contrary; opposite REPU'LSE, _v.a._ beat back; drive off REPUTA'TION, _s._ character of good or bad; credit REPU'TE, _s._ character; reputation REQUE'ST, _s._ petition; entreaty; demand RE'QUIEM, _s._ a hymn, in which they ask for the dead, requiem or rest REQUISITE, _a._ necessary RE'SCUE, _v.a._ set free from any violence, confinement, or danger RESE'MBLE, _v. a_ to be like; to compare; to represent as like something else RESE'NTMENT, _s._ anger; deep sense of injury RE'SERVOIR, _s._ a receiver; a large basin which receives water RESIDENCE, _s._ dwelling; place of abode RESOU'RCE, _s._ resort; expedient RESPECTIVE, _a._ particular; relating to particular persons or things RESPIRA'TION, _s._ the act of breathing; relief from toil RESPLENDENT, _a._ bright; shining; having a beautiful lustre RESPONSIBLE, _a._ answerable; accountable RESTRAINT, _s._ abridgment of liberty; prohibition; restriction RETALIATION, _s._ requital; return of like for like RETA'RD, _v.a._ hinder; delay RE'TINUE, _s._ a number attending upon a principal person; train RETROSPECTION, _s._ act or faculty of looking backward RETU'RN, _s._ the act of coming back to the same place; act of restoring or giving back REVELA'TION, _s._ discovery; communication; apocalypse; the prophecy of St. John, revealing future things REVE'NUE, _s._ income; annual profits received from lands or other funds RE'VERENCE, _s._ veneration; respect; title of the clergy REVE'RSE, _v.a._ turn upside down; overturn RHINO'CERUS, _s._ a large animal with a horn on its nose RHODODE'NDRON, _s._ the rose-bay RI'BALDRY, _s._ mean, lewd, brutal language RI'DICULE, _s._ contemptive mockery RI'VET, _v.a._ fasten strongly RI'VULET, _s_ a small river; streamlet; brook ROMA'NTIC, _a._ wild; fanciful ROO'KERY, _s._ a nursery of rooks ROYA'LIST, _s._ adherent to a King RU'BY, _s._ a precious stone of a red colour RU'DIMEMT, _s._ the first principle RU'GGED, _a._ rough; uneven; rude RU'STIC, _a._ rough; rude; pertaining to the country RUSTI'CITY, _s._ rural appearance; simplicity SA'CRAMENT, _s._ an oath; an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace SA'CRED, _a._ immediately relating to God; holy SA'CRIFICE, _v.a._ offer to heaven; destroy or give up for the sake of something else; destroy; kill SAGA'CITY, _a._ quickness of scent; acuteness of discovery SA'LINE, _a._ consisting of salt; constituting bait SA'NCTITY, _s._ holiness; goodness; purity SA'NGUINARY, _a._ cruel; bloody; murderous SA'PPHIRE, _s._ a precious stone, of a blue colour SAU'RIAN, _s._ a reptile belonging to the order of Sauris or lizards SAVA'NNAH, _s._ an open meadow without wood SCABBARD, _s._ the sheath of a sword or dagger SCE'NERY, _s._ the appearances of places or things; the background of the scenes of a play SCE'PTRE, _s._ the ensign of royalty borne in the hand SCI'ENCE, _s._ knowledge; certainty grounded, on demonstration SCIENTIFIC, _a._ producing demonstrative knowledge SCREECH, _s._ cry of horror and anguish; harsh cry SCRI'PTURE, _s._ sacred writing; the Bible SCU'RRY, _a._ mean; vile; dirty; worthless SCU'LPTURE, _s._ carved work SE'AMAN, _s._ a sailor SE'ASON, _s._ one of the four parts of the year; a fit time SE'CRET, _s._ something studiously hidden; privacy; solitude; a thing unknown SECRE'TE, _v.a._ put aside; hide SECU'RITY, _s._ protection; safety; certainty SEE'MING, _s._ appearance; show; opinion SELE'CT, _v.a._ choose in preference to others rejected SELE'CTION, _s._ the act of choosing; choice SE'MI-GLO'BULAR, _a._ half circular SE'MINARY, _s._ place of education SE'NATOR, _s._ a public counsellor SENSA'TION, _s._ perception by means of the senses SENSIBI'LITY, _s._ quickness of sensation; delicacy SENSORIO'LA, _s. plur._ little sensoriums SENSO'RIUM, _s._ the seat of sense; organ of sensation SE'NTINEL, _s._ one who watches or keeps guard, to prevent surprise SEPARATION, _s._ the act of separating; disunion SE'QUEL, _s._ conclusion; consequence; event SEQUE'STER, _v.a._ separate from others for the sake of privacy; remove; withdraw SERE'NITY, _s._ calmness; mild temperature; peace; coolness of mind SE'RIES, _s._ sequence; order; succession; course SERRA'TED, _a._ formed with jags or indentures, like the edge of a saw SE'RVANT, _s._ one who attends another, and acts at his command SERVICEABLE, _a._ active; diligent; officious; useful; beneficial SE'VERAL, _a._ different; divers; many SHA'NTY, _s._ a temporary wooden building SHE'LTER, _s._ cover; protection SI'GNAL, _s._ a notice given by a sign; a sign that gives notice SI'GNIFY, _v.a._ to declare; to make known; to declare by some token or sign; to express; to mean SILT, _s._ mud; slime; consisting of mud SI'MILAR, _a._ like; having resemblance SIMPLICITY, _s._ plainness; not cunning; silliness SIMULTANEOUS, _a._ acting together; existing at the same time SINCE'RITY, _s._ honesty of intention SI'NGER, _s._ one that tings; one whose profession or business is to sing SI'NGULAR, _a._ single; particular SI'TUATE, _part. a._ placed with respect to anything else; consisting SKE'LETON, _a._ the bones of the body preserved together, as much as can be, in their natural situation SKI'RMISH, _s._ slight fight; contest SLA'TY, _a._ having the nature of slate SLEIGHT, _s._ artful trick; dexterous practice SLU'GGISH, _a._ slow; slothful; lazy, inactive SOBRI'ETY, _s._ soberness; calmness; gravity SOCI'ETY, _s._ company; community SO'CKET, _s._ a hollow pipe; the receptacle of the eye SO'LDIER, _s._ a fighting man; a warrior SO'LEMN, _a._ religiously grave; awful; grave SOLE'MNITY, _s._ gravity; religious ceremony SOLI'CITOUS, _a._ anxious; careful; concerned SOLI'CITUDE, _s._ anxiety; carefulness SO'LID, _a._ not liquid; not fluid; not hollow; compact; strong; firm; sound; true; profound; grave SOLI'LOQUY, _s._ a discourse made by one in solitude to himself SO'LITARY, _a._ living alone; not having company SO'LITUDE, _s._ loneliness; a lonely place SO'RROW, _s._ grief; pain for something past; sadness SOU'THERN, _a._ belonging to the south SO'VEREIGN, _s._ supreme lord. SPA'NGLE, _s._ any little thing sparkling and shining SPA'NIEL, _s._ a dog used for sport in the field, remarkable for tenacity and obedience SPEA'KER, _s._ one that speaks; the prolocutor of the Commons SPE'CIES, _s._ a sort; class of nature; show SPECIMEN, _s._ sample; a part of any thing exhibited, that the rest may be known SPE'CTACLE, _s._ a show; sight SPECTA'TOR, _s._ a looker-on; a beholder SPECULA'TION, _s._ examination by the eye; view; spy SPHE'RICAL, _a._ round; globular SPI'CULA, _s. plur._ little spikes SPI'CY, _a._ producing spice; aromatic SPI'DER, _s._ the animal that spins a web for flies SPI'RAL, _a._ curved; winding; circularly involved SPI'RIT, _s._ breath; soul of man; apparition; temper SPI'RITUAL, _a._ that which regards divinity; that which regards the soul; not temporal SPLE'NDID, _a._ showy; magnificent; pompous STABI'LITY, _s._ steadiness; strength to stand STA'GNANT, _a._ motionless; still STA'GNATE, _v.a._ lie motionless; have no stream STA'NDARD, _s._ an ensign in war; a settled rate STA'RLING, _s._ a bird that may be taught to whistle, and articulate words STA'TESMAN, _s._ a politician; one employed in public affairs STA'TION, _v.a._ place in a certain post or place STA'TUE, _s._ an image; solid representation of any living being STA'TURE, _s._ the height of any animal STE'RIL, _a._ barren; unfruitful STO'IC, _s._ an ancient philosopher of a particular sect, that met under the _Stoa_ or portico of the temple STO'ICAL, _a._ pertaining to the Stoics STRA'TAGEM, _s._ an artifice in war; a trick by which some advantage is gained STRU'CTURE, _s._ building; form STRU'GGLE, _v.n._ labour; strive; contend STU'DENT, _s._ a bookish man; a scholar STUPE'NDOUS, _a._ wonderful; amazing; astonishing STU'PIFY, _v.a._ make stupid; deprive of sensibility SUB-DIVI'DE, _v.a._ to divide a part into more parts SUBDIVI'SION, _s._ the act of subdividing; the parts distinguished by a second division SUBDU'E, _v.a._ crush; oppress; conquer; tame SUB'JECT, _s._ one who lives under the dominion of another; that on which any operation is performed SUBME'RGE, _v.a._ to put under water; to drown SUBMI'SSIVE, _a._ humble SU'BSEQUENT, _a._ following in train SUBSI'STENCE, _s._ competence; means of supporting life; inherence in something else SU'BSTANCE, _s._ something real, not imaginary; wealth; means of life S'UBSTITUTE, _s._ one placed by another to act with delegated power SUBTERRA'NEOUS, _a._ living under the earth SUBVE'RSION, _s._ overthrow; ruin SU'CCEED, _v.a._ follow; prosper SUCCE'SSFUL, _a._ prosperous; happy; fortunate SUCCE'SSION, _s._ a series of persons or things following one another; a lineage SU'CCOUR, _s._ aid; assistance; help in distress SU'CCULENT, _a._ juicy; moist SU'DDEN, _a._ coming unexpectedly; hasty; violent SU'FFER, _v.a._ bear; undergo; endure; permit SUFFI'CE, _v.n._ be enough; be sufficient; be equal to the end, or purpose SUFFI'CE, _v.a._ afford; supply; satisfy SUFFI'CIENT, _a._ equal to any end or purpose SU'LLY, _v.a._ spoil; tarnish; dirty; spot SU'LTRY, _a._ hot and close SU'MMON, _v.a._ call up; raise; admonish to appear SU'MPTUOUS, _a._ costly; expensive; splendid SUPE'RB, _a._ grand; pompous; lofty; magnificent SUPERINCU'MBENT, _a._ lying on the top of something else SUPERINDU'CE, _v.a._ bring in as an addition to something else SUPERINTE'NDENCE, _s._ superior care; the act of overseeing with authority SUPERINTEN'DENT, _s._ one who overlooks others authoritatively SUPE'RIOR, _a._ higher; greater in dignity or excellence; preferable; upper SUPERIO'RITY, _s._ pre-eminence; the quality of being greater or higher than another SUPERSE'DE, _v.a._ make void by superior power SUPERSTI'TIOUS, _a._ full of idle fancies or scruples with regard to religion SUPPLY', _v.n._ fill up a deficiency; yield; afford; accommodate; furnish SUPPLY', _s._ relief of want; cure of deficiencies SUPPO'RT, _s._ act or power of sustaining; prop SUPPO'RT, _v.a._ sustain; prop; endure SUPPO'SE, _v.a._ admit without proof; imagine SU'RFACE, _s._ superficies; outside S'URPLUS, _s._ overplus; what remains when use is satisfied SURROU'ND, _v.a._ environ; encompass; enclose on all sides SURVE'Y, _v.a._ view as examining; measure and estimate land; overlook SUSCE'PTIBLE, _a._ capable of anything SUSPI'CION, _s._ the act of suspecting; imagination of something ill without proof SWA'LLOW, _v.n._ take down the throat; take in SY'CAMORE, _s._ a tree SY'COPHANT, _s._ tale-bearer SY'MMETRY, _s._ adaptation of parts to each other; proportion; harmony SY'MPHONY, _s._ harmony of mingled sounds SY'NAGOGUE, _s._ a Jewish place of worship SY'STEM, _s._ any combination of many things acting together SYSTEMA'TIC, _a._ methodical; written or formed with regular subordination of one part to another TA'BLET, _s._ a small level surface; a surface written on or painted TA'BULAR, _a._ set in the form of tables or synopses TA'CTICS, _s._ the art of ranging men on the field of battle TA'FFETA, _s._ a thin silk TA'NKARD, _s._ a large vessel with a cover for strong drink TA'PER, _v.n._ grow gradually smaller TA'TTOO, _v.a._ mark by staining on the skin TA'WDRY, _a._ meanly showy; showy without elegance TA'XATION, _s._ the act of loading with taxes; accusation TE'CHNICAL, _a._ belonging to the arts; not in common or popular use TE'LESCOPE, _s._ a long glass by which distant objects are viewed TEA'CHER, _s._ one who teaches; an instructor TE'MPERANCE, _s._ moderation in meat and drink; free from ardent passion TE'MPERATE, _a._ moderate in meat and drink; free from ardent passion; not excessive TE'MPERATURE, _s._ constitution of nature; degree of any qualities; moderation TE'MPLE, _s._ a place appropriated to acts of religion; the upper part of the sides of the head TE'MPORAL, _a._ measured by time secular; not spiritual TEMPTA'TION, _s._ the act of tempting TENA'CITY, _s._ adhesion of one part to another TE'NDENCY, _s._ direction or course toward any place, object, inference, or result TE'NDER, _a._ soft; sensible; delicate; gentle; mild; young; weak, as _tender_ age TE'NDRIL, _s._ the clasp of a vine or other climbing plant TE'NEMENT, _s._ anything held by a tenant TENU'ITY, _s._ thinness; smallness; poverty TE'RMINATE, _v.n._ have an end; be limited; end TERMINA'TION, _s._ the end TERRE'STRIAL, _a._ earthly TE'RRIBLE, _a._ dreadful; formidable; causing fear TE'RRIER, _s._ a kind of dog TE'RRITORY, _s._ land; country TE'RROR, _s._ fear communicated; fear received; the cause of fear TE'XTURE, _s._ the act of weaving; a web; a thing woven; combination of parts THE'REFORE, _ad._ for this reason; consequently THOU'SAND, _a._ or _s._ the number of ten hundred TIDE, _s._ time; alternate ebb and flow of the sea TI'MID, _a._ fearful; wanting courage TI'MOROUS, _a._ fearful; terrified; susceptible of fear; capable of being frightened TI'TLE, _s._ a general head comprising particulars; an appellation of honour; claim of right; the first page of a book, telling its name, and generally its subject TO'CSIN, _s._ an alarm-bell TO'RPID, _a._ motionless; sluggish TO'RTURE, _s._ torments judicially inflicted; pain by which guilt is punished, or confession extorted TO'RTURE, _v.a._ punish with tortures; torment TOUR, _s._ (pronounced _toor_) a journey for pleasure TOU'RIST, _s._ one who travels for pleasure TO'WARD, _prep._ in a direction to; near to TOW'ER, _s._ high building; fortress; an elevation TRADI'TIONAL, _a._ delivered by tradition TRA'GEDY, _s._ any mournful or dreadful event TRA'GIC, _a._ mournful, calamitous TRA'GI-CO'MEDY, _s._ a drama compounded of merry and serious things TRAIN, _v.a._ draw along; entice; educate TRA'NQUIL, _a._ quiet; peaceful TRANQUI'LLITY, _a._ quietness; peace; freedom from trouble or annoyance TRANSA'CT, _v.a._ manage; negotiate; perform TRANSA'CTION, _s._ negotiation; management TRA'NSIENT, _a._ short; momentary TRANSI'TION, _s._ removal; passage from one to another; change TRANSMI'T, _v.a._ send from one place to another TRANSPA'RENT, _a._ clear; translucent TRA'VEL, _s._ journey; labour; toil TRA'VEL, _v.n._ make travels; move; go TRA'VERSE, _v.a._ to cross; to lay athwart; to cross by way of opposition; to wander over TREA'CHEROUS, _a._ faithless; guilty of deserting or betraying TREA'CHERY, _s._ perfidy; breach of faith TREA'SURER, _s._ one who has the care of money; one who has the charge of treasure TRE'LLIS, _s._ a structure of iron, wood, or osier, the parts crossing each other like a lattice TREME'NDOUS, _a._ dreadful; horrible TRE'MOUR, _s._ the state of trembling or quivering TRE'MULOUS, _a._ trembling; fearful; quivering TREPIDA'TION, _s._ fear; terror; hurry; confused haste; terrified flight TRI'ANGLE, _s._ a figure of three angles TRIBU'NAL, _s._ the seat of a judge; a court of justice TRI'BUTE, _s._ payment in acknowledgment; subjection TRI'PLE, _a._ threefold; treble TRI'UMPH, _s._ victory; conquest TRIU'MPHANT, _a._ victorious; celebrating a victory TRO'PHY, _s._ something shown or treasured up in proof of victory TRO'UBLE, _v.n._ disturb; afflict; tease; disorder TRU'NCATE, _v.a._ maim; cut short TRU'NNIONS, _s._ the knobs or bunchings of a gun, that bear it on the checks of a carriage TUBE, _s._ a pipe; a long hollow body TU'BULAR, _a._ resembling a pipe or trunk TUMU'LTUOUS, _a._ uproarious; noisy TU'NIC, _s._ part of the Roman dress, natural covering; tunicle TU'NNEL, _s._ funnel; shaft of a chimney; passage underground TU'RBAN, _s._ the covering worn by the Turks on their heads TU'RPITUDE, _s._ shamefulness; baseness TY'RANNY, _s._ severity; rigour TY'RANT, _s._ an absolute monarch governing imperiously; a cruel and severe master; an oppressor U'LTIMATE, _a._ intended as the last resort UNABA'TED, _part._ not lessened in force or intensity UNACCOU'NTABLE, _a._ not explicable; not to be solved by reason; not subject UNA'LTERABLE, _a._ unchangeable; immutable UNAPRROA'CHED, _a._ inaccessible UNAWA'RE, _ad._ unexpectedly; without thought UNCE'RTAINTY, _s._ want of certainty; inaccuracy UNCHA'NGEABLE, _a._ not subject to variation UNCO'MFORTABLE, _a._ affording no comfort; gloomy UNCU'LTIVATED, _a._ not instructed; uncivilised UNDAU'NTED, _a._ unsubdued by fear; not depressed UNDERGO', _v.a._ suffer; sustain; support UNDERMI'NE, _v.a._ to excavate under UNDIMI'NISHED, _a._ not to be lessened; incapable of being lessened UNDISCO'VERED, _a._ not seen; not found out UNDISTI'NGUISHABLE, _a._ not to be distinguished UNFO'RTUNATE, _a._ unsuccessful; unprosperous U'NIFORM, _a._ conforming to one rule; similar to itself UNIFO'RMITY, _s._ conforming to one pattern UNINHA'BITABLE, _a._ unfit to be inhabited UNINI'TIATED, _part._ ignorant of; not conversant with UNIVE'RSAL, _s._ the whole U'NIVERSE, _s._ the general system of things UNJU'STIFIABLE, _a._ not to be defended UNMO'ULTED, _part._ unchanged in feather UNPA'LATEABLE, _a._ nauseous, disgusting UNRETA'LIATED, _part._ unreturned, applied to injuries UNSA'Y, _v.a._ retract; deny what has been said UNSUCCE'SSFUL, _a._ not having the wished event UNSWA'THE, _v.a._ unbandage UNVI'TIATED, _part._ pure; not defiled UNWIE'LDY, _a._ unmanageable; not easily moving, or moved URGE, _v.a._ press; incite; provoke; solicit U'SHER, _s._ an under-teacher; one whose business it is to introduce strangers, or walk before a person of high rank UTE'NSIL, _s._ an instrument for any use, such as the vessels of the kitchen, or tools of a trade VALE'RIAN, _s._ a plant VA'LLEY, _s._ low ground; a hollow between two hills VA'LUABLE, _a._ precious; worthy VA'LUE, _s._ price; worth; rate VAN, _s._ the front of an army; the first line VANI'LLA, _s._ a plant, the fruit of which is used to scent chocolate VA'NISH, _v.n._ lose perceptible existence; disappear; be lost; pass away VA'RIANCE, _s._ discord; disagreement VA'RIEGATE, _v.a._ diversify; stain with different colours VA'RIOUS, _a._ different; several; diversified VA'RY, _v.a._ change; change to something else VA'TICAN, _s._ the palace of the Pope at Rome VEGETA'TION, _s._ the power of producing the growth of plants VEGETA'TIVE, _a._ having the power to produce growth in plants VE'HICLE, _s._ a conveyance VE'NERABLE, _a._ old; to be treated with reverence VE'NISON, _s._ game; the flesh of deer VENTILA'TION, _s._ the act of fanning VENTILA'TOR, _s._ an instrument contrived to supply close places with fresh air VE'NTURE, _v.n._ dare; run hazard; engage in VE'RIFY, _v.n._ justify against the charge of falsehood; confirm; to prove true VE'RILY, _ad._ in truth; certainly VE'SSEL, _s._ any capacity; anything containing; the containing parts of an animal body VESU'VIUS, _s._ a burning mountain near Naples VICI'NITY, _s._ nearness; state of being near VICI'SSITUDE, _s._ regular change; revolution VI'CTIM, _s._ sacrifice; something destroyed VI'CTORY, _s._ conquest; triumph VI'GIL, _s._ watch; a fast kept before a holiday VI'GOROUS, _a._ full of strength and life VI'GOROUSLY, _ad._ energetically; forcibly; with force; without weakness VI'LLAGE, _s._ a small collection of houses VI'NDICATE, _v.a._ justify; clear; assert; revenge VI'NTAGE, _s._ the produce of the vine for the year; the time in which grapes are gathered VI'OLATION, _s._ infringement of a law VI'OLENT, _a._ forcible; unseasonably vehement VI'PER, _s._ a serpent; anything mischievous VI'PERINE, _a._ belonging to a viper VI'RULENT, _a._ poisonous; venomous; poisoned in the mind; malignant VI'SIBLE, _a._ perceptible by the eye; apparent VI'SION, _s._ sight; the faculty of seeing; the act of seeing; a supernatural appearance; a spectre; a phantom; a dream; something shown in a dream VI'SUAL, _a._ using the power of sight VI'TIATE, _v.a._ deprave; spoil; make less pure VOLCA'NO, _s._ a burning mountain VO'TARY, _s._ one devoted, as by a vow, to any particular service, worship, study, or state of life VU'LTURE, _s._ a large bird of prey WA'NTONLY, _ad._ sportively; carelessly WEA'PON, _s._ an instrument of offence; something with which one is armed to hurt another WI'LDERNESS, _s._ a desert WI'STFUL, _a._ attentive; earnest; full of thought WO'NDERFUL, _a._ admirable; strange; astonishing WO'RSHIP, _v.a._ adore; honour; venerate ZEST, _s._ relish ZOOLO'GICAL, _a._ that which relates to animals THE END. 
19926	----	STANDARD SELECTIONS A COLLECTION AND ADAPTATION OF SUPERIOR PRODUCTIONS FROM BEST AUTHORS FOR USE IN CLASS ROOM AND ON THE PLATFORM ARRANGED AND EDITED BY ROBERT I. FULTON DEAN OF THE SCHOOL OF ORATORY AND PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY IN THE OHIO WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN AND EDWIN P. TRUEBLOOD PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY IN EARLHAM COLLEGE GINN AND COMPANY BOSTON · NEW YORK · CHICAGO · LONDON ATLANTA · DALLAS · COLUMBUS · SAN FRANCISCO COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY R. I. FULTON, T. C. TRUEBLOOD, AND E. P. TRUEBLOOD ALL RIGHTS RESERVED The Athenæum Press GINN AND COMPANY · PROPRIETORS BOSTON · U.S.A. PREFACE The purpose of the compilers of this volume is:-- _First_, to provide some new material in poetry and eloquence that has never before appeared in books of this character, in addition to many standard selections familiar to the general public; _Second_, to furnish selections that will stand the test of literary criticism and at the same time prove to be popular and successful for public entertainment; _Third_, to offer for the use of classes in public speaking such carefully selected literature of varied scope as will be helpful and stimulating in the practice of reading aloud and profitable in acquiring power of vocal interpretation; _Fourth_, to stimulate interest in the works of the authors from whom we have chosen and in the speeches or books from which extracts have been taken; _Fifth_, to present as models for students in public speaking notable specimens of eloquence, among which are masterpieces of the seven great orators of the world and from the six great triumphs in the history of American oratory; _Sixth_, to provide carefully chosen scenes from a few standard, modern dramas for class-room and platform use. In these scenes the attempt has been made to preserve the spirit and unity of the plays, to shorten them to practical length, and to adapt them to the demands of the public audience. To avoid reprinting material which is already universally accessible, we have inserted no scenes from Shakespeare; but the reader is referred to Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings" (published by Ginn and Company), which contains copious Indexes to choice scenes from Shakespeare, the Bible, and hymn-books. The two volumes include a wide field of literature best suited for public speaking. The selections throughout the book are arranged under six different classes and cover a wide range of thought and emotion. While many shades of feeling may be found in the same selection, it has been our aim to place each one under the division with which, as a whole, it is most closely allied. We are grateful to the many authors and publishers who have courteously permitted us to use their publications. Instead of naming them in the preface we have chosen to make due acknowledgment in a footnote wherever their selections appear in the volume. F. AND T. CONTENTS I NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, PATHETIC PAGE Arena Scene from "Quo Vadis?" The _Sienkiewicz._ 1 Arrow and the Song, The _Longfellow._ 8 Aux Italiens _Lytton._ 8 Bobby Shafto _Henry._ 12 Carcassonne _Nadaud._ 13 Child-wife, The _Dickens._ 15 Count Gismond _Browning._ 21 Death of Arbaces, The _Lytton._ 25 Dora _Tennyson._ 32 Easter with Parepa, An _Delano._ 37 Evening Bells, Those _Moore._ 41 Ginevra _Coolidge._ 42 High Tide at Lincolnshire, The _Ingelow._ 47 How Did You Die? _Cooke._ 52 Indigo Bird, The _Burroughs._ 53 Jackdaw of Rheims, The _Barham._ 54 Jaffar _Hunt._ 57 Jim Bludsoe _Hay._ 59 King Robert of Sicily _Longfellow._ 61 Lady of Shalott, The _Tennyson._ 67 Legend of Service, A _Van Dyke._ 72 Little Boy Blue _Field._ 76 Mary's Night Ride _Cable._ 77 Nydia, the Blind Girl _Lytton._ 80 O Captain, My Captain! _Whitman._ 88 On the Other Train _Anon._ 89 Pansy, The _Anon._ 92 "Revenge," The _Tennyson._ 94 Rider of the Black Horse, The _Lippard._ 98 Sailing beyond Seas _Ingelow._ 101 Sands of Dee, The _Kingsley._ 102 School of Squeers, The _Dickens._ 103 Secret of Death, The _Arnold._ 110 Shamus O'Brien _Le Fanu._ 113 Ships, My _Wilcox._ 117 Soldier's Reprieve, The _Robbins._ 118 Song, The _Scott._ 123 Stirrup Cup, The _Hay._ 124 Swan-song, The _Brooks._ 125 Sweet Afton _Burns._ 129 Violet's Blue _Henry._ 130 Waterfowl, To a _Bryant._ 132 Wedding Gown, The _Pierce._ 133 When the Snow Sifts Through _Gillilan._ 137 Wild Flower, To a _Thompson._ 138 Zoroaster, The Fate of _Crawford._ 139 II SOLEMN, REVERENTIAL, SUBLIME Centennial Hymn _Whittier._ 144 Chambered Nautilus, The _Holmes._ 145 Crossing the Bar _Tennyson._ 146 Destruction of Sennacherib, The _Byron._ 147 Each and All _Emerson._ 148 Laus Deo! _Whittier._ 149 Pilgrim Fathers, The _Hemans._ 151 Present Crisis, The _Lowell._ 152 Recessional, The _Kipling._ 155 Sacredness of Work, The _Carlyle._ 156 What's Hallowed Ground? _Campbell._ 157 III PATRIOTIC, HEROIC, ORATORICAL The Seven Great Orators of the World 159 I. Demosthenes Encroachments of Philip, The 159 II. Cicero Oration against Antony 162 III. Chrysostom Undue Lamentations over the Dead 165 On Applauding Preachers 167 IV. Bossuet On the Death of the Prince of Condé 169 V. Chatham I. War with America 171 II. Attempt to Subjugate America 173 VI. Burke I. Impeachment of Hastings 175 II. Conciliation with America 178 III. English Privileges in America 182 VII. Webster I. Bunker Hill Monument 185 II. Revolutionary Patriots 188 III. Character of Washington 191 Six Great Triumphs in the History of American Oratory 193 I. Henry Call to Arms, The 193 II. Hamilton Coercion of Delinquent States 196 III. Webster Reply to Hayne, The 199 IV. Phillips Murder of Lovejoy, The 202 V. Lincoln Slavery Issue, The 206 VI. Beecher Moral Aspect of the American War 208 Abolition of War _Sumner._ 212 American Flag, The _Beecher._ 215 American People, The _Beveridge._ 217 American Question, The _Bright._ 218 America's Relation to Missions _Angell._ 220 American Slavery _Bright._ 222 Armenian Massacres, The _Gladstone._ 222 Battle Hymn of the Republic _Howe._ 225 Blue and the Gray, The _Lodge._ 226 Corruption of Prelates _Savonarola._ 228 Cross of Gold, The _Bryan._ 231 Death of Congressman Burnes _Ingalls._ 235 Death of Garfield, The _Blaine._ 237 Death of Grady, The _Graves._ 246 Death of Toussaint L'Ouverture _Phillips._ 239 Dedication of Gettysburg Cemetery, The _Lincoln._ 241 Fallen Heroes of Japan, The _Togo._ 242 Glory of Peace, The _Sumner._ 248 Hope of the Republic, The _Grady._ 249 Hungarian Heroism _Kossuth._ 250 International Relations _McKinley._ 251 Irish Home Rule _Gladstone._ 255 Lincoln _Castelar._ 258 Lincoln _Garfield._ 260 Louisiana Purchase Exposition _Hay._ 261 Man with the Muck-rake, The _Roosevelt._ 264 Message to the Squadron _Togo._ 271 Minute Man, The _Curtis._ 273 More Perfect Union, A _Curtis._ 275 Napoleon _Corwin._ 278 Napoleon _Ingersoll._ 279 National Control of Corporations _Roosevelt._ 280 Negro, The _Grady._ 283 New England _Quincy._ 284 New South, The _Grady._ 284 O'Connell _Phillips._ 290 Open Door, The _Henry._ 292 Organization of the World _Mead._ 294 Permanency of Empire, The _Phillips._ 296 Pilgrims, The _Phillips._ 297 Principles of the Founders _Mead._ 299 Responsibility of War, The _Channing._ 302 Scotland _Flagg._ 304 Secession _Stephens._ 243 Second Inaugural Address _Lincoln._ 305 Slavery and the Union _Lincoln._ 307 Subjugation of the Filipino _Hoar._ 309 Sufferings and Destiny of the Pilgrims _Everett._ 312 To Arms _Kossuth._ 313 True American Patriotism _Cockran_. 314 Vision of War _Ingersoll_. 315 War in the Twentieth Century _Mead_. 318 Washington _Phillips_. 321 IV GAY, HUMOROUS, COMIC A Boy's Mother _Riley_. 323 Almost beyond Endurance _Riley_. 324 Bird in the Hand, A _Weatherly_. 328 Breaking the Charm _Dunbar_. 325 Candle Lightin' Time _Dunbar_. 327 "Day of Judgment, The" _Phelps_. 330 De Appile Tree _Harris_. 335 Dooley on La Grippe Microbes _Dunne_. 337 Doctrinal Discussion, A _Edwards_. 340 Finnigin to Flannigan _Gillilan_. 343 Gavroche and the Elephant _Hugo_. 345 Hazing of Valiant, The _Anon_. 349 Hindoo's Paradise, The _Anon_. 353 If I Knew _Anon_. 354 Imaginary Invalid, The _Jerome_. 354 Jane Jones _King_. 357 Knee-deep in June _Riley_. 359 Little Breeches _Hay_. 362 Low-Backed Car, The _Lover_. 364 Mammy's Pickanin' _Jenkins_. 366 Mandalay _Kipling_. 368 Mr. Coon and Mr. Rabbit _Harris_. 370 Money Musk _Taylor_. 373 One-legged Goose, The _Smith_. 375 Pessimist, The _King_. 379 Schneider Sees Leah _Anon_. 380 Superfluous Man, The _Saxe_. 384 Usual Way, The _Anon_. 386 Wedding Fee, The _Streeter_. 387 When Malindy Sings _Dunbar_. 389 When the Cows Come Home _Mitchell_. 391 V DRAMATIC, NOT IN THE DRAMA Confessional, The _Anon._ 395 Jean Valjean and the Good Bishop _Hugo_. 400 Lasca _Anon._ 404 Michael Strogoff _Verne_. 408 Mrs. Tree _Richards_. 414 Portrait, The _Lytton_. 423 Tell-tale Heart, The _Poe_. 426 Uncle, The _Bell_. 431 VI SCENES FROM THE DRAMA Beau Brummell, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene 3 _Jerrold_. 468 Bells, The, Act III, Scene I _Williams_. 437 Lady of Lyons, The, Act II, Scene I; Act III, Scene 2 _Lytton_. 441 Pygmalion and Galatea, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene I _Gilbert_. 493 Rip Van Winkle, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene I _Irving_. 449 Rivals, The, Act I, Scene 2; Act II, Scene I; Act III, Scene I; Act IV, Scene 2 _Sheridan_. 454 Set of Turquoise, The, Act I, Scene I; Act I, Scene 2 _Aldrich_. 478 She Stoops to Conquer, Act II, Scene I _Goldsmith_. 486 INDEX OF AUTHORS 509 STANDARD SELECTIONS I NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, PATHETIC THE ARENA SCENE FROM "QUO VADIS"[1] HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ The Roman Empire in the first century presents the most revolting picture of mankind to be found in the pages of history. Society founded on superior force, on the most barbarous cruelty, on crime and mad profligacy, was corrupt beyond the power of words to describe. Rome ruled the world, but was also its ulcer, and the horrible monster, Nero, guilty of all hideous and revolting crimes, seems a fit monarch for such a people. A few years ago appeared "Quo Vadis?" the story from which this selection is made. The book attained so great a popularity, that it was translated into almost every tongue. In spite of its many faults, it invited the attention, and, although it shocked the sensibilities, when its great purpose was understood it melted the heart. The author drew a startlingly vivid and horrible picture of humanity at this lowest stage, and in conflict with it he showed us the Christ spirit. The extract is the story of how the young Vinicius, a patrician, a soldier, a courtier of Nero, through the labyrinth of foul sin, of self-worship and self-indulgence, with love for his guide, found his way home to the feet of Him who commanded, "Be ye pure even as I am pure." It is the love story of Vinicius and the Princess Lygia, a convert to Christ. The girl's happy and innocent life was rudely disturbed by a summons to the court of the profligate emperor. Arrived there, she found that Nero had given her to Vinicius, who had fallen passionately in love with her; but on the way to Vinicius' house she was rescued by the giant Ursus, one of her devoted attendants and a member of her own faith. They escaped in safety to the Christians, who were living in hiding in the city. The imperious nature of the youthful soldier for the first time in his life met resistance. He was so transported with rage and disappointment that he ordered the slaves from whom Lygia had escaped to be flogged to death, while he set out to find the girl who had dared to thwart his desire. His egotism was so great that he would have seen the city and the whole world sunk in ruins rather than fail of his purpose. For days and days his search was unceasing, and at last he found Lygia, but in making a second attempt to carry her off was severely wounded by the giant Ursus. Finding himself helpless in the Christians' hands, he expected nothing but death; but instead he was carefully and tenderly nursed back to health. Waking from his delirium, he found at his bedside Lygia--Lygia, whom he had most injured, watching alone, while the others had gone to rest. Gradually in his pagan head the idea began to hatch with difficulty that at the side of naked beauty, confident and proud of Greek and Roman symmetry, there is another in the world, new, immensely pure, in which a soul resides. As the days went by, Vinicius was thrilled to the very depths of his soul by the consciousness that Lygia was learning to love him. With that revelation came the certain conviction that his religion would forever make an inseparable barrier between them. Then he hated Christianity with all the powers of his soul, yet he could not but acknowledge that it had adorned Lygia with that exceptional, unexplained beauty, which was producing in his heart besides love, respect; besides desire, homage. Yet, when he thought of accepting the religion of the Nazarene, all the Roman in him rose up in revolt against the idea. He knew that if he were to accept that teaching he would have to throw, as on a burning pile, all his thoughts, ideas, ambitions, habits of life, his very nature up to that moment, burn them into ashes and fill himself with an entirely new life, and from his soul he cried that it was impossible; it was impossible! Before Vinicius had entirely recovered Nero commanded his presence at Antium, whither the court was going for the hot summer months. Nero was ambitious to write an immortal epic poem which should rival the "Odyssey," and in order that he might describe realistically a burning city, gave a secret command while he was in Antium that Rome should be set on fire. One evening, when the court was assembled to hear Nero recite some of his poetry, a slave appeared. "Pardon, Divine Imperator, Rome is burning! The whole city is a sea of flames!" A moment of horrified silence followed, broken by the cry of Vinicius. He rushed forth, and, springing on his horse, dashed into the deep night. A horseman, rushing also like a whirlwind, but in the opposite direction, toward Antium, shouted as he raced past: "Rome is perishing!" To the ears of Vinicius came only one more expression: "Gods!" The rest was drowned by the thunder of hoofs. But the expression sobered him. "Gods!" He raised his head suddenly, and, stretching his arms toward the sky filled with stars, began to pray. "Not to you, whose temples are burning, do I call, but to Thee. Thou Thyself hast suffered. Thou alone hast understood people's pain. If Thou art what Peter and Paul declare, save Lygia. Seek her in the burning; save her and I will give Thee my blood!" Before he had reached the top of the mountain he felt the wind on his face, and with it the odor of smoke came to his nostrils. He touched the summit at last, and then a terrible sight struck his eyes. The whole lower region was covered with smoke, but beyond this gray, ghastly plain the city was burning on the hills. The conflagration had not the form of a pillar, but of a long belt, shaped like the dawn. Vinicius' horse, choking with the smoke, became unmanageable. He sprang to the earth and rushed forward on foot. The tunic began to smolder on him in places; breath failed his lungs; strength failed his bones; he fell! Two men, with gourds full of water, ran to him and bore him away. When he regained consciousness he found himself in a spacious cave, lighted with torches and tapers. He saw a throng of people kneeling, and over him bent the tender, beautiful face of his soul's beloved. Lygia was indeed safe from the burning, but before the first thrill of relief was over an infinitely more horrible danger threatened her. The people were in wrath and threatened violence to Nero and his court, for it was popularly believed that the city had been set on fire at the emperor's instigation. The coward, Nero, was startled and thoroughly alarmed, and welcomed gladly the suggestion that the calamity should be blamed on the Christians, who were viewed with great suspicion by the common people, and obliged even then to live in hiding. In order to clear himself and to divert the people's minds, he instituted at once against the Christians the most horrible persecutions that have ever stained man's history. For days and days the people came in countless numbers to witness the tortures of the innocent victims; but at last they grew weary of blood-spilling. Then it was given out that Nero had arranged a climax for the last of the Christians who were to die at an evening spectacle in a brilliantly lighted amphitheater. Chief interest both of the Augustinians and the people centered in Lygia and Vinicius, for the story of their love was now generally known, and everybody felt that Nero was intending to make a tragedy for himself out of the suffering of Vinicius. At last the evening arrived. The sight was in truth magnificent. All that was powerful, brilliant and wealthy in Rome was there. The lower seats were crowded with togas as white as snow. In a gilded padium sat Nero, wearing a diamond collar and a golden crown upon his head. Every eye was turned with strained gaze to the place where the unfortunate lover was sitting. He was exceedingly pale, and his forehead was covered with drops of sweat. To his tortured mind came the thought that faith of itself would spare Lygia. Peter had said that faith would move the earth to its foundations. He crushed doubt in himself, compressed his whole being into the sentence, "I believe," and he looked for a miracle. The prefect of the city waved a red handkerchief, and out of the dark gully into the brilliantly lighted arena came Ursus. In Rome there was no lack of gladiators, larger by far than the common measure of man; but Roman eyes had never seen the like of Ursus. The people gazed with the delight of experts at his mighty limbs, as large as tree trunks; at his breast, as large as two shields joined together, and his arms of a Hercules. He was unarmed, and had determined to die as became a follower of the Lamb, peacefully and patiently. Meanwhile he wished to pray once more to the Saviour. So he knelt on the arena, joined his hands and raised his eyes towards the stars. This act displeased the crowd. They had had enough of those Christians, who died like sheep. They understood that if the giant would not defend himself, the spectacle would be a failure. Here and there hisses were heard. Some began to cry for scourgers, whose office it was to lash combatants unwilling to fight. But soon all had grown silent, for no one knew what was waiting for the giant, nor whether he would not defend himself when he met death eye to eye. In fact, they had not long to wait. Suddenly the shrill sound of brazen trumpets was heard, and at that signal into the arena rushed, amid the shouts of the beast-keepers, an enormous German aurochs, bearing on his head the naked body of a woman. Vinicius sprang to his feet. "Lygia! Oh, ... I believe! I believe! Oh, Christ, a miracle! a miracle!" And he did not even know that Petronius had covered his head at that moment with a toga. He did not look; he did not see. The feeling of some awful emptiness possessed him. In his head there remained not a thought. His lips merely repeated as if in madness, "I believe! I believe! I believe!" This time the amphitheater was silent, for in the arena something uncommon had happened. That giant, obedient and ready to die, when he saw his queen on the horns of the wild beast, sprang up, as if touched by living fire, and, bending forward, he ran at the raging animal. From all breasts a sudden cry of amazement was heard, as the giant fell on the raging bull and seized him by the horns. And then came deep silence. All breasts ceased to breathe. In the amphitheater a fly might be heard on the wing. People could not believe their own eyes. Since Rome was Rome no one had ever seen such a spectacle. The man's feet sank in the sand to his ankle; his back was bent like a bow; his head was hidden between his shoulders; on his arms the muscles came out so that the skin almost burst from their pressure; but he had stopped the bull in his tracks. The man and the bull remained so still that the spectators thought themselves looking at a group hewn in stone. But in that apparent repose there was a tremendous exertion of two struggling forces. The bull's feet, as well as the man's, sank in the sand, and the dark, shaggy body was curved so that it seemed a gigantic ball. Which of the two would fail first? Which would fall first? Meanwhile a dull roar resembling a groan was heard from the arena, after which a brief shout was wrested from every breast, and again there was silence. Duller and duller, hoarser and hoarser, more and more painful grew the groan of the bull as it mingled with the whistling breath from the breast of the giant. The head of the beast began to turn in the iron hands of the barbarian, and from his jaws crept forth a long, foaming tongue. A moment more and to the ears of the spectators sitting nearer came, as it were, the crack of breaking bones; then the beast rolled on the earth, dead. The giant removed in a twinkling the ropes that bound the maiden to the horns of the bull. His face was very pale; he stood as if only half conscious; then he raised his eyes and looked at the spectators. The amphitheater had gone wild. The walls of the building were trembling from the roar of tens of thousands of people. Everywhere were heard cries for mercy, passionate and persistent, which soon turned into one unbroken thunder. The giant understood that they were asking for his life and liberty, but his thoughts were not for himself. He raised the unconscious maiden in his arms, and, going to Nero's padium, held her up and looked up imploringly. Vinicius sprang over the barrier, which separated the lower seats from the arena, and, running to Lygia, covered her with his toga. Then he tore apart the tunic on his breast, laid bare the scars left by wounds received in the Armenian war, and stretched out his hands to the multitude. At this the enthusiasm passed everything ever seen in a circus before. Voices choking with tears began to demand mercy. Yet Nero halted and hesitated. He would have preferred to see the giant and the maiden rent by the horns of the bull. Nero was alarmed. He understood that to oppose longer was simply dangerous. A disturbance begun in the circus might seize the whole city. He looked once more, and, seeing everywhere frowning brows, excited faces and eyes fixed on him, he slowly raised his hand and gave the sign for mercy. Then a thunder of applause broke from the highest seats to the lowest. But Vinicius heard it not. He dropped on his knees in the arena, stretched his hands toward heaven and cried: "I believe! Oh, Christ! I believe! I believe!" FOOTNOTE: [1] Copyright, 1896, by Jeremiah Curtin. THE ARROW AND THE SONG[2] H. W. LONGFELLOW I shot an arrow into the air. It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow in its flight. I breathed a song into the air. It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong That it can follow the flight of song. Long, long afterward, in an oak, I found the arrow still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. FOOTNOTE: [2] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his works. AUX ITALIENS R. BULWER LYTTON At Paris it was, at the opera there; And she looked like a queen that night, With a wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch in her breast so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the "Trovatoré": And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "_Non ti scordar di me?_" The Emperor there in his box of state, Looked grave; as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate, Where the eagles in bronze had been. The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye; You'd have thought that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To that old glad life in Spain. Well! there in our front row box we sat Together, my bride betrothed and I; My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent and both were sad; Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal indolent air she had; So confident of her charm! I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was, Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas. I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; I wish him well for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas. Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love As I had not been thinking of aught for years; Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood neath the cypress-trees together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather; Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); And her warm white neck in its golden chain; And her full soft hair just tied in a knot, And falling loose again. And the Jasmine flower in her fair young breast; (O the faint sweet smell of that Jasmine flower!) And the one bird singing alone to its nest; And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed there in the waste of life, Such a very little thing. For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over; And I thought, "Were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her!" And I swear as I thought of her thus in that hour, And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that Jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast. And I turned and looked; she was sitting there, In a dim box over the stage; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, And that Jasmine in her breast! I was here, and she was there; And the glittering horse-shoe curved between;-- From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful mien, To my early love with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade, (In short from the future back to the past) There was but a step to be made. To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked, then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting a moment more. My thinking of her or the music's strain, Or something which never will be expressed, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the Jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now and she loved me then! And the very first words that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy and young and handsome still, And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass; She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say, For beauty is easy enough to win, But one isn't loved every day. And I think in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven. But O! the smell of that Jasmine flower! And O that music! and O the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, _Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me!_ BOBBY SHAFTO[3] DANIEL HENRY, JR. _Theme._ "Bobby Shafto's gone to sea:-- Silver buckles on his knee-- He'll come back and marry me, Pretty Bobby Shafto!" "Mother Goose Melodies." "With his treasures won at sea, Spanish gold and Portugee, And his heart, still fast to me, Pretty Bobby Shafto! "In a captain's pomp and pride, With a gold sword at his side, He'll come back to claim his bride, Pretty Bobby Shafto!" So she sang, the winter long, Till the sun came, golden-strong, And the blue birds caught her song: All of Bobby Shafto. Days went by, and autumn came, Eyes grew dim, and feet went lame, But the song, it was the same, All of Bobby Shafto. Never came across the sea, Silver buckles on his knee, Bobby to his bride-to-be, Fickle Bobby Shafto! For where midnight never dies, In the Storm-King's caves of ice, Stiff and stark, poor Bobby lies-- Heigho! Bobby Shafto. FOOTNOTE: [3] From "Under a Fool's Cap." CARCASSONNE GUSTAV NADAUD, translated by M. E. W. SHERWOOD "How old I am! I'm eighty years! I've worked both hard and long; Yet patient as my life has been, One dearest sight I have not seen,-- It almost seems a wrong. A dream I had when life was new; Alas, our dreams! they come not true; I thought to see fair Carcassonne,-- That lovely city,--Carcassonne! "One sees it dimly from the height Beyond the mountains blue, Fain would I walk five weary leagues,-- I do not mind the road's fatigues,-- Through morn and evening's dew; But bitter frost would fall at night; And on the grapes,--that yellow blight! I could not go to Carcassonne, I never went to Carcassonne. "They say it is as gay all times As holidays at home! The gentles ride in gay attire, And in the sun each gilded spire Shoots up like those of Rome! The bishop the procession leads, The generals curb their prancing steeds. Alas! I know not Carcassonne-- Alas! I saw not Carcassonne! "Our Vicar's right! he preaches loud, And bids us to beware; He says, 'O guard the weakest-part, And most that traitor in the heart Against ambition's snare.' Perhaps in autumn I can find Two sunny days with gentle wind; I then could go to Carcassonne, I still could go to Carcassonne. "My God, my Father! pardon me If this my wish offends; One sees some hope more high than his, In age, as in his infancy, To which his heart ascends! My wife, my son have seen Narbonne, My grandson went to Perpignan, But I have not seen Carcassonne, But I have not seen Carcassonne." Thus sighed a peasant bent with age, Half-dreaming in his chair; I said, "My friend, come go with me To-morrow, then thine eyes shall see Those streets that seem so fair." That night there came for passing soul The church-bell's low and solemn toll. He never saw gay Carcassonne. Who has not known a Carcassonne? THE CHILD-WIFE CHARLES DICKENS All this time I had gone on loving Dora harder than ever. If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely over head and ears in love with her, I was saturated through and through. I took night walks to Norwood where she lived, and perambulated round and round the house and garden for hours together, looking through crevices in the palings, using violent exertions to get my chin above the rusty nails on the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and romantically calling on the night to shield my Dora,--I don't exactly know from what,--I suppose from fire, perhaps from mice, to which she had a great objection. Dora had a discreet friend, comparatively stricken in years, almost of the ripe age of twenty, I should say, whose name was Miss Mills. Dora called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills! One day Miss Mills said: "Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming the day after to-morrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa would be happy to see you." I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness. At last, arrayed for the purpose, at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills's, fraught with a declaration. Mr. Mills was not at home. I didn't expect he would be. Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do. I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Dora's little dog Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music, and Dora was painting flowers. What were my feelings when I recognized flowers I had given her! Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at home, though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was conversational for a few minutes, and then laying down her pen, got up and left the room. I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow. "I hope your poor horse was not tired when he got home at night from that picnic," said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes. "It was a long way for him." I began to think I would do it to-day. "It was a long way for him, for he had nothing to uphold him on the journey." "Wasn't he fed, poor thing?" I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow. "Ye-yes, he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the unutterable happiness that I had in being so near to you." I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot. "I don't know why you should care for being near me, or why you should call it a happiness. But of course you don't mean what you say. Jip, you naughty boy, come here!" I don't know how I did it, but I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I told her that I idolized and worshiped her. Jip barked madly all the time. My eloquence increased, and I said if she would like me to die for her, she had but to say the word, and I was ready. I had loved her to distraction every minute, day and night, since I first set eyes upon her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love her, every minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lovers would love again; but no lover had ever loved, might, could, would, or should ever love, as I loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us in his own way got more mad every moment. Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap winking peacefully at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged. Being poor, I felt it necessary the next time I went to my darling to expatiate on that unfortunate drawback. I soon carried desolation into the bosom of our joys--not that I meant to do it, but that I was so full of the subject--by asking Dora without the smallest preparation, if she could love a beggar. "How can you ask me anything so foolish? Love a beggar!" "Dora, my own dearest, I am a beggar!" "How can you be such a silly thing," replied Dora, slapping my hand, "as to sit there telling such stories? I'll make Jip bite you, if you are so ridiculous." But I looked so serious that Dora began to cry. She did nothing but exclaim, "O dear! O dear!" And oh, she was so frightened! And where was Julia Mills? And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! until I was almost beside myself. I thought I had killed her. I sprinkled water on her face; I went down on my knees; I plucked at my hair; I implored her forgiveness; I besought her to look up; I ravaged Miss Mills's work-box for a smelling-bottle, and in my agony of mind, applied an ivory needle-case instead, and dropped all the needles over Dora. At last I got Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression which I gradually soothed until it was only loving, and her soft, pretty cheek was lying against mine. "Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?" "O yes! O yes! it's all yours, oh, don't be dreadful." "My dearest love, the crust well earned--" "O yes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts. And after we are married, Jip must have a mutton chop every day at twelve, or he'll die." I was charmed with her childish, winning way, and I fondly explained to her that Jip should have his mutton chop with his accustomed regularity. When we had been engaged some half-year or so, Dora delighted me by asking me to give her that cookery-book I had once spoken of, and to show her how to keep accounts, as I had once promised I would. I brought the volume with me on my next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to make it look less dry and more inviting), and showed her an old housekeeping book of my aunt's, and gave her a set of tablets, and a pretty little pencil-case, and a box of leads, to practice housekeeping with. But the cookery-book made Dora's head ache, and the figures made her cry. They wouldn't add up, she said. So she rubbed them out, and drew little nosegays, and likenesses of me and Jip, all over the tablets. Time went on, and at last, here in this hand of mine, I held the wedding license. There were the two names in the sweet old visionary connection,--David Copperfield and Dora Spenlow; and there in the corner was that parental institution, the Stamp Office, looking down upon our union; and there, in the printed form of words, was the Archbishop of Canterbury, invoking a blessing on us and doing it as cheap as could possibly be expected. I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping house than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course. She kept house for us. We had an awful time of it with Mary Anne. She was the cause of our first little quarrel. "My dearest life," I said one day to Dora, "do you think Mary Anne has any idea of time?" "Why, Doady?" "My love, because it's five, and we were to have dined at four." My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to be quiet, and drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose; but I couldn't dine off that, though it was very agreeable. "Don't you think, my dear, it would be better for you to remonstrate with Mary Anne?" "O no, please! I couldn't, Doady!" "Why not, my love?" "O, because I am such a little goose, and she knows I am!" I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of any system of check on Mary Anne, that I frowned a little. "My precious wife, we must be serious some times. Come! sit down on this chair, close beside me! Give me the pencil! There! Now let us talk sensibly. You know, dear," what a little hand it was to hold, and what a tiny wedding ring it was to see,--"you know, my love, it is not exactly comfortable to have to go out without one's dinner. Now, is it?" "N-n-no!" "My love, how you tremble!" "Because, I know you're going to scold me." "My sweet, I am only going to reason." "O, but reasoning is worse than scolding! I didn't marry to be reasoned with. If you meant to reason with such a poor little thing as I am, you ought to have told me so, you cruel boy!" "Dora, my darling!" "No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you married me, or else you wouldn't reason with me!" I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this charge, that it gave me courage to be grave. "Now, my own Dora, you are childish, and are talking nonsense. You must remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go out yesterday when dinner was half over; and that, the day before, I was made quite unwell by being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry; to-day, I don't dine at all, and I am afraid to say how long we waited for breakfast, and then the water didn't boil. I don't mean to reproach you, my dear, but this, is not comfortable." "Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!" "Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that!" "You said I wasn't comfortable!" "I said the housekeeping was not comfortable!" "It's exactly the same thing! and I wonder, I do, at your making such ungrateful speeches. When you know that the other day, when you said you would like a little bit of fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and ordered it to surprise you." "And it was very kind of you, my own darling; and I felt it so much that I wouldn't on any account have mentioned that you bought a salmon, which was too much for two; or that it cost one pound six, which was more than we can afford." "You enjoyed it very much. And you said I was a Mouse." "And I'll say so again, my love, a thousand times!" I said it a thousand times, and more, and went on saying it until Mary Anne's cousin deserted into our coal-hole and was brought out, to our great amazement, by a picket of his companions in arms, who took him away handcuffed in a procession that covered our front garden with disgrace. "I am very sorry for all this, Doady. Will you call me a name I want you to call me?" "What is it, my dear?" "It's a stupid name,--Child-wife. When you are going to be angry with me, say to yourself, 'It's only my Child-wife.' When I am very disappointing, say, 'I knew a long time ago, that she would make but a Child-wife.' When you miss what you would like me to be, and what I think I never can be, say, 'Still my foolish Child-wife loves me.' For indeed I do." I invoke the innocent figure that I dearly loved to come out of the mists and shadows of the past, and to turn its gentle head toward me once again, and to bear witness that it was made happy by what I answered. COUNT GISMOND ROBERT BROWNING Christ God, who savest man, save most Of men Count Gismond who saved me! Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, Chose time and place and company To suit it; when he struck at length My honor, 'twas with all his strength. And doubtlessly ere he could draw All points to one, he must have schemed! That miserable morning saw Few half so happy as I seemed, While being dressed in queen's array To give our tourney prize away. I thought they loved me, did me grace To please themselves; 'twas all their deed; God makes, or fair or foul, our face; If showing mine so caused to bleed My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped A word, and straight the play had stopped. They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen By virtue of her brow and breast; Not needing to be crowned, I mean, As I do. E'en when I was dressed, Had either of them spoke, instead Of glancing sideways with still head! But no: they let me laugh and sing My birthday song quite through, adjust The last rose in my garland, fling A last look on the mirror, trust My arms to each an arm of theirs, And so descend the castle-stairs-- And come out on the morning-troop Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, And called me queen, and made me stoop Under the canopy--(a streak That pierced it, of the outside sun, Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)-- And they could let me take my state And foolish throne amid applause Of all come there to celebrate My queen's-day--Oh I think the cause Of much was, they forgot no crowd Makes up for parents in their shroud! Howe'er that be, all eyes were bent Upon me, when my cousins cast Theirs down; 'twas time I should present The victor's crown, but ... there, 'twill last No long time ... the old mist again Blinds me as it did then. How vain! See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk With his two boys: I can proceed. Well, at that moment, who should stalk Forth boldly--to my face, indeed-- But Gauthier, and he thundered, "Stay!" And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say! "Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet About her! Let her cleave to right, Or lay herself before our feet! Shall she who sinned so bold at night Unblushing, queen it in the day? For honor's sake, no crowns, I say!" I? What I answered? As I live, I never fancied such a thing As answer possible to give. What says the body when they spring Some monstrous torture-engine's whole Strength on it? No more says the soul. Till out strode Gismond; then I knew That I was saved. I never met His face before, but, at first view, I felt quite sure that God had set Himself to Satan; who would spend A minute's mistrust on the end? He strode to Gauthier, in his throat Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth With one back-handed blow that wrote In blood men's verdict there. North, South, East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, And damned, and truth stood up instead. This glads me most, that I enjoyed The heart of the joy, with my content In watching Gismond unalloyed By any doubt of the event: God took that on him--I was bid Watch Gismond for my part: I did. Did I not watch him while he let His armorer just brace his greaves, Rivet his hauberk, on the fret The while! His foot ... my memory leaves No least stamp out, nor how anon He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. And e'en before the trumpet's sound Was finished, prone lay the false knight, Prone as his lie, upon the ground: Gismond flew at him, used no sleight O' the sword, but open-breasted drove, Cleaving till out the truth he clove. Which done, he dragged him to my feet And said, "Here die, but end thy breath In full confession, lest thou fleet From my first, to God's second death! Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied To God and her," he said, and died. Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked --What safe my heart holds, though no word Could I repeat now, if I tasked My powers forever, to a third Dear even as you are. Pass the rest Until I sank upon his breast. Over my head his arm he flung Against the world; and scarce I felt His sword (that dripped by me and swung) A little shifted in its belt; For he began to say the while How South our home lay many a mile. So 'mid the shouting multitude We two walked forth to never more Return. My cousins have pursued Their life, untroubled as before I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place God lighten! May his soul find grace! Our elder boy has got the clear Great brow; though when his brother's black Full eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here? And have you brought your tercel back? I just was telling Adela How many birds it struck since May. THE DEATH OF ARBACES[4] EDWARD BULWER LYTTON In the eventful year of the eruption of Vesuvius, there lived in Pompeii a young Greek by the name of Glaucus. Heaven had given him every blessing but one; it had denied him the heritage of freedom. He was born in Athens, the subject of Rome. Succeeding early to an ample inheritance, he had indulged that inclination for travel, so natural to the young, and consequently knew much of the gorgeous luxuries of the imperial court. His ideals in life were high. At last he discovered the long-sought idol of his dreams in the person of Ione, a beautiful, young Neapolitan, also of Greek parentage, who had lately come to Pompeii. She was one of those brilliant characters which seldom flash across our career. She united in the highest perfection the rarest of earthly gifts,--Genius and Beauty. No wonder that the friendship of these two ripened into a higher love than that which served a theme for the idle gossip of the Roman baths, or the epicurean board of a Sallust or a Diomede. Arbaces, the legal guardian of Ione, was a subtle, crafty, cunning Egyptian, whose conscience was solely of the intellect awed by no moral laws. His great wealth and learning, and his reputation as a magician gave him great power and influence over not only the superstitious worshipers, but also the priesthood of Isis. Shrouding the deceit and vices of a heathen metaphysical philosophy in a brilliant and imposing ceremonial, Arbaces was the better able to gratify his own desires and work out his diabolical scheme. As Ione just ripened into beautiful womanhood, Arbaces determined to claim her life and her love for himself alone; but his first overture not only met with rebuff, but revealed the fact that she already loved Glaucus. Angered by a fate which not even his dark sorcery could remove, and which the prophecy of the stars had foretold, he is further enraged by the violent opposition of Apæcides, the brother of Ione, who on his own account threatens and has prepared to expose the lewd deceits and hypocrisy of the worship of Isis. Arbaces murders Apæcides, imprisons the priest Calenus, the only witness of the deed, and with great cunning weaves a convicting net of circumstantial evidence around Glaucus, his hated rival. Glaucus is tried, convicted and doomed to be thrown to the lion. The day of the sports of the amphitheater had come. The gladiatorial fights and other games were completed. "Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian," said the editor. Glaucus had been placed in that gloomy and narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena awaited their last and fearful struggle. The door swung gratingly back--the gleam of spears shot along the walls. "Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come," said a loud and clear voice. "The lion awaits thee." "I am ready," said the Athenian. "Worthy officer, I attend you." When he came into the air its breath, which, though sunless, was hot and arid, smote witheringly upon him. They anointed his body, placed the stylus in his hand, and led him into the arena. And now when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands and tens of thousands upon him, he no longer felt that he was mortal. All evidence of fear--all fear itself--was gone. A red and haughty flush spread over the paleness of his features--he towered aloft to the fullness of his glorious stature. In the elastic beauty of his limbs and form, in his intent but unfrowning brow, in the high disdain, and in the indomitable soul, which breathed visibly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude, his lip, his eye, he assumed the very incarnation, vivid and corporeal, of the valor of his land--of the divinity of its worship--at once a hero and a god. The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime, which had greeted his entrance, died into the stillness of involuntary admiration and half-compassionate respect; and with a quick and convulsive sigh, that seemed to move the whole mass of life as if it were one body, the gaze of the spectators turned from the Athenian to a dark uncouth object in the center of the arena. It was the grated den of the lion. Kept without food for twenty-four hours, the animal had, during the whole morning, testified a singular and restless uneasiness, which the keeper had attributed to the pangs of hunger. Yet its bearing seemed rather that of fear than of rage; its roar was painful and distressed; it hung its head--snuffed the air through the bars--then lay down--started again--and again uttered its wild and far-reaching cries. The editor's lip quivered, and his cheek grew pale; he looked anxiously around--hesitated--delayed; the crowd became impatient. Slowly he gave the sign; the keeper, who was behind the den, cautiously removed the grating, and the lion leaped forth with a mighty and glad roar of release. The keeper retreated hastily through the grated passage leading from the arena, and left the lord of the forest--and his prey. Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest posture at the expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining weapon raised high, in the faint hope that one well directed thrust might penetrate through the eye to the brain of his grim foe. At the first moment of its release the lion halted in the arena, raised itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with impatient sighs; then suddenly sprang forward, but not on the Athenian. At half speed it circled around and around the arena; once or twice it endeavored to leap up the parapet that separated it from the audience. At length, as if tired of attempting to escape, it crept with a moan into its cage, and once more laid itself down to rest. The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy of the lion soon grew into resentment at its cowardice; and the populace already merged their pity for the fate of Glaucus into angry compassion for their own disappointment. The editor called the keeper. "How is this? Take the goad, prick him forth, and then close the door of the den." As the keeper, with some fear, but more astonishment, was preparing to obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; there was a confusion--a bustle--voices of remonstrance suddenly breaking forth, and suddenly silenced at the reply. All eyes turned in wonder at the interruption, toward the quarter of disturbance; the crowd gave way, and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair disheveled,--breathless--half exhausted. He cast his eyes hastily round the ring. "Remove the Athenian," he cried. "Haste,--he is innocent. Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian. He is the murderer of Apæcides." "Art thou mad, O Sallust?" said the prætor, rising from his seat. "What means this raving?" "Remove the Athenian. Quick! or his blood be on your head. Prætor, delay and you answer with your own life to the Emperor. I bring with me the eye-witness to the death of Apæcides. Room there--stand back--give way. People of Pompeii, fix every eye on Arbaces--there he sits. Room there for the priest Calenus." "The priest Calenus,--Calenus," cried the mob. "Is it he?" "It is the priest Calenus," said the prætor. "What hast thou to say?" "Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apæcides, the priest of Isis; these eyes saw him deal the blow. It is from the dungeon into which he plunged me--it is from the darkness and horror of a death by famine--that the gods have raised me to proclaim his crime. Release the Athenian--he is innocent." "A miracle--a miracle," shouted the people. "Remove the Athenian. Arbaces to the lion!" "Officers, remove the accused Glaucus--remove, but guard him yet," said the prætor. "Calenus, priest of Isis, thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of Apæcides?" "I do." "Thou didst behold the deed?" "Prætor--with these eyes--" "Enough at present--the details must be reserved for more suiting time and place. Ho! guards--remove Arbaces--guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold you responsible for your accusation. Let the sports be resumed." "To the lion with the Egyptian!" cried the people. With that cry up sprang--on moved--thousands upon thousands! They rushed from the heights--they poured down in the direction of the Egyptian. In vain did the ædile command--in vain did the prætor lift his voice and proclaim the law. The people had been already rendered savage. Arbaces stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and royal features there came an expression of unutterable solemnity and command. "Behold!" he shouted with a voice which stilled the roar of the crowd; "behold the gods protect the guiltless! The fires of the avenging Orcus burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!" The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapor shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine tree; the trunk, blackness,--the branches, fire,--a fire that shifted and wavered in its hues with every moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare. There was a dead heart-sunken silence. Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men stared at each other, but were dumb. At that moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the walls of the theater trembled; and beyond in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs; an instant more and the mountain-cloud seemed to roll towards them, dark and rapid, like a torrent; at the same time, it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes mixed with vast fragments of burning stone! Over the crushing vines,--over the desolate streets,--over the amphitheater itself,--far and wide,--with many a mighty splash in that agitated sea,--fell that awful shower! The crowd turned to fly--each dashing, pressing, crushing, against the other. Trampling recklessly over the fallen--amidst groans, and oaths, and prayers, and sudden shrieks, the enormous crowd vomited itself forth through the numerous passages; prisoner, gladiator and wild beast now alike freed from their confines. Glaucus paced swiftly up the perilous and fearful streets, having learned that Ione was yet in the house of Arbaces. Thither he fled to release--to save her! Even as he passed, however, the darkness that covered the heavens increased so rapidly, that it was with difficulty he could guide his steps. He ascended to the upper rooms--breathless he paced along, shouting out aloud the name of Ione; and at length he heard, at the end of a gallery, a voice--her voice, in wondering reply! He rescued her and they made their way to the sea, boarded a vessel and were saved from the wrath of Vesuvius. Arbaces returned to his house to seek his wealth and Ione ere he fled from the doomed Pompeii. He found them not; all was lost to him. In the madness of despair he rushed forth and hurried along the street he knew not whither; exhausted or lost he halted at the east end of the Forum. High behind him rose a tall column that supported the bronze statue of Augustus; and the imperial image seemed changed to a shape of fire. He advanced one step--it was his last on earth! The ground shook beneath him with a convulsion that cast all around upon its surface. A simultaneous crash resounded through the city, as down toppled many a roof and pillar!--The lightning, as if caught by the metal, lingered an instant on the Imperial Statue--then shivered bronze and column! Down fell the ruin, echoing along the street, crushing Arbaces and riving the solid pavement where it crashed! The prophecy of the stars was fulfilled! So perished the wise Magician--the great Arbaces--the Hermes of the Burning Belt--the last of the royalty of Egypt. FOOTNOTE: [4] An adaptation by R. I. Fulton from the "Last Days of Pompeii." DORA ALFRED LORD TENNYSON With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife." Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd toward William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son, I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die; And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter; he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora. Take her for your wife; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answer'd short; "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said, "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William, take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again." But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be, my uncle's mind will change!" And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said, "I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you. You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest; let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said, "Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!" "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again, "Do with me as you will, but take the child, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!" And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy, But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's, feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more." Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back; But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch. They peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her, And Allan set him down, and Mary said, "O Father!--if you let me call you so-- I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora. Take her back, she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me-- I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus, 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro!' Then he turn'd His face and pass'd--unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before." So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- "I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son. I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son. May God forgive me!--I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundred-fold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. AN EASTER WITH PAREPA MYRA S. DELANO When Parepa was here she was everywhere the people's idol. The great opera houses in all our cities and towns were thronged. There were none to criticise or carp. Her young, rich, grand voice was beyond compare. Its glorious tones are remembered with an enthusiasm like that which greeted her when she sung. Her company played in New York during the Easter holidays, and I, as an old friend, claimed some of her leisure hours. We were friends in Italy, and this Easter day was to be spent with me. At eleven in the morning she sang at one of the large churches; I waited for her, and at last we two were alone in my snug little room. At noon the sky was overcast and gray. Down came the snow, whitening the streets and roofs. The wind swept icy breaths from the water as it came up from the bay and rushed past the city spires and over tall buildings, whirling around us the snow and storm. We had hurried home, shut and fastened our blinds, drawn close the curtains, and piled coal higher on the glowing grate. We had taken off our wraps, and now sat close to the cheery fire for a whole afternoon's blessed enjoyment. Parepa said, "Mary, this is perfect rest! We shall be quite alone for four hours." "Yes, four long hours!" I replied. "No rehearsals, no engagements. Nobody knows where you are!" Parepa laughed merrily at this idea. "Dinner shall be served in this room, and I won't allow even the servant to look at you!" I said. She clasped her dimpled hands together, like a child in enjoyment, and then sprang up to roll the little center-table near the grate. The snow had now turned into sleet; a great chill fell over the whole city. We looked out of our windows, peeping through the shutters, and pitying the people as they rushed past. A sharp rap on my door. John thrust in a note. "MY DEAR FRIEND:--Can you come? Annie has gone. She said you would be sure to come to her funeral. She spoke of you to the last. She will be buried at four." I laid the poor little blotted note in Parepa's hand. How it stormed! We looked into each other's faces helplessly. I said, "Dear, I must go, but you sit by the fire and rest. I'll be at home in two hours. And poor Annie has gone!" "Tell me about it, Mary, for I am going with you," she answered. She threw on her heavy cloak, wound her long white woolen scarf closely about her throat, drew on her woolen gloves, and we set out together in the wild Easter storm. Annie's mother was a dressmaker, and sewed for me and my friends. She was left a widow when her one little girl was five years old. Her husband was drowned off the Jersey coast, and out of blinding pain and loss and anguish had grown a sort of idolatry for the delicate, beautiful child whose brown eyes looked like the young husband's. For fifteen years this mother had loved and worked for Annie, her whole being going out to bless her one child. I had grown fond of them; and in small ways, with books and flowers, outings and simple pleasures, I had made myself dear to them. The end of the delicate girl's life had not seemed so near, though her doom had been hovering about her for years. I had thought it all over as I took the Easter lilies from my window-shelf and wrapped them in thick papers and hid them out of the storm under my cloak. I knew there would be no other flowers in their wretched room. How endless was the way to this East-Side tenement house! No elevated roads, no rapid transit across the great city then as there are now. At last we reached the place. On the street stood the canvas-covered hearse, known only to the poor. We climbed flight after flight of narrow dark stairs to the small upper rooms. In the middle of the floor stood a stained coffin, lined with stiff, rattling cambric and cheap gauze, resting on uncovered trestles of wood. We each took the mother's hand and stood a moment with her, silent. All hope had gone out of her face. She shed no tears, but as I held her cold hand I felt a shudder go over her, but she neither spoke nor sobbed. The driving storm had made us late, and the plain, hard-working people sat stiffly against the walls. Some one gave us chairs and we sat close to the mother. The minister came in, a blunt, hard-looking man, self-sufficient and formal. A woman said the undertaker brought him. Icier than the pitiless storm outside, yes, colder than ice were his words. He read a few verses from the Bible, and warned "the bereaved mother against rebellion at the divine decrees." He made a prayer and was gone. A dreadful hush fell over the small room. I whispered to the mother and asked: "Why did you wait so long to send for me? All this would have been different." With a kind of stare, she looked at me. "I can't remember why I didn't send," she said, her hand to her head, and added: "I seemed to die, too, and forget, till they brought a coffin. Then I knew it all." The undertaker came and bustled about. He looked at myself and Parepa, as if to say: "It's time to go." The wretched funeral service was over. Without a word Parepa rose and walked to the head of the coffin. She laid her white scarf on an empty chair, threw her cloak back from her shoulders, where it fell in long, soft, black lines from her noble figure like the drapery of mourning. She laid her soft, fair hand on the cold forehead, passed it tenderly over the wasted delicate face, looked down at the dead girl a moment, and moved my Easter lilies from the stained box to the thin fingers, then lifted up her head, and with illumined eyes sang the glorious melody: "Angels, ever bright and fair, Take, oh! take her to thy care." Her magnificent voice rose and fell in all its richness and power and pity and beauty! She looked above the dingy room and the tired faces of men and women, the hard hands and the struggling hearts. She threw back her head and sang till the choirs of paradise must have paused to listen to the Easter music of that day. She passed her hand caressingly over the girl's soft dark hair, and sang on--and on--"Take--oh! take her to thy care!" The mother's face grew rapt and white. I held her hands and watched her eyes. Suddenly she threw my hand off and knelt at Parepa's feet, close to the wooden trestles. She locked her fingers together, tears and sobs breaking forth. She prayed aloud that God would bless the angel singing for Annie. A patient smile settled about her lips, the light came back into her poor, dulled eyes, and she kissed her daughter's face with a love beyond all interpretation or human speech. I led her back to her seat as the last glorious notes of Parepa's voice rose triumphant over all earthly pain and sorrow. And I thought that no queen ever went to her grave with a greater ceremony than this young daughter of poverty and toil, committed to the care of the angels. That same night thousands listened to Parepa's matchless voice. Applause rose to the skies, and Parepa's own face was gloriously swept with emotion. I joined in the enthusiasm, but above the glitter and shimmering of jewels and dress, and the heavy odors of Easter flowers, the sea of smiling faces, and the murmur of voices, I could only behold by the dim light of a tenement window the singer's uplifted face, the wondering countenance of the poor on-lookers, and the mother's wide, startled, tearful eyes; I could only hear above the sleet on the roof and the storm outside Parepa's voice singing up to heaven: "Take, oh! take her to thy care!" THOSE EVENING BELLS THOMAS MOORE Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth, and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime. Those joyous hours are passed away; And many a heart that then was gay Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And so 'twill be when I am gone; That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. GINEVRA SUSAN COOLIDGE So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head, Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without, As, slowly creeping, he went down the stair. Were they afraid that I should be afraid? I, who have died once and been laid in tomb? They need not. Little one, look not so pale. I am not raving. Ah! you never heard The story. Climb up there upon the bed: Sit close and listen. After this one day I shall not tell you stories any more. How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve? Almost a woman! scarcely more than that Was your fair mother when she bore her bud; And scarcely more was I when, long years since, I left my father's house, a bride in May. You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church, Gloomy and rich, which stands and seems to frown On the Mercato, humming at its base. That was my play-place ever as a child; And with me used to play a kinsman's son, Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days! Two happy things we were, with none to chide, Or hint that life was anything but play. Sudden the play-time ended. All at once "You must wed," they told me. "What is wed?" I asked; but with the word I bent my brow, Let them put on the garland, smiled to see The glancing jewels tied about my neck; And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth By my grave husband, older than my sire. O the long years that followed! It would seem That the sun never shone in all those years, Or only with a sudden, troubled glint Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love Raised to my face--my conscious, woeful face. Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined Together, none forbidding, for so long. They let our childish fingers drop the seed, Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain; They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow, Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant. I loved Antonio, and he loved me. Life was all shadow, but it was not sin! I loved Antonio; but I kept me pure, Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake Of him, my first-born child, my little child, Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose look Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day. I loved: but, hear me swear, I kept me pure! It was hard To sit in darkness while the rest had light, To move to discords when the rest had song, To be so young and never to have lived. I bore, as women bear, until one day Soul said to flesh, "This I endure no more," And with the word uprose, tore clay apart, And what was blank before grew blanker still. It was a fever, so the leeches said. I had been dead so long, I did not know The difference or heed. Oil on my breast, The garments of the grave about me wrapped, They bore me forth and laid me in the tomb. Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night. It was night then, when I awoke to feel That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams Of moonlight, creeping through the grated door, The coffins of my fathers all about. Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back, As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell. With frantic strength I beat upon the grate; It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand Had left the bolt half-slipped. My father swore Afterward, with a curse, he would make sure Next time. Next time! That hurts me even now! Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which, And down the darkling street I wildly fled, Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon, Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I. I had no aim, save to reach warmth and light And human touch; but still my witless steps Led to my husband's door, and there I stopped, By instinct, knocked, and called. A window oped. A voice--'twas his--demanded: "Who is there?" "'Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone Change into horror, and he prayed aloud And called upon the saints, the while I urged, "O, let me in, Francesco; let me in! I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!" Then with a crash, the window was shut fast: And, though I cried and beat upon the door And wailed aloud, no other answer came. Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove Down the hard distance toward my father's house. "They will have pity and will let me in," I thought. "They loved me and will let me in." Cowards! At the high window overhead They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed. "I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in! I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!" "The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire. My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of wax To St. Eustachio, would he but remove This fearful presence from her door. Then sharp Came click of lock, and a long tube was thrust From out the window, and my brother cried, "Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!" Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb And the cold coffined ones! Up the long street, Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went. My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones; My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape Saw never Florence since. At last I saw a flickering point of light High overhead, in a dim window set. I had lain down to die: but at the sight I rose, crawled on, and with expiring strength Knocked, sank again, and knew not even then It was Antonio's door by which I lay. A window opened, and a voice called out: "Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought, "Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest, And bid me hence." But, lo, a moment more The bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touch Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in. "O ghost or angel of my buried love, I know not, I care not which, be welcome here! Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!" I heard him say, and then I heard no more. It was high noontide when I woke again, To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed-- My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn, Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb, Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet, Over the pavement to Antonio's door. Dead, they cared nothing; living, I was theirs. Hot raged the quarrel: then came Justice in, And to the court we swept--I in my shroud-- To try the cause. This was the verdict given: "A woman who has been to burial borne, Made fast and left and locked in with the dead; Who at her husband's door has stood and plead For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied; Who from her father's house is urged and chased, Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact. The Court pronounces the defendant--dead! She can resume her former ties at will, Or may renounce them, if such be her will. She is no more a daughter or a spouse, Unless she choose, and is set free to form New ties if so she choose." O, blessed words! That very day we knelt before the priest, My love and I, were wed, and life began. Child of my child, child of Antonio's child, Bend down and let me kiss your wondering face. 'Tis a strange tale to tell a rose like you. But time is brief, and, had I told you not, Haply the story would have met your ears From them, the Amieris. Now go, my dearest. When they wake thee up, To tell thee I am dead, be not too sad. I who have died once, do not fear to die. Sweet was that waking, sweeter will be this. Close to Heaven's gate my own Antonio sits Waiting, and, spite of all the Frati say, I know I shall not stand long at that gate, Or knock and be refused an entrance there, For he will start up when he hears my voice, The saints will smile, and he will open quick. Only a night to part me from that joy. Jesu Maria! let the dawning come! THE HIGH TIDE AT LINCOLNSHIRE JEAN INGELOW The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers rang by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe, 'The Brides of Enderby.'" Men say it was a stolen tyde-- The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was naught of strange, beside The flight of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies, And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth, Faintly came her milking song. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding down with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) "The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he saith, "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" "Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He looked across the grassy lea, To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow, seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet. The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sat that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high-- A lurid mark and dread to see; And awesome bells they were to me, That in the dark rang "Enderby." They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed, And I--my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "O come in life, or come in death! O lost! my love, Elizabeth." And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear, Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith), And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed." HOW DID YOU DIE?[5] EDMUND VANCE COOKE Did you tackle that trouble that came your way With a resolute heart and cheerful, Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful? Oh, a trouble is a ton, or a trouble is an ounce, Or a trouble is what you make it, And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only--how did you take it? You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? Come up with a smiling face. It's nothing against you to fall down flat, But to lie there--that's disgrace. The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce; Be proud of your blackened eye! It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; It's how did you fight--and why? And though you be done to the death, what then? If you battled the best you could, If you played your part in the world of men, Why The Critic will call it good. Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, And whether he's slow, or spry, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, But only--how did you die? FOOTNOTE: [5] By permission of Forbes & Co, publishers, and of the author. THE INDIGO BIRD[6] JOHN BURROUGHS Oh, late to come but long to sing, My little finch of deep-dyed wing, I welcome thee this day! Thou comest with the orchard bloom, The azure days, the sweet perfume That fills the breath of May. A winged gem amid the trees, A cheery strain upon the breeze From tree-top sifting down; A leafy nest in covert low; When daisies come and brambles blow, A mate in Quaker brown. But most I prize, past summer's prime, When other throats have ceased to chime, Thy faithful tree-top strain; No brilliant bursts our ears enthrall-- A prelude with a "dying fall," That soothes the summer's pain. Where blackcaps sweeten in the shade, And clematis a bower hath made, Or, in the bushy fields, On breezy slopes where cattle graze, At noon on dreamy August days, Thy strain its solace yields. Oh, bird inured to sun and heat, And steeped in summer languor sweet, The tranquil days are thine. The season's fret and urge are o'er, Its tide is loitering on the shore; Make thy contentment mine! FOOTNOTE: [6] By permission of Harper & Bros., publishers, and the author. THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS R. H. BARHAM The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! Bishop and abbot and prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight, and many a squire, With a great many more of lesser degree,-- In sooth, a goodly company; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. Never, I ween, was a prouder seen, Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims! In and out through the motley rout, That little Jackdaw kept hopping about: Here and there, like a dog in a fair, Over comfits and cates, and dishes and plates, Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, Miter and crosier! he hopped upon all. With a saucy air, he perched on the chair Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat, In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat; And he peered in the face Of his Lordship's Grace, With a satisfied look, as if he would say, "We two are the greatest folks here to-day!" And the priests with awe, as such freaks they saw, Said, "The deuce must be in that little Jackdaw!" The feast was over, the board was cleared, The flawns and the custards had all disappeared, And six little singing-boys--dear little souls In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles-- Came, in order due, two by two, Marching that grand refectory through! A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Embossed and filled with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown, Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. One little boy more a napkin bore, Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, And a Cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink." The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dressed all in white; From his finger he draws his costly turquoise: And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight by the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; Till when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring! There's a cry and a shout, and a terrible rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about, But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out; The friars are kneeling, and hunting and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew off each plum-colored shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels; They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates, They take up the poker and poke out the grates, They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs; But, no! no such thing,--they can't find THE RING! The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger and pious grief He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise to no little surprise, Nobody seemed one penny the worse! The day was gone, the night came on, The monks and the friars they searched till dawn; When the sacristan saw, on crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! No longer gay, as on yesterday; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way; His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand,-- His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, so wasted each limb, Regardless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM! That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing, That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!" The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And turned his bald head as much as to say, "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower he limped on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry-door, Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the RING, in the nest of the little Jackdaw! Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! When these words were heard, the poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd: He grew slick and fat; in addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more even than before; But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair. He hopped now about with a gait devout; At matins, at vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied, or if any one swore, Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore, That good Jackdaw would give a great "Caw!" As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw! He long lived the pride of that country side, And at last in the order of sanctity died: When, as words were too faint his merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a Saint. And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow, So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow! JAFFAR LEIGH HUNT Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say, Ordained that no man living, from that day, Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. All Araby and Persia held their breath; All but the brave Mondeer; he, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go, And facing death for very scorn and grief (For his great heart wanted a great relief), Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square Where once had stood a happy house, and there Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. "Bring me this man," the caliph cried; the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he, "From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me; From wants, from shames, from loveliest household fears, Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Restored me, loved me, put me on a par With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?" Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this The mightiest vengeance could not fall amiss, Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate Might smile upon another half as great. He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will; The caliph's judgment shall be master still. Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, The richest in the Tartar's diadem, And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!" "Gifts!" cried the friend; he took, and holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar!" JIM BLUDSOE[7] JOHN HAY Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives, Because he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years, That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludsoe passed in his checks, The night of the Prairie Belle? He warn't no saint--them engineers Is all pretty much alike-- One wife in Natchez-Under-the-Hill, And another one here in Pike. A careless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row-- But he never flunked, and he never lied-- I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had-- To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire; A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats has their day on the Mississip', And her day came at last-- The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle, she wouldn't be passed, And so came a-tearin' along that night, The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine. The fire burst out as she cleared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned and made For that willer-bank on the right. Ther' was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Thro' the hot black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludsoe's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And know'd he would keep his word. And sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell, And Bludsoe's ghost went up alone In the smoke of Prairie Belle. He warn't no saint--but at judgment I'd run my chance with Jim Longside of some pious gentleman That wouldn't shook hands with him. He'd seen his duty, a dead sure thing, And went fer it thar and then; And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard On a man that died for men. FOOTNOTE: [7] By permission of Mrs. Hay. KING ROBERT OF SICILY[8] HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Appareled in magnificent attire, With retinue of many a knight and squire, On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat, And heard the priests chant the Magnificat, And as he listened, o'er and o'er again Repeated, like a burden or refrain, He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes De sede et exultavit humiles;" And slowly lifting up his kingly head, He to the learned clerk beside him said, "What mean those words?" The clerk made answer meet, "He has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree." Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, "'Tis well that such seditious words are sung Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; For unto priests and people be it known, There is no power can push me from my throne!" And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, Lulled by the chant, monotonous and deep. When he awoke it was already night; The church was empty, and there was no light, Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, Lighted a little space before some saint. He started from his seat and gazed around, But saw no living thing and heard no sound. He groped toward the door, but it was locked; He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, And imprecations upon men and saints. The sounds reëchoed from the roof and walls As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. At length the sexton hearing from without The tumult of the knocking and the shout, And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, Came with his lantern asking, "Who is there?" Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, "Open: 'Tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?" The frightened sexton muttering with a curse, "This is some drunken vagabond or worse!" Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; A man rushed by him at a single stride, Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, But leaped into the blackness of the night, And vanished like a spectre from his sight. Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Despoiled of his magnificent attire, Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire, With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage To right and left each seneschal and page, And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. From hall to hall he rushed in breathless speed, Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, Until at last he reached the banquet room, Blazing with light and breathing with perfume. There on the dais sat another king, Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet ring, King Robert's self in feature, form and height, But all transfigured with angelic light. It was an Angel; and his presence there With a divine effulgence filled the air, An exaltation piercing the disguise, Though none the hidden Angel recognize. A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, Who met his look of anger and surprise With the divine compassion of his eyes; Then said, "Who art thou, and why comest thou here?" To which King Robert answered with a sneer, "I am the King, and come to claim my own From an imposter, who usurps my throne!" And suddenly, at these audacious words, Up sprang the angry guests and drew their swords! The Angel answered with unruffled brow, "Nay, not the king, but the king's Jester, thou Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, And for thy counselor shalt lead an ape; Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!" Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; A group of tittering pages ran before, And as they opened wide the folding doors, His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!" Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, He said within himself, "It was a dream!" But the straw rustled as he turned his head, There were the cap and bells beside his bed, Around him rose the bare discolored walls, Close by the steeds were champing in their stalls, And in the corner, a revolting shape, Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. It was no dream; the world he loved so much Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! Days came and went; and now returned again To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; Under the Angel's governance benign The happy island danced with corn and wine, And deep within the mountain's burning breast Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, Sullen and silent and disconsolate, Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, With look bewildered and a vacant stare, Close shaven above the ears as monks are shorn, By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, His only friend the ape, his only food What others left,--he still was unsubdued. And when the Angel met him on his way, And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel, The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, "Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe, Burst from him in resistless overflow, And, lifting high his forehead he would fling The haughty answer back, "I am, I am, the King!" Almost three years were ended, when there came Ambassadors of great repute and fame From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane By letter summoned them forthwith to come On Holy Thursday to his City of Rome. The Pope received them with great pomp and blare Of bannered trumpets, on St. Peter's Square, Giving his benediction and embrace, Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. While with congratulations and with prayers He entertained the Angel unawares. Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, "I am the King! Look and behold in me Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! This man who wears my semblance in your eyes, Is an imposter in a king's disguise. Do you not know me? Does no voice within Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene; The Emperor, laughing said, "It is strange sport To keep a madman for thy fool at court!" And the poor baffled Jester in disgrace Was hustled back among the populace. In solemn state the Holy Week went by, And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; The presence of the Angel, with its light, Before the sun rose, made the city bright, And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw, He felt within a power unfelt before, And, kneeling humbly on the chamber floor, He heard the rushing garments of the Lord Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. And now the visit ending, and once more Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again The land was made resplendent with his train, Flashing along the towns of Italy Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. And when once more within Palermo's wall, And, seated on the throne in his great hall, He heard the Angelus from convent towers, As if a better world conversed with ours, He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, And with a gesture bade the rest retire; And when they were alone, the Angel said, "Art thou the King?" Then, bowing down his head, King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best! My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, And in some cloister's school of penitence, Across those stones that pave the way to heaven, Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven!" The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face A holy light illumined all the place, And through the open window, loud and clear, They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, Above the noise and tumult of the street: "He has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree!" And through the chant a second melody Rose like the throbbing of a single string: "I am an Angel, and thou art the King!" King Robert, who was standing near the throne, Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! But all appareled as in days of old, With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold, And when his courtiers came, they found him there Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. FOOTNOTE: [8] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., authorized publishers of his works. THE LADY OF SHALOTT ALFRED LORD TENNYSON PART I On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs forever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle embowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veil'd Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot. But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott." PART II There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear, There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. PART III A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight forever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick jewel'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. PART IV In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote _The Lady of Shalott_. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance-- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right-- The leaves upon her falling light-- Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reached upon the tide The first house by the water side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And around the prow they read her name, _The Lady of Shalott_. Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; God in His mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." A LEGEND OF SERVICE[9] HENRY VAN DYKE It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise his name!) To hear, one day, report from those who came With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy, To tell of earthly tasks in His employ; For some were sorry when they saw how slow The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow; And some were glad because their eyes had seen, Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green. So, at a certain hour, before the throne The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone; Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought, And thus his tidings to the Master brought: "Lord, in the city Lupon I have found Three servants of thy holy name, renowned Above their fellows. One is very wise, With thoughts that ever range above the skies; And one is gifted with the golden speech That makes men glad to hear when he will teach; And one, with no rare gift or grace endued, Has won the people's love by doing good. With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest; But, Lord, I fain would know which loves thee best?" Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look The hearts of all are like an open book: "In every soul the secret thought I read, And well I know who loves me best indeed. But every life has pages vacant still, Whereon a man may write the thing he will; Therefore I read in silence, day by day, And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way. But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three Who serve me there, and take this word from me: Tell each of them his Master bids him go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow; There he shall find a certain task for me, But what, I do not tell to them nor thee. Give thou the message, make my word the test, And crown for me the one who answers best." Silent the angel stood, with folded hands, To take the imprint of his Lord's commands; Then drew one breath, obedient and elate, And passed the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate. First to the Temple door he made his way; And then because it was an holy-day, He saw the folk by thousands thronging, stirred By ardent thirst to hear the preacher's word. Then, while the echoes murmured Bernol's name, Through aisles that hushed behind him, Bernol came; Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious might, With lips prepared and firm, and eyes alight. One moment at the pulpit step he knelt In silent prayer, and on his shoulder felt The angel's hand:--"The Master bids thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." Then Bernol's hidden face Went white as death, and for about the space Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply; Till Bernol looked around and whispered, "Why?" But answer to this question came there none; The angel sighed, and with a sigh was gone. Within the humble house where Malvin spent His studious years, on holy things intent, Sweet stillness reigned; and there the angel found The saintly sage immersed in thought profound, Weaving with patient toil and willing care A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair: A seamless robe for Truth's great bridal meet, And needing but one thread to be complete. Then Asmiel touched his hand and broke the thread Of fine-spun thought, and very gently said, "The One of whom thou thinkest bids thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." With sorrow and surprise Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes. The broken thought, the strangeness of the call, The perilous passage of the mountain-wall, The solitary journey, and the length Of ways unknown, too great for his frail strength, Appalled him. With a doubtful brow He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered, "How?" But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go, With cold disheartened voice, "I do not know." Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek The third and last, to whom God bade him speak, Scarce twenty steps away whom should he meet But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the street, With ready heart that faced his work like play, And joyed to find it greater day by day! The angel stopped him with uplifted hand, And gave without delay his Lord's command: "He whom thou servest here would have thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." Ere Asmiel breathed again The eager answer leaped to meet him, "When?" The angel's face with inward joy grew bright, And all his figure glowed with heavenly light; He took the golden circlet from his brow And gave the crown to Fermor, answering; "Now! For thou hast met the Master's bidden test, And I have found the man who loves Him best. Not thine, nor mine, to question or reply When He commands us, asking 'how?' or 'why?' He knows the cause; His ways are wise and just; Who serves the King must serve with perfect trust." FOOTNOTE: [9] From "Music and other Poems," copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's Sons. LITTLE BOY BLUE EUGENE FIELD The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands; And the little tin soldier is red with rust, And his musket molds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new And the soldier was passing fair, And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there. "Now, don't you go till I come," he said; "And don't you make any noise!" So toddling off to his trundle bed He dreamt of the pretty toys. And, as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue-- Oh, the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true. Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place. Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face. And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, In the dust of that little chair, What has become of that Little Boy Blue Since he kissed them and put them there. MARY'S NIGHT RIDE[10] GEORGE W. CABLE Mary Richling, the heroine of the story, was the wife of John Richling, a resident of New Orleans. At the breaking out of the Civil War she went to visit her parents in Milwaukee. About the time of the bombardment of New Orleans she received news of the dangerous illness of her husband, and she decided at once to reach his bedside, if possible. Taking with her, her baby daughter, a child of three years, she proceeded southward, where, after several unsuccessful attempts to secure a pass, she finally determined to break through the lines. About the middle of the night Mary Richling was sitting very still and upright on a large, dark horse that stood champing his Mexican bit in the black shadow of a great oak. Alice rested before her, fast asleep against her bosom. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose naked saddle-tree was empty. A few steps in front of her the light of the full moon shone almost straight down upon a narrow road that just there emerged from the shadow of woods on either side, and divided into a main right fork and a much smaller one that curved around to Mary's left. Off in the direction of the main fork the sky was all aglow with camp-fires. Only just here on the left there was a cool and grateful darkness. She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a tread, and the next moment a man came out of the bushes at the left, and without a word took the bridle of the old horse from her fingers and vaulted into the saddle. The hand that rested a moment on the cantle as he rose grasped a "navy six." He was dressed in dull homespun, but he was the same who had been dressed in blue. He turned his horse and led the way down the lesser road. "If we'd gone on three hundred yards further," he whispered, falling back and smiling broadly, "we'd 'a' run into the pickets. I went nigh enough to see the videttes settin' on their hosses in the main road. This here ain't no road; it just goes up to a nigger quarters. I've got one o' the niggers to show us the way." "Where is he?" whispered Mary; but before her companion could answer, a tattered form moved from behind a bush a little in advance and started ahead in the path, walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into a clear, open forest, and followed the long, rapid, swinging stride of the negro for nearly an hour. Then they halted on the bank of a deep, narrow stream. The negro made a motion for them to keep well to the right when they should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice to his arms, directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her saddle, with her skirts gathered carefully under her, and so they went down into the cold stream, the negro first, with arms outstretched above the flood; then Mary, and then the white man,--or, let us say plainly, the spy--with the unawakened child on his breast. And so they rose out of it on the farther side without a shoe or garment wet, save the rags of their dark guide. Again they followed him, along a line of stake-and-rider fence, with the woods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of young cotton on the other. Now they heard the distant baying of house-dogs, now the doleful call of the chuck-will's-widow, and once Mary's blood turned, for an instant, almost to ice at the unearthly shriek of the hoot owl just above her head. At length they found themselves in a dim, narrow road, and the negro stopped. "Dess keep dish yeh road fo' 'bout half mile, an' you strak 'pon de broad, main road. Tek de left, an' you go whah yo' fancy tek you." "Good-by," whispered Mary. "Good-by, Miss," said the negro, in the same low voice; "good-by, boss; don't you fo'git you promise tek me thoo to de Yankee' when you come back. I 'feered you gwine fo'git it, boss." The spy said he would not, and they left him. The half-mile was soon passed, though it turned out to be a mile and a half, and at length Mary's companion looked back as they rode single file with Mary in the rear, and said softly: "There's the road," pointing at its broad, pale line with his six-shooter. As they entered it and turned to the left, Mary, with Alice again in her arms, moved somewhat ahead of her companion, her indifferent horsemanship having compelled him to drop back to avoid a prickly bush. His horse was just quickening his pace to regain the lost position, when a man sprang up from the ground on the farther side of the highway, snatched a carbine from the earth and cried: "Halt!" The dark recumbent forms of six or eight others could be seen, enveloped in their blankets, lying about a few red coals. Mary turned a frightened look backward and met the eyes of her companion. "Move a little faster," said he, in a low, clear voice. As she promptly did so she heard him answer the challenge, as his horse trotted softly after hers. "Don't stop us, my friend; we're taking a sick child to the doctor." "Halt, you hound!" the cry rang out; and as Mary glanced back three or four men were just leaping into the road. But she saw also her companion, his face suffused with an earnestness that was almost an agony, rise in his stirrups with the stoop of his shoulders all gone, and wildly cry: "Go!" She smote the horse and flew. Alice woke and screamed. "Hush, my darling," said the mother, laying on the withe; "mamma's here. Hush, darling, mamma's here. Don't be frightened, darling baby. O God, spare my child!" and away she sped. The report of a carbine rang out and went rolling away in a thousand echoes through the wood. Two others followed in sharp succession, and there went close by Mary's ear the waspish whine of a minie-ball. At the same moment she recognized, once,--twice,--thrice,--just at her back where the hoofs of her companion's horse were clattering--the tart rejoinders of his navy six. "Go!" he cried again. "Lay low! lay low! cover the child!" But his words were needless. With head bowed forward and form crouched over the crying, clinging child, with slackened rein and fluttering dress, and sun-bonnet and loosened hair blown back upon her shoulders, with lips compressed and silent prayers, Mary was riding for life and liberty and her husband's bedside. "O mamma, mamma," wailed the terrified little one. "Go on! Go on!" cried the voice behind; "they're--saddling up! Go! go! We're goin' to make it! We're going to make it! Go-o-o!" And they made it! FOOTNOTE: [10] From "Dr. Sevier." NYDIA, THE BLIND GIRL[11] EDWARD BULWER LYTTON As Glaucus, a young Athenian, now a resident of Pompeii, was strolling with his friend Clodius through the streets of that renowned city, their steps were arrested by a crowd gathered round an open space where three streets met; and just where the porticoes of a light, graceful temple threw their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on her right arm and a small three-stringed instrument of music in her left hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulating a low, plaintive air. "It is my poor, blind Thessalian," said Glaucus, stopping; "I have not seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! let us listen to her song." THE BLIND FLOWER GIRL'S SONG Buy my flowers, O buy, I pray! The blind girl comes from afar; If the earth be as fair as I hear them say, These flowers her children are! Do they her beauty keep? They are fresh from her lap, I know, For I caught them fast asleep In her arms an hour ago. Ye have a world of light, Where love in the loved rejoices; But the blind girl's home is the house of night, And its beings are empty voices. Come buy,--buy, come buy!-- Hark! how the sweet things sigh (For they have a voice like ours) O buy--O buy the flowers! "I must have that bunch of violets, sweet Nydia," said Glaucus, "your voice is more charming than ever." The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian's voice; then as suddenly paused, while a blush of timidity flushed over neck, cheeks, and temples. "So you are returned!" she said in a low voice. "Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden wants your care, you will visit it, I trust, to-morrow, and mind, no garlands at my house shall be woven by any hands but those of the pretty Nydia." Nydia smiled joyously but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing in his breast the violets he had selected, turned gaily and carelessly from the crowd. Though of gentle birth, for her cradle was rocked at the foot of Olympus, Nydia had been sold when quite young to Burbo, a gladiator of the amphitheater. She was cruelly treated by the wife of Burbo. Glaucus bought her, took her to his home, and her sweetest joy was to minister to the comfort and entertainment of her deliverer. The vines that grew upon the walls of the peristyle were not more graceful, their tendrils not more trusting and tender, nor the flowers woven into wreaths and garlands by her skillful fingers more beautiful than the blind flower-girl of the house of Glaucus. As the months went on what wonder that the kind words and sympathetic voice which had been the first that had sounded musically to her ear should awaken in the breast of Nydia a deeper love than that which springs from gratitude alone! What wonder that in her innocence and blindness she knew no reason why the most brilliant and the most graceful of the young nobles of Pompeii should entertain none other than feelings of friendship for her! When the Athenian drew her unconsciously to his breast, deeming her still a child--when he kissed her cheek and wound his arm around her trembling form, Nydia felt that those feelings she had innocently cherished were of love. What wonder then that into her wild and passionate soul should creep the pangs of jealousy when another claimed the homage of him who was all to her! Glaucus loved Ione, a beautiful young Neapolitan of Greek parentage who had lately come to Pompeii. She was one of those brilliant characters which seldom flash across our career. She united in the highest perfection the rarest of earthly gifts,--Genius and Beauty. No one ever possessed superior intellectual qualities without knowing them. In the person of Ione, Glaucus found the long-sought idol of his dreams; and so infatuated was he, that he could talk of no one else. No song was sweet but that which breathed of love, and to him love was but a synonym of Ione. "Play to us, dear Nydia,--play, and give us one of thy songs; whether it be of magic or not as thou wilt--let it at least be of love." "Of love! wish you that I should sing of love?" "Yes." She moved a little way from Ione, who had learned to love her more as a sister than a slave, and placing her light, graceful instrument on her knee, after a short prelude, she sang the following strain, in which with touching pathos, her own sighs were represented by the _Wind_, the brightness of the beautiful Ione by the _Sun-beam_, and the personality of Glaucus by his favorite flower, the _Rose_. I The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose, And the Rose loved one; For who seeks the Wind where it blows? Or loves not the Sun? II None knew where the humble Wind stole, Poor sport of the skies-- None dreamt that the Wind had a soul, In its mournful sighs! III Oh, happy Beam! how canst thou prove That bright love of thine? In thy light is the proof of thy love, Thou hast but--to shine! IV How can the Wind its love reveal? Unwelcome its sigh; Mute--mute to its Rose be it still-- Its proof is--to die! Alike in their mornings at the house of Ione, and in their evening excursions, Nydia was usually their constant, and often their sole companion. They did not guess the secret fires which consumed her; the flames of which were ever fanned by the unconscious breath of the two lovers. Yet her fidelity arose above her pitiful pangs of jealousy and in the hour of need she was the tried and trusted. The scene changes; where only the brightness of uninterrupted love had hitherto fallen, now creep the black shadows of tragic sorrow. Ione falls into the clutches of Arbaces, a subtle, crafty Egyptian, who attempted by the magic of his dark sorcery, to win her away from Glaucus. In pursuit of his base designs, Arbaces murders Apæcides, the brother of Ione, imprisons the priest Calenus, the only witness of the deed, and with great cunning weaves a convicting web of circumstantial evidence around Glaucus, his hated rival. Glaucus is tried, convicted, and doomed to be thrown to the lion. Ione and Nydia are also prisoners in the house of Arbaces. Glaucus has been placed in that gloomy and narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena awaited their last and fearful struggle. Alas! how faithless are the friendships made around an epicurean board! Where were the gay loiterers who once lingered at the feasts and drank the rich wines of the house of Glaucus? Only Sallust shed a tear, but he was powerless against Arbaces who was backed by the corrupt priesthood of Isis. What ministering angel should now come forth as a light out of darkness bearing, even in her blindness, the conditions of deliverance, but Nydia. From the slaves of Arbaces she learned the approaching fate of Glaucus. Working upon the superstition of her special guard Sosia, she manages to escape his vigilance for a time, and creeping along a dark passage she overhears the cries of the priest Calenus lately incarcerated in an adjoining dungeon cell. From him she learns the circumstances of the crime of Arbaces for which the innocent Glaucus was doomed to die. A few hours later she was captured by Sosia and replaced in her cell. Yet knowing that the sole chance for the life of Glaucus rested on her, this young girl, frail, passionate, and acutely susceptible as she was--resolved not to give way to despair. Glaucus was in deadly peril, but she should save him! Sosia was her only hope, the only instrument with which she could tamper. As if afraid he would be again outwitted, Sosia refrained from visiting her until a late hour of the following day. "Kind Sosia, chide me not," said Nydia, "I cannot endure to be so long alone, the solitude appalls me. Sit with me, I pray, a little while. Nay, fear not that I should attempt to escape; place thy seat before the door. Sosia, how much dost thou require to make up thy freedom?" "How much?" said he, "why, about 2000 sesterces." "The Gods be praised! not more? Seest thou these bracelets and this chain? they are worth double that sum. I will give them thee if thou wilt let me out, only for one little hour! let me out at midnight--I will return ere to-morrow's dawn; nay, thou canst go with me." "No," said Sosia, sturdily, "a slave once disobeying Arbaces is never heard of more." "Well, then, thou wilt not, at least, refuse to take a letter for me; thy master cannot kill thee for that." "To whom?" "To Sallust, the gay Sallust. Glaucus was my master, he purchased me from a cruel lord. He alone has been kind to me. He is to die to-morrow. I shall never live happily if I cannot, in this hour of trial and doom, let him know that one heart is grateful to him. Sallust is his friend; he will convey my message." "Well, give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter." Nydia carefully prepared the epistle, but ere she placed it in the hands of Sosia she thus addressed him: "Sosia, I am blind and in prison. Thou mayst think to deceive me--thou mayst pretend only to take the letter to Sallust--thou mayst not fulfill thy charge; but here I solemnly dedicate thy head to vengeance, thy soul to the infernal powers, if thou wrongest thy trust; and I call upon thee to place thy right hand of faith in mine, and repeat after me these words;--'_By the ground on which we stand--by the elements which contain life and which can curse life--by Orcus, the all-avenging--by the Olympian Jupiter, the all-seeing--I swear that I will honestly discharge my trust, and faithfully deliver this letter into the hands of Sallust_.' Enough! I trust thee--take thy reward. It is already dark--depart at once." Sosia was true to his trust--Sallust read the letter, she wrote,--"_I am a prisoner in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the Prætor! procure my release, and we yet shall save Glaucus from the lion. There is another prisoner within these walls, whose witness can exonerate the Athenian from the charge against him;--one who saw the crime--who can prove the criminal to be a villain hitherto unsuspected. Fly! hasten! quick! quick! Bring with you armed men, lest resistance be made,--and a cunning and dexterous smith; for the dungeon of my fellow-prisoner is thick and strong. Oh! by thy right hand, and thy father's ashes, lose not a moment!_" The day for the sports in the amphitheater had come and all the seats were filled with eager and expectant people. The gladiatorial fights and other games of the arena were completed. "Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian," said the editor. Just then a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; the crowd gave way and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair disheveled; breathless; half exhausted--he cast his eyes hastily around the ring. "Remove the Athenian," he cried, "haste,--he is innocent. Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian. He is the murderer of Apæcides." "Art thou mad, O Sallust?" said the prætor, "what means this raving?" "Remove the Athenian--quick, or his blood be on your head. I bring with me the eye-witness to the death of Apæcides. Room there--stand back--give way. People of Pompeii, fix every eye on Arbaces--there he sits--room there for the priest Calenus." "Enough at present," said the prætor. "The details must be reserved for a more suiting time and place. Ho! guards! remove the accused Glaucus, arrest Arbaces, guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold you responsible for your accusation. Let the sports be resumed." As the prætor gave the word of release, there was a cry of joy--a female voice--a child voice--and it was of joy! It rang through the heart of the assembly with electric force--it was touching, it was holy, that child's voice! "Silence!" said the grave prætor--"who is there?" "The blind girl--Nydia," answered Sallust; "it is her hand that raised Calenus from the grave and delivered Glaucus from the lion." Stunned by his reprieve, doubting that he was awake, Glaucus had been led by the officers of the arena into a small cell within the walls of the theater. They threw a loose robe over his form and crowded around in congratulation and wonder. There was an impatient and fretful cry without the cell; the throng gave way, and the blind girl flung herself at the feet of Glaucus. "It is I who saved thee," she sobbed, "now let me die!" "Nydia, my child!--my preserver!" "Oh, let me feel thy touch--thy breath! yes, yes, thou livest! We are not too late! That dread door methought would never yield! But thou livest! Thou livest yet!--and I--I have saved thee!" FOOTNOTE: [11] Adapted by Robt. I. Fulton from "Last Days of Pompeii." O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN![12] ON THE DEATH OF LINCOLN WALT WHITMAN O Captain, my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But, O heart, heart, heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead. O Captain, my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here, Captain, dear father! this arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, you've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My Captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! but I with mournful tread Walk the deck where my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead. FOOTNOTE: [12] By permission of David McKay, publisher. ON THE OTHER TRAIN A CLOCK'S STORY ANONYMOUS "There, Simmons, you blockhead! Why didn't you trot that old woman aboard her train? She'll have to wait here now until the 1.05 A.M." "You didn't tell me." "Yes, I did tell you. 'Twas only your confounded stupid carelessness." "She--" "She! You blockhead! What else could you expect of her! Probably she hasn't any wit; besides, she isn't bound on a very jolly journey--got a pass up the road to the poorhouse. I'll go and tell her, and if you forget her to-night, see if I don't make mince-meat of you!" and our worthy ticket agent shook his fist menacingly at his subordinate. "You've missed your train, marm," he remarked, coming forward to a queer-looking bundle in the corner. A trembling hand raised the faded black veil, and revealed the sweetest old face I ever saw. "Never mind," said a quivering voice. "'Tis only three o'clock now; you'll have to wait until the night train, which doesn't go up until 1.05." "Very well, sir; I can wait." "Wouldn't you like to go to some hotel? Simmons will show you the way." "No, thank you, sir. One place is as good as another to me. Besides, I haven't any money." "Very well," said the agent, turning away indifferently. "Simmons will tell you when it's time." All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I thought sometimes she must be asleep, but when I looked more closely I could see every once in a while a great tear rolling down her cheek, which she would wipe away hastily with her cotton handkerchief. The depot was crowded, and all was bustle and hurry until the 9.50 train going east came due; then every passenger left except the old lady. It is very rare, indeed, that any one takes the night express, and almost always after ten o'clock the depot becomes silent and empty. The ticket agent put on his greatcoat, and, bidding Simmons keep his wits about him for once in his life, departed for home. But he had no sooner gone than that functionary stretched himself out upon the table, as usual, and began to snore vociferously. Then it was I witnessed such a sight as I never had before and never expect to again. The fire had gone down--it was a cold night, and the wind howled dismally outside. The lamps grew dim and flared, casting weird shadows upon the wall. By and by I heard a smothered sob from the corner, then another. I looked in that direction. She had risen from her seat, and oh! the look of agony on the poor pinched face. "I can't believe it," she sobbed, wringing her thin, white hands. "Oh! I can't believe it! My babies! my babies! how often have I held them in my arms and kissed them; and how often they used to say back to me, 'Ise love you, mamma,' and now, O God! they've turned against me. Where am I going? To the poorhouse! No! no! no! I cannot! I will not! Oh, the disgrace!" And sinking upon her knees, she sobbed out in prayer: "O God! spare me this and take me home! O God, spare me this disgrace; spare me!" The wind rose higher and swept through the crevices, icy cold. How it moaned and seemed to sob like something human that is hurt. I began to shake, but the kneeling figure never stirred. The thin shawl had dropped from her shoulders unheeded. Simmons turned over and drew his blanket more closely about him. Oh, how cold! Only one lamp remained, burning dimly; the other two had gone out for want of oil. I could hardly see, it was so dark. At last she became quieter and ceased to moan. Then I grew drowsy, and kind of lost the run of things after I had struck twelve, when some one entered the depot with a bright light. I started up. It was the brightest light I ever saw, and seemed to fill the room full of glory. I could see 'twas a man. He walked to the kneeling figure and touched her upon the shoulder. She started up and turned her face wildly around. I heard him say:-- "'Tis train time, ma'am. Come!" A look of joy came over her face. "I am ready," she whispered. "Then give me your pass, ma'am." She reached him a worn old book, which he took, and from it read aloud:-- "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest." "That's the pass over our road, ma'am. Are you ready?" The light died away, and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start and snatched his lantern. The whistle sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and shook the old woman. "Wake up, marm; 'tis train time." But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white set face, and, dropping his lantern, fled. The up train halted, the conductor shouted "All aboard," but no one made a move that way. The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the verdict "apoplexy," and it was in some way hushed up. But the last look on the sweet old face, lit up with a smile so unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of that night, I know she went out on the other train, that never stopped at the poorhouse. THE PANSY ANONYMOUS Of all the bonny buds that blow, In bright or cloudy weather, Of all the flowers that come and go, The whole twelve moons together, This little purple pansy brings, Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things. I had a little lover once, Who used to give me posies; His eyes were blue as hyacinths, His lips were red as roses; And everybody loved to praise His pretty looks and winsome ways. The girls that went to school with me Made little jealous speeches, Because he brought me royally His biggest plums and peaches, And always at the door would wait, To carry home my books and slate. They couldn't see--with pout and fling-- "The mighty fascination About that little snub-nosed thing, To win such admiration; As if there weren't a dozen girls With nicer eyes and longer curls!" And this I knew as well as they, And never could see clearly Why, more than Marion or May, I should be loved so dearly. So once I asked him, why was this; He only answered with a kiss; Until I teased him: "Tell me why, I want to know the reason." Then from the garden-bed close by (The pansies were in season) He plucked and gave a flower to me, With sweet and simple gravity. "The garden is in bloom," he said, "With lilies pale and slender, With roses and verbenas red, And fuchsias' purple splendor; But over and above the rest, This little heart's-ease suits me best." "Am I your little heart's-ease, then?" I asked with blushing pleasure. He answered "Yes!" and "Yes!" again-- "Heart's-ease and dearest treasure;" That the round world and all the sea Held nothing half so sweet as me! I listened with a proud delight, Too rare for words to capture, Nor ever dreamed what sudden blight, Would come to chill my rapture. Could I foresee the tender bloom Of pansies round a little tomb? Life holds some stern experience, As most of us discover, And I've had other losses since I lost my little lover; But still this purple pansy brings Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things. "THE REVENGE" A BALLAD OF THE FLEET, 1591 ALFRED LORD TENNYSON At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" Then spake Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick, We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?" Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore; I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford and Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight With his huge sea castles heaving upon the weather bow. "Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, let us know, For to fight is but to die! There'll be little of us left, by the time this sun be set." And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen; Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turned my back upon Don or Devil yet." Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so The little "Revenge" ran on, sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little "Revenge" ran on, thro' the long sea-lane between. Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laugh'd, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain-like "San Philip," that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails and we stay'd. And while now the great "San Philip" hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all. And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame, For some were sunk, and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more-- God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? For he said: "Fight on! fight on!" Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be dressed, he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again, in the side and the head, And he said: "Fight on! fight on!" And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet, with broken sides, lay round us, all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting, So they watched what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife. And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride: "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die--does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!" And the gunner said: "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply: "We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow." And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last. And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: "I have fought for Queen and Faith, like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty, as a man is bound to do; With a joyful spirit, I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!" And he fell upon their decks, and he died. And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap, That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sail'd with her loss, and long'd for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave, and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island crags, To be lost evermore in the main. THE RIDER OF THE BLACK HORSE GEORGE LIPPARD It was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky was cloudless, the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and gold, the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the ground, from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel, on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet. Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart. Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they stood came a rider on a black horse, rushing towards the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air, he points to the distant battle and lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is thickest, there through intervals of cannon-smoke you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black horse dashing, like a meteor, down the long columns of battle? Let us look for a moment into those dense war-clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer-coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. At this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now, cowards! advance another step and I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down!" This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. "Now upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer. They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider was heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused conflict, a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers. Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, towards the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemus Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep--that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here, crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that black steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on towards the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec! come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now, British cannon, pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball. Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming of Quebec. The rider of the black horse was Benedict Arnold. SAILING BEYOND SEAS JEAN INGELOW Methought the stars were blinking bright, And the old brig's sails unfurl'd; I said: "I will sail to my love this night, At the other side of the world." I stepp'd aboard--we sail'd so fast-- The sun shot up from the bourn; But a dove that perch'd upon the mast Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. O fair dove! O fond dove! And dove with the white, white breast-- Let me alone, the dream is my own, And my heart is full of rest. My true love fares on this great hill, Feeding his sheep for aye; I look'd in his hut, but all was still, My love was gone away. I went to gaze in the forest creek, And the dove mourn'd on apace; No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek Rose up to show me his place. O last love! O first love! My love with the true, true heart, To think I have come to this your home, And yet--we are apart! My love! He stood at my right hand, His eyes were grave and sweet; Methought he said: "In this far land, O, is it thus we meet? Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; I have no place, no part, No dwelling more by sea or shore, But only in thy heart." O fair dove! O fond dove! Till night rose over the bourn, The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast, Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. THE SANDS OF DEE CHARLES KINGSLEY "O Mary go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee!" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land-- And never home came she. "Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress o' golden hair, O' drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes o' Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam,-- To her grave beside the sea; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee. THE SCHOOL OF SQUEERS[13] CHARLES DICKENS The following advertisement appeared in the morning papers: EDUCATION.--At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra, single-stick, if required, writing, arithmetic, fortification, and every other branch of classical literature. Terms twenty guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town and attends daily, from one till four, at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted. Annual salary, five pounds. A Master of Arts would be preferred. Nicholas Nickleby obtained the above situation, having found that it was not absolutely necessary to have acquired the degree, and arrived at the inn, to join Mr. Squeers, at eight o'clock of a November morning. He found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with five little boys in a row on the opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys. "This is two penn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?" said Squeers, looking down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it. "That's two penn'orth, sir," replied the waiter. "What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London! Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will you?" "To the very top, sir? Why, the milk will be drowned." "Never you mind that. Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?" "Coming directly, sir." "You needn't hurry yourself, there's plenty of time. Conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles." As he uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and recognized Nicholas. "Sit down, Mr. Nickleby. Here we are, a-breakfasting, you see! Oh! that's the milk and water, is it, William? Very good; don't forget the bread and butter presently. Ah! here's richness! Think of the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little boys. A shocking thing hunger is, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?" "Very shocking, sir," said Nicholas. "When I say number one, the boy on the left hand nearest the window may take a drink; and when I say number two, the boy next him will go in, and so till we come to number five which is the last boy. Are you ready? "Yes, sir," cried all the little boys. "That's right, keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, boys, and you've conquered human nature. This is the way we inculcate strength of mind, Mr. Nickleby. Number one may take a drink." Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five. "And now," said Squeers, dividing the bread for three into as many portions as there were children, "You had better look sharp with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy leaves off.--Ah! I thought it wouldn't be long; put what you haven't had time to eat in here, boys! You'll want it on the road." Which they certainly did, for the air was cool, and the journey was long and tiresome. However, they arrived quite safely; and Nicholas, weary, retired to rest. In the morning he was taken to the school-room accompanied by Squeers. "There, this is our shop, Nickleby." It was a crowded scene. A bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a tenth part might be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with old copybooks and paper. Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, little faces, which should have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering. There was childhood with the light of its eye quenched, its beauty gone and its helplessness alone remaining--truly an incipient Hell. A few minutes having elapsed, Squeers called up the first class. "This is the first class in English, spelling, and philosophy, Nickleby. We'll get up a Latin one, and hand that over to you. Now then, where's the first boy?" "Please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlor window." "So he is, to be sure. We go upon the practical mode of teaching, Nickleby, the regular educational system. C-l-e-a-n, clean. Verb active. To make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder. A casement. When a boy knows this out of his book he goes and does it. It's just the same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second boy?" "Please, sir, he's weeding the garden." "To be sure, so he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney. Noun substantive. A knowledge of plants. When a boy learns that bottinney is a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That's our system, Nickleby. Third boy, what's a horse?" "A beast, sir." "So it is. A horse is a quadruped, and quadruped is Latin for beast, as everybody that's gone through the grammar knows, or else where's the use of havin' grammars at all? As you're perfect in that, go and look after my horse, and rub him down well or I'll rub you down. The rest of the class go and draw water up, till somebody tells you to leave off, for it's washing day to-morrow and they want the coppers filled." So saying, he dismissed his first class to their experiments in practical philosophy. It was Squeers's custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis. They were therefore soon recalled from the house, window, garden, stable, and cow yard, and Mr. Squeers entered the room. A deathlike silence immediately prevailed. "Boys, I've been to London, and have returned to my family and you as strong and as well as ever." According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sighs of extra strength with the chill on. "I have seen the parents of some boys, and they're so glad to hear how their sons are getting on, that there's no prospect at all of their going away, which of course is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon for all parties. But I've had disappointments to contend against. Bolder's father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder? "Here he is, please, sir." "Come here, Bolder," said Squeers. An unhealthy boy with warts all over his hands, stepped from his place to the Master's desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to Squeers's face. "Bolder, if your father thinks that because--why, what's this, sir?" As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's hand by the cuff of his jacket, and surveyed the warts with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust. "What do you call this, sir?" "I can't help it, indeed, sir. They will come; it's the dirty work, I think, sir--at least I don't know what it is, sir, but it's not my fault." "Bolder, you're an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last thrashing did you no good, we'll see what another will do towards beating it out of you." With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers fell upon the boy and caned him soundly; not leaving off, indeed, until his arm was tired out. "There, rub away as hard as you like, you won't rub that off in a hurry. Now let us see. A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey. Oh! Cobbey's grandmother is dead, and his uncle John has took to drinking, which is all the news his sister sends, except eighteen pence, which will just pay for that broken square of glass. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you take the money? "Graymarsh, he's the next. Stand up, Graymarsh. Graymarsh's aunt is very glad to hear he's so well and happy, and sends her respectful compliments to Mrs. Squeers and thinks she must be an angel. She likewise thinks that Mr. Squeers is too good for this world, but hopes he may long be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent the two pairs of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards a tract instead, and hopes that Graymarsh will put his trust in Providence. Hopes, above all, that he will study in everything to please Mr. and Mrs. Squeers, and look upon them as his only friends; and that he will love master Squeers, and not object to sleeping five in a bed, which no Christian should. Ah! a delightful letter. Very affecting indeed. "Mobbs!--Mobbs's mother-in-law took to her bed on hearing that he wouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to know, by an early post, where he expects to go to if he quarrels with his vittles; and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the cow's liver broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it. This was told her in the London newspapers--not by Mr. Squeers, for he's too kind and good to set anybody against anybody. She is sorry to find he is discontented, which is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will flog him into a happier state of mind. With which view she has also stopped his half penny a week pocket-money, and given a double-bladed knife with a cork-screw in it to the missionaries, which she had bought on purpose for him. A sulky state of feeling won't do. Cheerfulness and contentment must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me!" Mobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation of good cause for doing so; and he soon afterwards retired, with as good cause as a boy need have. This business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were performed, and Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas to take care of the boys in the school-room which was very cold, and where a meal of bread was served out shortly after dark. There was a small stove at that corner of the room which was nearest the master's desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, depressed and self-degraded. As he was absorbed in his meditations, he all at once encountered the upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a few stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He had paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was observed, shrank back, as if expecting a blow. "You need not fear me. Are you cold?" "N-n-o." "You are shivering." "I'm not cold. I'm used to it." There was such an obvious fear of giving offense in his manner, and he was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help exclaiming, "Poor fellow!" "Oh dear, oh dear! my heart will break. It will, it will!" said Smike. "Hush! Be a man; you are nearly one by years. God help you!" "By years! Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of them since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now! Where are they all?" "Of whom do you speak? Tell me." "My friends, myself--my--oh! what sufferings mine have been!" "There is always hope." "No, no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that died here?" "I was not here, you know." "Why, I was with him at night, and when it was all silent, he cried no more for friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see faces round his bed that came from home. He said they smiled, and talked to him; and he died at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear?" "Yes, yes," rejoined Nicholas. "What faces will smile on me when I die? Who will talk to me in those long nights? They cannot come from home; they would frighten me if they did, for I shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for me, alive or dead. No hope, no hope!" The bell rang to bed; and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards--no, not retired, there was no retirement there--followed to his dirty and crowded dormitory. FOOTNOTE: [13] Adapted by E. P. Trueblood from "Nicholas Nickleby." THE SECRET OF DEATH EDWIN ARNOLD "She is dead!" they said to him; "come away; Kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!" They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair; On her forehead of stone they laid it fair; Over her eyes, that gazed too much, They drew the lids with a gentle touch; With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; About her brows and beautiful face They tied her veil and her marriage lace, And drew on her feet her white silk shoes-- Which were the whitest no eye could choose-- And over her bosom they crossed her hands. "Come away!" they said; "God understands." And there was silence, and nothing there But silence, and scents of eglantere, And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary; And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she." And they held their breath till they left the room, With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom. But he who loved her too well to dread The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,-- He lit his lamp, and took the key And turned it,--alone again,--he and she. He and she; but she would not speak, Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek. He and she; yet she would not smile, Though he called her the name she loved erewhile. He and she; still she did not move To any one passionate whisper of love. Then he said: "Cold lips and breasts without breath, Is there no voice, no language of death? "Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and to soul distinct, intense? "See now; I will listen with soul, not ear; What was the secret of dying, dear? "Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall? "Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal? "Was the miracle greater to find how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep? "Did life roll back its records, dear, And show, as they say it does, past things clear? "And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out so, what a wisdom love is? "Oh, perfect dead! Oh, dead most dear, I hold the breath of my soul to hear! "I listen as deep as to horrible hell, As high as to heaven, and you do not tell. "There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, To make you so placid from head to feet! "I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,-- "I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. "You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise, "The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring." Ah, foolish world! Oh, most kind dead! Though he told me, who will believe it was said? Who will believe that he heard her say, With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way: "The utmost wonder is this,--I hear And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear; "And am your angel, who was your bride, And know that, though dead, I have never died." SHAMUS O'BRIEN A TALE OF '98, AS RELATED BY AN IRISH PEASANT JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU Jist after the war, in the year '98, As soon as the Boys wor all scattered and bate, 'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was got, To hang him by trial--barrin' such as was shot. An' the bravest an' hardiest Boy iv them all Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall. An' it's he was the Boy that was hard to be caught, An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought; An' it's many the one can remember right well The quare things he did: an' it's oft I heerd tell How he frightened the magistrates in Chirbally, An' 'scaped through the sojers in Aherlow valley; How he leathered the yeoman, himself agin four, An' stretched the two strongest on ould Golteemore. But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest, An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best; Afther many a brave action of power and pride, An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side, An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast, In the darkness of night he was taken at last. Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon, For the door of the prison must close on you soon. Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill, An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still. Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake, And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake! An' twelve sojers brought him to Maryborough jail, An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail. Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone, The terrible day iv the thrial kem on, There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand, An' sojers on guard, an' Dragoons sword-in-hand; An' the courthouse so full that the people were bothered, An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered; An' counsellors almost gev over for dead, An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead; An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big With his gown on his back, and an illegant wig; An' silence was called, an' the minute 'twas said The court was as still as the heart of the dead, An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock, An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock. For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng, An' he looked at the bars so firm and so strong, An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, A chance to escape, nor a word to defend; An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone, As calm and as cold as a statue of stone; And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste, An' Jim didn't understand it nor mind it a taste, An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, "Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?" An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread, An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said: "My lord, if you ask me, if in my lifetime I thought any treason, or did any crime That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow Before God and the world I would answer you, No! But if you would ask me, as I think it like, If in the Rebellion I carried a pike, An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close, An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, I answer you, Yes; and I tell you again, Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then In her cause I was willin' my veins should run dhry, An' that now for her sake I am ready to die." Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light; By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap! In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standin' by, Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry: "O judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word! The crather is young, have mercy, my lord; He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin'; You don't know him, my lord--O, don't give him to ruin! He's the kindliest crathur, the tindherest-hearted; Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted! Judge mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord, An' God will forgive you--O, don't say the word!" That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken, When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken; An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother, The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other; An' two or three times he endeavored to spake, But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break; But at last, by the strength of his high-mountin' pride, He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide; "An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart, For, sooner or later, the dearest must part; And God knows it's better than wand'ring in fear On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer, To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast, From labor and sorrow, forever shall rest. Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, Don't make me seem broken, in this my last hour; For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven, No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!" Then toward the Judge Shamus bent down his head, An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said. The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky; But why are the men standin' idle so late? An' why do the crowds gather fast in the strate? What come they to talk of? what come they to see? An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree? O Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast, May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last; Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh, When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die!-- At last they threw open the big prison-gate, An' out came the sheriffs and sojers in state, An' a cart in the middle an' Shamus was in it, Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute. An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin', A wild, wailin' sound kem on by degrees, Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees. On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, An' the cart an' the sojers go steadily on; An' at every side swellin' around of the cart, A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand; An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round. Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill; An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare, For the grip of the life-strangling cord to prepare; An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer. But the good priest did more, for his hands he unbound, An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground; Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabers; He's not down! he's alive! now stand to him, neighbors! Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,-- By the heavens, he's free!--than thunder more loud, By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken-- One shout that the dead of the world might awaken. The sojers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat; To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin, An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in. Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin', it's yourselves you must hang. MY SHIPS[14] ELLA WHEELER WILCOX If all the ships I have at sea-- Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah well! the harbor could not hold So many ships as there would be, If all my ships came home to me. If half my ships now out at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah well! I should have wealth as great As any king that sits in state, So rich the treasure there would be In half my ships now out at sea. If but one ship I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah well! the storm clouds then might frown, For if the others all went down, Still rich and glad and proud I'd be, If that one ship came home to me. If that one ship went down at sea, And all the others came to me, Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, Of riches, glory, honor, gold, The poorest soul on earth I'd be, If that one ship came not to me. Oh, skies, be calm, oh, winds, blow free! Blow all my ships safe home to me! But if thou sendest some awrack, To never more come sailing back, Send any--all that skim the sea, But send my love ship back to me. FOOTNOTE: [14] By permission of the author. THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE R. D. C. ROBBINS "I thought, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his country, that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift,--no, not one. The dear boy only slept a minute, just one little minute, at his post; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and reliable he was! I know he only fell asleep one little second;--he was so young, and not strong, that boy of mine! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen! and now they shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sentinel duty! Twenty-four hours, the telegram said,--only twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie now?" "We will hope with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, soothingly. "Yes, yes; let us hope; God is very merciful!" "'I should be ashamed, father!' Bennie said, 'when I am a man, to think I never used this great right arm,'--and he held it out so proudly before me,--'for my country, when it needed it! Palsy it rather than keep it at the plow!' "'Go then, go, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep you!' God has kept him, I think, Mr. Allan!" and the farmer repeated these last words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted them. "Like the apple of His eye, Mr. Owen, doubt it not!" Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one had noticed it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter. "It is from him," was all she said. It was like a message from the dead! Mr. Owen took the letter, but could not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers, and held it toward Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a child. The minister opened it, and read as follows: "DEAR FATHER:--When this reaches you, I shall be in eternity. At first, it seemed awful to me; but I have thought about it so much now, that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me; but that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on the battle-field, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be fighting gloriously; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying it,--to die for neglect of duty! O father, I wonder the very thought does not kill me! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you all about it; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I cannot now. "You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother I would look after her boy; and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on our march. Toward night we went in on double-quick, and though the luggage began to feel very heavy, everybody else was tired too; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I would take his place; but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head; but I did not know it until--well, until it was too late." "God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. "I knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post." "They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve,--given to me by circumstances,--'time to write to you,' our good Colonel says. Forgive him, father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could; and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my stead. "I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, father! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me: it is very hard to bear! Good-by, father! God seems near and dear to me; not at all as if He wished me to perish forever, but as if He felt sorry for His poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with Him and my Saviour in a better--better life." A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," he said solemnly,--"Amen." "To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home from pasture, and precious little Blossom standing on the back stoop, waiting for me--but I shall never, never come! God bless you all! Forgive your poor Bennie." Late that night the door of the "back stoop" opened softly, and a little figure glided out, and down the footpath that led to the road by the mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to the right nor to the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and folding her hands as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train; and the conductor, as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face that was upturned toward the dim lantern he held in his hand. A few questions and ready answers told him all; and no father could have cared more tenderly for his only child than he for our little Blossom. She was on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell her father where and why she had gone. She had brought Bennie's letter with her; no good, kind heart, like the President's, could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. Every minute, now, might be the means of saving her brother's life. And so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom reached the Capital, and hastened immediately to the White House. The President had but just seated himself to his morning's task, of overlooking and signing important papers, when, without one word of announcement, the door softly opened, and Blossom, with downcast eyes, and folded hands, stood before him. "Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful tones, "what do you want so bright and early in the morning?" "Bennie's life, please, sir," faltered Blossom. "Bennie? Who is Bennie?" "My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post." "Oh, yes," and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. "I remember! It was a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost for his culpable negligence." "So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely; "but poor Bennie was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it was Jemmie's night, not his; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never thought about himself, that he was tired, too." "What is this you say, child? Come here; I do not understand," and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a justification of an offense. Blossom went to him; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and turned up the pale, anxious face toward his. How tall he seemed, and he was President of the United States, too! A dim thought of this kind passed for a moment through Blossom's mind; but she told her simple and straightforward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read. He read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty lines, and rang his bell. Blossom heard this order given: "SEND THIS DISPATCH AT ONCE." The President then turned to the girl and said: "Go home, my child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence, even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or--wait until to-morrow; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced death; he shall go with you." "God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God heard and registered the request? Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White House with his little sister. He was called into the President's private room, and a strap fastened upon the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said: "The soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the act so uncomplainingly, deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and Blossom took their way to the Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the Mill Depot to welcome them back; and as Farmer Owen's hand grasped that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was heard to say fervently, "THE LORD BE PRAISED!" THE SONG[15] WALTER SCOTT Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveillé; Sleep! the deer is in his den; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye Here no bugles sound reveillé. FOOTNOTE: [15] From "Lady of the Lake." THE STIRRUP CUP[16] JOHN HAY My short and happy day is done; The long and lonely night comes on And at my door the pale horse stands To carry me to distant lands. His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof, Sounds dreadful as a gathering storm; And I must leave this sheltering roof And joys of life so soft and warm. Tender and warm the joys of life-- Good friends, the faithful and the true; My rosy children and my wife, So sweet to kiss, so fair to view. So sweet to kiss, so fair to view, The night comes on, the lights burn blue; And at my door the pale horse stands To bear me forth to unknown lands. FOOTNOTE: [16] By permission of Mrs. Hay. THE SWAN-SONG KATHERINE R. BROOKS The great old-fashioned clock struck twelve, but as yet not one of the boys had stirred. All were listening too intently to what Carl von Weber was saying to notice the time. Around one of the grand pianos a group of boys was gathered. Perched on the top of it was a bright, merry-looking boy of fourteen. By his side sat a pale, delicate little fellow, with a pair of soft, dark eyes, which were fixed in eager attention upon Carl's face. Below, and leaning carelessly upon the piano, was Raoul von Falkenstein, a dark, handsome boy of fifteen. "Pshaw!" he exclaimed, scornfully, after Carl had finished. "Is that all? just for a few paltry thalers and a beggarly violin, to work myself to death? No! I don't think I shall trouble myself about it." "Oh, Raoul!" cried Franz, the little fellow who sat by Carl, "you forget that it is to be the most beautiful violin in Germany, and to be given to us by the Empress herself. And the two hundred thalers--just think of that!" and Franz's dark eyes grew bright to think what he could do with them. "Really," returned Raoul, insolently, "you don't mean to say that you are going to try! Why, the last time you played you broke down entirely!" The color mounted into Franz's face, and the tears came into his eyes; and Carl cried out, angrily: "For shame! you know very well that it was only fright that made Franz fail. "Don't mind him," he said, putting his arm around his friend's neck, "he is only hateful, as he always is. Let us go and see who is to be chosen for the concert. Come, Franz!" "No, Carl," said his friend, quietly; "I would rather stay here. You go and find out, and then come and tell me." The Empress once a year gave a prize to the school, but this year it was to be finer than usual, and her Majesty had sent to Herr Bach and requested him to choose five of his best boys, each of whom was to compose a piece of his own. No one was to see it until the end of three weeks, when they were to play it at a grand concert, which the imperial family were to attend with the whole court. Franz was very anxious to be chosen, for he wanted the prize very much. He thought how pleased the mother would be, and he thought how hard she worked to give her little boy a musical education, and how many comforts the thalers would buy. Oh, he would work hard for it. The dear mother would be so surprised. And he fell into a brown study, from which he was awakened by feeling a pair of strong arms around him, and being frantically whirled around the room, while a voice shouted in his ear: "We've got it! We're chosen--you, Gottfried, Johann, old hateful Raoul, and I!" The boys worked very hard, for there was only a short time given them. Franz put his whole soul into his composition, and made himself almost sick over it. Raoul went about declaring, in his usual contemptuous manner, that he did not intend to kill himself over it, but secretly he worked with great industry. One lovely moonlight night, as he sat by his window composing, for the moon was so bright he could see very well, he impatiently flung his pen down and muttered, "There is no use; I can never do it; this will never do!" and began angrily to tear up one of the music sheets, when suddenly he stopped and raised his head and listened intently. Such a lovely melody, so soft and clear, rising and falling in the sweetest cadences, now growing louder and louder in a wild, passionate crescendo, and then dying slowly away! For a moment, the boy remained silent; then, suddenly springing to his feet, he cried: "It is Franz! I know it, for no one but he could write anything so beautiful. But it shall be mine, for it is the piece that will gain the prize! Ah, Franz, I play before you, and what I play shall be--" He stopped, and the moonlight streaming in at the window glanced across the room, and revealed a look of half triumph, half shame on his dark, haughty face. Why had he stopped? Perhaps his guardian angel stood behind him, warning him against what he was about to do. For a moment, a fierce struggle seemed to take possession of the boy, between his good and his evil spirit. But, alas! the evil conquered, and, sitting down, he wrote off what he had heard, aided by his wonderful memory; and, after an hour, he threw down the piece, finished. Then, with an exulting smile, he cried, "The prize is mine!" and, throwing himself on the bed, he fell into a troubled sleep. The time had come at last for the great concert, and the boys were so excited they could hardly keep still; even Franz, whose cheeks glowed with a brilliant hectic flush, and whose eyes were strangely bright. The hall was crowded. The imperial family was there, together with the whole court. The concert began with an overture from the orchestra. Then came Fraulein, the prima donna of the Imperial Opera, and then the boys. Carl came first, and played a brilliant, sparkling little piece, and was loudly applauded; next Gottfried and Johann, and then Raoul. When he stepped out upon the platform, his handsome face and fine form seemed to make an impression on the audience, for they remained perfectly silent. Raoul commenced. At first Franz paid no attention to him, then suddenly he started. The melody flowed on; louder and louder, clearer and clearer it rose. Franz stood motionless, listening in strained, fixed attention, until at last, overcome with grief and astonishment, he sank upon the floor and cried out piteously, with tears streaming down his face: "Oh, Raoul! Raoul! how could you, could you do it--my own little piece that I loved so much? Oh, mother! mother!"--and, burying his head in his arms, he sobbed in an agony of grief. He heard the burst of applause that greeted his piece--not Raoul's; he heard it all, but moved not until he heard Carl say: "Come, Franz! it's time to go. They are all waiting for you; but I am afraid that Raoul has won the prize." What should he do, he wondered? And then he thought perhaps the kind Father in heaven would help him. So, breathing a little prayer in his heart, he walked calmly forth upon the platform. At first, he trembled so that he could hardly begin; then a sudden inspiration seemed to come to him--a quick light swept across his face. He raised the violin to his shoulder and began. The audience at first paid no attention; but presently all became quiet, and they leaned forward in breathless attention. What a wonderful song it was!--for it was a song. The violin seemed almost to speak, and so softly and sweetly and with such exquisite pathos were the notes drawn forth that the eyes of many were filled with tears. For it was pouring out all little Franz's griefs and sorrows; it was telling how the little heart was almost broken by the treachery of the friend; it was telling how hard he had worked to win, for the dear mother's sake; and it was telling, and the notes grew sweeter as it told, how the good God had not forsaken him. The boy seemed almost inspired; his eyes were raised to heaven, and his face glowed with a rapt delight, as he improvised his beautiful song. Not a sound was heard; it seemed as if all were turned to stone, so intense was the silence. His heart seemed to grow lighter of its burden, and the song burst into a wild, sweet carol, that rang rich and clear through the hall; and then it changed and grew so soft it could hardly be heard, and at last it died away. For a moment the vast audience seemed spell-bound; then, all rising with one uncontrollable impulse, and breaking into a tempest of applause that rocked the building to its very foundations, they rained down bouquets on his head. But the boy stood with a far-off look in his large and beautiful eyes, and then, giving a little sigh, fell heavily to the floor. When he returned to consciousness, he heard a voice say, "Poor child!" It seemed like Herr Bach's; and then he heard Carl say, in a sobbing voice, "Franz! dear Franz!" Why did they pity him, he wondered; and then it all came back to him--the prize, the violin, and Raoul. "Where is the violin?" he murmured. "It will be here in a moment," some one said. Then he saw the pale, remorseful face of Raoul, who said: "Dear little Franz, forgive me!" The boy raised his hand and pointed to heaven, and said, softly: "Dear Raoul, I forgive you!"--and then all the pain and bitterness in his heart against Raoul died out. The sweet face of the Empress, made lovely by its look of tender pity, bent over him, and she kissed him and murmured, "Poor little one!" Then she placed the beautiful violin in his arms, and the thalers in his hands. And so, with the famed violin and bright thalers clasped close on his breast, the life-light died out of his eyes, and little Franz fell asleep. SWEET AFTON ROBERT BURNS Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise, My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills! Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills, There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below! Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild evening sweeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by my cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays, My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. VIOLET'S BLUE[17] DANIEL HENRY JR. _Theme_. "Violet's blue--Diddle, diddle! Lavender's green. When I am King--Diddle, diddle! You shall be Queen." "Mother Goose Melodies." You shall have crown--Diddle, diddle! Jewels and gold, Damasks and lace--Diddle, diddle! Centuries old. Pages behind--Diddle, diddle! Heralds before, And all the state--Diddle, diddle! Queens had of yore. But when you're queen--Diddle, diddle! And I am king, Will your eyes shine--Diddle, diddle! Will my lips sing, As they do now--Diddle, diddle! When we are still, Poor country-folk--Diddle, diddle! Plain Jack and Jill? Can our hearts beat--Diddle, diddle! Our love unfold, Prisoned in pomp--Diddle, diddle! Girdled with gold? Love thrives alone--Diddle, diddle! In open air; Where pageants are--Diddle, diddle! Love is not there. When skies are blue--Diddle, diddle! And fields are green, I will be king--Diddle, diddle! You shall be queen. Queen of Day-dreams--Diddle, diddle! King of No-lands, With full-filled hearts--Diddle, diddle! And empty hands. Let others king--Diddle, diddle! And queen, who will: We're better so--Diddle, diddle! Plain Jack and Jill. FOOTNOTE: [17] From "Under a Fool's Cap," published by Kegan Paul, French & Co., London. TO A WATERFOWL[18] WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side? There is a power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-- The desert and illimitable air-- Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart: He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. FOOTNOTE: [18] By permission of D. Appleton & Co., publishers. THE WEDDING-GOWN ETTA W. PIERCE "Bring it from the oaken press; full fifty years ago I sewed those seams, my heart all full of youth and hope and Joe-- Joe, whose wife I was to be--my lover, strong and brown, Captain of the stanchest craft that sailed from Gloucester town. It seems a worthless thing to hold so carefully in store, This poor, old, faded bridal dress, which no bride ever wore; Cut in the curious style of half a century ago, With scanty skirt and 'broidered bands--my own hands shaped it so. Niece Hester, spread it on my bed--my eyes grow blind with tears; I touch its limp and yellow folds, and lo! the long dead years Come trooping back like churchyard ghosts. This was my wedding-gown-- 'Twas made the year the equinox brought woe to Gloucester town. "Ah, I remember well the night I walked the beach with him-- The moon was rising just above the ocean's purple rim, And all the savage Cape Ann rocks shone in her mellow light; The time was spring, and heaven itself seemed close to us that night. We heard the cool waves beat the shore, the seabird's startled cry; Like spirits in the dark, we saw the coasters flitting by. High in their towers the beacons burned, like wintry embers red, From Ipswich, down the rough sea-line, to crag-girt Marblehead. 'I love you, Nan!' Joe said, at last, in his grave, simple way-- I'd felt the words a-coming, child, for many a long, glad day. I hung my head, he kissed me--oh, sweetest hour of life! A stammering word, a sigh, and I was Joe's own promised wife. "But fishing-folks have much to do; my lover could not stay-- The gallant Gloucester fleet was bound to waters far away, Where wild storms swoop, and shattering fogs muster their dim, gray ranks, And spread a winding-sheet for men upon the fatal Banks. And he, my Joe, must go to reap the harvest of the deep, While I, like other women, stayed behind to mourn and weep, And I would see his face no more till autumn woods were brown. His schooner _Nan_ was swift and new, the pride of Gloucester town; He called her by my name. ''Tis sure to bring me luck,' said Joe. She spread her wings, and through my tears I stood and watched her go. "The days grew hot and long; I sewed the crisp and shining seams Of this, my wedding-gown, and dreamed a thousand happy dreams Of future years and Joe, while leaf and bud and sweet marsh-flower I fashioned on the muslin fine, for many a patient hour. In Gloucester wood the wild rose bloomed, and shed its sweets and died, And dry and tawny grew the grass along the marshes wide. The last stitch in my gown was set; I looked across the sea-- 'Fly fast, oh, time, fly fast!' I said, 'and bring him home to me; And I will deck my yellow hair and don my bridal gown, The day the gallant fishing-fleet comes back to Gloucester town!' "The rough skies darkened o'er the deep, loud blew the autumn gales; With anxious eyes the fishers' wives watched for the home-bound sails From Gloucester shore, and Rockport crags, lashed by the breakers dread, From cottage doors of Beverly, and rocks of Marblehead. Ah, child, with trembling hand I set my candle at the pane, With fainting heart and choking breath, I heard the dolorous rain-- The sea that beat the groaning beach with wild and thunderous shocks, The black death calling, calling from the savage equinox; The flap of sails, the crash of masts, or so it seemed to me, And cries of strong men drowning in the clutches of the sea. "I never wore my wedding-gown, so crisp and fine and fair; I never decked with bridal flowers my pretty yellow hair, No bridegroom came to claim me when the autumn leaves were sear, For there was bitter wailing on the rugged coast that year; And vain was further vigil from its rocks and beaches brown For never did the fishing-fleet sail back to Gloucester town. "'Twas fifty years ago. There, child, put back the faded dress, My winding-sheet of youth and hope, into the oaken press. My life hath known no other joy, my heart no other glow, Feeble and worn, it still beats on in faithful love for Joe; And, like some hulk cast on a shore by waters sore distressed, I wait until he calls me from his own good place of rest." She woke at dawn and lifted up her head so old and gray, And stared across the sandy beach, and o'er the low blue bay. It was the hour when mists depart and midnight phantoms flee, The rosy sun was blushing red along the splendid sea. A rapture lit her face. "The bay is white with sails!" she cried, "They sweep it like the silver foam of waves at rising tide-- Sails from an unknown sea. Oh, haste and bring my wedding-gown-- It is the long-lost fishing-fleet come back to Gloucester town! And look! his _Nan_ leads all the rest. Dear Lord, I see my Joe! He beckons from her shining deck--haste, friends, for I must go. The old, old light is in his eyes, the old smile on his lips; All grand and pale he stands among the crowding, white-winged ships. This is our wedding-morn. At last the bridegroom claims his bride. Sweetheart, I have been true; my hand--here--take it!" Then she died. WHEN THE SNOW SIFTS THROUGH[19] S. W. GILLILAN The icy gale that hurled the snow Against the window pane, And rattled the sash with a merry clash Used not its strength in vain; For now and then a wee flake sifted Through the loose ill-fitting frame, By the warmer breezes each was lifted All melting as they came. The baby stood with shining eyes, Her hands upon the sill; She watched each flake and the course 'twould take, And her voice was never still. 'Twas, "Papa, where does the whiteness go?" And, "Where's all the beauty gone? What makes it be wet spots 'stead o' snow, When it gets in where it's warm?" I smiled that day, but seldom now Does the thought of smiling come; A phantom shape, a bow of crape, And my sweet little child went home. O Father, "Where does the whiteness go? And whither's the beauty flown? Why are there 'wet spots 'stead o' snow' On my cheek as I face the storm?" Again the wild wind hurls the snow Against the frosted pane And a few flakes dash through the rattling sash, While I hear those words again. The flakes scurry off to a spot on the hill Where a little mound is seen, And they cover it softly and tenderly As the grass with its cloak of green. FOOTNOTE: [19] By permission of the author. TO A WILD FLOWER[20] MAURICE THOMPSON In the green solitudes Of the deep, shady woods Thy lot is kindly cast, and life to thee Is like a gust of rarest minstrelsy. The winds of May and June Hum many a tender tune, Blowing above thy leafy hiding-place, Kissing, all thrilled with joy, thy modest face. About thee float and glow Rare insects, hovering low, And round thee glance thin streams of delicate grass, Plashing their odors on thee as they pass. The sheen of brilliant wings Songs of shy, flitting things, The low, mysterious melodies that thrill Through every summer wood, thy sweet life fill. Oh bloom! all joy is thine, All loves around thee shine, The thousand hearts of nature throb for thee, Her thousand voices praise thee tenderly. Oh bloom of purest glory, Flower of love's gentlest story, Forever keep thy petals fresh and fair, Forever send thy sweetness down the air! I'll put thee in my song, With all thy joys along, At which some sunny hearts may sunnier grow, And frozen ones may gently slip their snow. FOOTNOTE: [20] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers of this author's works. THE FATE OF ZOROASTER F. MARION CRAWFORD Zoroaster a young Persian and Nehushta a Hebrew maiden were betrothed lovers; an unfortunate misunderstanding separated them and, in a fit of jealousy, Nehushta became a wife of Darius, king of the Persians. Zoroaster entered the priesthood and later became the high priest of the temple in the king's palace. In a subsequent interview with the high priest, Nehushta discovers that her jealousy was groundless, but it was now too late to correct her unhappy mistake. In the meantime Nehushta had incurred the jealousy and hatred of another wife of Darius, who, in the absence of the king, planned the massacre of the priests of the temple and Nehushta and her servants. Four days after the king's departure, Nehushta was wandering in the gardens as the sun was going down. Just then a strange sound echoed far off among the hills, an unearthly cry that rang high in the air and struck the dark crags and doubled in the echo and died away in short, faint pulsations of sound. She started slightly, she had never heard such a sound before. Again that strange cry rang out and echoed and died away. Her slave women gathered about her. "What is it?" asked Nehushta. "The war cry of the children of Anak is like that," said a little Syrian maid. Nehushta pushed the slaves aside and fled towards the palace. The truth had flashed across her. Some armed force was collecting on the hills to descend upon the palace. But one thought filled her mind. She must find Zoroaster and warn him. Through the garden she ran, and up the broad steps to the portico. Slaves were moving about under the colonnade, lighting the great torches that burned there all night. They had not heard the strange cries from the hills. As she entered the great hall, she heard the cry again. "Go, my little maid, in one direction and I will go in another, and search out Zoroaster, the high priest, and bring him." The girl turned and ran through the halls, and Nehushta went another way upon her search. Something within her told her that she was in great danger, and the calm she had seen in the palace could not allay the terror of that cry she had heard three times from the hills. Just then the Syrian maid came running in and fell breathless at Nehushta's feet. "Fly, fly, beloved mistress, the devils of the mountains are upon us--they cover the hills--they are closing every entrance--the people in the lower palace are all slain." "Where is Zoroaster?" "He is in the temple with the priests--by this time he is surely slain--he could know of nothing going on--fly, fly!" "On which side are they coming?" "From the hills, from the hills they are descending in thousands." "Go you all to the farther window, leap down upon the balcony--it is scarce a man's height,--follow it to the end past the corner where it joins the main wall of the garden. Run along upon the wall till you find a place where you can descend. Through the gardens you can easily reach the road. Fly, and save yourselves in the darkness." But before she had half finished, the last of the slave women, mad with terror, disappeared. "Why do you not go with the rest, my little maid?" asked Nehushta. "I have eaten thy bread, shall I leave thee in the hour of death?" "Go, child, I have seen thy devotion; thou must not perish." But the Syrian leaped to her feet as she answered: "I am a bondwoman, but I am a daughter of Israel, even as thou art. Though all the others leave thee, I will not. It may be I can help thee." "Thou art a brave child; I must go to Zoroaster; stay thou here, hide thyself among the curtains, escape by the window if any one come to harm thee." She turned and went rapidly out. But the maid grasped the knife in her girdle, and stole upon her mistress's steps. The din rose louder every moment--the shrieks of wounded women with the moaning of wounded men, the clash of swords and arms, and a quick, loud rattle, as half a dozen arrows struck the wall together. Onward flew Nehushta till she reached the temple door; then she listened. Faintly through the thick walls she could hear the sound of the evening chant. The priests were all within with Zoroaster, unconscious of their danger. Nehushta tried the door. The great bronze gates were locked, and though she pushed with her whole strength, they would not move a hair's breadth. "Press the nail nearest the middle," said a small voice. Nehushta started. It was the little Syrian slave. She put her hand upon the round head of the nail and pressed. The door opened, turning noiselessly upon its hinges. The seventy priests, in even rank, stood round. Solemnly the chant rose round the sacred fire upon the black stone altar. Zoroaster stood before it, his hands lifted in prayer. But Nehushta with a sudden cry broke their melody. "Zoroaster--fly--there is yet time! The enemy are come in thousands; they are in the palace. There is barely time!" The high priest turned calmly, his face unmoved, although the priests ceased their chanting and gathered about their chief in fear. As their voices ceased, a low roar was heard from without as though the ocean were beating at the gates. "Go thou and save thyself," said Zoroaster. "I will not go. If it be the will of the All-Wise that I perish, I will perish before this altar. Go thou quickly and save thyself while there is yet time." But Nehushta took his hand in hers, and gazed into his calm eyes. "Knowest thou not, Zoroaster, that I would rather die with thee than live with any other? I swear to thee, by the God of my fathers, I will not leave thee!" "There is no more time! There is no more time! Ye are all dead men! Behold, they are breaking down the doors!" As she spoke the noise of some heavy mass striking against the bronze gates echoed like thunder through the temple, and at each blow a chorus of hideous yells rose, wild and long drawn out. "Can none of you save Zoroaster?" cried Nehushta. But Zoroaster gently said: "Ye cannot save me, for my hour is come; we must die like men, and like priests of the Lord before His altar;" and, raising one hand to heaven, he chanted: "Praise we the all-wise God Who hath made and created the years and the ages; Praise Him who rides on death, In whose hand are all power and honor and glory; Who made the day of life, That should rise up and lighten the shadow of death." With a crash the great bronze doors gave way, and fell clanging in. In an instant the temple was filled with a swarm of hideous men. Their swords gleamed aloft as they passed forward, and their yells rent the roof. They had hoped for treasure--they saw but a handful of white-robed, unarmed men. Their rage knew no bounds, and their screams rose more piercing than ever, as they surrounded the doomed band, and dyed their blades in the blood that flowed red over the white vestures. The priests struggled like brave men, but the foe were a hundred to one. A sharp blade fell swiftly and the brave little slave fell shrieking to the floor. Nehushta's eyes met the high priest's triumphant gaze and her hands clasped his wildly. "Oh, Zoroaster, my beloved, my beloved! Say not any more that I am unfaithful, for I have been faithful even unto death, and I shall be with you beyond the stars for ever!" "Beyond the stars and for ever!" he cried; "in the light of the glory of God most high!" The keen sword flashed and severed Nehushta's neck and found its sheath in her lover's heart; and they fell down dead together. II SOLEMN, REVERENTIAL, SUBLIME CENTENNIAL HYMN[21] JOHN G. WHITTIER Our father's God! from out whose hand The centuries fall like grains of sand, We meet to-day, united, free And loyal to our land and Thee, To thank Thee for the era done, And trust Thee for the opening one. Here where of old, by Thy design, The fathers spake that word of Thine Whose echo is the glad refrain Of rended bolt and falling chain, To grace our festal time, from all The zones of earth, our guests we call. Be with us while the New World greets The Old World thronging all its streets Unveiling all the triumphs won By art or toil beneath the sun; And unto common good ordain This rivalship of hand and brain. Thou, who hast here in concord furled The war flags of a gathered world, Beneath the Western skies fulfill The Orient's mission of good-will, And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece, Send back its Argonauts of peace. For art and labor met in truce, For beauty made the bride of use, We thank Thee; but, withal, we crave The austere virtues strong to save, The honor proof to place or gold, The manhood never bought nor sold! Oh, make Thou us, through centuries long, In peace secure, in justice strong; Around our gift of freedom draw The safeguards of Thy righteous law; And, cast in some diviner mold, Let the new cycle shame the old! FOOTNOTE: [21] By permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works. THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS[22] OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings, In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,-- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-- Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! FOOTNOTE: [22] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin and Co., authorized publishers of this author's works. CROSSING THE BAR ALFRED LORD TENNYSON Sunset and evening star And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell And after that the dark; And may there be no sadness of farewell When I embark; For though from out our bourne of time and place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB LORD BYRON The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath flown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! EACH AND ALL[23] RALPH WALDO EMERSON Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, On thee, from the hill top looking down; And the heifer that lows on the upland farm, Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton, tolling the bell at noon, Dreams not that great Napoleon Stops his horse and lists with delight, As his files sweep round yon distant height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed hath lent; All are needed by each one-- Nothing is fair or good alone. I caught the linnet's note from heaven, Singing at dawn, on the alder bough; I brought him home in his nest at even: He sings the song; but it pleases not now; For I did not bring home the river and sky; He sang to my ear--they sing to my eye. The delicate shell lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their emerald gave; And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, And fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore, With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar Nor rose, nor stream, nor bird is fair; Their concord is beyond compare. FOOTNOTE: [23] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers. LAUS DEO![24] ON HEARING BELLS ANNOUNCING EMANCIPATION JOHN G. WHITTIER It is done! Clang of bell and roar of gun Send the tidings up and down. How the belfries rock and reel! How the great guns, peal on peal, Fling the joy from town to town! Ring, O bells! Every stroke exulting tells Of the burial hour of crime. Loud and long, that all may hear. Ring for every listening ear Of Eternity and Time! Let us kneel! God's own voice is in that peal, And this spot is holy ground. Lord, forgive us! What are we, That our eyes this glory see, That our ears have heard the sound! For the Lord On the whirlwind is abroad; In the earthquake he has spoken; He has smitten with his thunder The iron walls asunder, And the gates of brass are broken! Loud and long Lift the old exulting song; Sing with Miriam by the sea He has cast the mighty down; Horse and rider sink and drown; "He hath triumphed gloriously!" Did we dare In our agony of prayer, Ask for more than He has done? When was ever his right hand Over any time or land Stretched as now beneath the sun! How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, In this wonder of our days, When the cruel rod of war Blossoms white with righteous law, And the wrath of man is praise! Blotted out! All within and all about Shall a fresher life begin; Freer breathe the universe As it rolls its heavy curse On the dead and buried sin! It is done! In the circuit of the sun Shall the sound thereof go forth. It shall bid the sad rejoice, It shall give the dumb a voice, It shall belt with joy the earth! Ring and swing, Bells of joy! On morning's wing Send the song of praise abroad! With a sound of broken chains Tell the nations that He reigns, Who alone is Lord and God! FOOTNOTE: [24] By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works. THE PILGRIM FATHERS FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rockbound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed, And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came,-- Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame: Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear,-- They shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang; this the stars heard and the sea! And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang to the anthems of the free! The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white waves' foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared;--this was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band; Why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--They sought a faith's pure shrine! Aye, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found,--freedom to worship God! THE PRESENT CRISIS[25] JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL When a deed is done for freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from East to West; And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb, To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of time. For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along Round the earth's electric circle the swift flash of right or wrong; Whether conscious or unconscious, yet humanity's vast frame Through its ocean-sundered fibers feels the gush of joy or shame-- In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim. Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight, Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light. Backward look across the ages, and the beacon moments see That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through oblivion's sea; Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry Of those crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly; Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by. Careless seems the great avenger; history's pages but record One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word; Truth forever on the scaffold, wrong forever on the throne, Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own. We see dimly in the present what is small and what is great; Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate! But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din, List the ominous stern whisper from the delphic cave within, "They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin." Then to side with truth is noble when we share her wretched crust, Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just; Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied. Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes--they were souls that stood alone, While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone; Stood serene and down the future, saw the golden beam incline To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design. By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track, Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back, And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned One new word of that grand credo which in prophet-hearts hath burned, Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned. For humanity sweeps onward; where to-day the martyr stands, On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return To glean up the scattered ashes into history's golden urn. 'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves. Worshipers of light ancestral make the present light a crime; Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time? Turn those tracks toward past or future that make Plymouth Rock sublime? They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires, Smothering in their holy ashes freedom's new-lit altar fires. Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay, From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away To light the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day? New occasions teach new duties; time makes ancient good uncouth; They must upward still and onward, who would keep abreast of truth; Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! We ourselves must Pilgrims be, Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, Nor attempt the future's portal with the past's blood-rusted key. FOOTNOTE: [25] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works. THE RECESSIONAL RUDYARD KIPLING God of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle line-- Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine; Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget,--lest we forget. The tumult and the shouting dies, The captains and the kings depart-- Still stands thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget,--lest we forget. If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not thee in awe-- Such boastings as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget,--lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on thy people, Lord! THE SACREDNESS OF WORK THOMAS CARLYLE All true work is sacred; in all true hand-labor, there is something of divineness. Labor, wide as the earth, has its summit in Heaven. Sweat of the brow; and up from that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart; which includes all Kepler's calculations, Newton's meditations, all sciences, all spoken epics, all acted heroism, martyrdoms--up to that "Agony of bloody sweat," which all men have called divine! Oh, brother, if this is not "worship," then, I say, the more pity for worship; for this is the noblest thing yet discovered under God's sky! Who art thou that complainest of thy life of toil? Complain not. Look up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow-workmen there, in God's Eternity; surviving there, they alone surviving; sacred Band of the Immortals, celestial Body-guard of the Empire of Mind. Even in the weak human memory they survive so long, as saints, as heroes, as gods; they alone surviving; peopling the immeasured solitudes of Time! To thee Heaven, though severe, is not unkind; Heaven is kind--as a noble mother; as that Spartan mother, saying, while she gave her son his shield, "With it, my son, or upon it!" Thou, too, shalt return home, in honor to thy far-distant home, doubt it not--if in the battle thou keep thy shield. WHAT'S HALLOWED GROUND? THOMAS CAMPBELL What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by superstition's rod To bow the knee? What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap, In dews that Heavens far distant weep, Their turf may bloom, Or Genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb. But strew his ashes to the wind, Whose sword or voice has saved mankind, And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high? To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die! Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies, in Heaven's sight The sword he draws. What can alone ennoble fight? A noble cause. What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth. Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth Earth's compass round, And your high priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground. III PATRIOTIC, HEROIC, ORATORICAL THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS OF THE WORLD Harvard University after mature consideration has proclaimed that in the history of eloquence there are seven great orators who stand preëminent above other orators whom the world calls great. A visitor to that venerable institution of learning, on coming to Memorial Hall, will find at the theater end, on the outside and just above the cornice, seven niches containing gigantic busts of these seven orators: Demosthenes, the Greek; Cicero, the Roman; Chrysostom, the Asiatic Greek; Bossuet, the Frenchman; Chatham, the Englishman; Burke, the Irishman; and Webster, the American. It is in furtherance of this idea that we have selected short passages of eloquence from each of these men; and also with the threefold purpose of acquainting young students with masterpieces of oratory since the dawn of history, of providing passages well worth committing to memory, and offering extracts well suited for practice in public speaking. I. DEMOSTHENES THE ENCROACHMENTS OF PHILIP[26] Men of Athens, if any one regard without uneasiness the might and dominion of Philip, and imagine that it threatens no danger to the state, or that all his preparations are not against you, I marvel, and would entreat you every one to hear briefly from me the reasons why I am led to form a contrary expectation, and why I deem Philip an enemy; that, if I appear to have the clearer foresight, you may hearken to me; if they, who have such confidence and trust in Philip, you may give your adherence to them. What did Philip first make himself master of after the peace? Thermopylæ and the Phocian state. And how used he his power? He chose to act for the benefit of Thebes, not of Athens. Why so? Because, I conceive, measuring his calculations by ambition, by his desire of universal empire, without regard to peace, quiet, or justice, he saw plainly that to a people of our character and principles nothing could he offer or give that would induce you for self-interest to sacrifice any of the Greeks to him. He sees that you, having respect for justice, dreading the infamy of the thing, and exercising proper forethought, would oppose him in any such attempt as much as if you were at war. But the Thebans, he expected, would, in return for the services done them, allow him in everything else to have his way, and, so far from thwarting or impeding him, would fight on his side if he required it. You are judged by these to be the only people incapable of betraying for lucre the national rights of Greece, or bartering your attachment to her for any obligation or benefit. And this opinion of you he has naturally formed, not only from a view of present times, but by reflection on the past. For assuredly he finds and hears that your ancestors, who might have governed the rest of Greece on terms of submitting to Persia, not only spurned the proposal when Alexander, this man's ancestor, came as herald to negotiate, but preferred to abandon their country and endure any suffering, and thereafter achieved such exploits as all the world loves to remember,--though none could ever speak them worthily, and therefore I must be silent, for their deeds are too mighty to be uttered in words. But the forefathers of the Thebans either joined the barbarian's army or did not oppose it; and therefore he knows that they will selfishly embrace their advantage, without considering the common interest of the Greeks. He thought then if he chose your friendship, it must be on just principles; if he attached himself to them, he should find auxiliaries of his ambition. This is the reason of his preferring them to you both then and now. For certainly he does not see them with a larger navy than you, nor has he acquired an inland empire and renounced that of the sea and the ports, nor does he forget the professions and promises on which he obtained the peace. I cannot think that Philip, either if he was forced into his former measures, or if he were now giving up the Thebans, would pertinaciously oppose their enemies; his present conduct rather shows that he adopted those measures by choice. All things prove to a correct observer that his whole plan of action is against our state. And this has now become to him a sort of necessity. Consider. He desires empire; he conceives you to be his only opponents. He has been for some time wronging you, as his own conscience best informs him, since, by retaining what belongs to you, he secures the rest of his dominion. He knows that he is plotting against you, and that you are aware of it; and supposing you to have intelligence, he thinks you must hate him; he is alarmed, expecting some disaster, unless he hastens to prevent you. Therefore he is awake and on the watch against us; he courts certain people, who from cupidity, he thinks, will be satisfied with the present, and from dullness of understanding will foresee none of the consequences. I imagine that what Philip is doing will grieve you hereafter more than it does now. I see the thing progressing, and would that my surmises were false, but I doubt it is too near already. So when you are able no longer to disregard events, when, instead of hearing from me or others that these measures are against Athens, you all see it yourselves and know it for certain, I expect you will be wrathful and exasperated. I fear then, as your ambassadors have concealed the purpose for which they know they were corrupted, those who endeavor to repair what the others have lost may chance to encounter your resentment, for I see it is a practice with many to vent their anger, not upon the guilty, but on persons most in their power. Had you not been then deceived there would be nothing to distress the state. Philip would certainly never have prevailed at sea and come to Attica with a fleet, nor would he have marched with a land force by Phocis and Thermopylæ; he must either have acted honorably, observing the peace and keeping quiet, or been immediately in a war similar to that which made him desire the peace. Enough has been said to awaken recollection. Grant, O ye gods, it be not all fully confirmed! Though he may deserve death I would have no man punished to the damage and danger of the country. FOOTNOTE: [26] From the Second Philippic delivered at Athens, 344 B.C. II. MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO ORATION AGAINST ANTONY[27] Who is there who does not see that Antonius has been adjudged to be an enemy? For what else can we call him, when the Senate decides that extraordinary honors are to be devised for those men who are leading armies against him? What, did not the Martial legion decide by its resolutions that Antonius was an enemy before the Senate had come to any resolution? For if he be not an enemy, we must inevitably decide that those men who have deserted the consul are enemies. Admirably and seasonably, O Romans, have you by your cries sanctioned the noble conduct of the men of the Martial legion, who have come over to the authority of the Senate, to your liberty, and to the whole republic, and have abandoned that enemy and robber and parricide of his country. Nor did they display only their spirit and courage in doing this, but their caution and wisdom also. They encamped at Alba, in a city convenient, fortified, full of brave men and loyal and virtuous citizens. The fourth legion imitated and also joined the army of Caius Cæsar. What more adverse decisions, O Marcus Antonius, can you want? Cæsar, who has levied an army against you, is extolled to the skies. The legions are praised in the most complimentary manner, which have abandoned you, which were sent for into Italy by you, and which, if you had been chosen to be a consul rather than an enemy, were wholly devoted to you. And the fearless and honest decision of those legions is confirmed by the Senate and is approved of by the whole Roman people. Do you suppose that the municipal towns and the colonies and the prefectures have any other opinion? All men are agreed with one mind, so that every one who wishes the State to be saved must take every sort of arms against that pestilence. What, does the opinion of Decimus Brutus which has this day reached us appear to any one deserving of being lightly esteemed? The family and name of Brutus has been by some especial kindness and liberality of the immortal gods given to the republic, for the purpose of at one time establishing, and at another of recovering, the liberty of the Roman people. What has been the opinion which Decimus Brutus has formed of Marcus Antonius? He excludes him from his province. He opposes him with his army. He rouses all Gaul to war, which is already aroused of its own accord, and in consequence of the judgment which it has already formed. If Antonius be consul, Brutus is an enemy. Can we then doubt which of these alternatives is the fact? And just as you now with one mind and one voice affirm that you entertain no doubt, so did the Senate just now decree that Decimus Brutus deserved excellently well of the republic, inasmuch as he was defending the authority of the Senate and the liberty and empire of the Roman people. Defending it against whom? Why, against an enemy. For what other sort of defense deserves praise? In the next place the province of Gaul is praised and is deservedly complimented in most honorable language by the Senate for resisting Antonius. But if that province considered him the consul, and still refused to receive him it would be guilty of great wickedness. For all the provinces belong to the consul of right, and are bound to obey him. Decimus Brutus, imperator and consul-elect, a citizen born for the republic, denies that he is consul. Gaul denies it. All Italy denies it. The Senate denies it. You deny it. Who then thinks he is consul except a few robbers? I think that at present not only men but the immortal gods have all united together to preserve this republic. For if the immortal gods foreshow us the future, by means of portents and prodigies, then it has been openly revealed to us that punishment is near at hand to him, and liberty to us. Or if it was impossible for such unanimity on the part of all men to exist without the inspiration of the gods, in either case how can we doubt as to the inclination of the heavenly deities? I will act therefore as commanders are in the habit of doing when their army is ready for battle, who although they see their soldiers ready to engage, still address an exhortation to them; and in like manner I will exhort you who are already eager and burning to recover your liberty. You have not to war against an enemy with whom it is possible to make peace on any terms whatever. For he does not now desire your slavery, as he did before, but he is angry now and thirsts for your blood. No sport appears more delightful to him than bloodshed and slaughter and the massacre of citizens before his eyes. You have not, O Romans, to deal with a wicked and profligate man, but with an unnatural, and savage beast. And since he has fallen into a well let him be buried in it. For if he escapes out of it there will be no inhumanity of torture which it will be possible to avoid. But he is at present hemmed in, pressed, and besieged by those troops which we already have, and will soon be still more so by those which in a few days the new consuls will levy. Apply yourselves then to this business, as you are doing. Never have you shown greater unanimity in any cause, never have you been so cordially united with the Senate. And no wonder: for the question now is not in what condition we are to live, but whether we are to live at all, or to perish with torture and ignominy. FOOTNOTE: [27] Taken from the Fourth Philippic, delivered in the Forum at Rome. III. SAINT JOHN CHRYSOSTOM I. UNDUE LAMENTATIONS OVER THE DEAD I am ashamed and blush to see unbecoming groups of women pass along the mart, tearing their hair, cutting their arms and cheeks, and all this under the eyes of the Greeks. For what will they not say? What will they not utter concerning us? Are these the men who philosophize about a resurrection? How poorly their actions agree with their opinions! In words they philosophize about a resurrection, but they act just like those who do not acknowledge a resurrection. If they fully believed in a resurrection they would not act thus; if they had really persuaded themselves that a deceased friend had departed to a better state they would not thus mourn. These things and more than these, the unbelievers say when they hear those lamentations. Let us then be ashamed, and be more moderate, and not occasion so much harm to ourselves and to those who are looking on us. For on what account, tell me, do you thus weep for one departed? Because he was a bad man? You ought on that very account to be thankful, since the occasions of wickedness are now cut off. Because he was good and kind? If so, you ought to rejoice, since he has been soon removed before wickedness had corrupted him; and he has gone away to a world where he stands ever secure, and there is no room even to mistrust a change. Because he was a youth? For that, too, praise Him who has taken him, because He has speedily called him to a better lot. Because he was an aged man? On this account also give thanks and glorify Him that has taken him. Be ashamed of your manner of burial. All this is not that you may weep and lament and afflict yourselves, but that you may render thanks to Him who has taken the departed. When men are called to some high office, multitudes with praises on their lips assemble to escort them at their departure to their stations, so do all with abundant praise join to send forward, as to a greater honor, those of the pious who have departed. Death is rest, a deliverance from the exhausting labors and cares of this world. When, then, thou seest a relative departing yield not to despondency; give thyself to reflection; examine thy conscience; cherish the thought that after a little while this end awaits thee also. Be more considerate; let another's death excite thee to salutary fear; shake off all indolence; examine your past deeds; quit your sins and commence a happy change. We differ from unbelievers in our estimate of things. The unbeliever surveys the heaven and worships it, because he thinks it a divinity; he looks to the earth and makes himself a servant to it, and longs for the things of sense. But not so with us. We survey the heaven and admire Him that made it, for we believe it not to be a god, but a work of God. I look on the whole creation, and am led by it to the Creator. He looks on wealth and longs for and laments; I see poverty and rejoice. I see things in one light, he in another. Just so in regard to death. He sees a corpse and thinks of it as a corpse; I see a corpse and behold sleep rather than death. And as in regard to books, both learned persons and unlearned see them with the same eyes, but not with the same understanding. To the unlearned the mere shapes of letters appear, while the learned discover the sense that lies within those letters. So in respect to affairs in general, we all see what takes place with the same eyes, but not with the same understanding and judgment. Since, therefore, in all other things we differ from them, shall we agree with them in our sentiments respecting death? Consider to whom the departed has gone. He has gone where Paul is, and the whole company of the saints. Consider how he shall arise, with what glory and with what splendor. II. ON APPLAUDING PREACHERS It is a mischief when one who teaches will in words impugn the teachings by his deeds. This has been the cause of many evils in the churches. Wherefore pardon me, I beseech you, if my discourse dwells long on this evil affection. Many take a great deal of pains to be able to stand up in public and make a long speech; and if they get applause from the multitude, it is to them as if they had gained the very kingdom of heaven; but if silence follows the close of their speech the defection that falls upon their spirits from the silence is worse than hell itself. This has turned the churches upside down, because you desire not to hear a discourse calculated to lead to compunction, but one that may delight you from the sound and composition of the words, as though you were listening to singers and minstrels. When we idly busy ourselves about beautiful expressions and the composition and harmony of our sentences in order that we might not profit; when we make it our aim to be admired, not to instruct; to delight, not prick to the heart; to be applauded and depart with praise, not to correct men's manners, we do wrong. Believe me, I speak what I feel, when as I discourse, I hear myself applauded, at the moment I feel it as a man; I am delighted and give way to the pleasurable feeling; but when I get home and bethink me that those who applauded received no benefit from my discourse, but whatever benefit they ought to have got they lost it while applauding and praising, I am in pain, and groan and weep, and feel as if I had spoken all in vain. I say to myself what profit comes to me from my labors, while the hearers do not choose to benefit by what they hear from me? Even the heathen philosophers--we hear of their discoursing, and nowhere do we find that noisy applause accompanied their words; we hear of the apostles making public speeches, and yet nowhere do the accounts add that in the midst of their discourses the hearers interrupted the speaker with loud expressions of approbation. Christ spoke publicly on the mount, yet no one said aught until He had finished His discourse. How shall the hearer be otherwise than ridiculous? Nay, he will be deemed a flatterer and his praise no better than irony, when he declares that the teacher spoke beautifully; but what he said, this he cannot tell. This has all the appearance of adulation. For when, indeed, one has been hearing minstrels and players, it is no wonder if such has been the case with him, seeing he looks not how to utter the strain in the same manner; but where the matter is not an exhibition of song or of voice, but the drift and purport of thoughts and wise reflections, and it is easy for every one to tell and report what was said, how can he but deserve the accusation, who cannot tell what the matter was for which he praised the speaker? Nothing so becomes the church as silence and good order. Noise belongs to the theaters, and baths, and public processions, and market-places; but where doctrines, and such doctrines, are the subject of teaching, there should be stillness and quiet, and calm reflection, and a haven of much repose. These things I beseech and entreat; for I go about in quest of ways by which I shall be enabled to profit your souls. And no small way I take this to be; it will profit not you only, but us also. So shall we not be carried away with pride, not be tempted to love praises and honor, not be led to speak those things which delight, but those things that profit: so shall we lay the whole stress of our time and diligence, not upon arts of composition and beauties of expression, but upon the matter and meaning of the thoughts. Is not all nature decked with stillness and silence? Over all the face of heaven is scattered the charm of repose. On this account we are evil spoken of even among the Gentiles, as though we did all for display and ostentation. But if this be prevented the love of the chief seats will also be extinguished. It is sufficient, if any one be enamored of praise, that he should obtain it after having been heard, when all is gathered in. Yea, I beseech you that doing all things according to God's will, we may be found worthy of the mercy which is from Him, through the grace and compassion of His only Son. IV. JACQUES BÉNIGNE BOSSUET ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCE OF CONDÉ Our lamentations ought to break forth at the loss of so great a man. But for the love of truth and the shame of those who despise it, listen once more to that noble testimony which he bore to it in dying. Informed by his confessor that if our heart is not entirely right with God, we must, in our addresses, ask God Himself to make it such as He pleases, and address Him in the affecting language of David, "O God, create in me a clean heart," the Prince is arrested by the words, pauses, as if occupied with some great thought; then calling the ecclesiastic who had suggested the idea, he says: "I have never doubted the mysteries of religion, as some have reported." Christians, you ought to believe him, for in the state he then was he owed to the world nothing but truth. What was then taking place in his soul? What new light dawned upon him? What sudden ray pierced the cloud, and instantly dissipated, not only all the darkness of sense, but the very shadows, and if I dare to say it, the sacred obscurities of faith? What then became of those splendid titles by which our pride is flattered? On the very verge of glory, and in the dawning of a light so beautiful, how rapidly vanish the phantoms of the world! How dim appears the splendor of the most glorious victory! How profoundly we despise the glory of the world, and how deeply regret that our eyes were ever dazzled by its radiance! Come, ye people, or rather ye princes and lords, ye judges of the earth, and ye who open to man the portals of heaven; and more than all others, ye princes and princesses, nobles descended from a long line of kings, lights of France, but to-day in gloom, and covered with your grief, as with a cloud, come and see how little remains of a birth so august, a grandeur so high, a glory so dazzling. Look around on all sides, and see all that magnificence and devotion can do to honor so great a hero; titles and inscriptions, vain signs of that which is no more--shadows which weep around a tomb, fragile images of a grief which time sweeps away with everything else; columns which seem as if they would bear to heaven the magnificent evidence of our emptiness; nothing, indeed, is wanting in all these honors but him to whom they are rendered! Weep then over these feeble remains of human life; weep over that mournful immortality we give to heroes. But draw near, especially ye who run with such ardor the career of glory, intrepid and warrior spirits! Who was more worthy to command you, and in whom did you find command more honorable? Mourn then that great captain, and weeping, say: "Here is the man that led us through all hazards, under whom were formed so many renowned captains, raised by his example to the highest honors of war; his shadow might yet gain battles, and lo! in his silence his very name animates us, and at the same time warns us, that to find at death some rest from our toils, and not arrive unprepared at our eternal dwelling, we must, with an earthly king, yet serve the king of heaven." Serve then that immortal and ever merciful King, who will value a sigh or a cup of cold water, given in His name, more than all others will value the shedding of your blood. And begin to reckon the time of your useful services from the day on which you gave yourselves to so beneficent a Master. Will not ye too come, ye whom he honored by making you his friends? To whatever extent you enjoyed his confidence, come all of you, and surround his tomb. Mingle your prayers with your tears; and while admiring, in so great a prince, a friendship so excellent, an intercourse so sweet, preserve the remembrance of a hero whose goodness equaled his courage. Thus may he ever prove your cherished instructor; thus may you profit by his virtues; and may his death, which you deplore, serve you at once for consolation and example. For myself, if permitted, after all others, to render the last offices at his tomb, O Prince, the worthy subject of our praises and regrets, thou wilt live forever in my memory. There will thy image be traced, but not with that bold aspect which promises victory. No, I would see in you nothing which death can efface. You will have in that image only immortal traits. I shall behold you such as you were in your last hours under the hand of God, when His glory began to dawn upon you. There shall I see you more triumphant than at Fribourg and at Rocroy; and ravished by so glorious a triumph, I shall give thanks in the beautiful words of the well-beloved disciple, "This is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith." Enjoy, O Prince, this victory, enjoy it forever, through the everlasting efficacy of that sacrifice. V. WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHATHAM I. WAR WITH AMERICA[28] I will not join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. I cannot concur in a blind and servile address, which approves and endeavors to sanctify the monstrous measures which have heaped disgrace and misfortune upon us. This, my lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment! It is not a time for adulation. The smoothness of flattery cannot now avail; cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must dispel the illusion and the darkness which envelop it, and display, in its full danger and true colors, the ruin that is brought to our doors. Can the minister of the day now presume to expect a continuance of support in this ruinous infatuation? Can Parliament be so dead to its dignity and its duty as to be thus deluded into the loss of the one and the violation of the other? To give an unlimited credit and support for the steady perseverance in measures not proposed for our parliamentary advice, but dictated and forced upon us--in measures which have reduced this late flourishing empire to ruin and contempt! "But yesterday and England might have stood against the world; now none so poor to do her reverence." It is a shameful truth that not only the power and strength of this country are wasting away and expiring, but her well-earned glories, her true honor and substantial dignity, are sacrificed. My lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, where we cannot act with success, nor suffer with honor, calls upon us to remonstrate in the strongest and loudest language of truth, to rescue the ear of Majesty from the delusions which surround it. The desperate state of our arms abroad is in part known. No man thinks more highly of them than I do. I love and honor the English troops. I know their virtues and their valor. I know they can achieve anything except impossibilities; and I know that the conquest of English America is an impossibility. You cannot, I venture to say it, you cannot conquer America. Your armies in the last war effected everything that could be effected; and what was it? It cost a numerous army, under the command of a most able general, a long and laborious campaign, to expel five thousand Frenchmen from French America. My lords, you cannot conquer America. What is your present situation there? We do not know the worst; but we know that in three campaigns we have done nothing and suffered much. Besides the sufferings, perhaps total loss, of the northern force, the best-appointed army that ever took the field, commanded by Sir William Howe, has retired from the American lines. As to conquest, I repeat, it is impossible. You may swell every expense and every effort still more extravagantly; pile and accumulate every assistance you can buy or borrow; traffic and barter with every little pitiful German prince that sells and sends his subjects to the shambles of a foreign prince; your efforts are forever vain and impotent--doubly so from this mercenary aid on which you rely; for it irritates to an incurable resentment the minds of your enemies, to overrun them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty! If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms--never--never--never. FOOTNOTE: [28] Delivered in the House of Lords, Nov. 18, 1777. II. ATTEMPT TO SUBJUGATE AMERICA My lords, no man wishes for the due dependence of America on this country more than I do. To preserve it, and not confirm that state of independence into which your measures hitherto have driven them, is the object which we ought to unite in attaining. The Americans, contending for their rights against arbitrary exactions, I love and admire. It is the struggle of free and virtuous patriots. America was indeed the fountain of our wealth, the nerve of our strength, the nursery and basis of our naval power. It is our duty, therefore, my lords, if we wish to save our country, most seriously to endeavor the recovery of these most beneficial subjects; and in this perilous crisis, perhaps the present moment may be the only one in which we can hope for success. I would impart to them every enjoyment and freedom which the colonizing subjects of a free state can possess, or wish to possess; and I do not see why they should not enjoy every fundamental right in their property, and every original substantial liberty, which Devonshire or Surrey, or the county I live in, or any other county in England, can claim; reserving always as the sacred right of the mother country the due constitutional dependency of the colonies. The inherent supremacy of the state in regulating and protecting the navigation and commerce of all her subjects is necessary for the mutual benefit and preservation of every part, to constitute and preserve the prosperous arrangement of the whole empire. You cannot conciliate America by your present measures. You cannot subdue her by your present, or by any measures. What, then, can you do? You cannot conquer, you cannot gain, but you can address; you can lull the fears and anxieties of the moment into an ignorance of the danger that should produce them. But, my lords, the time demands the language of truth. We must not now apply the flattering unction of servile compliance or blind complaisance. In a just and necessary war to maintain the rights or honor of my country, I would strip the shirt from my back to support it. But in such a war as this, unjust in principle, impracticable in its means, and ruinous in its consequences, I would not contribute a single effort, nor a single shilling. I do not call for vengeance on the heads of those who have been guilty; I only recommend to them to make their retreat; and let them make haste, or they may be assured that speedy and condign punishment will overtake them. My lords, I have submitted to you, with the freedom and truth which I think my duty, my sentiments on this awful situation. I have laid before you the ruin of your power, the disgrace of your reputation, the pollution of your discipline, the contamination of your morals, the complication of calamities, foreign and domestic, that overwhelm your sinking country. Your dearest interests, your own liberties, the constitution itself, totters to the foundation. All this disgraceful danger, this multitude of misery, is the monstrous offspring of this unnatural war. We have been deceived and deluded too long. Let us now stop short. This is the crisis, the only crisis of time and situation, to give us a possibility of escape from the fatal effects of our delusions. But if, in an obstinate and infatuated perseverance in folly, we slavishly echo the peremptory words this day presented to us, nothing can save this devoted country from complete and final ruin. Is it possible, can it be believed, that ministers are yet blind to this impending destruction? I did hope that instead of this false and empty vanity, this overweening pride, that ministers would have humbled themselves in their errors, would have confessed and retracted them, and by an active though a late repentance, have endeavored to redeem them. But, my lords, since they had neither sagacity to foresee, nor justice nor humanity to shun, these oppressive calamities; since not even severe experience can make them feel, nor the imminent ruin of their country awaken them from their stupefaction, the guardian care of Parliament must interpose. I shall, therefore, my lords, propose an amendment to the address to his Majesty, to recommend an immediate cessation of hostilities and the commencement of a treaty to restore peace and liberty to America, strength and happiness to England, security and permanent prosperity to both countries. VI. EDMUND BURKE I. IMPEACHMENT OF HASTINGS[29] My lords, you have now heard the principles on which Mr. Hastings governs the part of Asia subjected to the British empire. Here he has declared his opinion, that he is a despotic prince; that he is to use arbitrary power; and, of course, all his acts are covered with that shield. "I know," says he, "the Constitution of Asia only from its practice." Will your lordships submit to hear the corrupt practices of mankind made the principles of Government? He have arbitrary power! My lords, the East India Company have not arbitrary power to give him; the King has no arbitrary power to give him; your lordships have not; nor the Commons; nor the whole Legislature. We have no arbitrary power to give, because arbitrary power is a thing which neither any man can hold nor any man can give. No man can lawfully govern himself according to his own will, much less can one person be governed by the will of another. We are all born in subjection, all born equally, high and low, governors and governed, in subjection to one great, immutable, preëxistent law, prior to all our devices, and prior to all our contrivances, paramount to all our ideas, and all our sensations, antecedent to our very existence, by which we are knit and connected in the eternal frame of the universe, out of which we cannot stir. This great law does not arise from our conventions or compacts; on the contrary, it gives to our conventions and compacts all the force and sanction they can have;--it does not arise from our vain institutions. Every good gift is of God; all power is of God;--and He, who has given the power, and from whom alone it originates, will never suffer the exercise of it to be practiced upon any less solid foundation than the power itself. If then all dominion of man over man is the effect of the divine disposition, it is bound by the eternal laws of Him that gave it, with which no human authority can dispense; neither he that exercises it, nor even those who are subject to it. And if they were mad enough to make an express compact that should release their magistrate from his duty, and should declare their lives, liberties, and properties dependent upon, not rules and laws, but his mere capricious will, that covenant would be void. This arbitrary power is not to be had by conquest. Nor can any sovereign have it by succession; for no man can succeed to fraud, rapine, and violence. Those who give and those who receive arbitrary power are alike criminal; and there is no man but is bound to resist it to the best of his power, wherever it shall show its face to the world. Law and arbitrary power are in eternal enmity. Name me a magistrate, and I will name property; name me power, and I will name protection. It is a contradiction in terms; it is blasphemy in religion, it is wickedness in politics, to say that any man can have arbitrary power. In every patent of office the duty is included. For what else does a magistrate exist? To suppose for power, is an absurdity in idea. Judges are guided and governed by the eternal laws of justice, to which we are all subject. We may bite our chains, if we will; but we shall be made to know ourselves, and be taught that man is born to be governed by law; and he that will substitute will in the place of it, is an enemy to God. My lords, I do not mean to go further than just to remind your lordships of this,--that Mr. Hastings' government was one whole system of oppression, of robbery of individuals, of spoliation of the public, and of supersession of the whole system of the English Government, in order to vest in the worst of the natives all the power that could possibly exist in any government; in order to defeat the ends which all governments ought, in common, to have in view. In the name of the Commons of England, I charge all this villainy upon Warren Hastings in this last moment of my application to you. My lords, what is it that we want here to a great act of national justice? Do we want a cause, my lords? You have the cause of oppressed princes, of desolated provinces, and of wasted kingdoms. Do you want a criminal, my lords? When was there so much iniquity ever laid to the charge of any one? No, my lords, you must not look to punish any other such delinquent from India. Warren Hastings has not left substance enough in India to nourish such another delinquent. Therefore, it is with confidence that, ordered by the Commons of Great Britain, I impeach Warren Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great Britain in Parliament assembled, whose parliamentary trust he has abused. I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great Britain, whose national character he has dishonored. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose laws, rights and liberties he has subverted. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose property he has destroyed, whose country he has laid waste and desolate. I impeach him in the name of human nature itself, which he has cruelly outraged, injured and oppressed, in both sexes. And I impeach him in the name and by the virtue of those eternal laws of justice, which ought equally to pervade every age, condition, rank, and situation in the world. FOOTNOTE: [29] On the 15th of February, 1788, Edmund Burke began a four days' speech in the impeachment of Warren Hastings. II. CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA[30] Sir, I have in general no very exalted opinion of the virtue of paper government; nor of any politics in which the plan is to be wholly separated from the execution. But when I saw that anger and violence prevailed every day more and more, and that things were hastening towards an incurable alienation of our colonies, I confess my caution gave way. I felt this as one of those few moments in which decorum yields to a higher duty. Public calamity is a mighty leveler; and there are occasions when any chance of doing good must be laid hold on, even by the most inconsiderable person. To restore order and repose to an empire so great and so distracted as ours, is, merely in the attempt, an undertaking that would ennoble the flights of the highest genius, and obtain pardon for the efforts of the meanest understanding. The proposition is peace. Not peace through the medium of war; not peace to be hunted through the labyrinth of intricate and endless negotiations; not peace to arise out of universal discord fomented, from principle, in all parts of the empire. It is simple peace; sought in its natural course, and in its ordinary haunts. It is peace sought in the spirit of peace, and laid in principles purely pacific. I propose, by removing the ground of the difference, and by restoring the former unsuspecting confidence of the colonies in the Mother Country, to give permanent satisfaction to your people; and to reconcile them to each other in the same act and by the bond of the very same interest which reconciles them to British government. The principle of this proceeding is large enough for my purpose. I mean to give peace. Peace implies reconciliation; and where there has been a material dispute, reconciliation does in a manner always imply concession on the one part or on the other. In this state of things I make no difficulty in affirming that the proposal ought to originate from us. Great and acknowledged force is not impaired, either in effect or in opinion, by an unwillingness to exert itself. The superior power may offer peace with honor and with safety. Such an offer from such a power will be attributed to magnanimity. But the concessions of the weak are the concessions of fear. When such an one is disarmed, he is wholly at the mercy of his superior; and he loses forever that time and those chances, which, as they happen to all men, are the strength and resources of all inferior power. The leading questions on which you must this day decide, are these two: First, whether you ought to concede; and secondly, what your concession ought to be. On the first of these questions we have gained some ground. But I am sensible that a good deal more is still to be done. Indeed, Sir, to enable us to determine both on the one and the other of these great questions with a firm and precise judgment, I think it may be necessary to consider distinctly the true nature and the peculiar circumstances of the object which we have before us; because after all our struggle, whether we will or not, we must govern America according to that nature and to those circumstances, and not according to our own imaginations, nor according to abstract ideas of right. America, gentlemen say, is a noble object. It is an object well worth fighting for. Certainly it is, if fighting a people be the best way of gaining them. Gentlemen in this respect will be led to their choice of means by their complexions and their habits. Those who understand the military art will of course have some predilection for it. Those who wield the thunder of the state may have more confidence in the efficacy of arms. But I confess my opinion is much more in favor of prudent management than of force. The use of force alone is but temporary. It may subdue for a moment, but it does not remove the necessity of subduing again; and a nation is not governed which is perpetually to be conquered. My next objection is its uncertainty. Terror is not always the effect of force, and an armament is not a victory. If you do not succeed, you are without resource; for, conciliation failing, force remains; but, force failing, no further hope of reconciliation is left. Power and authority are sometimes bought by kindness; but they can never be begged as alms by an impoverished and defeated violence. Nothing less will content me than whole America. I do not choose to consume its strength along with our own, because in all parts it is the British strength that I consume. I do not choose to be caught by a foreign enemy at the end of this exhausting conflict; and still less in the midst of it. I may escape; but I can make no insurance against such an event. Let me add, that I do not choose to break the American spirit; because it is the spirit that has made the country. In the character of the Americans, a love of freedom is the predominating feature which marks and distinguishes the whole; and as an ardent is always a jealous affection, your colonies become suspicious, restive, and untractable whenever they see the least attempt to wrest from them by force, or shuffle from them by chicanery, what they think the only advantage worth living for. This fierce spirit of liberty is stronger in the English colonies probably than in any other people of the earth. Sir, from these six sources--of descent, of form of government, of religion in the northern provinces, of manners in the southern, of education, of the remoteness of situation from the first mover of government--from all these causes a fierce spirit of liberty has grown up. It has grown with the growth of the people in your colonies, and increased with the increase of their wealth; a spirit that unhappily meeting with an exercise of power in England which, however lawful, is not reconcilable to any ideas of liberty, has kindled this flame that is ready to consume us. I am much against any further experiments which tend to put to the proof any more of these allowed opinions which contribute so much to the public tranquillity. In effect, we suffer as much at home by this loosening of all ties, and this concussion of all established opinions, as we do abroad; for in order to prove that the Americans have no right to their liberties, we are every day endeavoring to subvert the maxims which preserve the whole spirit of our own. To prove that the Americans ought not to be free, we are obliged to depreciate the value of freedom itself; and we never seem to gain a paltry advantage over them in debate without attacking some of those principles, or deriding some of those feelings, for which our ancestors have shed their blood. The temper and character which prevail in our colonies are, I am afraid, unalterable by any human art. We cannot, I fear, falsify the pedigree of this fierce people, and persuade them that they are not sprung from a nation in whose veins the blood of freedom circulates. The language in which they would hear you tell them this tale would detect the imposition; your speech would betray you. An Englishman is the unfittest person on earth to argue another Englishman into slavery. But let us suppose all these moral difficulties got over. The ocean remains. You cannot pump this dry; and as long as it continues in its present bed, so long all the causes which weaken authority by distance will continue. If, then, the removal of the causes of this spirit of American liberty be for the greater part, or rather entirely, impracticable; if the ideas of criminal process be inapplicable--or, if applicable, are in the highest degree inexpedient--what way yet remains? No way is open but to comply with the American spirit as necessary; or, if you please, to submit to it as a necessary evil. FOOTNOTE: [30] Delivered in the House of Commons, March 22, 1775. III. ENGLISH PRIVILEGES IN AMERICA Reflect, sirs, that when you have fixed a quota of taxation for every colony, you have not provided for prompt and punctual payment. You must make new Boston Port Bills, new restraining laws, new acts for dragging men to England for trial. You must send out new fleets, new armies. All is to begin again. From this day forward the empire is never to know an hour's tranquillity. An intestine fire will be kept alive in the bowels of the colonies, which one time or other must consume this whole empire. Instead of a standing revenue, you will therefore have a perpetual quarrel. Indeed, the noble lord who proposed this project seems himself to be of that opinion. His project was rather designed for breaking the union of the colonies than for establishing a revenue. But whatever his views may be, as I propose the peace and union of the colonies as the very foundation of my plan, it cannot accord with one whose foundation is perpetual discord. Compare the two. This I offer to give you is plain and simple; the other full of perplexed and intricate mazes. This is mild; that harsh. This is found by experience effectual for its purposes; the other is a new project. This is universal; the other calculated for certain colonies only. This is immediate in its conciliatory operation; the other remote, contingent, full of hazard. Mine is what becomes the dignity of a ruling people--gratuitous, unconditional, and not held out as a matter of bargain and sale. I have done my duty in proposing it to you. I have indeed tired you by a long discourse; but this is the misfortune of those to whose influence nothing will be conceded, and who must win every inch of their ground by argument. You have heard me with goodness. May you decide with wisdom! For my part, I feel my mind greatly disburdened by what I have done to-day. I have been the less fearful of trying your patience, because, on this subject, I mean to spare it altogether in future. I have this comfort, that in every stage of the American affairs I have steadily opposed the measures that have produced the confusion, and may bring on the destruction, of this empire. I now go so far as to risk a proposal of my own. If I cannot give peace to my country, I give it to my conscience. My hold of the colonies is in the close affection which grows from common names, from kindred blood, from similar privileges, and equal protection. These are ties which, though light as air, are as strong as links of iron. Let the colonists always keep the idea of their civil rights associated with your government,--they will cling and grapple to you, and no force under heaven will be of power to tear them from their allegiance. But let it be once understood that your government may be one thing, and their privileges another, that these two things may exist without any mutual relation, the cement is gone--the cohesion is loosened--and everything hastens to decay and dissolution. As long as you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority of this country as the sanctuary of liberty, the sacred temple consecrated to our common faith, wherever the chosen race and sons of England worship freedom, they will turn their faces towards you. The more they multiply, the more friends you will have; the more ardently they love liberty, the more perfect will be their obedience. Until you become lost to all feeling of your true interest and your natural dignity, freedom they can have from none but you. This is the commodity of price of which you have the monopoly. This is the true Act of Navigation which binds to you the commerce of the colonies, and through them secures to you the wealth of the world. Deny them this participation of freedom, and you break that sole bond which originally made, and must still preserve, the unity of the empire. Do not entertain so weak an imagination as that your registers and your bonds, your affidavits and your sufferances, are what form the great securities of your commerce. Do not dream that your letters of office, and your instructions, are the things that hold together the great contexture of the mysterious whole. These things do not make your government. Dead instruments, passive tools as they are, it is the spirit of the English communion that gives all their life and efficacy to them. It is the spirit of the English Constitution which, infused through the mighty mass, pervades, feeds, unites, invigorates, vivifies every part of the empire, even down to the minutest member. Is it not the same virtue which does everything for us here in England? It is the love of the people; it is the attachment to their government, from the sense of the deep stake they have in such a glorious institution, which gives you your army and your navy, and infuses into both that liberal obedience without which your army would be a base rabble, and your navy nothing but rotten timber. All this, I know well enough, will sound wild and chimerical to the profane herd of those vulgar and mechanical politicians who have no place among us; a sort of people who think that nothing exists but what is gross and material, and who, therefore, far from being qualified to be directors of the great movement of empire, are not fit to turn a wheel in the machine. But to men truly initiated and rightly taught, these ruling and master principles which, in the opinion of such men as I have mentioned, have no substantial existence, are in truth everything, and all in all. Magnanimity in politics is the truest wisdom; and a great empire and little minds go ill together. We ought to elevate our minds to the greatness of that trust to which the order of providence has called us. By adverting to the dignity of this high calling our ancestors have turned a savage wilderness into a glorious empire, and have made the most extensive and the only honorable conquests--not by destroying, but by promoting the wealth, the number, the happiness, of the human race. Let us get an American revenue as we have got an American empire. English privileges have made it all that it is; English privileges alone will make it all it can be. VII. DANIEL WEBSTER I. BUNKER HILL MONUMENT This uncounted multitude before me and around me proves the feeling which the occasion has excited. These thousands of human faces, glowing with sympathy and joy, and from the impulses of a common gratitude turned reverently to heaven in this spacious temple of the firmament, proclaim that the day, the place and the purpose of our assembling have made a deep impression on our hearts. If, indeed, there be anything in local association fit to affect the mind of man, we need not strive to repress the emotions which agitate us here. We are among the sepulchers of our fathers. We are on ground, distinguished by their valor, their constancy and the shedding of their blood. We are here, not to fix an uncertain date in our annals, nor draw into notice an obscure and unknown spot. If our humble purpose had never been conceived, if we ourselves had never been born, the 17th of June, 1775, would have been a day on which all subsequent history would have poured its light, and the eminence where we stand a point of attraction to the eyes of successive generations. But we are Americans. We live in what may be called the early age of this great continent; and we know that our posterity, through all time, are here to enjoy and suffer the allotments of humanity. We see before us a probable train of great events; we know that our own fortunes have been happily cast; and it is natural, therefore, that we should be moved by the contemplation of occurrences which have guided our destiny before many of us were born, and settled the condition in which we should pass that portion of our existence which God allows to men on earth. But the great event in the history of the continent, which we are now met here to commemorate, that prodigy of modern times, at once the wonder and the blessing of the world, is the American Revolution. In a day of extraordinary prosperity and happiness, of high national honor, distinction, and power, we are brought together, in this place, by our love of country, by our admiration of exalted character, by our gratitude for signal services and patriotic devotion. The Society whose organ I am was formed for the purpose of rearing some honorable and durable monument to the memory of the early friends of American Independence. They have thought, that for this object no time could be more propitious than the present prosperous and peaceful period; that no place could claim preference over this memorable spot; and that no day could be more auspicious to the undertaking, than the anniversary of the battle which was here fought. The foundation of that monument we have now laid. With solemnities suited to the occasion, with prayers to Almighty God for his blessing, and in the midst of this cloud of witnesses, we have begun the work. We trust it will be prosecuted, and that, springing from a broad foundation, rising high in massive solidity and unadorned grandeur, it may remain as long as heaven permits the works of man to last, a fit emblem, both of the events in memory of which it is raised, and of the gratitude of those who have reared it. We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious actions is most safely deposited in the universal remembrance of mankind. We know, that if we could cause this structure to ascend, not only till it reached the skies, but till it pierced them, its broad surfaces could still contain but part of that which, in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread over the earth, and which history charges itself with making known to all future times. We know that no inscription on entablatures less broad than the earth itself can carry information of the events we commemorate where it has not already gone; and that no structure, which shall not outlive the duration of letters and knowledge among men, can prolong the memorial. But our object is, by this edifice, to show our own deep sense of the value and importance of the achievements of our ancestors; and, by presenting this work of gratitude to the eye, to keep alive similar sentiments, and to foster a constant regard for the principles of the Revolution. Human beings are composed, not of reason only, but of imagination also, and sentiment; and that is neither wasted nor misapplied which is appropriated to the purpose of giving right direction to sentiments, and opening proper springs of feeling in the heart. Let it not be supposed that our object is to perpetuate national hostility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. It is higher, purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to the spirit of national independence, and we wish that the light of peace may rest upon it forever. We rear a memorial of our conviction of that unmeasured benefit which has been conferred on our own land, and of the happy influences which have been produced, by the same events, on the general interests of mankind. We come, as Americans, to mark a spot which must forever be dear to us and our posterity. We wish that whosoever, in all coming time, shall turn his eye hither, may behold that the place is not undistinguished where the first great battle of the Revolution was fought. We wish that this structure may proclaim the magnitude and importance of that event to every class and every age. We wish that infancy may learn the purpose of its erection from maternal lips, and that weary and withered age may behold it, and be solaced by the recollections which it suggests. We wish that labor may look up here, and be proud, in the midst of its toil. We wish that, in those days of disaster, which, as they come upon all nations, must be expected to come upon us also, desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hitherward, and be assured that the foundations of our national power are still strong. We wish that this column, rising towards heaven among the pointed spires of so many temples dedicated to God, may contribute also to produce, in all minds, a pious feeling of dependence and gratitude. We wish, finally, that the last object to the sight of him who leaves his native shore, and the first to gladden him who revisits it, may be something which shall remind him of the liberty and glory of his country. Let it rise! let it rise, till it meet the sun in his coming; let the earliest light of the morning gild it, and parting day linger and play on its summit.[31] FOOTNOTE: [31] This and the following extract taken from an address delivered at the laying of the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, June 17, 1825. II. REVOLUTIONARY PATRIOTS Venerable men! you have come down to us from a former generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives, that you might behold this joyous day. You are now where you stood fifty years ago, this very hour, with your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the strife for your country. Behold, how altered! The same heavens are indeed over your heads; the same ocean rolls at your feet; but all else how changed! You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground strewed with the dead and the dying; the impetuous charge; the steady and successful repulse; the loud call to repeated assault; the summoning of all that is manly to repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and death;--all these you have witnessed, but you witness them no more. All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled with wives and children and countrymen in distress and terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of the whole happy population, come out to welcome and greet you with a universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of position appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoyance to you, but your country's own means of distinction and defense. All is peace; and God has granted you this sight of your country's happiness, ere you slumber in the grave. He has allowed you to behold and to partake the reward of your patriotic toils; and he has allowed us, your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and in the name of the present generation, in the name of your country, in the name of liberty, to thank you! But, alas! you are not all here! Time and the sword have thinned your ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, Pomeroy, Bridge! our eyes seek for you in vain amid this broken band. You are gathered to your fathers, and live only to your own country in her grateful remembrance and your own bright example. But let us not too much grieve, that you have met the common fate of men. You lived at least long enough to know that your work had been nobly and successfully accomplished. You lived to see your country's independence established, and to sheathe your swords from war. On the light of Liberty you saw arise the light of peace, like "another morn, Risen on mid-noon;" and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless. But, ah! Him! the first great martyr in this great cause! Him! the premature victim of his own self-devoting heart! Him! the head of our civil councils, and the destined leader of our military bands, whom nothing brought hither but the unquenchable fire of his own spirit! Him! cut off by Providence in the hour of overwhelming anxiety and thick gloom; falling ere he saw the star of his country rise; pouring out his generous blood like water, before he knew whether it would fertilize a land of freedom or of bondage!--how shall I struggle with the emotions that stifle the utterance of thy name! Our poor work may perish; but thine shall endure! This monument may molder away; the solid ground it rests upon may sink down to a level with the sea; but thy memory shall not fail! Wheresoever among men a heart shall be found that beats to the transports of patriotism and liberty, its aspirations shall be to claim kindred with thy spirit. Veterans! you are the remnant of many a well-fought field. You bring with you marks of honor from Trenton and Monmouth, from Yorktown, Camden, Bennington, and Saratoga. Veterans of half a century! when in your youthful days you put everything at hazard in your country's cause, good as that cause was, and sanguine as youth is, still your fondest hopes did not stretch onward to an hour like this! At a period to which you could not reasonably have expected to arrive, at a moment of national prosperity such as you could never have foreseen, you are now met here to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, and to receive the overflowings of a universal gratitude. But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts inform me that even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive that a tumult of contending feelings rushes upon you. The images of the dead, as well as the persons of the living, present themselves before you. The scene overwhelms you, and I turn from it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon your declining years, and bless them! And when you shall here have exchanged your embraces, when you shall once more have pressed the hands which have been so often extended to give succor in adversity, or grasped in the exultation of victory, then look abroad upon this lovely land which your young valor defended, and mark the happiness with which it is filled; yea, look abroad upon the whole earth, and see what a name you have contributed to give your country, and what a praise you have added to freedom, and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude which beam upon your last days from the improved condition of mankind! III. CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON[32] America has furnished to the world the character of Washington! And if our American institutions had done nothing else, that alone would have entitled them to the respect of mankind. Washington! "First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen!" Washington is all our own! The enthusiastic veneration and regard in which the people of the United States hold him, prove them to be worthy of such a countryman; while his reputation abroad reflects the highest honor on his country. I would cheerfully put the question to-day to the intelligence of Europe and the world, what character of the century, upon the whole, stands out in the relief of history, most pure, most respectable, most sublime; and I doubt not, that, by a suffrage approaching to unanimity, the answer would be Washington! The structure now standing before us, by its uprightness, its solidity, its durability, is no unfit emblem of his character. His public virtues and public principles were as firm as the earth on which it stands; his personal motives, as pure as the serene heaven in which its summit is lost. But, indeed, though a fit, it is an inadequate emblem. Towering high above the column which our hands have builded, beheld, not by the inhabitants of a single city or a single State, but by all the families of man, ascends the colossal grandeur of the character and life of Washington. In all the constituents of the one, in all the acts of the other, in all its titles to immortal love, admiration, and renown, it is an American production. It is the embodiment and vindication of our transatlantic liberty. Born upon our soil, of parents also born upon it; never for a moment having had sight of the Old World; instructed, according to the modes of his time, only in the spare, plain, but wholesome elementary knowledge which our institutions provide for the children of the people; growing up beneath and penetrated by the genuine influences of American society; living from infancy to manhood and age amidst our expanding, but not luxurious civilization; partaking in our great destiny of labor, our long contest with unreclaimed nature and uncivilized man, our agony of glory, the war of Independence, our great victory of peace, the formation of the Union, and the establishment of the Constitution,--he is all, all our own! Washington is ours. I claim him for America. In all the perils, in every darkened moment of the state, in the midst of the reproaches of enemies and the misgivings of friends, I turn to that transcendent name for courage and for consolation. To him who denies or doubts whether our fervid liberty can be combined with law, with order, with the security of property, with the pursuits and advancement of happiness; to him who denies that our forms of government are capable of producing exaltation of soul, and the passion of true glory; to him who denies that we have contributed anything to the stock of great lessons and great examples;--to all these I reply by pointing to Washington! FOOTNOTE: [32] From the Second Bunker Hill Oration, delivered June 17, 1843. SIX GREAT TRIUMPHS IN THE HISTORY OF AMERICAN ORATORY The selections under this division are taken from speeches which represent six of the greatest victories in the history of American eloquence: (1) Patrick Henry before the Virginia Convention, (2) Alexander Hamilton before the New York Convention, (3) Daniel Webster in Reply to Hayne in the Senate, (4) Wendell Phillips on the Murder of Lovejoy, (5) Abraham Lincoln in his debates with Douglas, and (6) Henry Ward Beecher in his speeches in England in defence of the American Union. I. THE CALL TO ARMS PATRICK HENRY This speech was delivered March 20, 1775, in the Virginia Convention. Although the measures he advocated sent a shock of consternation through the conservative assembly and caused them to oppose the resolutions with all their power, yet all objections were swept away and the measures were adopted. Mr. President, it is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who having eyes see not, and having ears hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst and to provide for it. I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House. Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation, the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us. They can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done everything that could be done to avert the storm that is now coming on. We have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot of the throne! In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free; if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending; if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, we must fight! I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts is all that is left us! They tell us, sir, that we are weak, unable to cope with so formidable an adversary; but when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of Nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable, and let it come! I repeat, it, sir, let it come! It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, peace! but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death! II. COERCION OF DELINQUENT STATES ALEXANDER HAMILTON In the summer of 1788 the New York Convention assembled at Poughkeepsie to consider the question of the ratification of the Constitution of the United States. Forty-six of the sixty-five delegates at first stoutly opposed ratification. Hamilton in a series of speeches upheld the Constitution, and when the vote was taken a majority of three sustained his position. The following is an extract from one of those speeches: The honorable member who spoke yesterday went into an explanation of a variety of circumstances, to prove the expediency of a change in our National Government, and the necessity of a firm Union. At the same time he described the great advantages which this state, in particular, receives from the Confederacy, and its peculiar weaknesses when abstracted from the Union. In doing this he advanced a variety of arguments which deserve serious consideration. Sir, it appears to me extraordinary, that while the gentlemen in one breath acknowledge that the old Confederation requires many material amendments, they should in the next deny that its defects have been the cause of our political weakness and the consequent calamities of our country. We contend that the radical vice in the old Confederation is that the laws of the Union apply only to States in their corporate capacity. Has not every man who has been in our Legislature experienced the truth of this position? It is inseparable from the disposition of bodies who have a constitutional power of resistance to examine the merits of a law. The States have almost uniformly weighed the requisitions by their own local interests, and have only executed them so far as answered their particular convenience or advantage. Hence there have ever been thirteen different bodies to judge of the measures of Congress, and the operations of Government have been distracted by their taking different courses. Those which were to be benefited have complied with the requisitions; others have totally disregarded them. Have not all of us been witnesses to the unhappy embarrassments which resulted from these proceedings? Even during the late war, while the pressure of common danger connected strongly the bond of our union, and incited to vigorous exertion, we have felt many distressing effects of the important system. How have we seen this State, though most exposed to the calamities of the war, complying in an unexampled manner with the federal requisitions, and compelled by the delinquency of others to bear most unusual burdens! Our misfortunes in a great degree proceeded from the want of vigor in the Continental Government. From the delinquency of those States which have suffered little by the war, we naturally conclude that they have made no efforts; and a knowledge of human nature will teach us that their ease and security have been a principal cause of their want of exertion. While danger is distant its impression is weak, and while it affects only our neighbors we have few motives to provide against it. Sir, if we have national objects to pursue we must have national revenues. If you make requisitions and they are not complied with what is to be done? It has been observed to coerce the States is one of the maddest projects that was ever devised. A failure of compliance will never be confined to a single State. This being the case can we suppose it wise to hazard a civil war? Suppose Massachusetts, or any large State, should refuse and Congress should attempt to compel them, would they not have influence to procure assistance, especially from those States which are in the same situation as themselves? What picture does this idea present to our view? A complying State at war with a non-complying State; Congress marching the troops of one State into the bosom of another; this State collecting auxiliaries and forming, perhaps, a majority against its federal head. Here is a nation at war with itself. Can any reasonable man be well disposed toward a government which makes war and carnage the only means of supporting itself--a government that can exist only by the sword? Every such war must involve the innocent with the guilty. This single consideration should be sufficient to dispose every peaceable citizen against such a government. But can we believe that one State will ever suffer itself to be used as an instrument of coercion? The thing is a dream; it is impossible. Then we are brought to this dilemma--either a federal standing army is to enforce the requisitions, or the federal treasury is left without supplies, and the Government without support. What, sir, is the cure for this great evil? Nothing, but to enable the national laws to operate on individuals in the same manner as those of the States do. This is the true reasoning upon the subject, sir. The gentlemen appear to acknowledge its force; and yet, while they yield to the principle, they seem to fear its application to the government. What, then, shall we do? Shall we take the old Confederation as a basis of a new system? Can this be the object of the gentlemen? Certainly not. Will any man who entertains a wish for the safety of his country trust the sword and purse with a single assembly organized on principles so defective, so rotten? Though we might give to such a government certain powers with safety, yet to give them the full and unlimited powers of taxation and the national forces would be to establish a despotism, the definition of which is, a government in which all power is concentrated in a single body. To take the old Confederation and fashion it upon these principles would be establishing a power which would destroy the liberties of the people. These considerations show clearly that a government totally different must be instituted. They had weight in the convention who formed the new system. It was seen that the necessary powers were too great to be trusted to a single body; they therefore formed two branches and divided the powers that each might be a check upon the other. This was the result of their wisdom and I presume every reasonable man will agree to it. The more this subject is explained the more clear and convincing it will appear to every member of this body. The fundamental principle of the old Confederation is defective; we must totally eradicate and discard this principle before we can expect an efficient government. III. THE REPLY TO HAYNE DANIEL WEBSTER This speech was delivered in the Senate, January 26, 1830. The doctrine of Nullification and State Rights had been set forth with great zeal and ability by Senator Hayne of South Carolina. The arguments were overthrown by the masterly speech of Webster. If anything be found in the national Constitution, either by original provision or subsequent interpretation, which ought not to be in it, the people know how to get rid of it. If any construction unacceptable to them be established, so as to become practically a part of the Constitution, they will amend it at their own sovereign pleasure. But while the people choose to maintain it as it is, while they are satisfied with it, and refuse to change it, who has given, or who can give, to the State legislatures a right to alter it either by interference, construction, or otherwise? Gentlemen do not seem to recollect that the people have any power to do anything for themselves. They imagine there is no safety for them, any longer than they are under the close guardianship of the State legislatures. Sir, the people have not trusted their safety, in regard to the general Constitution, to these hands. They have required other security, and taken other bonds. They have chosen to trust themselves, first, to the plain words of the instrument, and to such construction as the government itself, in doubtful cases, should put on its own powers, under its oaths of office, and subject to its responsibility to them; just as the people of a State trust their own State governments with a similar power. Secondly, they have reposed their trust in the efficacy of frequent elections, and in their own power to remove their own servants and agents whenever they see cause. Thirdly, they have reposed trust in the judicial power, which, in order that it might be trustworthy, they have made as respectable, as disinterested, and as independent as was practicable. Fourthly, they have seen fit to rely, in case of necessity or high expediency, on their known and admitted power to alter or amend the Constitution peaceably and quietly, whenever experience shall point out defects or imperfections. And, finally, the people of the United States have at no time, in no way, directly or indirectly, authorized any State legislature to construe or interpret their high instrument of government; much less to interfere by their own power to arrest its course and operation. I have thus stated the reasons of my dissent to the doctrines which have been advanced and maintained. I am conscious of having detained you and the Senate much too long. I was drawn into the debate with no previous deliberation, such as is suited to the discussion of so grave and important a subject. But it is a subject of which my heart is full, and I have not been willing to suppress the utterance of its spontaneous sentiments. I cannot, even now, persuade myself to relinquish it, without expressing once more my deep conviction that, since it respects nothing less than the union of the states, it is of most vital and essential importance to public happiness. I profess, sir, in my career hitherto to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that Union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That Union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, these great interests immediately awoke as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings; and although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread farther and farther, they have not outrun its protection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below; nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union should be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that, in my day at least, that curtain may not rise! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind! When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the Sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the Earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured; bearing for its motto, no such miserable interrogatory as, "What is all this worth?" nor those other words of delusion and folly, "Liberty first, and Union afterwards;" but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart,--Liberty and Union, now and for ever, one and inseparable! IV. THE MURDER OF LOVEJOY WENDELL PHILLIPS On November 7, 1837, Elijah P. Lovejoy, an anti-slavery editor, was shot by a mob at Alton, Ill., while defending his printing-press from destruction. Prominent citizens of Boston called a meeting, on December 8, to condemn the act of the mob. The Attorney-General of Massachusetts opposed the resolutions of condemnation, defended the mob, and declared that "Lovejoy died as the fool dieth." Wendell Phillips said to a friend, "Such a speech made in Faneuil Hall must be answered in Faneuil Hall." He made his way to the platform and spoke in part as follows: Mr. Chairman, We have met for the freest discussion of these resolutions, and the events which gave rise to them. I hope I shall be permitted to express my surprise at the sentiments of the last speaker, surprise not only at such sentiments from such a man, but at the applause they have received within these walls. A comparison has been drawn between the events of the Revolution and the tragedy at Alton. We have heard it asserted here, in Faneuil Hall, that Great Britain had a right to tax the colonies, and we have heard the mob at Alton, the drunken murderers of Lovejoy, compared to those patriot fathers who threw the tea overboard. Fellow-citizens, is this Fanueil Hall doctrine? The mob at Alton were met to wrest from a citizen his just rights, met to resist the laws. We have been told that our fathers did the same, and the glorious mantle of Revolutionary precedent has been thrown over the mobs of our day. To make out their title to such defense the gentleman says that the British Parliament had a right to tax these colonies. It is manifest that without this his parallel falls to the ground, for Lovejoy had stationed himself within constitutional bulwarks. He was not only defending the freedom of the press, but he was under his own roof in arms with the sanction of the civil authority. The men who assailed him went against and over the laws. The mob as the gentleman terms it,--mob, forsooth! certainly we sons of the tea spillers are a marvelously patient generation!--the "orderly mob" which assembled in the Old South to destroy the tea were met to resist, not the laws,--but illegal exactions. Shame on the American who calls the tea-tax and stamp-act laws! Our fathers resisted, not the king's prerogative, but the king's usurpation. To find any other account, you must read our Revolutionary history upside down. Our State archives are loaded with arguments of John Adams to prove the taxes laid by the British Parliament unconstitutional, beyond its power. It was not till this was made out that the men of New England rushed to arms. The arguments of the Council Chamber and the House of Representatives preceded and sanctioned the contest. To draw the argument of our ancestors into a precedent for mobs, for a right to resist laws we ourselves have enacted, is an insult to their memory. The difference between the excitements of those days and our own, which the gentleman in kindness to the latter has overlooked, is simply this: the men of our day went for the right as secured by the laws. They were the people rising to sustain the laws and constitution of the Province. The rioters of our day go for their own wills, right or wrong. Sir, when I heard the gentleman lay down principles which place the murderers of Alton side by side with Otis and Hancock, with Quincy and Adams, I thought those pictured lips[33] would have broken into voice to rebuke the recreant American, the slanderer of the dead. The gentleman said that he should sink into insignificance if he dared to gainsay the principles of these resolutions. Sir, for the sentiments he has uttered on soil consecrated by the prayers of Puritans and the blood of patriots, the earth should have yawned and swallowed him up. The gentleman says Lovejoy was presumptuous and imprudent, he "died as the fool dieth." And a reverend clergyman of the city tells us that no citizen has a right to publish opinions disagreeable to the community! If any mob follows such publication on him rests the guilt. He must wait forsooth till the people come up to it and agree with him. This libel on liberty goes on to say that the want of right to speak as we think is an evil inseparable from republican institutions. If this be so what are they worth? Welcome the despotism of the Sultan where one knows what he may publish and what he may not, rather than the tyranny of this many-headed monster the mob, where we know not what we may do or say till some fellow-citizen has tried it and paid for the lesson with his life. This clerical absurdity chooses as a check for the abuses of the press, not the law but the dread of the mob. By so doing it deprives not only the individual and the minority of their rights, but the majority also, since the expression of their opinion may sometimes provoke disturbance from the minority. A few men may make a mob as well as many. The majority then have no right as Christian men, to utter their sentiments if by any possibility it may lead to a mob. Shades of Hugh Peters and John Cotton, save us from such pulpits! Imprudent to defend the liberty of the press! Why? Because the defense was unsuccessful? Does success gild crime into patriotism, and the want of it change heroic self-devotion into imprudence? Was Hampden imprudent when he drew the sword and threw away the scabbard? Yet he, judged by that single hour, was unsuccessful. After a short exile the race he hated sat again upon the throne. Imagine yourself present when the first news of Bunker Hill battle reached a New England town. The tale would have run thus, "The patriots are routed, the redcoats victorious, Warren lies dead upon the field." With what scorn would that Tory have been received who should have charged Warren with imprudence, who should have said that, bred as a physician, he was "out of place" in the battle, and "died as the fool dieth!" How would the intimation have been received that Warren and his associates should have waited a better time? Presumptuous to assert the freedom of the press on American ground! Is the assertion of such freedom before the age? So much before the age as to leave one no right to make it because it displeases the community? Who invents this libel on his country? It is this very thing that entitles Lovejoy to greater praise. The disputed right which provoked the revolution--taxation without representation--is far beneath that for which he died. As much as thought is better than money, so much is the cause in which Lovejoy died nobler than a mere question of taxes. James Otis thundered in this hall when the king did but touch his pocket. Imagine if you can his indignant eloquence had England offered to put a gag upon his lips. FOOTNOTE: [33] Phillips points to portraits in the hall. V. THE SLAVERY ISSUE ABRAHAM LINCOLN An extract from a speech delivered at Alton, Ill., October 15, 1858. It is taken from one of a series of seven speeches delivered in joint debate with Douglas in the Senatorial campaign in Illinois. Lincoln lost the Senatorship but won the Presidency by this series of speeches. Fellow-citizens, I have not only made the declaration that I do not mean to produce a conflict between the states, but I have tried to show by fair reasoning that I propose nothing but what has a most peaceful tendency. The quotation that "a house divided against itself cannot stand," and which has proved so offensive to Judge Douglas, was part of the same thing. He tries to show that variety in the domestic institutions of the different states is necessary and indispensable. I do not dispute it. I very readily agree with him that it would be foolish for us to insist upon having a cranberry law here in Illinois where we have no cranberries, because they have a cranberry law in Indiana where they have cranberries. I should insist that it would be exceedingly wrong in us to deny to Virginia the right to enact oyster laws, where they have oysters, because we want no such laws here. If we here raise a barrel of flour more than we want and the Louisianians raise a barrel of sugar more than they want, it is of mutual advantage to exchange. That produces commerce, brings us together and makes us better friends. These mutual accommodations bind together the different parts of this Union. Instead of being a thing to "divide the house" they tend to sustain it, they are the props of the house tending always to hold it up. But is it true that all the difficulty and agitation we have in regard to this institution of slavery springs from office seeking, from the mere ambition of politicians? Is that the truth? How many times have we had danger from this question? Go back to the days of the Missouri Compromise. Go back to the Nullification question, at the bottom of which lay this same slavery question. Go back to the time of the annexation of Texas. Go back to the troubles that led to the Compromise of 1850. You will find that every time, with the single exception of the Nullification question, they sprung from an endeavor to spread this institution. There never was a party in the history of this country, and there probably never will be, of sufficient strength to disturb the general peace of the country. Parties themselves may be divided and quarrel on minor questions. Yet it extends not beyond the parties themselves. The Judge alludes very often in the course of his remarks to the exclusive right which the states have to decide for themselves. I agree with him very readily that the different states have the right. Our controversy with him is in regard to the new territories. We agree that when the states come in as states they have the right and the power to do as they please. We have no power as citizens of the free states or in our federal capacity as members of the federal Union through the general government to disturb slavery in the states where it exists. What I insist upon is that the new territories shall be kept free from it while in the territorial condition. Judge Douglas assumes that we have no interest in them, that we have no right whatever to interfere. I think we have some interest. I think that as white men we have. Do we not wish for an outlet for our surplus population, if I may so express myself? Do we not feel an interest in getting to that outlet with such institutions as we would like to have prevail there? If you go to the territory opposed to slavery and another man comes to the same ground with his slave, upon the assumption that the things are equal, it turns out that he has the equal right all his way and you have no part of it your way. The real issue in this controversy is the sentiment on the part of one class that looks upon the institution of slavery as a wrong, and of another class that does not look upon it as wrong. It is the sentiment around which all their actions, all their arguments circle, from which all their propositions radiate. They look upon it as being a moral, social, and political wrong. Has anything ever threatened the existence of this Union save this very institution of slavery? What is it that we hold most dear amongst us? Our own liberty and prosperity. What has ever threatened our liberty and prosperity except this institution of slavery? If this be true, how do you propose to improve the condition of things by enlarging it? You may have a cancer upon your person and not be able to cut it out lest you bleed to death, but surely it is no way to cure it to graft it and spread it over your body. That is no proper way of treating what you regard as wrong. That is the real issue. That is the issue that will continue in this country when these poor tongues of Judge Douglas and myself are silent. It is the eternal struggle between these two principles, right and wrong, throughout the world. They are the two principles that have stood face to face from the beginning of time, and will ever continue to struggle. The one is the common right of humanity and the other is the divine right of kings. It is the same principle in whatever shape it develops itself. It is the same spirit that says, "You work and toil and earn bread and I'll eat it." No matter in what shape it comes, whether from the mouth of a king who seeks to bestride the people of his own nation and live by the fruit of their labor, or from one race of men as an apology for enslaving another race, it is the same tyrannical principle. VI. MORAL ASPECT OF THE AMERICAN WAR HENRY WARD BEECHER Taken from a speech delivered in London, October 20, 1863. In a series of five speeches in order at Manchester, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Liverpool, and London, Henry Ward Beecher changed the attitude of the English nation from one of open hostility to the Union to neutrality and even to favor. It is doubtful if there ever was a greater triumph in the history of eloquence. This war began by the act of the South, firing at the old flag that had covered both sections with glory and protection. The attack made upon us was under circumstances which inflicted immediate humiliation and threatened us with final subjugation. The Southerners held all the keys of the country. They had robbed our arsenals. They had made our treasury bankrupt. They had possession of the most important offices in the army and navy. They had the advantage of having long anticipated and prepared for the conflict. We knew not whom to trust. One man failed and another man failed. Men, pensioned by the Government, lived on the salary of the Government only to have better opportunity to stab and betray it. And for the North to have lain down like a spaniel, to have given up the land that every child in America is taught, as every child in Britain is taught, to regard as his sacred right and his trust, to have given up the mouths of our own rivers and our mountain citadels without a blow, would have marked the North in all future history as craven and mean. Second, the honor and safety of that grand experiment, self-government by free institutions, demanded that so flagitious a violation of the first principles of legality should not carry off impunity and reward, thereafter enabling the minority in every party conflict to turn and say to the majority, "If you don't give us our way we will make war." Oh, Englishmen, would you let a minority dictate in such a way to you? The principle thus introduced would literally have no end, would carry the nation back to its original elements of isolated states. Nor is there any reason why it should stop with states. If every treaty may be overthrown by which states have been settled into a nation, what form of political union may not on like grounds be severed? There is the same force in the doctrine of secession in the application of counties as in the application to states, and if it be right for a state or a county to secede, it is equally right for a town or a city. This doctrine of secession is a huge revolving millstone that grinds the national life to powder. It is anarchy in velvet, and national destruction clothed in soft phrases. No people with patriotism and honor will give up territory without a struggle for it. Would you give it up? It is said that the states are owners of their territory! It is theirs to use not theirs to run away with. We have equal right with them to enter it. I would like to ask those English gentlemen who hold that it is right for a state to secede when it pleases, how they would like it if the county of Kent would try the experiment. The men who cry out for secession of the Southern States in America would say, "Kent seceding? Ah, circumstances alter cases." One more reason why we will not let this people go is because we do not want to become a military people. A great many say America is becoming too strong, she is dangerous to the peace of the world. But if you permit or favor this division, the South becomes a military nation and the North is compelled to become a military nation. Along a line of 1500 miles she must have forts and men to garrison them. Now any nation that has a large standing army is in great danger of losing its liberties. Before this war the legal size of the national army was 25,000. If the country were divided then we should have two great military nations taking its place. And if America by this ill-advised disruption is forced to have a standing army, like a boy with a knife she will always want to whittle with it. It is the interest then of the world, that the nation should be united, and that it should be under the control of that part of America that has always been for peace. The religious minded among our people feel that in the territory committed to us there is a high and solemn trust, a national trust. We are taught that in some sense the world itself is a field, and every Christian nation acknowledges a certain responsibility for the moral condition of the globe. But how much nearer does it come when it is one's own country! And the church of America is coming to feel more and more that God gave us this country not merely for material aggrandizement, but for a glorious triumph of the church of Christ. Therefore we undertook to rid the territory of slavery. Since slavery has divested itself of its municipal protection and has become a declared public enemy, it is our duty to strike down slavery which would blight this territory. These truths are not exaggerated, they are diminished rather than magnified in my statement, and you cannot tell how powerfully they are influencing us unless you are standing in our midst in America; you cannot understand how firm that national feeling is which God has bred in the North on this subject. It is deeper than the sea, it is firmer than the hills, it is serene as the sky over our head where God dwells. We believe that the war is a test of our institutions, that it is a life-and-death struggle between the two principles of liberty and slavery, that it is the cause of the common people the world over. We believe that every struggling nationality on the globe will be stronger if we conquer this odious oligarchy of slavery and that every oppressed people in the world will be weaker if we fail. The sober American regards the war as part of that awful yet glorious struggle which has been going on for hundreds of years in every nation between right and wrong, between virtue and vice, between liberty and despotism, between freedom and bondage. It carries with it the whole future condition of our vast continent, its laws, its policy, its fate. And standing in view of these tremendous realities we have consecrated all that we have, our children, our wealth, our national strength, and we lay them all on the altar and say, "It is better that they should all perish than that the North should falter and betray this trust of God, this hope of the oppressed, this western civilization." If we say this of ourselves, shall we say less of the slave-holders? If we are willing to do these things, shall we say, "Stop the war for their sakes!" If we say this of ourselves, shall we have more pity for the rebellious, for slavery seeking to blacken a continent with its awful evil, desecrating the social phrase, "National Independence," by seeking only an independence that shall enable them to treat four millions of human beings as chattels? Shall we be tenderer over them than over ourselves? Standing by my cradle, standing by my hearth, standing by the altar of the church, standing by all the places that mark the name and memory of heroic men who poured out their lives for principle, I declare that in ten or twenty years of war we will sacrifice everything we have for principle. If the love of popular liberty is dead in Great Britain you will not understand us, but if the love of liberty lives as it once lived, and has worthy successors of those renowned men that were our ancestors as much as yours, and whose example and principles we inherit as so much seed corn in a new and fertile land, then you will understand our firm invincible determination to fight this war through at all hazards and at every cost. ABOLITION OF WAR[34] CHARLES SUMNER Can there be in our age any peace that is not honorable, any war that is not dishonorable? The true honor of a nation is conspicuous only in deeds of justice and beneficence, securing and advancing human happiness. In the clear eye of that Christian judgment which must yet prevail, vain are the victories of war, infamous its spoils. He is the benefactor, and worthy of honor, who carries comfort to wretchedness, dries the tear of sorrow, relieves the unfortunate, feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, does justice, enlightens the ignorant, unfastens the fetters of the slave, and finally, by virtuous genius, in art, literature, science, enlivens and exalts the hours of life, or by generous example, inspires a love for God and man. This is the Christian hero; this is the man of honor in a Christian land. He is no benefactor, nor worthy of honor, whatever his worldly renown, whose life is absorbed in feats of brute force, who renounces the great law of Christian brotherhood, whose vocation is blood. Fellow-citizens, this criminal and impious custom of war, which all condemn in the case of individuals, is openly avowed by our own country, and by other countries of the great Christian Federation, nay, that it is expressly established by international law, as the proper mode of determining justice between nations,--while the feats of hardihood by which it is waged, and the triumphs of its fields, are exalted beyond all other labors, whether of learning, industry, or benevolence, as the wellspring of glory. Alas! upon our own heads be the judgment of barbarism which we pronounce upon those who have gone before! Who has taught you, O man! thus to find glory in an act, performed by a nation, which you condemn as a crime or a barbarism, when committed by an individual? In what vain conceit of wisdom and virtue do you find this incongruous morality? Where is it declared that God, who is no respecter of persons, is a respecter of multitudes? Whence do you draw these partial laws of an impartial God? Man is immortal; but nations are mortal. Man has a higher destiny than nations. Can nations be less amenable to the supreme moral law? Each individual is an atom of the mass. Must not the mass, in its conscience, be like the individuals of which it is composed? Shall the mass, in relation with other masses, do what individuals in relation with each other may not do? As in the physical creation, so in the moral, there is but one rule for the individual and the mass. It was the lofty discovery of Newton, that the simple law which determines the fall of an apple prevails everywhere throughout the universe, reaching from earth to heaven, and controlling the infinite motions of the spheres. So, with equal scope, another simple law, the law of right, which binds the individual, binds also two or three when gathered together, binds conventions and congregations of men, binds villages, towns, and cities, binds states, nations, and races, clasps the whole human family in its embrace, and binds in self-imposed bonds, a just and omnipotent God. Stripped of all delusive apology and tried by that comprehensive law under which nations are set to the bar like common men, war falls from glory into barbarous guilt, taking its place among bloody transgressions, while its flaming honors are turned into shame. Painful to existing prejudice as this may be, we must learn to abhor it, as we abhor similar transgressions by vulgar offenders. Every word of reprobation which the enlightened conscience now fastens upon the savage combatant in trial by battle, or which it applies to the unhappy being who in murderous duel takes the life of his fellow-man, belongs also to the nation that appeals to war. Amidst the thunders of Sinai God declared, "Thou shalt not kill"; and the voice of these thunders, with this commandment, is prolonged to our own day in the echoes of Christian churches. What mortal shall restrict the application of these words? Who on earth is empowered to vary or abridge the commandments of God? Who shall presume to declare that this injunction was directed, not to nations, but to individuals only; not to many, but to one only; that one man shall not kill but that many may; that one man shall not slay in duel, but that a nation may slay a multitude in the duel of war; that each individual is forbidden to destroy the life of a single human being, but that a nation is not forbidden to cut off by the sword a whole people? We are struck with horror and our hair stands on end, at the report of a single murder; we think of the soul hurried to final account; we hunt the murderer; and Government puts forth its energies to secure his punishment. Viewed in the unclouded light of truth, what is war but organized murder, murder of malice aforethought, in cold blood, under sanction of impious law, through the operation of extensive machinery of crime, with innumerable hands, at incalculable cost of money, by subtle contrivances of cunning and skill, or amidst the fiendish atrocities of the savage, brutal assault. The outrages, which, under most solemn sanction, it permits and invokes for professed purposes of justice, cannot be authorized by any human power; and they must rise in overwhelming judgment, not only against those who wield the weapons of battle, but more still against all who uphold its monstrous arbitrament. Oh, when shall the St. Louis of the nations arise, and in the spirit of true greatness, proclaim that henceforward forever the great trial by battle shall cease, that war shall be abolished throughout the commonwealth of civilization, that a spectacle so degrading shall never be allowed again to take place, and that it is the duty of nations, involving the highest and wisest policy, to establish love between each other, and, in all respects, at all times, with all persons, whether their own people or the people of other lands, to be governed by the sacred law of right, as between man and man. FOOTNOTE: [34] From the "True Grandeur of Nations," delivered in Boston, July 4, 1845. THE AMERICAN FLAG[35] HENRY WARD BEECHER A thoughtful mind, when it sees a nation's flag, sees not the flag only, but the nation itself; and whatever may be its symbols, its insignia, he reads chiefly in the flag the government, the principles, the truths, the history, which belong to the nation which sets it forth. When the French tricolor rolls out to the wind, we see France. When the new-found Italian flag is unfurled, we see resurrected Italy. When the other three-cornered Hungarian flag shall be lifted to the wind, we shall see in it the long-buried but never dead principles of Hungarian liberty. When the united crosses of St. Andrew and St. George on a fiery ground set forth the banner of Old England, we see not the cloth merely; there rises up before the mind the noble aspect of that monarchy, which, more than any other on the globe, has advanced its banner for liberty, law, and national prosperity. This nation has a banner, too; and wherever it streamed abroad, men saw daybreak bursting on their eyes, for the American flag has been the symbol of liberty, and men rejoiced in it. Not another flag on the globe had such an errand, or went forth upon the sea carrying everywhere, the world around, such hope for the captive, and such glorious tidings. The stars upon it were to the pining nations like the morning stars of God, and the stripes upon it were beams of morning light. As at early dawn the stars stand first, and then it grows light, and then as the sun advances, that light breaks into banks and streaming lines of color, the glowing red and intense white striving together and ribbing the horizon with bars effulgent, so on the American flag, stars and beams of many-colored light shine out together. And wherever the flag comes, and men behold it, they see in its sacred emblazonry no rampant lion and fierce eagle, but only light, and every fold significant of liberty. The history of this banner is all on one side. Under it rode Washington and his armies; before it Burgoyne laid down his arms. It waved on the highlands at West Point; it floated over old Fort Montgomery. When Arnold would have surrendered these valuable fortresses and precious legacies, his night was turned into day, and his treachery was driven away by the beams of light from this starry banner. It cheered our army, driven from New York, in their solitary pilgrimage through New Jersey. It streamed in light over Valley Forge and Morristown. It crossed the waters rolling with ice at Trenton; and when its stars gleamed in the cold morning with victory, a new day of hope dawned on the despondency of the nation. And when, at length, the long years of war were drawing to a close, underneath the folds of this immortal banner sat Washington while Yorktown surrendered its hosts and our Revolutionary struggles ended with victory. Let us, then, twine each thread of the glorious tissue of our country's flag about our heartstrings; and looking upon our homes and catching the spirit that breathes upon us from the battle-fields of our fathers, let us resolve, come weal or woe, we will, in life and in death, now and forever, stand by the Stars and Stripes. They have been unfurled from the snows of Canada to the plains of New Orleans, in the halls of the Montezumas and amid the solitude of every sea; and everywhere, as the luminous symbol of resistless and beneficent power, they have led the brave to victory and to glory. They have floated over our cradles; let it be our prayer and our struggle that they shall float over our graves. FOOTNOTE: [35] By permission of the publishers, Fords, Howard & Hulbert. THE AMERICAN PEOPLE[36] ALBERT J. BEVERIDGE The day for the provincial and the transient has passed in American statesmanship. To-day our destiny is brooding over every sea. We are dealing with the world and with the unborn years. We are dealing with the larger duties that ever crowned and burdened human brows. American statesmanship must be as broad as American destiny and as brave as American duty. And American statesmanship will be all this if it draws its inspiration from the masterful American people and their imperial history. For the American people have never taken fear for a counselor. They have never taken doubt for a guide. They have obeyed the impulses of their blood. They have hearkened to the voice of our God. They have surmounted insuperable obstacles on the wings of a mighty faith; they have solved insoluble problems by the sovereign rule of liberty; they have made the bosom of the ocean and the heart of the wilderness their home; they have subdued nature and told history a new tale. Let American statesmanship listen to the heart-beats of the American people in the present hour and there will be no confusion, no hesitation, no craven doubt. The faith of the Mayflower, as it sailed into the storm-fringed horizon, is with us yet. The courage of Lexington and Bunker Hill is with us yet. The spirit of Hamilton and Jefferson and Jackson and Seward and Grant is with us yet. The unconquerable heart of the pioneer still beats within American breasts, and the American flag advances still in its ceaseless and imperial progress, with law and order and Christian civilization trooping beneath its sacred folds. The American people are the propagandists and not the misers of liberty. He who no longer believes in the vitality of the American people, in the immortality and saving grace of free institutions, in the imperial greatness of American destiny, belongs not in the councils of the American Nation, but in the somber Cabinets of the decaying races of the world. The American people are not perishing; they are just beginning their real career. The full sunrise of the day which peculiarly belongs to the American people in the progress of human events has flooded all the world at last; and we will live each golden moment of our mighty day in a way as great as the day itself. FOOTNOTE: [36] By permission of the author. THE AMERICAN QUESTION JOHN BRIGHT Now let me ask you, what is this people about which so many men in England at this moment are writing and speaking and thinking with harshness? Two centuries ago multitudes of the people of this country found a refuge on the North American Continent, escaping from the tyranny of the Stuarts, and from the bigotry of Laud. Many noble spirits from our country made great experiments in favor of human freedom on that continent. Bancroft, the great historian of his country, has said, "The history of the colonization of America is the history of the crimes of Europe." From that time down to our own period America has admitted the wanderers from every clime. Since 1815, a time which many here remember, and which is within my lifetime, more than three millions of persons have emigrated from the United Kingdom to the United States. During the fifteen years from 1845 to 1860 more than two million persons left the shores of the United Kingdom as emigrants to North America. At this very moment, then, there are millions in the United States who personally have been citizens of this country. They found a home in the far West, they subdued the wilderness, they met with plenty there and became a great people. There may be men in England who dislike democracy and who hate a republic. But of this I am certain that only misrepresentation the most gross or calumny the most wicked can sever the tie which unites the great mass of the people of this country with their friends and relatives beyond the Atlantic. Now whether the Union will be restored I know not. But this I think I know, that in a few years, a very few years, the twenty millions of freemen in the North will be thirty or even fifty millions, a population equal to that of this kingdom. When that time comes I pray that it may not be said amongst them that, in the darkest hour of their country's trials, England, the land of their fathers, looked on with icy coldness and saw unmoved the perils and calamities of their children. As for me I have but this to say, if all other tongues are silent, mine shall speak for that policy which gives hope to the bondsmen of the South and which tends to generous thoughts and generous words and generous deeds between the two great nations who speak the English language, and from their origin are alike entitled to the English name. AMERICA'S RELATION TO MISSIONS JAMES B. ANGELL The government which breaks treaties with respect to missionaries and takes no steps to protect them will easily yield to the temptation to infringe on the rights of other citizens. Is it not possible that because our government has allowed outrages against our missionaries to go on since 1883 in Turkey,--highway robbery, brutal assault, destruction of buildings,--without any demonstration beyond peaceful and patient argument, the Ottoman government is now proceeding in so highhanded a manner to prevent by false allegations the importation of our flour and our pork? A nation which allows one class of citizens, who are of the purest character and most unselfish spirit, to be insulted and outraged with impunity in a foreign land must not be surprised if other classes of its citizens are also imposed upon and wronged in that land, wherever selfish interests are invoked against them. Careful observation will show that our large mercantile interests are likely to be imperiled by our neglect to insist on the rights which citizens of any honorable calling are entitled to under treaties of international law. A display of force does not necessarily mean war. It is certainly an emphatic mode of making a demand. It often insures a prompt settlement of difficulties, which, if allowed to drag on and accumulate, would end in war. Therefore, wisely and opportunely made, a proper demonstration in support of a just demand may obviate the ultimate necessity of war. The problem is not a simple one for the government. If it does nothing but register requests for justice, injustice may be done, not only to missionaries, but also to other citizens. Those dilatory, oriental governments, embarrassed by so many difficult problems of internal administration, do not willingly act except under some pressure. And pressure which is not war and which will probably not lead to war, can be brought to bear by diplomatic and naval agencies. Our government was never in so good a condition to pursue such a policy. It has a prestige among oriental nations before unknown. Its voice, when it speaks with an imperative tone, will now be heard. The question for it is far larger than a missionary question. An influential American citizen has lately written me from an oriental country where our requests have received little attention, saying: "If our government proposes to do nothing for American citizens they should say so and turn us over to the care of the British embassy." Such language as that makes one's blood tingle and stirs us to ask afresh, not alone as friends of missionaries, but as American citizens, what policy will our nation adopt to secure the rights of all our countrymen of whatever pursuit who are dwelling under treaty guarantees in China and Turkey? The friends of missions ask no exceptional favors from the government. They simply seek for such protection as their fellow-citizens need. It is, of course, for our government to say at what time and by what methods it shall act. It is sometimes wise and even necessary for a government to postpone seeking a settlement of difficulties with a foreign power, even when it is clear that a settlement is highly desirable. Great exigencies may require delays. We must exercise the patience which patriotism calls for. But we may be permitted without impropriety to express our desire and our opinion that our government should find some way to make it absolutely clear to oriental countries that it intends to secure the protection for all our citizens, including missionaries, to which they are entitled by treaties and by international law. AMERICAN SLAVERY JOHN BRIGHT Slavery has been as we all know the huge, foul blot upon the fame of the American Republic. It is an outrage against human right and against divine law, but the pride, the passion of man, will not permit its peaceable extinction. Is not this war the penalty which inexorable justice exacts from America, North and South, for the enormous guilt of cherishing that frightful iniquity of slavery for the last eighty years? The leaders of this revolt propose this monstrous thing,--that over a territory forty times as large as England the blight and curse of slavery shall be forever perpetuated. I cannot believe that such a fate can befall that fair land, stricken as it now is with the ravages of war. I cannot believe that civilization in its journey with the sun will sink into endless night to gratify the ambition of leaders of this revolt, who seek to "Wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind." I have a far other and brighter vision before my gaze. It may be but a vision, but I will cherish it. I see one vast confederation stretching from the frozen North in unbroken line to the glowing South, and from the wild billows of the Atlantic, westward to the calmer waters of the Pacific main,--and I see one people, and one law, and one language, and one faith, and over all that wide continent the home of freedom and a refuge for the oppressed of every race and of every clime. THE ARMENIAN MASSACRES WILLIAM E. GLADSTONE Ladies and Gentlemen, Before I come to the resolution which I have undertaken to move, there are certain subjects which I wish to clear out of the way. There are most important distinctions to be drawn on the ground that the sufferers under the present misrule and the horribly accumulated outrages of the last two years are our own fellow-Christians. But we do not prosecute the cause we have in hand upon the ground that they are our fellow-Christians. This is no crusade against Mohammedanism. This is no declaration of an altered policy or sentiment as regards our Mohammedan fellow-subjects in India. Nay, more; I will say that it is no declaration of universal condemnation of the Mohammedans of the Turkish Empire. On the contrary, amid the dismal and heartrending reports of which we have had to read and hear so much, one of the rare touches of comfort and relief has been that in spite of the perpetration of massacres by the agents of the Government, in spite of the countenance given to massacre by the highest authority, there have been good and generous Mohammedans who have resisted these misdeeds to the uttermost of their power, who have established for themselves a claim to our sympathy and our admiration. Although it is true that those persons are Christians on whose behalf we move, I confidently affirm, and you will back me in my affirmation, that if instead of being Christians they were themselves Mohammedans, Hindus, Buddhists, or Confucianists--they would have precisely the same claims upon our support; and the motives which have brought us here to-day would be incumbent upon us with the same force and with the same sacredness that we recognize at the present moment. There is another distinction, gentlemen, less conspicuous, that I would wish to draw your attention to. You have been discouraged by the attitude or by the tone of several of the Continental Governments. Do not too hastily assume that in that attitude and tone they are faithful representatives of the people whom they rule. The ground on which we stand here is not British nor European, but human. Nothing narrower than humanity could pretend for a moment justly to represent it. It may have occurred to some that atrocities which it is hardly possible to exaggerate have been boldly denied; and we are told by the Government of Turkey that the destruction of life which has taken place is not the work of either the Sultan or his agents, but is the work of revolutionaries and agitators. In answer to this we may say that we do not rely upon the reports of revolutionaries or agitators. We rely upon the responsible reports of our public men. Nay, more; while we know that there are those among the six Powers who have shown every disposition to treat the case of the Sultan with all the leniency, with all the friendship that they could, yet every one of them concurs in the statements upon which we stand, and in giving an entire denial to counter-statements of the Turkish Government. The guilt of massacre, and not of massacre only but of every other horror that has been transacted, rests upon that Government. And to the guilt of massacre is added the impudence of denial, and this process will continue--how long? Just as long as you, as Europe, are contented to hear it. Recollect that eighteen months or more have passed since the first of those gigantic massacres was perpetrated, and when that occurrence took place it was thought to be so extraordinary that it was without precedent in the past; for Bulgaria becomes pale by the side of Armenia. But alas! that massacre, gigantic as it was, has been followed up so that one has grown into a series. To the work of murder was added the work of lust, the work of torture, the work of pillage, the work of starvation, and every accessory that it was possible for human wickedness to devise. To all other manifestations which had formerly been displayed in the face of the world there was added consummate insolence. Come what may, let us extract ourselves from an ambiguous position. Let us have nothing to do with countenance of, and so renounce and condemn, neutrality; and let us present ourselves to Her Majesty's Ministers, promising them in good faith our ungrudging and our enthusiastic support in every effort which they may make to express by word and by deed their detestation of acts, not yet perhaps having reached their consummation, but which already have come to such a magnitude and such a depth of atrocity that they constitute the most terrible and most monstrous series of proceedings that have ever been recorded in the dismal and deplorable history of human crime. BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC[37] JULIA WARD HOWE Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal, Let the hero born of woman crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat, He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat. Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me; As He died to make men holy let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. FOOTNOTE: [37] By special permission of the author. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY HENRY CABOT LODGE I was a boy ten years old when the troops marched away to defend Washington. I saw the troops, month after month, pour through the streets of Boston. I saw Shaw go forth at the head of his black regiment, and Bartlett, shattered in body but dauntless in soul, ride by to carry what was left of him once more to the battlefields of the Republic. I saw Andrew, standing bareheaded on the steps of the State House, bid the men godspeed. I cannot remember the words he said, but I can never forget the fervid eloquence which brought tears to the eyes and fire to the hearts of all who listened. To my boyish mind one thing alone was clear, that the soldiers, as they marched past, were all, in that supreme hour, heroes and patriots. Other feelings have, in the progress of time, altered much, but amid many changes that simple belief of boyhood has never altered. And you, brave men who wore the gray, would be the first to hold me or any other son of the North in just contempt if I should say that now it was all over I thought the North was wrong and the result of the war a mistake. To the men who fought the battles of the Confederacy we hold out our hands freely, frankly and gladly. We have no bitter memories to revive, no reproaches to utter. Differ in politics and in a thousand other ways we must and shall in all good nature, but never let us differ with each other on sectional or state lines, by race or creed. We welcome you, soldiers of Virginia, as others more eloquent than I have said, to New England. We welcome you to old Massachusetts. We welcome you to Boston and to Faneuil Hall. In your presence here, and at the sound of your voices beneath this historic roof, the years roll back, and we see the figure and hear again the ringing tones of your great orator, Patrick Henry, declaring to the first Continental Congress, "The distinctions between Virginians, Pennsylvanians, New Yorkers, and New Englanders are no more. I am not a Virginian, but an American." A distinguished Frenchman, as he stood among the graves at Arlington, said: "Only a great people is capable of a great civil war." Let us add with thankful hearts that only a great people is capable of a great reconciliation. Side by side, Virginia and Massachusetts led the colonies into the War for Independence. Side by side, they founded the government of the United States. Morgan and Greene, Lee and Knox, Moultrie and Prescott, men of the South and men of the North, fought shoulder to shoulder, and wore the same uniform of buff and blue,--the uniform of Washington. Mere sentiment all this, some may say. But it is sentiment, true sentiment, that has moved the world. Sentiment fought the war, and sentiment has reunited us. When the war was closed it was proposed to give Governor Andrew, who had sacrificed health and strength and property in his public duties, some immediately lucrative office. A friend asked him if he would take such a place. "No," said he; "I have stood as high priest between the horns of the altar, and I have poured out upon it the best blood of Massachusetts, and I cannot take money for that." Mere sentiment truly, but the sentiment which ennobles and uplifts mankind. So I say that the sentiment manifested by your presence here, brethren of Virginia, sitting side by side with those who wore the blue, tells us that if war should break again upon the country, the sons of Virginia and Massachusetts would, as in the olden days, stand once more shoulder to shoulder, with no distinction in the colors that they wear. It is fraught with tidings of peace on earth, and you may read its meaning in the words on yonder picture, "Liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable!" CORRUPTION OF PRELATES GIROLAMO SAVONAROLA When the demon sees that man is weak he gives him a blow with a hatchet, to make him fall into sin, but when he sees him strong he strikes him down with an axe. If there be a young woman, honest and well brought up, he sets an immoral youth near her, and with all kinds of flattery deceives her, and makes her fall into sin. Here the devil has dealt a blow with an axe. Here is an honorable citizen, he enters the courts of the great lords; there is the axe, and so well sharpened, that no strength of virtue can resist it. But we are in these days in a sadder plight; the demon has called his followers for the harvest, and has struck terrible blows upon the doors of the temple. The doors are those which lead into the house, and the prelates are those who should lead the faithful into the church of Christ. It is because of this that the devil has dealt his great blows, and broken the doors to pieces. It is for this that good pastors are no longer to be found in the church. Do ye not perceive that they are bringing everything to ruin? They have no judgment. They can make no distinction between good and evil, between truth and falsehood, between sweet and bitter. Things good appear to them evil, things true to them false, the sweet are to them bitter, the bitter sweet. Ye see prelates prostrating themselves before earthly affections and earthly things; they no longer lay to heart the care of souls; it is enough for them if they receive their incomes; the sermons of their preachers are composed to please princes, and be magnified by them. But something worse yet remains; not only have they destroyed the church of God, but have erected one according to a fashion of their own. This is the modern church, no longer built with living stones, that is, by Christians established in a living faith, and so formed of love. Go to Rome and through all Christendom, in the houses of the great prelates and the great lords, nothing is thought of but poetry and the art of oratory. Go and see, and you will find them with books of the humanities in their hands, and giving themselves up to the belief that they know how to lead the souls of men aright by Virgil, Horace, and Cicero. Do you wish to see the church guided by the hand of the astrologer? Ye will not find either prelate or great lord who is not in confidential intercourse with some astrologer, who predicts to him the hour when he must ride or engage in some other affair. These same great lords do not dare to move a step contrary to what their astrologer tells them. There are only two things in that temple in which they find delight, and these are the paintings, and the gilding with which it is covered. It is thus that in our church there are many beautiful external ceremonies in the solemnization of the holy offices, splendid vestments and draperies, with gold and silver candlesticks, and many chalices, all of which have a majestic effect. There you see great prelates, wearing golden miters, set with precious stones, on their heads, and with silver crosiers, standing before the altar with copes of brocade, slowly intoning vespers and other masses with much ceremony, accompanied by an organ and singers, until ye become quite stupefied; and these men appear to you to be men of great gravity and holiness, and ye believe that they are incapable of error, and they themselves believe that all they say and do is commanded by the gospel to be observed. Men feed upon those vanities, and rejoice in those ceremonies, and say that the church of Christ was never in so flourishing a state, and that divine worship was never so well conducted as in this day; and that the first prelates were very contemptible preachers in comparison with those of modern times. They certainly had not so many golden miters, nor so many chalices; and they parted with those they had to relieve the necessities of the poor; our prelates get their chalices by taking that from the poor which is their support. But dost thou know what I would say? In the primitive church there were wooden chalices and golden prelates; but now the church has golden chalices and wooden prelates. They have established amongst us the festivals of the devil, they believe not in God, and make a mockery of the mysteries of our religion. What doest thou, O Lord? Why slumberest thou? Arise and take the church out of the hands of the devil, out of the hands of tyrants, out of the hands of wicked prelates. Hast thou forgotten thy church? Dost thou not love her? Hast thou no care for her? We are become, O Lord, the opprobrium of the nations; Turks are masters of Constantinople; we have lost Asia, we have lost Greece, we are become tributaries of infidels. O Lord God, thou hast dealt with us as an angry father, thou hast banished us from before thee! Hasten the punishment and the scourge that there may be a speedy return to thee! Pour out thy wrath upon the nations! Be not scandalized, my brethren, by these words; rather consider that when the good wish for punishment, it is because they wish to see evil driven away and the blessed reign of Jesus Christ triumphant throughout the world. We have no other hope left us, unless the sword of the Lord threatens the earth. THE CROSS OF GOLD[38] W. J. BRYAN I would be presumptuous, indeed, to present myself against the distinguished gentlemen to whom you have listened if this were a mere measuring of abilities; but this is not a contest between persons. The humblest citizen in all the land, when clad in the armor of a righteous cause, is stronger than all the hosts of error. I come to speak to you in defense of a cause as holy as the cause of liberty--the cause of humanity. We object to bringing this question down to the level of persons. The individual is but an atom; he is born, he acts, he dies; but principles are eternal; and this has been a contest over a principle. When you come before us and tell us that we are about to disturb your business interests, we reply that you have disturbed our business interests by your course. We say to you that you have made the definition of a business man too limited in its application. The man who is employed for wages is as much a business man as his employer; the attorney in a country town is as much a business man as the corporation counsel in a great metropolis; the merchant at the cross-roads store is as much a business man as the merchant of New York; the farmer who goes forth in the morning and toils all day, who begins in spring and toils all summer, and who by the application of brain and muscle to the natural resources of the country creates wealth, is as much a business man as the man who goes upon the Board of Trade and bets upon the price of grain; the miners who go down a thousand feet into the earth, or climb two thousand feet upon the cliffs, and bring forth from their hiding-places the precious metals to be poured into the channels of trade are as much business men as the few financial magnates who, in a back room, corner the money of the world. We come to speak of this broader class of business men. Ah, my friends, we say not one word against those who live upon the Atlantic Coast, but the hardy pioneers who have braved all the dangers of the wilderness, who have made the desert to blossom as the rose--the pioneers away out there, who rear their children near to Nature's heart, where they can mingle their voices with the voices of the birds--out there where they have erected schoolhouses for the education of their young, churches where they praise their Creator, and cemeteries where rest the ashes of their dead--these people, we say, are as deserving of the consideration of our party as any people in this country. It is for these that we speak. We do not come as aggressors. Our war is not a war of conquest; we are fighting in the defense of our homes, our families, and posterity. We have petitioned, and our petitions have been scorned; we have entreated, and our entreaties have been disregarded; we have begged, and they have mocked when our calamity came. We beg no longer; we entreat no more; we petition no more. We defy them! We say in our platform that we believe that the right to coin and issue money is a function of government. We believe it. We believe that it is a part of sovereignty, and can no more with safety be delegated to private individuals than we could afford to delegate to private individuals the power to make penal statutes or levy taxes. Mr. Jefferson seems to have differed in opinion from the gentleman who has addressed us on the part of the minority. Those who are opposed to this proposition tell us that the issue of paper money is a function of the bank, and that the government ought to go out of the banking business. I stand with Jefferson rather than with them, and tell them, as he did, that the issue of money is a function of government, and that the banks ought to go out of the governing business. And now, my friends, let me come to the paramount issue. If they ask us why it is that we say more on the money question than we say upon the tariff question, I reply that, if protection has slain its thousands, the gold standard has slain its tens of thousands. If they ask us why we do not embody in our platform all the things that we believe in, we reply that when we have restored the money of the Constitution all other necessary reforms will be possible; but that until this is done there is no other reform that can be accomplished. Why is it that within three months such a change has come over the country? Three months ago when it was confidently asserted that those who believe in the gold standard would frame our platform and nominate our candidates, even the advocates of the gold standard did not think that we could elect a President. Why this change? Ah, my friends, is not the reason for the change evident to any one who will look at the matter? No private character, however pure, no personal popularity, however great, can protect from the avenging wrath of an indignant people a man who will declare that he is in favor of fastening the gold standard upon this country, or who is willing to surrender the right of self-government and place the legislative control of our affairs in the hands of foreign potentates and powers. We go forth confident that we shall win. Why? Because upon the paramount issue of this campaign there is not a spot of ground upon which the enemy will dare to challenge battle. If they tell us that the gold standard is a good thing, we shall point to their platform and tell them that their platform pledges the party to get rid of the gold standard and substitute bimetallism. If the gold standard is a good thing, why try to get rid of it? If the gold standard is a bad thing, why should we wait until other nations are willing to help us to let go? Here is the line of battle, and we care not upon which issue they force the fight; we are prepared to meet them on either issue or on both. If they tell us that the gold standard is the standard of civilization, we reply to them that this, the most enlightened of all the nations of the earth, has never declared for a gold standard and that both the great parties this year are declaring against it. If the gold standard is the standard of civilization, why should we not have it? If they come to meet us on that issue, we can present the history of our nation. More than that; we can tell them that they will search the pages of history in vain to find a single instance where the common people of any land have ever declared themselves in favor of the gold standard. They can find where the holders of fixed investments have declared for a gold standard, but not where the masses have. There are two ideas of government. There are those who believe that, if you will only legislate to make the well-to-do prosperous, their prosperity will leak through on those below. The Democratic idea, however, has been that if you legislate to make the masses prosperous, their prosperity will find its way up through every class which rests upon them. You come to us and tell us that the great cities are in favor of the gold standard; we reply that the great cities rest upon our broad and fertile prairies. Burn down your cities and leave our farms, and your cities will spring up again as if by magic; but destroy our farms and the grass will grow in the streets of every city in the country. My friends, we declare that this nation is able to legislate for its own people on every question, without waiting for the aid or consent of any other nation on earth; and upon that issue we expect to carry every state in the Union. I shall not slander the inhabitants of the fair State of Massachusetts nor the inhabitants of the State of New York by saying that, when they are confronted with the proposition, they will declare that this nation is not able to attend to its own business. It is the issue of 1776 over again. Our ancestors, when but three millions in number, had the courage to declare their political independence of every other nation; shall we, their descendants, when we have grown to seventy millions, declare that we are less independent than our forefathers? No, my friends, that will never be the verdict of our people. Therefore, we care not upon what lines the battle is fought. If they say bimetallism is good, but that we cannot have it until other nations help us, we reply that, instead of having a gold standard because England has, we will restore bimetallism, and then let England have bimetallism because the United States has it. If they dare to come out in the open field and defend the gold standard as a good thing, we will fight them to the uttermost. Having behind us the producing masses of this nation and the world, supported by the commercial interests, the laboring interests and the toilers everywhere, we will answer their demand for a gold standard by saying to them: You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold. FOOTNOTE: [38] From a speech delivered in the city of Chicago before the Democratic National Convention of 1896. DEATH OF CONGRESSMAN BURNES J. J. INGALLS At this crisis and juncture, when every instant is priceless, the Senate proceeds by unanimous consent to consider resolutions of the highest privilege, and reverently pauses in obedience to the holiest impulses of human nature to contemplate the profoundest mystery of human destiny--the mystery of death. In the democracy of death all men at least are equal. There is neither rank, nor station, nor prerogative in the republic of the grave. At that fatal threshold the philosopher ceases to be wise and the song of the poet is silent. At that fatal threshold Dives relinquishes his millions and Lazarus his rags. The poor man is as rich as the richest and the rich man is as poor as the pauper. The creditor loses his usury and the debtor is acquitted of his obligation. The proud man surrenders his dignity, the politician his honors, the worldling his pleasures. James Nelson Burnes, whose life and virtues we commemorate to-day, was a man whom Plutarch might have described and Vandyke portrayed. Massive, rugged and robust, in motion slow, in speech serious and deliberate, grave in aspect, serious in demeanor, of antique and heroic mold, the incarnation of force. As I looked for the last time upon that countenance, from which no glance of friendly recognition nor word of welcome came, I reflected upon the impenetrable and insoluble mystery of death. If death be the end, if the life of Burnes terminated upon "this bank and shoal of time," if no morning is to dawn upon the night in which he sleeps, then sorrow has no consolation, and this impressive and solemn ceremony which we observe to-day has no more significance than the painted pageant of the stage. If the existence of Burnes was but a troubled dream, his death oblivion, what avails it that the Senate should pause to recount his virtues? Neither veneration nor reverence is due the dead if they are but dust; no cenotaph should be reared to preserve for posterity the memory of their achievements if those who come after them are to be only their successors in annihilation and extinction. If in this world only we have hope and consciousness duty must be a chimera; our pleasures and our passions should be the guides of conduct, and virtue is indeed a superstition if life ends at the grave. This is the conclusion which the philosophy of negation must accept at last. Such is the felicity of those degrading precepts which make the epitaph the end. If the life of Burnes is as a taper that is burned out then we treasure his memory and his example in vain, and the latest prayer of his departing spirit has no more sanctity to us, who soon or late must follow him, than the whisper of winds that stir the leaves of the protesting forest, or the murmur of the waves that break upon the complaining shore. THE DEATH OF GARFIELD[39] JAMES GILLESPIE BLAINE On the morning of Saturday, July second, the President was a contented and happy man--not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly, happy. On his way to the railroad-station, to which he drove slowly, in conscious enjoyment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted sense of leisure and a keen anticipation of pleasure, his talk was all in the grateful and gratulatory vein. He felt that after four months of trial his administration was strong in its grasp of affairs, strong in popular favor and destined to grow stronger; that grave difficulties confronting him at his inauguration had been safely passed; that trouble lay behind him, and not before him; that he was soon to meet the wife whom he loved, now recovering from an illness which had but lately disquieted and at times almost unnerved him; that he was going to his alma mater to renew the most cherished associations of his young manhood, and to exchange greetings with those whose deepening interest had followed every step of his upward progress from the day he entered upon his college course until he had attained the loftiest elevation in the gift of his countrymen. Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him, no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave. Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of Murder he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death. And he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes, whose lips may tell? What brilliant broken plans, what baffled high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter rending of sweet household ties! Behind him a proud, expectant nation; a great host of sustaining friends; a cherished and happy mother wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged from childhood's day of frolic; the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day, and every day rewarding, a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demand. Before him, desolation and great darkness! And his soul was not shaken. His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound, and universal sympathy. Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the center of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the winepress alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the divine decree. As the end drew near, his early craving for the sea returned. The stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison-walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders, on its far sails whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a farther shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning. FOOTNOTE: [39] From a memorial oration delivered in the House of Representatives, February 27, 1882, published by Henry Bill Publishing Co., Norwich, Conn. DEATH OF TOUSSAINT L'OVERTURE[40] WENDELL PHILLIPS Returning to the hills, Toussaint issued the only proclamation which bears his name, and breathes vengeance: "My children, France comes to make us slaves. God gave us liberty. France has no right to take it away. Burn the cities, destroy the harvests, tear up the roads with cannon, poison the wells. Show the white man the hell he comes to make"; and he was obeyed. When the great William of Orange saw Louis XIV. cover Holland with troops, he said: "Break down the dikes, give Holland back to ocean"; and Europe said, "Sublime!" When Alexander saw the armies of France descend upon Russia, he said: "Burn Moscow, starve back the invaders!" and Europe said, "Sublime!" This black saw all Europe come to crush him, and gave to his people the same heroic example of defiance. Holland lent sixty ships. England promised by special message to be neutral; and you know neutrality means sneering at freedom, and sending arms to tyrants. England promised neutrality, and the black looked out and saw the whole civilized world marshaled against him. America, full of slaves, was of course hostile. Only the Yankee sold him poor muskets at a very high price. Mounting his horse, and riding to the eastern end of the island, he looked out on a sight such as no native had ever seen before. Sixty ships of the line, crowded by the best soldiers of Europe, rounded the point. They were soldiers who had never yet met an equal, whose tread, like Cæsar's, had shaken Europe: soldiers who had scaled the Pyramids, and planted the French banners on the walls of Rome. He looked a moment, counted the flotilla, let the reins fall on the neck of his horse, and turning to Christophe, exclaimed: "All France is come to Hayti; they can only come to make us slaves; and we are lost!" Toussaint was too dangerous to be left at large. So they summoned him to attend a council; he went, and the moment he entered the room the officers drew their swords and told him he was a prisoner. They put him on shipboard and weighed anchor for France. As the island faded from his sight he turned to the captain and said, "You think you have rooted up the tree of liberty, but I am only a branch; I have planted the tree so deep that all France can never root it up." He was sent to a dungeon twelve feet by twenty, built wholly of stone, with a narrow window, high up on one side, looking out on the snows of Switzerland. In this living tomb the child of the sunny tropics was left to die. But he did not die fast enough. Napoleon ordered the commandant to go into Switzerland, to carry the keys of the dungeon with him and stay four days. When he returned, Toussaint was found starved to death. Napoleon, that imperial assassin, was taken, twelve years later, to his prison at St. Helena, planned for a tomb, as he had planned that of Toussaint, and there he whined away his dying hours in pitiful complaints. God grant that when some future Plutarch shall weigh the great men of our epoch, he do not put that whining child of St. Helena into one scale, and into the other the negro, meeting death like a Roman, without a murmur, in the solitude of his icy dungeon. FOOTNOTE: [40] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. THE DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY ABRAHAM LINCOLN Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have met to dedicate a portion of it as the final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it far beyond our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated to the unfinished work that they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us; that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people and for the people, shall not perish from the earth. THE FALLEN HEROES OF JAPAN ADMIRAL HEIHAICHIRO TOGO This speech was a part of a very impressive Shinto ceremony in which the Commander-in-Chief of the Japanese fleets addressed the spirits of the officers and sailors who lost their lives during the war with Russia. For simple eloquence it has seldom been surpassed. The clouds of war have disappeared from sea and from shore, and the whole city, with a peaceful, placid heart like that of a child, goes out to meet the men who shared life and death with you, and who now return triumphant under the imperial standard, while their families wait for them at the gates of their homes. Looking back, we recall how, bearing the bitter cold and enduring the fierce heat, you fought again and again with our strong foe, and while the issue of the contest was still uncertain you went before us to the grave, leaving us to envy the glory you had won by your loyal deaths. We longed to imitate you in paying the debt to sovereign and country. Your valiant and vehement fighting always achieved success. In no combat did you fail to conquer. Throughout ten months the attack on Port Arthur continued and the result was determined. In the Sea of Japan a single annihilating effort decided the issue. Thenceforth the enemy's shadow disappeared from the face of the ocean. This success had its origin in the infinite virtues of the emperor, but it could not have been achieved had not you, forgetting yourselves, sacrificed your lives in the public service. The war is over. We who return in triumph see signs of joy everywhere. But we remember that we cannot share it with you, and mingled feelings of sadness and rejoicing struggle painfully for expression. The triumph of to-day has been purchased by your glorious deaths, and your loyalty and valor will inspire our navy, guarding the imperial land for all time. We here perform this rite of worship to your spirits, and speaking something of our sad thoughts, pray you to come and receive the offerings we make. SECESSION[41] ALEXANDER H. STEPHENS Mr. President: This step of secession, once taken, can never be recalled; and all the baleful and withering consequences that must follow, will rest on the convention for all coming time. When we and our posterity shall see our lovely South desolated by the demon of war, which this act of yours will inevitably invite and call forth; when our green fields of waving harvest shall be trodden down by the murderous soldiery and fiery car of war sweeping over our land; our temples of justice laid in ashes; all the horrors and desolation of war upon us; who but this Convention will be held responsible for it? And who but him who shall have given his vote for this unwise and ill-timed measure, as I honestly think and believe, shall be held to strict account for this suicidal act by the present generation, and probably cursed and execrated by posterity for all coming time, for the wide and desolating ruin that will inevitably follow this act you now propose to perpetrate? Pause, I entreat you, and consider for a moment what reasons you can give, that will even satisfy yourselves in calmer moments--what reason you can give to your fellow-sufferers in the calamity that it will bring upon us. What reasons can you give to the nations of the earth to justify it? They will be the calm and deliberate judges in the case; and what cause or one overt act can you name or point, on which to rest the plea of justification? What right has the North assailed? What interest of the South has been invaded? What justice has been denied? And what claim founded in justice and right has been withheld? Can either of you to-day name one governmental act of wrong, deliberately and purposely done by the government of Washington, of which the South has a right to complain? I challenge the answer. While, on the other hand, let me show the facts, of which I wish you to judge, and I will only state facts which are clear and undeniable, and which now stand as records authentic in the history of our country. When we of the South demanded the slave-trade, or the importation of Africans for the cultivation of our lands, did they not yield the right for twenty years? When we asked a three-fifths representation in Congress for our slaves, was it not granted? When we asked and demanded the return of any fugitive from justice, or the recovery of those persons owing labor or allegiance, was it not incorporated in the Constitution, and again ratified and strengthened by the Fugitive Slave Law of 1850? But do you reply that in many instances they have violated this compact, and have not been faithful to their engagements? As individual and local communities, they may have done so; but not by the sanction of government; for that has always been true to Southern interests. Again, gentlemen, look at another act; when we have asked that more territory should be added, that we might spread the institution of slavery, have they not yielded to our demands in giving us Louisiana, Florida, and Texas? From these, four States have been carved, and ample territory for four more is to be added in due time, if you, by this unwise and impolitic act, do not destroy this hope, and, perhaps, by it lose all, and have your last slave wrenched from you by stern military rule, as South America and Mexico were; or by the vindictive decree of a universal emancipation which may reasonably be expected to follow. But, again, gentlemen, what have we to gain by this proposed change of our relation to the general government? We have always had the control of it, and can yet, if we remain in it, and are as united as we have been. We have had a majority of the Presidents chosen from the South, as well as the control and management of most of those chosen from the North. We have had sixty years of Southern Presidents to their twenty-four, thus controlling the executive department. So of the judges of the Supreme Court, we have had eighteen from the South and but eleven from the North; although nearly four-fifths of the judicial business has arisen in the free states, yet a majority of the Court has always been from the South. This we have required so as to guard against any interpretation of the Constitution unfavorable to us. In like manner we have been equally watchful to guard our interests in the legislative branch of government. In choosing the presidents of the Senate, we have had twenty-four to their eleven. Speakers of the House we have had twenty-three, and they twelve. While the majority of the representatives, from their greater population, have always been from the North, yet we have generally secured the Speaker, because he, to a great extent, shapes and controls the legislation of the country. Nor have we had less control in every other department of the general government. Attorney-generals we have had fourteen, while the North have had but five. Foreign ministers we have had eighty-six and they but fifty-four. While three-fourths of the business which demands diplomatic agents abroad is clearly from the free states, from their greater commercial interest, yet we have had the principal embassies, so as to secure the world-markets for our cotton, tobacco, and sugar on the best possible terms. We have had a vast majority of the higher offices of both army and navy, while a larger proportion of the soldiers and sailors were drawn from the North. Again, from official documents, we learn that a fraction over three-fourths of the revenue collected for the support of the government has uniformly been raised from the North. Leaving out of view, for the present, the countless millions of dollars you must expend in a war with the North; with tens of thousands of your sons and brothers slain in battle, and offered up as sacrifices upon the altar of your ambition--and for what, we ask again? Is it for the overthrow of the American government, established by our common ancestry, cemented and built up by their sweat and blood, and founded on the broad principles of right, justice, and humanity? And as such, I must declare here, as I have often done before, and which has been repeated by the greatest and wisest of statesmen and patriots, in this and other lands, that it is the best and freest government--the most equal in its rights, the most just in its decisions, the most lenient in its measures, and the most aspiring in its principles, to elevate the race of men, that the sun of heaven ever shone upon. Now, for you to attempt to overthrow such a government as this, under which we have lived for more than three-quarters of a century--in which we have gained our wealth, our standing as a nation, our domestic safety, while the elements of peril are around us, with peace and tranquillity accompanied with unbounded prosperity and rights unassailed--is the height of madness, folly, and wickedness, to which I neither lend my sanction nor my vote. FOOTNOTE: [41] Delivered at the Georgia State Convention, January, 1861. THE DEATH OF GRADY JOHN TEMPLE GRAVES Oh, brilliant and incomparable Grady! We lay for a season thy precious dust beneath the soil that bore and cherished thee, but we fling back against all our brightening skies the thoughtless speech that calls thee dead! God reigns and His purpose lives, and although these brave lips are silent here, the seeds sown in his incarnate eloquence will sprinkle patriots through the years to come, and perpetuate thy living in a race of nobler men! But all our words are empty, and they mock the air. If we should speak the eulogy that fills this day, let us build within the city that he loved, a monument tall as his services, and noble as the place he filled. Let every Georgian lend a hand, and as it rises to confront in majesty his darkened home, let the widow who weeps there be told that every stone that makes it has been sawn from the sound prosperity that he builded, and that the light which plays upon its summit is, in afterglow, the sunshine that he brought into the world. And for the rest--silence. The sweetest thing about his funeral was that no sound broke the stillness save the reading of the Scriptures, and the melody of music. No fire that can be kindled upon the altar of speech can relume the radiant spark that perished yesterday. No blaze born in all our eulogy can burn beside the sunlight of his useful life. After all, there is nothing grander than such living. I have seen the light that gleamed from the headlight of some giant engine rushing onward through the darkness, heedless of opposition, fearless of danger, and I thought it was grand. I have seen the light come over the eastern hills in glory, driving the hazy darkness like mist before a sea-born gale, till leaf and tree and blade of grass glittered in the myriad diamonds of the morning ray, and I thought it was grand. I have seen the light that leaped at midnight athwart the storm-swept sky, shivering over chaotic clouds, mid howling winds, till cloud and darkness and the shadow-haunted earth flashed into mid-day splendor, and I knew it was grand. But the grandest thing next to the radiance that flows from the Almighty Throne is the light of a noble and beautiful life, wrapping itself in benediction round the destinies of men, and finding its home in the blessed bosom of the Everlasting God! THE GLORY OF PEACE CHARLES SUMNER The art of war is yet held even among Christians to be an honorable pursuit. It shall be for another age to appreciate the more exalted character of the art of benevolence which, in blessed contrast with the misery, the degradation, the wickedness of war, shall shine resplendent in the true grandeur of peace. Then shall the soul thrill with a nobler heroism than that of battle. Peaceful industry, with untold multitudes of cheerful and beneficent laborers, shall be its gladsome token. Literature, full of sympathy and comfort for the heart of man, shall appear in garments of purer glory than she has yet assumed. Science shall extend the bounds of knowledge and power, adding unimaginable strength to the hands of men, opening innumerable resources in the earth and revealing new secrets and harmonies in the skies. The increasing beneficence and intelligence of our own day, the broad-spread sympathy with suffering, the widening thoughts of men, the longings of the heart for a higher condition on earth, the unfulfilled promises of Christian progress are the auspicious auguries of this happy future. As early voyagers over untried realms of waste we have already observed the signs of land. The green and fresh red berries have floated by our bark, the odors of the shore fan our faces, nay, we may seem to descry the distant gleam of light, and hear from the more earnest observers, as Columbus heard, after midnight from the masthead of the Pinta, the joyful cry of "Land! Land!" and lo! a new world broke upon his early morning gaze. THE HOPE OF THE REPUBLIC H. W. GRADY I went to Washington the other day and I stood on the Capitol hill, and my heart beat quick as I looked at the towering marble of my country's Capitol, and a mist gathered in my eyes as I thought of its tremendous significance, of the armies and the treasury, and the judges and the President, and the Congress and the courts, and all that was gathered there; and I felt that the sun in all its course could not look down on a better sight than that majestic home of a Republic that had taught the world its best lessons of liberty. And I felt that if honor and wisdom and justice dwelt therein, the world would at last owe that great house, in which the ark of the covenant of my country is lodged, its final uplifting and its regeneration. But a few days afterwards I went to visit a friend in the country, a modest man, with a quiet country home. It was just a simple, unpretentious house, set about with great trees and encircled in meadow and field rich with the promise of harvest; the fragrance of the pink and the hollyhock in the front yard was mingled with the aroma of the orchard and the garden, and the resonant clucking of poultry and the hum of bees. Inside was quiet, cleanliness, thrift and comfort. Outside there stood my friend, the master, a simple, independent, upright man, with no mortgage on his roof, no lien on his growing crops--master of his land and master of himself. There was the old father, an aged and trembling man, but happy in the heart and home of his son. And, as he started to enter his home, the hand of the old man went down on the young man's shoulder, laying there the unspeakable blessing of an honored and honorable father, and ennobling it with the knighthood of the fifth commandment. And as we approached the door the mother came, a happy smile lighting up her face, while with the rich music of her heart she bade her husband and her son welcome to their home. Beyond was the housewife, busy with her domestic affairs, the loving helpmate of her husband. Down the lane came the children after the cows, singing sweetly, as like birds they sought the quiet of their nest. So the night came down on that house, falling gently as the wing of an unseen dove. And the old man, while a startled bird called from the forest and the trees thrilled with the cricket's cry, and the stars were falling from the sky, called the family around him and took the Bible from the table and called them to their knees. The little baby hid in the folds of its mother's dress while he closed the record of that day by calling down God's blessing on that simple home. While I gazed, the vision of the marble Capitol faded; forgotten were its treasuries and its majesty; and I said, "Surely here in the house of the people lodge at last the strength and the responsibility of this government, the hope and the promise of this Republic." HUNGARIAN HEROISM LOUIS KOSSUTH Gentlemen have said that it was I who inspired the Hungarian people. I cannot accept the praise. No, it was not I who inspired the Hungarian people, it was the Hungarian people who inspired me. Whatever I thought and still think, whatever I felt and still feel, is but the pulsation of that heart which in the breast of my people beats. The glory of battle is for the historic leaders. Theirs are the laurels of immortality. And yet in encountering the danger, they knew that, alive or dead, their names would, on the lips of people, forever live. How different the fortune, how nobler, how purer the heroism of those children of the people who went forth freely to meet death in their country's cause, knowing that where they fell they would lie undistinguished and unknown, their names unhonored and unsung. Animated, nevertheless, by the love of freedom and the fatherland, they went forth calmly singing their national anthems till, rushing upon the batteries whose cross fires vomited upon them death and destruction, they took them without firing a shot,--those who fell falling with the shout, "Hurrah for Hungary!" And so they died by thousands--the unnamed demigods! Such is the people of Hungary. Still it is said it is I who have inspired them. No! a thousand times, no! It is they who have inspired me. INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS[42] WILLIAM MCKINLEY Ladies and Gentlemen, I am glad to be again in the City of Buffalo and exchange greetings with her people, to whose generous hospitality I am not a stranger, and with whose good will I have been repeatedly and signally honored. Expositions are the timekeepers of progress. They record the world's advancement. They stimulate the energy, enterprise and intellect of the people and quicken human genius. They go into the home. They broaden and brighten the daily life of the people. They open mighty storehouses of information to the student. The wisdom and energy of all the nations are none too great for the world's work. The success of art, science, industry and invention is an international asset and a common glory. After all, how near one to the other is every part of the world. Modern inventions have brought into close relation widely separated peoples, and made them better acquainted. Geographic and political divisions will continue to exist, but distances have been effaced. Swift ships and fast trains are becoming cosmopolitan. They invade fields which a few years ago were impenetrable. The world's products are exchanged as never before, and with increasing transportation facilities come increasing knowledge and trade. Prices are fixed with mathematical precision by supply and demand. The world's selling prices are regulated by market and crop reports. We travel greater distances in a shorter space of time, and with more ease than was ever dreamed of by the fathers. Isolation is no longer possible or desirable. The same important news is read, though in different languages, the same day in all Christendom. The telegraph keeps us advised of what is occurring everywhere, and the press foreshadows, with more or less accuracy, the plans and purposes of the nations. Market prices of products and of securities are hourly known in every commercial mart, and the investments of the people extend beyond their own national boundaries into the remotest parts of the earth. Vast transactions are conducted and international exchanges are made by the tick of the cable. Every event of interest is immediately bulletined. The quick gathering and transmission of news, like rapid transit, are of recent origin, and are only made possible by the genius of the inventor and the courage of the investor. It took a special messenger of the government, with every facility known at the time for rapid travel, nineteen days to go from the City of Washington to New Orleans with a message to General Jackson that the war with England had ceased and a treaty of peace had been signed. How different now! We reached General Miles in Porto Rico by cable, and he was able through the military telegraph to stop his army on the firing line with the message that the United States and Spain had signed a protocol suspending hostilities. We knew almost instantly of the first shots fired at Santiago, and the subsequent surrender of the Spanish forces was known at Washington within less than an hour of its consummation. The first ship of Cervera's fleet had hardly emerged from that historic harbor when the fact was flashed to our capital and the swift destruction that followed was announced immediately through the wonderful medium of telegraphy. At the beginning of the nineteenth century there was not a mile of steam railroad on the globe. Now there are enough miles to make its circuit many times. Then there was not a line of electric telegraph; now we have vast mileage traversing all lands and all seas. God and man have linked the nations together. No nation can longer be indifferent to any other. And as we are brought more and more in touch with each other the less occasion there is for misunderstandings and the stronger the disposition, when we have differences, to adjust them in the court of arbitration, which is the noblest forum for the settlement of international disputes. The period of exclusiveness is past. The expansion of our trade and commerce is the pressing problem. Commercial wars are unprofitable. A policy of good will and friendly trade relations will prevent reprisals. Reciprocity treaties are in harmony with the spirit of the times; measures of retaliation are not. If perchance some of our tariffs are no longer needed for revenue or to encourage and protect our industries at home, why should they not be employed to extend and promote our markets abroad? Then, too, we have inadequate steamship service. New lines of steamers have already been put in commission between the Pacific coast ports of the United States and those on the western coasts of Mexico and Central and South America. These should be followed up with direct steamship lines between the eastern coast of the United States and South American ports. One of the needs of the times is direct commercial lines from our vast fields of production to the fields of consumption that we have but barely touched. Next in advantage to having the thing to sell is to have the convenience to carry it to the buyer. We must encourage our merchant marine. We must have more ships. They must be under the American flag, built and manned and owned by Americans. These will not be profitable in a commercial sense; they will be messengers of peace and amity wherever they go. We must build the isthmian canal, which will unite the two oceans and give a straight line of water communication with the western coasts of Central America, South America and Mexico. The construction of a Pacific cable cannot be longer postponed. In the furtherance of these objects of national interest and concern you are performing an important part. This exposition would have touched the heart of that American statesman whose mind was ever alert and thought ever constant for a larger commerce and a truer fraternity of the republics of the new world. His broad American spirit is felt and manifested here. He needs no identification to an assemblage of Americans anywhere, for the name of Blaine is inseparably associated with the pan-American movement, which finds this practical and substantial expression and which we all hope will be firmly advanced by the pan-American congress that assembles this autumn in the capital of Mexico. The good work will go on. It cannot be stopped. These buildings will disappear, this creation of art and beauty and industry will perish from sight, but their influence will remain to "Make it live beyond its too short living With praises and thanksgiving." Who can tell the new thoughts that have been awakened, and ambitions fired, and the high achievements that will be wrought through this Exposition? Gentlemen, let us ever remember that our interest is in concord, not conflict, and that our real eminence rests in the victories of peace, not those of war. We hope that all who are represented here may be moved to higher and nobler effort for their own and the world's good, and that out of this city may come not only greater commerce and trade for us all, but, more essential than these, relations of mutual respect, confidence and friendship which will deepen and endure. Our earnest prayer is that God will graciously vouchsafe prosperity, happiness and peace to all our neighbors and like blessings to all the peoples and powers of earth. FOOTNOTE: [42] His last speech, delivered at the Buffalo Exposition, September 5, 1901. IRISH HOME RULE[43] WILLIAM E. GLADSTONE I may without impropriety remind the House that the voices which usually pleaded the cause of Irish self-government in Irish affairs have within these walls during the last seven years been almost entirely mute. I return therefore to the period of 1886, when a proposition of this kind was submitted on the part of the government, and I beg to remind the House of the position then taken up by all the promoters of these measures. We said that we had arrived at a point in our transactions with Ireland where the two roads parted. "You have," we said, "to choose one or the other." One is the way of Irish autonomy according to the conceptions I have just referred to, the other is the way of coercion. What has been the result of the dilemma as it was then put forward on this side of the House and repelled by the other? Has our contention that the choice lay between autonomy and coercion been justified or not? What has become of each and all of these important schemes for giving Ireland self-government in provinces and giving her even a central establishment in Dublin with limited powers? All vanished into thin air, but the reality remains. The roads were still there, autonomy or coercion. The choice lay between them, and the choice made was to repel autonomy and embrace coercion. In 1886 for the first time coercion was imposed on Ireland in the shape of a permanent law added to the statute book. This state of things constituted an offense against the harmony and traditions of self-government. It was a distinct and violent breach of the promise on the faith of which union was obtained. The permanent system of repression inflicted upon the country a state of things which could not continue to exist. It was impossible to bring the inhabitants of the country under coercion into sympathy with the coercion power. It was then prophesied confidently that Irishmen would take their places in the Cabinet of the United Kingdom, but it has been my honored destiny to sit in Cabinet with no less than sixty to seventy statesmen, of whom only one, the Duke of Wellington, was an Irishman, while Castlereagh was the only other Irishman who has sat in the Cabinet since union. Pitt promised equal laws when the union was formed, but the broken promises made to Ireland are unhappily written in indelible characters in the history of the country. It is to me astonishing that so little weight is attached by many to the fact that Irish wishes of self-government were represented only by a small minority. Now what voting power are the eighty members to have? Ireland is to be represented here fully; that is my first postulate. My second postulate is that Ireland is to be invested with separate powers, subject, no doubt, to imperial authority. Ireland is to be endowed with separate powers over Irish affairs. Then the question before us is: Is she or is she not to vote so strongly upon matters purely British? There are reasons both ways. We cannot cut them off in a manner perfectly clean and clear from these questions. We cannot find an absolutely accurate line of cleavage between questions that are imperial questions and those that are Irish questions. Unless Irish members vote on all questions you break the parliamentary tradition. The presence of eighty members with only limited powers of voting is a serious breach of that tradition, which ought to be made the subject of most careful consideration. Now come the reasons against the universal voting powers. It is difficult to say: Everything on that side Irish, everything on this side imperial. That, I think, you cannot do. If you ask me for a proportion, I say nine-tenths, perhaps nineteen-twentieths, of the business of Parliament can without difficulty be classed as Irish or imperial. It would be a great anomaly if these eighty Irish members should come here continually to intervene in questions purely and absolutely British. If some large question or controversy in British affairs should then come up, causing a deep and vital severing of the two great parties in this House, and the members of those parties knew that they could bring over eighty members from Ireland to support their views, I am afraid a case like that would open a possible door to dangerous political intrigue. The whole subject is full of thorns and brambles, but our object is the autonomy and self-government of Ireland in all matters properly Irish. I wish to supply the keynote to the financial part of the legislation. That keynote is to be found in the provision included in our plans from the first, and wisely and generously acceded to by Ireland through her representatives, that there is to be but one system of legislation as far as external things are concerned that will be found to entail very important consequences. It has guided us to the conclusion at which we arrived of unity of commercial legislation for the three kingdoms. By adopting this keynote we can attain to the most valuable results and will be likely to avoid the clashing of agents of the Imperial and agents of the Irish Government. We can make, under cover of this proposal, a larger and more liberal transfer to Ireland in the management of her own affairs than we could make if we proceeded on any other principles. The principle to which we are bound to give effect in Ireland is: Ireland has to bear a fair share of imperial expenditure. I will now release the House from the painful consideration of details which it has pursued with unexampled patience. I must say, however, for my own part that I never will and never can be a party to bequeathing to my country the continuance of this heritage of discord which has been handed down from generation to generation, with hardly momentary interruption, through seven centuries--this heritage of discord, with all the evils that follow in its train. I wish no part in that process. It would be misery for me if I had foregone or omitted in these closing years of my life any measure it was possible for me to take toward upholding and promoting the cause which I believe to be the cause--not of one party or one nation--but of all parties and all nations. To these nations, viewing them as I do, with their vast opportunities, under a living union for power and happiness, to these nations I say: Let me entreat you--if it were my latest breath I would so entreat you--let the dead bury their dead, and cast behind you former recollections of bygone evils; cherish love and sustain one another through all the vicissitudes of human affairs in times that are to come. FOOTNOTE: [43] Delivered in the House of Commons, February 13, 1893. ABRAHAM LINCOLN EMILIO CASTELAR The past century has not, the century to come will not have, a figure so grand as that of Abraham Lincoln, because as evil disappears so disappears heroism also. I have often contemplated and described his life. Born in a cabin of Kentucky, of parents who could hardly read; born a new Moses in the solitude of the desert, where are forged all great and obstinate thoughts, monotonous like the desert, and growing up among those primeval forests, which, with their fragrance, send a cloud of incense, and, with their murmurs, a cloud of prayers to heaven; a boatman at eight years in the impetuous current of the Ohio, and at seventeen in the vast and tranquil waters of the Mississippi; later, a woodman, with axe and arm felling the immemorial trees, to open a way to unexplored regions for his tribe of wandering workers; reading no other book than the Bible, the book of great sorrows and great hopes, dictated often by prophets to the sound of fetters they dragged through Nineveh and Babylon; a child of Nature; in a word, by one of those miracles only comprehensible among free peoples, he fought for the country, and was raised by his fellow-citizens to the Congress at Washington, and by the nation to the Presidency of the Republic; and when the evil grew more virulent, when those States were dissolved, when the slave-holders uttered their war-cry and the slaves their groans of despair, humblest of the humble before his conscience, greatest of the great before history, ascends the Capitol, the greatest moral height of our time, and strong and serene with his conscience and his thought; before him a veteran army, hostile Europe behind him, England favoring the South, France encouraging reaction in Mexico, in his hands the riven country; he arms two millions of men, gathers half a million of horses, sends his artillery twelve hundred miles in a week, from the banks of the Potomac to the shores of the Tennessee; fights more than six hundred battles; renews before Richmond the deeds of Alexander, of Cæsar; and, after having emancipated three million slaves, that nothing might be wanting, he dies in the very moment of victory--like Christ, like Socrates, like all redeemers, at the foot of his work. His work! sublime achievement! over which humanity shall eternally shed its tears, and God his benedictions! ABRAHAM LINCOLN JAMES A. GARFIELD In the great drama of the rebellion there were two acts. The first was the war, with its battles and sieges, its victories and defeats, its sufferings and tears. Just as the curtain was lifting on the second and final act, the restoration of peace and liberty, the evil spirit of the rebellion, in the fury of despair, nerved and directed the hand of an assassin to strike down the chief character in both. It was no one man who killed Abraham Lincoln; it was the embodied spirit of treason and slavery, inspired with fearful and despairing hate, that struck him down in the moment of the nation's supremest joy. Sir, there are times in the history of men and nations when they stand so near the veil that separates mortals from immortals, time from eternity, and men from God that they can almost hear the beatings and pulsations of the heart of the Infinite. Through such a time has this nation passed. When two hundred and fifty thousand brave spirits passed from the field of honor, through that thin veil, to the presence of God, and when at last its parting folds admitted the martyr President to the company of those dead heroes of the Republic, the nation stood so near the veil that the whispers of God were heard by the children of men. Awe-stricken by his voice, the American people knelt in tearful reverence and made a solemn covenant with Him and with each other that this nation should be saved from its enemies, that all its glories should be restored, and, on the ruins of slavery and treason, the temples of freedom and justice should be built, and should survive forever. It remains for us, consecrated by that great event and under a covenant with God, to keep that faith, to go forward in the great work until it shall be completed. Following the lead of that great man, and obeying the high behests of God, let us remember that: "He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on." LOUISIANA PURCHASE EXPOSITION[44] JOHN HAY I thank you, Mr. Chairman; I thank you, gentlemen--all of you--for your too generous and amiable welcome. I esteem it a great privilege to meet so many representatives of an estate which, more than any other, at this hour controls the world. It is my daily duty in Washington to confer with the able and distinguished representatives of civilized sovereigns and states. But we are all aware that the days of personal government are gone forever; that behind us, and behind the rulers we represent, there stands the vast, irresistible power of public opinion, which in the last resort must decide all the questions we discuss, and whose judgment is final. In your persons I greet the organs and exponents of that tremendous power with all the respect which is due to you and your constituency, deeply sensible of the honor which has been done me in making me the mouthpiece of the sentiment of appreciation and regard with which the nation welcomes you to this great festival of peace and of progress. Upon none of the arts or professions has the tremendous acceleration of progress in recent years had more effect than upon that of which you are the representatives. We easily grow used to miracles; it will seem a mere commonplace when I say that all the wonders of the magicians invented by those ingenious oriental poets who wrote the "Arabian Nights" pale before the stupendous facts which you handle in your daily lives. The air has scarcely ceased to vibrate with the utterances of kings and rulers in the older realms when their words are read in the streets of St. Louis and on the farms of Nebraska. The telegraph is too quick for the calendar; you may read in your evening paper a dispatch from the antipodes with a date of the following day. The details of a battle on the shores of the Hermit Kingdom, a land which a few years ago was hidden in the mists of legend, are printed and commented on before the blood of the wounded has ceased to flow. Almost before the smoke of the conflict has lifted we read the obituaries of the unsepultured dead. And not only do you record with the swiftness of thought these incidents of war and violence, but the daily victories of truth over error, of light over darkness; the spread of commerce in distant seas, the inventions of industry, the discoveries of science, are all placed instantly within the knowledge of millions. The seeds of thought, perfected in one climate, blossom and fructify under every sky, in every nationality which the sun visits. With these miraculous facilities, with this unlimited power, comes also an enormous responsibility in the face of God and man. I am not here to preach to you a gospel whose lessons are known to you far better than to me. I am not calling sinners to repentance, but I am following a good tradition in stirring up the pure minds of the righteous by way of remembrance. It is well for us to reflect on the vast import, the endless chain of results, of that globe-encircling speech you address each day to the world. Your winged words have no fixed flight; like the lightning, they traverse the ether according to laws of their own. They light in every clime; they influence a thousand different varieties of minds and manners. How vastly important is it, then, that the sentiments they convey should be those of good will rather than of malevolence, those of national concord rather than of prejudice, those of peace rather than of hostility. The temptation to the contrary is almost irresistible. I acknowledge with contrition how often I have fallen by the way. It is far more amusing to attack than to defend, to excite than to soothe. But the highest victory of great power is that of self-restraint, and it would be a beneficent result of this memorable meeting, this oecumenical council of the press, if it taught us all--the brethren of this mighty priesthood--that mutual knowledge of each other which should modify prejudices, restrain acerbity of thought and expression, and tend in some degree to bring in that blessed time-- "When light shall spread and man be liker man Through all the season of the Golden Year." What better school was ever seen in which to learn the lesson of mutual esteem and forbearance than this great exposition? The nations of the earth are met here in friendly competition. The first thing that strikes the visitor is the infinite diversity of thought and effort which characterizes the several exhibits; but a closer study every day reveals a resemblance of mind and purpose more marvelous still. Integrity, industry, the intelligent adaptation of means to ends, are everywhere the indispensable conditions of success. Honest work, honest dealing, these qualities mark the winner in every part of the world. The artist, the poet, the artisan, and the statesman, they everywhere stand or fall through the lack or the possession of similar qualities. How shall one people hate or despise another when we have seen how like us they are in most respects, and how superior they are in some! Why should we not revert to the ancient wisdom which regarded nothing human as alien, and to the words of Holy Writ which remind us that the Almighty has made all men brethren? In the name of the President--writer, soldier, and statesman, eminent in all three professions and in all equally an advocate of justice, peace, and good will--I bid you a cordial welcome, with the prayer that this meeting of the representatives of the world's intelligence may be fruitful in advantage to the press of all nations and may bring us somewhat nearer to the dawn of the day of peace on earth and good will among men. Let us remember that we are met to celebrate the transfer of a vast empire from one nation to another without the firing of a shot, without the shedding of one drop of blood. If the press of the world would adopt and persist in the high resolve that war should be no more, the clangor of arms would cease from the rising of the sun to its going down, and we could fancy that at last our ears, no longer stunned by the din of armies, might hear the morning stars singing together and all the sons of God shouting for joy. FOOTNOTE: [44] Address of the Secretary of State at the opening of the Press Parliament of the World, at St. Louis, on the 19th of May, 1904. Used by permission of Mrs. Hay. THE MAN WITH THE MUCK-RAKE[45] THEODORE ROOSEVELT In Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress" you may recall the description of the Man with the Muck-rake, the man who could look no way but downward, with the muck-rake in his hand; who was offered a celestial crown for his muck-rake, but who would neither look up nor regard the crown he was offered, but continued to rake to himself the filth of the floor. In "Pilgrim's Progress" the Man with the Muck-rake is set forth as the example of him whose vision is fixed on carnal instead of on spiritual things. Yet he also typifies the man who in this life consistently refuses to see aught that is lofty, and fixes his eyes with solemn intentness only on that which is vile and debasing. Now, it is very necessary that we should not flinch from seeing what is vile and debasing. There is filth on the floor, and it must be scraped up with the muck-rake; and there are times and places where this service is the most needed of all the services that can be performed. But the man who never does anything else, who never thinks or speaks or writes, save of his feats with the muck-rake, speedily becomes, not a help to society, not an incitement to good, but one of the most potent forces for evil. There are, in the body politic, economic and social, many and grave evils, and there is urgent necessity for the sternest war upon them. There should be relentless exposure of and attack upon every evil man, whether politician or business man, every evil practice, whether in politics, in business, or in social life. I hail as a benefactor every writer or speaker, every man who, on the platform, or in book, magazine, or newspaper, with merciless severity makes such attack, provided always that he in his turn remembers that the attack is of use only if it is absolutely truthful. The liar is no whit better than the thief, and if his mendacity takes the form of slander, he may be worse than most thieves. It puts a premium upon knavery untruthfully to attack an honest man, or even with hysterical exaggeration to assail a bad man with untruth. An epidemic of indiscriminate assault upon character does not good, but very great harm. The soul of every scoundrel is gladdened whenever an honest man is assailed, or even when a scoundrel is untruthfully assailed. Now, it is easy to twist out of shape what I have just said, easy to affect to misunderstand it, and, if it is slurred over in repetition, not difficult really to misunderstand it. Some persons are sincerely incapable of understanding that to denounce mud-slinging does not mean the indorsement of whitewashing; and both the interested individuals who need whitewashing, and those others who practice mud-slinging, like to encourage such confusion of ideas. One of the chief counts against those who make indiscriminate assault upon men in business or men in public life, is that they invite a reaction which is sure to tell powerfully in favor of the unscrupulous scoundrel who really ought to be attacked, who ought to be exposed, who ought, if possible, to be put in the penitentiary. If Aristides is praised overmuch as just, people get tired of hearing it; and overcensure of the unjust finally and from similar reasons results in their favor. Any excess is almost sure to invite a reaction; and, unfortunately, the reaction, instead of taking the form of punishment of those guilty of the excess, is very apt to take the form either of punishment of the unoffending or of giving immunity, and even strength, to offenders. The effort to make financial or political profit out of the destruction of character can only result in public calamity. Gross and reckless assaults on character, whether on the stump or in newspaper, magazine, or book, create a morbid and vicious public sentiment, and at the same time act as a profound deterrent to able men of normal sensitiveness and tend to prevent them from entering the public service at any price. As an instance in point, I may mention that one serious difficulty encountered in getting the right type of men to dig the Panama Canal is the certainty that they will be exposed, both without, and, I am sorry to say, sometimes within Congress, to utterly reckless assaults on their character and capacity. At the risk of repetition let me say again that my plea is, not for immunity to but for the most unsparing exposure of the politician who betrays his trust, of the big business man who makes or spends his fortune in illegitimate or corrupt ways. There should be a resolute effort to hunt every such man out of the position he has disgraced. Expose the crime, and hunt down the criminal; but remember that even in the case of crime, if it is attacked in sensational, lurid, and untruthful fashion, the attack may do more damage to the public mind than the crime itself. It is because I feel that there should be no rest in the endless war against the forces of evil that I ask that the war be conducted with sanity as well as with resolution. The men with the muck-rakes are often indispensable to the well-being of society; but only if they know when to stop raking the muck, and to look upward to the celestial crown above them, to the crown of worthy endeavor. There are beautiful things above and round about them; and if they gradually grow to feel that the whole world is nothing but muck, their power of usefulness is gone. If the whole picture is painted black, there remains no hue whereby to single out the rascals for distinction from their fellows. Such painting finally induces a kind of moral color-blindness; and people affected by it come to the conclusion that no man is really black, and no man really white, but they are all gray. In other words, they neither believe in the truth of the attack, nor in the honesty of the man who is attacked; they grow as suspicious of the accusation as of the offense; it becomes well-nigh hopeless to stir them either to wrath against wrong-doing or to enthusiasm for what is right; and such a mental attitude in the public gives hope to every knave, and is the despair of honest men. To assail the great and admitted evils of our political and industrial life with such crude and sweeping generalizations as to include decent men in the general condemnation means the searing of the public conscience. There results a general attitude either of cynical belief in and indifference to public corruption or else of a distrustful inability to discriminate between the good and the bad. Either attitude is fraught with untold damage to the country as a whole. The fool who has not sense to discriminate between what is good and what is bad is well-nigh as dangerous as the man who does discriminate and yet chooses the bad. There is nothing more distressing to every good patriot, to every good American, than the hard, scoffing spirit which treats the allegation of dishonesty in a public man as a cause for laughter. Such laughter is worse than the crackling of thorns under a pot, for it denotes not merely the vacant mind, but the heart in which high emotions have been choked before they could grow to fruition. There is any amount of good in the world, and there never was a time when loftier and more disinterested work for the betterment of mankind was being done than now. The forces that tend for evil are great and terrible, but the forces of truth and love and courage and honesty and generosity and sympathy are also stronger than ever before. It is a foolish and timid, no less than a wicked thing, to blink the fact that the forces of evil are strong, but it is even worse to fail to take into account the strength of the forces that tell for good. Hysterical sensationalism is the very poorest weapon wherewith to fight for lasting righteousness. The men who, with stern sobriety and truth, assail the many evils of our time, whether in the public press, or in magazines, or in books, are the leaders and allies of all engaged in the work for social and political betterment. But if they give good reason for distrust of what they say, if they chill the ardor of those who demand truth as a primary virtue, they thereby betray the good cause, and play into the hands of the very men against whom they are nominally at war.... At this moment we are passing through a period of great unrest--social, political, and industrial unrest. It is of the utmost importance for our future that this should prove to be not the unrest of mere rebelliousness against life, of mere dissatisfaction with the inevitable inequality of conditions, but the unrest of a resolute and eager ambition to secure the betterment of the individual and the nation. So far as this movement of agitation throughout the country takes the form of a fierce discontent with evil, of a determination to punish the authors of evil, whether in industry or politics, the feeling is to be heartily welcomed as a sign of healthy life. If, on the other hand, it turns into a mere crusade of appetite against appetite, of a contest between the brutal greed of the "have-nots" and the brutal greed of the "haves," then it has no significance for good, but only for evil. If it seeks to establish a line of cleavage, not along the line which divides good men from bad, but along that other line, running at right angles thereto, which divides those who are well off from those who are less well off, then it will be fraught with immeasurable harm to the body politic. We can no more and no less afford to condone evil in the man of capital than evil in the man of no capital. The wealthy man who exults because there is a failure of justice in the effort to bring some trust magnate to an account for his misdeeds is as bad as, and no worse than, the so-called labor leader who clamorously strives to excite a foul class feeling on behalf of some other labor leader who is implicated in murder. One attitude is as bad as the other, and no worse; in each case the accused is entitled to exact justice; and in neither case is there need of action by others which can be construed into an expression of sympathy for crime. It is a prime necessity that if the present unrest is to result in permanent good the emotion shall be translated into action, and that the action shall be marked by honesty, sanity and self-restraint. There is mighty little good in a mere spasm of reform. The reform that counts is that which comes through steady, continuous growth; violent emotionalism leads to exhaustion.... The first requisite in the public servants who are to deal in this shape with corporations, whether as legislators or as executives, is honesty. This honesty can be no respecter of persons. There can be no such thing as unilateral honesty. The danger is not really from corrupt corporations; it springs from the corruption itself, whether exercised for or against corporations. The eighth commandment reads, "Thou shalt not steal." It does not read, "Thou shalt not steal from the rich man." It does not read, "Thou shalt not steal from the poor man." It reads simply and plainly, "Thou shalt not steal." No good whatever will come from that warped and mock morality which denounces the misdeeds of men of wealth and forgets the misdeeds practiced at their expense; which denounces bribery, but blinds itself to blackmail; which foams with rage if a corporation secures favors by improper methods, and merely leers with hideous mirth if the corporation is itself wronged. The only public servant who can be trusted honestly to protect the rights of the public against the misdeed of a corporation is that public man who will just as surely protect the corporation itself from wrongful aggression. If a public man is willing to yield to popular clamor and do wrong to the men of wealth or to rich corporations, it may be set down as certain that if the opportunity comes he will secretly and furtively do wrong to the public in the interest of a corporation. But, in addition to honesty, we need sanity. No honesty will make a public man useful if that man is timid or foolish, if he is a hot-headed zealot or an impracticable visionary. As we strive for reform we find that it is not at all merely the case of a long uphill pull. On the contrary, there is almost as much of breeching work as of collar work; to depend only on traces means that there will soon be a runaway and an upset. The men of wealth who to-day are trying to prevent the regulation and control of their business in the interest of the public by the proper Government authorities will not succeed, in my judgment, in checking the progress of the movement. But if they did succeed they would find that they had sown the wind and would surely reap the whirlwind, for they would ultimately provoke the violent excesses which accompany a reform coming by convulsion instead of by steady and natural growth. On the other hand, the wild preachers of unrest and discontent, the wild agitators against the entire existing order, the men who act crookedly, whether because of sinister design or from mere puzzleheadedness, the men who preach destruction without proposing any substitute for what they intend to destroy, or who propose a substitute which would be far worse than the existing evils--all these men are the most dangerous opponents of real reform. If they get their way, they will lead the people into a deeper pit than any into which they could fall under the present system. If they fail to get their way, they will still do incalculable harm by provoking the kind of reaction which, in its revolt against the senseless evil of their teaching, would enthrone more securely than ever the very evils which their misguided followers believe they are attacking. More important than aught else is the development of the broadest sympathy of man for man. The welfare of the wage-worker, the welfare of the tiller of the soil, upon these depend the welfare of the entire country; their good is not to be sought in pulling down others; but their good must be the prime object of all our statesmanship. Materially we must strive to secure a broader economic opportunity for all men, so that each shall have a better chance to show the stuff of which he is made. Spiritually and ethically we must strive to bring about clean living and right thinking. We appreciate that the things of the body are important; but we appreciate also that the things of the soul are immeasurably more important. The foundation stone of national life is, and ever must be, the high individual character of the average citizen. FOOTNOTE: [45] From an address delivered by the President at the laying of the corner-stone of the Office Building of the House of Representatives, April 14, 1906. MESSAGE TO THE SQUADRON[46] ADMIRAL HEIHAICHIRO TOGO The war of twenty months' duration is now a thing of the past, and our united squadron, having completed its functions, is to be herewith dispersed. But our duties as naval men are not at all lightened for that reason. To preserve in perpetuity the fruits of this war, to promote to ever greater heights of prosperity the fortunes of the country, the navy, which, irrespective of peace or war, has to stand between the Empire and shocks from abroad, must always maintain its strength at sea and must be prepared to meet any emergency. This strength does not consist solely in ships and armaments, it consists also in material ability to utilize such agents. When we understand that one gun that scores a hundred per cent of hits is a match for a hundred of the enemy's guns each of which scores only one per cent, it becomes evident that we sailors must have recourse before everything to the strength which is over and above externals. The triumphs recently won by our navy are largely to be attributed to the habitual training which enabled us to garner the fruits of the fighting. If, then, we infer the future from the past, we recognize that, though wars may cease, we cannot abandon ourselves to ease and rest. A soldier's whole life is one continuous and unceasing battle, and there is no reason why his responsibilities should vary with the state of the times. In days of crisis he has to display his strength, in days of peace to accumulate it, thus perpetually and uniquely discharging his duties to the full. If men calling themselves sailors grasp at the pleasures of peace, they will learn the lesson that, however fine in appearance their engines of war, those, like a house built on the sand, will fall at the first approach of the storm. When in ancient times we conquered Korea that country remained over four hundred years under our control, only to be lost by Japan as soon as our navy had declined. Again, when under the sway of the Tokugawa in modern days our armaments were neglected, the coming of a few American ships threw us into distress. On the other hand, the British navy, which won the battles of the Nile and of Trafalgar, not only made England as secure as a great mountain, but also by thenceforth carefully maintaining its strength and keeping it on a level with the world's progress has safeguarded that country's interests and promoted its fortunes. Such lessons, whether ancient or modern, occidental or oriental, though to some extent they are the outcome of political happenings, must be regarded as in the main the natural result of whether the soldier remembers war in the day of peace. We naval men who have survived the war must plan future developments and seek not to fall behind the progress of the time. If, keeping the instructions of our Sovereign ever graven on our hearts, we serve him earnestly and diligently, and putting forth our full strength await what the hour may bring forth, we shall then have discharged our great duty of perpetually guarding our country. FOOTNOTE: [46] Address at the dispersal of the squadron at the close of the Russo-Japanese war. THE MINUTE MAN GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS Citizens of a great, free, and prosperous country, we come hither to honor the men, our fathers, who on this spot struck the first blow in the contest which made our country independent. Here, beneath the hills they trod, by the peaceful river on whose shores they dwelt, amidst the fields that they sowed and reaped, we come to tell their story, to try ourselves by their lofty standard, to know if we are their worthy children; and, standing reverently where they stood and fought and died, to swear before God and each other, that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. The minute man of the Revolution! And who was he? He was the husband and father, who left the plough in the furrow, the hammer on the bench, and, kissing his wife and children, marched to die or to be free! He was the old, the middle-aged, the young. He was Captain Miles, of Acton, who reproved his men for jesting on the march! He was Deacon Josiah Haines, of Sudbury, eighty years old, who marched with his company to South Bridge, at Concord, then joined in that hot pursuit to Lexington, and fell as gloriously as Warren at Bunker Hill. He was James Hayward, of Acton, twenty-two years old, foremost in that deadly race from Charlestown to Concord, who raised his piece at the same moment with a British soldier, each exclaiming, "You are a dead man!" The Briton dropped, shot through the heart. Hayward fell mortally wounded. "Father," said he, "I started with forty balls; I have three left. I never did such a day's work before. Tell mother not to mourn too much; and tell her whom I love more than my mother that I am not sorry I turned out." The last living link with the Revolution has long been broken; and we who stand here to-day have a sympathy with the men at the old North Bridge, which those who preceded us here at earlier celebrations could not know. With them war was a name and a tradition. When they assembled to celebrate this day, they saw a little group of tottering forms, whose pride was that, before living memory, they had been minute men of American Independence. But with us, how changed! War is no longer a tradition, half romantic and obscure. It has ravaged how many of our homes, it has wrung how many of the hearts before me? North and South, we know the pang. We do not count around us a few feeble veterans of the contest, but we are girt with a cloud of witnesses. Behold them here to-day, sharing in these pious and peaceful rites, the honored citizens whose glory it is that they were minute men of American liberty and union! These men of to-day interpret to us, with resistless eloquence, the men and the times we commemorate. Now, if never before, we understand the Revolution. Now, we know the secrets of those old hearts and homes. No royal governor sits in yon stately capitol; no hostile fleet for many a year has vexed the waters of our coast; nor is any army but our own ever likely to tread our soil. Not such are our enemies to-day. They do not come proudly stepping to the drum-beat, with bayonets flashing in the morning sun. But wherever party spirit shall strain the ancient guarantees of freedom, or bigotry and ignorance of caste shall strike at equal rights, or corruption shall poison the very springs of national life, there, minute men of liberty, are your Lexington Green and Concord Bridge! And, as you love your country and your kind, and would have your children rise up and call you blessed, spare not the enemy! Over the hills, out of the earth, down from the clouds, pour in resistless might! Fire from every rock and tree, from door and window, from hearth-stone and chamber; hang upon his flank and rear from morn to sunset, and so through a land blazing with holy indignation, hurl the hordes of ignorance and corruption and injustice back, back in utter defeat and ruin. A MORE PERFECT UNION[47] GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS Upon this field consecrated by American valor we meet to consecrate ourselves to American union. In this hallowed ground lie buried, not only brave soldiers of the blue and the gray, but the passions of war, the jealousies of sections, and the bitter root of all our national differences, human slavery. Here long and angry controversies of political dogma, of material interest, and of local pride and tradition, came to their decisive struggle. As the fate of Christendom was determined at Tours, that of American Independence at Saratoga, and that of modern Europe at Waterloo, the destiny of the American Union was decided at Gettysburg. A hundred other famous fields there are of the same American bravery in the same tremendous strife; fields whose proud and terrible tale history and song will never tire of telling. But it is here that the struggle touched its highest point. Here broke the fiery crest of that invading wave of war. This is one of the historic fields of the world, and to us Americans no other has an interest so profound. Marathon and Arbela, Worcester and Valmy, even our own Bunker Hill and Saratoga and Yorktown, fields of undying fame, have not for us a significance so vital and so beneficent as this field of Gettysburg. Around its chief and central interest gather associations of felicitous significance. Like the House of Delegates in Williamsburg, where Patrick Henry roused Virginia to resistance; like Faneuil Hall in Boston, where Samuel Adams lifted New England to independence; like Carpenter's Hall in Philadelphia, where the Continental Congress assembled, this field is invested with the undying charm of famous words fitly spoken. While yet the echoes of the battle might have seemed to linger in the awed and grieving air, stood the sad and patient and devoted man, whose burden was greater than that of any man of his generation, and as greatly borne as any solemn responsibility in human history. Upon this field he spoke the few simple words which enshrine the significance of the great controversy and which have become a part of this historic scene, to endure with the memory of Gettysburg, and to touch the heart and exalt the hope of every American from the gulf to the lakes and from ocean to ocean, so long as this valley shall smile with spring and glow with autumn, and day and night and seed time and harvest shall not fail. To-day his prophetic vision is fulfilled. The murmur of these hosts of peace encamped upon this field of war, this universal voice of friendly greeting and congratulation, these cheers of the gray echoing the cheers of the blue, what are they but the answering music of those chords of memory; the swelling chorus of the Union responding to the better angels of our nature? If there be joy in Heaven this day, it is in the heart of Abraham Lincoln as he looks down upon this field of Gettysburg. But that the glory of this day, and of America, and of human nature, may be full, it is the veterans and survivors of the armies whose tremendous conflict interpreted the Constitution, who to-day, here upon the field of battle and upon its twenty-fifth anniversary, clasp friendly hands of sympathy to salute a common victory. This is a spectacle without precedent in history. No field of the cloth of gold, or of the grounded arms, no splendid scene of the royal adjustment of conquests, the diplomatic settlement of treaties, or the papal incitement of crusades, rivals in moral grandeur and significance this simple pageant. The sun of Gettysburg rose on the 1st of July and saw the army of the gray already advancing in line of battle; the army of the blue still hastening eagerly forward and converging to this point. The glory of midsummer filled this landscape as if nature had arrayed a fitting scene for a transcendent event. Once more the unquailing lines so long arrayed against each other stood face to face. Once more the inexpressible emotion mingled of yearning memory, of fond affection, of dread foreboding, of high hope, of patriotic enthusiasm and of stern resolve, swept for a moment over thousands of brave hearts, and the next instant the overwhelming storm of battle burst. For three long, proud, immortal days it raged and swayed, the earth trembling, the air quivering, the sky obscured; with shouting charge, and rattling volley, the thundering cannonade piling the ground with mangled and bleeding blue and gray, the old, the young, but always and everywhere the devoted and the brave. Doubtful the battle hung and paused. Then a formidable bolt of war was forged on yonder wooded height and launched with withering blasts and roar of fire against the foe. It was a living bolt and sped as if resistless. It reached and touched the flaming line of the embattled blue. It pierced the line. For one brief moment in the sharp agony of mortal strife it held its own. It was the supreme moment of the peril of the Union. It was the heroic crisis of the war. But the fiery force was spent. In one last, wild, tumultuous struggle brave men dashed headlong against men as brave, and the next moment that awful bolt of daring courage was melted in the fervent heat of an equal valor, and the battle of Gettysburg was fought. If the rising sun of the Fourth of July, 1863, looked upon a sad and unwonted scene, a desolated battlefield, upon which the combatants upon either side had been American citizens, yet those combatants could they have seen aright would have hailed that day as more glorious than ever before. For as the children of Israel beheld Moses descending amid the clouds and thunder of the sacred mount bearing the divinely illuminated law, so from that smoking and blood-drenched field on which all hope of future union might seem to have perished utterly, they would have seen a more perfect union rising, with the constitution at last immutably interpreted, and they would have heard, before they were uttered by human lips, the words of which Gettysburg is the immortal pledge to mankind, government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. FOOTNOTE: [47] Delivered at Gettysburg, July 3, 1888. The occasion was a reunion of the Blue and the Gray on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the great battle. NAPOLEON THOMAS CORWIN Napoleon thought France was too small, that Europe should bow down to him. But as soon as this idea took possession of his soul he became powerless, while he meditated the subjugation of Russia. He who holds the winds in his power, gathered the snows from the north and blew them upon his six hundred thousand men. They fled, they froze, they perished. And now the mighty Napoleon, who had resolved on universal dominion, is summoned to answer for the violation of that ancient law, "Thou shalt not covet anything which is thy neighbor's." And how is the mighty fallen! He beneath whose proud footstep Europe trembled, he is now an exile at Elba, and now, finally a prisoner on the rock of St. Helena, and there on a barren island, in an unfrequented sea, in the crater of an extinguished volcano, there is the death-bed of the mighty conqueror. And all his annexations have come to that! His last hour has now come, and he, the man of destiny, he who had rocked the world as in the throes of an earthquake, is now powerless--even as a beggar, so he died. On the wings of a tempest, that raged with unwonted fury, up to the throne of the only power that controlled him while he lived, went the fiery soul of that wonderful warrior, another witness to the existence of that eternal decree, that they who do not rule in righteousness shall perish from the earth. NAPOLEON[48] ROBERT G. INGERSOLL A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon, a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity, and gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world. I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I saw him at Toulon. I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of Paris. I saw him at the head of the army of Italy. I saw him crossing the bridge of Lodi with the tricolor in his hand. I saw him in Egypt in the shadows of the Pyramids. I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo, at Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster, driven by a million bayonets back upon Paris--clutched like a wild beast--banished to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea. I thought of the orphans and widows he had made, of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said, "I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the amorous kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather have been that poor peasant, with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day died out of the sky, with my children upon my knees and their arms about me. I would rather have been that man, and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder, known as Napoleon the Great." FOOTNOTE: [48] By permission of C. P. Farrell, publisher. NATIONAL CONTROL OF CORPORATIONS[49] THEODORE ROOSEVELT When this government was founded there were no great individual or corporate fortunes, and commerce and industry were being carried on very much as they had been carried on in the days when Nineveh and Babylon stood in the Mesopotamian Valley. Sails, oars, wheels--those were the instruments of commerce. The pack train, the wagon train, the row boat, the sailing craft--those were the methods of commerce. Everything has been revolutionized in the business world since then, and the progress of civilization from being a dribble has become a torrent. There was no particular need at that time of bothering as to whether the nation or the state had control of corporations. They were easy to control. Now, however, the exact reverse is the case. And remember when I say corporations I do not mean merely trusts, technically so-called, merely combinations of corporations, or corporations under certain peculiar conditions. For instance, some time ago the Attorney General took action against a certain trust. There was considerable discussion as to whether the trust aimed at would not seek to get out from under the law by becoming a single corporation. Now I want laws that will enable us to deal with any evil no matter what shape it takes. I want to see the government able to get at it definitely, so that the action of the government cannot be evaded by any turning within or without federal or state statutes. At present we have really no efficient control over a big corporation which does business in more than one state. Frequently the corporation has nothing whatever to do with the state in which it is incorporated except to get incorporated; and all its business may be done in entirely different communities--communities which may object very much to the methods of incorporation in the state named. I do not believe that you can get any action by any state, I do not believe it practicable to get action by all the states that will give us satisfactory control of the trusts, of big corporations; and the result is at present that we have a great, powerful, artificial creation which has no creator to which it is responsible. The creator creates it and then it goes and operates somewhere else, and there is no interest on the part of the creator to deal with it. It does not do anything where the creator has power; it operates entirely outside of the creator's jurisdiction. It is, of course, a mere truism to say that the corporation is the creature of the state, that the state is sovereign. There should be a real and not a nominal sovereign, some one sovereign to which the corporation shall be really and not nominally responsible. At present if we pass laws nobody can tell whether they will amount to anything. That has two bad effects. In the first place, the corporation becomes indifferent to the lawmaking body; and in the next place, the lawmaking body gets into that most pernicious custom of passing a law not with reference to what will be done under it, but with reference to its effects upon the opinions of the voters. That is a bad thing. When any body of lawmakers passes a law, not simply with reference to whether that law will do good or ill, but with the knowledge that not much will come of it, and yet that perhaps the people as a whole will like to see it on the statute books--it does not speak well for the lawmakers, and it does not speak well for the people either. What I hope to see is power given to the national legislature which shall make the control real. It would be an excellent thing if you could have all the states act on somewhat similar lines so that you would make it unnecessary for the national government to act; but all of you know perfectly well that the states will not act on similar lines. No advance whatever has been made in the direction of intelligent dealing by the states as a collective body with those great corporations. I am not advocating anything very revolutionary. I am advocating action to prevent anything revolutionary. Now if we can get adequate control by the nation of these great corporations, then we can pass legislation which will give us the power of regulation and supervision over them. If the nation had that power, I should advocate as strenuously as I know how that the power should be exercised with extreme caution and self-restraint. FOOTNOTE: [49] From a speech delivered at Symphony Hall, Boston, August 25, 1902. THE NEGRO HENRY W. GRADY The love we feel for that race you cannot measure nor comprehend. As I attest it here, the spirit of my old black mammy from her home up there looks down to bless, and through the tumult of this night steals the sweet music of her croonings as thirty years ago she held me in her black arms and led me smiling into sleep. This scene vanishes as I speak, and I catch a vision of an old Southern home, with its lofty pillars, and its white pigeons fluttering down through the golden air. I see women with strained and anxious faces, and children alert yet helpless. I see night come down with its dangers and its apprehensions, and in a big homely room I feel on my tired head the touch of loving hands, and I thank God that she is safe in her sanctuary, because her slaves, sentinel in the silent cabin or on guard at her chamber door, put a black man's loyalty between her and danger. I catch another vision. The crisis of battle, a soldier struck, staggering, fallen. I see a slave, scuffling through the smoke, winding his black arms about the fallen form, reckless of the hurtling death--bending his trusty face to catch the words that tremble on the stricken lips. I see him by the weary bedside, ministering with uncomplaining patience, praying with all his humble heart that God will lift his master up, until death comes in mercy and in honor to still the soldier's agony and seal the soldier's life. I see him by the open grave, mute, motionless, uncovered, suffering for the death of him who in life fought against his freedom. I see him when the mound is heaped and the great drama of his life is closed, turn away and with downcast eyes and uncertain step start out into new and strange fields, faltering, struggling, but moving on, until his shambling figure is lost in the light of this better and brighter day. And out into this new world--strange to me as to him, dazzling, bewildering both--I follow! And may God forget my people when they forget these. NEW ENGLAND JOSIAH QUINCY The great comprehensive truths, written in letters of living light on every page of our history,--the language addressed by every past age of New England to all future ages, is this: Human happiness has no perfect security but freedom; freedom, none but virtue; virtue, none but knowledge; and neither freedom, nor virtue, nor knowledge, has any vigor or immortal hope, except in the principles of the Christian faith, and in the sanctions of the Christian religion. Men of Massachusetts! citizens of Boston! descendants of the early immigrants! consider your blessings; consider your duties. You have an inheritance acquired by the labors and sufferings of six successive generations of ancestors. They founded the fabric of your prosperity in a severe and masculine morality, having intelligence for its cement, and religion for its groundwork. Continue to build on the same foundation, and by the same principles let the extending temple of your country's freedom rise in the spirit of ancient times, in proportions of intellectual and moral architecture,--just, simple, and sublime. THE NEW SOUTH HENRY W. GRADY "There was a South of slavery and secession--that South is dead. There is a South of union and freedom--that South, thank God, is living, breathing, growing every hour." These words, delivered from the immortal lips of Benjamin H. Hill, at Tammany Hall, in 1866, true then and true now, I shall make my text to-night. Mr. President and Gentlemen: Let me express to you my appreciation of the kindness by which I am permitted to address you. I make this abrupt acknowledgment advisedly, for I feel that if, when I raise my provincial voice in this ancient and august presence, I could find courage for no more than the opening sentence, it would be well if in that sentence I had met in a rough sense my obligation as a guest, and had perished, so to speak, with courtesy on my lips and grace in my heart. Permitted, through your kindness, to catch my second wind, let me say that I appreciate the significance of being the first Southerner to speak at this board, which bears the substance, if it surpasses the semblance, of original New England hospitality--and honors the sentiment that in turn honors you, but in which my personality is lost, and the compliment to my people made plain. My friends, Dr. Talmage has told you that the typical American has yet to come. Let me tell you that he has already come. Great types, like valuable plants, are slow to flower and fruit. But from the union of the colonists, Puritans and Cavaliers, from the straightening of their purposes and the crossing of their blood, slow perfecting through a century, came he who stands as the first typical American, the first who comprehended within himself all the strength and gentleness, all the majesty and grace of this republic--Abraham Lincoln. He was the sum of Puritan and Cavalier, for in his ardent nature were fused the virtues of both, and in the depths of his great soul the faults of both were lost. He was greater than Puritan, greater than Cavalier, in that he was American, and that in his honest form were first gathered the vast and thrilling forces of his ideal government--charging it with such tremendous meaning and elevating it above human suffering that martyrdom, though infamously aimed, came as a fitting crown to a life consecrated from the cradle to human liberty. Let us, each cherishing the traditions and honoring his fathers, build with reverent hands to the type of this simple but sublime life, in which all types are honored, and in our common glory as Americans there will be plenty and to spare for your forefathers and for mine. Dr. Talmage has drawn for you, with a master's hand, the picture of your returning armies. He has told you how, in the pomp and circumstance of war, they came back to you, marching with proud and victorious tread, reading their glory in a nation's eyes! Will you bear with me while I tell you of another army that sought its home at the close of the late war--an army that marched home in defeat and not in victory--in pathos and not in splendor, but in glory that equaled yours, and to hearts as loving as ever welcomed heroes home! Let me picture to you the footsore Confederate soldier, as buttoning up in his faded gray jacket the parole which was to bear testimony to his children of his fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward from Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of him as ragged, half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and wounds. Having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the hands of his comrades in silence, and lifting his tear-stained and pallid face for the last time to the graves that dot old Virginia hills, pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful journey. What does he find--let me ask you who went to your homes eager to find, in the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for four years' sacrifice--what does he find when, having followed the battle-stained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading death not half so much as surrender, he reaches the home he left so prosperous and beautiful? He finds his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves free, his stock killed, his barns empty, his trade destroyed, his money worthless, his social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away; his people without law or legal status; his comrades slain, and the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed by defeat, his very traditions are gone. Without money, credit, employment, material, or training; and beside all this, confronted with the gravest problem that ever met human intelligence--the establishing of a status for the vast body of his liberated slaves. What does he do--this hero in gray with a heart of gold? Does he sit down in sullenness and despair? Not for a day. Surely God, who had stripped him of his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin was never before so overwhelming, never was restoration swifter. The soldier stepped from the trenches into the furrow; horses that had charged Federal guns marched before the plow, and fields that ran red with human blood in April were green with the harvest in June; women reared in luxury cut up their dresses and made breeches for their husbands, and, with a patience and heroism that fit women always as a garment, gave their hands to work. There was little bitterness in all this. Cheerfulness and frankness prevailed. Never was nobler duty confided to human hands than the uplifting and upbuilding of the prostrate and bleeding South--misguided, perhaps, but beautiful in her suffering, and honest, brave and generous always. In the record of her social, industrial and political lustration we await with confidence the verdict of the world. The new South is enamored of her new work. Her soul is stirred with the breath of a new life. The light of a grander day is falling fair on her face. She is thrilling with the consciousness of growing power and prosperity. As she stands upright, full-statured and equal among the people of the earth, breathing the keen air and looking out upon the expanded horizon, she understands that her emancipation came because through the inscrutable wisdom of God her honest purpose was crossed, and her brave armies were beaten. This is said in no spirit of time-serving or apology. The South has nothing for which to apologize. She believes that the late struggle between the States was war and not rebellion; revolution and not conspiracy, and that her convictions were as honest as yours. I should be unjust to the dauntless spirit of the South and to my own convictions if I did not make this plain in this presence. The South has nothing to take back. In my native town of Athens is a monument that crowns its central hill--a plain, white shaft. Deep cut into its shining side is a name dear to me above the names of men--that of a brave and simple man who died in brave and simple faith. Not for all the glories of New England, from Plymouth Rock all the way, would I exchange the heritage he left me in his soldier's death. To the foot of that shaft I shall send my children's children to reverence him who ennobled their name with his heroic blood. But, sir, speaking from the shadow of that memory, which I honor as I do nothing else on earth, I say that the cause in which he suffered and for which he gave his life was adjudged by higher and fuller wisdom than his or mine, and I am glad that the omniscient God held the balance of battle in His Almighty hand and that human slavery was swept forever from American soil, and the American Union was saved from the wreck of war. This message, Mr. President, comes to you from consecrated ground. Every foot of soil about the city in which I live is as sacred as a battle-ground of the republic. Every hill that invests it is hallowed to you by the blood of your brothers who died for your victory, and doubly hallowed to us by the blood of those who died hopeless, but undaunted, in defeat--sacred soil to all of us--rich with memories that make us purer and stronger and better--silent but stanch witnesses in its red desolation of the matchless valor of American hearts and the deathless glory of American arms--speaking an eloquent witness in its white peace and prosperity to the indissoluble union of American States and the imperishable brotherhood of the American people. Now, what answer has New England to this message? Will she permit the prejudice of war to remain in the hearts of the conquerors, when it has died in the hearts of the conquered? Will she transmit this prejudice to the next generation, that in their hearts which never felt the generous ardor of conflict it may perpetuate itself? Will she withhold, save in strained courtesy, the hand which straight from his soldier's heart Grant offered to Lee at Appomattox? Will she make the vision of a restored and happy people, which gathered above the couch of your dying captain, filling his heart with grace, touching his lips with praise, and glorifying his path to the grave--will she make this vision, on which the last sigh of his expiring soul breathed a benediction, a cheat and delusion? If she does, the South, never abject in asking for comradeship, must accept with dignity its refusal; but if she does not refuse to accept in frankness and sincerity this message of good will and friendship, then will the prophecy of Webster, delivered in this very society forty years ago amid tremendous applause, be verified in its fullest sense, when he said: "Standing hand to hand and clasping hands, we should remain united as we have been for sixty years, citizens of the same country, members of the same government, united, all united now and united forever." There have been difficulties, contentions, and controversies, but I tell you that in my judgment, "Those opened eyes, Which like the meteors of a troubled heaven, All of one nature, of one substance bred, Did lately meet in th' intestine shock, Shall now, in mutual, well beseeming ranks, March all one way." DANIEL O'CONNELL[50] WENDELL PHILLIPS I do not think I exaggerate when I say that never since God made Demosthenes has He made a man better fitted for a great work than He did Daniel O'Connell. You may say that I am partial to my hero, but John Randolph of Roanoke, who hated an Irishman almost as much as he did a Yankee, when he got to London and heard O'Connell, the old slaveholder threw up his hands and exclaimed, "This is the man, those are the lips, the most eloquent that speak English in my day," and I think he was right. Webster could address a bench of judges; Everett could charm a college; Choate could delude a jury; Clay could magnetize a senate; and Tom Corwin could hold the mob in his right hand, but no one of these men could do more than this one thing. The wonder about O'Connell was that he could out-talk Corwin, he could charm a college better than Everett, and leave Henry Clay himself far behind in magnetizing a senate. It has been my privilege to have heard all the great orators of America who have become singularly famed about the world's circumference. I know what was the majesty of Webster; I know what it was to melt under the magnetism of Henry Clay; I have seen eloquence in the iron logic of Calhoun; but O'Connell was Webster, Clay, and Calhoun in one. Before the courts, logic; at the bar of the senate, unanswerable and dignified; on the platform, grace, wit, and pathos; before the masses, a whole man. Emerson says, "There is no true eloquence, unless there is a man behind the speech." Daniel O'Connell was listened to because all England and Ireland knew that there was a man behind the speech,--one who could be neither bought, bullied, nor cheated. When I was in Naples, I asked Thomas Fowell Buxton, "Is Daniel O'Connell an honest man?" "As honest a man as ever breathed," said he, and then he told me the following story: "When, in 1830, O'Connell first entered Parliament, the anti-slavery cause was so weak that it had only Lushington and myself to speak for it, and we agreed that when he spoke I should cheer him up, and when I spoke he should cheer me, and these were the only cheers we ever got. O'Connell came with one Irish member to support him. A large party of members (I think Buxton said twenty-seven) whom we called the West India interest, the Bristol party, the slave party, went to him, saying, 'O'Connell, at last you are in the House, with one helper. If you never go down to Freemason's Hall with Buxton and Brougham, here are twenty-seven votes for you on every Irish question. If you work with those Abolitionists, count us always against you.' "It was a terrible temptation. How many a so-called statesman would have yielded! O'Connell said, 'Gentlemen, God knows I speak for the saddest people the sun sees; but may my right hand forget its cunning and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if to help Ireland--even Ireland--I forget the negro one single hour.' From that day," said Buxton, "Lushington and I never went into the lobby that O'Connell did not follow us." And then, besides his irreproachable character he had what is half the power of a popular orator, he had a majestic presence. A little O'Connell would have been no O'Connell at all. In youth he had the brow of a Jupiter and a stature of Apollo. Sydney Smith says of Lord John Russell's five feet, when he went down to Yorkshire after the Reform Bill had passed, the stalwart hunters of Yorkshire exclaimed, "What, that little shrimp, he carry the Reform Bill!" "No, no!" said Smith, "he was a large man, but the labors of the bill shrunk him." I remember the story Russell Lowell tells of Webster; when a year or two before his death, the Whig party thought of dissolution, Webster came home from Washington and went down to Faneuil Hall to protest, and four thousand of his fellow Whigs came out; drawing himself up to his loftiest proportion, his brow charged with thunder, before the listening thousands, he said, "Gentlemen, I am a Whig, a Massachusetts Whig, a Faneuil Hall Whig, a revolutionary Whig, a constitutional Whig. If you break up the Whig party, sir, where am I to go?" And says Lowell, "We all held our breath, thinking where he could go. But if he had been five feet three, we should have said, 'Who cares where you go?'" Well, O'Connell had all that; and true nature seemed to be speaking all over him. It would have been a pleasure even to look at him if he had not spoken at all, and all you thought of was a greyhound. And then he had what so few American speakers have, a voice that sounded the gamut. I heard him once in Exeter Hall say, "Americans, I send my voice careering across the Atlantic like a thunderstorm, to tell the slave-holders of the Carolinas that God's thunderbolts are hot, and to remind the negro that the dawn of his redemption is drawing near," and I seemed to hear his voice reverberating and reëchoing back to Boston from the Rocky Mountains. And then, with the slightest possible flavor of an Irish brogue, he would tell a story that would make all Exeter Hall laugh, and the next moment there would be tears in his voice, like an old song, and five thousand men would be in tears. And all the while no effort--he seemed only breathing. "As effortless as woodland nooks Send violets up and paint them blue." FOOTNOTE: [50] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. THE OPEN DOOR PATRICK HENRY I venture to prophesy there are those now living who will see this favored land among the most powerful on earth; able, sir, to take care of herself, without resorting to that policy which is always so dangerous, though sometimes unavoidable, of calling in foreign aid. Yes, sir, they will see her great in arts and in arms, her golden harvests waving over fields of immeasurable extent, her commerce permeating the most distant seas. But, sir, you must have men, you cannot get along without them. Those heavy forests of valuable timber under which your lands are groaning must be cleared away. Those vast riches which cover the face of your soil as well as those which lie hid in its bosom are to be developed and gathered only by the skill and enterprise of men. Your timber must be worked up into ships to transport the productions of the soil from which it has been cleared. Then you must have commercial men and commercial capital to take off your productions and find the best markets for them abroad. Your great want, sir, is the want of men, and these you must have and will have speedily if you are wise. Do you ask how you are to get them? Open your doors and they will come in. The population of the Old World is full to overflowing. That population is oppressed by the government under which they live. They are already standing on tiptoe on their native shores and looking to your coasts with wistful and longing eyes. They see here a land blessed with natural and political advantages, which are not equaled by those of any other country upon earth, a land upon which a gracious Providence hath emptied the horn of abundance, a land over which peace hath now stretched forth her white wings, and where content and plenty lie down at every door. Sir, they see something still more attractive than all this. They see a land where Liberty hath taken up her abode, that Liberty whom they had considered a fabled goddess existing only in the fancies of poets. They see her here a real divinity, her altars rising on every hand throughout these happy states, her glories chanted by three millions of tongues and the whole region smiling under her blessed influence. Let but this, our celestial goddess, stretch forth her fair hands toward the people of the Old World, and you will see them pouring in from the North, from the South, from the East, and from the West. Your wilderness will be cleared and settled, your deserts will smile, your ranks will be filled, and you will soon be in a condition to defy the powers of any adversary. ORGANIZATION OF THE WORLD[51] EDWIN D. MEAD To-day, a century after Washington, we are called to a vision as inspiring and imperative as that which came to him as he rode up the Mohawk, and to a greater organizing work than that which he performed with such wisdom, courage, patience, and success. He was commanded to organize a nation; we are commanded to organize the world. He saw that the time had come when our power and our true interests must be measured on a continental scale; we are warned that the time has come when we must conceive of our power and our true interests by the measure of mankind. Let no man think himself any longer in the first place as a New England man, as a New Yorker, as a Virginian, but all of us Americans,--that was the vision and message of Washington; and that insight and that law, coming to petty, prejudiced, jealous, and disordered states, put an end to chaos and brought peace, prosperity, strength, largeness of life, and an ever broadening horizon. Let no man think of himself any longer in the first place as an American, as an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Frenchman, a German, a Russian, but all men in the first place citizens of the world,--that is the message which has been thundered in the ears of Washington's America in these eventful and surprising years as it was never done before. It took a civil war to teach Gadsden's Carolina and Washington's Virginia that the interests of the nation are above those of the state, and that a state can only then be true to itself and its duty when it remembers that there is a lower and a higher, and knows well what that lower and that higher are. Virginia and Massachusetts have no less genuine and worthy pride as states, they do not put to smaller or less vital use their sacred history and heritage, their great sons are no less their sons, because they bowed their heads to the baptism of a nation which must measure its powers and duties on a continental scale. They know that national life into which they are incorporated as the nobler and more commanding life. The nation is organized. Its logic was shaped finally in the fiery forge of war. The nation is the largest thing we have yet got organized. We must organize the world. Unending jealousies, commercial clash, friction of law, paralysis of industry, financial disorder, the misdirection and miscarriage of good energy, mischievous ignorance and prejudice, incalculable waste, chronic alarm, and devastating wars are before us until we do it. That is the lesson of the hour. The relations and interdependence of the nations of Christendom have become, by the amazing advance of civilization in the century, closer, complexer, and more imperious far than the relations of Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and Georgia, when Washington from the heights of the Alleghanies looked into the West and thought of the continent. Yet France and Germany, England and Russia, America and Spain, in their great burrs of guns, jealous of each other, distrustful, envious, afraid, go on in their separate, incoöperant, abortive ways, keeping God's earth in chaos, when a great wisdom and great virtue like Washington's a hundred years ago would convert them into a family of nations, into a federation and fraternity, with a comprehensive law, an efficient police, and a purposeful economy. In the Parliament House at Westminster, among the scenes from English history painted on the walls, the American is most stirred when he comes to the Departure of the Pilgrim Fathers to found New England. England--the England descended from the England which "harried them out"--will not let that scene go as a part of American history only, but claims it now as one of the proudest scenes in her own history, too. So the American will no more view Wyclif and Shakespeare and Cromwell and Milton and Gladstone as chiefly Englishmen, but as fellow-citizens,--as he views Victor Hugo and Kant and Tolstoï and Mazzini. The American is to be pitied who does not feel himself native to Stratford and to London, as to St. Louis or St. Paul,--native to Leyden and to Weimar and Geneva. Each narrower circle only gains in richness and in sacredness and power as it expands into the larger; each community and state and nation, as it enters into a broader and completer organic life. This is the divine message to the world. Let there be peace; let there be order; and, that there may be, let us know what manner of men we are. "Peace on earth!"--that was the first Christmas greeting; and the first Christian argument upon the hill of Mars,--"God hath made of one blood all nations of men." FOOTNOTE: [51] By permission of the author. THE PERMANENCY OF EMPIRE[52] WENDELL PHILLIPS I appeal to History! Tell me, thou reverend chronicler of the grave, can all the wealth of a universal commerce, can all the achievements of this world's wisdom, secure to empire the permanency of its possessions? Alas! Troy thought so once; yet the land of Priam lives only in song! Thebes thought so once; yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and her very tombs are but as the dust they were vainly intended to commemorate. So thought Palmyra--where is she? So thought the countries of Demosthenes and the Spartan; yet Leonidas is trampled by the timid slave, and Athens insulted by the servile, mindless, and enervate Ottoman. In his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined immortality; and all its vanities, from the palace to the tomb, have, with their ruins, erased the very impression of his footsteps. The days of their glory are as if they had never been; and the island that was then a speck, rude and neglected in the barren ocean, now rivals the ubiquity of their commerce, the glory of their arms, the fame of their philosophy, the eloquence of their senate, and the inspiration of their bards. Who shall say, then, contemplating the past, that England, proud and potent as she appears, may not, one day, be what Athens is, and the young America yet soar to be what Athens was! Who shall say, that, when the European column shall have moldered, and the night of barbarism obscured its very ruins, that mighty continent may not emerge from the horizon to rule, for its time, sovereign of the ascendant! FOOTNOTE: [52] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. THE PILGRIMS[53] WENDELL PHILLIPS When we undertake to criticise the Pilgrims, we ought first to ask ourselves the question, where would they be to-day? Indeed, to be as good as our fathers, we must be better. Imitation is not discipleship. Thee and thou, a stationary hat, bad grammar and worse manners, with an ugly coat, are not George Fox to-day. You will recognize him in any one who rises from the lap of artificial life, flings away its softness, and startles you with the sight of a man. Neither do I acknowledge the right of Plymouth to the whole rock. No, the rock underlies all America; it only crops out here. It has cropped out a great many times in our history. You may recognize it always. Old Putnam stood upon it at Bunker Hill, when he said to the Yankee boys: "Don't fire till you see the whites of their eyes." Ingraham had it for ballast when he put his little sloop between two Austrian frigates, and threatened to blow them out of the water if they did not respect the flag of the United States in the case of Martin Koozta. Jefferson had it for a writing-desk when he drafted the Declaration of Independence and the "Statute of Religious Liberty" for Virginia. Lovejoy rested his musket upon it when they would not let him print his paper at Alton, and he said: "Death or free speech!" Ay! it cropped out again. Garrison had it for an imposing-stone when he looked into the faces of seventeen millions of angry men, and printed his sublime pledge, "I will not retreat a single inch, and I will be heard." If I were going to raise a monument to the Pilgrims, I know where I should place it. I should place one corner-stone on the rock, and the other on that level spot where fifty of the one hundred were buried before the winter was over; but the remainder closed up shoulder to shoulder as firm, unflinching, hopeful as ever. Yes, death rather than compromise of Elizabeth. I would write on their monument two mottoes: One, "The Right is more than our Country!" and over the graves of the fifty: "Death, rather than Compromise!" How true it is that the Pilgrims originated no new truth! How true it is, also, that it is not truth which agitates the world! Plato in the groves of the Academy sounded on and on to the utmost depth of philosophy, but Athens was quiet. Calling around him the choicest minds of Greece, he pointed out the worthlessness of their altars and shame of public life, but Athens was quiet. It was all speculation. When Socrates walked the streets of Athens, and, questioning every-day life, struck the altar till the faith of the passer-by faltered, it came close to action; and immediately they gave him hemlock, for the city was turned upside down. What the Pilgrims gave the world was not thought, but action. Men, calling themselves thinkers, had been creeping along the Mediterranean, from headland to headland, in their timidity; the Pilgrims launched boldly out into the Atlantic and trusted God. That is the claim they have upon posterity. It was action that made them what they were. FOOTNOTE: [53] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. PRINCIPLES OF THE FOUNDERS[54] EDWIN D. MEAD The old Athenian life and our American life have much in common. The resemblances between Greek character and ours are marked. Those little Greek democracies were more like our great one than almost any intervening states. They offer us more pertinent examples and warnings than almost any other; and they are of peculiar value for us in this, that their history is rounded and complete, and in it we can see the various conflicting principles and tendencies working themselves out to the end, and so learn the full lesson of their logic. Pericles and Demosthenes speak to America as well as to Athens; and we may well domesticate their admonitions here to-day and emphasize them to our people and ourselves as the words of fellow-citizens, of Washington and Jefferson, of Sumner and Emerson. If the life and burning eloquence of Demosthenes teach anything, if the rounded period of history whose darkness he lights up teaches anything, they teach the vitality and the imperious moment of the appeal, in times of danger and temptation, to the fathers and to the great past, to the history and the teachings which in times of soberness have ever had the nation's highest honor. No nation which is virtuous and vital will ever be slave to the past; at the command of virtue and of vision it will snap precedent like a reed. But every people of seriousness, stability, and character is a reverent people; and when a people's reverence for its noble ancestors, its sacred oracles and its venerable charters ceases to be sturdy and becomes sentimental, much more when it ceases to exist at all, then the hour of that people's decay and doom hast struck. On this anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, let us remember and vow never to forget that when it becomes general or popular among us, as it has become common, to flout at the Declaration and its principles; whenever the nation commits itself to courses which for the sake of consistency and respectability invite and compel its disparagement; when our politics does not match our poetry and cannot be sung; when Washington and Jefferson and Sumner and Lincoln cease to be quoted in our cabinet and at our helm, then it is not well with us, but ill, and it is time to study the compass. It is right to say, and let us remember it on this sacred anniversary, as an inspiration to duty, that Boston has been the center of the two great movements in our history, the movement which gave us independence and the movement which purged the land of slavery. If we could rear on Boston Common a monument upon which, around the central form of Samuel Adams, should be grouped the figures of James Otis and John Adams, John Hancock and Joseph Warren and their associates, how much that monument would represent of what was most dynamic in the days which led up to the American Revolution! If we could rear beside it a monument upon which, around the central figure of William Lloyd Garrison, should stand Wendell Phillips, Parker and Channing, Lowell and Emerson, Sumner and Andrew, how much would be represented by that group of what was most potent in the anti-slavery struggle! When the final history is written of the great social and industrial revolution into which we have already far advanced, and which will continue until there exists throughout the republic an industrial equality as great as the political equality which we now enjoy or claim to enjoy, it will be seen that here, too, Boston has done her conspicuous part. And when we survey the movement in behalf of the overthrow of war, in behalf of the peace of nations and the organization of the world, the preëminent task of our own time, we shall find that in this great movement Boston has led America; I think it is not too much to claim that she has led the world. As it was the glory of Boston and of Massachusetts, proudest of cities and commonwealths, strongest in patriotism, to lead the country in the assertion of national sovereignty against every false emphasis of state rights, in that long struggle which nearly cost the nation its life, and which made it forever impossible for the American to say henceforth, "My state is first," so it has been their glory to lead in the creation of the sentiment which meets the peculiar problem and menace of our own age, enabling and inspiring men to harmonize their politics and their religion, and know that their first allegiance is not to their nation but to humanity. In this our Commonwealth and city have but been true to the sublime pointings and ideals of the leaders of the Revolution and the founders of the Republic, whom we celebrate to-day. Independence for the sake of independence, a new nation for the sake of a new nation,--that was not the aim and motive of our fathers. Their dream was of a new nation of juster institutions and more equal laws, a nation in which should dwell righteousness, and which should mark a new era among men. It should be especially an era of peace and brotherhood among the nations. They hated war. They believed that the time had come when the bloody dispensation of war, with all its terrible wickedness and waste, should cease; and their ambition and high hope was that their new republic might lead in the new dispensation of peace and order and mutual regard. FOOTNOTE: [54] From an oration delivered before the city government and citizens of Boston, at Faneuil Hall, July 4, 1903. Used by permission of the author. THE RESPONSIBILITY OF WAR[55] WILLIAM E. CHANNING Nothing in the whole compass of legislation is so solemn as a declaration of war. By nothing do a people incur such tremendous responsibility. Unless justly waged, war involves a people in the guilt of murder. The state which, without the command of justice and God, sends out fleets and armies to slaughter fellow-creatures, must answer for the blood it sheds, as truly as the assassin for the death of his victim. Oh, how loudly does the voice of blood cry to heaven from the field of battle! Undoubtedly the men whose names have come down to us with the loudest shouts of ages stand now before the tribunal of eternal justice condemned as murderers; and the victories which have been thought to encircle a nation with glory have fixed the same brand on multitudes in the sight of the final and Almighty Judge. How essential is it to a nation's honor that it should engage in war with a full conviction of rectitude! But there is one more condition of an honorable war. A nation should engage in it with unfeigned sorrow. It should beseech the throne of grace with earnest supplication that the dreadful office of destroying fellow-beings may not be imposed on it. War concentrates all the varieties of human misery, and a nation which can inflict these without sorrow contracts deeper infamy than from cowardice. It is essentially barbarous, and will be looked back upon by enlightened and Christian ages with the horror with which we recall the atrocities of savage tribes. Let it be remembered that the calamities of war, its slaughter, famine, and desolation, instead of being confined to its criminal authors, fall chiefly on multitudes who have had no share in provoking and no voice in proclaiming it; and let not a nation talk of its honor which has no sympathy with woes, which is steeled to the most terrible sufferings of humanity. When recently the suggestion of war was thrown out to this people, what reception did it meet? Was it viewed at once in the light in which a Christian nation should immediately and most earnestly consider it? Was it received as a proposition to slaughter thousands of our fellow-creatures? Did we feel as if threatened with a calamity more fearful than earthquakes, famine, or pestilence? The blight which might fall on our prosperity drew attention; but the thought of devoting as a people, our power and resources to the destruction of mankind, of those whom a common nature, whom reason, conscience, and Christianity command us to love and save,--did this thrill us with horror? Did the solemn inquiry break forth through our land, Is the dreadful necessity indeed laid upon us to send abroad death and woe? No. There was little manifestation of the sensibility with which men and Christians should look such an evil in the face. As a people we are still seared and blinded to the crimes and miseries of war. The principles of honor, to which the barbarism and infatuation of dark ages gave birth, prevail among us. The generous, merciful spirit of our religion is little understood. The law of love preached from the cross and written in the blood of the Saviour is trampled upon by public men. The true dignity of man, which consists in breathing and cherishing God's spirit of justice and philanthropy towards every human being, is counted folly in comparison with that spirit of vindictiveness and self-aggrandizement which turns our earth into an image of the abodes of the damned. How long will the friends of humanity, of religion, of Christ, silently, passively, uncomplainingly, suffer the men of this world, the ambitious, vindictive, and selfish, to array them against their brethren in conflicts which they condemn and abhor? Shall not truth, humanity, and the mild and holy spirit of Christianity find a voice to rebuke and awe the wickedness which precipitates nations into war, and to startle and awaken nations to their fearful responsibility in taking arms against the children of their Father in heaven? Prince of Peace! Saviour of men! speak in thine own voice of love, power, and fearful warning; and redeem the world, for which thou hast died, from lawless and cruel passions, from the spirit of rapine and murder, from the powers of darkness and hell! FOOTNOTE: [55] From a speech delivered in Boston, January 25, 1835. SCOTLAND EDMUND FLAGG Scotland! There is magic in the sound. Statesmen, scholars, divines, heroes, poets! Do you want exemplars worthy of study and imitation? Where will you find them brighter than in Scotland? Where can you find them purer than in Scotland? Here, no Solon, indulging imagination, has pictured the perfectibility of man; no Lycurgus, viewing him through the medium of human frailty alone, has left for his government an iron code, graven on eternal adamant; no Plato, dreaming in the luxurious gardens of the Academy, has fancied what he should be, and bequeathed a republic of love; but sages, knowing his weakness, have appealed to his understanding, cherished his virtues, and chastised his vices. Friends of learning! would you do homage at the shrine of literature? would you visit her clearest founts? Go to Scotland! Are you philosophers, seeking to explore the hidden mysteries of mind? Bend to the genius of Stewart. Student, merchant, or mechanic! do you seek usefulness? Consult the pages of Black and of Adam Smith. Grave barrister! would you know the law, the true, sole expression of the people's will? There stands the mighty Mansfield. Do we look for high examples of noble daring? Where shall we find them brighter than in Scotland? From the "bonny highland heather" of her lofty summits, to the modest lily of the vale, not a flower but has blushed with patriot blood. From the proud foaming crest of the Solway, to the calm, polished breast of Loch Katrine, not a river, not a lake, but has swelled with the life tide of freedom. Would you witness greatness? Contemplate a Wallace and a Bruce. They fought not for honors, for party, for conquest; 'twas for their country and their country's good, religion, law, and liberty. SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS ABRAHAM LINCOLN Fellow-countrymen: At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office, there is less occasion for extended address than there was at first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. On the occasion corresponding to this, four years ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it; all sought to avoid it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it with war, seeking to dissolve the Union and divide the effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came. One eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the Southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause might cease with or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and prayed to the same God, and each invoked His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purpose. Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still must it be said that "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether." With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans; to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations. SLAVERY AND THE UNION[56] ABRAHAM LINCOLN We have made a good beginning here to-day. While extremists may find some fault with our moderation they should recollect that "the battle is not always to the strong nor the race to the swift." In grave emergencies moderation is generally safer than radicalism; and as this struggle is likely to be long and earnest we must not, by our action, repel any who are in sympathy with us, but rather win all that we can to our standard. Our friends who urge an appeal to arms with so much force and eloquence should recollect that the government is arrayed against us and that the numbers are now arrayed against us as well and we should repel friends rather than gain them by anything savoring of revolutionary methods. As it now stands we must appeal to the sober sense and patriotism of the people. We will make converts day by day; we will grow strong by calmness and moderation; we will grow strong by the violence and injustice of our adversaries. And, unless truth be a mockery and justice a hollow lie, we will be in the majority after a while, and then the revolution which we will accomplish will be none the less radical from being the result of pacific measures. The battle of freedom is to be fought out on principle. Slavery is a violation of eternal right. We have temporized with it from the necessities of our condition; but as sure as God reigns and school children read, that foul lie can never be consecrated into God's hallowed truth! One great trouble in the matter is that slavery is an insidious and crafty power, and gains equally by open violence of the brutal as well as by sly management of the peaceful. Once let slavery get planted in a locality, by ever so weak or doubtful a title, and in ever so small numbers, and it is like the Canada thistle, you can't root it out. You yourself may detest slavery; but your neighbor has five or six slaves, and he is an excellent neighbor, or your son has married his daughter, and they beg you to help save their property, and you vote against your interest and principles to accommodate a neighbor, hoping that your vote will be on the losing side. And others do the same; and in those ways slavery gets a sure foothold. And when that is done the whole mighty Union--the force of the Nation--is committed to its support. It is a very strange thing, and not solvable by any moral law that I know of, that if a man loses his horses the whole country will turn out to help hang the thief; but if a man a shade or two darker than I am is himself stolen the same crowd will hang one who aids in restoring him to liberty. Such are the inconsistencies of slavery, where a horse is more sacred than a man; and the essence of squatter or popular sovereignty--I don't care how you call it--is that if one man chooses to make a slave of another no third man shall be allowed to object. And if you can do this in free Kansas, and it is allowed to stand, the next thing you will see is shiploads of negroes from Africa at the wharf at Charleston; for one thing is as truly lawful as the other; and these are the notions we have got to stamp out, else they will stamp us out. But we cannot be free men if this is, by our national choice, to be a land of slavery. Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves; and, under the rule of a just God, cannot long retain it. The conclusion of all this is that we must restore the Missouri Compromise. We must highly resolve that Kansas must be free! We must reinstate the birthday promise of the Republic; we must reaffirm the Declaration of Independence; we must make good in essence as well as in form Madison's avowal that "the word slave ought not to appear in the Constitution"; and we must even go further, and decree that only local law, and not that time-honored instrument, shall shelter a slaveholder. We must make this a land of liberty in fact, as it is in name. But in seeking to attain these results, so indispensable if the liberty which is our pride and boast shall endure, we will be loyal to the Constitution and to the "flag of our Union," and no matter what our grievance, even though Kansas shall come in as a slave State; and no matter what theirs, even if we shall restore the compromise, we will say to the Southern disunionists, We won't go out of the Union, and you shan't! But let us, meanwhile, appeal to the sense and patriotism of the people, and not to their prejudices; let us spread the floods of enthusiasm here aroused all over the vast prairies so suggestive of freedom. There is both a power and a magic in popular opinion. To that let us now appeal; and while, in all probability, no resort to force will be needed, our moderation and forbearance will stand us in good stead when, if ever, we must make an appeal to battle and to the God of hosts! FOOTNOTE: [56] From the celebrated "last speech," made at Bloomington, Ill., May 29, 1856. SUBJUGATION OF THE FILIPINO[57] GEORGE F. HOAR The American people have got this one question to answer. They may answer it now; they can take ten years, or twenty years, or a generation, or a century to think of it. But it will not down. They must answer it in the end: Can you lawfully buy with money or get by brute force of arms the right to hold in subjugation an unwilling people and to impose on them such constitution as you, and not they, think best for them? The question will be answered soberly and deliberately and quietly as the American people are wont to answer great questions of duty. It will be answered, not in any turbulent assembly, amid shouting and clapping of hands and stamping of feet. It will be answered in the churches and in the schools and in the colleges, it will be answered in fifteen million American homes, and it will be answered as it has always been answered. It will be answered right. I have sometimes fancied that we might erect here in the capital of the country a column to American liberty which alone might rival in height the beautiful and simple shaft which we have erected to the fame of the father of the country. I can fancy each generation bringing its inscription, which should recite its own contribution to the great structure of which the column should be but the symbol. The generation of the Puritan and the Pilgrim and the Huguenot claims the place of honor at the base. "I brought the torch of freedom across the sea. I cleared the forest. I subdued the savage and the wild beast. I laid in Christian liberty and law the foundations of empire. I left the seashore to penetrate the wilderness. I planted schools and colleges and courts and churches. I stood by the side of England on many a hard-fought field. I helped humble the power of France. I saw the lilies go down before the lion at Louisburg and Quebec. I carried the cross of St. George in triumph in Martinique and Havana." Then comes the generation of the revolutionary time. "I encountered the power of England. I declared and won the independence of my country. I placed that declaration on the eternal principles of justice and righteousness, which all mankind have read, and on which all mankind will one day stand. I affirmed the dignity of human nature and the right of the people to govern themselves. I created the Supreme Court and the Senate. For the first time in history I made the right of the people to govern themselves safe, and established institutions for that end which will endure forever." The next generation says, "I encountered England again. I vindicated the right of an American ship to sail the seas the wide world over without molestation. I made the American sailor as safe at the ends of the earth as my fathers had made the American farmer safe in his home. I proclaimed the Monroe Doctrine in the face of the Holy Alliance, under which sixteen republics have joined the family of nations. I filled the western hemisphere with republics from the lakes to Cape Horn, each controlling its own destiny in safety and in honor." Then comes the next generation: "I did the mighty deeds which in your younger years you saw and which your fathers told. I saved the Union. I put down the rebellion. I freed the slave. I made of every slave a free man and of every free man a citizen and of every citizen a voter. I paid the debt. I brought in conciliation and peace instead of war. I devised the homestead system. I covered the prairie and the plain with happy homes and with mighty states. I crossed the continent and joined together the seas with my great railroads. I declared the manufacturing independence of America, as my fathers affirmed its political independence. I made my country the richest, freest, strongest, happiest people on the face of the earth." And now what have we to say? Are we to have a place in that honorable company? Must we engrave on that column, "We repealed the Declaration of Independence. We changed the Monroe doctrine from a doctrine of eternal righteousness and justice, resting on the consent of the governed, to a doctrine of brutal selfishness, looking only to our own advantage. We crushed the only republic in Asia. We made war on the only Christian people in the East. We converted a war of glory to a war of shame. We vulgarized the American flag. We introduced perfidy into the practice of war. We inflicted torture on unarmed men to extort confession. We established reconcentrado camps. We devastated provinces. We baffled the aspirations of a people for liberty?" No, Mr. President, never! never! Other and better counsels will yet prevail. The hours are long in the life of a great people. The irrevocable step is not yet taken. Let us at least have this to say, "We, too, have kept the faith of the fathers. We took Cuba by the hand. We delivered her from her age-long bondage. We welcomed her to the family of nations. We set mankind an example never beheld before of moderation in victory. We led hesitating and halting Europe to the deliverance of their beleaguered ambassadors in China. We marched through a hostile country, a country cruel and barbarous, without anger or revenge. We returned benefit for injury, and pity for cruelty. We made the name of America beloved in the East as in the West. We kept faith with the Filipino people. We kept faith with our own destiny. We kept our national honor unsullied. The flag which we received without a rent we handed down without a stain!" FOOTNOTE: [57] United States Senate, May 22, 1902. SUFFERINGS AND DESTINY OF THE PILGRIMS EDWARD EVERETT Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening, shivering weight against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth,--weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. Shut now the volume of history and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other times, and find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea?--was it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope? Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious? TO ARMS LOUIS KOSSUTH Our fatherland is in danger. Citizens, to arms! to arms! Unless the whole nation rise up as one man to defend itself all the noble blood already shed is in vain. People of Hungary, will you die under the exterminating sword of the Russians? If not, defend yourselves. Will you look on while the Kossacks of the far north tread under foot the bodies of your fathers, mothers, wives and children? If not, defend yourselves. Will you see a part of your fellow-citizens sent to the wilds of Siberia, made to serve in the wars of tyrants, or bleed under the murderous knout? If not, defend yourselves. Will you behold your villages in flames, and your harvests destroyed? Will you die of hunger on the land which your sweat has made fertile? If not, defend yourselves. TRUE AMERICAN PATRIOTISM[58] BOURKE COCKRAN The American patriot is the soldier of civilization. One hundred years ago the republic was first born, but the roots from which it sprung grew and flourished for centuries. The beginning of republicanism is not of American origin nor of any one country or nation of the world. The beginning of republicanism was not upon this soil but upon the soil trodden by the Lord. It was not first announced by the booming of the cannon and the pealing of the liberty bell, but when the star of Bethlehem shone over the place where the new-born babe was in the manger and the songs of the angels told of "Peace on earth, good will toward men." This right is the crowning glory of man's progress. It is the natural attitude of Christian civilization. A government based upon the equality of all men before the law is based upon the principle of equality of all men in the sight of God. Democracy is Christianity applied to civilization. From the very moment the Savior of mankind told his disciples to go forth and preach his word it became unavoidable that the triumphs of Christianity would mean the destruction of every form of government based upon inequality of man. The first champions of freedom were the apostles who preached the word of Christ. The advent of feudalism in Europe seemed as if a dark night had set over the face of the world. Man had conquered territory by the sword and was forced to defend it by the torch. In the face of that condition of civilization Christianity proceeded to teach the doctrine that the weak and strong were equal in the sight of heaven. Columbus was the natural outcome of conditions which had been in course of preparation for years. The Old World, with its prejudices and barbarism, was unfit for the planting of the germ of freedom, and so Providence guided the bark of Columbus to the shores of America. Here the tree of liberty was planted under circumstances which encouraged its growth and insured its life. Nowhere is the providence of God more visible. Here was the virgin soil to be conquered. Here were forests to be felled; a strong arm was of more use in cutting down a tree than the lineage of a thousand years. The value of the settler was not the blood which flowed in his veins, but the power of his muscles and the strength of his will. Then the dignity of labor was raised to a pitch unknown to this world. They did not come here to enrich themselves with gold. They did not come here to plunder the soil and return to Spain to spend the proceeds in riot. They were men in whose hearts liberty never died. They sought this continent that they might create liberty, and they did it. Their labor was fruitful. FOOTNOTE: [58] Auditorium, Chicago, April 30, 1894. By permission of the author. A VISION OF WAR[59] ROBERT G. INGERSOLL The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation, the music of boisterous drums, the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators. We see the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are walking for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing. Kisses and tears, tears and kisses--divine mingling of agony and love! And some are talking with wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms--standing in the sunlight sobbing. At the turn of the road a hand waves; she answers by holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever. We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the grand, wild music of war; marching down the streets of the great cities, through the towns and across the prairies, down to the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. We go with them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields, in all the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in ravines running with blood, in the furrows of old fields. We are with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel. We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech can never tell what they endured. We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief. The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings governed by the lash; we see them bound hand and foot; we hear the strokes of cruel whips; we see the hounds tracking women through tangled swamps. We see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty unspeakable! Outrage infinite! Four million bodies in chains--four million souls in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free. The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall. These heroes die. We look. Instead of slaves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auction-block, the slave-pen, the whipping-post, and we see homes and firesides and schoolhouses and books, and where all was want and crime and cruelty and fear, we see the faces of the free. These heroes are dead. They died for liberty; they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars; they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for the soldiers living and dead: Cheers for the living and tears for the dead. FOOTNOTE: [59] By permission of the publisher, C. P. Farrell. WAR IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY[60] EDWIN D. MEAD It is a great mistake to think, as many are apt to do when some terrible war overwhelms some part of the world, that war is on the increase among men and that we are probably on the eve of a portentous new era of it. The temptation to think so is strong when two or three such wars come at the same time, waged by enlightened nations which we had fondly trusted had got beyond such wickedness and folly. But there is no warrant for the belief. There is seldom real warrant for any fear that the world generally is going backward, although it would be stupid not to see that there come many days which are far behind many yesterdays in insight, in ideals, and in conduct. The long view is the encouraging view, the view of progress. We have entered a new century. As one looks back over the nineteenth century, which has closed, as one reads perhaps some brief historical survey of the century, it is worth while to ask oneself whether one would rather live in 1800 or in 1900, in the world pictured in the first pages of the book or that pictured in the last pages. The serious man can give but one answer. The England and France and Germany and Italy and Spain of the end of the century were, when every deduction has been made on particular points, vastly more habitable, better places to live in, than the same countries at the beginning of the century. The brilliant historian of the administration of Jefferson paints a masterly picture of the life of our own people in 1800. Every aspect of the social and intellectual life of the time is treated with marvelous fullness of detail and in the most graphic and impressive way; and there is an element of hope and buoyancy, of prophecy and promise, pervading the pages, which is at once inspiring and sobering. Yes, surely one would rather live in the United States at the beginning of the twentieth century than at the beginning of the nineteenth. The century has been on the whole emphatically a period of progress. The same was true of the century before, and of the century before that. What has been true concerning progress in general during the last few centuries has been especially true of progress out of the habit of war toward the habit of peace. Events at the close of the nineteenth century have been indeed deplorable; they were also deplored--and this is the significant thing--more than such events were ever deplored before. The body of protest against unnecessary and unrighteous wars becomes steadily larger, bolder, and more outspoken; the public conscience is more troubled by them; more and more men perceive their wastefulness and wrong, and discern the more excellent way; and to-morrow the total of protesting insight and morality shall be great enough to tip the balance and hold the tempted, ruffling nation to self-restraint, respect for others, and respect for civilization. There was much less war in Christendom during the nineteenth century than during the eighteenth, and there will be less during the twentieth century than during the nineteenth. The steady and sure progress of the world is toward the supplanting of the ways of greed and violence among nations by the methods of reason, legality, and mutual regard. As one travels over Europe, one is never far from some great battle-field. In Scotland one remembers how half a dozen centuries ago one clan was continually fighting with another, this group of clans warring with that, or all were leagued together against one Edward or another advancing with his archers from beyond the Tweed. The English armies fighting at Falkirk and Bannockburn and Halidon were straightway--they or their successors--in France fighting at Crécy and Poitiers and Agincourt. The wars between England and France were interminable; and so were the wars between France and other nations. There were civil wars and religious wars and wars of succession; seven-years wars and thirty-years wars and hundred-years wars. War was the regular vocation of nations, the profession of arms the chief profession, peace merely an occasional respite, in no sense to be reckoned on or presumed to endure as the natural condition of things. All this has been fundamentally changed. Europe bends under the burden of her great armies and multiplies her costly battleships, and we say that it is wasteful and barbarous; but the soldiers and ships are almost never used. We grieve and blush at the shameful wars of subjugation in our own time; but these wars were anachronisms, sporadic survivals of courses common and universally approved three hundred years ago, when men did not blush for them, but not typical of the tendencies and civilization of the present age. The true exponent of the world's best judgment and increasing purpose and policy, as the twentieth century begins, is not the warring in Luzon and the Transvaal, but the Hague Tribunal. For a century the states in the United States, because we have had a Supreme Court, have settled there, and not by combat, their boundary disputes and other quarrels, graver often than many which have plunged European nations into war, while most of us have not known even of the fact of litigation. To-day, because an International Tribunal exists, the Venezuelan imbroglio is referred to it, which else might have gone on to the dread arbitrament of arms. Such references will multiply; the legal way instead of the fighting way will become easy, will become common, will become instinctive, will become universal; war will hasten after the duel, to be loathed and to be laughed at, and to cease to be at all; the cannon will follow the rack to the chamber of horrors; and nations when they disagree will not go into battle, but into court. This is the sure end of the process which the broad survey of history reveals. The critical student of war becomes the sure prophet of peace. FOOTNOTE: [60] By permission of the author. GEORGE WASHINGTON[61] CHARLES PHILLIPS It matters very little what immediate spot may be the birth-place of such a man as Washington. No people can claim, no country can appropriate him; the boon of providence to the human race, his fame is eternity and his residence creation. Though it was the defeat of our arms and the disgrace of our policy, I almost bless the convulsion in which he had his origin. If the heavens thundered and the earth rocked, yet when the storm passed how pure was the climate that it cleared; how bright in the brow of the firmament was the planet which it revealed to us! In the production of Washington, it does really appear as if nature were endeavoring to improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the ancient world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of the new. Individual instances no doubt there were; splendid exemplifications of some single qualification. Cæsar was merciful, Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient; but it was reserved for Washington to blend them all in one, and like the lovely _chef d'oeuvre_ of the Grecian artist, to exhibit in one glow of associated beauty the pride of every model and the perfection of every master. As a general he marshaled the peasant into a veteran, and supplied by discipline the absence of experience; as a statesman he enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the most comprehensive system of general advantage; and such was the wisdom of his views and the philosophy of his counsels that to the soldier and the statesman he almost added the character of the sage. A conqueror, he was untainted with the crime of blood; a revolutionist, he was free from any stain of treason; for aggression commenced the contest, and his country called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, necessity stained it, victory returned it. If he had paused here, history might have doubted what station to assign him, whether at the head of her citizens or her soldiers, her heroes or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his career and banishes all hesitation. Who, like Washington, after having emancipated a hemisphere, resigned his crown and preferred the retirement of domestic life to the adoration of a land he might be almost said to have created? "How shall we rank thee upon glory's page, Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage? All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, Far less than all thou hast forborne to be!" Such, sir, is the testimony of one not to be accused of partiality in his estimate of America. Happy, proud America! the lightnings of heaven yielded to your philosophy! The temptations of earth could not seduce your patriotism! I have the honor, sir, of proposing to you as a toast, "The immortal memory of George Washington." FOOTNOTE: [61] Delivered at a dinner on Dinas Island, Lake Killarney, Ireland, given in honor of Mr. O. H. Payne (afterward Senator Payne) of Ohio. IV GAY, HUMOROUS, COMIC A BOY'S MOTHER[62] JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY My mother she's so good to me Ef I was good as I could be, I couldn't be as good--no, sir! Can't any boy be good as her! She loves me when I'm glad er mad; She loves me when I'm good er bad; An' what's a funniest thing, she says She loves me when she punishes. I don't like her to punish me; That don't hurt, but it hurts to see Her cryin'--nen I cry; an' nen We both cry--an' be good again. She loves me when she cuts and sews My little cloak and Sunday clothes; An' when my pa comes home to tea, She loves him most as much as me. She laughs an' tells him all I said. An' grabs me up an' pats my head; An' I hug her, an' I hug my pa, An' love him purt' nigh much es ma. FOOTNOTE: [62] Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. From "Rhymes of Childhood," copyright, 1900. ALMOST BEYOND ENDURANCE[63] JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more! I'm got ear-ache, an' ma can't make It quit a-tall; An' Carlo bite my rubber-ball An' puncture it; an' Sis she take An' poke my knife down through the stable-floor An' loozed it--blame it all! But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more! An' Aunt Mame wrote she's a-comin', an' she can't-- Folks is come there!--An' I don't care, She is my Aunt! An' my eyes stings; an' I'm Ist coughin' all the time, An' hurts me so, an' where my side's so sore Granpa felt where, an' he Says "maybe it's pleurasy!" But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more! An' I climbed up an' nen falled off the fence, An' Herbert he ist laugh at me! An' my fi'-cents It sticked in my tin bank, an' I ist tore Purt' nigh my thumbnail off, a-tryin' to git It out--nen smash it!--An it's in there yit! But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more! Oo! I'm so wickud!--An' my breath's so hot-- Ist like I run an' don't rest none But ist run on when I ought to not; Yes, an' my chin An' lip's all warpy, an' my teeth's so fast, An' 's a place in my throat I can't swaller past-- An' they all hurt so!-- An' oh, my--oh! I'm a-startin' a'gin-- I'm a-startin ag'in, but I won't, fer shore!-- I ist ain't goin' to cry no more, no more! FOOTNOTE: [63] Used by special permission of the publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill Company. From "His Pa's Romance," copyright, 1903. BREAKING THE CHARM[64] PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR Caught Susanner whistlin'; well, It's most nigh too good to tell. 'Twould 'a' b'en too good to see Ef it hadn't b'en fur me, Comin' up so soft an' sly That she didn' hear me nigh. I was pokin' round that day, An' ez I come down the way, First her whistle strikes my ears,-- Then her gingham dress appears; So with soft step up I slips. Oh, them dewy, rosy lips! Ripe ez cherries, red an' round, Puckered up to make the sound. She was lookin' in the spring, Whistlin' to beat anything,-- "Kitty Dale" er "In the sweet." I was just so mortal beat That I can't quite ricoleck What the toon was, but I 'speck 'Twas some hymn er other, fur Hymny things is jest like her. Well she went on fur awhile With her face all in a smile, An' I never moved, but stood Stiller'n a piece o' wood-- Wouldn't wink ner wouldn't stir, But a-gazin' right at her, Tell she turns an' sees me--my! Thought at first she'd try to fly. But she blushed an' stood her ground. Then, a-slyly lookin' round, She says: "Did you hear me, Ben?" "Whistlin' woman, crowin' hen," Says I, lookin' awful stern. Then the red commenced to burn In them cheeks o' hern. Why, la! Reddest red you ever saw-- Pineys wa'n't a circumstance. You'd a' noticed in a glance She was pow'rful shamed an' skeart; But she looked so sweet an' peart, That a idee struck my head; So I up an' slowly said: "Woman whistlin' brings shore harm, Jest one thing'll break the charm." "And what's that?" "Oh, my!" says I, "I don't like to tell you." "Why?" Says Susanner. "Well, you see It would kinder fall on me." Course I knowed that she'd insist,-- So I says: "You must be kissed By the man that heard you whistle; Everybody says that this'll Break the charm and set you free From the threat'nin' penalty." She was blushin' fit to kill, But she answered, kinder still: "I don't want to have no harm, Please come, Ben, an' break the charm." Did I break that charm?--oh, well, There's some things I mustn't tell. I remember, afterwhile, Her a-sayin' with a smile: "Oh, you quit,--you sassy dunce, You jest caught me whistlin' once." FOOTNOTE: [64] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co. CANDLE-LIGHTIN' TIME[65] PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR When I come in f'om de co'n-fiel' aftah wukin' ha'd all day, It's amazin' nice to fin' my suppah all erpon de way; An' it's nice to smell de coffee bubblin' ovah in de pot, An' it's fine to see de meat a-sizzlin' teasin'-lak an' hot. But when suppah time is ovah an' de things is cl'ared away, Den de happy hours dat foller are de sweetes' ob de day. When my co'n-cob pipe is sta'ted, an' de smoke is drawin' prime, My ole 'ooman says, "I reckon, Ike, it's candle-lightin' time." Den de chillun snuggle up to me and all commence to call, "Oh, say, daddy, now it's time to make de shadders on de wall." So I puts my han's togethah--evah daddy knows de way-- An' de chillun snuggle closer roun' es I begin to say, "Fus thing, hyeah come mistah Rabbit, don' you see him wuk his eahs? Huh uh! dis mus' be a donky; look how innercent he 'pears! Dah's de ole black swan a-swimmin', ain't she got a' awfu' neck? Who's dis feller dat's a-comin'? why, dat's ole dog Tray I 'spec!" Dat's de way I run on, tryin' fer to please 'em all I can; Den I hollahs, "Now be keerful, dis hyeah las' 's de buga-man!" An' dey runs an' hides dey faces; dey ain't skeered--dey's lettin' on, But de play ain't raaly ovah twell dat buga-man is gone. So I jes' takes up my banjo an' I plays a little chune, An' you see dem hai'ds come peepin' out to listen mighty soon. Den my wife say, "Sich a pappy fer to give you sich a fright! Jes' you go to bed, an' leave him, say yo' prayers, an' say good night." FOOTNOTE: [65] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of Lowly Life," 1896. A BIRD IN THE HAND F. E. WEATHERLY There were three young maids of Lee, And they were fair as fair can be; And they had lovers three times three, For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee. But these young maids they cannot find A lover each to suit her mind; The plain-spoke lad is far too rough, The rich young lord not rich enough, And one's too poor, and one too tall, And one an inch too short for them all. "Others pick and choose, and why not we? We can very well wait," said these maids of Lee. There were three young maids of Lee, And they were fair as fair can be; And they had lovers three times three, For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee. There are three old maids of Lee, And they are old as old can be; And one is deaf, and one can't see, And they all are cross as a gallows tree, These three old maids of Lee. Now, if any one chanced--'tis a chance remote-- One single charm in these maids to note, He need not a poet nor handsome be, For one is deaf, and one can't see; He need not woo on his bended knee, For they all are willing as willing can be; He may take the one or the two or the three, If he'll only take them away from Lee. There are three old maids at Lee, And they are cross as cross can be; And there they are, and there they'll be, To the end of the chapter, one, two, three, These three old maids of Lee! "THE DAY OF JUDGMENT"[66] ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS I am thirteen years old and Jill is eleven and a quarter. Jill is my brother. That isn't his name, you know; his name is Timothy and mine is George Zacharias; but they call us Jack and Jill. Well, Jill and I had an invitation to Aunt John's this summer, and that was how we happened to be there. I'd rather go to Aunt John's than any place in the world. When I was a little fellow I used to think I'd rather go to Aunt John's than to Heaven. But I never dared to tell. She invited us to come on the twelfth of August. It takes all day to get there. She lives at Little River in New Hampshire, way up. You have to wait at South Lawrence in a poky little depot, and you get some played out--at least I don't, but Jill does. So we bought a paper and Jill sat up and read it. When he'd sat a minute and read along-- "Look here!" said he. "Look where?" said I. "Why, there's going to be a comet," said Jill. "Who cares?" said I. Jill laid down the paper, and crunched a pop-corn all up before he answered that, then said he, "I don't see why father didn't tell us. I suppose he thought we'd be frightened, or something. Why, s'posing the world did come to an end? That's what this paper says. 'It is pre--' where is my place? Oh! I see--'predicted by learned men that a comet will come into con-conjunction with our plant'--no--'our planet this night. Whether we shall be plunged into a wild vortex of angry space, or suffocated with n-o-x--noxious gases, or scorched to a helpless crisp, or blasted at once, eternal an-ni-hi--'" A gust of wind grabbed the paper out of Jill's hand just then, and took it out of the window; so I never heard the rest. "Father isn't a goose," said I. "He didn't think it worth while mentioning. He isn't going to be afraid of a comet at his time of life." So we didn't think any more about the comet till we got to Aunt John's, where we found company. It wasn't a relation, only an old school friend, and her name was Miss Togy; she had come without an invitation, but had to have the spare room because she was a lady. That was how Jill and I came to be put in the little chimney bedroom. That little chimney bedroom is the funniest place you ever slept in. There had been a chimney once, and it ran up by the window, and grandfather had it taken away. It was a big, old-fashioned chimney, and it left the funniest little gouge in the room, so the bed went in as nice as could be. We couldn't see much but the ceiling when we got to bed. "It's pretty dark," said Jill; "I shouldn't wonder if it did blow up a storm a little--wouldn't it scare--Miss--Bogy!" "Togy," said I. "Well, T-o--" said Jill; and right in the middle of it he went off as sound as a weasel. The next thing I can remember is a horrible noise. I can't think of but one thing in this world it was like, and that isn't in this world so much. I mean the last trumpet, with the angel blowing as he blows in my old primer. The next thing I remember is hearing Jill sit up in bed--for I couldn't see him, it was so dark--and his piping out the other half of Miss Togy's name just as he had left it when he went to sleep. "Gy--Bogy!--Fogy!--Soaky!--Oh," said Jill, coming to at last, "I thought--why, what's up?" I was up, but I couldn't tell what else was for a little while. I went to the window. It was as dark as a great rat-hole out-of-doors, all but a streak of lightning and an awful thunder, as if the world was cracking all to pieces. "Come to bed!" shouted Jill, "you'll get struck, and then that will kill me." I went back to bed, for I didn't know what else to do, and we crawled down under the clothes and covered ourselves all up. "W-would--you--call--Aunt--John?" asked Jill. He was most choked. I came up for air. "No," said I, "I don't think I'd call Aunt John." I should have liked to call her by that time, but then I should have felt ashamed. "I s'pose she has got her hands full with Miss Croaky, anyway," chattered Jill, bobbing up and under again. By that time the storm was the worst storm I had ever seen in my life. It grew worse and worse--thunder, lightning, and wind--wind, lightning, and thunder; rain and roar and awfulness. I don't know how to tell how awful it was. In the middle of the biggest peal we'd had yet, up jumped Jill. "Jack!" said he, "that comet!" I'd never thought of the comet till that minute; I felt an ugly feeling and cold all over. "It is the comet!" said Jill. "It is the day of judgment, Jack." Then it happened. It happened so fast I didn't even have time to get my head under the clothes. First there was a creak, then a crash, then we felt a shake as if a giant pushed his shoulder up through the floor and shoved us. Then we doubled up. And then we began to fall. The floor opened, and we went through. I heard the bed-post hit as we went by. Then I felt another crash; then we began to fall again; then we bumped down hard. After that we stopped falling. I lay still. My heels were doubled up over my head. I thought my neck would break. But I never dared to stir, for I thought I was dead. By and by I wondered if Jill were dead too, so I undoubled my neck a little and found some air. It seemed just as uncomfortable to breathe without air when you were dead as when you weren't. I called out softly, "Jill!" no answer. "Jill!" not a sound. "O--Jill!" But he did not speak, so then I knew Jill must be dead, at any rate. I couldn't help wondering why he was so much deader than I that he couldn't answer a fellow. Pretty soon I heard a rustling noise under my feet, then a weak, sick kind of a voice, just the kind of a noise I always supposed ghosts would make if they could talk. "Jack?" "Is that you, Jill?" "I--suppose--so. Is it you, Jack?" "Yes. Are you dead?" "I don't know. Are you?" "I guess I must be if you are. How awfully dark it is." "Awfully dark! It must have been the comet." "Yes; did you get much hurt?" "Not much--I say, Jack?" "What?" "It is the judgment day." Jill broke up, so did I; we lay as still as we could. If it were the judgment day--"Jill!" said I. "Oh, dear me!" sobbed Jill. We were both crying by that time, and I don't feel ashamed to own up, either. "If I'd known," said I, "that the day of judgment was coming on the twelfth of August, I wouldn't have been so mean about that jack-knife of yours with the notch in it." "And I wouldn't have eaten your luncheon that day last winter when I got mad at you," said Jill. "Nor we wouldn't have cheated mother about smoking, vacations," said I. "I'd never have played with the Bailey boys out behind the barn," said Jill. "I wonder where the comet went to?" said I. "'Whether we shall be plunged into,'" quoted Jill, in a horrible whisper, from that dreadful newspaper, "'shall be plunged into a wild vortex of angry space--or suffocated with noxious gases--or scorched to a helpless crisp--or blasted--'" "When do you think they will come after us?" I interrupted Jill. That very minute somebody came. We heard a step and then another, then a heavy bang. Jill howled out a little. I didn't, for I was thinking how the cellar door banged like that. Then came a voice, an awful hoarse and trembling voice as ever you heard. "George Zacharias!" Then I knew it must be the judgment day and that the angel had me in court to answer him, for you couldn't expect an angel to call you Jack after you was dead. "George Zacharias!" said the awful voice again. I didn't know what else to do, I was so frightened, so I just hollered out "Here!" as I do at school. "Timothy!" came the voice once more. Now Jill had a bright idea. Up he shouted, "Absent!" at the top of his lungs. "George! Jack! Jill! where are you? Are you killed? Oh, wait a minute and I'll bring a light." This did not sound so much like judgment day as it did like Aunt John. I began to feel better. So did Jill. I sat up. So did he. It wasn't a minute till the light came into sight, and something that looked like a cellar door, the cellar steps, and Aunt John's spotted wrapper, and Miss Togy in a night-gown, away behind as white as a ghost. Aunt John held the light above her head and looked down. I don't believe I shall ever see an angel that will make me feel any better to look at than Aunt John did that night. "O you blessed boys!" said Aunt John--she was laughing and crying together. "To think that you should have fallen through the old chimney to the cellar floor and be sitting there alive in such a funny heap as that!" And that was just what we had done. The old flooring (not very secure) had given away in the storm; and we'd gone down through two stories, where the chimney ought to have been, jam! into the cellar on the coal heap, and all as good as ever excepting the bedstead. FOOTNOTE: [66] From "Trot's Wedding Journey." DE APPILE TREE[67] JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS Dat's a mighty quare tale, 'bout de appile tree In de pah'dise gyardin, whar Adam runned free, Whar de butter-flies drunk honey wid ole mammy bee. Talk about yo good times, I bet you he had 'em--Adam-- Adam en Eve, an' de appile tree. He woke one mawnin wid a pullin at he sleeve; He open his eye, an' dar was Eve-- He shook her han', wid a "Honey, don' grieve. You's de only gal on earth for me An' dats de truf, believe." Talk about yo good times, I'll bet you dey had 'em--Adam-- Adam en Eve, an' de appile tree. Den Eve took a bite er de appile fruit En Adam he bit, en den dey scoot. Dar's whar de niggah leahn de quick cally hoot, Ben a runnin' ever since from somebody's boot. En runned en hide behin' de fig tree--Adam-- Adam en Eve behin' de fig tree. Dey had der frolics, en dey had dere flings, Den arter dat, de fun tuck wings, Honey's mighty sweet, but bees has stings An' dey came into de shadder dat de storm cloud brings. Talk about yo hahd times, u-h-m uhm, I bet you dey had 'em--Adam-- Adam en Eve behin' de fig tree. Kase outer de gyardin dey had fur tuh skin. Ter fin' de crack whar Satan crept in Dey sarch fur and wide, dey sarch mighty well. Eve, she knowed, but she 'fused fur ter tell. Ole Satan's trail was all rubbed out 'Ceppen a track er two, whar he walked about. Talk about troubles, I bet you dey had 'em--Adam-- Adam en Eve, en all dere kin. Well, when dey got back de gate wuz shut. An' dat wuz de pay, what Adam got. In dat gyardin he went no moh. De ober-seer gib him a shobel en a hoe, A mule, en a plow, en a swingle tree, Talk about yo hahd times, I bet you dey had 'em--Adam-- En all uh his chillen bofe slave en free. En de chillen ob Adam, en de chillen's kin, Dey all got smeared wid de pitch ob sin. Dey shut dere eyes, to de great here-atter, En flung sin aroun', wid a turrible splatter. En cahooted wid Satan, en dat wat de matter-- An' troubles, well. I bet you dey had 'em--Adam-- De chillen ob Adam, what forgot ter pray, dey had 'em, And dey keep on a hadden 'em down tuh dis day. But dat wa'n't de las' ob de appile tree, Kase she scatter her seeds bofe fur en free, And dat's whut de mattah wid you en me, I knows de feelin's what brought on de fall, Dat same ole appile, an' ole Satan's call, Lor' bless yo chile, I knows 'em all. I'm kinder lop-sided en pigeon toed But jes' you watch me keep in de middle ob de road. Kase de troubles I'se got is a mighty heavy load. Talk about troubles, I got 'em en had 'em, Same as Adam. An' don' yo see I mighty well know Dat I got 'em from Adam long ago, From Adam en Eve en de appile tree, When dey runned free In de pahdise gyardin Wid butter-flies en honey bee? FOOTNOTE: [67] By permission of D. Appleton & Co. MR. DOOLEY ON LA GRIPPE MICROBES FINLEY PETER DUNNE Mr. Dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage consisting of one part syrup, two parts quinine and fifteen parts strong waters. "What's the matter?" asked Mr. McKenna. "I have th' lah gr-rip," said Mr. Dooley, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. "Bad cess to it! Oh, me poor back! It feels as if a dhray had r-run over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not. Well, ye'er lucky. Ye'er a lucky man. "I wint to McGuire's wake las' week. They give him a dacent sind-off. No porther. An' himsilf looked natural--as fine a corpse as iver Gavin laid out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as pr-roud iv McGuire as if he ownded him; fetched half th' town in to look at him an' give ivery wan iv thim his ca-ards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a faint. 'Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'Sivinty-five, thanks be,' says Dugan. 'Thin,' says Gavin, 'take wan iv me ca-ards,' he says. 'I hope ye'll not forget me,' he says. "'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lasteways 'tis me opinion iv it, though th' docther says I swallowed a bug. It don't seem right, Jawn, f'r th' McGuires is a clane fam'ly, but th' docther says a bug got into me system. 'What sort iv bug?' says I. 'A lah grip bug,' he says. 'Yez have Mickrobes in ye'er lung,'he says. 'What's thim?' says I. 'Thims th' lah grip bugs,' says he. 'Ye took wan in an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it has growed an' multiplied till ye'er system does be full iv thim,' he says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'ma-archin' an' counthermarchin' through ye.' 'Glory be to th' saints,' says I. 'Had I betther swallow some insect powdher?' I says. 'Some iv thim in me head has had a fallin' out an' is throwin' bricks.' 'Foolish man,' says he. 'Go to bed,' he says, 'an lave thim alone,' he says. 'Whin they find who they're in,' he says, 'they'll quit ye.' "So I wint to bed an' waited, while th' Mickrobes had fun with me. Monday all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. They stayed up late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wur-ruds come up bechune th' Kerry Mickrobes an' thim fr'm Wixford an' th' whole pa-arty wint over to me lift lung, where they could get th' air, an' had it out. Th' nex' day th' little Mickrobes made a toboggan slide iv me spine an' manetime some Mickrobes that was wur-r-kin' f'r th' tiliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long. "They was tired out th' nex' day till about 5 o'clock, whin thim that was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms an' I knew they're was goin' to be doings in th' top flat. What did thim Mickrobes in me head do but invite all th' other Mickrobes in f'r th' avnin'. They all come. Oh, by gar, they was not wan iv thim stayed away. At 6 o'clock they begun to move fr'm me shins to me thrawt. They come in platoons an' squads an' dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass bands an' more thin wan hundred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes in dhrays. A throlley line was started up me back an ivry car r-run into a wagon load iv scrap iron at th' base iv me skull. "Th' Mickrobes in me head must've done thimsilves proud. Ivery few minutes some wan iv th' kids 'd be sint out with th' can an' I'd say to mesilf: 'There they go, carryin' th' trade to Schwartzmeister's because I'm sick an' can't wait on thim.' I was daffy, Jawn, d'ye mind? Th' likes iv me fillin' a pitcher f'r a little boy-bug! Ho, ho! Such dhreams. An' they had a game iv forty-fives, an' there was wan Mickrobe there that larned to play th' game in th' County Tipp'rary, where 'tis played on stone, an' iv'ry time he led thrumps he'd like to knock me head off. 'Who's thrick is that?' says th' Tipp'rary Mickrobe. 'Tis mine,' says a little red-headed Mickrobe fr'm th' County Roscommon. They tipped over th' chairs an' tables, an' in less time thin it takes to tell th' whole pa-arty was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin' matches in me forehead, but they all stopped to mix in. Oh, 'twas a grand shindig--tin millions iv thim min, women an' childher rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', icepicks an' hurlin' sticks, clubs, brickbats an' beer kags flyin' in th' air. How manny iv thim was kilt I'll niver know, f'r I wint as daft as a hen an' dhreamt iv organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign club, that'd sweep th' prim'ries an' maybe go acrost an' free Ireland. Whin I woke up me legs was as weak as a day-old babby's an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle save an' excipt thim wist iv Ireland fenians--th' Mickrobes." A DOCTRINAL DISCUSSION HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS Looking wearily over the far-stretching fields of corn, the leaves twisting in the heat, and contemplating the discouraging cotton prospect, old Uncle Henry, the plantation carpenter, said, half jestingly to a negro passing, "Uncle Ben, why don't you pray for rain?" "Ef I had faith enough, I could fetch er rain, for don't de Book say, ef you have faith as er mustard seed you can move mountains? I say you done parted from de faith, Unc' Henry. Ef you was still en de faith, an' ask anythin', you goin' ter git it." "Why don't you ask fer er million dollars; what you hoein' out dah en de sun fer, when all you got ter do is ter ask de Lord fer money?" "Dat ain't de question, dat ain't hit. You dodgin' now!" "No, I ain't dodgin'--" "Yes, you is. De Lord don't sen' ter people what dey axes fer deyse'ves. He only sen' blessin's. Ef I ax fer er million er money, hit 'u'd be 'cause I'd natch'ly want ter quit work, an' dat's erg'in' his law. By de sweat er de brow de Book says, dat's how hit's got ter come ef hit come lawful." "Well, why don't you git rain, then? Hyah's Mr. Ed'ards waitin' an' waitin' fer rain, payin' you ter hoe, an' one good rain 'd do more fer him 'n all the hoein' in the worl'." "I didn't say I could fetch rain, Unc' Henry, I didn't say hit!" "What did you say then?" "I said, ef I had faith." "You b'lieve ef you had faith you could fetch er rain?" "Yes, I do!" "Well, ain't dat faith? Ef you b'lieve hit, hit's faith. Trouble is, you don't b'lieve hit yo'se'f." "Yes I do. You done parted from de faith, Unc' Henry, dat's what ails you." "No, I ain't parted from no faith, but I got too much sense ter b'lieve any man can git rain by asking fer hit." "Don't de Book say, 'Ask, an' you shall receive'?" "Not rain. Hit mean grace. When hit comes ter rain, de Lord don't let nobody fool wid him; he look atter de rain, 'specially hisse'f. Why, man, look at hit right! S'pose two men side by side pray diffunt--an' wid faith--what happen? Yonder's Mr. Ed'ards's oats ter be cut nex' week, an' on 'tother side de fence Unc' Jim's gyarden burnin' up. Mr. Ed'ards wants dry weather, an' Jim want rain, an' dey bofe pray deir own way! Bofe got faith, now, bofe got faith, an' one pray fer rain while t'other pray fer dry weather; what de Lord goin' do? Is he goin' ter split er rain on dat fence? Answer me! Don't turn yo' back ter me; answer me, Ben!" "You want my answer?" "Yes, I want hit. Don't stan' dah a stammerin'! What de Lord goin' do?" "You want my answer? Well, hyah 'tis. De Lord 'u'd sen' 'nough rain to help de gyarden, but not 'nough ter hurt de oats. Dat's my answer!" "You don't know what you all talkin' bout! Send 'nough rain ter help de gyarden, an' not 'nough to hurt de oats! You reckon Mr. Ed'ards let er nigger stay on dis place an' pray fer rain when he cuttin' oats? You reckon er nigger goin' ter come hyah an' run er market-gyarden wid 'im on sheers, an' him er prayin' fer dry wedder when cabbage oughter be headin' up? No, sah! You c'n pray fer grace, an' when you gits grace you're all right, rain er no rain; but you better not resk yo'se'f on rain. Folks got ter have somebody ter settle when hit shall rain, an' when hit sha'n't rain. Faith ain' got nothin' ter do 'ith hit. It takes horse sense. Why, ef de Lord was ter tie er rope to de flood-gates, an' let hit down hyah ter be pulled when dey need rain, somebody'd git killed ev'y time dey pulled hit. Folks wid oats ter cut 'u'd lie out wid dey guns an' gyard dat rope, an' folks wid cabbages 'd be sneakin' up in de dyark tryin' ter git hold er hit. Fus' thing you know, er cem'tery grow up roun' dyah an' nobody lef' ter pull de rope!" "Faith 'u'd fetch it. Yes, sah, hit'll fetch hit." "You got any?" "Not 'nough ter fetch rain." "Yo' fam'bly got any?" "Not 'nough fer rain." "Well den it look like faith es 'bout as scyarce an' hard ter git as rain. Has Macedony Church got any?" "Plenty." "Got 'nough fer rain?" "Plenty." "Well den you go down dyah to prayer-meeting ter-night; an' take yo' fambly, an' all de niggers in de settlement what' got faith,--don't get none but faith niggers,--an' see ef you git er rain. You git rain, an' I'll give up. I hyah you all been prayin' fer me ter come in chu'ch--cause de ole roof wants patchin' I reckon. Git de rain an' you gits me too. Go on, an' try hit. I ain't got no time ter waste. Fus' thing you know, rain'll be pourin' down, an' dat dah chu'ch'll be leakin' faster'n a sieve. You goin' ter git rain, Ben?" "Yes, I'm going' ter try. An' ef we have faith we'll git hit. Hit's a dry moon; ain't narry drop of water dyah, but faith c'n do hit." The next morning a thin little cloud floated out of the brazen east, a mere ghost of a cloud, and from it was sifted down for about two minutes the poorest apology that nature ever made to injured verdure. Soon it passed into nothingness, and the full sun blazed over the parched land once more. A triumphant laugh was heard out where the hands were hoeing, and Ben's voice was recognized above all the others. They were congratulating him upon his success, when up came old Henry, his sack of carpenter's tools on his back. Ben shouted, "Hello, Unc' Henry. I told you we'd fetch hit." "Ben, did you say hit only taks faith as er grain er mustard seed ter move er mountain?" "Yes, sah." "Well now, hyah's de whole of Macedony Church, full of faith niggers, a prayin' for rain, an' de whole pack o' 'em can't lay de dust!" FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN[68] S. W. GILLILAN Superintindint wuz Flannigan; Boss of the siction wuz Finnigin; Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, Finnigin writ it to Flannigan, Afther the wrick wuz all on agin. That is, this Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan. Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan He writ tin pages--did Finnigin. An' he tould jist how the smash occurred-- Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd Did Finnigin write to Flannigan Afther the cars had gone on agin. That wuz how Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan. Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin-- Had more idjucation--had Flannigan; An' it wore 'm clane an' complately out To tell what Finnigin writ about In his writin' to Muster Flannigan. So he writed back to Finnigin: "Don't do sich a sin agin! Make 'em brief, Finnigin!" Whin Finnigin got this frum Flannigan, He blushed rosy rid--did Finnigin; An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole moonth's pa-ay That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay Befoore Sup'rintindint--that's Flannigan-- Gits a whack at this very same sin agin. From Finnigin to Flannigan Repoorts won't be long agin." Wan da-ay on the siction of Finnigin, On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan, A rail give way on a bit av a curve, An' some kyears went off as they made the swerve. "There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin, "But repoorts must be made to Flannigan," An' he winked at McGorrigan As married a Finnigin. He wus shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin, As minny a railroader's been agin, An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright In Finnigin's shanty all that night-- Bilin' down his repoort, wuz Finnigin. An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan: Off agin, on agin, Gone agin.--Finnigin." FOOTNOTE: [68] By permission of the author. GAVROCHE AND THE ELEPHANT[69] VICTOR HUGO [A story of how Gavroche, a street gamin of Paris, uses for a home the monument built in the form of a huge elephant, which Napoleon Bonaparte erected in 1823.] The forest has a bird. Paris a child. The bird is called a sparrow. The child--a gamin. This little being is joyous; he has not food every day; no shoes on his feet; not much clothing on his body. He runs, he swears like a convict, he haunts all the wine shops, knows all the thieves--but he has no evil in his heart. Little Gavroche was one of these. He had been dispatched into life with a kick and had simply taken flight. The pavements were less hard to him than his mother's heart. One evening, little Gavroche was skipping along an alley, hands in his pockets and singing merrily, when he came upon a young man who had a wild, happy look in his eye, but no hat on his head. "Whoa there, monsieur, where's your roof? You've got enough light in them blinkers of yours to light up my apartments--say, monsieur, you're either crazy or you've had an awful good time!" "Be off with you, imp." "Say, did you know there wus a goin' ter be war in this town in a few days and I'm goin' to enlist as general of the army--Forward--March--Say, monsieur, I believe I know you, yes, sir, I've seen you down in that Napoleon meetin' way down there in that cellar--" "Oh, be off with you, imp!" "Yes, sir, I'm goin' now. Sorry I can't walk with you further, but business calls me in the other direction. "Good evenin', monsieur--Watch out there. Can't ye see where yer goin'? Little more an' ye'd been eatin' the dandelions! Good evenin', monsieur!" A little further down the street, Gavroche was standing scrutinizing a shop window, when two little children came up to him crying. "What's the matter with you, brats?" "Boo-hoo--we--ain't got no place to sleep." "The idea a bawlin' about that. Come along with me, I'll give ye a place to sleep. Say, hev ye got any shiners?" "Boo-hoo--no--sir!" "Well, come along with me. I'm rich. Ye can't hear 'em rattle, but all is not gold that rattles." "Monsieur, we--boo-hoo--we asked that barber man over there to let us get warm in his store and--and--he wouldn't do--it--boo-hoo!" "Well, now, don't bawl about that. He don't know no better. He's an Englishman. But I'll jes' take a note of that insult. [Takes paper from his pocket and writes.]--Get even with Barber at 63 Rue Saint Antoine. Too mean to occupy space here below. There now! that'll fix 'em. Hurry along here now or my hotel will be closed.--Say, brats, you stay here a minute. There is a poor little girl what's cold and she ain't got nothin' around her. You stay here till I gits back. "There, little girl, take my scarf and put around you. This kind of life is alright fer boys but it's pretty tough on girls. Brr! it's rather chilly. And I'll eat a piece out o' Hades if it ain't re-raining again." "Monsieur, boo-hoo--we--ain't had nothin' to eat--since--morning." "Well, now don't bawl about that. Let me see--oh, here's a shop. Shovel in here. "Boy, give us five centimes worth o' bread." "For how many?" "Well, there seem to be two uv 'em. "Here--now take that--brat senior, and you take that, brat junior--now grub away. Ram that into your muzzle. Don't you understand? Well, classically speaking--eat. Well, I thought ye knew how to do that. [Whistles Marseillaise until they have finished, then stops suddenly and says to the boy behind the counter.]--Say, ain't them two nice specimens to be bawlin' jes' 'cause they ain't got no home? "Hey there, are ye through? Well, shovel out, then. We've got to hurry or the elephant will have closed down his ears. Hey there, Montparnasse! See my two kids?" "Well, where did you get them, Gavroche?" "Oh, a gentleman made me a present of 'em, down the street--say, they've got hides like linseed plasters, hain't they?" "Where are you taking them, Gavroche?" "To my lodging--the Elephant." "The Elephant!" "Yes--the El-e-phant. Any complaints?" "You don't mean Napoleon's monument?" "I mean Napoleon's monument--You see when Napoleon left for Elba, he put me in charge of the Elephant. Forward, march, there, brats! Good evenin', Montparnasse." On arriving at the Elephant, Gavroche climbed up and then invited his friends to come up. "Hey, there, brat senior--see that ladder? Well, put your foot on--Now ye ain't agoin' ter be afraid are ye? Here, give me your hands--Now--up--There, you stand still now, till I git yer little brother up--Here, brat junior. Oh, can't you reach that ladder? Well, step on the Elephant's corn then--That's the way--Now--up--There! Now, gentlemen, you're on the inside of the Elephant. Don't ye feel something like Jonah? But stop yer talkin' now fer we're goin' straight ter bed. This way to yer sleepin' apartments--Here, brat junior, we'll wrap you up in this blanket." "O, thank you, sir. It's so nice and warm." "Well, that's what the monkeys thought. Here, senior, you take this mattress. Ye see, I stole these from the Jardin de Plants. But I told the animals over there that they were fer the Elephant and they said that was all right. Are ye in bed? Now I am goin' ter suppress de candelabra. [Blows out candle.] Whew! listen to it rain. How the rain do be runnin' down the legs of this here house. That's first class thunder too. Whew! that's no slouch uv a streak uv lightnin' nuther. Here, calm down there, gentlemen, or ye'll topple over this edifice. Time ter sleep now, good-night. Shut yer peepers!" "Oh, sir?" "Hey?" "What's that noise?" "Why--it's--rats." "Oh, sir." "Hey?" "What is rats?" "Oh--rats--is--mice." "Sir?" "Hey?" "Why don't you get a cat?" "Oh--I--I did have--a cat and--and the rats eat 'er up." "Boo-hoo. Will they eat us up too?" "Ah--no--they won't eat you. You ain't got enough meat on you. Besides I got 'em all screened off with a wire. They can't get at ye. See here--Ef yer goin' ter be afraid, take hold er my hand an' I'll lay down long side o' yer and go ter sleep--Now I fergot ter tell you gentlemen that when ye wake up--I'll be gone, fer business calls me early, but ye're to make this yer home jes' as long as yer wants ter and come here jes' whenever yer wants ter. Now fer the last time--good-night!" FOOTNOTE: [69] A dramatization from "Les Misérables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins. THE HAZING OF VALIANT ANONYMOUS She was a small girl, but her sense of the ridiculous was tremendous. All summer long she sat on the sand and was nice to two boys, a sub-freshman and a sophomore. The sub-freshman's name was Valiant; he had a complexion that women envied, he was small and dainty and smelled sweet. The other, whose name was Buckley, was bigger and much more self-assertive. One day the girl decided it would be fun to make them hate each other, and after that, when they were all three together, the sophomore would tell her how hard his class would haze the freshman in the Fall, while the sub-freshman only gazed out over the water and smiled. But one day the sophomore made a remark about "pretty pink-cheeked boys," which had better been left unsaid. Then arose the younger one and shaking impressively a slender pink-nailed finger he spoke, "You had better not try to haze me, Will Buckley." In the good old days you had only to casually drop a word to a freshman on the way to recitation to wait for you when evening came, and he would turn up promptly, take his little dose meekly and go back to bed a better boy for it. But all that is changed now. Twice had Buckley waited near the house where Valiant ate his dinner. He had tried several ways of getting into the house where Valiant lived, but without success; then for three successive nights he waited in an alley near by; on the third night Valiant came, but with him an upper classman friend. Buckley kept in the shadow but Valiant called out, "Oh, is that you, Mr. Buckley? How do you do? Aren't you coming in to see me?" Which was decidedly fresh. "Not now, I'll drop in later. Which is your room?" "That room up there, see?" The next night Buckley got his gang together. They decided that a dip in the canal would be excellent for Valiant's health; if he felt cold after that he could climb a telephone pole for exercise. It was nearly two o'clock when they carried a ladder into the alley way. This was a particularly nervy go. A young professor and his young wife had a suite of rooms in this house; it was moonlight, and a certain owl-eyed proctor was pretty sure to pass not far away; but if they hurried they thought they could send a man up and get away without being caught. Buckley was to get in the window, which was open, it being a warm night, the others were to hustle away with the ladder, and wait for him at a street several blocks distant. There was no doubt but that Valiant would have to come with him. Buckley climbed up, got one foot over the sill, and was in the room. He leaned out and raised his hand. Silently the ladder disappeared. He turned and started across the room; when a soft voice said, "Is that you, dear?" Then before all the blood in his body had time to freeze, he stepped out of the moonlight into the shadow and whispered, "Shsss!" Instinct made him do this. Across the silence the soft voice came again, "Oh, I'm not asleep. But why did you stay so long, Guy dear?" Buckley heard the squeaking of a bed-spring and as his knees stiffened he spied coming toward him something white with two black streaks hanging half way down, which as the thing came into the moonlight, he saw to be long braids of dark hair. It was a tall, slender figure clothed in a white garment. The face was young and beautiful. Buckley closed his eyes. But it came nearer and nearer. He stood up perfectly rigid in the darkness as two soft arms reached up and met about his neck. Buckley did not budge and the soft voice began, "You have not forgiven me yet." It began to sob. "You know I did not mean it. Won't you forgive me? Tell me you do forgive me. Say it with your own lips, Guy dear. Speak to me, my husband!" Buckley didn't. A soft, fragrant hand came up along his cheek, which tingled, and over his eyes, which quivered. For fully a half minute he tried to think what to do, then he gritted his teeth and placed one arm about her waist and threw the other around her neck in such a way that he could draw it tight if necessary. Suddenly she raised her head, gave one startled look into his face, and with a shuddering gasp, she recoiled. "For Heaven's sake, don't scream--I can explain!" "Ugh, oh, let go! Who--let me go, or I'll screa-ch-ch-ch!" Buckley pressed on the windpipe, feeling like three or four murderers as he did so. "Oh, please, if you scream it'll only make things awfully awkward. I got in here by mistake. Oh, please keep quiet. Promise me you'll not cry out, and I'll let you go." "Yes, yes, I promise," said the scared voice. Buckley released his grasp. She fled across the room. He thought she was making for the door and sprang to stop her, but she only snatched up an afghan or something from the sofa, and holding it about her, retreated to the dark part of the room, moaning, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" "I don't know who you are, but I wish you wouldn't cry. Please be calm. It's all a big mistake, I thought I was coming to my own room--" "Your own room!" "I mean my classmate's room,--I mean I thought a freshman roomed here. You aren't half so sorry as I am--oh, yes, you are--I mean I'm awfully sorry, and wish to apologize. I didn't mean anything." "Mean anything!" "Really I didn't. If you'll only let me go down and promise not to wake the house before I get out, why no one will ever know anything about it and I'll promise not to do it again." "Just as soon as I get my breath I mean to wake up the whole house, and the whole town if I can." Buckley started across the room. "Stop!" "You promised not to scream." "You forced me to promise. I am going to scream." The bold, bad sophomore went down on his knees with his hands clasped toward the dark where the voice came from. "Oh, don't, please don't. Have pity on me." "You stay right there in the moonlight." "Right here?" "Right there, and if you dare to move I'll scream with all my might." Buckley shivered and froze stiff. And then he began to plead. "Please, oh, please, whoever you are, won't you forgive me and let me go? I wouldn't harm a girl for the world. I'll be fired--I mean expelled from college--I'll be disgraced for life. I'll--" "Stop! While it may be true that you did not break into my room with intent to rob or injure a defenseless woman, yet, by your own confession you came to torment a weaker person. You came to haze a freshman. And when my husband--" "Have mercy, have mercy. If I'm fired from college I'll be disgraced for life. All my prospects will be blighted; my life will be ruined, and my mother's heart broken." She gave a little hysterical sob:-- "For your poor mother's sake, go!" "Oh, thank you with all my heart. My mother would too if she could know. I don't deserve to be treated so well. I shall always think of you as my merciful benefactress. I can never forgive myself for causing you pain. Oh, thank you," and Buckley the proud sophomore groveled out of the room. Next morning he received a letter, which read as follows: "Just as a tall woman looks short in a man's make-up, so does a short man look tall in a woman's make-up, and you should know that blondes are hard to recognize in brunette wigs. You ought to know that a real girl wouldn't have behaved quite that way. You see you still have a number of things to learn, even though you are a soph. Hoping that you will learn to forgive yourself, I am, "Your merciful benefactress, "H. G. VALIANT." THE HINDOO'S PARADISE ANONYMOUS A Hindoo died, a happy thing to do, When twenty years united to a shrew. Released, he hopefully for entrance cries Before the gates of Brahma's paradise. "Hast thou been through purgatory?" Brahma said, "No, but I've been married," and he hung his head. "Come in, come in, and welcome too, my son, Marriage and purgatory are as one." In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door, And knew the peace he ne'er had known before. But scarce had he entered the garden fair, When another Hindoo asked admission there. The self-same question, Brahma asked, "Hast thou been through purgatory?" "No, what then?" "Thou canst not enter," did the God reply. "Why, he that entered first was there no more than I." "All that is true, but he has married been, And so on earth, had suffered from all sin." "Married, 'tis well, I've been married twice." "Begone, we'll have no fools in Paradise." IF I KNEW ANONYMOUS If I knew the box where the smiles are kept, No matter how large the key, Or strong the bolt, I would try so hard, 'Twould open, I know, for me. Then over the land and sea broadcast, I'd scatter the smiles to play, That the children's faces might hold them fast For many and many a day. If I knew a box that was large enough To hold all the frowns I meet, I would like to gather them, every one, From the nursery, school and street, Then, holding and folding I'd pack them in, And turning the monster key I'd hire a giant to drop the box, Into the depths of the sea. THE IMAGINARY INVALID[70] JEROME K. JEROME I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch--hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into--some fearful, devastating scourge I know--and, before I had glanced half down the list of "premonitory symptoms," it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it. I sat for a while, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever--read the symptoms--discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it--wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus's Dance--found, as I expected, that I had that too,--began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom and so started alphabetically--read up ague, and learned that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright's disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid's knee. I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort of slight. Why hadn't I got housemaid's knee? Why this invidious reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid's knee. Gout, in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there was nothing else the matter with me. I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a medical point of view, what an acquisition I should be to a class! Students would have no need to "walk the hospitals," if they had me. I was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk around me, and, after that, take their diploma. Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I made a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart. I could not feel my heart. It had stopped beating. I have since been induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had scarlet fever. I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, when I fancy I'm ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going to him now. "What a doctor wants," I said, "is practice. He shall have me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases each." So I went straight up and saw him, and he said: "Well, what's the matter with you?" I said: "I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had finished. But I will tell you what is not the matter with me. I have not got housemaid's knee. Why I have not got housemaid's knee, I cannot tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, however, I have got." And I told him how I came to discover it all. Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn't expecting it--a cowardly thing to do, I call it--and immediately afterward butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out. I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist's and handed it in. The man read it and then handed it back. He said he didn't keep it. I said: "You are a chemist?" "I am a chemist. If I was a coöperative store and family hotel combined I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me." I read the prescription. It ran: "1 lb. beefsteak, every 6 hours, 1 ten-mile walk every morning, 1 bed at 11 sharp every night. And don't stuff up your head with things you don't understand." FOOTNOTE: [70] From "Three Men in a Boat," published by Henry Holt & Co. JANE JONES[71] BEN F. KING Jane Jones keeps talkin' to me all the time, An' says you must make it a rule To study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd learn, An' never be absent from school. Remember the story of Elihu Burrit, An' how he clum up to the top, Got all the knowledge 'at ever he had Down in a blacksmithing shop! Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did-- I dunno! O' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top, Is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop. She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, But full of ambition an' brains; An' studied philosophy all his hull life, An' see what he got for his pains! He brought electricity out of the sky, With a kite an' a bottle an' key, An' we're owing him more 'n any one else For all the bright lights 'at we see. Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did-- I dunno! O' course what's allers been hinderin' me Is not havin' any kite, lightning, er key. Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all An' used to split rails when a boy; An' General Grant was a tanner by trade An' lived way out in Ill'nois. So when the great war in the South first broke out He stood on the side o' the right, An' when Lincoln called him to take charge o' things He won nearly every blamed fight. Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did-- I dunno! Still I ain't to blame, not by a big sight, For I ain't never had any battles to fight. She said 'at Columbus was out at the knees When he first thought up his big scheme, An' told all the Spaniards 'nd Italians, too, An' all of 'em said 'twas a dream. But Queen Isabella jest listened to him, 'Nd pawned all her jewels o' worth, 'Nd bought him the Santa Maria 'nd said, "Go hunt up the rest o' the earth!" Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did-- I dunno! O' course that may be, but then you must allow They ain't no land to discover jest now! FOOTNOTE: [71] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers. KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE[72] JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY Tell you what I like the best-- 'Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strawberries melt On the vine,--some afternoon Like to jes' git out and rest, And not work at nothin' else! Orchard's where I'd ruther be-- Needn't fence it in fer me! Jes' the whole sky overhead, And the whole airth underneath-- Sorto' so's a man kin breathe Like he ort, and kind o' has Elbow-room to keerlessly Sprawl out len'thways on the grass Where the shadders thick and soft As the kivvers on the bed Mother fixes in the loft Allus, when they's company! Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there-- S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer Through the wavin' leaves above Like a feller 'at's in love And don't know it, ner don't kere! Ever'thing you hear and see Got some sort o' interest-- Maybe find a bluebird's nest Tucked up there conveenently Fer the boy 'at's apt to be Up some other apple-tree! Watch the swallers skootin' past 'Bout as peert as you could ast; Er the Bob-white raise and whiz Where some other's whistle is. Ketch a shadder down below, And look up to find the crow-- Er a hawk,--away up there, 'Pearantly froze in the air!-- Hear the old hen squak, and squat Over ever' chick she's got, Suddent-like--And she knows where That-air hawk is, well as you!-- You jes' bet yer life she do!-- Eyes a-glitterin' like glass, Waitin' till he makes a pass! Pee-wees' singin', to express My opinion, 's second class, Yit you'll hear 'em more er less; Sapsucks gittin' down to biz, Weedin' out the lonesomeness; Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass, In them base-ball clothes o' his, Sportin' 'round the orchard jes' Like he owned the premises! Sun out in the fields kin sizz, But flat on yer back, I guess, In the shade's where glory is! That's jes' what I'd like to do Stiddy fer a year er two! Plague! ef they ain't somepin' in Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in My convictions!--'long about Here in June especially!-- Under some old apple-tree, Jes' a-restin' through and through, I could git along without Nothin else at all to do Only jes' a-wishin' you Was a-gittin' there like me, And June war eternity! Lay out there and try to see Jes' how lazy you kin be!-- Tumble round and souse yer head In the clover-bloom, er pull Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes, And peek through it at the skies, Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead, Maybe, smilin' back at you In betwixt the beautiful Clouds o' gold and white and blue!-- Month a man kin railly love-- June, you know, I'm talkin' of! March ain't never nothin' new! Aprile's altogether too Brash fer me! and May--I jes' 'Bominate its promises,-- Little hints o' sunshine and Green around the timber-land-- A few blossoms, and a few Chip-birds, and a sprout er two-- Drap asleep, and it turns in 'Fore daylight and snows ag'in!-- But when June comes--Clear my th'oat With wild honey!--Rench my hair In the dew! and hold my coat! Whoop out loud! and th'ow my hat!-- June wants me, and I'm to spare! Spread them shadders anywhere, I'll git down and waller there, And obleeged to you at that! FOOTNOTE: [72] From "Afterwhiles," published by the Bobbs-Merrill Co., Indianapolis, Ind. LITTLE BREECHES[73] JOHN HAY I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On the handful o' things I know. I don't pan out on the prophets, And free-will and that sort of thing, But I believe in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring. I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along-- No four-year-old in the country Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight-- And I'd larnt him to chew terbacker, Jest to keep his milk teeth white. The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started-- I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all. Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And searched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat--but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found. And here all hope soured on me, Of my fellow-critters' aid-- I jest flopped down on my marrow bones, Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed. By this the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar. We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night; We looked in, and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white. And thar sat Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter with me." How did he get thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm, They just scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm; And I think that saving a little child And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around the Throne. FOOTNOTE: [73] By permission of Mrs. Hay. THE LOW-BACKED CAR SAMUEL LOVER When first I saw sweet Peggy, 'Twas on a market-day; A low-backed car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay; But when that hay was blooming grass, And decked with flowers of spring, No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubbed his owld poll, And looked after the low-backed car. In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars With hostile scythes demands his tithes Of death--in warlike cars; While Peggy, peaceful goddess, Has darts in her bright eyes That knock men down in the market-town, As right and left they fly; While she sits in her low-backed car: Than battle more dangerous far-- For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart That is hit from that low-backed car. Sweet Peggy round her cart, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these; While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of love; While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far, And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin' As she sits in her low-backed car. Oh! I'd rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach and four, and gold galore, And a lady for my bride; For the lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste, While Peggy would sit beside me, With my arm around her waist, While we drove in the low-backed car To be married by Father Maher; Oh! my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh, Though it beat in a low-backed car. MAMMY'S PICKANIN' LUCY DEAN JENKINS Now, whah d'ye s'pose dat chile is? My, he's got a head! He's a-hidin' frum his mammy 'Case it's time to go to bed. Hyah, you, Petah Johnsing! Come inside dat fence. I done tole you yes'day You didn't hab no sense. What's dat? A-waitin' fo' yo' daddy? (Bress his little hea't!) Why, chile! Yo' daddy won't be comin' Froo dat woodsy pa't At dis time ob de ebenin'. Don't you see dat moon? Dat's de sign dat spooks 'Ll be a-trablin' soon. I b'lieve I see 'em Comin'--Massy me! As sho' as you is breavin' Dar's one behind dat tree! Ha! Ha! I t'ought dat 'd bring him. Come hyah, sweety hon', Come to yo' ole mammy, An' if dose spookies come An' want my pickaninny, I'll swat 'em in de face; I'll take dar flowin' ga'ments, An' jest wipe up de place. I'll take dat ar bu'nt hoe-cake, An' hit 'em on de head, Till dey'll be glad to go away, An' let my baby go to bed. So, don't cry no mo', my honey, Jes' close yo' little eye, An' mammy'll rock ye in her a'ms, An' sing de-- "Lullaby, Close yo' eye, Mammy's little dusky baby; Hush-a-bye, Close yo' eye, Mammy's little baby boy, Den hush-a-bye." Now, what's de mattah, honey? Ain't you neber gwine ter sleep? Dose spookies ain't a-comin'; Dey's gwine off down de street. Now shet yo' eyes up tight, An' go right off to sleep; An' to-morrow for yo' breakfus' You'll hab' possum for to eat. So, don't cry no mo', my honey, Jes' close yo' little eye, While mammy rocks you in her a'ms An' sings de-- "Lullaby," etc. MANDALAY RUDYARD KIPLING By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, an' the temple-bells they say: "Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!" Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chuckin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! 'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: Bloomin' idol made o' mud-- Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd-- Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay-- When the mist was on the rice fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "_Kullalo-lo_!" With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay-- But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away, An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin,' why, you won't 'eed nothin' else." No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells! On the road to Mandalay-- I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and-- Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener, land! On the road to Mandalay-- Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be-- By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea-- On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! MISTER COON AND MISTER RABBIT[74] JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS Well one time Mr. Rabbit an' Mr. Coon live close ter one anudder in de same neighborhoods. How dey does now I ain't a-tellin' you, but in dem days dey wa'n't no hard feelin's 'twixt um. Dey jest went along like two ole cronies. Mr. Rabbit he was a fisherman an' Mr. Coon he was a fisherman. But Mr. Rabbit he kotch fish, an' Mr. Coon he fished for frogs. Mr. Rabbit he had mighty good luck, and Mr. Coon he had mighty bad luck. Mr. Rabbit he got fat an' slick an' Mr. Coon he got po' an' sick. Hit went on dis-a-way tell one day Mr. Coon met Mr. Rabbit in de big road. Dey shook han's dey did, an' den Mr. Coon he 'low: "Brer Rabbit, whar you git sech a fine chance er fish?" Mr. Rabbit laugh an' say, "I kotch 'em outen de river, Brer Coon. All I got to do is to bait my hook," sezee. Den Mr. Coon he shake his head an' 'low, "Den how come I ain't ketch no frogs?" Mr. Rabbit sat down in de road an' scratched fer fleas an' den he 'low, "It's kaze you done make um all mad, Brer Coon. One time in de dark er de moon, you slipped down ter de branch an' kotch de ole king frog, an' ever sence dat time, w'enever you er passin' by, you kin year um sing out, fus' one an' den anudder, 'Yer he come! Dar he goes! Hit 'im in de eye! Hit 'im in de eye! Mash 'im an' smash 'im! Mash 'im an' smash 'im!' Yasser, dat w'at dey say. I year um constant, Brer Coon, an' dat des w'at dey say." Den Mr. Coon up an' say, "Ef dat de way dey gwine on, how de name er goodness kin I ketch um, Brer Rabbit. I bleege ter have sumfin ter eat fer me an' my fambly connection." Mr. Rabbit sorter grin in de corner ob de mouf an' den he say, "Well, Brer Coon, bein' ez you bin so sociable 'long wid me, an' ain't never showed your toofies w'en I pull yo' tail, I'll des whirl in an' hep you out." Mr. Coon he say, "Thanky, thanky, Brer Rabbit!" Mr. Rabbit hang his fish on a tree lim an' say, "Now, Brer Coon, you bleege ter do dis lik' I tell you." Mr. Coon 'lowed dat he would ef de good Lawd spared 'im. Den Mr. Rabbit say, "Now, Brer Coon, you des rack down yonder an' git on de big san-bar 'twix' de river an' de branch. Wen you git dar you mus' stagger like you sick, an' den you mus' whirl roun' an' roun' an' drap down lak you dead. Arter you drap down, you mus' sorter jerk yo' legs once er twice an' den you mus' lay right still. If fly light on yo' nose let 'im stay dar. Don't move; don't wink yo' eye; don't switch yo' tail. Des lay right dar an' 'twont' be long for yo' hear from me. Yit don't yo' move till I give de word." Mr. Coon he paced off he did, an' done des like Mr. Rabbit told him. He staggered roun' on de san'-bank, an' den he drapped down dead. Atter so long a time, Mr. Rabbit come lopin' 'long, an' soon's he got dar he squall out, "Coon dead!" Dis rousted de frogs, an' dey stuck dey heads up fer ter see w'at all de rippet was about. One great big green frog up an' holler, "W'at de matter? W'at de matter?" He talk like he got bad cold. Mr. Rabbit he 'low, "Coon dead!" Frog say, "Don't believe it! Don't believe it!" N'er frog say, "Yes, he is! Yes, he is!" Little bit er one say, "No, he ain't! No, he ain't!" Dey keep on sputin till bimeby hit look like all de frogs in de neighborhood wuz dar. Mr. Rabbit look like he ain't a-kearin' what dey do er say. He sot down dar in de san' like he gwine in moanin' fer Mr. Coon. De frogs kep' gittin' closer and closer. Mr. Coon he ain't move. W'en a fly'd git on 'im, Mr. Rabbit he'd bresh 'im off. Bimeby he 'low, "Ef you want ter git 'im outin de way, now's you time, cousin frogs. Des whirl in an' bury 'im, deep in de san'." Big old frog say, "How we gwine ter do it? How we gwine ter do it?" Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Dig de san' out from under 'im an' let 'im down in de hole." Den de frogs dey went ter work sure enough. Dey mus' 'a' been a hundred un um, an' dey make dat san' fly. Mr. Coon he ain't move. De frogs dey dig an' scratch in de san' tell atter while dey had a right smaht hole an' Mr. Coon wuz down in dar. Bimeby Big Frog holler, "Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?" Mr. Rabbit' low, "Kin you jump out?" Big Frog say, "Yes, I kin! Yes, I kin!" Mr. Rabbit say, "Den 'tain't deep nuff." Den de frogs dey dig an' dey dig tell bimeby Big Frog say, "Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?" Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Kin you jump out?" Big Frog say, "I des kin! I des kin!" Mr. Rabbit say, "Dig it deeper." All de frogs keep on diggin' tell bimeby Big Frog holler out, "Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?" Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Kin you jump out?" Big Frog say, "No, I can't! No, I can't! Come he'p me! Come he'p me!" Den Mr. Rabbit bust out laffin' an' holler out, "Rise up, sandy, an' git yo' meat." An' Mr. Coon riz. FOOTNOTE: [74] By permission of D. Appleton & Co. MONEY MUSK BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR Ah, the buxom girls that helped the boys-- The nobler Helens of humbler Troys-- As they stripped the husks with rustling fold From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold, By the candle-light in pumpkin bowls, And the gleams that showed fantastic holes In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin, From the hermit glim set up within; By the rarer light in girlish eyes As dark as wells, or as blue as skies. I hear the laugh when the ear is red, I see the blush with the forfeit paid, The cedar cakes with the ancient twist, The cider cup that the girls have kissed. And I see the fiddler through the dusk As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk!" The boys and girls in a double row Wait face to face till the magic bow Shall whip the tune from the violin, And the merry pulse of the feet begin. In shirt of check, and tallowed hair, The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair Like Moses' basket stranded there On the brink of Father Nile. He feels the fiddle's slender neck, Picks out the note, with thrum and check; And times the tune with nod and beck, And thinks it a weary while. All ready! Now he gives the call, Cries, "_Honor to the ladies_!" All The jolly tides of laughter fall And ebb in a happy smile. "_Begin_." D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string, "_First couple join right hands and swing_!" As light as any blue-bird's wing "_Swing once and a half times round_." Whirls Mary Martin all in blue-- Calico gown and stockings new, And tinted eyes that tell you true, Dance all to the dancing sound. She flits about big Moses Brown, Who holds her hands to keep her down And thinks her hair a golden crown, And his heart turns over once! His cheek with Mary's breath is wet, It gives a second somerset! He means to win the maiden yet, Alas, for the awkward dance! "Your stoga boot has crushed my toe!" "I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe!" "You clumsy fellow!" "_Pass below_!" And the first pair dance apart. Then "_Forward six_!" advance, retreat, Like midges gay in sunbeam street. 'Tis Money Musk by merry feet And the Money Musk by heart! "_Three quarters round your partner swing! Across the set_!" The rafters ring, The girls and boys have taken wing And have brought their roses out! 'Tis "_Forward six_!" with rustic grace, Ah, rarer far than--"_Swing to place_!" Than golden clouds of old point-lace They bring the dance about. Then clasping hands all--"_Right and left_!" All swiftly weave the measure deft Across the woof in loving weft, And the Money Musk is done! Oh, dancers of the rustling husk, Good night, sweet hearts, 'tis growing dusk, Good night for aye to Money Musk, For the heavy march begun! THE ONE-LEGGED GOOSE[75] F. HOPKINSON SMITH The Colonel had been detained at his office, but had sent word that I was to wait for him. Chad was serving the coffee. "My Marsa John," he remarked, filling the cup with the smoking beverage, "never drank nuffin' but tea, eben at de big dinners when all de gemmen had coffee in de little cups--dat's one ob 'em you's drinkin' out ob now; dey ain't mo' 'an fo' on 'em left. Old marsa would have his pot of tea. Henny useter make it for him; makes it now for Miss Nancy. "Henny was a young gal den, long 'fo' we was married. Henny b'longed to Colonel Lloyd Barbour, on de next plantation to ourn. "Mo' coffee, Major?" I handed Chad the empty cup. He refilled it, and went straight on without drawing breath. "Wust scrape I eber got into wid old Marsa John was ober Henny. I tell ye she was a harricane in dem days. She come into de kitchen one time where I was helpin' git de dinner ready an' de cook had gone to de spring-house, an' she says: "'Chad, what ye cookin' dat smells so nice?' "'Dat's a goose,' I says, 'cookin' for Marsa John's dinner. We got quality,' says I, pintin' to de dinin'-room do'. "'Quality!' she says. 'Spec' I know what de quality is. Dat's for you and de cook.' "Wid dat she grabs a caarvin' knife from de table, opens de do' ob de big oven, cuts off a leg ob de goose, an' dis'pears round de kitchen corner wid de leg in her mouf. "'Fo' I knowed whar I was Marsa John come to de kitchen do' an' says, 'Gittin' late, Chad; bring in de dinner.' You see, Major, dey ain't no up an' down-stairs in de big house, like it is yer; kitchen an' dinin'-room all on de same flo'. "Well, sah, I was scared to def, but I tuk dat goose an' laid him wid de cut side down on de bottom of de pan 'fo' de cook got back, put some dressin' an' stuffin' ober him, an' shet de stove do'. Den I tuk de sweet potatoes an' de hominy an' put 'em on de table, an' den I went back in de kitchen to git de baked ham. I put on de ham an' some mo' dishes, an' marsa says, lookin' up: "'I t'ought dere was a roast goose, Chad?' "'I ain't yerd nothin' 'bout no goose,' I says. 'I'll ask de cook.' "Next minute I hyerd old marsa a-hollerin: "'Mammy Jane, ain't we got a goose?' "'Lord-a-massy! yes, marsa. Chad, you wu'thless nigger, ain't you tuk dat goose out yit?' "'Is we got a goose?' said I. "'Is we got a goose? Didn't you help pick it?' "I see whar my hair was short, an' I snatched up a hot dish from de hearth, opened de oven do', an' slide de goose in jes as he was, an' lay him down befo' Marsa John. "'Now see what de ladies 'll have for dinner,' says ole marsa, pickin' up his carvin' knife. "'What'll you take for dinner, Miss?' says I. 'Baked ham?' "'No,' says she, lookin' up to whar Marsa John sat. 'I think I'll take a leg ob dat goose.' "Well, marsa cut off de leg an' put a little stuffin' an' gravy on wid a spoon, an' says to me, 'Chad, see what dat gemman 'll have.' "'What'll you take for dinner, sah?' says I. 'Nice breast o' goose, or slice o' ham?' "'No; I think I'll take a leg ob dat goose.' "I didn't say nuffin', but I knowed bery well he wa'n't a-gwine to git it. But you oughter seen ole marsa lookin' for de udder leg ob dat goose! He rolled him ober on de dish, dis way an' dat way, an' den he jabbed dat ole bone-handled carvin' fork in him an' hel' him up ober de dish, an' looked under him an' on top ob him, an' den he says, kinder sad like: "'Chad, whar is de udder leg ob dat goose?' "'It didn't hab none,' says I. "'You mean to say dat de gooses on my plantation on'y got one leg?' "'Some ob 'em has an' some ob 'em ain't. You see, marsa, we got two kinds in de pond, an' we was a little hurried to-day, so Mammy Jane cooked dis one 'cause I cotched it fust.' "'Well,' said he, 'I'll settle wid ye after dinner.' "Well, dar I was shiverin' an' shakin' in my shoes, an' droppin' gravy, an' spillin' de wine on de table-cloth, I was dat shuck up; an' when de dinner was ober he calls all de ladies an' gemmen, an' says, 'Now come down to de duck-pond. I'm gwine ter show dis nigger dat all de gooses on my plantation got mo' den one leg.' "I followed 'long, trapesin' after de whole kit an' b'ilin', an' when we got to de pond"--here Chad nearly went into a convulsion with suppressed laughter--"dar was de gooses sittin' on a log in de middle of dat ole green goose-pond wid one leg stuck down--so--an' de udder tucked under de wing." Chad was now on one leg, balancing himself by my chair, the tears running down his cheeks. "'Dar, marsa,' says I, 'don't ye see? Look at dat ole gray goose! Dat's de berry match ob de one we had to-day.' "Den de ladies all hollered an' de gemmen laughed so loud dey hyerd 'em at de big house. "'Stop, you black scoun'rel!' Marsa John says, his face gittin' white an' he a-jerkin' his handkerchief from his pocket. 'Shoo!' "Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a lame grasshopper if ebery one ob dem gooses didn't put down de udder leg! "'Now, you lyin' nigger,' he says, raisin' his cane ober my head, 'I'll show you.' "'Stop, Marsa John!' I hollered; ''tain't fair, 'tain't fair.' "'Why ain't it fair?' says he. "''Cause,' says I, 'you didn't say "Shoo!" to de goose what was on de table.'" "And did he thrash you?" "Marsa John? No, sah! He laughed loud as anybody; an' den dat night he says to me as I was puttin' some wood on de fire, 'Chad, where did dat leg go?' An' so I ups an' tells him all about Henny, an' how I was 'fraid the gal would git whipped, an' how she was on'y a-foolin', thinkin' it was my goose; an' den old marsa look in de fire a long time, an' den he says: 'Dat's Colonel Barbour's Henny, ain't it, Chad?' "'Yes, marsa,' says I. "Well, de nex' mawnin' Marse John had his black hoss saddled, an' I held de stir'up fur him to git on, an' he rode ober to de Barbour plantation an' didn't come back till plumb black night. When he come up I held de lantern so I could see his face, for I wa'n't easy in my mind all day; but it was all bright an' shinin' same as a' angel's. "'Chad,' he says, handin' me de bridle reins, 'I bought yo' Henny dis evenin' from Colonel Barbour, she's comin' ober to-morrow, an' you can bofe git married next Sunday.'" FOOTNOTE: [75] Used by permission of and arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass., publishers of the works of F. Hopkinson Smith. THE PESSIMIST[76] BEN F. KING Nothing to do but work, Nothing to eat but food, Nothing to wear but clothes To keep one from going nude. Nothing to breathe but air, Quick as a flash 'tis gone; Nowhere to fall but off, Nowhere to stand but on. Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but in bed, Nothing to weep but tears, Nothing to bury but dead. Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack! Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back. Nothing to see but sights, Nothing to quench but thirst, Nothing to have but what we've got, Thus thro' life we are cursed. Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes. Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes. FOOTNOTE: [76] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers. SCHNEIDER SEES LEAH ANONYMOUS I vant to dold you vat it is, dot's a putty nice play. De first dime dot you see Leah, she runs cross a pridge, mit some fellers chasin' her mit putty big shticks. Dey ketch her right in de middle of der edge, und der leader (dot's de villen), he sez of her, "Dot it's better ven she dies, und dot he coodent allow it dot she can lif." Und de oder fellers hollers out, "So ve vill;" "Gife her some deth;" "Kill her putty quick;" "Shmack her of der jaw," und such dings; und chust as dey vill kill her, de priest says of dem, "Don'd you do dot," und dey shtop dot putty quick. In der nexd seen, dot Leah meets Rudolph (dot's her feller) in de voods. Before dot he comes in, she sits of de bottom of a cross, und she don'd look pooty lifely, und she says, "Rudolph, how is dot, dot you don'd come und see about me? You didn't shpeak of me for tree days long. I vant to dold you vot it is, dot ain't some luf. I don'd like dot." Vell, Rudolph he don'd was dere, so he coodent sed something. But ven he comes in, she dells of him dot she lufs him orful, und he says dot he guess he lufs her orful too, und vants to know vood she leef dot place, and go oud in some oder country mit him. Und she says, "I told you, I vill;" und he says, "Dot's all right," und he tells her he vill meet her soon, und dey vill go vay dogedder. Den he kisses her und goes oud, und she feels honkey dory bout dot. Vell, in der nexd seen, Rudolph's old man finds oud all about dot, und he don'd feel putty goot; und he says of Rudolph, "Vood you leef me, und go mit dot gal?" und Rudolph feels putty bad. He don'd know vot he shall do. Und der old man he says, "I dold you vot I'll do. De skoolmaster (dot's de villen) says dot she might dook some money to go vay. Now, Rudolph, my poy, I'll gif de skoolmaster sum money to gif do her, und if she don'd dook dot money, I'll let you marry dot gal." Ven Rudolph hears dis, he chumps mit joyness, und says, "Fader, fader, dot's all righd. Dot's pully. I baed you anydings she voodent dook dot money." Vell, de old man gif de skoolmaster de money, und dells him dot he shall offer dot of her. Vell, dot pluddy skoolmaster comes back und says dot Leah dook dot gold right avay, ven she didn't do dot. Den de old man says, "Didn't I told you so?" und Rudolph gits so vild dot he svears dot she can't haf someding more to do mit him. So ven Leah vill meet him in de voods, he don'd vas dere, und she feels orful, und goes avay. Bime-by she comes up to Rudolph's house. She feels putty bad, und she knocks of de door. De old man comes oud, und says, "Got out of dot, you orful vooman. Don'd you come round after my boy again, else I put you in de dooms." Und she says, "Chust let me see Rudolph vonce, und I vill vander avay." So den Rudolph comes oud, und she vants to rush of his arms, but dot pluddy fool voodent allow dot. He chucks her avay, und says, "Don'd you touch me, uf you please, you deceitfulness gal." I dold you vot it is, dot looks ruff for dot poor gal. Und she is extonished, und says, "Vot is dis aboud dot?" Und Rudolph, orful mad, says, "Got oudsiedt, you ignomonous vooman." Und she feels so orful she coodent said a vord, und she goes oud. Afterwards, Rudolph gits married to anoder gal in a shurch. Vell, Leah, who is vandering eferyveres, happens to go in dot shurchyard to cry, chust at de same dime of Rudolph's marriage, vich she don'd know someding aboud. Putty soon she hears de organ, und she says dere is some beeples gitten married, und dot it vill do her unhappiness goot if she sees dot. So she looks in de vinder, und ven she sees who dot is, my graciousness, don'd she holler, und shvears vengeance. Putty soon Rudolph chumps oud indo der shurchyard to got some air. He says he don't feel putty good. Putty soon dey see each oder, und dey had a orful dime. He says of her, "Leah, how is dot you been here?" Und she says mit big scornfulness, "God oud of dot, you beat. How is dot, you got cheek to talk of me afder dot vitch you hafe done?" Den he says, "Vell, vot for you dook dot gold, you false-hearded leetle gal?" und she says, "Vot gold is dot? I didn't dook some gold." Und he says, "Don'd you dold a lie about dot!" She says slowfully, "I told you I didn't dook some gold. Vot gold is dot?" Und den Rudolph tells her all aboud dot, und she says, "Dot is a orful lie. I didn't seen some gold;" und she adds mit much sarkasmness, "Und you beliefed I dook dot gold. Dot's de vorst I efer heered. Now, on accound of dot, I vill gif you a few gurses." Und den she swears mit orful voices dot Mister Kain's gurse should git on him, und dot he coodent never git any happiness eferyvere, no matter vere he is. Den she valks off. Vell, den a long dime passes avay, und den you see Rudolph's farm. He has got a nice vife, und a putiful leetle child. Putty soon Leah comes in, being shased, as ushual, by fellers mit shticks. She looks like she didn't ead someding for two monds. Rudolph's vife sends off dot mop, und Leah gits avay again. Den dat nice leedle child comes oud, und Leah comes back; und ven she sees dot child, don'd she feel orful aboud dot, und she says mit affectfulness, "Come here, leedle child, I voodn'd harm you;" und dot nice leedle child goes righd up, and Leah chumps on her, und grabs her in her arms, und gries, and kisses her. Oh! my graciousness don'd she gry aboud dot. You got to blow your noses righd avay. I vant to dold you vat it is, dot looks pully. Und den she says vile she gries, "Leedle childs, don'd you got some names?" Und dot leedle child shpeaks oud so nice, pless her leedle hard, und says, "Oh! yes. My name dot's Leah, und my papa tells me dot I shall pray for you efery nighd." Oh! my goodnessness, don'd Leah gry orful ven she hears dot. I dold you vat it is, dot's a shplaindid ding. Und quick come dem tears in your eyes und you look up ad de vall, so dot nobody can'd see dot, und you make oud you don'd care aboud it. But your eyes gits fulled up so quick dot you couldn'd keep dem in, und de tears comes down of your face like a shnow storm, und den you don'd care a tarn if efery body sees dot. Und Leah kisses her und gries like dot her heart's broke, und she dooks off dot gurse from Rudolph und goes avay. De child den dell her fader and muder aboud dot, und dey pring her back. Den dot mop comes back und vill kill her again, but she exposes dot skoolmaster, dot villen, und dot fixes him. Den she falls down in Rudolph's arms, und your eyes gits fulled up again, und you can'd see someding more. I like to haf as many glasses of beer as dere is gryin' chust now. You couldn't help dot any vay. Und if I see a gal vot don'd gry in dot piece, I voodn't marry dot gal, efen if her fader owned a pig prewery. Und if I see a feller vot don'd gry, I voodn't dook a trink of lager bier mit him. Vell, afder de piece is oud, you feel so bad, und so goot, dot you must ead a few pieces of hot stuff do drife avay der plues. But I told you vat it is, dot's a pully piece, I baed you, don'd it? THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN JOHN G. SAXE I long have been puzzled to guess, And so I have frequently said, What the reason could really be That I never have happened to wed; But now it is perfectly clear I am under a natural ban; The girls are already assigned-- And I'm a superfluous man! Those clever statistical chaps Declare the numerical run Of women and men in the world Is Twenty to Twenty-and-one: And hence in the pairing, you see, Since wooing and wedding began, For every connubial score They've got a superfluous man! By twenties and twenties they go, And giddily rush to their fate, For none of the number, of course, Can fail of the conjugal mate; But while they are yielding in scores To nature's inflexible plan, There's never a woman for me-- For I'm a superfluous man! It isn't that I am a churl, To solitude over-inclined, It isn't that I am at fault In morals or manners or mind; Then what is the reason, you ask, I'm still with the bachelor clan? I merely was numbered amiss-- And I'm a superfluous man! It isn't that I am in want Of personal beauty or grace, For many a man with a wife Is uglier far in the face. Indeed, among elegant men I fancy myself in the van; But what is the value of that, When I'm a superfluous man? Although I am fond of the girls, For aught I could ever discern, The tender emotion I feel Is one that they never return; 'Tis idle to quarrel with fate, For, struggle as hard as I can, They're mated already, you know, And I'm a superfluous man! No wonder I grumble at times, With women so pretty and plenty, To know that I never was born To figure as one of the Twenty; But yet, when the average lot With critical vision I scan, I think it may be for the best That I'm a superfluous man! THE USUAL WAY ANONYMOUS There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met--in the usual way. Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!" And he was--in the usual way. So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out; And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you," but she said she could not stay, But she did--in the usual way. Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh As they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by; "We must say good-by," she whispered by the alders old and gray, And they did--in the usual way. And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below, Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much--in the usual way. And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do? Does he cherish her and love her? does she honor and obey? Well, they do--in the usual way. THE WEDDING FEE R. M. STREETER One morning, fifty years ago,-- When apple trees were white with snow Of fragrant blossoms, and the air Was spellbound with the perfume rare,-- Upon a farm horse, large and lean, And lazy with its double load, A sun-browned youth and maid were seen Jogging along the winding road. Blue were the arches of the skies; But bluer were that maiden's eyes. The dewdrops on the grass were bright; But brighter was the loving light That sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid, Where those bright eyes of blue were hid; Adown the shoulders brown and bare Rolled the soft waves of golden hair, Where, almost strangled with the spray, The sun, a willing sufferer, lay. It was the fairest sight, I ween, That the young man had ever seen; And with his features all aglow, The happy fellow told her so! And she without the least surprise Looked on him with those heavenly eyes; Saw underneath that shade of tan The handsome features of a man; And with a joy but rarely known She drew that dear face to her own, And by her bridal bonnet hid-- I cannot tell you what she did! So, on they ride until among The new-born leaves with dewdrops hung, The parsonage, arrayed in white, Peers out,--a more than welcome sight. Then, with a cloud upon his face, "What shall we do," he turned to say, "Should he refuse to take his pay From what is in the pillow-case?" And glancing down his eye surveyed The pillow-case before him laid, Whose contents reaching to its hem, Might purchase endless joy for them. The maiden answers, "Let us wait, To borrow trouble where's the need?" Then, at the parson's squeaking gate Halted the more than willing steed. Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung; The latchless gate behind him swung. The knocker of that startled door, Struck as it never was before, Brought the whole household pale with fright; And there, with blushes on his cheek, So bashful he could hardly speak, The farmer met their wondering sight. The groom goes in, his errand tells, And, as the parson nods, he leans Far o'er the window-sill and yells, "Come in! He says he'll take the beans!" Oh! how she jumped! With one glad bound, She and the bean-bag reached the ground. Then, clasping with each dimpled arm The precious product of the farm, She bears it through the open door; And, down upon the parlor floor, Dumps the best beans vines ever bore. Ah! happy were their songs that day, When man and wife they rode away. But happier this chorus still Which echoed through those woodland scenes: "God bless the priest of Whitinsville! God bless the man who took the beans!" WHEN MALINDY SINGS[77] PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy-- Put dat music book away; What's de use to keep on tryin'? Ef you practice twell you're gray, You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin' Lak de ones dat rants and rings F'om de kitchen to de big woods When Malindy sings. You ain't got de nachel o'gans Fu' to make de soun' come right, You ain't got de tunes an' twistin's Fu' to make it sweet an' light. Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy, An' I'm tellin' you fu' true, When hit comes to raal right singin' 'Tain't no easy thing to do. Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah, Lookin' at de lines an' dots, When dey ain't no one kin sense it, An' de chune comes in, in spots; But fu' real melojous music, Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings, Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me When Malindy sings. Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy? Blessed soul, tek up de cross! Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey? Well, you don't know what you los'. Y'ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin', Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things, Hush dey moufs an' hides dey faces When Malindy sings. Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin', Lay his fiddle on de she'f; Mockin' bird quit tryin' to whistle, 'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f. Folks a-playin' on de banjo Draps dey fingahs on de strings-- Bless yo' soul--fu'gits to move 'em, When Malindy sings. She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs, "Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah Sinnahs' tremblin' steps an' voices, Timid-lak, a-drawin' neah; Den she tu'ns to "Rock of Ages," Simply to de cross she clings, An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin' When Malindy sings. Who dat says dat humble praises Wif de Master nevah counts? Hush yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music, Ez hit rises up an' mounts-- Floatin' by de hills an' valleys, Way above dis buryin' sod, Ez hit makes its way to glory To de very gates of God! Oh, hit's sweetah dan de music Of an edicated band; An' it's dearah dan de battle's Song o' triumph in de lan'. It seems holier dan evenin' When de solemn chu'ch-bell rings, Ez I sit an' calmly listen While Malindy sings. Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me! Mandy, mek dat chile keep still; Don't you hyeah de echoes callin', F'om de valley to de hill? Let me listen, I can hyeah it, Th'oo de bresh of angel's wings, Sof' an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," Ez Malindy sings. FOOTNOTE: [77] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of the Hearthside," 1899. WHEN THE COWS COME HOME AGNES E. MITCHELL With klingle, klangle, klingle, Way down the dusty dingle, The cows are coming home; Now sweet and clear and faint and low, The airy tinklings come and go, Like chimings from some far off tower, Or patterings of some April shower That makes the daisies grow; Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle, 'Way down the darkening dingle The cows come slowly home; And old-time friends and twilight plays, And starry nights and sunny days, Come trooping up the misty ways When the cows come home. With jingle, jangle, jingle, Soft tunes that sweetly mingle, The cows are coming home. Malvine and Pearl and Florimel, Dekamp, Redrose and Gretchen Schnell, Queen Bell and Sylph and Spangled Sue-- Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo" And clang her silver bell; Goling, golang, golinglelingle, With faint far sounds that mingle, The cows come slowly home; And mother-songs of long-gone years, And baby joys and childish tears, And youthful hopes and youthful fears, When the cows come home. With ringle, rangle, ringle, By twos and threes and single The cows are coming home. Through violet air we see the town And the summer sun a slipping down, And the maple in the hazel glade Throws down the path a longer shade, And the hills are growing brown; To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleringle, By threes and fours and single The cows are coming home; The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, The same sweet June-day rest and calm, The same sweet scent of bud and balm, When the cows come home. With tinkle, tankle, tinkle, Through fern and periwinkle The cows are coming home; A-loitering in the checkered stream Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, Clarine, Peachbloom and Phoebe Phillis Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies In a drowsy dream; To-link, to-lank, to-linklelinkle, O'er banks with butter cups a-twinkle, The cows come slowly home; And up through memory's deep ravine Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, And the crescent of the silver queen, When the cows come home. With klingle, klangle, klingle, With loo-oo and moo-oo and jingle The cows are coming home; And over there in Merlin hill, Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will; The dew drops lie on the tangled vines, And over the poplars Venus shines, And over the silent mill; Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle With ting-a-ling and jingle The cows come slowly home; Let down the bars, let in the train Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain, For dear old times come back again, When the cows come home. V DRAMATIC NOT IN THE DRAMA THE CONFESSIONAL ANONYMOUS 'Twas twilight, and the early lighted lamps Were flickering down into the Arno's tide While yet the daylight lingered in the skies, Silvering and paling, when I saw him first. I was returning from my work, and paused Upon the bridge of Santa Trinita To rest, and think how fair our Florence is. And I remember, o'er the hazy hills, Far, far away, how exquisitely fair The twilight seemed that night. My heart was soft With tender longings, misted with a dim, Sad pleasure as a mirror with the breath. Ah, never will those feelings come again! I was in a mood to take a stamp From any passing chance, even like those clouds That caught the tenderest thrill of dying day, When, by some inward sense, I know not what, I felt that I was gazed at, drawn away By eyes that had a strange magnetic will. And so I turned from those far hills to see-- A stranger? No; even then he did not seem A stranger, but as one I once had known, Not here in Florence, not in any place, But somewhere in my spirit known and seen. I felt his eyes were fixed upon me, And a sweet, serious smile was on his lips: Nor could I help but look and smile again. I know not what it was went to and fro Between us in that swift smile and glance. We neither spoke; But something went that thrilled me through and through. And that quick clash of souls Had struck a spark that set my soul on fire. And I was happy, oh, so happy then! It seemed as if this earth could never add One little drop more to the joy I owned, For all that passionate torrent pent within My heart had found its utterance and response. He was Venetian, and that radiant hair We black-haired girls so covet haloed round His sunny northern face and soft blue eyes. I know not why he loved me--me, so black, With this black skin that every Roman has, With this black hair, black eyes, that I so hate. Why loved he not Beata? she is fair, But yet he often swore to me Beata's body Was not worth one half my finger, And then kissed me full upon the mouth as if to seal his oath; Ah! glorious seal--I feel those lips there now! And on my forehead, too, one kiss still glows Like a great star. Ah! well! those days are gone. No! no! They are not gone; I love him madly now. I love him madly as I loved him then. Ah, God! how blissfully those days went by! You could not fill a golden cup more full Of rubied wine than was my heart with joy. Long mornings in his studio, there I sat And heard his voice; or, when he did not speak, I felt his presence like a rich perfume, Fill all my thoughts. I was his model. Hours and hours I posed For him to paint his Cleopatra, fierce, With her squared brows, and full Egyptian lips; A great gold serpent on her rounded arm, And a broad band of gold around her head. At last the autumn came, the stricken, bleeding autumn. Something weighed upon his mind I could not understand. I knew all was not right, yet dared not ask. At last few words made all things plain; "Love, I must go to Venice." "Must?" "Yes, must." "Then I go, too." "No, no; ah, Nina, no. Four weeks pass swiftly; one short month, and then I shall return to Florence, and to you." Vain were my words. He went, alas! he went With all the sunshine, and I wore alone The weary weeks out of that hateful month. Another month I waited, nervous, fierce With love's impatience. When that month was gone My heart was all afire; I could not stay. Consumed with jealous fears that wore me down Into a fever, necklace, earrings--all I sold, and on to Venice rushed. How long That dreary, never-ending journey seemed! I cursed the hills up which we slowly dragged, The long, flat plains of Lombardy I cursed, That kept me back from Venice. But at last in a black gondola I swam along The sea-built city, and my heart was big With the glad thought that I was near to him. Yes, gladness came upon me that soft night, And jealousy was hushed, and hope led on My dancing heart. In vain I strove to curb My glad impatience--I must see him then, At once, that very night; I could not wait The tardy morning--'twas a year away. I only gave the gondolier his name, And said, "You know him?" "Yes." "Then row me quick to where he is." He bowed and on he went, And as we swept along, I leaned me out And dragged my burning fingers in the wave, My hurried heart forecasting to itself our meeting, What he'd say and think, How I should hang upon his neck and say: "I could not longer live without you, dear." At last we paused. The gondolier said, "This is the palace." I was struck aghast. It flared with lights, that from the windows gleamed And trickled down into the black canal. "Stop! stop!" I cried; "'tis some mistake. Why are these lights? This palace is not his. He owns no palace." "Pardon," answered he, "I fancied the signora wished to see The marriage festa--and all Venice knows The bride receives to-night." "What bride, whose bride?" I asked, impatient. "Count Alberti's bride, Whose else?" he answered, with a shrug. My heart, From its glad, singing height, dropped like a lark Shot dead, at these few words. The whole world reeled, And for a moment I was crushed and stunned. Then came the wild revulsion of despair; Then, calm more dreadful than the fiercest pain. "Row me to the steps," I said. I leaped On their wet edge, and stared in at the door Where all was hurry, rush, and flare of light. My eyes ran, lightning, zigzag, through the crowd In search of him--he was not there. Ah, God! I breathed. He was not there! I inly cursed My unbelief, and turned me round to go. There was a sudden murmur near the door, And I beheld him--walking at her side. Oh! cursèd be the hour I saw that sight, And cursèd be the place! I saw those eyes That used to look such passion into mine Turned with the selfsame look to other eyes, Yes, light blue eyes, that upward gazed at him. I could not bear their bliss. I scarcely knew what happened then; I knew I felt for the stiletto in my vest With purpose that was half mechanical, As if a demon used my hand for his. I felt the red blood singing through my brain, I struck--before me, at my feet, she fell. Who was the queen then? Ah! your rank and wealth, Your pearls and splendors--what did they avail Against the sharp stiletto's little point? You should have thought of that before you dared-- You had all the world beside--to steal The only treasure that the Roman girl e'er had. You will not smile again as then you smiled. Thank God, you'll never smile again for him! I was avenged, avenged, until I saw The dreadful look he gave me as he turned From her dead face and looked in mine. Ah, God! It haunts me, scares me, will not let me sleep. When will he come and tell me he forgives And loves me still? Oh, bid him come, Come quickly, come and let me die in peace. I could not help it; I was mad; But I repent, I suffer; he at least Should pity and forgive. Oh, make him come And say he loves me, and then let me die. I shall be ready then to die; but now I cannot think of God; my heart is hell, Until I know he loves me still. JEAN VALJEAN AND THE GOOD BISHOP[78] VICTOR HUGO Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was traveling on foot, entered the little town of Digne, France. It would be difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thick-set and robust. He might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a drooping leather visor partly concealed his face, which, burned and tanned by the sun and wind, was dripping with perspiration. He wore a cravat which was twisted into a long string; trousers of blue drilling worn and threadbare, and an old gray tattered blouse, patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cotton cloth, sewed on with a twine string. On his back, a soldier's knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new; in his hand, an enormous knotty stick. Iron-shod shoes enveloped his stockingless feet. No one knew him. He was evidently a chance passer-by, but nevertheless he directed his footsteps toward the village inn (the best in the country-side), and entered the kitchen. The host, on hearing the door open, addressed him without lifting his eyes from the stove. "What is it this morning?" "Food and lodging." "Nothing easier--by paying for it." "I have money, I can pay." "In that case we are at your service." "When will dinner be ready?" "Immediately." While the newcomer was depositing his knapsack upon the floor, the host tore off the corner of an old newspaper, wrote a line or two on the margin and handed it to a lad standing near. After whispering a few words in his ear, the lad set off at a run toward the town hall. In a few moments he returned, bringing the paper. The host read it attentively, remained silent a moment and then took a step in the direction of the traveler. "I cannot receive you, sir!" "What! Are you afraid I won't pay you? I have money--I can pay." "You have money, but I have no room." "Well, put me in the stable." "The horses occupy all the space there." "In the loft then--But come, we can settle that after dinner." "I cannot give you your dinner." "Bah! I'm hungry. I have been on foot since sunrise and I wish to eat." "Well, I have nothing." "Nothing--and all that?" "All that is engaged by messieurs and wagoners,--twelve of them." "There's enough food there for twenty." "I tell you, it is all engaged and paid for in advance." "Well, I'm at a public inn and hungry. I shall remain." "Stop! Do you want me to tell you who you are--you are Jean Valjean--Go!" The man dropped his head, picked up his knapsack and took his departure.... That evening the Bishop of the little town of Digne was sitting with his sister and housekeeper, talking over his day's work among his parishioners, when there came a violent knock at the door. "Come in--" The door opened; a man entered and without waiting for the Bishop to speak, he cried out--"See here--My name is Jean Valjean. I have been nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was released and am now on my way to Pontarlier. This evening when I came into these parts, I went to an inn and they turned me out. I went to another and they said "Be gone." I went to the prison; the jailer would not take me in. I went to a dog's kennel; the dog bit me and drove me off as though he had been a man. I went to the fields to sleep beneath the stars; there were no stars. I returned to the city. Yonder, in the square, a good woman tapped me on the shoulder and told me to knock here, and I have knocked. What is this place? Do you keep an inn? Are you willing that I should remain?" "Ah, Madam Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will set another place." "No, that's not it. I'm a galley-slave--a convict--Here's my yellow passport, read that, but no--I can read, I learned in the galleys. [Reads.] 'Jean Valjean, discharged convict, has been nineteen years in the galleys. Five years for burglary and theft and fourteen years for having attempted to escape on four different occasions. He--is--a very--dangerous--man'--There, that's what bars me out. Will you give me something to eat and a bed? Have you a stable?" "Madam Magloire, you will put white sheets on the bed in the alcove--Now sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We will sup in a few moments and your bed will be prepared while we are supping." "What, you call me sir--You do not drive me out? A bed, with sheets, like the rest of the world? It has been nineteen years since I slept in a bed. Pardon me, monsieur inn-keeper,--what is your name?" "I am only an old priest who lives here." "Then you will not demand my money of me?" "No--keep your money. How much have you?" "One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous." "How long did it take you to earn that?" "Nineteen years." "Nineteen years! Madam Magloire, you will place the silver fork and spoon as near the fire as possible. The north wind blows harsh on the Alps to-night. You must be cold, sir." "Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you do not despise me? You receive me into your house? You light your candles for me? Yet I have not concealed from you who I am." "You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house. This is the house of Jesus Christ. That door does not ask of him who enters, whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry, you are welcome. But do not thank me; do not say that I receive you into my house. You are more at home here than I am. Everything in this house belongs to you. Besides, what need have I to know your name, for I knew that before you told me." "What! You knew what I was called?" "Yes, you are called 'my brother.'" "Oh--stop! I--was very hungry when I came in here, but now--my--my hunger is all gone. Oh--you are--so--good--to me." "You have suffered much. You have come from a very sad place--but listen! There will be more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of one repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If you emerge from that place with thoughts of evil and wrath against mankind, you are to be pitied; but if you emerge with thoughts of peace and good will, you are more deserving than any of us. But now, Monsieur, since you have supped, I will conduct you to your room. This is your room, sir. May you pass a good night, and to-morrow before you leave us you must drink a cup of warm milk." "Ah, is this true? Do you lodge me close to yourself like this? How do you know that I am not a murderer?" "That is the concern of the good God. Good night, brother. Good night." FOOTNOTE: [78] An adaptation from "Les Misérables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins. LASCA ANONYMOUS I want free life, and I want fresh air; And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, The crack of the whips like shots in a battle, The mellay of horns and hoofs and heads That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads; The green beneath and the blue above, And dash and danger, and life and love. And Lasca! Lasca used to ride On a mouse-gray mustang close to my side, With blue _serape_ and bright-belled spur; I laughed with joy as I looked at her. Little knew she of books or of creeds; An _Ave Maria_ sufficed her needs; Little she cared, save to be by my side, To ride with me, and ever to ride, From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide. She was as bold as the billows that beat, She was as wild as the breezes that blow; From her little head to her little feet She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro By each gust of passion; a sapling pine, That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff, And wars with the wind when the weather is rough Is like this Lasca, this love of mine. She would hunger that I might eat, Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; But once, when I made her jealous for fun, At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done, One Sunday in San Antonio, To a glorious girl on the Alamo, She drew from her belt a dear little dagger, And--sting of a wasp!--it made me stagger! An inch to the left, or an inch to the right, And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night; But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound Her torn _rebosa_ about the wound, That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. Her eye was brown--a deep, deep brown-- Her hair was darker than her eye; And something in her smile and frown, Curled crimson lip and instep high, Showed that there ran in each blue vein, Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, The vigorous vintage of old Spain. She was alive in every limb With feeling, to the finger tips; And when the sun is like a fire, And sky one shining, soft sapphire, One does not drink in little sips. The air was heavy, the night was hot, I sat by her side, and forgot--forgot The herd that were taking their rest, Forgot that the air was close opprest, That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, In the dead of night, or the blaze of noon-- That once let the herd at its breath take fright, Nothing on earth can stop the flight; And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, Who falls in front of their mad stampede! Was that thunder? I grasped the cord Of my swift mustang without a word. I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind. Away! on a hot chase down the wind! But never was fox-hunt half so hard And never was steed so little spared; For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. The mustang flew, and we urged him on; There was one chance left, and you have but one, Halt! jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; Crouch under his carcase, and take your chance, And if the steers in their frantic course Don't batter you both to pieces at once, You may thank your star; if not, good-by To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, And the open air and the open sky, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande! The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt For my old six-shooter behind in my belt, Down came the mustang, and down came we, Clinging together, and--what was the rest? A body that spread itself on my breast. Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, Two lips that hard on my lips were prest; Then came thunder in my ears, As over us surged the sea of steers, Blows that beat blood into my eyes, And when I could rise-- Lasca was dead! I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep; And there she is lying, and no one knows; And the summer shines and the winter snows; For many a day the flowers have spread A pall of petals over her head; And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air, And the sly coyote trots here and there, And the black snake glides and glitters and slides Into a rift in a cotton-wood tree; And the buzzard sails on, And comes and is gone, Stately and still like a ship at sea; And I wonder why I do not care For the things that are like the things that were. Does half my heart lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande? MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR JULES VERNE Russia was threatened by a Tartar invasion. The commander of the Russian troops was the Czar's brother, the Grand Duke, now stationed at Irkutsk. Suddenly all communication between him and the Czar was cut off by the enemy, under the leadership of Ivan Ogareff, a traitor, who had sworn to betray Russia and to kill the Grand Duke. It became necessary to send a messenger to the Grand Duke to warn him of his danger, and Michael Strogoff was chosen for that purpose. He was brought before the Czar, who looked this magnificent specimen of manhood full in the face. Then: "Thy name?" "Michael Strogoff, sire." "Thy rank?" "Captain in the Corps of Couriers to the Czar." "Thou dost know Siberia?" "I am a Siberian." "A native of--?" "Omsk, sire." "Hast thou relations there?" "Yes, sire, my aged mother." The Czar suspended his questions for a moment; then pointed to a letter which he held in his hand: "Here is a letter which I charge thee, Michael Strogoff, to deliver into the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no one but him." "I will deliver it, sire." "The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk. Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious country, invaded by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this letter." "I will traverse it." "Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who will perhaps meet thee on the way." "I will beware of him." "Michael Strogoff, take this letter. On it depends the safety of all Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother, the Grand Duke." (Hands him letter.) "This letter shall be delivered to His Highness, the Grand Duke." "Go, thou, for God, for the Czar, and for your native land." That very night Michael Strogoff started on his perilous journey. His path was constantly beset with dangers, but not until he reached Omsk did his greatest trial come. He had feared that he might see his mother in passing through the town. They stopped only for dinner and the danger was almost past, when, just as they were leaving the posting-house to renew their journey, suddenly a cry made him tremble--a cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul--and these two words rushed into his ear, "My son!" His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him! Trembling she smiled upon him and stretched forth her arms to him. Michael Strogoff stepped forward; he was about to throw himself--when the thought of duty, the serious danger to himself and mother, in this unfortunate meeting, stopped him, and so great was his self-command that not a muscle of his face moved. There were twenty people in the public room, and among them were perhaps spies, and was it not known that the son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the Corps of Couriers to the Czar? Michael Strogoff did not move. "Michael!" cried his mother. "Who are you, my good woman?" "Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy mother?" "You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you." Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes, said, "Art thou not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?" Michael would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms. But if he yielded now, it was all over with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath! Completely master of himself, he closed his eyes that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his mother. "I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my good woman." "Michael!" "My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Horparoff, a merchant of Irkutsk," and suddenly he left the room, while for the last time the words echoed in his ears. "My son! My son!" Michael Strogoff remembered--"For God, for the Czar, and for my native land," and he had by a desperate effort gone. He did not see his old mother, who had fallen back almost inanimate on a bench. But when the Postmaster hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself. Suddenly the thought occurred to her: She denied by her own son! It was impossible! As for being herself deceived, it was equally impossible. It was certainly her son whom she had just seen; and if he had not recognized her, it was because he would not, because he ought not, because he had some strong reason for acting thus. And then, her mother feelings arising within her, she had only one thought: Can I unwittingly have ruined him? "I am mad," she said to her interrogators. "This young man was not my son; he had not his voice. Let us think no more of it. If we do, I shall end in finding him everywhere." This occurrence, however, came to the knowledge of Ivan Ogareff, who was stationed in the town. To obtain possession of any official message, which, if delivered, would frustrate his plans, and to detain the courier was his great desire. He succeeded in arresting Michael Strogoff, and then sent for Marfa to appear before him. Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms on her breast, and waited. "You are Marfa Strogoff?" asked Ogareff. "Yes." "Do you retract what you said a few hours ago?" "No." "Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, Courier to the Czar, has passed through Omsk?" "I do not know." "And the man whom you thought you recognized as your son, was not your son?" "He was not my son." "And since then, have you seen him among the prisoners?" "No." "If he were pointed out to you, would you recognize him?" "No." "Listen! Your son is here, and you shall immediately point him out to me." "No." "All these men will file before you, and if you do not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows from the knout as men shall have passed before you." On an order from Ogareff, the prisoners filed one by one past Marfa, who was immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only perfect indifference. Michael was to all appearances unmoved, but the palms of his hands bled under the nails which were pressed into the flesh. Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground. Her dress torn off, left her back bare. A saber was placed before her breast at a few inches' distance. If she bent beneath her sufferings, her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel. The Tartar drew himself up and waited. "Begin," said Ogareff. The whip whistled through the air, but, before it fell, a powerful hand stopped the Tartar's arm. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded. "Michael Strogoff!" "Ivan Ogareff!" and raising the knout, he struck Ogareff a blow across the face. "Blow for blow." Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael and in another instant he would have been slain, but Ogareff stopped them. "This man is reserved for the Emir's judgment. Search him." The letter bearing the imperial arms was bound in Michael's bosom; he had not had time to destroy it. It was handed to Ogareff. "Your forehead to the ground!" exclaimed Ogareff. "No!" Two soldiers tried to make him bend, but were themselves laid on the ground by a blow from Michael's fist. "Who is this prisoner?" asked the Emir. "A Russian spy," answered Ogareff. In asserting that Michael was a spy, he knew that the sentence would be terrible. The Emir made a sign, at which all bowed low their heads. Then he pointed to the Koran which was brought him. He opened the sacred book, and placing his finger on one of its pages, read in loud voice, a verse ending in these words: "And he shall no more see the things of this earth." "Russian spy, you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp; then look while you may!" Michael Strogoff's punishment was not death, but blindness. They drew a red-hot saber across his eyes, and the courier was blind! After the Emir's orders were executed, thinking they had robbed Michael Strogoff of all power to do further harm, the Emir retired with his train, and Michael was left alone. But his desire to reach the Grand Duke was not quenched by this terrible calamity. He understood that Ivan Ogareff, having obtained his seal and commission, would try to reach the Grand Duke before he, himself, could possibly get there, carrying a false message, which would betray all Siberia. Michael, after disheartening trials in finding a trusty companion, finally succeeded and pushed on towards Irkutsk, only hoping he might reach the place before Ogareff should betray the city. At last, after a most painful fourteen days' journey, he is at the very gate of the Governor's palace. Entrance is easy, for confusion reigns everywhere. But Michael is in time. With his trusty companion he goes distractedly through the passages. No one heeds him. Michael opens one of the doors and enters a room flooded with light, and there he stands face to face with the one whose villainous hand would one instant later have betrayed all Siberia! "Ivan Ogareff!" he cries. On hearing his name pronounced, the wretch starts. His real name known, all his plans will be frustrated. There is but one thing to be done; to kill the one who had just uttered it. Ogareff rises and sees the blind courier! Thinking he has an immense advantage over the blind man, he throws himself upon him. But with one hand Michael grasps the arm of his enemy and hurls him to the ground. Ogareff gathers himself together like a tiger about to spring, and utters not a word. The noise of his footsteps, his very breathing, he tries to conceal from the blind man. At last, with a spring, he drives his sword full blast at Michael's breast. An imperceptible movement of the blind man's knife turns aside the blow. Michael is not touched, and coolly waits a second attack. Cold drops stand on Ogareff's brow; he draws back a step and again leaps forward. But like the first, this attempt fails. Michael's knife has parried the blow from the traitor's useless sword. Mad with rage and terror, he gazes into the wide open eyes of the blind man. Those eyes which seemed to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and which did not, could not, see, exercise a sort of dreadful fascination over him. Suddenly Ogareff utters a cry: "He sees! He sees!" "Yes, I see. Thinking of my mother, the tears which sprang to my eyes saved my sight. I see the mark of the knout which I gave you, traitor and coward! I see the place where I am about to strike you! Defend your life! It is a duel I offer you! My knife against your sword!" The tears, which his pride in vain endeavored to subdue, welling up from his heart, had gathered under his eyelids, and volatilized on the cornea, and the vapor formed by his tears interposing between the glowing saber and his eyeballs had been sufficient to annihilate the action of the heat and save his sight. Ogareff now feels that he is lost, but mustering up all his courage he springs forward. The two blades cross, but at a touch from Michael's knife the sword flies in splinters, and the wretch, stabbed to the heart, falls lifeless to the ground. The crash of the steel attracting the attention of the ducal train, the door is thrown open, and the Grand Duke, accompanied by some of his officers, enters. The Grand Duke advances. In the body lying on the ground he recognizes the man whom he believes to be the Czar's courier. Then in threatening voice, "Who killed this man." "I," answered Michael. "Thy name? I know him! He is the Czar's courier." "That man, your highness, is not a courier of the Czar! He is Ivan Ogareff!" "Ivan, the traitor?" "Yes." "But who are you, then?" "Michael Strogoff." "And you come?" "For God, for the Czar, and for my native land!" MRS. TREE[79] LAURA E. RICHARDS Mrs. Tree was over seventy, but apart from an amazing reticulation of wrinkles netted close and fine like a woven veil, she showed little sign of her great age. As she herself said, she had her wits and her teeth, and she didn't see what any one wanted with more. In her afternoon gown of plum-colored satin she was a pleasing and picturesque figure. On this particular afternoon it was with very little ceremony that "Direxia Hawkes," her life-long servitor, burst into the room. Direxia had been to market and had brought all the news with her marketing. "Ithuriel Butters is a singular man, Mis' Tree--he give me a turn just now, he did so. I says, 'How's Miss Butters now, Ithuriel?' I knew she'd been real poorly, but I hadn't heard for a considerable time. "'I ain't no notion,' says he. "'What do you mean, Ithuriel Butters?' I says. "'Just what I say,' says he. "'Why, where is she?' I says. I thought she might be visitin', you know. She has consid'able kin 'round here. "'I ain't no idee,' says he. 'I lef her in the burying ground, that's all I know.' "Mis' Tree, that woman has been dead a month and I never knew a single word about it. They're all singular people, them Butterses." Just then there was a ring at the door bell and Direxia shuffled away to answer it; then a man's voice was heard asking some questions. Mrs. Tree sat alive and alert and called: "Direxia!" "Yes'm. Jest a minit. I'm seein' to something." "Direxia Hawkes!" "How you do pester me, Mis' Tree; there's a man at the door and I don't want to let him stay there alone." "What does he look like?" "I don't know, he's a tramp, if he's nothing worse. Most likely he's stealing the umbrellas while here I stand!" "Show him in here!" "What say?" "Show him in here and don't pretend to be deaf when you hear as well as I do." "You don't want him in here, Mis' Tree--he's a tramp, I tell ye, and the toughest looking"-- "Will you show him in here or shall I come and fetch him?" "Well! of all the cantankerous,--here! come in, you! She wants to see you," and a man appeared in the doorway--he was shabbily dressed, but it was noticeable that the threadbare clothes were clean. Mrs. Tree looked at him and then looked again. "What do you want here?" "I ask for food, I'm hungry." "Are you a tramp?" "Yes, Madam!" "Anything else?" Just here Direxia burst in with "That'll be enough--you come out in the kitchen and I'll give you something to eat in a paper bag and you can take it away with you." "I shall be pleased to have you take supper with me, sir! Direxia, set a place for this gentleman." "I--cannot, Madam!--I thank you, but you must excuse me." "Why can't you?" "You must excuse me! If your woman will give me a morsel to eat in the kitchen, or perhaps I had better go at once." "Stop! Direxia, go and set another place for supper! Shut the door! Come here and sit down! No, not on that cheer. Take the ottoman with the bead puppy on it. There! I get crumpled up, sitting here alone. Some day I shall turn to wood. I like a new face and a new notion. I had a grandson who used to live with me, and I'm lonesome since he died. How do you like tramping, now?" "Pretty well; it's all right in the summer, or when a man has his health." "See things, hey, new folks, new faces, get ideas, is that it?" "That begins it, but after a while,--I really think I must go. Madam, you are very kind but I prefer to go." "Cat's foot!" The shabby man laughed helplessly and just then Direxia stuck her head in at the door and snapped out, "Supper's ready!" The shabby man seemed in a kind of dream--half unconsciously he put the old lady into her chair--then at a sign from her he took the seat opposite--he laid the damask napkin across his knees and winced at the touch of it as at the touch of a long-forgotten hand. Mrs. Tree talked on easily, asking questions about the roads he traveled and the people he met. He answered briefly. Suddenly close at hand a voice spoke. "Old friends!" The man started to his feet, white as the napkin he held. "It's only a parrot! Sit down again. There he is at your elbow. Jocko is his name. He does my swearing for me. My grandson and a friend of his taught him that, and I have taught him a few other things besides. Good Jocko! Speak up, boy!" "Old friends to talk; old books to read; old wine to drink! Zooks! Hooray for Arthur and Will! they're the boys!" "That was my grandson and his friend. What's the matter? Feel faint, hey?" "Yes, I am--faint. I must get out into the air." "Nothing of the sort! You'll come upstairs and lie down." "No! no! not in this house. Never! never!" "Cat's foot! Don't talk to me! Here! give me your arm! Do as I say! There!" And as they passed up the stairway the parrot cried, "Old friends!" And Direxia said, "I'm going to loose the bulldog, Mis' Tree, and Deacon Weight says he'll be over in two minutes." "There isn't any dog in the house, and Deacon Weight is at Conference, and won't be back till the last of the week. That will do, Direxia; you mean well, but you are a ninny-hammer. This way! This is my grandson's room--he died here--what's the matter--feel faint--hey?" "Yes!--I do--" "Come, Willie--come lie down and rest on Arthur's bed--you are tired, boy." "Mrs. Tree, if you would not be so kind it would not be so hard--I came--to--rob--you." "Why, so I supposed, or thought it likely. You can have all you want, without that--there's plenty for you and me. Folks call me close, and I like to do what I like with my own money. There's plenty, I tell you, for you and me and the bird. Do you think he knew you, Willie? I believe he did." "God knows! When--how did you know me, Mrs. Tree?" "Get up, Willie Jaquith, and I'll tell you. Sit down; there's the chair you made together, when you were fifteen. Remember, hey? I knew your voice at the door, or I thought I did. Then when you wouldn't look at the bead puppy, I hadn't much doubt; and when I said 'Cat's foot!' and you laughed, I knew for sure. You've had a hard time, Willie, but you are the same boy." "If you would not be kind, I think it would be easier. You ought to give me up, you know, and let me go to jail. I'm a drunkard and a vagrant, and worse--but--you won't--do that--you won't do that." "No! I won't. Hark, there's some one at the door--it's 'Malviny Weight.' Now you lie down and rest--yes, you will--that press there is full of Arthur's clothes--then you come down and talk to me--You do as I tell you, Willie Jaquith, or I'll set the parrot on you; remember when he bit you for stealing his apple,--there's the scar still on your cheek. Greatest wonder in the world he didn't put your eye out. Served you right if he had, too--Yes, Malviny, I'm coming!" And as Mrs. Tree descended the stairs she was met by Mrs. Weight, who broke out saying: "I've waited most an hour to see that tramp come out. Deacon's away, and I was scairt to death, but I'm a mother and I had to come. How I had the courage I don't know, when I thought you and Mis' Tree might meet my eyes both layin' dead in this entry. Where is he? Don't you help or harbor him now, Direxia Hawkes! I saw his evil eye as he stood on the doorstep, and I knew by the way he peeked and peered that he was after no good. Where is he? I know he didn't go out. Hush! Don't say a word! I'll slip out and round and get Hiram Sawyer. My boys is to singing-school, and it was a special ordering that I happened to look out at the window just that moment of time. Where did you say he--" "Why, good evening, Malviny, what was it you were saying?" "I'm sure, Mis' Tree, it's not on my own account I come. I'm the last to intrude, as any one in this village can tell you. But you are an ancient woman, and your neighbors are bound to protect you when need is. I see that tramp come in here with my own eyes, and he's here for no good." "What tramp?" "Good land, Mis' Tree, didn't you see him? He slipped right in past Direxia. I see him with these eyes." "When?" "'Most an hour ago. I've been watching ever since. Don't tell me you didn't know about him bein' here, Mis' Tree, now don't." "I won't." "He's hid away somewheres! Direxia Hawkes has hid him; he is an accomplish of hers. You've always trusted that woman, Mis' Tree, but I tell you I've had my eye on her these ten years, and now I have found her out. She's hid him away somewheres, I tell you. There's cupboards and closets enough in this house to hide a whole gang of cutthroats in--and when you're abed and asleep they'll have your life, them two, and run off with your worldly goods that you thought so much of. Would have, that is, if I hadn't have had a special ordering to look out of the winder. Oh, how thankful should I be that I kept the use of my limbs, though I was scairt 'most to death, and am now." "Yes, they might be useful to you, to get home with, for instance. There, that will do, Malvina Weight. There is no tramp here. Your eyesight is failing; there were always weak eyes in your family. There's no tramp here, and there has been none." "Mis' Tree! I tell you I see him with these--" "Bah! don't talk to me! There is no tramp here and there has been none--what you took for a tramp is a gentleman that's come to stay over night with me--he's upstairs now--did you lock your door, Malvina--There are tramps about and if Ephraim's away--well, good-night, Malvina, if you must go. [She goes out.] Now, Direxia, you shut that door and if that woman calls again to-night you set the parrot on her." The next morning found Mrs. Tree an early riser and it was with eagerness she greeted her visitor. "You are better this morning, Willie, yes, you are--now go on and tell me--after all your bad luck you took to drink. That wasn't very sensible, was it?" "I didn't care," said William Jaquith. "It helped me to forget a bit at a time. I thought I could give it up any day, but I didn't. Then--I lost my place, of course, and started to come East, and had my pocket picked in Denver, of every cent I had. I tried for work there, but between sickness and drink I wasn't good for much. I started tramping. I thought I would tramp--it was last spring, and warm weather coming on--till I'd got my health back, and then I'd steady down and get some work, and come back to mother when I was fit to look her in the face. Then--in some place, I forget--I came upon a King's County paper with mother's death in it." "What!" "O! I know I wasn't fit to see her--but I lost all hope then." "Why don't you give up drink?" "Where's the use? I would if there were any use, but mother is dead." "Cat's foot--fiddlestick--folderol--fudge! She's no more dead than I am. Don't talk to me! Hold on to yourself now, Willie Jaquith, and don't make a scene; it is a thing I cannot abide. It was Maria Jaquith that died, over at East Corners. Small loss she was, too. None of that family was ever worth their salt. The fool who writes for the papers put her in 'Mary,' and gave out that she died here in Elmerton just because they brought her here to bury. They've always buried here in the family lot, as if they were of some account. I was afraid you might hear of it, Willie, and wrote to the last place I heard of you in, but of course it was of no use. Mary Jaquith is alive, I tell you. Now where are you going?" "To mother!" "Yes, I would! Sit down, Willie Jaquith; do as I tell you! There! feel pretty well, hey? Your mother is blind." "Oh, mother! mother! I have left her alone all this time." "Exactly! Now don't go into a caniption, because it won't do any good. Here comes Direxia with your breakfast--you eat it and then we'll go and see your mother." Out of doors the morning was bright and clear. Mrs. Malvina Weight, sweeping her front chamber, with an anxious eye on the house opposite, saw the door open and Mrs. Tree come out, followed by a tall young man. The old lady wore the huge black velvet bonnet, surmounted by a bird of paradise, which she had brought from Paris forty years before, and an India shawl which had pointed a moral to the pious of Elmerton for more than that length of time. Mrs. Weight's curiosity knew no bounds when she saw them turn into the old Jaquith place. She would have been more astounded if she could have heard Mrs. Tree begin at once with: "Well, Mary Jaquith, here you sit!" "Mrs. Tree! Is this you?" asked Mrs. Jaquith; "my dear soul, what brings you out so early in the morning? Come in! come in! who is with you?" "I didn't say any one was with me! Don't you go to setting double-action ears like mine, Mary, because you are not old enough to. How are you? Obstinate as ever?" "Take this chair, it's the one you always like. How am I obstinate, dear Mrs. Tree?" "If I've asked you once to come and live with me, I've asked you fifty times," grumbled the old lady, sitting down with a good deal of flutter and rustle. "There I must stay, left alone at my age, with nobody but that old goose of a Direxia Hawkes to look after me. And all because you like to be independent. Set you up! Well, I shan't ask you again, and so I've come to tell you, Mary Jaquith." "Dear old friend, you forgive me, I know. You never can have thought for a moment, seriously, that I could be a burden on your kind hands. There surely is some one with you, Mrs. Tree! Is it Direxia? Please be seated, whoever it is." There was a slight sound, as of a sob checked in the outbreak. Mrs. Tree shook her head fiercely. The blind woman rose from her seat, very pale. "Who is it? Be kind, please, and tell me." "I'm going to tell you," said Mrs. Tree, "if you will have patience for two minutes, and not drive every idea out of my head with your talk. I had a visitor last night, Mary--some one came to see me--an old acquaintance--some one who had seen Willie lately. Now Mary Jaquith, if you don't sit down,--well, of all the unreasonable women I ever saw!" The blind woman had stretched out her arms with a heavenly gesture of appeal,--of welcome, of love unutterable,--and in a moment more her son's arms were about her and he was crying over and over again, "Mother, mother, mother!" as if he could not have enough of that word. FOOTNOTE: [79] An adaptation by Grace Arlington Owen. THE PORTRAIT ROBERT BULWER LYTTON Midnight past! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman upstairs. A night of tears! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet: Nobody with me, my watch to keep, But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above. Nobody else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died. The good young priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control; For his lips grew white, as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul. I sat by the dreary hearth alone; I thought of the pleasant days of yore. I said, "The staff of my life is gone; The woman I loved is no more. "On her cold, dead bosom my portrait lies Which next to her heart she used to wear,-- Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there. "It is set all round with rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept; For each ruby there my heart hath bled; For each pearl my eyes have wept." And I said, "The thing is precious to me, They will bury her soon in the church-yard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be, If I do not take it away." I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked from fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white. The moon shone over her winding-sheet. There, stark she lay on her carven bed; Seven burning tapers about her feet, And seven about her head. As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; I turned as I drew the curtains apart; I dared not look on the face of death, I knew where to find her heart. I thought, at first, as my touch fell there, It had warmed that heart to life, with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move. 'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead,--from the other side; And at once the sweat broke over my brow, "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried. Opposite me, by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white, And neither of us moved. "What do you here, my friend?" ... The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead. "There is a portrait here," he began; "There is. It is mine," I said. Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, The portrait was, till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know." "This woman, she loved me well," said I. "A month ago," said my friend to me; "And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!" He answered ... "Let us see." "Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: And whosesoever the portrait prove, His shall it be, when the cause is tried, Where Death is arraigned by Love." We found the portrait there in its place; We opened it, by the tapers' shine; The gems were all unchanged; the face Was--neither his nor mine. "One nail drives out another, at least! The face of the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young priest, Who confessed her when she died." The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept; For each ruby there my heart hath bled; For each pearl my eyes have wept. THE TELL-TALE HEART A MURDERER'S CONFESSION EDGAR ALLAN POE True!--nervous--very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily--how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object, there was none. Passion, there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture--a pale-blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees--very gradually--I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid my life of him forever. Now, this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded--with what caution--with what foresight--with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it--oh, so gently! and then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly--very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon the bed. Ha!--would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously--oh, so cautiously--cautiously (for the hinges creaked) I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights--every night just at midnight--but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil eye. Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back--but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed crying out--"Who's there?" I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief--oh, no!--it was the low, stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little--a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it--you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily--until at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye. It was open--wide, wide open--and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness--all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person; for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the spot. Now, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed; I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous; so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me--the sound could be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once--once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gayly to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. If you still think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye--not even his--could have detected anything wrong. When I had made an end of these labors it was four o'clock--still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart--for what had I now to fear? Then entered three men who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and the officers had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled--for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search--search well. I led them at length to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. But ere long I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct; it continued and gained definitiveness--until at length I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I grew very pale; but I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased--and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound--much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath--and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly--more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men--but the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? I foamed--I raved--I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder--louder--louder. And still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? They heard!--they suspected!--they knew!--they were making a mockery of my horror! this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!--and now--again!--hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! "Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed--tear up the planks! here! here! it is the beating of his hideous heart!" THE UNCLE H. G. BELL I had an uncle once--a man Of threescore years and three, And when my reason's dawn began, He'd take me on his knee, And often talk, whole winter nights, Things that seemed strange to me. He was a man of gloomy mood, And few his converse sought; But, it was said, in solitude His conscience with him wrought; And then, before his mental eye, Some hideous vision brought. There was not one in all the house Who did not fear his frown, Save I, a little, careless child, Who gamboled up and down, And often peeped into his room, And plucked him by his gown. I was an orphan and alone-- My father was his brother, And all their lives I knew that they Had fondly loved each other; And in my uncle's room there hung The picture of my mother. There was a curtain over it-- 'Twas in a darkened place, And few or none had ever looked Upon my mother's face; Or seen her pale, expressive smile Of melancholy grace. One night--I do remember well, The wind was howling high, And through the ancient corridors It sounded drearily; I sat and read in that old hall; My uncle sat close by. I read--but little understood The words upon the book, For with a sidelong glance I marked My uncle's fearful look, And saw how all his quivering frame In strong convulsions shook. A silent terror o'er me stole, A strange, unusual dread; His lips were white as bone--his eyes Sunk far down in his head; He gazed on me, but 'twas the gaze Of the unconscious dead. Then suddenly he turned him round, And drew aside the veil That hung before my mother's face; Perchance my eyes might fail, But ne'er before that face to me Had seemed so ghastly pale. "Come hither, boy!" my uncle said-- I started at the sound; 'Twas choked and stifled, in his throat, And hardly utterance found; "Come hither, boy!" then fearfully He cast his eyes around. "That lady was thy mother once-- Thou wert her only child; O God! I've seen her when she held Thee in her arms and smiled-- She smiled upon thy father, boy, 'Twas that which drove me wild! "He was my brother, but his form Was fairer far than mine; I grudged not that;--he was the prop Of our ancestral line, And manly beauty was of him A token and a sign. "Boy! I had loved her too--nay, more, 'Twas I who loved her first; For months--for years--the golden thought Within my soul was nursed; He came--he conquered--they were wed-- My air-blown bubble burst! "Then on my mind a shadow fell, And evil hopes grew rife; The damning thought stuck in my heart, And cut me like a knife, That she, whom all my days I loved, Should be another's wife! "I left my home--I left the land-- I crossed the raging sea; In vain--in vain--where'er I turned, My memory went with me; My whole existence, night and day, In memory seemed to be. "I came again, I found them here-- Thou'rt like thy father, boy-- He doted on that pale face there, I've seen them kiss and toy-- I've seen him locked in her fond arms, Wrapped in delirious joy! "By Heaven! it was a fearful thing, To see my brother now, And mark the placid calm that sat Forever on his brow, That seemed in bitter scorn to say, I am more loved than thou! "He disappeared--draw nearer, child!-- He died--no one knew how; The murdered body ne'er was found, The tale is hushed up now; But there was one who rightly guessed The hand that struck the blow. "It drove her mad--yet not his death-- No--not his death alone; For she had clung to hope, when all Knew well that there was none; No, boy! it was a sight she saw That froze her into stone! "I am thy uncle, child--why stare So frightfully aghast?-- The arras waves, but know'st thou not 'Tis nothing but the blast? I, too, have had my fears like these, But such vain fears are past. "I'll show thee what thy mother saw-- I feel 'twill ease my breast, And this wild tempest-laden night Suits with the purpose best. Come hither--thou hast often sought To open this old chest. "It has a secret spring; the touch Is known to me alone; Slowly I raise the lid, and now-- What see you, that you groan So heavily? That thing is but A bare-ribbed skeleton." A sudden crash--the lid fell down-- Three strides he backward gave, "Oh, God! it is my brother's self Returning from the grave! His grasp of lead is on my throat-- Will no one help or save?" That night they laid him on his bed, In raving madness tossed; He gnashed his teeth, and with wild oaths Blasphemed the Holy Ghost; And, ere the light of morning broke, A sinner's soul was lost. VI SCENES FROM THE DRAMA The selections in this division are cut, condensed, and adapted for practical use as dramas or monologues. In some cases lines of the text as well as explanations are written in to connect the scenes for clearer unity. For scenes from Shakespeare and readings from the Bible, already universally printed and accessible, see the indexes and directions as to the omissions of lines in various cuttings in Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings," published by Messrs. Ginn & Company. THE BELLS HENRY L. WILLIAMS ACT III, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Hans Matthis, keeper of "the Merry Andrew"; Dr. Frantz, the magnetizer; the Judge. SCENE: Alsatia, in a hamlet at the foot of the mountains; Christmas, 1868; a room in an inn. Matthis, a prosperous burgomaster, recalls with friends the murder of a Polish Jew, fifteen years before. He wonders that the murderer has never been apprehended. The sound of sleigh bells is heard and the apparition of the Jew appears. Matthis is prostrated by the incident and consults a mesmerist, Dr. Frantz, who assures him that he has power to compel a criminal to divulge his secret thought. Matthis isolates himself and sleeps alone to avoid eavesdropping. On the night of his daughter's wedding he makes payment of her dowry, and as the money is laid on the table a sleigh bell falls from among the gold coins. He seeks his own room, falls asleep and dreams that he is before the court and that Dr. Frantz is mesmerizing him. _Enter_ MATTHIS MAT. Happy fellow! happy fellows all of them! A man may play against fate if he only prepares his cards--I hold none but good ones in my hand. Ha, ha! They have their skins full of my best wine, and go home happy as kings. Ha, ha! there'll be some funny flounderings in the snow before they reach home. It's singular what magic is melted into wine--one draught, and all the clouds are sunshine. It's dark! it's very dark--and, though the wind has fallen, the fine snow sweeps down the road like a train of phantoms. All is well! You may shake hands with yourself, Hans Matthis! you have triumphed over both the world and Heaven! I am so sleepy! If I rest here a--a moment? Ah! One is always drowsy in cold weather. No one can hear me if I speak--in a dream--no one--the Jew!--dreams, nonsense! [_Sleeps_.] _Enter_ DR. FRANTZ _and the_ JUDGE DR. F. My lord, it is the will of this tribunal which leads me here, not mine. JUDGE. Can you place that man in the mesmeric sleep? DR. F. I can. But he is strong-willed, and the task may be hard. MAT. No, no! I have no fear. [_Shudders; aside_.] Matthis, if you fall asleep you will be lost! DR. F. [_to_ MATTHIS]. I will that you should sleep! [_Makes magnetic passes while looking at_ MATTHIS.] MAT. No, no! DR. F. It is my will. He sleeps. What must I ask? JUDGE. What he did on Christmas Eve, fifteen years ago. DR. F. I command you to be on the night of December the four-and-twentieth, year 1853. MAT. [_softly_]. Yes. DR. F. What is the hour? MAT. It is half-past eleven o'clock. DR. F. Speak! It is my will! MAT. The customers have left the inn. Catherine and little Annette have gone to bed. Kaspar comes in and says--the fire in the lime-kiln is drawing well. I answer: "Very good. Go to bed. I'll go have a look at it." He goes up stairs. I am alone with the Polish Jew, who is warming himself at the stove. All are asleep in the village. All I heard was the sleigh-bell jingling on the Polander's horse in the shed. There was two feet of snow on the ground. I thought of my want of money. If I did not have three thousand francs by the end of the month, the inn would be taken from me. I thought--no one is on the road--'tis night, and the Polander will be all alone in the snow. He is well-built, and strong. [_As if he saw the man before him._] I warrant he will hold out stoutly if any one touches him. Ah! he looks at me with his little gray eyes. I must do my work! Yes. I shall risk it! I go out. It is black as ink, except for the falling snow. There would be no footsteps in the road. I search his sledge--he might have had pistols! but there are none. I will do it! Hark! no--not a sound, save a child crying--a goat bleating--and the tramp overhead of the Polander in his chamber. I went in. He comes down, and puts six francs on the table. I give him change. He looks a long look at me, and asks how far to Mootzig? Four short leagues, say I--and wish him a merry journey! He answers: "God bless you!" [_Pause._] Ho, ho! the belt! the money-belt! He goes--he has gone! [MATTHIS _stooping, goes a few steps as if following a trail._] The axe--where is the axe? Ah! here--behind the door! How cold it is! Still falls the snow, and far above, I see the shooting stars. Haste, Matthis, for the prize--the money-belt! I follow--out of the village--to the open--how cold it is! [_Shivers._] Yonder looms up the big bridge--there ripples the rivulet out of sight under the snow. How the dogs bayed, on Daniel's farm! and the blacksmith's forge glowed red on the hill-side like a setting sun. Matthis, slay not the man! You are mad! You will be rich, and your wife and child will want for nothing! The Polander had no business to flaunt his money-belt in your face, when you owe money! The bridge! I am already at the bridge! And no one! how still it is! how cold! though I am warm--Hark! one o'clock by the village church! and the moon is rising! Oh! the Jew has passed, and I am right glad of it! No! what do I hear? the bell! the sleigh-bell. I shall be rich, I shall be rich, rich, rich! [_The bell tinkles._] Down! I have you, dog of a Jew! He has his score settled! Not a finger stirs. All is over! Ah! Away rushes the horse with the sledge! but silently--the bell has been shaken off! Hark, hark--a step! No! only the wind and a fall of snow. Quick, quick, the money-belt! 'tis full! it bursts with my eager clutch! ah! the coins have fallen! here, here and there! And now for home! no, no--the body--it must not tell its story! [_Rolls up the mantle and puts it on his shoulder._] Hush! the kiln, the lime-kiln. It is heavy! Into the fire. Jew! fire and flames for the Jew! Oh! what eyes! with what eyes does he regard me! Be a man, Matthis, look! look boldly! not even his bones are left! Now, away with the belt--pocket the gold--that's right! No one will ever know. The proofs are gone forever! DR. F. What more shall he be asked? JUDGE. No more. Wake him and let him see himself. [MATTHIS _sits in the chair as at first_.] DR. F. Awake! I will it. MAT. Where am I? Ah, yes--what have I done? Wretch! I have confessed it all! I am a lost man! JUDGE. You stand self-condemned! Inasmuch as Hans Matthis, on the morning of the 25th of December, 1853, between the hours of midnight and one o'clock, committed the crime of murder and highway robbery upon the person of Baruch Koweski, with malice prepense, we condemn him to be hanged by the neck till death shall ensue. And may Heaven have mercy on his soul! Usher, let the executioner appear and take charge of the condemned. [_Curtain._ THE LADY OF LYONS ROBERT BULWER LYTTON ACT II, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Pauline Deschappelles, the beautiful daughter and heiress of an aspiring merchant of Lyons, France; Claude Melnotte, the gardener's son, madly in love with Pauline. Pauline aspires to an alliance with some prince or nobleman. Melnotte in the hope of winning her uses his small inheritance in educating himself and becomes an accomplished scholar, a skillful musician, a poet, and an artist. He pours forth his worship in a poem, but his suit is rejected and he is subjected to violent insult. Stung to remorse he enters into a plot to personate a prince, woo her in that guise, and take her as a bride to his mother's cottage on their wedding night. And, in the faint hope of winning her as a prince and keeping her love as an untitled man after he has revealed his identity, Melnotte enters into a binding compact. Scene: The garden of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons. _Enter_ MELNOTTE _as the Prince of Como, leading_ PAULINE MEL. You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position to merit--not birth. PAULINE. Why, yes; but still-- MEL. Still what, Pauline? PAULINE. There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A man who has ancestors is like a representative of the past. MEL. True; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he is a silent member. Ah, Pauline! not to the past, but to the future, looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity. PAULINE. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors; but you, prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race! MEL. No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner on the dead! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the incentives to exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth! I honor the laurels that overshadow the graves of our fathers--it is our fathers I emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted my own ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes! PAULINE. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that thou lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake of Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and when thou describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if custom had made thee disdain greatness. MEL. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint The home to which, could love fulfill its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep vale Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world; Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies, As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, As I would have thy fate! PAULINE. My own dear love! MEL. A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we'd read no books That were not tales of love--that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours! And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture? PAULINE. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue! Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly, Who would not love thee like Pauline? MEL. Oh, false one! It is the prince thou lovest, not the man; If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power, I had painted poverty, and toil, and care, Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue; Pauline, That is not love. PAULINE. Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince! At first, in truth, I might not have been won, Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride; But now--oh! trust me--couldst thou fall from power And sink-- MEL. As low as that poor gardener's son Who dared to lift his eyes to thee? PAULINE. Even then, Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught By the poor glittering of a garish flame; But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star Lures us no more; and by the fatal light We cling till death! MEL. Angel! [_Aside._] O conscience! conscience! It must not be--her love hath grown a torture Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant, And--ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me. I have business with these gentlemen--I--I Will forthwith join you. PAULINE. I obey, sweet Prince. [_Exit separately._ ACT III, SCENE II CHARACTERS: Pauline, Claude, and the Widow Melnotte, the mother of Claude. SCENE: Melnotte's cottage, widow bustling about, a table spread for supper. WIDOW. So, I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blotted that I can scarcely read it, to say he would be here almost immediately. She must have loved him well indeed to have forgotten his birth; for though he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not to have revealed to her the artifice; which her love only could forgive. Well, I do not wonder at it; for though my son is not a prince, he ought to be one, and that's almost as good. [_Knock at door._] Ah! here they are. _Enter_ MELNOTTE _and_ PAULINE WIDOW. Oh, my boy--the pride of my heart!--welcome, welcome. I beg pardon, ma'am, but I do love him so! PAULINE. Good woman, I really--why, Prince, what is this?--does the old lady know you? Oh, I guess you have done her some service. Another proof of your kind heart; is it not? MEL. Of my kind heart, ay! PAULINE. So you know the Prince? WIDOW. Know him, madam? Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not! PAULINE. Can we stay here, my lord? I think there's something very wild about her. MEL. Madam, I--no, I cannot tell her; what a coward is a man who has lost his honor! Speak to her--speak to her--[_to his mother_] tell her that--O Heaven, that I were dead! PAULINE. How confused he looks!--this strange place!--this woman--what can it mean?--I half suspect--who are you, madam?--who are you? can't you speak? are you struck dumb? WIDOW. Claude, you have not deceived her? Ah, shame upon you! I thought that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all. PAULINE. All! what! My blood freezes in my veins! WIDOW. Poor lady--dare I tell her, Claude? Know you not, then, madam, that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte? PAULINE. Your son! hold--hold! do not speak to me. [_Approaches_ MELNOTTE.] Is this a jest? is it? I know it is, only speak--one word--one look--one smile. I cannot believe--I who loved thee so--I cannot believe that thou art such a--no, I will not wrong thee by a harsh word! Speak. MEL. Leave us. [_To_ WIDOW.] Have pity on her, on me; leave us! WIDOW. Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee of whom I was so proud! [_Exit._ PAULINE. Her son--her son! MEL. Now, lady, hear me. PAULINE. Hear thee! Ay, speak--her son! have fiends a parent? speak, That thou mayst silence curses--speak! MEL. No, curse me; Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness. PAULINE [_laughing wildly_]. This is thy palace, where "the perfumed light Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air is heavy with the sighs Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture?" This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom! O fool--O dupe--O wretch! I see it all. The by-word and the jeer of every tongue In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch Of human kindness? if thou hast, why kill me, And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot-- It cannot be; this is some horrid dream; I shall wake soon. [_Touching him._] Art flesh? art man? or but The shadows seen in sleep? It is too real. What have I done to thee? how sinn'd against thee, That thou shouldst crush me thus? MEL. Pauline, by pride Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride-- That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold-- The evil spirit of a bitter love, And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee; I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boy Tended, unmark'd by thee--a spirit of bloom, And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape! I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy. And from that hour I grew--what to the last I shall be--thine adorer! Well, this love, Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became A fountain of ambition and bright hope; I thought of tales that by the winter hearth Old gossips tell--how maidens, sprung from kings, Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the scepter. My father died; and I, the peasant born, Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise Out of the prison of my mean estate; And, with such jewels as the exploring mind Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom From those twin jailers of the daring heart-- Low birth and iron fortune. For thee I grew A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages. For thee I sought to borrow from each grace, And every muse, such attributes as lend Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee, And passion taught me poesy--of thee, And on the painter's canvas grew the life Of beauty! Art became the shadow Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes! Men call'd me vain--some mad--I heeded not; But still toil'd on--hoped on--for it was sweet, If not to win, to feel more worthy thee. PAULINE. Why do I cease to hate him! MEL. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And set them to thee--such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name--appended by the burning heart That long'd to show its idol what bright things It had created--yea, the enthusiast's name, That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn; That very hour--when passion, turn'd to wrath, Resembled hatred most--when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos--in that hour The tempters, found me a revengeful tool For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm-- It turned and stung thee! PAULINE. Love, sir, hath no sting. What was the slight of a poor powerless girl To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge? Oh, how I loved this man!--a serf--a slave! MEL. Hold, lady! No, not a slave! Despair is free. I will not tell thee of the throes--the struggles-- The anguish--the remorse. No, let it pass! And let me come to such most poor atonement Yet in my power. Pauline!-- PAULINE. No, touch me not! I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant; And I--O Heaven!--a peasant's wife! I'll work-- Toil--drudge--do what thou wilt--but touch me not! Let my wrongs make me sacred! MEL. Do not fear me. Thou dost not know me, madam; at the altar My vengeance ceased--my guilty oath expired! Henceforth, no image of some marble saint, Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallowed more From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong. I am thy husband--nay, thou need'st not shudder!-- Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights. A marriage thus unholy--unfulfill'd-- A bond of fraud--is, by the laws of France, Made void and null. To-night sleep--sleep in peace. To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine, Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home. The law shall do thee justice, and restore Thy right to bless another with thy love. And when them art happy, and hast half forgot Him who so loved--so wrong'd thee, think at least Heaven left some remnant of the angel still In that poor peasant's nature! Ho! my mother! _Enter_ WIDOW Conduct this lady (she is not my wife; She is our guest--our honor'd guest, my mother) To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue Never, beneath my father's honest roof, E'en villains dared to mar! Now, lady, now I think thou wilt believe me. Go, my mother! WIDOW. She is not thy wife! MEL. Hush, hush! for mercy's sake! Speak not, but go. [_Exit_ WIDOW. PAULINE _follows, weeping--turns to look back_. All angels bless and guard her! RIP VAN WINKLE[80] WASHINGTON IRVING ACT I, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Rip Van Winkle; Derrick Von Beekman, the villain of the play, who endeavors to get Rip drunk, in order to have him sign away his property; Nick Vedder, the village innkeeper. SCENE: The village inn; present, Von Beekman, alone. _Enter_ RIP, _shaking off the children, who cling about him_ RIP [_to the children_]. Say! hullo, dere, yu Yacob Stein! Let that dog Schneider alone, will you? Dere, I tole you dat all de time, if you don'd let him alone he's goin' to bide you! Why, hullo, Derrick! How you was? Ach, my! Did you hear dem liddle fellers just now? Dey most plague me crazy. Ha, ha, ha! I like to laugh my outsides in every time I tink about it. Just now, as we was comin' along togedder, Schneider and me--I don'd know if you know Schneider myself? Well, he's my dog. Well, dem liddle fellers, dey took Schneider, und--ha, ha, ha!--dey--ha, ha, ha!--dey tied a tin kettle mit his tail! Ha, ha, ha! My gracious! Of you had seen dat dog run! My, how scared he was! Vell, he was a-runnin' an' de kettle was a-bangin' an'--ha, ha, ha! you believe it, dat dog, he run right betwixt me an' my legs! Ha, ha, ha! He spill me und all dem leddle fellers down in de mud togedder. Ha, ha, ha! VON B. Ah, yes, that's all right, Rip, very funny, very funny; but what do you say to a glass of liquor, Rip? RIP. Well, now, Derrick, what do I generally say to a glass? I generally say it's a good ting, don'd I? Und I generally say a good deal more to what is in it, dan to de glass. VON B. Certainly, certainly! Say, hallo, there! Nick Vedder, bring out a bottle of your best! RIP. Dat's right--fill 'em up. You wouldn't believe, Derrick, but dat is de first one I have had to-day. I guess maybe de reason is, I couldn't got it before. Ah, Derrick, my score is too big! Well, here is your good health und your family's--may dey all live long and prosper. [_They drink._] Ach! you may well smack your lips, und go ah, ah! over dat liquor. You don'd give me such liquor like dat every day, Nick Vedder. Well, come on, fill 'em up again. Git out mit dat water, Nick Vedder, I don'd want no water in my liquor. Good liquor und water, Nick Vedder, is just like man and wife, dey don'd agree well togedder--dat's me und my wife, any way. Well, come on again. Here is your good health und your family's, und may dey all live long und prosper! NICK VEDDER. That's right, Rip; drink away, and "drown your sorrows in the flowing bowl." RIP. Drown my sorrows? Ya, dat's all very well, but she don'd drown. My wife is my sorrow und you can't drown her; she tried it once, but she couldn't do it. What, didn't you hear about dat, de day what Gretchen she like to got drownded? Ach, my; dat's de funniest ting in de world. I'll tell you all about it. It was de same day what we got married. I bet I don'd forget dat day so long what I live. You know dat Hudson River what dey git dem boats over--well, dat's de same place. Well, you know dat boat what Gretchen she was a-goin' to come over in, dat got upsetted--ya, just went righd by der boddom. But she wasn't in de boat. Oh, no; if she had been in de boat, well, den, maybe she might have got drownded. You can't tell anyting at all about a ting like dat! VON B. Ah, no; but I'm sure, Rip, if Gretchen were to fall into the water now, you would risk your life to save her. RIP. Would I? Well, I am not so sure about dat myself. When we was first got married? Oh, ya; I know I would have done it den, but I don'd know how it would be now. But it would be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. Don'd you know, Derrick, when a man gits married a long time--mit his wife, he gits a good deal attached mit her, und it would be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. But I don'd know, Derrick. I am afraid if Gretchen should fall in de water now und should say, "Rip, Rip! help me oud"--I should say, "Mrs. Van Winkle, I will just go home and tink about it." Oh, no, Derrick; if Gretchen fall in de water now she's got to swim, I told you dat--ha, ha, ha, ha! Hullo! dat's her a-comin' now; I guess it's bedder I go oud! [_Exit_ RIP. ACT II, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Rip Van Winkle; Gretchen, his wife; Meenie, their little daughter. SCENE: The dimly lighted kitchen of Rip's cottage. Shortly after his conversation with Von Beekman, Rip's wife catches him carousing and dancing upon the village green. She drives him away in no very gentle fashion, and he runs away from her only to carouse the more. Returning home after nightfall in a decidedly muddled condition, he puts his head through the open window at the rear, not observing his irate wife, who stands in ambush behind the clothes-bars with her ever-ready broomstick, to give him a warm reception, but seeing only his little daughter Meenie, of whom he is very fond, and who also loves him very tenderly. RIP. Meenie! Meenie, my darlin'! MEENIE. Hush-sh-h. [_Shaking finger, to indicate the presence of her mother._] RIP. Eh! what's de matter? I don'd see not'ing, my darlin'. MEENIE. 'Sh-sh-sh! RIP. Eh! what? Say, Meenie, is de ole wild cat home? [GRETCHEN _catches him quickly by the hair_.] Oh, oh! say, is dat you, Gretchen? Say, dere, my darlin', my angel, don'd do dat. Let go my head, won'd you? Well, den, hold on to it so long what you like. [GRETCHEN _releases him_.] Dere, now, look at dat, see what you done--you gone pull out a whole handful of hair. What you want to do a ting like dat for? You must want a bald-headed husband, don'd you? GRETCHEN. Who was that you called a wild cat? RIP. Who was dat I called a wild cat? Well, now, let me see, who was dat I called a wild cat? Dat must 'a' been de same time I come in de winder dere, wasn't it? Yes, I know, it was de same time. Well, now, let me see. _[Suddenly.]_ It was de dog Schneider dat I call it. GRETCHEN. The dog Schneider? That's a likely story. RIP. Why, of course it is a likely story--ain't he my dog? Well, den, I call him a wild cat just so much what I like, so dere now. [_Gretchen begins to weep_.] Oh, well; dere, now, don'd you cry, don'd you cry, Gretchen; you hear what I said? Lisden now. If you don'd cry, I nefer drink anoder drop of liquor in my life. GRETCHEN [_crying_]. Oh, Rip! you have said so many, many times, and you never kept your word yet. RIP. Well, I say it dis time, and I mean it. GRETCHEN. Oh, Rip! if I could only trust you. RIP. You mustn't suspect me. Can't you see repentance in my eye? GRETCHEN. Rip, if you will only keep your word, I shall be the happiest woman in the world. RIP. You can believe it. I nefer drink anoder drop so long what I live, if you don'd cry. GRETCHEN. Oh, Rip, how happy we shall be! And you'll get back all the village, Rip, just as you used to have it; and you'll fix up our little house so nicely; and you and I, and our little darling Meenie, here--how happy we shall be! RIP. Dere, now! you can be just so happy what you like. Go in de odder room, go along mit you; I come in dere pooty quick. [_Exit_ GRETCHEN and MEENIE.] My! I swore off from drinkin' so many, many times, and I never kept my word yet. [_Taking out bottle._] I don'd believe dere is more as one good drink in dat bottle, anyway. It's a pity to waste it! You goin' to drink dat? Well, now, if you do, it is de last one, remember dat, old feller. Well, here is your goot held, und-- _Enter_ GRETCHEN, _suddenly, who snatches the bottle from him_. GRETCHEN. Oh, you brute! you paltry thief! RIP. Hold on dere, my dear, you will spill de liquor. GRETCHEN. Yes, I will spill it, you drunken scoundrel. [_Throwing away the bottle._] That's the last drop you ever drink under this roof. RIP [_slowly, after a moment's silence, as if stunned by her severity_]. Eh! what? GRETCHEN. Out, I say! you drink no more here. RIP. What? Gretchen, are you goin' to drive me away? GRETCHEN. Yes! Acre by acre, foot by foot, you have sold everything that ever belonged to you for liquor. Thank Heaven, this house is mine, and you can't sell it. RIP [_rapidly sobering, as he begins to realize the gravity of the situation_]. Yours? Yours? Ya, you are right--it is yours; I have got no home. [_In broken tones, almost sobbing._] But where will I go? GRETCHEN. Anywhere! out into the storm, to the mountains. There's the door--never let your face darken it again. RIP. What, Gretchen! are you goin' to drive me away like a dog on a night like dis? GRETCHEN. Yes; out with you! You have no longer a share in me or mine. [_Breaking down and sobbing with the intensity of her passion._] RIP [_very slowly and quietly, but with great intensity_]. Well, den, I will go; you have drive me away like a dog, Gretchen, and I will go. But remember, Gretchen, after what you have told me here to-night, I can never come back. You have open de door for me to go; you will never open it for me to return. But, Gretchen, you tell me dat I have no longer a chare here. [_Points at the child, who kneels crying at his feet._] Good-by [_with much emotion_], my darlin'. God bless you! Don'd you nefer forgit your fader. Gretchen (_with a great sob_), I wipe de disgrace from your door. Good-by, good-by! [_Exit_ RIP _into the storm_. FOOTNOTE: [80] Adapted by Mr. A. P. Burbank. THE RIVALS RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN ACT I, SCENE II CHARACTERS: Mrs. Malaprop, with her bad grammar and ludicrous diction; Lydia Languish, in love with Beverley; Sir Anthony Absolute, choleric, but kind-hearted. SCENE: A dressing room in Mrs. Malaprop's lodgings. _Enter_ MRS. MALAPROP, LYDIA, _and_ SIR ANTHONY MRS. MALAPROP. There, Sir Anthony, there stands the deliberate simpleton, who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling. LYDIA. Madam, I thought you once-- MRS. M. You thought, miss! I don't know any business you have to think at all: thought does not become a young woman. But the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow--to illiterate him, I say, from your memory. LYD. Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget. MRS. M. But I say it is, miss! there is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle, as if he had never existed; and I thought it my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman. LYD. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus? MRS. M. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise me to do as you are bid? Will you take a husband of your friend's choosing? LYD. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that, had I no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion. MRS. M. What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion? They don't become a young woman. But, suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley? LYD. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words. MRS. M. Take yourself to your room! You are fit company for nothing but your own ill humors. LYD. Willingly, ma'am; I cannot change for the worse. MRS. M. There's a little intricate hussy for you! [_Exit._ SIR A. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am; all that is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. On my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library: from that moment, I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress! MRS. M. Those are vile places, indeed! SIR A. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! MRS. M. Fie, fie, Sir Anthony! you surely speak laconically. SIR A. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, what would you have a woman know? MRS. M. Observe me, Sir Anthony--I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning; I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman; for instance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning; nor will it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments; but, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and, as she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries; above all, she would be taught orthodoxy. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it. SIR A. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further with you; though I must confess, that you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the question.--But to the more important point in debate--you say you have no objection to my proposal? MRS. M. None, I assure you. We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony; but I hope no objection on his side. SIR A. Objection!--let him object, if he dare!--No, no, Mrs. Malaprop; Jack knows that the least demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My process was always very simple--in his younger days, 'twas "Jack, do this,"--if he demurred, I knocked him down; and, if he grumbled at that, I always sent him out of the room. MRS. M. Aye, and the properest way, o' my conscience!--Nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity. Well, Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to receive your son's invocations; and I hope you will represent her to the Captain as an object not altogether illegible. SIR A. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. I must leave you; and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the girl--take my advice, keep a tight hand--if she rejects this proposal, clap her under lock and key; and if you were just to let the servants forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come about. MRS. M. Well, at any rate, I shall be glad to get her from under my jurisprudence. [_Exit._ ACT II, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute, his son. SCENE: Captain Absolute's lodgings. _Enter_ SIR ANTHONY _and_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE. Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and looking so well! Your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health. SIR ANTHONY. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are recruiting here, hey? CAPT. A. Yes, sir; I am on duty. SIR A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long. CAPT. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty; and I pray fervently that you may continue so. SIR A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my heart. Well, then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit. CAPT. A. Sir, you are very good. SIR A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence. CAPT. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Such generosity makes the gratitude of reason more lively than the sensations even of filial affection. SIR A. I am glad you are so sensible of my attention; and you shall be master of a large estate in a few weeks. CAPT. A. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude. I cannot express the sense I have of your munificence. Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army. SIR A. Oh, that shall be as your wife chooses. CAPT. A. My wife, sir! SIR A. Aye, aye, settle that between you--settle that between you. CAPT. A. A wife, sir, did you say? SIR A. Aye, a wife--why, did not I mention her before? CAPT. A. Not a word of her, sir. SIR A. Upon my word, I mustn't forget her, though! Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage,--the fortune is saddled with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference? CAPT. A. Sir, sir, you amaze me! SIR A. What's the matter? Just now you were all gratitude and duty. CAPT. A. I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a fortune, but not one word of a wife. SIR A. Why, what difference does that make? Sir, if you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands. CAPT. A. If my happiness is to be the price, I must beg leave to decline the purchase. Pray, sir, who is the lady? SIR A. What's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and to marry her directly. CAPT. A. Sure, sir, that's not very reasonable, to summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of! SIR A. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you to object to a lady you know nothing of. CAPT. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that on this point I cannot obey you. SIR A. Hark you, Jack! I have heard you for some time with patience; I have been cool--quite cool; but take care; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led--when I have my own way; but don't put me in a frenzy. CAPT. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey you. SIR A. Now, shoot me, if ever I call you Jack again while I live! CAPT. A. Nay, sir, but hear me. SIR A. Sir, I won't hear a word--not a word!--not one word! So, give me your promise by a nod; and I'll tell you what, Jack,--I mean, you dog,--if you don't-- CAPT. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness; to-- SIR A. Sir, the lady shall be as ugly as I choose; she shall have a lump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's mu-se-um; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew; she shall be all this, sir! yet I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty! CAPT. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed! SIR A. None of your sneering, puppy!--no grinning, jackanapes! CAPT. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my life. SIR A. 'Tis false, sir! I know you are laughing in your sleeve; I know you'll grin when I am gone, sir! CAPT. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. SIR A. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if you please! It won't do with me, I promise you. CAPT. A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. SIR A. I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog! But it won't do! CAPT. A. Nay, sir, upon my word-- SIR A. So, you will fly out? Can't you be cool, like me? What good can passion do? Passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! Don't provoke me! But you rely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog! You play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet take care; the patience of a saint may be overcome at last! But, mark! I give you six hours and a half to consider of this: if you then agree, without any condition, to do everything on earth that I choose, why, I may, in time, forgive you. If not, don't enter the same hemisphere with me; don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light, with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commission; I'll lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest! I'll disown you, I'll disinherit you! I'll never call you Jack again! [_Exit_. CAPT. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hand. ACT III, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute. SCENE: The North Parade. Captain Absolute has discovered that the lady whom his father so peremptorily commanded him to marry is none other than Lydia Languish with whom he, under the name of Beverley, was plotting an elopement. _Enter_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE CAPT. A. 'Tis just as Fag told me, indeed!--Whimsical enough, 'faith! My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plotting to run away with! He must not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these matters; however, I'll read my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, indeed; but I can assure him, it is very sincere.--So, so, here he comes. He looks plaguy gruff! [_Steps aside_. _Enter_ SIR ANTHONY SIR A. No--I'll die sooner than forgive him! Die, did I say? I'll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his impudence had almost put me out of temper--an obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! This is my return for putting him, at twelve years old, into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since! But I have done with him--he's anybody's son for me--I never will see him more--never--never--never--never. CAPT. A. Now for a penitential face! [_Comes forward_. SIR A. Fellow, get out of my way! CAPT. A. Sir, you see a penitent before you. SIR A. I see an impudent scoundrel before me. CAPT. A. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will. SIR A. What's that? CAPT. A. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me. SIR A. Well, sir? CAPT. A. I have been likewise weighing and balancing, what you were pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority. SIR A. Why, now you talk sense, absolute sense; I never heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound you, you shall be Jack again! CAPT. A. I am happy in the appellation. SIR A. Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you silly fellow, prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture--prepare! What think you of Miss Lydia Languish? CAPT. A. Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire? SIR A. Worcestershire! No! Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop, and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were last ordered to your regiment? CAPT. A. Malaprop! Languish! I don't remember ever to have heard the name before. Yet, stay: I think I do recollect something. Languish, Languish! She squints, don't she? A little red-haired girl? SIR A. Squints! A red-haired girl! Zounds, no! CAPT. A. Then I must have forgot; it can't be the same person. SIR A. Jack, Jack! what think you of blooming, love-breathing seventeen? CAPT. A. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent: if I can please you in the matter, 'tis all I desire. SIR A. Nay, but, Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently wild! so bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! Oh, Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion! and, if not smiling, more sweetly pouting, more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack, her neck! Oh! Jack! Jack! CAPT. A. And which is to be mine, sir; the niece, or the aunt? SIR A. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you! When I was of your age, such a description would have made me fly like a rocket! The aunt, indeed! Odds life! when I ran away with your mother, I would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire. CAPT. A. Not to please your father, sir? SIR A. To please my father--zounds! not to please--Oh! my father? Oddso! yes, yes! if my father, indeed, had desired--that's quite another matter. Though he wasn't the indulgent father that I am, Jack. CAPT. A. I dare say not, sir. SIR A. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so beautiful? CAPT. A. Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, 'tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind. Now, without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back; and though one eye may be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always run in favor of two, I would not wish to affect a singularity in that article. SIR A. What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you are an anchorite! a vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! you're a walking block, fit only to dust the company's regimentals on! Odds life, I've a great mind to marry the girl myself! CAPT. A. I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady, 'tis the same to me--I'll marry the niece. SIR A. Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great hypocrite, or--but, come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a lie--I'm sure it must. Come, now, off with your demure face; come, confess, Jack, you have been lying, ha'nt you? You have been playing the hypocrite, hey? I'll never forgive you, if you ha'nt been lying and playing the hypocrite. CAPT. A. I am sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you, should be so mistaken. SIR A. Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me. I'll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you; come along, I'll never forgive you, if you don't come back stark mad with rapture and impatience; if you don't, 'egad, I'll marry the girl myself! [_Exeunt._ ACT IV, SCENE II CHARACTERS: Mrs. Malaprop; Lydia; Captain Absolute known to Lydia as "Beverley"; Sir Anthony; Servant. _Enter_ MRS. MALAPROP _and_ LYDIA MRS M. Why, thou perverse one!--tell me what you can object to in him?--Isn't he a handsome man?--tell me that. A genteel man? a pretty figure of a man? LYD. She little thinks whom she is praising. [_Aside_.] So is Beverley, ma'am. MRS. M. No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons don't become a young woman. No! Captain Absolute is indeed a fine gentleman. LYD. Ay, the Captain Absolute you have seen. [_Aside_. MRS. M. Then he's so well bred;--so full of alacrity and adulation!--He has so much to say for himself, in such good language, too. His physiognomy so grammatical; then his presence so noble! I protest, when I saw him, I thought of what Hamlet says in the play:--"Hesperian curls--the front of Job himself! an eye, like March, to threaten at command! a station, like Harry Mercury, new"--Something about kissing--on a hill--however, the similitude struck me directly. LYD. How enraged she'll be presently, when she discovers her mistake! [_Aside_. _Enter_ SERVANT SERV. Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are below, ma'am. MRS. M. Show them up here. [_Exit_ SERVANT.] Now, Lydia, I insist on your behaving as becomes a young woman. Show your good breeding, at least, though you have forgot your duty. LYD. Madam, I have told you my resolution; I shall not only give him no encouragement, but I won't even speak to, or look at him. [_Flings herself into a chair, with her face from the door_. _Enter_ SIR ANTHONY _and_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE SIR A. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop; come to mitigate the frowns of unrelenting beauty,--and difficulty enough I had to bring this fellow. I don't know what's the matter, but if I had not held him by force he'd have given me the slip. MRS. M. You have infinite trouble, Sir Anthony, in the affair. I am ashamed for the cause! Lydia, Lydia, rise, I beseech you!--pay your respects! [_Aside to her_. SIR A. I hope, madam, that Miss Languish has reflected on the worth of this gentleman, and the regard due to her aunt's choice, and my alliance. Now, Jack, speak to her. [_Aside to him_. CAPT. A. What the devil shall I do? [_Aside_.]--You see, sir, she won't even look at me while you are here. I knew she wouldn't!--I told you so.--Let me entreat you, sir, to leave us together! MRS. M. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over my niece is very small. Turn round, Lydia, I blush for you! [_Aside to her_. SIR A. Why don't you begin, Jack? Zounds! sirrah! why don't you speak? [_Aside to him_. CAPT. A. Hem! hem! Madam--hem! [CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE _attempts to speak, then returns to_ SIR ANTHONY.] 'Faith! sir, I am so confounded!--and so--so confused! I told you I should be so, sir,--I knew it. The--the tremor of my passion entirely takes away my presence of mind. SIR A. But it don't take away your voice, does it? Go up, and speak to her directly! CAPT. A. [_draws near_ LYDIA]. [_Aside_.] Now heaven send she may be too sullen to look round! I must disguise my voice.--Will not Miss Languish lend an ear to the mild accents of true love? Will not-- SIR A. Why don't you speak out?--not stand croaking like a frog in a quinsey! CAPT. A. The--the--excess of my awe, and my--my modesty quite choke me! SIR A. Ah! your modesty again! Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would favor us with something more than a side-front. [MRS. MALAPROP _seems to chide_ LYDIA. CAPT. A. So! all will out, I see! [_Goes up to_ LYDIA, _speaks softly_.] Be not surprised, my Lydia, suppress all surprise at present. LYD. [_aside_]. Heavens! 'tis Beverley's voice!--[_Looks round by degrees, then starts up_.] Is this possible!--my Beverley! how can this be?--my Beverley! CAPT. A. Ah! 'tis all over! [_Aside._ SIR A. Beverley!--the devil--Beverley! What can the girl mean? This is my son, Jack Absolute. MRS. M. For shame! for shame!--your head runs so on that fellow, that you have him always in your eyes! beg Captain Absolute's pardon, directly. LYD. I see no Captain Absolute, but my loved Beverley! SIR A. Zounds, the girl's mad!--her brain's turned by reading! MRS. M. O' my conscience, I believe so!--what do you mean by Beverley?--you saw Captain Absolute before to-day, there he is: your husband that shall be. LYD. With all my soul, ma'am--when I refuse my Beverley-- SIR A. Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam!--or has this fellow been playing us a rogue's trick? Come here, sirrah, who the devil are you? CAPT. A. 'Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself; but I'll endeavor to recollect. SIR A. Are you my son, or not?--answer for your mother, you dog, if you won't for me. CAPT. A. Ye powers of impudence, befriend me!--[_Aside._]--Sir Anthony, most assuredly I am your wife's son; Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most respectful admirer, and shall be proud to add affectionate nephew. I need not tell my Lydia that she sees her faithful Beverley, who, knowing the singular generosity of her temper, assumed that name, and a station, which has proved a test of the most disinterested love, which he now hopes to enjoy, in a more elevated character. LYD. So!--there will be no elopement after all! SIR A. Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very impudent fellow! To do you justice, I think I never saw a piece of more consummate assurance! Well, I am glad you are not the dull insensible varlet you pretend to be, however! I'm glad you have made a fool of your father, you dog--I am. So, this was your penitence, your duty, and obedience! Ah! you dissembling villain! Come, we must leave them together, Mrs. Malaprop; they long to fly into each other's arms. I warrant! Come, Mrs. Malaprop, we'll not disturb their tenderness; theirs is the time of life for happiness! [_Sings_.] _Youth's the season made for joy_--hey! odds life! I'm in such spirits! Permit me, ma'am. [_Gives his hand to_ MRS. MALAPROP. _Exit singing, and handing her off. Exit_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE _with_ LYDIA _in the opposite direction._ BEAU BRUMMELL BLANCHARD JERROLD ACT I, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Beau Brummell, a fastidious aristocrat with luxurious tastes and a depleted fortune; Isidore, his valet; Mr. Fotherby, his aspiring young protégé. SCENE: A handsome apartment in Brummell's house, Calais, France. Isidore discovered, in chair, looking over his master's toilette table. ISIDORE. Twenty shirts a week, twenty-four pocket-handkerchiefs, to say nothing of thirty cravats and twelve waistcoats--indeed, for people that cannot pay their servants! Well, he owes me just six thousand three hundred and thirty-seven francs, ten sous. [_Picks up paper._] Ah, I see, I'm in the list. It costs something to have the honor of serving Mr. Brummell--to be chamberlain to His Majesty, the King of Calais! But he is a wonderful man! People almost thank him for condescending to be in their debt; still, much as I esteem the honor, I can't afford it any longer, nor can the laundress, nor can the hairdresser. Eight hundred francs a year for washing! Three clean shirts a day, three cravats! Boots blacked, soles and all, and with such varnish! But then he has such exquisite taste! why, he blackballed a friend of his who wanted to enter his club, because the candidate's boots were polished with bad blacking. I wonder whether the king will do anything for him? It is Mr. Brummell's dressing hour, and here he comes. [_Enter_ BRUMMELL, _letter in hand_. ISIDORE _busies himself piling cravats upon the side of dressing table, and wheels chair to the mirror_. BRUMMELL _throws himself in the chair before the glass, examines the cravats and throws two or three of them away_. BRUMMELL. Isidore, take those dusters away; the chambermaid has forgotten them. [_Re-reads the letter_.] Strange girl this; the only thing I know against her is that she takes soup twice. It's the old story. Her father wants her to marry a fellow who can keep her, and she wants to have a young fellow who can't. Well, the young fellow who can't is the more interesting of the two. I must ask the father to dinner I suppose--it's a deuced bore; but it will put him under a heavy obligation. I must make excuses to Ballarat and Gill. Isidore, when I'm dressed take my compliments to Mr. Davis, and tell him I shall be happy to see him at dinner to-day. ISID. Very well, sir. [_Aside_.] To Davis, a retired fellow from the city! This is a tumble!--I am sorry to trouble you, sir, but---- BRUM. I can't talk to you to-day, Isidore. Give me a cravat. ISID. [_handing one_]. I am a poor man, and six thousand francs---- BRUM. I understand, Isidore. We'll see--we'll see; don't disturb me. Zounds! man, haven't you been long enough with me to know that these are not moments when I can speak or listen? [_Bell rings_.] If that be Mr. Fotherby, show him in. [_Exit_ ISIDORE.] I intend to form that young fellow--there's stuff in him. I've noticed that he uses my blacking. [_Enter_ FOTHERBY _followed by_ ISIDORE.] How d'e do, Fotherby? FOTHERBY. This admittance is an honor, indeed, sir! BRUM. My dear fellow, why, what do you call those things upon your feet? FOTHER. Things on my feet! Shoes, to be sure! BRUM. Shoes! I thought they were slippers! FOTHER. You prefer boots then, sir, doubtless? BRUM. Well, let me see. Humph! Isidore, which do I prefer, boots or shoes? ISID. The Hessian was always your favorite, sir, in London. BRUM. Right, Isidore--so it was. By-the-bye, I have asked Davis here to-day. It was a great sacrifice; but as you and the young lady want to have the old gentleman melted, I resigned myself. I hope he'll keep his knife out of his mouth. FOTHER. We shall be eternally grateful to you, sir. He wanted Helen to become old Armand's wife next week. BRUM. I think he's right; and but for one circumstance, I should be on Armand's side of the question. FOTHER. And this circumstance? BRUM. The brute has a toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, or in the thing that serves him for a waistcoat--an instrument that, he says, has been in his family the last fifty years. Conceive, my dear Fotherby, an hereditary toothpick! No, Mr. Davis does not deserve that fate. And now let me give you a bit of advice. Never wear perfumes, but fine linen, plenty of it, and country washing. Look at you now, my good fellow, you are dressed in execrable taste--all black and white, like a magpie. Still, never be remarkable. The severest mortification a gentleman can incur, is to attract observation in the street by his dress. Everything should fit without a fault. You can't tell what this has cost me--but then it is a coat--while that thing you wear--I really don't know what we can call it. FOTHER. Still, sir, under your guidance I shall improve. By the way, my mother asked me to invite you to take tea with us in our humble way. BRUM. Really, my good young friend, you surprise me. Don't you know that you take medicine--you take a walk--you take a liberty--but you drink tea! My dear Fotherby, never be bearer of such a dreadful message again. Isidore! has my Paris wig arrived? Any card or letter? ISID. No cards, sir. The wig arrived by the diligence. BRUN. Is the wig fit to put on? ISID. I have been examining it, and, as the times go, I think it will do. There is one of the side locks not quite to my taste. BRUM. Ah! a mat, no doubt--a door-mat! [_Exit_ ISIDORE. _To_ FOTHERBY.] You see what a gentleman may be reduced to! It's the most fortunate thing in the world that I never fell in love! FOTHER. But were you never in love?--never engaged? BRUM. Engaged?--why, yes, something of the kind; but I discovered that the lady positively ate cabbage, and so I broke it off. FOTHER. And so, sir, you will persuade the old gentleman to postpone Helen's marriage with Armand--while I---- BRUM. My dear young friend, I will tell the old gentleman to do so--you must see that I could not possibly think of persuading a person who grows onions in his garden---- FOTHER. We shall be eternally grateful---- BRUM. For three weeks exactly--from which time you, at all events, will begin to wish that I had confined my attention to my own particular affairs. But the world is ungrateful. I once waved my hand to a saddler's son from White's window. Well, sir, I owed him five hundred pounds, and he had afterwards the assurance to ask me for it. FOTHER. You astonish me! BRUM. Positive fact. So be cautious, young man, and in your way through life--if you wave your hand to such a fellow, let it be over a stamped receipt. FOTHER. I shall follow your counsel most scrupulously. BRUM. There, sir, never let me see you again in those gloves! These, sir, [_showing his_] are the only gloves for a gentleman. Pray leave me--I can't bear the sight of them. Meantime, tell your betrothed that I shall do everything in my power to secure your unhappiness. I have already spoken to Lord Ballarat about you. I told him you were the laziest fellow and the best dresser in the town--in fact, cut out by nature to serve the government. Good-bye--I shall ask you to dine with me some of these days--but not yet awhile--you must work up to that. And now, Fotherby, to show you how deep an interest I take in your welfare, you shall give me your arm to the ramparts. [_Exeunt._ ACT II, SCENE III CHARACTERS: Brummell; Isidore; Fotherby; Nurse; another Old Woman; Landlord; Waiter. SCENE: Brummell's lodgings in a miserable apartment house at Caen, France. Eight years have elapsed. With no means of livelihood and pursued by creditors, Brummell is now reduced to abject poverty, broken health, and a deranged mind. He is thrown among people of low rank and is subjected to many indignities; but to the last he clings to his fastidious tastes and is a gentleman among imaginary aristocrats. OLD NURSE. _in high Norman cap, discovered seated in arm chair, mending stockings; another_ WOMAN _near her._ NURSE. Yes, my dear, clean out of his mind--that's what he's gone. OLD WOMAN. Deary me! NURSE. Aye, and there be folks as says he was once as neat and tidy as a new sixpence. Now he's as dirty as a George the First halfpenny! OLD W. Deary me! NURSE. Aye, child, and he knew lords and dooks--and such like--now it's anybody as'll give him a dinner. It's time they did something with him--for put up with his going's on any longer, I cannot! A nuss's is a horrid life, ain't it, child? OLD W. 'Orrid--deary me! So this very afternoon that's comin', he's to go? NURSE. Aye, child--the landlord's goin' to offer to take him for a walk, which'll please him--and then take him off to see if the nuns'll have charity upon him--if not, there's nothing but the street. He wouldn't go if he know'd it--still he hasn't a copper coin--he's as cunning as any fox. Have a little drop of somethin' comfortable, child! OLD W. Deary me!--at this time of day--but I do feel a sinking! NURSE. It'll do you a world of good. [_Getting bottle_--_a knock._] Lawk! what an awkward hour for people to call! [_Knock again._] OLD W. Deary me! Perhaps it's Mr. Brummell. NURSE. Not it! It's more than he dare do, to knock twice like that. It's his old man-servant, come to take off that there dirty screen. [_Opens door._] _Enter_ BRUMMELL--_muddy_--_supported by_ ISIDORE BRUM. Isidore, give me my dressing gown! ISID. Dressing gown! that's good--why I never put my own on nowadays! BRUM. [_talking to himself_]. That screen mustn't go--nor the duchess's armchair. [_Turning to_ NURSE.] Mind that, nurse, whatever happens to me, this chair and the screen remain. Ha! ha! what would Ballarat say, if---- NURSE. There, never mind them folks. Pull your coat off, and put your dressing gown on, do! BRUM. Dear me! I hope the ices will be better--the punch I've seen to! The duchess shall sit here. NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. That's how he goes on nearly every day. The high folks he knew have turned his head. Sometimes he makes one of the waiters announce a lot of folks, as never come, while he, like an old fool, bows to nobody, and hands nothing to that old chair. OLD W. What work it must give you. NURSE [_to_ BRUMMELL]. There, take that muddy coat off, nobody's coming to-day. BRUM. Leave the room and see that everything is ready. NURSE. Drat it. [_Rings the bell._] I must have the waiter up. He'll soon manage him. BRUM. [_rising, totters forward, and arranges his shabby dress_]. Well, now I'm ready! Hark! I think I hear the first carriage. Sir Harry, no doubt. _Enter_ WAITER NURSE. Just see to this old man--make him change his coat, for I can't. WAITER. Well, this is the last of it. Master says he may sleep in the streets, but he doesn't stay here another night if he knows it. They won't have him at the asylum without money, and he hasn't a rap. NURSE. Nor a stick; for there's little enough left to pay my poor wages. WAITER [_to_ BRUMMELL]. Come, off with the coat! BRUM. My good fellow, leave it me to-night. I've a few friends coming. Hush! there's the first arrival. Pray, my good sir, see to my guests. WAITER. Well, let's humor the old blade once more--he'll be in the streets to-morrow. NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. Just notice this tomfoolery, child. OLD W. Deary me! it almost frightens me. See how pleased he is. WAITER. Sir Harry Gill! BRUM. [_advancing ceremoniously, and holding out his hand, and coming down, as though talking to somebody at his side_]. My dear Harry, I'm delighted to see you. Were you at the opera last night? NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. Did you ever hear the like of it? WAITER. Here goes again! [_Goes as before to door, and throws it open._] Lord Ballarat! BRUM. [_advancing as before, and receiving imaginary visitor_]. My good fellow, I'm sorry I missed you at the club the other night; but I went into the duchess's box, and---- WAITER. I must stop this. The duchess always comes last, and then he's satisfied. [_Throwing open the door, and calling pompously._] Her Highness the Duchess of Canterbury. BRUM. [_totters to door, bowing very profoundly, and handing the imaginary duchess to his armchair--leans over the chair, and bows frequently as he talks_]. Your highness is too good! This is indeed an honor. Permit me the satisfaction of handing you to your seat. And is the duke well? And little Nutmeg--is his ear better? Poor little fellow! I hope you will allow me to give him a charming little collar I have for him. WAITER. There, that'll do! [_To_ BRUMMELL.] Come, now, they're all gone--take your coat off. BRUM. [_starting, and falling into chair_]. Yes, gone--gone--true--they're gone! [WAITER _helps him to take his coat off._] Give me my cap! [NURSE _puts his old velvet cap on._] WAITER. [_going_]. Call me up again, nurse, if he won't mind you. Do you hear what I say, Mr. Brummell? BRUM. Yes--yes--I'll be very good, nurse--I'll be very good. WAITER. Well, it will be a lucky day when we get rid of this business! [_Exit._ OLD W. But think of the poor creature turned into the streets! He'd die upon the nighest door-step! NURSE. Can't be helped--out he goes to-night and no mistake! I'll nuss him no longer--and the landlord wants the room. The men are comin' to whitewash it at sunrise to-morrow. OLD W. Deary me! Well--good-day! NURSE. Good-day, child. You'll find me at home to-morrow. Good-bye! [_Exit_ OLD WOMAN. BRUM. [_tottering to an old bureau, sits before it_]. Dinner at four. Nurse, nurse! my glass and razors--come! NURSE. Drat the old man! [_Gives him glass, etc._] _Enter_ LANDLORD, _followed by_ WAITER Now he's completely done up! BRUM. [_politely to_ LANDLORD]. Good morning, monsieur, delighted to see---- LANDLORD. Hang your compliments--I want no more of them. BRUM. My good sir, you surprise me! LAND. [_to_ WAITER]. Get his rubbish together--for out he goes, and no mistake. [_To_ BRUMMELL.] Now, Mr. Brummell, can you pay me--or can't you--or won't you? BRUM. Dear, dear me! We'll talk about it. LAND. No, we won't. I'll have it--or out you bundle this minute. BRUM. [_rising_]. Sir, I am a gentleman--a poor one, it is true; and this hand, fleshless as it is--is strong enough to chastise a man who forgets it! [BRUMMELL _falls back in chair exhausted._] LAND. [_to_ WAITER]. Now for it--out with him! [LANDLORD _and_ WAITER _rush forward, and are about to seize_ BRUMMELL.] _Enter_ FOTHERBY FOTHER. [_pushing back_ LANDLORD _and_ WAITER]. Put your hands on the old man at your peril. LAND. Do you know that you are in my house, sir?--stand back! FOTHER. Do you know that you are in my rooms, sir? [_Throws paper to him_.] I think you will find that regular. Leave the room. NURSE [_aside_]. Wonders'll never cease. But the old fool'll spile all again--you'll see. LAND. [_aside to Waiter_]. He's paid missus the rent--there's luck! [_Exit_. WAITER. A pretty bit of business I've done for myself. Not a sou for the waiter, I'll bet. [_Exit_. FOTHER. [_advancing to_ BRUMMELL]. My dear Mr. Brummell. BRUM. Really, you have the advantage of me. FOTHER. You surely remember me, Mr. Brummell. [_To_ NURSE.] The good sisters will take care of him for the rest of his days. I must take him to them. Is he always so, my good woman? NURSE. Poor dear, good, kind old gentleman, not allays. He takes on so at times. BRUM. Don't know you in the least. [_Imagines he sees Ballarat_.] Ballarat! dear old boy! Tut! tut! Ballarat! Well, this is kind. But I can't be seen in this state. FOTHER. No. Here you are among friends, my good sir. [_Leading him out_.] This way, Mr. Brummell, I come from Lord Ballarat. BRUM. Well--be it so. Ballarat--mind--when you return to England let them know that, even in this squalor--to his last hour in the world--Brummell--poor Brummell was a gentleman still. I am ready--I am ready. [_Exit_ FOTHERBY, _leading_ BRUMMELL, _the_ NURSE _following_. THE SET OF TURQUOISE THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ACT I, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Count of Lara, a poor nobleman; Beatrice, his wife Miriam, a maid, who personates a page. SCENE: Count of Lara's villa. A balcony overlooking the garden. LARA. The third moon of our marriage, Beatrice! It hangs in the still twilight, large and full, Like a ripe orange. BEATRICE. Like an orange? yes, But not so red, Count. Then it has no stem. Now, as 'tis hidden by those drifts of cloud, With one thin edge just glimmering through the dark, 'Tis like some strange, rich jewel of the east, In the cleft side of a mountain. And that reminds me--speaking of jewels--love, There is a set of turquoise at Malan's, Ear-drops and bracelets and a necklace--ah! If they were mine. LARA. And so they should be, dear, Were I Aladdin, and had slaves o' the lamp To fetch me ingots. Why, then, Beatrice, All Persia's turquoise-quarries should be yours, Although your hand is heavy now with gems That tear my lips when I would kiss its whiteness. Oh! so you pout! Why make that full-blown rose Into a bud again? BEATRICE. You love me not. LARA. A coquette's song. BEATRICE. I sing it. LARA. A poor song. BEATRICE. You love me not, or love me over-much, Which makes you jealous of the gems I wear! You do not deck me as becomes our state, For fear my grandeur should besiege the eyes Of Monte, Clari, Marcus, and the rest-- A precious set! You're jealous, sir! LARA. Not I. I love you. BEATRICE. Why, that is as easy said As any three short words; takes no more breath To say, "I hate you." What, sir, have I lived Three times four weeks your wedded loyal wife, And do not know your follies? I will wager (If I could trap his countship into this!) The rarest kisses I know how to give Against the turquoise, that within a month You'll grow so jealous--and without a cause, Or with a reason thin as window glass-- That you will ache to kill me! LARA. Will you so? And I--let us clasp hands and kiss on it. BEATRICE. Clasp hands, Sir Trustful; but not kiss--nay, nay! I will not pay my forfeit till I lose. LARA. And I'll not lose the forfeit. BEATRICE. We shall see. [_Exit_ BEATRICE. LARA. She has as many fancies as the wind Which now, like slumber, lies 'mong spicy isles, Then suddenly blows white furrows in the sea! Lovely and dangerous is my leopardess. To-day, low-lying at my feet; to-morrow, With great eyes flashing, threatening doleful death-- With strokes like velvet! She's no common clay, But fire and dew and marble. I'll not throw So rare a wonder in the lap o' the world! Jealous? I am not jealous--though they say Some sorts of love breed jealousy. And yet, I would I had not wagered; it implies Doubt. If I doubted? Pshaw! I'll walk awhile And let the cool air fan me. 'Twas not wise. 'Tis only Folly with its cap and bells Can jest with sad things. She seemed earnest, too. What if, to pique me, she should overstep The pale of modesty, and give bold eyes (I could not bear that, nay, not even that!) To Marc or Claudian? Why, such things have been And no sin dreamed of. I will watch her close. There, now, I wrong her. Yet if she, To win the turquoise of me, if she should-- O cursèd jewels! Would that they were hung About the glistening neck of some mermaid A thousand fathoms underneath the sea! [A PAGE _crosses the garden_. That page again! 'Tis twice within the week The supple-waisted, pretty-ankled knave Has crossed my garden at this self-same hour, Trolling a canzonetta with an air As if he owned the villa. Why, the fop! He might have doffed his bonnet as he passed. I'll teach him better if he comes again. What does he at the villa? O! perchance He comes in the evening when his master's out, To lisp soft romance in the ready ear Of Beatrice's dressing-maid; but then She has one lover. Now I think she's two: This gaudy popinjay would make the third, And that's too many for an honest girl! I'll ask the Countess--no, I'll not do that; She'd laugh at me; and vow by the Madonna This varlet was some noble in disguise, Seeking her favor. Then I'd let the light Of heaven through his doublet--I would--yes, That is, I would, were I a jealous man: But then I'm not. When he comes out again I'll stop him, question him, and know the truth. I cannot sit in the garden of a night But he glides by me in his jaunty dress, Like a fantastic phantom!--never looks To the right nor left, but passes gayly on, As if I were a statue. Soft, he comes! I'll make him speak, or kill him; then, indeed, It were unreasonable to ask it. Soh! I'll speak him gently at the first, and then-- _The_ PAGE _enters by a gate in the villa-garden, and walks past the_ COUNT. Ho! pretty page, who owns you? PAGE. No one now. Once Signor Juan, but I am his no more. LARA. What, then, you stole from him? PAGE. O! no, sir, no. He had so many intrigues on his hands, There was no sleep for me nor night nor day. Such carrying of love-favors and pink notes! He's gone abroad now, to break other hearts And so I left him. LARA. A frank knave. PAGE. To-night I've done his latest bidding-- LARA. As you should-- PAGE. A duty wed with pleasure--'twas to take A message to a countess all forlorn, In yonder villa. LARA. [_aside_]. Why! that villa's mine! A message to a countess all forlorn? In yonder villa? PAGE. Ay, sir. You can see The portico among the mulberries, Just to the left, there. LARA. Ay, I see, I see. A pretty villa. And the lady's name? PAGE. The lady's name, sir? LARA. Ay, the lady's name. PAGE. O! that's a secret which I cannot tell. LARA. No? but you shall, though, or I'll strangle you! In my strong hands your slender neck would snap Like a fragile pipe-stem. PAGE. You are choking me! O! loose your grasp, sir! LARA. Then the name! the name! PAGE. Countess of Lara. LARA. Not her dressing-maid? PAGE. No, no, I said the mistress, not the maid. LARA. And then you lied. I never saw two eyes So wide and frank but they'd a pliant tongue To shape a lie for them. Say you are false! Tell me you lie, and I will make you rich, I'll stuff your cap with ducats twice a year. PAGE. Well, then--I lie. LARA. Ay, now you lie, indeed! I see it in the cunning of your eyes; Night cannot hide the Satan leering there. Only a little lingering fear of heaven Holds me from dirking you between the ribs! PAGE. What would you have? I will say nothing, then. LARA. Say everything, and end it! Here is gold. You brought a billet to the Countess--well? What said the billet? PAGE. Take away your hand. And, by St. Mary, I will tell you all. There, now, I breathe. You will not harm me, sir? Stand six yards off, or I will not a word. It seems the Countess promised Signor Juan A set of turquoise-- LARA. Turquoise? Ha! that's well. PAGE. Just so--wherewith my master was to pay Some gaming debts; but yester-night the cards Tumbled a golden mountain at his feet; And ere he sailed, this morning, Signor Juan Gave me a perfumed, amber-tinted note, For Countess Lara, which, with some adieus, Craved her remembrance morning, noon, and night; Her prayers while gone, her smiles when he returned; Then told his sudden fortune with the cards, And bade her keep the jewels. That is all. LARA. All? Is that all? 'T has only cracked my heart! A heart, I know, of little, little worth-- An ill-cut ruby, scarred and scratched before, But now quite broken! I have no heart, then; Men should not have, when they are wronged like this. Out of my sight, thou demon of bad news! [_Exit_ LARA. PAGE. I did not think 't would work on him like that. How pale he grew! Alack! I fear some ill Will come of this. I'll to the Countess now, And warn her of his madness. [_Exit_ PAGE. ACT I, SCENE II SCENE: Beatrice's chamber. Beatrice sits on a fauteuil in the attitude of listening. BEATRICE. Hist! that's his step. Miriam, place the lights Farther away; keep you behind the screen, Breathing no louder than a lily does; For if you stir or laugh 'twill ruin all. MIRIAM. Laugh! I am faint with terror. BEATRICE. Then be still. Move not for worlds until I touch the bell, Then do the thing I told you. Hush! his step Sounds in the corridor, and I'm asleep! LARA _enters. He approaches within a few yards of_ BEATRICE, _pauses, and looks at her._ LARA. Asleep!--and guilt can slumber! Guilt can lie Down-lidded and soft-breathed like innocence! Hath dreams as sweet as childhood's--who can tell? Were I an artist, and did wish to paint A devil to perfection, I'd not limn A hornèd monster, with a leprous skin, Red-hot from Pandemonium--not I. But with my delicatest tints, I'd paint A woman in the glamour of her youth, All garmented with loveliness and mystery! How fair she is! Her beauty glides between Me and my purpose, like a pleading angel. [BEATRICE _sighs_. Her dream's broke, like a bubble, in a sigh. She'll waken soon, and that--that must not be! I could not kill her if she looked at me. I loved her, loved her, by the saints, I did-- I trust she prayed before she fell asleep! BEATRICE [_springing up_]. So, you are come--your dagger in your hand? Your lips compressed and blanchèd, and your hair Tumbled wildly all about your eyes, Like a river-god's? O love, you frighten me! And you are trembling. Tell me what this means. LARA. Oh! nothing, nothing--I did think to write A note to Juan, to Signor Juan, my friend (Your cousin and my honorable friend); But finding neither ink nor paper here, I thought to scratch it with my dagger's point Upon your bosom, Madam! That is all. BEATRICE. You've lost your senses! LARA. Madam, no, I've found 'em! BEATRICE. Then lose them quickly, and be what you were. LARA. I was a fool, a dupe--a happy dupe. You should have kept me in my ignorance; For wisdom makes us wretched, king and clown. Countess of Lara, you are false to me! BEATRICE. Now, by the saints-- LARA. Now, by the saints, you are! BEATRICE. Upon my honor-- LARA. On your honor? fie! Swear by the ocean's feathery froth, for that Is not so light a substance. BEATRICE. Hear me, love! LARA. Lie to that marble Io! I am sick To the heart with lying. BEATRICE. You've the ear-ache, sir, Got with too much believing. LARA. Beatrice, I came to kill you. BEATRICE. Kiss me, Count, you mean! LARA. If killing you be kissing you, why yes. BEATRICE. Ho! come not near me with such threatening looks, Stand back there, if you love me, or have loved! [_As_ LARA _advances_, BEATRICE _retreats to the table and rings a small hand-bell._ MIRIAM, _in the dress of a page, enters from behind the screen and steps between them_. LARA [_starting back_]. The Page? now, curse him! What? no! Miriam? Hold! 'twas at twilight, in the villa-garden, At dusk, too, on the road to Mantua; But here the light falls on you, man or maid! Stop now; my brain's bewildered. Stand you there, And let me touch you with incredulous hands! Wait till I come, nor vanish like a ghost. If this be Juan's page, why, where is Miriam? If this be Miriam, where's--by all the saints, I have been tricked! MIRIAM [_laughing_]. By two saints, with your leave! LARA. The happiest fool in Italy, for my age! And all the damning tales you fed me with, You Sprite of Twilight, Imp of the old Moon!-- MIRIAM [_bowing_]. Were arrant lies as ever woman told; And though not mine, I claim the price for them-- This cap stuffed full of ducats twice a year! LARA. A trap! a trap that only caught a fool! So thin a plot, I might have seen through it. I've lost my reason! MIRIAM. And your ducats! BEATRICE. And A certain set of turquoise at Malan's! SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER OLIVER GOLDSMITH ACT II, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Hardcastle, hospitable and urbane, with a touch of humor in his nature; Marlow and Hastings who come from London to visit the Hardcastles; servants. SCENE: Hardcastle's house. Young Marlow and Hastings have journeyed from London to the home of Mr. Hardcastle, an old family friend whom they have never seen. They are deceived into believing they are many miles from their destination when they really have arrived. They are told that Mr. Hardcastle's house is a public inn. This leads to much confusion. The genial Hardcastle is drilling his servants. _Enter_ HARDCASTLE, _followed by_ DIGGORY _and three or four awkward_ SERVANTS MR. H. Well, I hope you're perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to good company, without stirring from home? ALL. Ay! ay! MR. H. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frightened rabbits in a warren. ALL. No! no! MR. H. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at the side table; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead you! See how Diggory carries his hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. DIGGORY. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill---- MR. H. You must not be so talkative, Diggory; you must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see us eat, and not think of eating. DIG. By the laws, your worship, that's perfectly unpossible. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ SERVANTS, _showing in_ MARLOW _and_ HASTINGS SERV. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome. This way. HAST. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room, and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking house; antique, but creditable. MAR. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. HAST. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good side-board, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame the bill confoundedly. MAR. Travelers, George, must pay in all places. The only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad inns you are fleeced and starved. _Enter_ HARDCASTLE MR. H. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of. MAR. [_aside_]. He has got our names from the servants already. [_To_ HARDCASTLE.] We approve your caution and hospitality. [_To_ HASTINGS.] I have been thinking, George, of changing our traveling dresses in the morning, I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. MR. H. [_putting chairs and tables in order in background_]. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house. HAST. I fancy, George, you're right; the first blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold. MR. H. Mr. Marlow--Mr. Hastings--gentlemen--pray be under no restraint in this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please here. MAR. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to secure a retreat. MR. H. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when he went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrison-- MAR. Aye, and we'll summon your garrison, old boy. MR. H. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men-- HAST. What a strange fellow is this! MR. H. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men-- MAR. Well, but suppose-- MR. H. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him--you must have heard of George Brooks--I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So-- MAR. What, my good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the meantime, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigor. MR. H. Punch, sir? MAR. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liberty Hall, you know. MR. H. Here's a cup, sir. MAR. [_aside_]. So this fellow, in his Liberty Hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. MR. H. I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. [_Drinks_.] MAR. [_aside_]. A very impudent fellow, this! but he's a character, and I'll humor him a little. [_Aloud_.] Sir, my service to you. [_Drinks_.] HAST. [_aside_]. I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he's an inn-keeper before he has learned to be a gentleman. MAR. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and then, at elections, I suppose? MR. H. No, sir; I have long given that work over. HAST. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find? MR. H. Why, no, sir; there was a time, indeed, when I fretted myself about the mistakes of government, like other people; but finding myself every day grow more angry, and the government no better, I left it to mend itself. Sir, my service to you. [_Drinks._] HAST. So that, with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with receiving your friends within, amusing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, bustling life of it. MR. H. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlor. MAR. And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster Hall. MR. H. Aye, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. MAR. [_aside_]. Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an inn-keeper's philosophy. HAST. So, then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable you attack it with your philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher. MR. H. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. MAR. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it's almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper? MR. H. For supper, sir? Was ever such a request made to a man in his own house? MAR. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you. MR. H. Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. Why, really, sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them. MAR. You do, do you? MR. H. Entirely. By-the-bye, I believe they are in actual consultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen. MAR. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy council. It's a way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offense, I hope, sir. MR. H. O, no, sir, none in the least; yet I don't know how; our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we send for her she might scold us all out of the house. HAST. Let's see the list of the larder, then. I ask it as a favor. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare. MAR. Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too. MR. H. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper--I believe it's drawn out. Your manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Gunthorp. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it. _Enter_ ROGER, _with a bill of fare_ HAST. [_aside_]. All upon the high ropes! His uncle a colonel--we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the bill of fare. [_Exit_ ROGER. MAR. What's here? For the first course, for the second course, for the dessert! The devil, sir! do you think we have brought down the whole joiner's company, or the corporation of Bedford? two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do. HAST. But let's hear it. MAR. "For the first course at the top, a pig's face and prune sauce." HAST. Out with your pig, I say. MAR. Out with your prune sauce, say I. MR. H. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig, with prune sauce, is very good eating. But, gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen? MAR. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and luggage properly taken care of. MR. H. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step. MAR. Leave that to you? I protest, sir. You must excuse me, I always look to these things myself. MR. H. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head. MAR. You see I'm resolved on it. [_Aside_.] A very troublesome fellow this as ever I met with. MR. H. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you. [_Exeunt_ MARLOW _and_ HASTINGS. [_Aside_.] This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned impudence. What could my old friend Sir Charles Marlow mean by recommending his son as the modestest young man in town! To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue! [_Exit_ HARDCASTLE. PYGMALION AND GALATEA W. S. GILBERT ACT I, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Pygmalion, an Athenian sculptor; Cynisca, his wife; Galatea, an animated statue. SCENE: Pygmalion's studio; several classical statues are placed about the room; at the back a cabinet containing a statue of Galatea, before which curtains are drawn concealing the statue. PYG. It all but breathes--therefore it talks aloud! It all but moves--therefore it walks and runs! It all but lives, and therefore it is life! No, no, my love, the thing is cold, dull stone, Shaped to a certain form, but still dull stone, The lifeless, senseless mockery of life. The gods make life, I can make only death! Why, my Cynisca, though I stand so well, The merest cut-throat, when he plies his trade, Makes better death than I with all my skill! CYN. Hush, my Pygmalion! the gods are good, And they have made thee nearer unto them Than other men; this is ingratitude! PYG. Not so; has not a monarch's second son More cause for anger that he lacks a throne Than he whose lot is cast in slavery? CYN. Not much more cause, perhaps, but more excuse. Now I must go. PYG. So soon, and for so long? CYN. One day, 'twill quickly pass away! PYG. With those who measure time, by almanacs, no doubt, But not with him who knows no days save those Born of the sunlight of Cynisca's eyes; It will be night with me till she returns. CYN. Then sleep it through, Pygmalion! But stay, Thou shalt not pass the weary hours alone; Now mark thou this--while I'm away from thee, There stands my only representative; [_Withdrawing curtains._ She is my proxy, and I charge you, sir, Be faithful unto her as unto me! Into her quietly attentive ear Pour all thy treasures of hyperbole, And give thy nimble tongue full license, lest Disuse should rust its glib machinery; [_Advancing._ If thoughts of love should haply crowd on thee, There stands my other self, tell them to her, She'll listen well; nay, that's ungenerous, For she is I, yet lovelier than I, And hath no temper, sir, and hath no tongue; Thou hast thy license--make good use of it. Already I'm half jealous--there! [_Draws curtain concealing statue._ It's gone. The thing is but a statue after all, And I am safe in leaving thee with her; Farewell, Pygmalion, till I return. [_Exit._ PYG. "The thing is but a statue after all!" Cynisca little thought that in those words She touched the key-note of my discontent. True, I have powers denied to other men; Give me a block of senseless marble--Well, I'm a magician, and it rests with me To say what kernel lies within its shell; It shall contain a man, a woman, a child, A dozen men and women if I will. So far the gods and I run neck and neck, Nay, so far I can beat them at their trade; I am no bungler--all the men I make Are straight limbed fellows, each magnificent In the perfection of his manly grace; I make no crook-backs; all my men are gods, My women, goddesses, in outward form. But there's my tether--I can go so far, And go no farther--at that point I stop, To curse the bonds that hold me sternly back. To curse the arrogance of those proud gods, Who say, "Thou shalt be greatest among men, And yet infinitesimally small!" GALATEA [_from behind curtain_]. Pygmalion! PYG. Who called? GAL. Pygmalion! [PYGMALION _tears away curtain and, discovers_ GALATEA _alive_. PYG. Ye gods! It lives! GAL. Pygmalion! PYG. It speaks! I have my prayer! my Galatea breathes! GAL. Where am I? Let me speak, Pygmalion; Give me thy hand--both hands--how soft and warm! Whence came I? [_Descends._ PYG. Why, from yonder pedestal. GAL. That pedestal! Ah, yes, I recollect. There was a time when it was part of me. PYG. That time has passed forever, thou art now A living, breathing woman, excellent In every attribute of womankind. GAL. Where am I, then? PYG. Why, born into the world By miracle. GAL. Is this the world? PYG. It is. GAL. This room? PYG. This room is portion of a house; The house stands in a grove, the grove itself Is one of many, many thousand groves In Athens. GAL. And is Athens then the world? PYG. To an Athenian--Yes-- GAL. And I am one? PYG. By birth and parentage, not by descent. GAL. But how came I to be? PYG. Well--let me see. Oh--you were quarried in Pentelicus; I modeled you in clay--my artisans Then roughed you out in marble--I, in turn, Brought my artistic skill to bear on you, And made you what you are--in all but life-- The gods completed what I had begun, And gave the only gift I could not give. GAL. Then is this life? PYG. It is. GAL. And not long since I was a cold, dull stone. I recollect That by some means I knew that I was stone, That was the first dull gleam of conscience; I became conscious of a chilly self, A cold immovable identity, I knew that I was stone, and knew no more; Then, by an imperceptible advance, Came the dim evidence of outer things, Seen--darkly and imperfectly--yet seen-- The walls surrounded me, and I, alone, That pedestal--that curtain--then a voice That called on Galatea! At that word, Which seemed to shake my marble to the core, That which was dim before, came evident. Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct, Vague, meaningless--seemed to resolve themselves Into a language I could understand; I felt my frame pervaded with a glow That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh; Its cold hard substance throbbed with active life, My limbs grew supple, and I moved--I lived! Lived in the ecstasy of new born life; Lived in the love of him that fashioned me; Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope, Love, gratitude, thoughts that resolved themselves Into one word, that word, Pygmalion! [_Kneels._ PYG. I have no words to tell thee of my joy, O woman--perfect in thy loveliness. GAL. What is that word? Am I a woman? PYG. Yes. GAL. Art thou a woman? PYG. No, I am a man. GAL. What is a man? PYG. A being strongly framed, To wait on woman, and protect her from All ills that strength and courage can avert; To work and toil for her, that she may rest; To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh; To fight and die for her, that she might live! GAL. I'm glad I am a woman. [_He leads her down._ PYG. So am I. GAL. That I escape the pains thou hast to bear? PYG. That I may undergo those pains for thee. GAL. With whom then wouldst thou fight? PYG. With any man Whose word or deed gave Galatea pain. GAL. Then there are other men in this strange world? PYG. There are indeed. GAL. And other women? PYG. Yes; Though for the moment I'd forgotten it; Yes, other women. GAL. And for all of these Men work, and toil, and mourn, and weep and fight? PYG. It is man's duty, if he's called upon, To fight for all; he works for those he loves. GAL. Then by thy works I know thou lovest me. PYG. Indeed, I love thee! GAL. With what kind of love? PYG. I love thee as a sculptor does his work! [_Aside._] There is diplomacy in that reply. GAL. My love is different in kind to thine; I am no sculptor, and I've done no work, Yet I do love thee; say--what love is mine? PYG. Tell me its symptoms--then I'll answer thee. GAL. Its symptoms? Let me call them as they come. A sense that I am made by thee for thee, That I've no will that is not wholly thine, That I've no thought, no hope, no enterprise, That does not own thee as its sovereign; That I have life, that I may live for thee, That I am thine--that thou and I are one! What kind of love is that? PYG. A kind of love That I shall run some risk in dealing with. GAL. And why, Pygmalion? PYG. Such love as thine A man may not receive, except indeed From one who is, or is to be, his wife. GAL. Then I will be thy wife. PYG. That may not be; I have a wife--the gods allow but one. GAL. Why did the gods then send me here to thee? PYG. I cannot say--unless to punish me For unreflecting and presumptuous prayer! I prayed that thou shouldst live. I have my prayer, And now I see the fearful consequence That must attend it! GAL. Yet thou lovest me? PYG. Who could look on that face and stifle love? GAL. Then I am beautiful? PYG. Indeed thou art. GAL. I wish that I could look upon myself, But that's impossible. PYG. Not so indeed, This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold! GAL. How beautiful! I am very glad to know That both our tastes agree so perfectly; Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think That aught could be more beautiful than thou, Till I behold myself. Believe me, love, I could look in this mirror all day long. So I'm a woman. PYG. There's no doubt of that! GAL. Oh happy maid to be so passing fair! And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze, At will, upon so beautiful a face. PYG. Hush! Galatea--in thine innocence Thou sayest things that others would reprove. GAL. Indeed, Pygmalion; then it is wrong To think that one is exquisitely fair? PYG. Well, Galatea, it's a sentiment That every woman shares with thee; They think it--but they keep it to themselves. GAL. And is thy wife as beautiful as I? PYG. No, Galatea, for in forming thee I took her features--lovely in themselves-- And in the marble made them lovelier still. GAL. Oh! then I'm not original? PYG. Well--no-- That is--thou hast indeed a prototype, But though in stone thou didst resemble her, In life, the difference is manifest. GAL. I'm very glad that I am lovelier than she. And am I better? PYG. That I do not know. GAL. Then she has faults. PYG. Very few indeed; Mere trivial blemishes, that serve to show That she and I are of one common kin. I love her all the better for such faults. GAL. Tell me some faults and I'll commit them now. PYG. There is no hurry; they will come in time; Though for that matter, it's a grievous sin To sit as lovingly as we sit now. GAL. Is sin so pleasant? If to sit and talk As we are sitting, be indeed a sin, Why I could sin all day. But tell me, love, Is this great fault that I'm committing now The kind of fault that only serves to show That thou and I are of one common kin? PYG. Indeed, I'm very much afraid it is. GAL. And dost thou love me better for such fault? PYG. Where is the mortal that could answer "no"? GAL. Why, then I'm satisfied, Pygmalion; Thy wife and I can start on equal terms. She loves thee? PYG. Very much. GAL. I'm glad of that. I like thy wife. PYG. And why? GAL. Our tastes agree. We love Pygmalion well, and what is more, Pygmalion loves us both. I like thy wife; I'm sure we shall agree. PYG. [_aside._] I doubt it much. GAL. Is she within? PYG. No, she is not within. GAL. But she'll come back? PYG. Oh, yes, she will come back. GAL. How pleased she'll be to know when she returns, That there was some one here to fill her place. PYG. Yes, I should say she'd be extremely pleased. GAL. Why, there is something in thy voice which says That thou art jesting. Is it possible To say one thing and mean another? PYG. Yes, It's sometimes done. GAL. How very wonderful! So clever! PYG. And so very useful. GAL. Yes. Teach me the art. PYG. The art will come in time. My wife will not be pleased; there--that's the truth. GAL. I do not think that I shall like thy wife. Tell me more of her. PYG. Well-- GAL. What did she say When last she left thee? PYG. Humph! Well, let me see; Oh! true, she gave thee to me as my wife,-- Her solitary representative; She feared I should be lonely till she came. And counseled me, if thoughts of love should come, To speak those thoughts to thee, as I am wont To speak to her. GAL. That's right. PYG. But when she spoke Thou wast a stone, now thou art flesh and blood, Which makes a difference. GAL. It's a strange world; A woman loves her husband very much, And cannot brook that I should love him too; She fears he will be lonely till she comes, And will not let me cheer his loneliness; She bids him breathe his love to senseless stone, And when that stone is brought to life--be dumb! It's a strange world, I cannot fathom it. PYG. [_aside_]. Let me be brave and put an end to this. Come Galatea--till my wife returns, My sister shall provide thee with a home; Her house is close at hand. GAL. Send me not hence Pygmalion; let me stay. PYG. It may not be. Come, Galatea, we shall meet again. GAL. Do with me as thou wilt, Pygmalion! But we shall meet again?--and very soon? PYG. Yes, very soon. GAL. And when thy wife returns, She'll let me stay with thee? PYG. I do not know. [_Aside_]. Why should I hide the truth from her [_aloud_] alas! I may not see thee then. GAL. Pygmalion! What fearful words are these? PYG. The bitter truth. I may not love thee; I must send thee hence. GAL. Recall those words, Pygmalion, my love! Was it for this that heaven gave me life? Pygmalion, have mercy on me; see, I am thy work, thou hast created me; The gods have sent me to thee. I am thine! Thine! only, and unalterably thine! This is the thought with which my soul is charged. Thou tellest me of one who claims thy love, That thou hast love for her alone. Alas! I do not know these things; I only know That heaven has sent me here to be with thee. Thou tellest me of duty to thy wife, Of vows that thou wilt love but her. Alas! I do not know these things; I only know That heaven, who sent me here, has given me One all absorbing duty to discharge-- To love thee, and to make thee love again. [PYGMALION _takes her in his arms, and embraces her passionately._] ACT III, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Pygmalion; Myrine, his sister; Cynisca, his wife; Galatea. SCENE: Pygmalion's studio. _Enter_ MYRINE MYR. Pygmalion's heard that he must lose his wife, And swears, by all the gods that reign above, He will not live if she deserts him now! What--what is to be done? _Enter_ GALATEA GAL. Myrine here! Where is Pygmalion? MYR. Oh, wretched girl! Art thou not satisfied with all the ill Thy heedlessness has worked, that thou art come To gaze upon thy victim's misery? Well, thou hast come in time! GAL. What dost thou mean? MYR. Why, this is what I mean; he will not live, Now that Cynisca has deserted him. O, girl, his blood will be upon thy head! GAL. Pygmalion will not live! Pygmalion die! And I, alas, the miserable cause! Oh, what is to be done? MYR. I do not know. And yet there is one chance, but one alone; I'll see Cynisca, and prevail on her To meet Pygmalion but once again. GAL. But should she come too late? He may not live Till she returns. MYR. I'll send him now to thee, And tell him that his wife awaits him here. He'll take thee for Cynisca; when he speaks Answer thou him as if thou wast his wife. GAL. Yes, yes, I understand. MYR. Then I'll be gone. The gods assist thee in this artifice! [_Exit_ MYRINE. GAL. The gods will help me, for the gods are good. [_Kneels._] Oh, heaven, in this great grief I turn to thee, Teach me to speak to him, as, ere I lived, Cynisca spake to him. Oh, let my voice Be to Pygmalion as Cynisca's voice, And he will live--for her and not for me-- Yet he will live. I am the fountain head _Enter_ PYGMALION, _unobserved, led in by_ MYRINE Of all the horrors that surround him now, And it is fit that I should suffer this; Grant this, my first appeal--I do not ask Pygmalion's love; I ask Pygmalion's life. [PYGMALION _utters an exclamation of joy. She rushes to him and seizes his hand_. Pygmalion! PYG. I have no words in which To tell the joy with which I heard that prayer. Oh, take me to thine arms, my dearly loved! And teach me once again how much I risked In risking such a heaven-sent love as thine. GAL. [_believing that he refers to her_]. Pygmalion! my love! Pygmalion! Once more those words! again! say them again! Tell me that thou forgivest me the ill That I unwittingly have worked on thee! PYG. Forgive thee? Why, my wife, I did not dare To ask thy pardon, and thou askest mine. The compact with thy mistress, Artemis, Gave thee a heaven-sent right to punish me. I've learnt to take whate'er the gods may send. [GALATEA, _at first delighted, learns in the course of this speech that_ PYGMALION _takes her for_ CYNISCA, _and expresses extreme horror_. GAL. [_with an effort_]. But then, this woman, Galatea-- PYG. Well? GAL. Thy love for her is dead? PYG. I had no love. A miracle Did crown my handiwork, and brought to life The fair creation of my sculptor's skill, I yielded to her god-sent influence, For I had worshiped her before she lived Because she called Cynisca's face to me; But when she lived--that love died--word by word. GAL. That is well said; thou dost not love her then? She is no more to thee than senseless stone? PYG. Speak not of her, Cynisca, for I swear _Enter_ CYNISCA, _unobserved_ The unhewn marble of Pentelicus Hath charms for me, which she, in all her glow Of womanly perfection, could not match. GAL. I'm very glad to hear that this is so. Thou art forgiven! PYG. Thou hast pardoned me, And though the law of Artemis declared Thy pardon should restore to me the light Thine anger took away, I would be blind, I would not have mine eyes lest they should rest On her who caused me all this bitterness! GAL. Indeed, Pygmalion, 'twere better thus; If thou couldst look on Galatea now, Thy love for her, perchance, might come again. PYG. No, no. GAL. They say that she endureth pains That mock the power of words. PYG. It should be so. GAL. Hast thou no pity for her? [CYNISCA _comes down_. PYG. No, not I. The ill that she hath worked on thee, on me, And on Myrine, surely were enough To make us curse the hour that gave her life. She is not fit to live upon this world! GAL. Upon this worthy world, thou sayest well. The woman shall be seen of thee no more. [_Takes_ CYNISCA'S _hand and leads her to_ PYGMALION.] What wouldst thou with her now? Thou hast thy wife! [_She substitutes_ CYNISCA _in her place, and retires, weeping_. CYNISCA _takes him to her arms and kisses him. He recovers his sight_. PYG. Cynisca! see! the light of day is mine! Once more I look upon thy well loved face! _Enter_ GALATEA MYR. Pygmalion! See--Galatea's here! [GALATEA _kneels_. PYG. Away from me, Woman or statue! Thou the only blight That ever fell upon my love--begone, [CYNISCA _comforts her_. For thou hast been the curse of all who fell Within the compass of thy waywardness! CYN. No, no; recall those words, Pygmalion, Thou knowest not all. GAL. Nay, let me go from him; That curse--his curse still ringing in mine ears, For life is bitterer to me than death. [_She mounts the pedestal_. Farewell, Pygmalion, I am not fit To live upon this world--this worthy world. Farewell, Pygmalion. Farewell, farewell! [_The curtains conceal her_. CYN. Thou art unjust to her as I to thee! Hers was the voice that pardoned thee--not mine. I knew no pity till she taught it me. I heard the words she spoke, and little thought That they would find an echo in my heart; But so it was. I took them for mine own, And asking for thy pardon, pardoned thee! PYG. Cynisca! Is this so? CYN. In truth it is. GAL. [_behind curtain_]: Farewell, Pygmalion! Farewell--farewell! [PYGMALION _tears away the curtain, discovering_ GALATEA _as a statue._ INDEX OF AUTHORS Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 478. Angell, James B., 220. Anonymous, 89, 92, 349, 353, 354, 380, 386, 395, 404. Arnold, Edwin, 110. Barham, R. H., 54. Beecher, Henry Ward, 208, 215. Bell, H. G., 431. Beveridge, Albert J., 217. Blaine, James Gillespie, 237. Bossuet, Jacques Bénigne, 169. Bright, John, 218, 222. Brooks, Katherine R., 125. Browning, Robert, 21. Bryan, William Jennings, 231. Bryant, William Cullen, 132. Burke, Edmund, 175, 178, 182. Burns, Robert, 129. Burroughs, John, 53. Byron, Lord, 147. Cable, George W., 77. Campbell, Thomas, 157. Carlyle, Thomas, 156. Castelar, Emilio, 258. Channing, William E., 302. Chatham, William Pitt, Earl of, 171, 173. Chrysostom, Saint-John, 165, 167. Cicero, Marcus Tullius, 162. Cockran, Bourke, 314. Cooke, Edmund Vance, 52. Coolidge, Susan, 42. Corwin, Thomas, 278. Crawford, F. Marion, 139. Curtis, George William, 273, 275. Delano, Myra S., 37. Demosthenes, 159. Dickens, Charles, 15, 103. Dunbar, Paul Laurence, 325, 327, 389. Dunne, Finley Peter, 337. Edwards, Harry Stillwell, 340. Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 148. Everett, Edward, 312. Field, Eugene, 76. Flagg, Edmund, 304. Garfield, James A., 260. Gilbert, W. S., 493. Gillilan, S. W., 137, 343. Gladstone, William E., 222, 255. Goldsmith, Oliver, 486. Grady, Henry W., 249, 283, 284. Graves, John Temple, 246. Hamilton, Alexander, 196. Harris, Joel Chandler, 335, 370. Hay, John, 59, 124, 261, 362. Hemans, Felicia, 151. Henry, Daniel, 12, 130. Henry, Patrick, 193, 292. Hoar, George F., 309. Holmes, Oliver W., 145. Howe, Julia Ward, 225. Hugo, Victor, 345, 400. Hunt, Leigh, 57. Ingalls, John J., 235. Ingelow, Jean, 47, 101. Ingersoll, Robert G., 279, 315. Irving, Washington, 449. Jenkins, Lucy Dean, 366. Jerome, Jerome K., 354. Jerrold, Blanchard, 468. King, Ben F., 357, 379. Kingsley, Charles, 102. Kipling, Rudyard, 155, 368. Kossuth, Louis, 250, 313. Le Fanu, Joseph S., 113. Lincoln, Abraham, 206, 241, 305, 307. Lippard, George, 98. Lodge, Henry Cabot, 226. Longfellow, H. W., 8, 61. Lover, Samuel, 364. Lowell, James Russell, 152. Lytton, Edward Bulwer, 25, 80. Lytton, Robert Bulwer, 8, 423, 441. McKinley, William, 251. Mead, Edwin D., 294, 299, 318. Mitchell, Agnes E., 391. Moore, Thomas, 41. Nadaud, Gustav, 13. Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart, 330. Phillips, Charles, 321. Phillips, Wendell, 202, 239, 290, 296, 297. Pierce, Etta W., 133. Poe, Edgar Allan, 426. Quincy, Josiah, 284. Richards, Laura E., 414. Riley, James Whitcomb, 323, 324, 359. Robbins, R. D. C., 118. Roosevelt, Theodore, 264, 280. Savonarola, Girolamo, 228. Saxe, John G., 384. Scott, Walter, 123. Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 454. Sienkiewicz, Henryk, 1. Smith, F. Hopkinson, 375. Stephens, Alexander H., 243. Streeter, R. M., 387. Sumner, Charles, 212, 248. Taylor, Benjamin F., 373. Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 32, 67, 94, 146. Thompson, Maurice, 138. Togo, Admiral Heihaichiro, 242, 271. Van Dyke, Henry, 72. Verne, Jules, 408. Weatherly, F. E., 328. Webster, Daniel, 185, 188, 191, 199. Whitman, Walt, 88. Whittier, John G., 144, 149. Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, 117. Williams, Henry L., 437. ANNOUNCEMENTS BOOKS IN PUBLIC SPEAKING By ROBERT I. FULTON, late of Ohio Wesleyan University, and THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD, University of Michigan ESSENTIALS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING (Second Edition) This book shows the relation of intellect, feeling, and gesture to the elements of effective expression in oratorical and dramatic art. It treats the elements of expression in their simplest and most natural order, showing their application to the various sentiments and emotions, and provides exercises in the technic of voice and action. In illustration of the principles full selections as well as illustrative passages are given, together with the necessary explanation, _xiv_ + _250 pages_ BRITISH AND AMERICAN ELOQUENCE Accounts of the lives and public careers of twenty-two noted British and American orators together with selections from their greatest speeches. The purpose is to point out by concrete example the abstract principles of public speaking which should guide the beginner. The book aims to select, adapt, and utilize in a single volume such helpful material as the student of public speaking can find elsewhere only in many separate volumes. _403 pages, illustrated_ CHOICE READINGS FROM POPULAR AND STANDARD AUTHORS The number, variety, and interest of the selections are noteworthy. They include prose and verse from a wide range of writers. Selections are grouped in fourteen divisions, according to the nature of the subject matter, _xix_ + _729 pages_ STANDARD SELECTIONS Edited by ROBERT I. FULTON, THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD, and EDWIN P. TRUEBLOOD The purpose of the book is to provide material in poetry and oratory that has never before appeared in books of this character, and to stimulate interest in the authors represented. Nearly two hundred selections of varying character are included. _510 pages_ GINN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS EXTEMPORE SPEAKING By EDWIN DUBOIS SHURTER, Associate Professor of Public Speaking in the University of Texas 12mo, cloth, 178 pages This manual provides an analysis of the art of extempore speaking, together with specific examples and exercises. It is distinctly modern in treatment, although drawing also from the rich fund of material in classical and modern literature. MASTERPIECES OF MODERN ORATORY By EDWIN DUBOIS SHURTER 12mo, cloth, 369 pages These fifteen orations, edited with introductions and notes, are intended to furnish models for students of oratory, argumentation, and debate. The orators represented are Burke, Webster, Lincoln, Phillips, Curtis, Grady, Watterson, Daniel, Porter, Reed, Beveridge, Cockran, Schurz, Spalding, and Van Dyke. VOCAL EXPRESSION IN SPEECH By HENRY EVARTS GORDON, late Professor of Public Speaking in the University of Iowa 12mo, cloth, viii + 315 pages A fresh and stimulating treatise on the fundamentals of public speaking from its cultural side, intended primarily for college classes but easily adaptable to high-school use. A thorough program of study is provided for speech melody, speech quality, speech rhythm, and speech dynamics, accompanied by several hundred illustrative selections. GINN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS BOOKS IN PUBLIC SPEAKING THE MAKING OF ARGUMENTS By JOHN HAYS GARDINER, late of Harvard University A brief course in argumentation to meet the needs of the future average citizen rather than of the few who go on to law or political life. The examples used throughout the book and the exercises and questions suggested for argument are drawn from matters in which young people from eighteen to twenty-two have a natural, lively interest and which they argue about in real life. The aim of the book is to develop habits of analysis and effective presentation of facts which will serve the student in the practical concerns of later life. _290 pages_ THE PRINCIPLES OF ARGUMENTATION (Revised and Enlarged Edition) By GEORGE P. BAKER, Harvard University, and H. B. HUNTINGTON, Brown University This book holds an established place as one of the standard textbooks in the subject. Fundamental matters of analytical investigation, sifting of evidence, brief-drawing, and persuasive adaptation are clearly illustrated by numerous extracts and are made teachable by varied practical exercises. The book as a whole develops intellectual power and avoids that "predigested" argumentative material which enables a student easily to remember--and surely to forget--"how to argue." _677 pages_ ORAL ENGLISH By JOHN M. BREWER, Los Angeles State Normal School This textbook treats oral English as a subject independent both of literature and of written composition. It furnishes the student brief directions, detailed exercises, and suggestive lists of topics of every-day interest which will provide material for doing with conscious direction of thought the things which unconsciously are done in the pursuit of every other study--arguing, explaining, and telling. It embodies the latest ideas in the teaching of this subject by substituting for imitation of masterpieces of eloquence a direct and effective way of speaking without unnecessary adornment, more fitted to be of practical use to men and women of to-day. _396 pages_ GINN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS BOOKS IN PUBLIC SPEAKING ELEMENTS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING By HARRY GARFIELD HOUGHTON, University of Wisconsin xi + 333 pages This textbook aims to teach the student, First, how to organize his subject matter into clear and logical form for purposes of public utterance. Second, how to cultivate his powers of expression so as to enable him to convey his ideas most effectively. The book combines a definite amount of accurately expressed theory with a maximum of practice. Special emphasis has been laid upon clear and accurate thinking as the foundation for all expression, and each principle has been treated in its relation thereto. The book, while intended primarily for college courses, will also prove valuable in classes in practical speaking in preparatory schools, as an aid in declamatory work (for this purpose Chapter II, The Conversational Mode, and Appendix II, Declamation, are particularly useful), and as a reference book. THE BRIEF-MAKER'S NOTEBOOK By WARREN C. SHAW, Dartmouth College vii + 240 pages, in Biflex Binder "The Brief-Maker's Notebook" presents a logical system for analyzing debaters' propositions and supplies a blank form of brief based upon this system. It is devised to accomplish several aims: 1. To enable the debater to use a loose-leaf system of note-taking. 2. To help him to investigate details of his case without losing his grip upon the problem as a whole. 3. To enable him to write a brief directly from his notes without rearranging the material. 4. To crystallize his methods of analysis. 5. To apply the theory of argumentation in the preparation of a debate and to develop thoroughness and accuracy. The material consists of sets of forty pages each. Each set is designed for the complete handling of one proposition. GINN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS 
7211	----	ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1865, BY JOHN D. PHILBRICK, IN THE CLERK'S OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. PREFACE. The design of this book is twofold,--to meet the present demand for new selections suited to the spirit of the hour, and also to furnish a choice collection of standard pieces for elocutionary exercises on which time has set its lasting seal. In the execution of this design no pains have been spared in selecting and preparing the best pieces, both new and old. The extracts from recent productions, numbering about one hundred, by more than fifty different authors, are now for the first time presented in a Speaker. They are for the most part the eloquent utterances of our best orators and poets, inspired by the present national crisis, and are therefore "all compact of the passing hour," breathing "the fine sweet spirit of nationality,--the nationality of America." They give expression to the emotions excited, the hopes inspired, and the duties imposed by this stormy and perilous period. They afford brilliant illustrations of the statesmanship of the crisis. Sumner exposes the origin and mainspring of the rebellion, Douglass strips off its pretext, Everett paints its crime, Boutwell boldly proclaims its remedy in emancipation, and Banks pronounces a benediction on the first act of reconstruction on the solid basis of freedom to all. They furnish also an epitome of the convict of arms. Bryant utters the rallying cry to the people, Whittier responds in the united voice of the North, Holmes sounds the grand charge, Pierpont gives the command "Forward!" Longfellow and Boker immortalize the unconquerable heroism of our braves on sea and land, and Andrew and Beecher speak in tender accents the gratitude of loyal hearts to our fallen heroes. These new pieces will for a time receive the preference over old ones, and some of them will survive the period which called them forth. But to insure for the work, if possible, a permanent value as a Standard Speaker for students of common schools, higher seminaries and colleges, the greater part of the selections, nearly three hundred in number, have been chosen from those of acknowledged excellence, and of unquestionable merit as exercises for recitation and declamation. This department comprises every variety of style necessary in elocutionary culture. Another important feature of the collection is the introduction of those masterpieces of oratory--long excluded from books of this class, though now rendered appropriate by the new phase of public opinion,which advocate the inalienable rights of man, and denounce the crime of human bondage. Aware of the deep and lasting power which pieces used for declamation exert in moulding the ideas and opinions of the young, it has been my aim to admit only such productions as inculcate the noblest and purest sentiments, teaching patriotism, loyalty, and justice, and bring the youthful heart with ambition to be useful, and with heroic devotion to duty. The text of the extracts has been made to conform to that of the most authentic editions of the works of their authors. Some pieces which have heretofore been presented in a mutilated form, are here restored to their original completeness. Where compression or abridgment has been necessary, it has been executed with caution, and with strict regard to the sentiments and ideas of the authors. Fully convinced that elaborate treatises on elocution more appropriately form separate publications, nothing of the kind has been included in this volume. A summary of practical suggestions to teachers and students was thought to form a more useful introduction. For the sake of artistic beauty in the page, as well as for the convenience of the student, the notes and explanatory remarks necessary for the proper understanding of the pieces, have been thrown together at the end of the volume, and so arranged that reference to them can be easily made. This work, the preparation of which has been a recreation rather than a labor--an agreeable diversion from the daily routine of a laborious office,--is the embodiment of the experience and observation of twenty-five years, with reference to this description of literature. It originated in a desire to contribute something to the furtherance of the right education of the young men of my country, and the extent to which it promotes this object, will in my estimation, be the measure of its success. Boston, July 4, 1864. INTRODUCTORY REMARKS ON DECLAMATION. It is not my purpose to present here a theory of elocution, or a systematic treatise on the art of speaking. My object will be accomplished if I succeed in furnishing a summary of practical suggestions and hints on the subject of declamation which shall prove useful both to student and to such teachers as have not made the study of elocution a specialty. That a correct and impressive elocution is a desirable attainment, few will venture to deny. In my judgment it is the crowning grace of a liberal education. To the highest success in those professions which involve public speaking, it is, of course, indispensable. No person, whatever is to be his destination in life, who aspires to a respectable education and to mingle in good society, can afford to dispense with this accomplishment. If a young man means to succeed in life and attain distinction and influence, he should spare no pains in the cultivation of the faculty of speech. The culture of his vocal organs should keep pace with the culture of his mental powers. While acquiring a knowledge of literature and science, he should also form the habit of speaking his vernacular with propriety, grace, ease, and elegance, sparing no effort to acquire what has been aptly called "the music of the phrase; that clear, flowing, and decided sound of the whole sentence, which embraces both tone and accent, and which is only to be learned from the precept and example of an accomplished teacher." As a means of acquiring an appropriate, effective, and graceful elocution for the purposes of conversation, reading, and public speaking, the exercise of declamation, when properly conducted, cannot be too highly valued. It must be confessed, however that the practice of declaiming as managed in some institutions, is comparatively useless, if not positively injurious. Hence arises the prejudice against it which exists in some quarters. And it is not surprising that the results of declamation should be unsatisfactory, considering the defective methods of conducting it, which are still prevalent in not a few places. What can be expected of declamation which consists in repeating on the stage a few pieces,--injudiciously selected and imperfectly committed,--without previous or accompanying vocal training? The remarks of Dr. Rush, on this topic, though made more than a quarter of a century ago, are still to some extent applicable. "Go to some, may I say all, of our colleges and universities, and observe how the art of speaking is not taught. See a boy of but fifteen treats sent upon the stage, pale and choking with apprehension, in an attempt to do that, without instruction, which he came purposely to learn; and furnishing amusement to his classmates, by a pardonable awkwardness, which should be punished in the person of his pretending but neglectful preceptor with little less than scourging. Then visit a conservatory of music; observe there the orderly tasks, the masterly discipline, the unwearied superintendence and the incessant toil to produce accomplishment of voice; and afterward do not be surprised that the pulpit, the senate, the bar, and the chair of the medical professorship are filled with such abominable drawlers, mouthers, mumblers, clutterers, squeakers, chanters, and mongers in monotony; nor that the schools of singing are constantly sending abroad those great instances of vocal wonder, who draw forth the intelligent curiosity and produce the crowning delight and approbation of the prince and the sage." This eminent writer's great work on the Philosophy of the Human Voice has done much to correct the evil which he so graphically described. There are now some schools and colleges to be found in which elocution is taught with much skill and success. Among the disciples of Dr. Rush who have most successfully cultivated the art of elocution in America, the foremost place belongs to Professor William Russell, whose valuable and protracted labors in this department of education, both as an author and a practical instructor, merit the highest commendation. As the first of my recommendations, I would, at the outset, strenuously insist on the importance of systematic vocal culture, which implies the training of the ear to perceive the various qualities and modifications of vocal expression, and the training of the voice to produce them. All the different functions of the voice employed in speech should be analytically exemplified by the teacher, and practised by the pupil, in the reading or recitation of short passages in which they are well illustrated, such as may be found in any good manual of elocution. This kind of teaching is to elocution what practice upon the scale is to music, and what the practice of the eye upon the harmony and contrast of colors is to painting. This course of training naturally divides itself into two departments:--first that which is mechanical; and, secondly, that which relates to the expression of thought and emotion. I. THAT WHICH IS MECHANICAL. BREATHING. The human voice is a musical instrument, an organ of exquisite contrivance and adaptation of parts. Breath being the material of its sound, vocal training should begin with the function of breathing. Vigorous respiration is as essential to good elocution as it is to good health. To secure this it is necessary, in the first place, to attend to the posture, taking care to give the utmost freedom, expansion, and capacity to the chest, and then to exercise and develop all the muscles employed in respiration, so that they may be habitually used with energy and power, both in the inhalation and expulsion of the breath. Whenever the voice is to be used in speaking, reading, singing, or animated conversation, the pupil should be required to assume the proper position, and to bring into exercise the whole muscular apparatus of the vocal organs, including the muscles of the abdomen, of the back, of the ribs, and of the chest. Elocutionary exercises, especially that of declamation, thus practised with a due regard to the function of breathing, become highly beneficial in a hygienic point of view, imparting health and vigor to the whole physical system. The want of this kind of training is the cause of much of the bronchial disease with which clergymen and other public speakers are afflicted. In the excellent work on Elocution, by Russell and Murdock, the following exercises in breathing are prescribed and explained:--"Attitude of the body and position of the organs; deep breathing; diffusive or tranquil breathing; expulsive or forcible breathing; explosive or abrupt breathing; sighing; sobbing; gasping; and panting." Experience has proved that the respiratory organs are susceptible of a high degree of development, and it is well known that the strength of the voice depends on the capacity, health, and action of those organs. It is therefore of paramount importance that elocutionary culture should be based on the mechanical function of respiration. And while the elocutionist trains his pupils in such breathing exercises as are above named, he is at the same time giving the very best part of physical education; for the amount of vital power, as well as the amount of vocal power, depends upon the health and vigor of the respiratory process. Few are aware how much may be effected by these exercises, judiciously practiced, in those constitutions where the chest is narrow, indicating a tendency to pulmonary disease. In all such cases, regularly repeated deep inspirations are of the highest value. It should be observed that these exercises are best performed in the open air, or, at least, in a well-ventilated room, the windows being open for the time. But no directions however wise or minute, can supersede the necessity of a competent teacher in this branch of physical and vocal training, and I cannot dismiss this topic without expressing my high appreciation of the value of the labors of that great master of the science of vocal culture, Prof. Lewis B. Monroe, of Boston, who is probably unsurpassed in this, or any other country, as a practical teacher of the mechanism and physiology of speech. Already the benefit of his instruction in this department of education is widely felt, and I omit no opportunity to advise teachers to avail themselves of a longer or shorter course of his admirable training. For if there is any accomplishment which a teacher should be unwilling to forego, it is that, of skill in elocution. ARTICULATION. A good articulation consists in giving to each letter its appropriate sound, and to each syllable and word an accurate, forcible, and distinct utterance, according to an approved standard of pronunciation. This is what constitutes the basis of all good delivery. It has been well said that good articulation is to the ear what a fair hand or a clear type is to the eye. Austin's often-quoted description of a good articulation must not be omitted here. "In just articulation, the words are not to be hurried over, nor precipitated syllable over syllable; nor as it were melted together into a mass of confusion. They should be neither abridged nor prolonged, nor swallowed, nor forced; they should not be trailed, nor drawled, nor let to slip out carelessly, so as to drop unfinished. They are to be delivered out from the lips as beautiful coins newly issued from the mint, deeply and accurately impressed, perfectly finished, neatly struck by the proper organs, distinct, in due succession, and of due weight." Good articulation is not only necessary to the speaker, as a condition of being heard and understood, but it is a positive beauty of delivery, for the elementary sounds of speech, when properly uttered, are in themselves both agreeable and impressive. For the attainment of this desirable accomplishment, three classes of exercises are necessary. 1. Upon the separate elementary sounds of the language, both vowels and consonants; 2. Upon their various combinations, both such as constitute syllables and such as do not, and especially the more difficult combinations of consonants; and, 3. Upon words; spelling them by sounds, that is, uttering the elementary sounds separately, and then the whole word. Respecting these exercises, Dr. Rush observes:--"When the elements are pronounced singly, they may receive a concentration of organic effort, which gives them a clearness of sound, and a definiteness of outline, if I may so speak, at their extremes, that make a fine preparation for a distinct and forcible pronunciation of the compounds of speech." By elementary sounds is here meant the forty-two sounds of the language which are represented by the twenty-six letters of the alphabet. They are represented in the following TABLE OF ELEMENTARY SOUNDS. VOWELS. 1. e, eve. 7. a, arm. 13. o, move. 2. i, in. 8. a, all. 14. u, full. 3. a, ale. 9, o, on. 15. u, tune. 4. e, end. 10. e, err. 16. i, isle. 5. a, air. 11. o, own. 17. oi, oil. 6. a, and. 12. u, un. 18. ou, our. CONSONANTS. 1. p, rope. 9. th, bath. 17. ch, etch. 2. b, robe. 10. th, bath. 18. dg,(j) edge. 3. f, safe. 11. s, buss. 19. sh, rash. 4. v, save. 12. z, buzz. 20. g,(zh) rouge. 5. m, seem. 13. l, feel. 21. k, rack. 6. w, way. 14. r, fear. 22. g, rag. 7. t, feet. 15. n, seen. 23. ng, sing. 8. d, feed. 16. y, yea. 24. h, hay. Pronounce the word eve, for example, slowly and distinctly, observing the sounds which compose the word, and the movements of the organs in producing them. Then enunciate singly the sound which the letter standing on the left has in the word. When a distinct idea of each sound has been acquired, the practice on the separate elements may be continued without pronouncing the words. I have heard these sounds given with distinctness by children five or six years of age. Indeed they should always be taught with the alphabet. The next step in articulation proceeds with the combinations of the elementary sounds. The most common combinations of consonantal sounds in pairs are those represented in the following TABLE OF COMBINED CONSONANTS. pl lf zm zn kr vd rth bl lv mp ln pr zd nth fl lt mf rn rp gd thz vl ld mt nt rb bz thr tl ls md nd rf vz thn dl lz mz ns rv dz lch sl lk pn nz rt gz rch zl lg fn pr rd nk nch kl lm vn br rz ks ndg(j) gl ln tn fr rk kt shr lp rm dn tr rg st ndg lb sm sn dr bd sp ndz When the simpler combinations have become familiar, the more difficult, consisting of three or four consonants, should be practised upon. Finally, words should be pronounced simply as words, giving attention solely to the articulation. Not that the first steps are expected to be perfect before the succeeding ones are attempted, but that attention should be given to only one thing at a time, a grand maxim in education, when rightly understood. These exercises should be commenced with the first steps in reading, and continued until the articulation is perfected, and the student has acquired facility as well as precision, grace as well as force, and distinctness and ease have been united and permanently secured. I would not be understood to affirm that the mode here pointed out is the only one by which a good articulation can be acquired. If a child is brought up among persons whose articulation is good, and if, from the earliest years, he is trained to speak with deliberation and distinctness, he will in most cases have a good articulation for conversational purposes, without special drilling on the elements. II. THAT WHICH RELATES TO THE EXPRESSION OF THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS, INCLUDING THE QUALITIES AND MANAGEMENT OF THE VOICE. This branch of vocal gymnastics comprises, first the appropriate discipline of the voice for its formation and development, by strengthening it, by extending its compass, and by improving its quality so as to render it full, sonorous, and agreeable; and, secondly, the training of the voice in those modifications which are used in the expressions of thought and feeling, including all that variety of management which appears in the delivery of a good speaker. STRENGTH. To secure the requisite strength of voice should be our first aim in a course of vocal culture. So important was this element of elocutionary training considered by the Athenians, that they had a class of teachers who were wholly devoted to it as a specialty. The zeal and perseverance of Demosthenes in correcting the natural deficiencies of his voice, have passed into a proverb. How he was accustomed to run up the steepest hills, and to declaim on the sea-shore, when the waves were violently agitated, in order to acquire strength of voice and force of utterance is known to every school-boy. If strength of voice is of paramount importance to the speaker, it is also an element which is very susceptible of cultivation. Professor Russell says,--"The fact is familiar to instructors in elocution, that persons commencing practice [in vocal gymnastics] with a very weak and inadequate voice, attain, in a few weeks, a perfect command of the utmost degrees of force." As has already been intimated, the strength of the voice depends directly upon the condition and use of the respiratory organs, including the larynx, and indirectly upon the general health and vigor of the whole physical system. The volume of breath which can be inhaled, and the force with which it can be expelled determine the degree of energy with which vocal sounds are uttered. This fact affords a clear indication of the proper mode of developing the strength of the voice. It is evident that the exercises which have for their object the strengthening of the voice, should also be adapted to develop and perfect the process of breathing. The student should be frequently trained in set exercises in loud exclamations, pronouncing with great force the separate vowel sounds, single words, and whole sentences, and at the same time taking care to bring into vigorous action, all the muscular apparatus of respiration. Shouting, calling, and loud vociferation, in the open air, both while standing, and while walking or running, are, with due caution, effective means of acquiring vigor of utterance. Children when at play are instinctively given to vociferation, which should be permitted, whenever practicable. One of the most remarkable examples of the extent to which the power of voice may be developed, is that of the Rev. Mr. Whitefield, the celebrated itinerant preacher. Having listened to his preaching in the open air, in Philadelphia, on a certain occasion, Dr. Franklin found by computation, that he might well be heard by more than thirty thousand auditors. It is said that the habit of speaking gave to the utterance of Garrick so wonderful an energy, that even his under-key was distinctly audible to ten thousand people. Dr. Porter sums up this matter thus :--"The public speaker needs a powerful voice; the quantity of voice which he can employ, at least can employ with safety, depends on his strength of lungs; and this again depends on a sound state of general health. If he neglects this, all other precautions will be useless." COMPASS. When a person is engaged in earnest conversation, his voice spontaneously adopts a certain key or pitch. This is called the natural or middle key, and it varies in different persons. Pitt's voice, it is said, was a full tenor, and Fox's a treble. When a speaker is incapable of loud and forcible utterance on both high and low notes, his voice is said to be wanting in compass. Webster's voice was remarkable for the extent of its compass, ranging with the utmost ease, from the highest to the lowest notes, required by a spirited and diversified delivery; and such was said to be the versatility of Whitefield's vocal power, that he could imitate the tones of a female, or the infant voice, at one time, and at another, strike his hearers with awe, by the thunder of his under-key. The want of compass is more frequently the result of bad habits of speaking and imperfect training than of incapacity of the vocal organs. Mr. Murdock, the well-known actor and elocutionist, tells us that, by appropriate vocal training, he gained, within the space of some months, to such an extent, in power and depth of voice, as to add to its previous range a full octave; and this improvement was made at a period after he supposed himself nearly broken down in health and voice, by over-exertion on the stage. A command of the low notes is essential to the fullest effect of impressive eloquence. The strongest and deepest emotions can be expressed only by a full, deep-toned utterance. Speaking on one key, with only slight variations, either above or below it, is perhaps the most common, and, at the same time, the most injurious fault both of declaimers and of public speakers. As a means of acquiring compass of voice, the student should pronounce with great force the vowel sounds on both the highest and lowest notes he can reach. This elementary drill should be followed by practice in reading and declaiming selections requiring the extreme notes of the compass. For practice on the low notes, passages should be selected expressing deep solemnity, awe, horror, melancholy, or deep grief. The following fine simile affords an excellent example for practice on the low notes:-- "So when an angel, by divine command, With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, Such as of late o'er pale Brittania passed, Calm and serene he drives the furious blast; And, pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm." The development of the top of the voice requires practice upon passages expressing brisk, gay, and joyous emotions, and the extremes of pain, fear, and grief. The following examples may serve as illustrations: Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed: But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unlearned minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round. Strike--till the last armed foe expires; Strike--for your altars and your fires; Strike--for the green graves of your sires,-- God.--and your native land! QUALITY. A voice may possess the properties we have considered, strength and compass, and yet be very far from perfection. It may be neither loud, nor round, nor clear, nor full, nor sweet. While on the other hand, it may be hollow, or aspirated, or guttural, or nasal, or possibly it may be afflicted with a combination of these faults. As one of the most important conditions of success in the cultivation of the voice, it is necessary that the student should acquire a distinct conception of the qualities and characteristics of a good voice, as a standard, a beau-ideal, which he may strive to reach. This must be derived mainly from the illustrations of the teacher, or from listening to the speaking of an accomplished orator. No mere description is adequate to convey it to the learner without the aid of the living voice. And yet, such a quaint and charming description of both the negative and positive qualities of a good voice, as the following, from a colloquy between Professor Wilson and the Ettrick Shepherd, is worth studying:-- NORTH. (Professor Wilson) "James, I love to hear your voice. An Esquimaux would feel himself getting civilized under it for there's sense in the very sound. A man's character speaks in his voice, even more than in his words. These he may utter by rote, but his 'voice is the man for a' that,' and betrays or divulges his peculiar nature. Do you like my voice, James? I hope you do." Shepherd. (James Hogg.) "I wad ha'e kent it, Mr. North, on the tower o' Babel, on the day o' the great hubbub. I think Socrates maun ha'e had just sic a voice--ye canna weel ca 't sweet, for it is ower intellectual for that--ye canna ca 't saft, for even in its aigh notes there's a sort o' birr, a sort o' dirl that betokens power--ye canna ca 't hairsh, for angry as ye may be at times, it's aye in tune frae the fineness o' your ear for music--ye canna ca 't sherp, for it's aye sae nat'ral--and flett it cud never be, gin you were even gi'en ower by the doctors. It's maist the only voice I ever heard, that I can say is at ance persuawsive and commanding--you micht fear 't, but you maun love 't; and there's no a voice in all his Majesty's dominions, better framed by nature to hold communion with friend or foe." The quality of voice to which I would here call special attention is called pure tone, which in its perfection, accompanied with strength and compass, comprises nearly all the requisites of a good voice. "True utterance and pure tone," says Professor Russell, "employ the whole apparatus of voice, in one consentaneous act, combining in one perfect sphere of sound, if it may be so expressed, the depth of effect produced by the resonance of the chest, the force and firmness imparted by the due compression of the throat, the clear, ringing property, caused by the due proportion of nasal effect, and the softening and sweetening influence of the head and mouth." The orotund quality which is so effective in impassioned utterance, and in the expression of deep, forcible, and sublime emotions, is nothing more than pure tone increased in extent of volume, and in intensity of force. This modification of pure tone is very full, very rounds very smooth, and very highly resonant or ringing. It is what Dr. Rush regarded as the highest perfection of speech-voice, and as the natural language of the highest species of emotion. Volume and energy are its distinguishing characteristics. The piece from Webster on page 160, is a good illustration of its use. In cultivating purity of tone, it is necessary, in the first place, to ascertain the elements of impurity, and their causes and remedies. To this negative process must be added the positive, namely--attention to the due and proportionate development of all the vocal organs. Depth is increased by the expansion of the pharynx; roundness and volume are promoted by the enlargement of the oral cavity, especially its back part; and smoothness is the result of the free vibration of the vocal chords, while resonance is produced by the proper expansion of the chest. MODULATION. This has reference, not to the qualities of the voice itself, but to its management in delivery. It includes those modifications and variations which are requisite for the expression of thoughts and feelings, and are therefore denominated by some elocutionists, the elements of expression, in distinction from the elements of utterance, which we have already considered under the preceding heads. The principal expressive modifications of the voice, are pitch, force, rate, pause, and infection. The voice should be exercised on these elements separately, till each can be produced in all its varieties and degrees. The middle pitch, or key-note, is that of common discourse, but by practice it may be rendered effective in public speaking. Neglect to cultivate and develop the power of speaking on this key, often leads speakers to adopt the high, shouting note, which is heard so commonly, and with so much disapprobation, at exhibitions of declamation. Every one can speak on a high key, although without training few can do it pleasingly; but command over the low notes of the voice is a rare accomplishment, and an unequivocal characteristic of the finished speaker. It is well to pay some attention to the very high and very low notes, not so much for their own utility in public speaking as for the purpose of giving strength and firmness to the notes which are intermediate between the natural pitch and either extreme, and which are designated as simply high and low, without any qualifying term. After accustoming the ear and voice to the different notes, the student should learn to make sudden transitions from one key to another. FORCE. The principal degrees of force requiring attention, are three: the moderate, the declamatory, and the impassioned. The degrees lower than moderate are, the suppressed and the subdued; and those higher than impassioned are, shouting and calling. But these are not very important in practical delivery. RATE has reference to the kinds of movement in delivery, including the rapid, the moderate, and the slow. Mrs. Siddon's primary rule for good reading was, "Take Time." Excessive rapidity of utterance is, undoubtedly, a very prevalent fault, both in speaking and in conversation. Deliberate speech is usually a characteristic of culture and good-breeding. This excellence is greatly promoted by giving due quantity, or prolongation of sound, to the vowels. PAUSES. Besides the pauses required by the syntactical structure of the sentence, and denoted by grammatical punctuation, there are the pauses of passion, and the pauses at the termination of the clusters into which words are grouped in good speaking. The pauses of emotion occur in impassioned delivery. They usually consist in lengthening the stops indicated by the punctuation marks, especially those of the points of exclamation and interrogation, and the dash. Pauses of this description constitute one of the most importent of the elements of emphatic expression, and yet they are, by many speakers, altogether neglected, or so abridged as to destroy their effect. The young student is particularly apt to disregard them. The pauses which mark the grouping of words according to the sense, and afford rests for taking breath, should generally be introduced before the nominative, if it consists of several words, or if it is one important word; before and after an intermediate clause; before the relative; before and after clauses introduced by prepositions; before conjunctions; and before the infinitive mood, if any words intervene betwixt it and the word governing it. INFLECTIONS. The two chief inflections or slides are the raising and the falling. The voice, when properly managed, usually rises or falls on each emphatic syllable. These upward and downward movements of the voice are what we mean by inflections. The student should practice on them till he can inflect with ease and in a full sonorous voice. Persons who are deficient in tune do not readily perceive the difference between the rising slide and loudness of voice, or the falling and softness. It is a very useful exercise to pronounce the long vowel sounds giving to each first the rising then the falling slide. The prolongation of these sounds is most profitably connected with the slides, the voice being thus strengthened in its whole range of compass, and, at the same time, accustomed to utter the musical sounds of speech with due quantity. In inflecting the vowels, the voice, in order to rise, begins low; and, in order to fall, it begins high. The rising and falling slides combined form the circumflex, or wave, which is a very impressive and significant modification of the voice. It is chiefly used in sarcasm, raillery, irony, wit, and humor. It well deserves careful study and practice. THE MONOTONE, is the repetition of nearly the same tone on successive syllables, resembling the repeated strokes of the bell. This element belongs to very grave delivery, especially where emotions of awe, sublimity, grandeur, and vastness are expressed, and is peculiarly adapted to devotional exercises. The following example well illustrates its use: "He bowed the heavens also, and came down; and darkness was under his feet,--And he rode upon a cherub and did fly; yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness his secret place; his pavilion round about him were dark waters and thick clouds of the skies." In practical delivery, the elements of expression are never used independently of each other, two or three being always combined, even in the utterance of the shortest passage. The perfection of vocal training, therefore, requires a command, not merely of each individual modification of the voice, but of all their numerous combinations. The following example requires the union of declamatory force, low pitch, slow rate, monotone, and orotund quality:-- "High on a throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus. and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand, Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold, Satan exalted sat." What has been said thus far, relates wholly to preparatory training in the elements of elocution. I have dwelt upon this theoretical department of my subject, because of its transcendent importance. But I do not mean to imply, in anything that has been presented, that the pupil should be confined exclusively to this disciplinary drill, for a long period, without attempting practical exercises in reading and declamation. On the contrary, I would recommend that this practice on the vocal and expressive elements be carried forward together with practice in speaking pieces. Exercises in vocal gymnastics, such as I have now indicated, should be commenced with the first stages of education, and continued, with gradations adapted to the age and progress of the pupil, through the whole course of instruction, whether longer or shorter. The value of thorough elementary training is well illustrated by the following anecdote respecting the education of the ear and the singing voice:-- "Porpora, one of the most illustrious masters of Italy, having conceived a friendship for a young pupil, exacted from him the promise that he would persevere with constancy in the course which he should mark out for him. The master then noted upon a single page of ruled paper, the diatonic and chromatic scales, ascending and descending; the intervals of third, fourth, fifth, &c. This eternal page occupied master and pupil until the sixth year, when the master added some lessons in articulation and declamation. At the end of this year, the pupil, who still supposed himself in the elements, was much surprised when Porpora said to him, 'Go, my son, you have nothing more to learn; you are the first singer of Italy, and of the world.' The master had spoken the truth, for this singer was Caffarelli, the greatest singer of the eighteenth century." EXPRESSION This term is used here, not in its limited and technical meaning, but in its largest sense, as a convenient one to denote the practical application of the principles of vocal culture which I have recommended. We will suppose the student to be thoroughly trained in enunciation, that his utterance is distinct and his pronunciation is correct, and that his voice is fully developed and well modulated. The question now arises, How is he to be guided in the right use of his powers of speech in the delivery of a given piece? On this point there is a wide difference of opinion among writers on elocution. On the one hand there are those who contend that, in the delivery of every sentence, the application of emphasis, pause, pitch, inflection, &c., should be governed by definite rules. In accordance with this theory, they have formed complex systems of elocutionary rules, for the guidance of pupils in reading aloud and in declamation. On the other hand, there are authorities of eminence, who regard all specific rules for the management of the voice in speaking as not merely useless, but positively injurious. Most prominent among the latter class is Archbishop Whately who, in speaking of the method of teaching expressive delivery by rules, says:--"Such a plan not only directs us into a circuitous and difficult path, towards an object which may be reached by a shorter and straighter, but also in most instances completely fails of that very object, and even produces oftener than not, effects the very reverse of what was designed." Reprobating very emphatically all systematic attention to elocution as an art, this eminent author advocates what he calls the natural manner of speaking, for the attainment of which he prescribes the rule, "not only to pay no studied attention to the voice, but studiously to withdraw the thoughts from it, and to dwell as intently as possible on the sense, trusting to nature to suggest spontaneously the proper emphasis and tones." The true course seems to me to lie midway between these two opposite extremes. While it is useless to attempt to reduce to exact system all the modifications of voice to be employed in the delivery of both plain and allegorical language, still there are many important elocutionary rules and principles which are eminently useful for the guidance of the student. Because Walker fell into the error of attempting to carry his principles too far, and perplexed the student with an endless list of rules, it does not follow that all rules should be disregarded. His rules for inflections are, no doubt, too complex and artificial for ordinary instruction in elocution, but those found in the works of Dr. Porter and Professor Russell are calculated to afford important aid; and Professor Mark Bailey, in his Introduction to "Hillard's Sixth Reader," has still further simplified the subject. The following principles which he lays down for regulating the inflections are at once comprehensive and practical. "The 'rising' and 'falling' slides separate the great mass of ideas into two distinct classes; the first comprising all the subordinate, or incomplete, or, as we prefer to name them, the negative ideas; the second comprising all the principal, or complete, or, as we call them, the positive ideas. "The most important parts of what is spoken or written, are those which affirm something positively, such as the facts and truths asserted, the principles, sentiments, and actions enjoined, with the illustrations, and reasons, and appeals, which enforce them. All these may properly be grouped into one class, because they all should have the same kind of slide in reading. This class we call 'positive ideas.' "So all the other ideas which do not affirm or enjoin anything positively, which are circumstantial and incomplete, or in open contrast with the positive, all these ideas may be properly grouped into another single class because they all should have the same kind of slide. This class we call 'negative ideas.' "Positive ideas should have the falling slide; Negative ideas should have the rising slide. "All sincere and earnest, or, in other words, all upright and downright ideas demand the straight, or upright and downright slides. "All ideas which are not sincere or earnest, but are used in jest, or irony, in ridicule, sarcasm, or mockery, in insinuation or double-meaning, demand the crooked or circumflex slides." These rules taken in connection with the accompanying brief but clear and precise explanation of the meaning attached to the words positive and negative, constitute the most admirable generalization that I have met with in elocutionary works of more recent date than that of Dr. Rush. And, indeed, Professor Bailey's whole treatment of that part of elocution now under consideration, is the best illustration I can name of the middle course which I recommend. Avoiding alike the ultra "artificial" system of Walker and the ultra "natural" system of Whately, he combines in his instruction the excellencies of both, without their faults. He is both philosophical in his theory, and practical in its application. He attempts only what is practicable. He insists on analysis, but his analysis is at once simple and comprehensive. He classes the different kinds of composition with respect to the emotions, as follows,--1. Unemotional; 2. Bold; 3. Animated or joyous; 4. Subdued or pathetic; 5. Noble; 6. Grave; 7. Ludicrous or sarcastic, 8. Impassioned,--and then indicates the modifications of voice appropriate for each. Now such a course of training based on such principles, especially if pursued under a competent instructor, cannot fail to be highly beneficial. Experience has proved it. Whately is evidently in error in wholly proscribing attention to the voice in speaking. In learning to dance, the pupil must pay attention to the motions of his limbs, but when practice has made the movements familiar, his mind is withdrawn from them. They then become natural. Just so will the student of elocution. In his disciplinary exercises he must attend to his voice. He must become accustomed to the correct application of tones and inflections in the delivery of passages which illustrate them. But when he comes to practical delivery, then the mind should be withdrawn from the manner of utterance, and concentrated intensely upon the matter,--the thoughts and feelings to be expressed. In private rehearsals, the management of the voice will be a very prominent object of attention. Declamation is a sort of transition stage, or intermediate exercise between private rehearsal and practical delivery at the bar, in the pulpit, or on the platform, and will require more or less attention to the voice, in proportion to the progress already made by the pupil. Judicious practice will gradually carry him to that point where he will wholly cease to think of his manner, and become entirely absorbed in his subject. He then becomes natural. But even the most accomplished orator must occasionally give some thought to his voice. When he rises to address an audience in a new place he must consider the circumstances,--the capacity of the apartment, the nature and temper of his auditors, &c., and pitch his voice accordingly. In other words, the speaker must on all occasions give a general attention to his voice,--sufficient, at least, to adapt it to the requirements of the position in which he is placed, modifying it in the progress of the discourse, as the necessity of the case demands. If the matter of his discourse is very familiar, the skilful speaker may greatly augment the effectiveness of his delivery by more particular attention to the manner, while he will seem wholly absorbed in the spirit and sense of what he utters. GESTURE. The limited space allotted to this introduction will not permit a full discussion of this topic, and I must content myself with presenting a few general observations concerning it. The little child, in the unconscious freedom of childhood, before his actions and manners have been modified by the restraints of artificial life, affords the best model of gesture. His instinct prompts him to that visible expression of his thoughts and feelings "Which we are toiling all our lives to find." And it may be assumed as a general fact that external expression, unless repressed by habit or design, usually corresponds with internal emotion. The great desideratum in gesture is to make the visible expression in delivery harmonize with the audible, or, as Shakspeare has it, to "suit the action to the word, and the word to the action." Professor Russell, in his excellent analysis of this subject says, "The true speaker must have a true manner; and of the five great attributes of genuine expression in attitude and action, TRUTH stands first, followed by FIRMNESS, FORCE, FREEDOM, and PROPRIETY. GRACE, which is sometimes added as a sixth, is, in all true manly eloquence, but another name for the symmetry which flows from appropriateness; and, in masculine expression, should never be a distinct object of attention." In order to speak well, the orator must be able to stand well, that is, he should assume a firm but easy and graceful attitude, the weight of the body resting principally on one foot. The distance between the feet should be such as to give both firmness and freedom to the position One foot should be in advance of the other, the toes being turned outward. The attitude should vary with the thoughts and emotions expressed. Unemotional thoughts require an attitude of repose, the body resting on the retired foot. Bold and impassioned language requires the reverse of this. The body is thrown forward, resting on the foot advanced. In turning from side to side, the toes should be kept apart and the heels together. The principal feature of bodily action consists in the proper use of the hands. "Have not," says Quintilion, "our hand's the power of exciting, of restraining, of beseeching, of testifying approbation, admiration, and shame? Do they not, in pointing out places and persons, discharge the duty of adverbs and pronouns? So amidst the great diversity of tongues-pervading all nations and peoples, the language of the hands appears to be a language common to all men." We stretch forth and clasp the hands when we importunately entreat, sue, beseech, supplicate, or ask mercy. To put forth the right hand spread open is the gesture of bounty, liberality, and a free heart; and thus we reward, and bestow gifts. Placing with vehemence the right fist in the left palm is a gesture commonly used to mock, chide, insult, reproach, and rebuke. To beckon with the raised hand is a universal sign of craving audience and entreating a favorable silence. To wave the hand from us, the palm outward, is the gesture of repulsion, aversion, dismissal. To shake the fist at one signifies anger and defiance and threatening. The hands are clasped or wrung in deep sorrow, and outstretched with the palms inward to indicate welcoming, approving, and receiving. In shame, the hand is placed before the eyes; in earnestness and ardor, the hands reach forward; in joy, they are thrown up, widely apart; in exultation and triumph, the right hand is waved above the head. "In the rhetorical actions of the hand, the happy medium ought to be observed; for the action of the hand should be full of dignity and magnanimous resolution, making it a liberal index of the mind." A French writer admirably remarks that we should move the arms because we are animated, but not try to appear animated by moving the arms. The countenance, especially the eye, should be made to speak as well as the tongue. It is said of Chatham, that such was the power of his eye, that he very often cowed down an antagonist in the midst of his speech, and threw him into confusion. It is through the eye, scarcely less than through the tones of voice, that intercourse of soul is carried on between the speaker and hearers. To secure this intercourse the speaker should let his soul beam from his eye. Nor should he fail to look at his hearers, if he would have his hearers look at him. Among the faults to be avoided in the management of the eye, Dr. Porter notices particularly that unmeaning look which the eye "bent on vacuity" has, resembling the inexpressive glare of the glass eye of a wax figure; that indefinite sweep of the eye which ranges from one side to the other of an assembly, resting nowhere; and that tremulous, roving cast of the eye, and winking of the eyelid, which is in direct contrast to an open, collected, manly expression of the face. Among the faults of action to be noticed are:--1. Want of action; 2. Want of expression of countenance; 3. A stiff, or a careless, attitude; 4. Want of appropriateness; 5. Excess of motions of the hands and arms; 6. Too great violence of action; 7. Too great complexity; 8. A mechanical uniformity; 9. Tardiness, the action following the utterances when it should accompany it, or slightly precede it. It must not be supposed that it is necessary for the pupil to receive training in a technical system of gesticulation before he commences his exercises in declamation. If the student designs to qualify himself to be a professor of elocution, he will need to study the laws of gesture in "Austin's Chironomia," and be instructed in their application by a skillful teacher. But this course is neither practicable nor necessary for the mass of students. Instruction in this department should generally be of a negative nature, and occupy itself mainly in the correction of faults. When the pupil commences his exercises in declamation, the less said about action the better. Freedom is the first thing to be secured, and, to attain this end, few directions should be given and few criticisms be made, at the outset. When the speaker has acquired some confidence, and freedom of action, his faults may be gradually pointed out, and his attention called to some general principles of gesture, such as have been presented respecting the language of the hands. Pupils should be taught to observe accurately the action of accomplished orators, not with the view to imitating their peculiarities, but to learn their method of producing effect by means of attitude and gesture. DECLAMATION. Declamation should be attended to in all grades of educational institutions, from the primary school to the college, and every pupil should be required to take his turn in the performance of the exercise. It would be highly beneficial, if well taught. The reason why so many teachers have no taste for it, is because they have not taken pains to qualify themselves to teach it. Want of time is sometimes offered as an excuse for neglecting it. But if a part of the time which is devoted to teaching reading, were appropriately to declamation, the progress in reading itself would be more rapid, to say nothing of other advantages which would result from this course. I cannot too earnestly urge upon every teacher the importance of qualifying himself for teaching well both reading and declamation, There is no accomplishment which more effectively promotes the success of the teacher than that of elocutionary culture,--a good voice skillfully managed in conversation and in teaching. Without special attention to the subject, teachers are apt to acquire certain characteristic faults of voice, such as nasality, sharpness, harshness, and thinness of tone, of which they are quite unconscious. Whereas, by constant attention to the manner of using the voice, since they are in constant practice, it might be perfected in its modulation. For want of culture in the elocutionary art, many teachers are greatly deceived, thinking their pupils read and declaim well when they do not. In the management of declamation much care should be taken in the selection of the pieces. It is best for the pupil, in the first place, after proper advice, to exercise his own taste in the selection of his piece, which should then be submitted to the teacher for approval. If the selection is very appropriate, the pupil should be commended and told why the piece is considered suitable. If the selection presented is not suitable, the pupil should be informed on what ground it is objected to, so as to aid his judgment in another attempt. If the pupil has made proper effort without success, he should be assisted by the teacher. It is very important that the selection should be suited to the capacity and progress of the pupil. Beginners should take simple pieces, and not be allowed, as is sometimes the case, to murder a passage from Paradise Lost, or Macbeth. Sometimes a fault is committed on the part of the teacher, by permitting a pupil to confine his selections to one favorite class. I have observed in certain schools, that one particular boy would always appear in a comic piece, another in a tragic, and so on. It would be better for the teacher to require each pupil to speak a variety of pieces, so as to secure a more general and comprehensive culture than would result from practice on a single class of selections. The choice of the piece should be determined upon a considerable period previous to the day appointed for the public performance of the stage, so as to afford ample time for preparation. The piece should be accurately committed to memory, without the variation of a syllable. It should be made familiar, so that in the delivery no effort will be required in recalling it. The young pupil should be instructed in the best method of learning his piece. It will generally be found best to take one sentence at a time. The teacher's chief work consists in attending to individual private rehearsals. The rehearsal should be a drill. The piece should be analyzed more or less minutely, the allusions and difficult points being explained. It should be the first aim to make the pupil understand it, not only in its general spirit and scope, but in its particular ideas. His attention should then be turned to the emotions which it expresses. Let it be remembered that the paramount object should be to make the pupil understand the meaning and feel the spirit of the piece. If he is timid and diffident he should be encouraged. Tell him that even Daniel Webster could not make a declamation at the first attempt; but that he did not despair; he did not cease his efforts; he persevered and succeeded. After the rehearsal, the pupil should have time to practice by himself and apply and confirm the instruction received from his teacher. It must be impressed upon his mind that if he would attain excellence he must practice, practice, practice. He must be made to understand that the repetition of a piece three or four times is no adequate preparation, and that it is necessary to go over with it twenty, thirty, or fifty times, if he would excel, and take a high rank. When the declamation takes place, excepting on public occasions, the criticisms ought to be made immediately after the performance of each speaker. The faults of the diffident should be mildly criticized. It is very important to call attention to points of special excellence in any performance. It should be remembered that judicious commendation is a most powerful stimulant to exertion. The most difficult task in teaching declamation is to develop that indescribable fervor, that unaffected earnestness of manner which always captivates the hearers, and wins the highest marks at an exhibition for prizes. There will always be one speaker in a school who excels all the rest in this quality. The teacher should point out the peculiar excellence of this speaker, and show wherein it differs from loudness of voice, and violence of actions and affected passion. Let it be remembered that the perfection of declamation consists in delivering the piece as though it were real speaking. The speaker must "put himself in imagination, so completely into the situation of him whom he personages, and adopt for the moment, so perfectly, all the sentiments and views of that character, as to express himself exactly as such a person would have done, in the supposed situation." Give the speaker every other quality--let his enunciation, his modulation of voice, and his action be faultless, and yet without earnestness, real earnestness,--not the semblance of it, not boisterous vociferation, not convulsive gesticulation, but genuine emotion felt in the heart, carrying the conviction to the hearers that the sentiments uttered are real, the spontaneous, irrepressible outpouring of the thought and feeling of the speaker,--without this sovereign, crowning quality, he cannot be said to speak with eloquence. To bring out and develop this highest quality of delivery, requires the highest skill in the teacher. Unless the teacher possesses some degree of this quality himself he cannot develop it in his pupils. The best immediate preparation for speaking is rest. I have often noticed that speakers at exhibitions have in many cases failed to do themselves justice from sheer exhaustion. A day or two of repose previous to speaking, enables the speaker to bring to the performance that vigor of the faculties which is indispensable to the highest success, Webster told the Senate, and truly, no doubt, that he slept soundly on the night previous to the delivery of his second speech on Foote's resolution, which is considered his greatest parliamentary effort. It is well for the speaker to remember what Mr. Everett said in allusion to this fact: "So the great Condé slept on the eve of the battle of Rocroi, so Alexander slept on the eve of the battle of Arbela, and so they awoke to deeds of immortal fame." The best training cannot make good readers and good speakers of all pupils, but it can do much. And it is a fact worthy of observation that those who are most sceptical as to the possibilities of elocutionary culture, are invariably those who are themselves unskillful teachers in this branch. BOOK FIRST. STANDARD SELECTIONS FOR RECITATION AND DECLAMATION IN PROSE AND POETRY. BOOK FIRST. STANDARD SELECTIONS. PROSE. I. THE NOBLE PURPOSES OF ELOQUENCE. If we consider the noble purposes to which Eloquence may be made subservient, we at once perceive its prodigious import ance to the best interests of mankind. The greatest masters of the art have concurred, upon the greatest occasions of its display, in pronouncing that its estimation depends on the virtuous and rational use made of it. It is but reciting the common praises of the Art of Persuasion, to remind you how sacred truths may be most ardently promulgated at the altar--the cause of oppressed innocence be most woefully defended--the march of wicked rulers be most triumphantly resisted--defiance the most terrible be hurled at the oppressor's head. In great convulsions of public affairs, or in bringing about salutary changes, every one confesses how important an ally eloquence must be. But in peaceful times, when the progress of events is slow and even as the silent and unheeded pace of time, and the jars of a mighty tumult in foreign and domestic concerns can no longer be heard, then, too, she flourishes--protectress of liberty--patroness of improvement--guardian of all the blessings that can be showered upon the mass of human kind;--nor is her form ever seen but on ground consecrated to free institutions. To me, calmly revolving these things, such pursuits seem far more noble objects of ambition than any upon which the vulgar herd of busy men lavish prodigal their restless exertions. To diffuse useful information, to further intellectual refinement, sure forerunner of moral improvement,--to hasten the coming of the bright day when the dawn of general knowledge shall chase away the lazy, lingering class, even from the base of the great social pyramid;--this indeed is a high calling, in which the most splendid talents and consummate virtue may well press onward, eager to bear a part. Lord Brougham. II. ROLLA TO THE PERUVIANS. My brave associates--partners of my toil, my feelings, and my fame! Can Rolla's words add vigor to the virtuous energies which inspire your hearts?--No! You have judged, as I have, the foulness of the crafty plea, by which these bold invaders would delude you. Your generous spirit has compared, as mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can animate their minds and ours. They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, and extended rule;--we, for our country, our altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and obey a power which they hate;--we serve a monarch whom we love,--a God whom we adore. Wherever they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress. Wherever they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship. They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error! Yes;--they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. They offer us their protection! Yes, such protections as vultures give to lambs,--covering and devouring them! They call on us to barter all the good we have inherited and proved, for the desperate chance of something better, which they promise! Be our plain answer this: The throne we honor is the People's choice,--the laws we reverence are our brave fathers' legacy,--the faith we follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this; and tell them too, we seek no change; and, least of all, such change as they would bring us! R. B. Sheridan. III. INVECTIVE AGAINST WARREN HASTINGS. If, my Lords, a stranger had at this time gone into the province of Oude, ignorant of what had happened since the death of Sujah Dowlah--that prince who with a savage heart had still great lines of character, and who, with all his ferocity in war, had, with a cultivating hand, preserved to his country the wealth which it derived from benignant skies and a prolific soil--if, ignorant of all that had happened in the short interval, and observing the wide and general devastation of fields unclothed and brown; of vegetation burned up and extinguished; of villages depopulated and in ruins; of temples unroofed and perishing; of reservoirs broken down and dry, this stranger should ask, "what has thus laid waste this beautiful and opulent land; what monstrous madness has ravaged with wide-spread war; what desolating foreign foe; what civil discords; what disputed succession; what religious zeal; what fabled monster has stalked abroad, and, with malice and mortal enmity to man, withered by the grasp of death every growth of nature and humanity, all means of delight, and each original, simple principle of bare existence?" the answer would have been, not one of these causes! No wars have ravaged these lands and depopulated these villages! No desolating foreign foe! No domestic broils! No disputed succession! No religious super-serviceable zeal! No poisonous monster! No affliction of Providence, which, while it scourged us, cut off the sources of resuscitation! No! This damp of death is the mere effusion of British amity! We sink under the pressure of their support! We writhe under their perfidious gripe! They have embraced us with their protecting arms, and lo! these are the fruits of their alliance! What then, my Lords, shall we bear to be told that, under such circumstances, the exasperated feelings of a whole people, thus spurred on to clamor and resistance, were excited by the poor and feeble influence of the Begums? After hearing the description given by an eye-witness of the paroxysm of fever and delirium into which despair threw the natives when on the banks of the polluted Ganges, panting for breath, they tore more widely open the lips of their gaping wounds, to accelerate their dissolution; and while their blood was issuing, presented their ghastly eyes to heaven, breathing their last and fervent prayer that the dry earth might not be suffered to drink their blood, but that it might rise up to the throne of God, and rouse the eternal Providence to avenge the wrongs of their country,--will it be said that all this was brought about by the incantations of these Begums in their secluded Zenana; or that they could inspire this enthusiasm and this despair into the breasts of a people who felt no grievance, and had suffered no torture? What motive, then, could have such influence in their bosom? What motive! That which nature, the common parent, plants in the bosom of man; and which, though it may be less active in the Indian than in the Englishman, is still congenial with, and makes a part of his being. That feeling which tells him that man was never made to be the property of man; but that, when in the pride and insolence of power, one human creature dares to tyrannize over another, it is a power usurped, and resistance is a duty. That principle which tells him that resistance to power usurped is not merely a duty which he owes to himself and to his neighbor, but a duty which he owes to his God, in asserting and maintaining the rank which he gave him in his creation--that God, who, where he gives the form of man, whatever may be the complexion, gives also the feelings and the rights of man. That principle which neither the rudeness of ignorance can stifle, nor the enervation of refinement extinguish! That principle which makes it base for a man to suffer when he ought to act; which, tending to preserve to the species the original designations of Providence, spurns at the arrogant distinctions of man, and indicates the independent quality of his race. R. B. Sheridan. IV. THE BIBLE THE BEST CLASSIC The Bible is the only book which God has ever sent, and the only one he ever will send into the world. All other books are frail and transient as time, since they are only the registers of time; but the Bible is as durable as eternity, for its pages contain the records of eternity. All other books are weak and imperfect, like their author, man; but the Bible is a transcript of infinite power and perfection. Every other volume is limited in its usefulness and influence; but the Bible came forth conquering and to conquer,--rejoicing as a giant to run his course,--and like the sun, "there is nothing hid from the heat thereof." The Bible only, of all the myriads of books the world has seen, is equally important and interesting to all mankind. Its tidings, whether of peace or of woe, are the same to the poor, the ignorant, and the weak as to the rich, the wise, and the powerful. Among the most remarkable of its attributes, is justice; for it looks with impartial eyes on kings and on slaves, on the hero and the soldier, on philosophers and peasants, on the eloquent and the dumb. From all, it exacts the same obedience to its commandments: to the good, it promises the fruits of his labors; to the evil, the reward of his hands. Nor are the purity and holiness, the wisdom, benevolence, and truth of the Scriptures less conspicuous than their justice. In sublimity and beauty, in the descriptive and pathetic, in dignity and simplicity of narrative, in power and comprehensiveness, in depth and variety of thought, in purity and elevation of sentiment, the most enthusiastic admirers of the heathen classics have conceded their inferiority to the Scriptures. The Bible, indeed, is the only universal classic, the classic of all mankind, of every age and country of time and eternity; more humble and simple than the primer of a child, more grand and magnificent than the epic and the oration, the ode and the dramas when genius, with his chariot of fire, and his horses of ire, ascends in whirlwind into the heaven of his own invention. It is the best classic the world has ever seen, the noblest that has ever honored and dignified the language of mortals! If you boast that the Aristotles and the Platos, and the Tullies of the classic age, "dipped their pens in intellect," the sacred authors dipped theirs in inspiration. If those were the "secretaries of nature," these were the secretaries of the very Author of nature. If Greece and Rome have gathered into their cabinet of curiosities the pearls of heathen poetry and eloquence, the diamonds of pagan history and philosophy, God himself has treasured up in the Scriptures, the poetry and eloquence, the philosophy and history of sacred law-givers, of prophets and apostles, of saints, evangelists, and martyrs. In vain you may seek for the pure and simple light of universal truth in the Augustan ages of antiquity. In the Bible only, is the poet's wish fulfilled,-- "And like the sun be all one boundless eye." T. S. Grimké. V. WHAT WE OWE TO THE SWORD. To the question, "What have the People ever gained but by Revolution?" I answer, boldly, If by revolution be understood the law of the sword, Liberty has lost far more than she ever gained by it. The sword was the destroyer of the Lycian Confederacy and the Achæan League. The sword alternately enslaved and disenthralled Thebes and Athens, Sparta, Syracuse, and Corinth. The sword of Rome conquered every other free State, and finished the murder of Liberty in the ancient world, by destroying herself. What but the sword, in modern times, annihilated the Republics of Italy, the Hanseatic Towns, and the primitive independence of Ireland, Wales, and Scotland? What but the sword partitioned Poland, assassinated the rising liberty of Spain, banished the Huguenots from France, and made Cromwell the master, not the servant, of the People? And what but the sword of Republican France destroyed the independence of half of Europe, deluged the continent with tears, devoured its millions upon millions, and closed the long catalogue of guilt, by founding and defending to the last, the most powerful, selfish, and insatiable of military despotisms? The sword, indeed, delivered Greece from the Persian invader, expelled the Tarquins from Rome, emancipated Switzerland and Holland, restored the Prince to his throne, and brought Charles to the scaffold. And the sword redeemed the pledge of the Congress of '76 when they plighted to each other "their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor." And yet, what would the redemption of that pledge have availed towards the establishment of our present government, if the spirit of American institutions had not been both the birthright and the birth-blessing of the Colonies? The Indians, the French, the Spaniards, and even England herself, warred in vain against a people, born and bred in the household, at the domestic altar of Liberty herself They had never been slaves, for they were born free. The sword was a herald to proclaim their freedom, but it neither created nor preserved it. A century and a half had already beheld them free in infancy, free in youth, free in early manhood. Theirs was already the spirit of American institutions; the spirit of Christian freedom of a temperate, regulated freedom, of a rational civil obedience. For such a people the sword, the law of violence, did and could do nothing but sever the bonds which bound her colonial wards to their unnatural guardian. They redeemed their pledge, sword in hand; but the sword left them as it found them, unchanged in character, freemen in thought and in deed, instinct with the immortal spirit of American institutions. T. S Grimké. VI. DUTY OF LITERARY MEN TO THEIR COUNTRY. We cannot honor our country with too deep a reverence; we cannot love her with an affection too pure and fervent; we cannot serve her with an energy of purpose or a faithfulness of zeal too steadfast and ardent. And what is our country? It is not the East, with her hills and her valleys, with her countless sails and the rocky ramparts of her shores. It is not the North, with her thousand villages, and her harvest-home, with her frontiers of the lake and the ocean. It is not the West, with her forrest-sea and her inland-isles, with her luxuriant expanses, clothed in the verdant corn, with her beautiful Ohio and her majestic Missouri. Nor is it yet the South, opulent in the mimic snow of the cotton, in the rich plantations of the rustling cane, and in the golden robes of the rice-field. What are these but the sister families of one greater, better, holier family,--our country? I come not here to speak the dialect, or to give the counsels of the patriot-statesman. But I come, a patriot scholar, to vindicate the rights and to plead for the interests of American Literature. And be assured, that we cannot, as patriot-scholars, think too highly of that country, or sacrifice too much for her. And let us never forget, let us rather remember with a religious awe,--that the union of these States is indispensable to our literature, as it is to our national independence and civil liberties,--to our prosperity, happiness, and improvement. If, indeed, we desire to behold a literature like that which has sculptured with so much energy of expression, which has painted so faithfully and vividly, the crimes, the vices, the follies of ancient and modern Europe;--if we desire that our land should furnish for the orator and the novelist, for the painter and the poet, age after age, the wild and romantic scenery of war; the glittering march of armies, and the revelry of the camp; the shrieks and blasphemies, and all the horrors of the battle-field; the desolation of the harvest, and the burning cottage; the storm, the sack, and the ruin of cities;--if we desire to unchain the furious passions of jealousy and selfishness, of hatred, revenge, and ambition, those lions that now sleep harmless in their den;--if we desire that the lake, the river, the ocean, should blush with the blood of brothers; that the winds should waft from the land to the sea, from the sea to the land, the roar and the smoke of battle, that the very mountain-tops should become altars for the sacrifice of brothers;--if we desire that these, and such as these,--the elements, to an incredible extent, of the literature of the Old World,--should be the elements of our literature; then, but then only, let us hurl from its pedestal the majestic statue of our Union, and scatter its fragments over all our land. But, if we covet for our country the noblest, purest, loveliest literature the world has ever seen,--such a literature as shall honor God, and bless mankind,--a literature, whose smiles might play upon an angel's face, whose tears "would not stain an angel's cheek,"--then let us cling to the Union of these State's with a patriot's love, with a scholar's enthusiasm, with a Christian's hope. In her heavenly character, as a holocaust self-sacrificed to God; at the height of her glory, as the ornament of a free, educated, peaceful Christian people, American Literature will find that THE INTELLECTUAL SPIRIT IS HER VERY TREE OF LIFE, AND THE UNION HER GARDEN OF PARADISE. T. S. Grimké. VII. AMERICA'S OBLIGATIONS TO ENGLAND. The honorable member has asked--"And now will these Americans, children planted by our care, nourished up by our indulgence and protected by our arms,--will they grudge to attribute their mite?" They planted by your care! No; your oppressions planted them in America! They fled from your tyranny to a then uncultivated and inhospitable country, where they exposed themselves to almost all the hardships to which human nature is liable; and, among others, to the cruelties of a savage foe the most subtle, and I will take upon me to say the most formidable, of any people upon the face of the earth; and yet, actuated by principles of true English liberty our American brethren met all the hardships with pleasure, compared with those they steered in their own country from the hands of those that should have been their friends. They nourished by your indulgence! They grew by your neglect of them! As soon as you began to care about them, that care was exercised in sending persons to rule them, in one department and another, who were, perhaps, the deputies of deputies to some members of this House, sent to spy out their liberties, to misrepresent their actions, and to prey upon them;--men whose behavior, on many occasions, has caused the blood of those sons of liberty to recoil within them; men promoted to the highest seats of justice,--some who, to my knowledge, were glad by going to a foreign country, to escape being brought to the bar of a court of justice in their own. They protected by your arms! They have nobly taken up arms in your defence;--have exerted a valor, amid their constant and laborious industry, for the defence of a country whose frontier was drenched in blood, while its interior parts yielded all its little savings to your emolument. And, believe me,--remember I this day told you so,--that same spirit of freedom which actuated that people at first will accompany them still; but prudence forbids me to explain myself further. Heaven knows I do not at this time speak from motives of party heat. What I deliver are the genuine sentiments of my heart. However superior to me, in general knowledge and experience, the respectable body of this House may be, yet I claim to know more of America than most of you, having seen that country and been conversant with its affairs. The people, I believe, are as truly loyal as any subjects the king has; but they are a people jealous of their liberties, and who, if those liberties should ever be violated, will vindicate them to the last drop of their blood. Isaac Barré. VIII. WEBSTER'S PLEA FOR DARTMOUTH COLLEGE. The Supreme Court of the United States held its session that winter in a mean apartment of moderate size--the Capitol not having been built after its destruction in 1814. The audience, when the case came on, was therefore small, consisting chiefly of legal men, the élite of the profession throughout the country. Mr. Webster entered upon his argument in the calm tone of easy and dignified conversation. His matter was so completely at his command that he scarcely looked at his brief, but went on for more than four hours with a statement so luminous, and a chain of reasoning so easy to be understood, and yet approaching so nearly to absolute demonstration, that he seemed to carry with him every man of his audience without the slightest effort or weariness on either side. It was hardly eloquence, in the strict sense of the term; it was pure reason. Now and then, for a sentence or two, his eye flashed and his voice swelled into a bolder note, as he uttered some emphatic thought; but he instantly fell back into the tone of earnest conversation, which ran throughout the great body of his speech. The argument ended. Mr. Webster stood for some moments silent before the court, while every eye was fixed intently upon him. At length, addressing the chief justice, Marshall, he proceeded thus:-- "This, Sir, is my case! It is the case, not merely of that humble institution, it is the case of every college in our land. It is more. It is the case of every eleemosynary institution throughout the country,--of all those great charities founded by the piety of our ancestors to alleviate human misery; and scatter blessings along the pathway of life. It is more! It is, in some sense, the case of every man among us who has property of which he may be stripped; for the question is simply this: Shall our State legislatures be allowed to take that which is not their own, to turn it from its original use, and apply it to such ends or purposes as they, in their discretion, shall see fit? "Sir, you may destroy this little institution; it is weak; it is in your hands! I know it is one of the lesser lights in the literary horizon of our country. You may put it out. But if you do so, you must carry through your work! You must extinguish one after another, all those great lights of science which, for more than a century, have thrown their radiance over our land! "It is, Sir, as I have said, a small college. And yet, there are those who love it----." Here the feelings which he had thus far succeeded in keeping down, broke forth. His lips quivered; his firm cheeks trembled with emotion; his eyes were filled with tears, his voice choked, and he seemed struggling to the utmost simply to gain that mastery over himself which might save him from an unmanly burst of feeling. I will not attempt to give you the few broken words of tenderness in which he went on to speak of his attachment to the college. The whole seemed to be mingled throughout with the recollections of father, mother, brother, and all the trials and privations through which he had made his way into life. Every one saw that it was wholly unpremeditated, a pressure on his heart, which sought relief in words and tears. The court-room during these two or three minutes presented an extraordinary spectacle. Chief Justice Marshall, with his tall and gaunt figure, bent over as if to catch the slightest whisper, the deep furrows of his cheek expanded with emotion, and eyes suffused with tears. Mr. Justice Washington at his side,--with his small and emaciated frame, and countenance more like marble than I ever saw on any other human being,--leaning forward with an eager, troubled look; and the remainder of the court, at the two extremities, pressing, as it were, toward a single point, while the audience below were wrapping themselves round in closer folds beneath the bench to catch each look and every movement of the speaker's face. If a painter could give us the scene on canvas,--those forms and countenances, and Daniel Webster as he then stood in the midst,--it would be one of the most touching pictures in the history of eloquence. One thing it taught me, that the pathetic depends not merely on the words uttered, but still more on the estimate we put upon him who utters them. There was not one among the strong-minded men of that assembly who could think it unmanly to weep, when he saw standing before him the man who had made such an argument, melted into the tenderness of a child. Mr. Webster had now recovered his composure, and fixing his keen eye on the Chief Justice, said in that deep tone with which he sometimes thrilled the heart of an audience,-- "Sir, I know not how others feel, (glancing at the opponents of the college before him,) but, for myself when I see my Alma Mater surrounded, like Caesar in the senate-house, by those who are reiterating stab upon stab, I would not, for my right hand, have her turn to me, and say Et tu quoque, mi fili! And thou, too, my son!" He sat down. There was a deathlike stillness throughout the room for some moments; every one seemed to be slowly recovering himself and coming gradually back to his ordinary range of thought and feeling. C. A. Goodrich. IX. THE FOUNDERS OF BOSTON. On this occasion, it is proper to speak of the founders of Our city, and of their glory. Now in its true acceptation, the term glory expresses the splendor which emanates from virtue, in the act of producing general and permanent good. Right conceptions, then, of the glory of our ancestors, are to be obtained only by analyzing their virtues. These virtues, indeed, are not seen charactered in breathing bronze, or in living marble. Our ancestors have left no Corinthian temples on our hills, no Gothic cathedrals on our plains, no proud pyramid, no storied obelisk, in our cities. But mind is there. Sagacious enterprise is there. An active, vigorous, intelligent, moral population throng our cities, and predominate in our fields;--men, patient of labor, submissive to law, respectful to authority, regardful of right, faithful to liberty. These are the monuments of our ancestors. They stand immutable and immortal, in the social, moral, and intellectual condition of their descendants. They exist in the spirit which their precepts instilled, and their example implanted. It was to this spot, during twelve successive years, that the real body of those just settlers emigrated. In this place, they either fixed permanently their abode, or took their departure from it, for the coast or the interior. Whatever honor devolves on this metropolis, from the events connected with its first settlement, is not solitary or exclusive; it is shared with Massachusetts; with New England; in some sense, with the whole United States. For what part of this wide empire, be it sea or shore, lake or river, mountain or valley, have the descendants of the first settlers of New England not traversed; what depth of forest not penetrated? what danger of nature or man not defied? Where is the cultivated field, in redeeming which from the wilderness, their vigor has not been displayed? Where, amid unsubdued nature, by the side of the first log-hut of the settler, does the school-house stand, and the church-spire rise, unless the sons of New England are there? Where does improvement advance, under the active energy of willing hearts and ready hands, prostrating the moss-covered monarch of the wood, and from their ashes, amid their charred roots, bidding the green sward and the waving harvest to unspring, and the spirit of the fathers of New England is not seen, hovering and shedding around the benign influences of sound, social, moral, and religious institutions, stronger and more enduring than knotted oak or tempered steel? The swelling tide of their descendants has spread upon our coasts, ascended our rivers, taken possession of our plains. Already it encircles our lakes. At this hour, the rushing noise of the advancing wave startles the wild beast in his lair among the prairies of the West. Soon it shall be seen climbing the Rocky Mountains, and, as it dashes over their cliffs, shall be hailed by the dwellers on the Pacific, as the harbinger of the coming blessings of safety, liberty, and truth. Pres. Quincy. X. THE AMERICAN SAILOR. Look to your history--that part of it which the world knows by heart,--and you will find on its brightest page the glorious achievements of the American sailor. Whatever his country has done to disgrace him, and break his spirit, he has never disgraced her;--he has always been ready to serve her; he always has served her faithfully and effectually. He has often been weighed in the balance, and never found wanting. The only fault ever found with him is, that he sometimes fights ahead of his orders. The world has no match for him, man for man; and he asks no odds, and he cares for no odds, when the cause of humanity or the glory of his country calls him to fight. Who, in the darkest days of our Revolution, carried your flag into the very chops of the British Channel, bearded the lion in his den, and woke the echoes of old Albion's hills by the thunders of his cannon, and the shouts of his triumph? It was the American sailor. And the names of John Paul Jones, and the Bon Homme Richard, will go down the annals of time forever. Who struck the first blow that humbled the Barbary flag--which, for a hundred years, had been the terror of Christendom,--drove it from the Mediterranean, and put an end to the infamous tribute it had been accustomed to extort? It was the American sailor, and the name of Decatur and his gallant companions will be as lasting as monumental brass. In the year 1812, when your arms on shore were covered by disaster,--when Winchester had been defeated, when the army of the Northwest had surrendered, and when the feeling of despondency hung like a cloud over the land,--who first relit the fires of national glory, and made the welkin ring with the shouts of victory? It was the American sailor. And the names of Hull and the Constitution will be remembered as long as we have left anything worth remembering. The wand of British invincibility was broken when the flag of the Guerrière came down. That one event was worth more to the Republic than all the money which has ever been expended for the navy. Since that day the navy has had no stain upon its escutcheon, but has been cherished as your pride and glory. And the American sailor has established a reputation throughout the world,--in peace and in war, in storm and in battle,--for heroism and prowess unsurpassed. He shrinks from no danger, he dreads no foe, he yields to no superior. No shoals are too dangerous, no seas too boisterous, no climate too rigorous for him. The burning sun of the tropic cannot make him effeminate, nor can the eternal winter of the polar seas paralyze his energies. R. F. Stockton. XI. MORALITY, THE FOUNDATION OF NATIONAL GREATNESS. When we look forward to the probable growth of this country; when we think of the millions of human beings who are to spread over our present territory; of the career of improvement and glory open to this new people; of the impulse which free institutions, if prosperous, may be expected to give to philosophy, religion, science, literature, and arts; of the vast field in which the experiment is to be made, of what the unfettered powers of man may achieve; of the bright page of history which our fathers have filled, and of the advantages under which their toils and virtues have placed us for carrying on their work;--when we think of all this, can we help, for a moment, surrendering ourselves to bright visions of our country's glory before which all the glories of the past are to fade away? Is it presumption to say that, if just to ourselves and all nations, we shall be felt through this whole continent, that we shall spread our language, institutions, and civilization, through a wider space than any nation has yet filled with a like beneficent influence? And are we prepared to barter these hopes, this sublime moral empire, for conquests by force? Are we prepared to sink to the level of unprincipled nations, to content ourselves with a vulgar, guilty greatness, to adopt in our youth maxims and ends which must brand our future with sordidness, aggression, and shame? This country cannot, without peculiar infamy, run the common race of national rapacity. Our origin, institutions, and position are peculiar, and all favor an upright honorable course. Why cannot we rise to noble conceptions of our destiny? Why do we not feel, that our work as a nation is to carry freedom, religion, science, and a noble form of human nature over this continent? And why do we not remember, that to diffuse these blessings we must first cherish them in our own borders; and that whatever deeply and permanently corrupts us, will make our spreading influence a curse, not a blessing, to this new world? I am not prophet enough to read our fate. I believe, indeed, that we are to make our futurity for ourselves. I believe, that a nation's destiny lies in its character, in the principles which govern its policy, and bear rule in the hearts of its citizens. I take my stand on God's moral and eternal law. A nation, renouncing and defying this, cannot be free, cannot be great. W. E. Channing. XII. INTEMPERANCE. Among the evils of intemperance, much importance is given to the poverty of which it is the cause. But this evil, great as it is, is yet light, in comparison with the essential evil of intemperance. What matters it, that a man be poor, if he carry into his poverty the spirit, energy, reason, and virtues of a man? What matters it, that a man must, for a few years, live on bread and water? How many of the richest are reduced, by disease, to a worse condition than this? Honest, virtuous, noble-minded poverty, is comparatively a light evil. The ancient philosopher chose it, as a condition of virtue. It has been the lot of many a Christian. The poverty of the intemperate man owes its great misery to its cause. He who makes himself a beggar, by having made himself a brute, is miserable indeed. He who has no solace, who has only agonizing recollections and harrowing remorse, as he looks on his cold hearth, his scanty table, his ragged children, has indeed to bear a crushing weight of woe. That he suffers, is a light thing. That he has brought on himself this suffering by the voluntary extinction of his reason, that is the terrible thought, the intolerable curse. Intemperance is to be pitied and abhorred for its own sake, much more than for its outward consequences. These owe their chief bitterness to their criminal source. We speak of the miseries which the drunkard carries to his family. But take away his own brutality, and how lightened would be these miseries! We talk of his wife and children in rags. Let the rags continue; but suppose them to be the effects of an innocent cause. Suppose his wife and children bound to him by a strong love, which a life of labor for their support, and of unlearned kindness has awakened; suppose them to know that his toils for their welfare had broken down his frame; suppose him able to say, "We are poor in this world's goods, but rich in affection and religious trust. I am going from you; but I leave you to the Father of the fatherless, and to the widow's God." Suppose this; and how changed these rags!--how changed the cold, naked room! The heart's warmth can do much to withstand the winter's cold;--and there is hope, there is honor, in this virtuous indigence. What breaks the heart of the drunkard's wife? It is not that he is poor, but that he is a drunkard. Instead of that bloated face, now distorted with passion, now robbed of every gleam of intelligence, if the wife could look on an affectionate countenance, which had, for years, been the interpreter of a well-principled mind and faithful heart, what an overwhelming load would be lifted from her! It is a husband, whose touch is polluting, whose infirmities are the witness of his guilt, who has blighted all her hopes, who has proved false to the vow which made her his; it is such a husband who makes home a hell,--not one whom toil and disease and Providence have cast on the care of wife and children. We look too much at the consequences of vice,--too little at the vice itself. It is vice which is the chief weight of what we call its consequences,--vice, which is the bitterness in the cup of human woe. W. E. Channing. XIII. INCONSISTENT EXPECTATIONS. This world may be considered as a great mart of commerce, where fortune exposes to our view various commodities,--riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, knowledge. Everything is marked at a settled price,--our time, our labor, our ingenuity, is so much ready money, which we are to lay out to the best advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject; but stand to your own judgment, and do not, like children, when you have purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess another which you did not purchase. Such is the force of well-regulated industry that a steady and vigorous exertion of our faculties, directed to one end, will generally insure success. Would you, for instance, be rich? Do you think that single point worth the sacrifice of everything else? You may then be rich. Thousands have become so, from the lowest beginnings, by toil, and patient diligence, and attention to the minutest articles of expense and profit. But you must give up the pleasures of leisure, of mental ease, of a free, unsuspicious temper. If you preserve your integrity, it must be a coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high and lofty notions of morals which you brought with you from the schools, must be considerably lowered, and mixed with the baser alloy of a jealous and worldly-minded prudence. You must learn to do hard, lf not unjust things; and as for the nice embarrassments of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is necessary to get rid of them as fast as possible. You must shut your heart against the Muses, and be content to feed your understanding with plain household truths. In short, you must not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your taste, or refine your sentiments, but must keep on in one beaten track, without turning aside either to the right or to the left. "But you say, I cannot submit to drudgery like this; I feel a spirit above it." 'Tis well, be above it then; only do not repine that you are not rich. Is knowledge the pearl of price in your estimation? That, toy may be purchased by steady application, and long solitary study and reflection. Bestow these, and you shall be learned. "But," says the man of letters, "what a hardship is it, that many an illiterate fellow, who cannot construe the motto of the arms on his coach, shall raise a fortune and make a figure, while I have little more than the common conveniences of life!" Was it, then, to raise a fortune, that you consumed the sprightly hours of youth in study and retirement? Was it to be rich that you grew pale over the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness from the Greek and Roman springs? You have then mistaken your path, and ill employed your industry. "What reward have I then, for all my labor?" What reward! A large, comprehensive soul, well purged from vulgar fears, and perturbations, and prejudices; able to comprehend and interpret the works of man,--of God; a rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, furnished with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection; a perpetual spring of fresh ideas, and the conscious dignity of superior intelligence. Good Heaven! What other reward can you ask besides! "But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Providence, that such a one, who is a mean, dirty fellow, should have amassed wealth enough to buy half a nation?" Not in the least. He made himself a mean, dirty fellow for that very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his liberty for it; and will you envy him his bargain? Will you hang your head and blush in his presence, because he outshines you in equipage and show? Lift up your brow with a noble confidence, and say to yourself "I have not these things, it is true; but it is because I have not sought, because I have not desired them; it is because I possess something better. I have chosen my lot; I am content and satisfied." The characteristic mark of a great and noble mind is to choose some high and worthy object, and pursue that object through life. Mrs. Barbauld. XIV. THE PATRIOT'S SWORD VINDICATED. But my Lord, I dissented from the resolutions before us, for other reasons. I dissented from them, because I felt that my giving them my assent, I should have pledged myself to the unqualified repudiation of physical force in all countries, at all times, and under every circumstance. This I could not do. For, my Lord, I do not abhor the use of arms in the vindication of national rights. There are times, when arms will alone suffice, and when political ameliorations call for a drop of blood, and many thousand drops of blood. Opinion, I admit, will operate against opinion. But, as the honorable member for Kilkenny has observed, force must be used against force. The soldier is proof against an argument, but he is not proof against a bullet The man that will listen to reason, let him be reasoned with. But it is the weaponed arm of the patriot that can alone prevail against battalioned despotism. Then, my Lord, I do not condemn the use of arms as immoral, nor do I conceive it profane to say that the King of Heaven--the Lord of Hosts! the God of Battles!--bestows his benediction upon those who unsheathe the sword in the hour of a nation's peril. From that evening, on which, in the valley of Bethulia, he nerved the arm of the Jewish girl to smite the drunken tyrant in his tent, down to our day in which he has blessed the insurgent chivalry of the Belgian priest, his almighty hand hath ever been stretched forth from his Throne of Light, to consecrate the flag of freedom--to bless the patriot's sword! Be it in the defense, or be it in the assertion of a people's liberty, I hail the sword as a sacred weapon; and if, my Lord, it has sometimes taken the shape of the serpent and reddened the shroud of the oppressor with too deep a dye, like the anointed rod of the High Priest, it has at other times, and as often, blossomed into celestial flowers to deck the freeman's brow. Abhor the sword--stigmatize the sword? No, my Lord, for, in the passes of the Tyrol, it cut to pieces the banner of the Bavarian, and, through those cragged passes, struck a path to fame for the present insurrectionist of Inspruck! Abhor the sword--stigmatize the sword? No, my Lord; for at its blow, a giant nation started from the waters of the Atlantic, and by its redeeming magic, and in the quivering of its crimson light, the crippled Colony sprang into the attitude of a proud Republic--prosperous, limitless, and invincible! Abhor the sword--stigmatize the sword? No, my Lord; for it swept the Dutch marauders out of the fine old towns of Belgium--scourged them back to their own phlegmatic swamps--and knocked their flag and scepter, their laws and bayonets into the sluggish waters of the Scheldt. My Lord, I learned that it was the right of a nation to govern herself--not in this hall, but upon the ramparts of Antwerp. This, the first article of a nation's creed, I learned upon those ramparts, where freedom was justly estimated, and the possession of the precious gift was purchased by the effusion of generous blood. My Lord, I honor the Belgians, I admire the Belgians, I love the Belgians for their enthusiasm, their courage, their success; and I, for one, will not stigmatize, for I do not abhor the means by which they obtained a citizen king, a chamber of deputies. T. F. Meagher. XV. ON BEING FOUND GUILTY OF TREASON. A jury of my countrymen have found me guilty of the crime for which I stood indicted. For this I entertain not the slightest feeling of resentment towards them. Influenced, as they must have been, by the charge of the lord chief justice, they could have found no other verdict. What of that charge? Any strong observations on it I feel sincerely would ill befit the solemnity of this scene; but I would earnestly beseech of you, my Lord,--you who preside on that bench,--when the passions and prejudices of this hour have passed away, to appeal to your own conscience, and to ask of it, was your charge as it ought to have been, impartial and indifferent between the subject and the crown? My Lords, you may deem this language unbecoming in me, and perhaps it will seal my fate. But I am here to speak the truth, whatever it may cost; I am here to regret nothing I have ever done--to retract nothing I have ever said. I am here to crave, with no lying lip the life I consecrate to the liberty of my country. Far from it, even here--here, where the thief the libertine, the murderer, have left their footprints in the dust; here on this spot, where the shadows of death surround me, and from which I see my early grave in an appointed soil opened to receive me--even here, encircled by these terrors, the hope which has beckoned me to the perilous sea upon which I have been wrecked still consoles, animates, enraptures me. No; I do not despair of my poor old country--her peace, her liberty, her glory. For that country I can do no more than bid her hope. To lift this island up,--to make her a benefactor to humanity, instead of being the meanest beggar in the world; to restore her to her native powers and her ancient constitution,--this has been my ambition, and this ambition has been my crime. Judged by the law of England, I know this crime entails the penalty of death; but the history of Ireland explains this crime, and justifies it. Judged by that history, I am no criminal, I deserve no punishment. Judged by that history the treason of which I stand convicted loses all its guilt, is sanctioned as a duty, will be ennobled as a sacrifice. With these sentiments, my Lord, I await the sentence of the court. Having done what I felt to be my duty,--having spoken what I felt to be the truth, as I have done on every other occasion of my short career,--I now bid farewell to the country of my birth, my passion, and my death; the country whose misfortunes have invoked my sympathies; whose factions I have sought to still; whose intellect I have prompted to a lofty aim; whose freedom has been my fatal dream. I offer to that country, as a proof of the love I bear her, and the sincerity with which I thought and spoke and struggled for her freedom, the life of a young heart, and with that life all the hopes, the honors the endearments, of a happy and an honored home. Pronounce, then, my Lords, the sentence which the laws direct, and I will be prepared to hear it. I trust I shall be prepared to meet its execution. I hope to be able, with a pure heart and perfect composure, to appear before a higher tribunal--a tribunal where a judge of infinite goodness as well as of justice will preside, and where, my Lords, many, many of the judgments of this world will be reversed. T. F. Meagher. XVI. ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN TROOPS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF LONG ISLAND. The time is now near at hand, which must probably determine whether Americans are to be freemen or slaves; whether they are to have any property they can call their own; whether their houses and farms are to be pillaged and destroyed, and themselves consigned to a state of wretchedness from which no human efforts will deliver them. The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves us only the choice of a brave resistance or the most abject submission. We have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or to die. Our own, our country's honor, calls upon us for a vigorous and manly exertion; and, if we now shamefully fail, we shall become infamous to the whole world. Let us, then, rely on the goodness of our cause and the aid of the Supreme Being, in whose hands victory is, to animate and encourage us to great and noble actions. The eyes of all our countrymen are now upon us; and we shall have their blessings and praises, if happily we are the instrument of saving them from the tyranny meditated against them. Let us, therefore, animate and encourage each other, and allow the whole world that a freeman contending for liberty on his own ground, is superior to any slavish mercenary on earth. Liberty, property, life, and honor, are all at stake. Upon your courage and conduct rest the hopes of our bleeding and insulted country. Our wives, children, and parents expect safety from us only; and they have every reason to believe that Heaven will crown with success so just a cause. The enemy will endeavor to intimidate by show and appearance; but remember they have been repulsed on various occasions by a few brave Americans. Their cause is bad,--their men are conscious of it; and, if opposed with firmness and coolness on their first onset, with our advantage of works, and knowledge of the ground, the victory is most assuredly ours. Every good soldier will be silent and attentive, wait for orders, and reserve his fire until he is sure of doing execution. Washington. XVII. CHARACTER OF CHATHAM. The secretary stood alone; modern degeneracy had not reached him. Original and unaccommodating, the features of his character had the hardihood of antiquity. His august mind overawed majesty; and one of his sovereigns thought royalty so impaired in his presence, that he conspired to remove him, in order to be relieved from his superiority. No state chicanery, no narrow system of vicious polities, no idle contest for ministerial victories, sunk him to the vulgar level of the great; but, overbearing, persuasive, and impracticable, his object was England, his ambition was fame. Without dividing, he destroyed party; without corrupting, he made a venal age unanimous. France sunk beneath him. With one hand he smote the house of Bourbon, and wielded in the other the democracy of England. The sight of his mind was infinite; and his schemes were to affect, not England, not the present age only, but Europe and posterity. Wonderful were the means by which these schemes were accomplished,--always seasonable, always adequate, the suggestions of an understanding animated by ardor, and enlightened by prophecy. The ordinary feelings which make life amiable and indolent, were unknown to him. No domestic difficulties, no domestic weakness, reached him; but, aloof from the sordid occurrences of life, and unsullied by its intercourse, he came occasionally into our system, to counsel, and to decide. A character so exalted, so strenuous, so various, so authoritative, astonished a corrupt age; and the treasury trembled at the name of Chatham, through all her classes of venality. Corruption imagined, indeed, that she had found defects in this statesman, and talked much of the inconsistency of his glory and much of the ruin of his victories; but the history of his country, and the calamities of the enemy, answered and refuted her. Nor were his political abilities his only talents; his eloquence was an era in the senate, peculiar and spontaneous, familiarly expressing gigantic sentiments and instinctive wisdom; not like the torrent of Demosthenes, or the splendid conflagration of Tully; it resembled sometimes the thunder, and sometimes the music of the spheres. He did not, like Murray, conduct the understanding through the painful subtlety of argumentation; nor was he, like Townshend, forever on the rack of exertion; but rather lightened upon the subject, and reached the point by the flashings of the mind, which, like those of his eye, were felt, but could not be followed. Upon the whole, there was in this man something that would create, subvert, or reform; an understanding, a spirit, and an eloquence, to summon mankind to society, or to break the bonds of slavery asunder; something to rule the wilderness of free minds with unbounded authority; something that could establish, or overwhelm empire, and strike a blow in the world, that should resound through the universe. H. Grattan. XVIII. THE PRESS AND THE UNION. It were good for us to remember that nothing which tends, however distantly, however imperceptibly, to hold these States together, is beneath the notice of a considerate patriotism. It were good to remember that some of the institutions and devices by which former confederacies have been preserved, our circumstances wholly forbid us to employ. The tribes of Israel and Judah came up three times a year to the holy and beautiful city, and united in prayer and praise and sacrifice, in listening to that thrilling poetry, in swelling that matchless song, which celebrated the triumphs of their fathers by the Red Sea, at the fords of Jordan, and on the high places of the field of Barak's victory. But we have no feast of the Passover, or of the Tabernacles, or of the Commemoration. The States of Greece erected temples of the gods by a common contribution, and worshiped in them. They consulted the same oracle; they celebrated the same national festival: mingled their deliberations in the same amphictyonic and subordinate assemblies, and sat together upon the free benches to hear their glorious history read aloud, in the prose of Heroditus, the poetry of Homer and of Pindar. We have built no national temples but the Capitol; we consult no common oracle but the Constitution. We can meet together to celebrate no national festival. But the thousand tongues of the press--clearer far than the silver trumpet of the jubilee,--louder than the voice of the herald at the games,--may speak and do speak to the whole people, without calling them from their homes or interrupting them in their employments. Happy if they should speak, and the people should hear, those things which pertain at least to their temporal and national salvation! R. Choate. XIX. AMERICAN LITERATURE AND THE UNION. In leaving this subject, I cannot help suggesting, at the hazard of being thought whimsical, that a literature of such writings as these, embodying the romance of the whole revolutionary and ante-revolutionary history of the United States, might do something to perpetuate the Union itself. The influence of a rich literature of passion and fancy upon society must not be denied merely because you cannot measure it by the yard or detect it by the barometer. Poems and romances which shall be read in every parlor, by every fireside, in every school-house, behind every counter, in every printing-office, in every lawyer's office, at every weekly evening club, in all the States of this confederacy, must do something, along with more palpable if not more powerful agents, towards moulding and fixing that final, grand, complex result,--the national character. A keen, well instructed judge of such things said, if he might write the ballads of a people, he cared little who made its laws. Let me say, if a hundred men of genius would extract such a body of romantic literature from our early history as Scott has extracted from the history of England and Scotland, and as Homer extracted from that of Greece, it perhaps would not be so alarming if demagogues should preach, or governors practice, or executives tolerate nullification. Such a literature would be a common property of all the States,--a treasure of common ancestral recollections,--more noble and richer than our thousand million acres of public land; and, unlike that land, it would be indivisible. It would be as the opening of a great fountain for the healing of the nations. It would turn back our thoughts from these recent and overrated diversities of interest,--these controversies about negro-cloth, coarse-wooled sheep, and cotton bagging,--to the day when our fathers walked hand in hand together through the valley of the Shadow of Death in the War of Independence. Reminded of our fathers, we should remember that we are brethren. The exclusiveness of State pride,--the narrow selfishness of a mere local policy and the small jealousies of vulgar minds, would be merged in an expanded comprehensive, constitutional sentiment of old, family, fraternal regard. It would reässemble, as it were, the people of America in one vast congregation. It would rehearse in their hearing all things which God had done for them in the old time; it would proclaim the law once more; and then it would bid them join in that grandest and most affecting solemnity,--a national anthem of thanksgiving for the deliverance, of honor for the dead, of proud prediction for the future! R. Choate. XX. THE LOVE OF READING. Let the case of a busy lawyer testify to the priceless value of the love of reading. He comes home, his temples throbbing, his nerves shattered, from a trial of a week; surprised and alarmed by the charge of the judge, and pale with anxiety about the verdict of the next morning, not at all satisfied with what he has done himself, though he does not yet see how he could have improved it; recalling with dread and self-disparagement, if not with envy, the brilliant effort of his antagonist, and tormenting himself with the vain wish that he could have replied to it,--and altogether a very miserable subject, and in as unfavorable a condition to accept comfort from a wife and children as poor Christian in the first three pages of the "Pilgrim's Progress." With a superhuman effort he opens his book, and in the twinkling of an eye he is looking into the full "orb of Homeric or Miltonic song;" or he stands in the crowd--breathless, yet swayed as forests or the sea by winds--hearing and to judge the pleadings for the crown; or the philosophy which soothed Cicero or Boethius in their afflictions, in exile, prison, and the contemplation of death, breathes over his petty cares like the sweet south; or Pope or Horace laughs him into good humor; or he walks with �neas and the Sibyl in the mild light of the world of the laurelled dead; and the court-house is as completely forgotten as the dreams of a pre-adamite life. Well may he prize that endeared charm, so effectual and safe, without which the brain had long ago been chilled by paralysis, or set on fire of insanity! R. Choate. XXI. ELOQUENCE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. Men heard that eloquence in 1776, in that manifold and mighty appeal by the genius and wisdom of that new America, to persuade the people to take on the name of nation, and begin its life. By how many pens and tongues that great pleading was conducted; through how many months before the date of the actual Declaration, it went on, day after day; in how many forms, before how many assemblies, from the village newspaper, the more careful pamphlet, the private conversation, the town-meeting, the legislative bodies of particular colonies, up to the hall of the immortal old Congress, and the master intelligences of lion heart and eagle eye, that ennobled it,--all this you know. But the leader in that great argument was John Adams, of Massachusetts. He, by concession of all men, was the orator of that Revolution,--the Revolution in which a nation was born. Other and renowned names, by written or spoken eloquence, coöperated effectively, splendidly, to the grand result,--Samuel Adams, Samuel Chase, Jefferson, Henry James Otis in an earlier stage. Each of these, and a hundred more, within circles of influence wider or narrower, sent forth, scattering broadcast, the seed of life in the ready virgin soil. Each brought some specialty of gift to the work: Jefferson, the magic of style, and the habit and the power of delicious dalliance with those large, fair ideas of freedom and equality, so dear to man, so irresistible in that day; Henry, the indescribable and lost spell of the speech of the emotions, which fills the eye, chills the blood, turns the cheek pale,--the lyric phase of eloquence, the "fire-water," as Lamartine has said, of the Revolution, instilling into the sense and the soul the sweet madness of battle; Samuel Chase, the tones of anger, confidence, and pride, and the art to inspire them. John Adams's eloquence alone seemed to have met every demand of the time; as a question of right, as a question of prudence, as a question of immediate opportunity, as a question of feeling, as a question of conscience, as a question of historical and durable and innocent glory, he knew it all through and through; and in that mighty debate, which, beginning in Congress as far back as March or February; 1776, had its close on the second and on the fourth of July, he presented it in all its aspects, to every passion and affection,--to the burning sense of wrong, exasperated at length beyond control by the shedding of blood; to grief, anger, self-respect; to the desire of happiness and of safety; to the sense of moral obligation, commanding that the duties of life are more than life; to courage, which fears God, and knows no other fear; to the craving of the colonial heart, of all hearts, for the reality and the ideal of country, and which cannot be filled unless the dear native land comes to be breathed on by the grace, clad in the robes, armed with the thunders, admitted an equal to the assembly of the nations; to that large and heroical ambition which would build States: that imperial philanthropy which would open to liberty an asylum here, and give to the sick heart, hard fare, fettered conscience of the children of the Old World, healing, plenty, and freedom to worship God,--to these passions, and these ideas, he presented the appeal for months, day after day, until, on the third of July, 1776, he could record the result, writing thus to his wife: "Yesterday the greatest question was decided which ever was debated in America; and a greater, perhaps, never was, nor will be, among men." Of that series of spoken eloquence all is perished; not one reported sentence has come down to us. The voice through which the rising spirit of a young nation sounded out its dream of life is hushed. The great spokesman, of an age unto an age, is dead. And yet, of those lost words is not our whole America one immortal record and reporter? Do ye not read them, deep cut, defying the tooth of time, on all the marble of our greatness? How they blaze on the pillars of our Union! How is their deep sense unfolded and interpreted by every passing hour! How do they come to life, and grow audible, as it were, in the brightening rays of the light he foresaw, as the fabled invisible heart gave out its music to the morning! Yes, in one sense, they are perished. No parchment manuscript, no embalming printed page, no certain traditions of living or dead, have kept them. Yet, from out and from off all things around us,--our laughing harvests, our songs of labor, our commerce on all the seas, our secure homes, our school-houses and churches, our happy people, our radiant and stainless flag,--how they come pealing, pealing, Independence now, and Independence forever! R. Choate. XXII. TRIBUTE TO WEBSTER. They say he was ambitious! Yes, as Ames said of Hamilton, "there is no doubt that he desired glory; and that, feeling his own force, he longed to deck his brow with the wreath of immortality." But I believe he would have yielded his arm, his frame to be burned, before he would have sought to grasp the highest prize of earth by any means, by any organization, by any tactics, by any speech, which in the least degree endangered the harmony of the system. They say, too, he loved New England! He did love New Hampshire--that old granite world--the crystal hills, gray and cloud-topped; the river, whose murmur lulled his cradle; the old hearthstone; the grave of father and mother. He loved Massachusetts, which adopted and honored him--that sounding sea-shore, that charmed elm-tree seat, that reclaimed farm, that choice herd, that smell of earth, that dear library, those dearer friends; but the "sphere of his duties was his true country." Dearly he loved you, for he was grateful for the open arms with which you welcomed the stranger and sent him onwards and upwards. But when the crisis came, and the winds were let lose, and that sea of March "wrought and was tempestuous," then you saw that he knew even you only as you were, American citizens; then you saw him rise to the true nature and stature of American citizenship; then you read on his brow only what he thought of the whole Republic; then you saw him fold the robes of his habitual patriotism around him, and counsel for all--for all. So, then, he served you--"to be pleased with his service was your affair, not his." And now what would he do, what would he be if he were here to-day? I do not presume to know. But what a loss we have in him! I have read that in some hard battle, when the tide was running against him, and his ranks were breaking, some one in the agony of a, need of generalship exclaimed, "Oh for an hour of Dundee!" So say I, Oh for an hour of Webster now! Oh for one more roll of that thunder inimitable! One more peal of that clarion! One more grave and bold counsel of moderation! One more throb of American feeling! One more Farewell Address! And then might he ascend unhindered to the bosom of his Father and his God. R. Choate. XXIII. THE FRUITS OF SKILFUL LABOR AND CULTIVATED INTELLECT. Perhaps as striking an illustration on a large scale as could be desired, of the connection between the best directed and most skilful labor and the most cultivated and most powerful intellect, is afforded by the case of England. British industry as a whole, is among the most splendid and extraordinary things in the history of man. When you consider how small a work-bench it has to occupy altogether, a little stormy island bathed in almost perpetual fogs, without silk, or cotton, or vineyards, or sunshine, and then look at that agriculture, so scientific and so rewarded, that vast net-work of internal intercommunication, the docks, merchant-ships, men-of-war, the trade encompassing the globe, the flag on which the sun never sets,--when you look, above all, at that vast body of useful and manly art, not directed, like the industry of France,--the industry of vanity,--to making pier-glasses and air-balloons and gobelin tapestry and mirrors, to arranging processions and chiselling silver and twisting gold into filigrees, but to clothing the people, to the manufacture of woolen, cotton, and linen cloth, of railroads and chain-cables and canals and anchors and achromatic telescopes, and chronometers to keep the time at sea,--when you think of the vast aggregate mass of their manufacturing and mechanical production, which no statistics can ex-press, and to find a market for which she is planting colonies under every constellation, and by intimidation, by diplomacy, is knocking at the door of every market-house upon the earth,--it is really difficult to restrain our admiration of such a display of energy, labor, and genius, winning bloodless and innocent triumphs everywhere, giving to the age we live in the name of the age of the industry of the people. Now, the striking and the instructive fact is, that exactly in that island workshop, by this very race of artisans, of coal-heavers and woollen manufacturers of machinists and blacksmiths and ship-carpenters, there has been produced and embodied forever, in words that will outlast the mountains as well as the pyramids, a literature which, take it for all in all, is the richest, most profound, most instructive, combining more spirituality with more common sense, springing from more capacious souls, conveying in better wisdom, more conformable to the truth in man, in nature, and in human life, than the literature of any nation that ever existed. That same race, side by side with the unparalleled growth of its industry produces Shakspeare, Milton, Bacon, and Newton, all four at the summit of human thought,--and then, just below these unapproachable fixed lights, a whole firmament of glories, lesser than they, as all created intelligence must be, yet in whose superior rays the age of Augustus, of Leo X., of Louis XIV., all but the age of Pericles, the culture of Greece, pale and fade. And yet the literature of England is not the only, scarcely the most splendid, fruit or form of the mental power and the energetic character of England. That same race, along with their indus try, along with their literature, has built up a jurisprudence which is for substance our law to-day,--has constructed the largest mercantile and war navy, and the largest commercial empire with its pillars encircling the globe, that men ever saw,--has gained greater victories on sea and land than any power in the world,--has erected the smallest spot to the most imperial ascendency recorded in history. The administrative triumphs of her intellect are as conspicuous as her imaginative and her speculative triumphs. Such is mental power. Mark its union with labor and with all greatness; deduce the law; learn the lesson; see how you, too, may grow great. Such an industry as that of England demanded such an intellect as that of England. Sic vobis etian itur ad astra! That way to you, also, glory lies! R. Choate. XXIV. THE EMPIRE OF MIND. Knowledge is power as well as fame. Think of that subtle, all-embracing, plastic, mysterious, irresistible thing called public opinion, the god of this lower world, and consider what a State, or a cluster of States, of marked and acknowledged literary and intellectual lead might do to color and shape that opinion to their will. Consider how winged are words; how electrical, light-like the speed of thought; how awful human sympathy. Consider how soon a wise, a beautiful thought uttered here,--a sentiment of liberty perhaps, or word of succor to the oppressed, of exhortations to duty, to patriotism, to glory, the refutation of a sophism, the unfolding of a truth for which the nation may be better,--how soon a word fitly or wisely spoken here is read on the Upper Mississippi and beneath the orange-groves of Florida, all through the unequalled valley; how vast an audience it gains, into how many bosoms it has access, on how much good soil the seed may rest and spring to life, how easily and fast the fine spirit of truth and beauty goes all abroad upon the face of the world. There is an influence which I would rather see Massachusetts exert on her sisters of this Union, than see her furnish a President every twelve years or command a majority on any division in Congress; and that is such an influence as Athens exerted on the taste and opinion first of Greece, then of Rome, then of the universal modern world; such as she will exert while the race of man exists. This, of all the kinds of empire, was most grateful and innocent and glorious and immortal. This was won by no bargain, by no fraud, by no war of the Peloponnesus, by the shedding of no human blood. It would rest on admiration of the beautiful, the good, the true, in art, in poetry, in thought; and it would last while the emotions, its object, were left in a human soul. It would turn the eye of America hitherwards with love, gratitude and tears, such as those with which we turn to the walk of Socrates beneath the plane-tree, now sere, the summer hour of Cicero, the prison into which philosophy descended to console the spirit of Boethius,-- that room through whose opened window came into the ear of Scott, as he died, the murmur of the gentle Tweed,--love, gratitude, and tears, such as we all yield to those whose immortal wisdom, whose divine verse, whose eloquence of heaven, whose scenes of many-colored life, have held up the show of things to the insatiate desires of the mind, have taught us how to live and how to die! Herein were power, herein were influence, herein were security. Even in the madness of civil war it might survive for refuge and defence! R. Choate. XXV. THE CITY OF OUR LIBERTY. But now that our service of commemoration is ended, let us go hence and meditate on all that it has taught us. You see how long the holy and beautiful city of our liberty and our power has been in building, and by how many hands, and at what cost. You see the towering and steadfast height to which it has gone up, and how its turrets and spires gleam in the rising and setting sun. You stand among the graces of some--your townsmen, your fathers by blood, whose names you bear, whose portraits hang up in your homes, of whose memory you are justly proud--who helped in their day to sink those walls deep in their beds, where neither frost nor earthquake might heave them,--to raise aloft those great arches of stone,--to send up those turrets and spires into the sky. It was theirs to build; remember it is yours, under Providence, to keep the city,--to keep it from the sword of the invader,--to keep it from licentiousness and crime and irreligion, and all that would make it unsafe or unfit to live in,--to keep it from the fires of faction, of civil strife, of party spirit, that might burn up in a day the slow work of a thousand years of glory. Happy, if we shall so perform our duty that they who centuries hence shall dwell among our graces may be able to remember, on some such day as this, in one common service of grateful commemoration, their fathers of the first and the second age of America,--those who through martyrdom and tempest and battle sought liberty, and made her their own,--and those whom neither ease nor luxury, nor the fear of man, nor the worship of man, could prevail on to barter her away! R. Choate. XXVI. SPECIMEN OF THE ELOQUENCE OF JAMES OTIS. England may as well dam up the wafers of the Nile with bulrushes as to fetter the step of Freedom, more proud and firm in this youthful land than where she treads the sequestered glens of Scotland, or couches herself among the magnificent mountains of Switzerland. Arbitrary principles, like those against which we now contend, have cost one king of England his life, another his crown; and they may yet cost a third his most flourishing colonies. We are two millions--one fifth fighting men. We are bold and vigorous, and we call no man master. To the nation, from whom we are proud to derive our origin, we ever were, and we ever will be, ready to yield unforced assistance; but it must not, and it never can be extorted. Some have sneeringly asked, "Are the Americans too poor to pay a few pounds on stamped paper?" No! America, thanks to God and herself is rich. But the right to take ten pounds, implies the right to take a thousand; and what must be the wealth that avarice, aided by power, cannot exhaust? True, the spectre is now small; but the shadow he casts before him is huge enough to darken all this fair land. Others, in sentimental style, talk of the immense debt of gratitude which we owe to England. And what is the amount of this debt? Why, truly, it is the same that the young lion owes to the dam, which has brought it forth on the solitude of the mountain, or left it amid the winds and storms of the desert. We plunged into the wave with the great charter of freedom in our teeth, because the fagot and the torch were behind us. We have waked this New World from its savage lethargy; forests have been prostrated in our path; towns and cities have grown up suddenly as the flowers of the tropics, and the fires in our autumnal woods are scarcely more rapid than the increase of our wealth and population. And do we owe all this to the kind succor of the mother-country? No! We owe it to the tyranny that drove us from her, to the pelting storms which invigorated our helpless infancy. But perhaps others will say, "We ask no money from your gratitude--we only demand that you should pay your own expenses." And who, I pray, is to judge of their necessity? Why, the king--(and with all due reverence to his sacred majesty, he understands the real wants of his distant subjects as little as he does the language of the Choctaws.) Who is to judge concerning the frequency of these demands? The ministry. Who is to judge whether the money is properly expended? The cabinet behind the throne. In every instance, those who take are to judge for those who pay. If this system is suffered to go into operation, we shall have reason to esteem it a great privilege, that rain and dew do not depend upon parliament; otherwise they would soon be taxed and dried. But, thanks to God, there is freedom enough left upon earth to resist such monstrous injustice. The flame of liberty is extinguished in Greece and Rome, but the light of its glowing embers is still bright and strong on the shores of America. Actuated by its sacred influence, we will resist unto death. But we will not countenance anarchy and misrule. The wrongs that a desperate community have heaped upon their enemies, shall be amply and speedily repaired. Still, it may be well for some proud men to remember that a fire is lighted in these colonies which one breath of their king may kindle into such fury that the blood of all England cannot extinguish it. Mrs. M. L. Child. XXVII. WEBSTER IN THE DARTMOUTH COLLEGE CASE. The Dartmouth College case forms an important era in Mr, Webster's life His argument in that case stands out among his other arguments, as his speech in reply to Mr. Hayne, among his other speeches. No better argument has been spoken in the English tongue in the memory of any living man, nor is the child that is born to-day likely to live to hear a better. Its learning is ample but not ostentatious; its logic irresistible; its eloquence vigorous and lofty. Judge Story often spoke with great animation of the effect he then produced upon the court "For the first hour," said he, "we listened to him with perfect astonishment; for the second hour, with perfect delight; and for the third hour with perfect conviction." It is not too much to say that he entered the court on that day a comparatively unknown name, and left it with no rival but Pinkney. All the words he spoke on that occasion have not been recorded. When he had exhausted the resources of learning and logic, his mind passed naturally and simply into a strain of feeling not common to the place. Old recollections and early associations came over him, and the vision of his youth rose up. The genius of the institution where he was nurtured seemed standing by his side in weeds of mourning, with a countenance of sorrow. With suffused eyes, and faltering voice, he broke into an unpremeditated strain of emotion, so strong and so deep, that all who heard him were borne along with it. Heart answered to heart as he spoke, and, when he ceased, the silence and tears of the impassive bench, as well as of the excited audience were a tribute to the truth and power of the feeling by which he had been inspired. G. S. Hillard. XXVIII. THE AMBITION OF WEBSTER. Mr. Webster was an ambitious man. He desired the highest office in the gift of the people. But on this subject, as on all others, there was no concealment in his nature. And ambition is not a weakness unless it be disproportional to the capacity. To have more ambition than ability is to be at once weak and unhappy. With him it was a noble passion, because it rested upon noble powers. He was a man cast in a heroic mould. His thoughts, his wishes, his passions, his aspirations, were all on a grander scale than those of other men. Unexercised capacity is always a source of rusting discontent. The height to which men may rise is in proportion to the upward force of their genius, and they will never be calm till they have attained their predestined elevation. Lord Bacon says, "as in nature things move violently to their place and calmly in their place, so virtue in ambition is violent, in authority, settled and calm." Mr. Webster had a giant's brain and a giant's heart, and he wanted a giant's work. He found repose in those strong conflicts and great duties which crush the weak and madden the sensitive. He thought that, if he were elevated to the highest place, he should so administer the government as to make the country honored abroad, and great and happy at home. He thought, too, that he could do something to make us more truly one people. This, above everything else, was his ambition. And we, who knew him better than others, felt that it was a prophetic ambition, and we honored and trusted him accordingly. G. S. Hillard. XXIX. THE DANGER OF EXCLUSIVE DEVOTION TO BUSINESS. This is a world of inflexible compensations. Nothing is ever given away, but everything is bought and paid for. If, by exclusive and absolute surrender of ourselves to material pursuits, we materialize the mind, we lose that class of satisfactions of which the mind is the region and the source. A young man in business, for instance, begins to feel the exhilarating glow of success, and deliberately determines to abandon himself to its delirious whirl. He says to himself, I will think of nothing but business till I shall have made so much money, and then I will begin a new life. I will gather round me books and pictures and friends. I will have knowledge, taste, and cultivation,--the perfume of scholarship, and winning speech, and graceful manners. I will see foreign countries, and converse with accomplished men. I will drink deep of the fountains of classic lore. Philosophy shall guide me, history shall instruct, and poetry shall charm me. Science shall open to me her world of wonders. I shall remember my present life of drudgery as one recalls a troubled dream when the morning has dawned. He keeps his self-registered vow. He bends his thoughts downward and nails them to the dust. Every power, every affection, every taste, except those which his particular occupa tion calls into play, is left to starve. Over the gates of his mind he writes in letters which he who runs may read, "No admittance except on business." In time he reaches the goal of his hopes; but now insulted Nature begins to claim her revenge. That which was once unnatural is now natural to him. The enforced constraint has become a rigid deformity. The spring of his mind is broken. He can no longer lift his mind from the ground. Books and knowledge and wise discourse, and the amenities of it, and the cordial of friendship, are like words in a strange tongue. To the hard, smooth surface of his soul, nothing genial, graceful, or winning will cling; he cannot even purge his voice of its fawning tone, or pluck from his face the mean, money-getting mask which the child does not look at without ceasing to smile. Amid the graces and ornaments of wealths, he is like a blind man in a picture-gallery. That which he has done he must continue to do. He must accumulate riches which he cannot enjoy and contemplate the dreary prospect of growing old without anything to make age venerable or attractive; for age without wisdom and without knowledge is the winter's cold without the winter's fire G. S. Hillard. XXX. SPEECH OF PATRICK HENRY, IN THE CONVENTION OF DELEGATES OF VIRGINIA, MARCH, 1775. Mr. President, It is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in the great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those, who having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth, to know the worst, and to provide for it. I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know, what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House. Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss! Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations, which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation! Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love! Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation,--the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministers have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them?--Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer on the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light, of which if is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned,--we have remonstrated,--we have supplicated,--we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical bands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned from the foot of the throne. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free,--if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending,--if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of or contest shall be obtained,--we must fight; I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts is all that is left us! XXXI. THE SAME CONCLUDED. They tell us, sir, that we are weak,--unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed; and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone,--it is to the active, the vigilant, the brave. Besides sir we have no election! If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat,--but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged. Their clanking may be heard in the plains of Boston. The war is inevitable,--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come. It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry peace! peace!--but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field. Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Heaven!--I know not what course others may take, but as for me,--give me liberty, or give me death! XXXII. REPLY TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON. My Lords, I am amazed; yes, my Lords, I am amazed at his Grace's speech. The noble Duke cannot look before him, behind him, or on either side of him, without seeing some noble peer who owes his seat in this House to his successful exertion in the profession to which I belong. Does he not feel that it is as honorable to owe it to these, as to being the accident of an accident? To all these noble Lords, the language of the noble Duke is as applicable and insulting as it is to myself But I do not fear to meet it single and alone. No one venerates the peerage more than I do; but, my Lords, I must say, that the peerage solicited me, not I the peerage. Nay, more; I can say and will say that as a Peer of Parliament, as a Speaker of this right honorable House, as Keeper of the Great Seal, as Guardian of his Majesty's conscience, as Lord High Chancellor of England,-nay, even in that character alone, in which the noble Duke would think it an affront to be considered but which character none can deny me,--as a MAN,--I am, at this moment, as respectable,--I beg to leave add, I am as much respected,--as the proudest peer I now look down upon. Lord Thurlow. XXXIII. THE PROSPECTS OF CALIFORNIA. Judging from the past, what have we not a right to expect in the future. The world has never witnessed anything equal or similar to our career hitherto. Scarcely two years ago California was almost an unoccupied wild. With the exception of a præsidium, a mission a pueblo, or a lonely ranch, scattered here and there, at tiresome distances, there was nothing to show that the uniform stillness had ever been broken by the footsteps of civilized man. The agricultural richness of her valley remained unimproved; and the wealth of a world lay entombed in the bosom of her solitary mountains, and on the banks of her unexplored streams. Behold the contrast! The hand of agriculture is now busy in every fertile valley and its toils are remunerated with rewards which in no other portion of the world can be credited. Enterprise has pierced every hill, for hidden treasure, and has heaped up enormous gains. Cities and villages dot the surface of the whole State. Steamers dart along our rivers, and innumerable vessels spread their white wings over our bays. Not Constantinople, upon which the wealth of imperial Rome was lavished,--not St. Petersburg, to found which the arbitrary Czar sacrificed thousands of his subjects, would rival, in rapidity of growth, the fair city which lies before me. Our state is a marvel to ourselves, and a miracle to the rest of the world. Nor is the influence of California confined within her own borders. Mexico, and the islands nestled in the embrace of the Pacific, have felt the quickening breath of her enterprise. With her golden wand, she has touched the prostrate corpse of South American industry, and it has sprung up in the freshness of life. She has caused the hum of busy life to be heard in the wilderness "where rolls the Oregon," and but recently heard no sound, "save its own dashings." Even the wall of Chinese exclusiveness has been broken down, and the children of the sun have come forth to view the splendor of her achievements. But, flattering as has been the past, satisfactory as is the present, it is but a foretaste of the future. It is a trite saying, that we live in an age of great events. Nothing can be more true. But the greatest of all events of the present age is at hand. It needs not the gift of prophecy to predict, that the course of the world's trade is destined soon to be changed. But a few years can elapse before the commerce of Asia and the islands of the Pacific, instead of pursuing the ocean track, by way of Cape Horn or the Cape of Good Hope, or even taking the shorter route of the Isthmus of Darien, or the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, will enter the Golden Gate of California, and deposit its riches in our own city. Hence, on bars of iron, and propelled by steam, it will ascend the mountains and traverse the desert; and having again reached the confines of civilization, will be distributed, through a thousand channels, to every portion of the Union and of Europe. New York will then become what London now is,-the great central point of exchange, the heart of trade, the force of whose contraction and expansion will be felt throughout every artery of the commercial world; and San Francisco will then stand the second city of America. Is this visionary? Twenty years will determine. The world is interested in our success; for a fresh field is opened to its commerce, and a new avenue to the civilization and progress of the human race. Let us, then, endeavor to realize the hopes of Americans, and the expectations of the world. Let us not only be united amongst ourselves, for our own local welfare, but let us strive to cement the common bonds of brother-hood of the whole Union. In our relations to the Federal Government, let us know no South, no North, no East, no West. Wherever American liberty flourishes, let that be our common country! Wherever the American banner waves, let that be our home! Nathaniel Bennett. XXXIV. IN PROSPECT OF WAR Go forth, defenders of your country, accompanied with every auspicious omen; advance with alacrity into the field, when God himself musters the hosts to war. Religion is too much interested in your success not to lend you her aid. She will shed over your enterprise her selectest influence. While you are engaged in the field, many will repair to the closet, many to the sanctuary; the faithful of every name will employ that prayer which has power with God; the feeble hands which are unequal to any other weapon, will grasp the sword of the Spirit; and from myriad of humble, contrite hearts, the voice of intercession, supplication, and weeping, will mingle, in its ascent to heaven, with the shouts of battle and the shock of arms. While you have everything to fear from the success of the enemy, you have every means of preventing that success; so that it is next to impossible for victory not to crown your exertions The extent of your resources, under God, is equal to the justice of your cause. But, should Providence determine otherwise,--should you fall in this struggle, should the nation fall,--you will have the satisfaction (the purest allotted to man), of having performed your part; your names will be enrolled with the most illustrious dead, while posterity, to the end of time, as often as they revolve the events of this period (and they will incessantly revolve them), will turn to you a reverential eye, while they mourn over the freedom which is entombed in your sepulchre. I cannot but imagine the virtuous heroes, legislators, and patriots of every age and country, are bending from their elevated seats to witness this contest, as if they were incapable, till it be brought to a favorable issue, of enjoying their eternal repose. Enjoy that repose, illustrious immortals! Your mantle fell when you ascended; and thousands, inflamed with your spirit, and impatient to tread in your steps, are ready to swear by Him that sitteth on the throne, and liveth forever and ever, that they will protect freedom in her last asylum, and never desert her cause, which you sustained by your labors, and cemented with your blood! Robert Hall. XXXV. THE AMERICAN INDIANS. If the Indians had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave. But where are they? Where are the villages, and warriors, and youth? The sachems and the tribes? The hunters and their families? They have perished. They are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone done the mighty work. No,--nor famine, nor war. There has been a mightier power, a moral canker, which hath eaten into their heart-cores,--a plague which the touch of the white man communicated,--a poison, which betrayed them into a lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region which they may now call their own. Already the last feeble remnants of the race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes,--the aged, the helpless, the women, and the warriors, "few and faint, yet fearless still." The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The smoke no longed curls round their lowly cabins. They move on with a slow, unsteady step. The white man is upon their heels, for terror or dispatch; but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look of their deserted villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers They shed no tears; they utter no cries; they heave no groans. There is something in their hearts which passes speech. There is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which chokes all utterance; which has no aim or method. It is courage absorbed in despair. They linger but for a moment. Their look is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them,--no, never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impassible gulf. They know and feel, that for them there is still one remove farther, not distant, nor unseen. It is the general burying-ground of their race. J. Story. XXXVI. CLASSICAL LEARNING. The importance of classical learning to professional education is so obvious, that the surprise is, that it could ever have become matter of disputation. I speak not of its power in reining the taste, in disciplining the judgment, in invigorating the understanding, or in warming the heart with elevated sentiments; but of its power of direct, positive, necessary instruction. There is not a single nation from the north to the south of Europe, from the bleak shores of the Baltic to the bright plains of immortal Italy, whose literature is not embedded in the very elements of classical learning. The literature of England is, in an emphatic sense, the production of her scholars; of men who have cultivated letters in her universities, and colleges, and grammar-schools; of men who thought any life too short, chiefly because it left some relic of antiquity unmastered, and any other fame too humble, because it faded in the presence of Roman and Grecian genius. He who studies English literature without the lights of classical learning, loses half the charms of its sentiments and style, of its force and feelings, of its delicate touches, of its delightful allusions, of its illustrative associations. Who that reads the poetry of Gray, does not feel that it is the refinement of classical taste which gives such inexpressible vividness and transparency to his diction? Who that reads the concentrated sense and melodious versification of Dryden and Pope, does not perceive in them the disciples of the old school, whose genius was inflamed by the heroic verse, the terse satire, and the playful wit of antiquity? Who that meditates over the strains of Milton does not feel that he drank deep at "Siloa's brook, that flowed Fast by the oracle of God,--" that the fires of his magnificent mind were lighted by coals from ancient altars? It is no exaggeration to declare, that he who proposes to abolish classical studies, proposes to render, in a great measure, inert and unedifying, the mass of English literature for three centuries; to rob us of the glory of the past, and much of the instruction of future ages; to blind us to excellencies which few may hope to equal, and none to surpass; to annihilate associations which are interwoven with our best sentiments, and give to distant times and countries a presence and reality, as if they were in fact his own. J. Story. XXXVII. AN APPEAL IN BEHALF OF PATRIOTISM AND LOYALTY. I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors, by the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil, by all you are, and all you hope to be; resist every object of disunion, resist every encroachment upon your liberties, resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother your public schools, or extinguish your system of public instruction. I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in woman,--the love of your offspring,--teach them as they climb your knees, or lean on your bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear them at the altar, as with their baptismal vows, to be true to their country, and never to forget or forsake her. I call upon you young men, to remember whose sons you are; whose inheritance you possess. Life can never be too short which brings nothing but disgrace and oppression. Death never comes too soon, if necessary in defence of the liberties of your country. I call upon you, old men, for your counsels, and your prayers, and your benedictions. May not your gray hairs go down in sorrow to the grave, with the recollection that you have lived in vain. May not your last sun sink in the west upon a nation of slaves. No;--I read in the destiny of my country far better hopes, far brighter visions. We, who are now assembled here, must soon be gathered to the congregation of other days. The time of our departure is at hand to make way for our children upon the theatre of life. May God speed them and theirs. May he, who at the distance of another century shall stand here to celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, happy, and virtuous people. May he have reason to exult as we do. May he, with all the enthusiasm of truth as well as poetry exclaim that here is still his country. J. Story. XXXVIII. OUR DUTIES TO THE REPUBLIC. The Old World has already revealed to us, in its unsealed books, the beginning and end of all its own marvelous struggles in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece, "The land of scholars and the nurse of arms," where sister republics, in fair procession, chanted the praises of liberty and the gods,--where and what is she? For two thousand years the oppressor has ground her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery. The fragments of her columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruins. She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were united at Thermopylæ and Marathon; and the tide of her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of her own people. The Man of Macedonia did not the work of destruction. It was already done by her own corruptions, banishments, and dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the rising and setting sun,--where and what is she? The eternal city yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in her decline, venerable in the majesty of religion, and calm as in the composure of death. The malaria has travelled in the paths worn by her destroyers. More than eighteen centuries have mourned over the loss of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals before Cæsar had crossed the Rubicon; and Brutus did not restore her health by the deep probings of the senate-chamber. The Goths, and Vandals, and Huns,--the swarms of the North,--completed only what was already begun at home. Romans betrayed Rome. The legions were bought and sold; but the people offered the tribute-money. We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last experiment of self-government by the people. We have begun it under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. We are in the vigor of youth. Our growth has never been checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been enfeebled by the vices or luxuries of the Old World. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning,--simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government, and to self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us and any formidable foe. Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many products, and many means of independence. The government is mild. The press is free. Religion is free. Knowledge reaches, or may reach every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented? What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary than for the people to preserve what they have themselves created? Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France and the lowlands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of Germany and the North; and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days. Can it be that America, under such circumstances, can betray herself? Can it be that she is to be added to the catalogue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is: THEY WERE, BUT THEY ARE NOT? Forbid it, my countrymen! Forbid it, Heaven! J. Story. XXXIX. SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS. It had been a day of triumph at Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre, to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet, and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dew-drop on the corselet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of Volturnus with wavy, tremulous light. It was a night of holy calm, when the zephyr sways the young spring leaves, and whispers among the hollow reeds its dreamy music. No sound was heard but the last sob of some weary wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach, and then all was still as the breast when the spirit has departed. In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were crowded together, their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, and the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows, when Spartacus, rising in the midst of that grim assemblage, thus addressed them:-- "Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief, who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast that the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and yet never has lowered his arm. And if there be one among you who can say that, ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him step forth and say it. If there, be three in all your throng dare face me on the bloody sand, let them come on! "Yet I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of savage men. My father was a reverent man, who feared great Jupiter, and brought the rural deities his offerings of fruits ad flowers. He dwelt among the vine-clad rocks and olive groves at the foot of Helicon. My early life ran quiet as the brook by which I sported. I was taught to prune the vine, to tend the flock; and then, at noon, I gathered my sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute. I had a friend, the son of our neighbor; we led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared together our rustic meal. "One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war meant; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why; and I clasped the hand of that venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from off my brow, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. "That very night the Romans landed on our shore, and the dash of steel was heard within our quiet vale. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the iron hoof of the warhorse; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the blazing rafters of our dwelling. To-day I killed a man in the arena, and when I broke his helmet clasps, behold!--it was my friend! He knew me,--smiled faintly,--gasped,--and died. The same sweet smile that I had marked upon his face, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told the Prætor he was my friend, noble and brave, and I begged his body, that I might burn it upon the funeral-pile, and mourn over him. Ay, upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that boon, while all the Roman maids and matrons, and those holy virgins they call vestal, and the rabble, shouted in mockery, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale, and tremble like a very child, before that piece of bleeding clay; but the Prætor drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said, 'Let the carrion rot! There are no noble men but Romans!' And he, deprived of funeral rites,--must wander, a hapless ghost, beside the waters of that sluggish river, and look--and look--and look in vain to the bright Elysian fields where dwell his ancestors and noble kindred. And so must you, and so must I, die like dogs! "O Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me! Ay, thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd-lad, who never knew a harsher sound than a flute-note, muscles of iron, and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through rugged brass and plaited mail, and warm it in the marrow of his foe!--to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a smooth-cheeked boy upon a laughing girl. And he shall pay thee back till thy yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled! "Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! the strength of brass in your toughened sinews; but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet odors from his curly locks, shall come, and with his lily fingers pat your brawny shoulders, and bet his sesterces upon your blood! Hark! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted meat; but tomorrow he shall break his fast upon your flesh; and ye shall be a dainty meal for him. "If ye are brutes, then stand here like fat oxen waiting for the butcher's knife; if ye are men, follow me! strike down yon sentinel, and gain the mountain passes, and there do bloody work as did your sires at old Thermopylæ! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that ye do crouch and cower like base-born slaves, beneath your master's lash? O! comrades! warriors! Thracians! if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves; if we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors; if we must die, let us die under the open sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle." E. Kellogg. XL. NO EXTENSION OF SLAVE TERRITORY. Mr. Chairman, I have no time to discuss the subject of slavery on this occasion, nor should I desire to discuss it in this connection, if I had more time. But I just not omit a few plain words on the momentous issue which has now been raised. I speak for Massachusetts--I believe I speak the sentiments of all New England, and of many other States out of New England--when I say that, upon this question, our minds are made up. So far as we have power--constitutional or moral power--to control political events, we are resolved that there shall be no further extension of the territory of this Union, subject to the institution of slavery. This is not a matter to argue about with us. My honorable friend from Georgia (Mr Toombs) must pardon me if I do not enter into any question with him whether such a policy be equal or just. It may be that the North does not consider the institution of slavery a fit thing to be the subject of equal distribution or nice weighing in the balances. I cannot agree with him that the South gains nothing by the Constitution but the right to reclaim fugitives. Surely he has forgotten that slavery is the basis of representation in this House. But I do not intend to argue the case. I wish to deal with it calmly, but explicitly. I believe the North is ready to stand by the Constitution with all its compromises, as it now is. I do not intend, moreover, to throw out any threats of disunion, whatever may be the result. I do not intend, now or ever, to contemplate disunion as a cure for any imaginable evil. At the same time I do not intend to be driven from a firm expression of purpose, and a steadfast adherence to principle, by any threats of disunion from any other quarter. The people of New England, whom I have any privilege to speak for, do not desire, as I understand their views, I know my own heart and my own principles and can at least speak for them, to gain one foot of territory by conquest, and as the result of the prosecution of the war with Mexico. I do not believe that even the abolitionists of the North,--though I am one of the last persons who would be entitled to speak their sentiments, would be unwilling to be found in combination with Southern gentlemen, who may see fit to espouse this doctrine. We desire peace. We believe that this war ought never to have been commenced, and we do not wish to have it made the pretext for plundering Mexico of one foot of her lands. But if the war is to be prosecuted, and if territories are to be conquered and annexed, we shall stand fast and forever to the principle that, so far as we are concerned, these territories shall be the exclusive abode of freemen. R. C. Winthrop. XLI. NATIONAL MONUMENT TO WASHINGTON. Fellow-citizens! Let us seize this occasion to renew to each other our vows of allegiance and devotion to the American Union, and let us recognize In our common title to the name and fame of Washington, and, in our common veneration for his example and his advice, the all-sufficient centripetal power, which shall hold the thick clustering stars of our confederacy in one glorious constellation forever! Let the column which we are about to construct, be at once a pledge and an emblem of perpetual union! Let the foundations be laid, let the superstructure be built up and cemented, let each stone be raised and reverted, In a spirit of national brotherhood! And may the earliest ray of the rising sun--till that sun shall set to rise no more--draw forth from it dally, as from the fabled statue of antiquity, a strain of national harmony, which shall strike a responsive chord in every heart throughout the Republic! Proceed, then, fellow-citizens, with the work for which you have assembled. Lay the corner-stone of a monument which shall adequately bespeak the gratitude of the whole American people to the Illustrious Father of his country! Build it to the skies, you cannot outreach the loftiness of his principles! Found it upon the massive and eternal rock, you cannot make it more enduring than his fame! Construct it of the peerless Parian marble, you cannot make it purer than his life! Exhaust upon it the rules and principles of ancient and modern art, you cannot make it more proportionate than his character! But let not your homage to his memory end here. Think not to transfer to a tablet or a column the tribute which is due from yourselves. Just honor to Washington can only be rendered by observing his precepts and imitating his example. He has built his own monument. We and those who come after us, in successive generations, are its appointed, its privileged guardians. The wide-spread Republic is the true monument to Washington. Maintain its Independence. Uphold its Constitution. Preserve its Union. Defend its Liberty. Let it stand before the world in all its original strength and beauty, securing peace, order, equality, and freedom to all within its boundaries, and shedding light, and hope, and joy, upon the pathway of human liberty throughout the world; and Washington needs no other monument. Other structures may fitly testify our veneration for him; this, this alone, can adequately illustrate his services to mankind. Nor does he need even this. The Republic may perish; the wide arch of our ranged Union may fall; star by star its glories may expire; stone by stone its columns and its capitol may moulder and crumble; all other names which adorn its annals may be forgotten; but as long as human hearts shall anywhere pant, or human tongues shall anywhere plead, for a true, rational, constitutional liberty, those hearts shall enshrine the memory, and those tongues prolong the fame, of George Washington! R. C. Winthrop. XLII. THE PERFECT ORATOR. Imagine to yourselves a Demosthenes, addressing the most illustrious assembly in the world, upon a point whereon the fate of the most illustrious of nations depended. How awful such a meeting! How vast the subject! Is man possessed of talents adequate to the great occasion? Adequate! Yes, superior. By the power of his eloquence, the augustness of the assembly is lost in the dignity of the orator; and the importance of the subject, for awhile, superseded by the admiration of his talents. With what strength of argument, with what powers of the fancy, with what emotions of the heart, does he assault and subjugate the whole man; and, at once, captivate his reason, his imagination, and his passions! To effect this must be the utmost effort of the most improved state of human nature,--not a faculty that he possesses is here unemployed; not a faculty that he possesses but is here exerted to its highest pitch. All his internal powers are at work; all his external testify their energies. Within the memory, the fancy, the judgment, the passions, are all busy; without, every muscle, every nerve, is exerted; not a feature, not a limb but speaks. The organs of the body attuned to the exertions of the mind through the kindred organs of the hearers, instantaneously vibrate those energies from soul to soul. Notwithstanding the diversity of minds in such a multitude, by the lightning of eloquence, they are melted into one mass,--the whole assembly, actuated in one and the same way, become, as it were, but one man and have but one voice. The universal cry is,--LET US MARCH AGAINST PHILIP; LET US FIGHT FOR OUR LIBERTIES;--LET US CONQUER OR DIE! XLIII. NECESSITY OF A PURE NATIONAL MORALITY. The crisis has come. By the people of this generation, by ourselves, probably the amazing question is to be decided, whether the inheritance of our fathers shall be preserved or thrown away; whether our Sabbaths shall be a delight or a loathing; whether the taverns, on that holy day shall be crowded with drunkards, or the sanctuary of God with humble worshippers; whether riot and profaneness shall fill our streets, and poverty our dwellings: and convicts our jails, and violence our land; or whether industry, and temperance, and righteousness, shall be the stability of our times; whether mild laws shall receive the cheerful submission of free men, or the iron rod of a tyrant compel the trembling homage of slaves. Be not deceived. The rocks and hills of New England will remain till the last conflagration. But let the Sabbath be profaned with impunity, to worship of God be abandoned, the government and religions instruction of children neglected, and the streams of intemperance be permitted to flow, and her glory will depart. The wall of fire will no longer surround her, and the munition of rocks will no longer be her defence. The hand that overturns our doors and temples, is the hand of Death unbarring the gate of pandemonium, and letting loose upon our land the crimes and miseries of hell. If the Most High should stand aloof and cast not a single ingredient into our cup of trembling, it would seem to be full of superlative woe. But He will not stand aloof. As we shall have begun an open controversy with Him, he will contend openly with us. And, never, since the earth stood, has it been so fearful a thing for nations to fall into the hands of the living God. The day of vengeance is at hand; the day of judgment has come; the great earthquakes which sinks Babylon is making the nations, and the waves of the mighty commotions are dashing upon every shore. Is this, then, a time to remove the foundations, when the earth itself is shaken? Is this a time to forfeit the protection of God, when the hearts of men are failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are to come upon the earth? Is this a time to run upon His neck and the thick bosses of His buckler, when the nations are drinking blood, and fainting, and passing away in His wrath? Is this the time to throw away the shield of faith, when His arrows are drunk with the blood of the slain?--to cut from the anchor of hope, when the clouds are collecting, and the sea and the waves are roaring and thunders are uttering their voices, and lightnings blazing in the heavens, and the great hail is falling from heaven upon men, and every mountain, sea, and island is fleeing in dismay from the face of an incensed God! L. Beecher. XLIV. ON THE IRISH DISTURBANCE BILL. I do not rise to fawn or cringe to this House; I do not rise to supplicate you to be merciful towards the nation to which I belong,--toward a nation which though subject to England, is yet distinct from it. It is a distinct nation; it has been treated as such by this country, as may be proved by history, and by seven hundred years of tyranny. I call upon this House, as you value the liberty of England, not to allow this nefarious bill to pass. In it are involved the liberties of England, the liberty of the press, and. of every other institution dear to Englishmen. Against the bill I protest, in the name of the Irish people, and in the face of Heaven. I treat with scorn the puny and pitiful assertions, that grievances are not to be complained of,--that our redress is not to be agitated; for, in such cases, remonstrances cannot be too strong, agitation cannot be too violent, to show to the world with what injustice our fair claims are met, and under what tyranny the people suffer. The clause which does away with trial by jury,--what, in the name of Heaven is it, if it is not the establishment of a revolutionary tribunal? It drives the judge from his bench; it does away with that which is more sacred than the throne itself--that for which your king reigns, your lords deliberate, your commons assemble. If ever I doubted before of the success of our agitation for repeal, this bill,--this infamous bill,--the way in which it has been received by the House; the manner in which its opponents have been treated; the personalities to which they have been subjected; the yells with which one of them has this night been greeted,--all these things dissipate my doubts, and tell me of its complete and early triumph. Do you think those yells will be forgotten? Do you suppose their echo will not reach the plains of my injured and insulted country; that they will not be whispered in her green valleys, and heard from her lofty hills? O, they will be heard there!--yes; and they will not be forgotten. The youth of Ireland will bound with indignation,--they will say "We are eight millions; and you treat us thus, as through we were no more to your country than the isle of Guernsey or of Jersey!" I have done my duty. I stand acquitted to my conscience and my country. I have opposed this measure throughout; and I now protest against it as harsh, oppressive, uncalled for, unjust;--as establishing an infamous precedent, by retaliating crime against crime;--as tyrannous,--cruelly and vindictively tyrannous! D. O'Connel. XLV. C�SAR'S PAUSE UPON THE RUBICON. An advocate of Cæsar's character, speaking of his benevolent disposition, and of the reluctance with which he entered into the civil war, observes, "How long did he pause upon the brink of the Rubicon!" How came he to the brink of that river? How dared he cross it? Shall private men respect the boundaries of private property, and shall a man pay no respect to the boundaries of his country's rights? How dared he cross that river?--Oh! but he paused upon the brink! He should leave perished on the brink, ere he had crossed it! Why did he pause? Why does a man's heart palpitate when he is on the point of committing an unlawful deed? Why does the very murderer,--his victim sleeping before him, and his glaring eye taking measure of the blow,--strike wide of the mortal part?--Because of conscience! 'T was that made Cæsar pause upon the brink of the Rubicon. Compassion!--What compassion? The compassion of an assassin, that feels a momentary shudder as his weapon begins to cut! Cæsar paused upon the brink of the Rubicon!--What was the Rubicon?--The boundary of Cæsar's province. From what did it separate his province? From his country. Was that country a desert? No: it was cultivated and fertile; rich and populous! Its sons were men of genius, spirit, and generosity! Its daughters were lovely, susceptible, and chaste! Friendship was its inhabitant!--Love was its inhabitant!--Domestic affection was its inhabitant!--Liberty was its inhabitant!--All bounded by the stream of the Rubicon! What was Cæsar, that stood upon the brink of that stream?--A traitor, bringing war and pestilence into the heart of that country! No wonder that he paused! No wonder if, in his imagination, wrought upon by his conscience, he had beheld blood instead of water; and heard groans instead of murmurs. No wonder if some Gorgon horror had turned him into stone upon the spot.--But, no!--he cried, "The die is cast!" He plunged!--He crossed!--and Rome was free no more. J. S. Knowles. XLVI. GUSTAVUS VASA TO THE DALECARLIANS. Swedes! countrymen! behold at last, after a thousand dangers past, your chief, Gustavus, here! Long have I sighed 'mid foreign lands; long have I roamed in foreign lands; at length, 'mid Swedish hearts and hands, I grasp a Swedish spear! Yet, looking forth, although I see none but the fearless and the free, sad thoughts the sight inspires; for where, I think, on Swedish ground, save where these mountains frown around, can that best heritage be found--the freedom of our sires? Yes, Sweden pines beneath the yoke; the galling chain our fathers broke is round our country now! On perjured craft and ruthless guilt his power a tyrant Dane has built, and Sweden's crown, all blood-bespilt, rests on a foreign brow. On you your country turns her eyes--on you, on you, for aid relies, scions of noblest stem! The foremost place in rolls of fame, by right your fearless fathers claim; yours is the glory of their name,--'t is yours to equal them. As rushing down, when winter reigns, resistless to the shaking plains, the torrent tears its way, and all that bars its onward course sweeps to the sea with headlong force, so swept your sires the Dane and Norse;--can ye do less than they? Rise! Reässert your ancient pride, and down the hills a living tide of fiery valor pour. Let but the storm of battle lower, back to his den the foe will cower;--then, then shall Freedom's glorious hour strike for our land once more! What! silent motionless, ye stand? Gleams not an eye? Moves not a hand? Think ye to fly your fate? Or till some better cause be given, wait ye?--Then wait! till, banished, driven, ye fear to meet the face of Heaven;--till ye are slaughtered, wait. But no! your kindling hearts gainsay the thought. Hark! hear that bloodhound's bay! Yon blazing village see! Rise, countrymen! Awake! Defy the haughty Dane! Your battlecry be Freedom! We will do or die! On! Death or victory! XLVII. NOBILITY OF LABOR. I call upon those whom I address to stand up for the nobility of labor. It is Heaven's great ordinance for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; and it has been broken down for ages. Let it then be built up again; here, if anywhere, on these shores of a new world, of a new civilization But how, I may be asked, is it broken down? Do not men toil? it may be said. They do indeed toil; but they too generally do it because they must. Many submit to it as in some sort a degrading necessity; and they desire nothing so much on earth as escape from it. They fulfil the great law of labor in the letter, but break it in the spirit; fulfill it with the muscle, but break it with the mind. To some field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should fasten, as a chosen and coveted theatre of improvement. But so he is not impelled to do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy work-shop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hand scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which mother Nature has embroidered, midst sun and rain, midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to Nature; it is impiety to Heaven; it is breaking Heaven's great ordinance. Toil, I repeat toil--either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility. O. Dewey. XLVIII. SALATHIEL TO TITUS. Son of Vespasian, I am at this hour a poor man, as I may in the next be an exile or a slave: I have ties to life as strong as ever were bound round the heart of man. I stand here a suppliant for the life of one whose loss would embitter mine! Yet, not for wealth unlimited, for the safety of my family, for the life of the noble victim that is now standing at the place of torture, dare I abandon, dare I think the impious thought of abandoning the cause of the City of Holiness. Titus! in the name of that Being, to whom the wisdom of the earth is folly, I adjure you to beware. Jerusalem is sacred. Her crimes have often wrought her misery; often has she been trampled by the armies of the stranger. But she is still the City of the Omnipotent; and never was blow inflicted on her by man, that was not terribly repaid. The Assyrian came, the mightiest power of the world; he plundered her temple, and led her people into captivity. How long was it before his empire was a dream, his dynasty extinguished in blood, and an enemy on his throne? The Persian came; from her protector he turned into her oppressor; and his empire was swept away like the dust of the desert! The Syrian smote her; the smiter died in agonies of remorse; and where is his kingdom now? The Egyptian smote her; and who now sits on the throne of the Ptolemies? Pompey came: the invincible, the conqueror of a thousand cities, the light of Rome; the lord of Asia, riding on the very wings of victory. But he profaned her temple; and from that hour he went down,--down, like a millstone plunged into the ocean! Blind counsel, rash ambition, womanish fears were upon the great statesman and warrior of Rome. Where does he sleep? What sands were colored with his blood? The universal conqueror died a slave, by the hand of a slave! Crassus came at the head of the legions; he plundered the sacred vessels of the sanctuary. Vengeance followed him, and he was cursed by the curse of God. Where are the bones of the robber and his host? Go, tear them from the jaws of the lion and the wolf of Parthia,--their fitting tomb! You, too: son of Vespasian, may be commissioned for the punishment of a stiff-necked and rebellious people. You may scourge our naked vice by force of arms; and then you may return to your own land exulting in the conquest of the fiercest enemy of Rome. But shall you escape the common fate of the instrument of evil? Shall you see a peaceful old age? Shall a son of yours ever sit upon the throne? Shall not rather some monster of your blood efface the memory of your virtues, and make Rome, in bitterness of soul, curse the Flavian name? G. Croly. XLIX. AN APPEAL TO THE LOYALTY OF SOUTH CAROLINA. Fellow-citizens of my native State! Let me not only admonish you as the first magistrate of our common country not to incur the penalty of its laws, but use the influence that a father would over his children whom he saw rushing to certain ruin. In that paternal language, with that, paternal feeling, let me tell you, my countrymen, that you are deluded by men who are either deceived themselves, or wish to deceive you. Contemplate the condition of that country of which you still form an important part! Consider its government, uniting in one bond of common interest and general protection so many different States--giving to all their inhabitants the proud title of American citizen--protecting their commerce--securing their literature and arts--facilitating their intercommunication--defending their frontiers and making their name respected in the remotest parts of the earth! Consider the extent of its territory, its increasing and happy population, its advance in arts which render life agreeable, and the sciences which elevate the mind! See education spreading the lights of religion, morality, and general information into every cottage in this wide extent of our Territories and States! Behold it, as the asylum where the wretched and the oppressed find a refuge and support! Look on this picture of happiness and honor, and say "We, too, are citizens of America! Carolina is one of these proud States; her arms have defended, her best blood has cemented this happy Union!" And then add, if you can, with out horror and remorse, "This happy Union we will dissolve this picture of peace and prosperity we will deface--this free intercourse we will interrupt--these fertile fields we will deluge with blood--the protection of that glorious flag we renounce--the very name of Americans we discard!" And for what, mistaken men! for what do you throw away these inestimable blessings--for what would you exchange your share in the advantages and honor of the Union? For the dream of a separate independence--a dream interrupted by bloody conflicts with your neighbors, and a vile dependence on a foreign power. A. Jackson. L. THE SAME CONCLUDED. There is yet time to show, that the descendants of the Pinckneys, the Sumters the Rutledges, and of the thousand other names which adorn the pages of your Revolutionary history, will not abandon that Union to support which so many of them fought, and bled, and died. I adjure you, as you honor their memory, as you love the cause of freedom to which they dedicated their lives, as you prize the peace of your country, the lives of its best citizens, and your own fair fame, to retrace your steps. Snatch from the archives of your State the disorganizing edict of its convention,--bid its members to reassemble and promulgate the decided expression of your will, to remain in the path which alone can conduct you to safety, prosperity, and honor;--tell them that compared to disunion, all other evils are light, because that brings with it an accumulation of all;--declare that you will never take the field, unless the star-spangled banner of your country shall float over you; that you will not be stigmatized when dead, and dishonored and scorned while you live, as the authors of the first attack on the Constitution of your country,--its destroyers you cannot be. Fellow-citizens, the momentous case is before you. On your undivided support of the Government depends the decision of the great question it involves: whether our sacred Union will be preserved, and the blessings it secures to us as one people shall be perpetuated. No one can doubt that the unanimity with which that decision will be expressed, will be such as to inspire new confidence in republican institutions; and that the prudence, the wisdom, and the courage, which it will bring to their defense, will transmit them unimpaired and invigorated to our children. May the Great Ruler of nations grant that the signal blessings with which He has favored ours, may not, by the madness of party or personal ambition, be disregarded and lost; and may His wise Providence bring those who have produced this crisis, to see their folly, before they feel the misery of civil strife; and inspire a returning veneration for that Union, which, if we may dare to penetrate His designs, He has chosen as the only means of obtaining the high destinies to which we may reasonably aspire. A. Jackson. LI. BURR AND BLENNERHASSETT. A plain man, who knew nothing of the curious transmutation which the wit of man can work, would be very apt to wonder by what kind of legerdemain Aaron Burr had contrived to shuffle himself down to the bottom of the pack, as an accessory, and turn up poor Blennerhassett as principal, in this treason. Who, then, is Aaron Burr, and what the part which he has borne in this transaction? He is its author, its projector, its active executor. Bold, ardent, restless, and aspiring, his brain conceived it, his hand brought it into action. Who is Blennerhassett? A native of Ireland a man of letters, who fled from the storms of his own country to find quiet in ours. On his arrival in America, he retired, even from the population of the Atlantic States, and sought quiet and solitude in the bosom of our western forests. But he brought with him taste, and science, and wealth; and "lo the desert smiled!" Possessing himself of a beautiful island in the Ohio, he rears upon it a palace, and decorates it with every romantic embellishment of fancy. A shrubbery, that Shenstone might have envied, blooms around him. Music, that might have charmed Calypso and her nymphs is his. An extensive library spreads its treasures before him. A philosophical apparatus offers to him all the secrets and mysteries of Nature. Peace, tranquillity, and innocence, shed their mingled delights around him. And, to crown the enchantment of the scene, a wife, who is said to be lovely even beyond her sex, and graced with every accomplishment that can render it irresistible, had blessed him with her love, and made him the father of several children. The evidence would convince you, sir, that this is but a faint picture of the real life. In the midst of all this peace, this innocence, and this tranquillity, this feast of the mind, this pure banquet of the heart,--the destroyer comes. He comes to turn this paradise into a hell. Yet the flowers do not wither at his approach, and no monitory shuddering through the bosom of their unfortunate possessor warns him of the ruin that is coming upon him. A stranger presents himself. It is Aaron Burr. Introduced to their civilities by the high rank which he had lately held in his country, he soon finds his way to their hearts, by the dignity and elegance of his demeanor, the light and beauty of his conversation, and the seductive and fascinating power of his address. The conquest was not difficult. Innocence is ever simple and credulous. Conscious of no designs itself, it suspects none in others. It wears no guards before its breast. Every door and portal and avenue of the heart is thrown open, and all who choose it enter. Such was the state of Eden, when the serpent entered its bowers! The prisoner, in a more engaging form, winding himself into the open and unpracticed heart of the unfortunate Blennerhassett, found but little difficulty in changing the native character of that heart, and the object of its affection. By degrees, he infuses into it the poison of his own ambition. He breathes into it the fire of his own courage; a daring, desperate thirst for glory; an ardor, panting for all the storm, and bustle, and hurricane of life. In a short time, the whole man is changed, and every object of his former delight relinquished. No more he enjoys the tranquil scene; it has become flat and insipid to his taste. His books are abandoned. His retort and crucible are thrown aside. His shrubbery bloom's and breathes its fragrance upon the air in vain he likes it not. His ear no longer drinks the rich melody of music; it longs for the trumpet's clangor, and the cannon's roar. Even the prattle of his babes, once so sweet, no longer affects him; and the angel smile of his wife, which hitherto touched his bosom with ecstasy so unspeakable, is now unfelt and unseen. Greater objects have taken possession of his soul. His imagination has been dazzled by visions of diadems, and stars, and garters, and titles of nobility. He has been taught to burn with restless emulation at the names of great heroes and conquerors,--of Cromwell, and Cæsar, and Bonaparte. His enchanted island is destined soon to relapse into a wilderness; and, in a few months, we find the tender and beautiful partner of his bosom, whom he lately "permitted not the winds" of summer "to visit too roughly,"--we find her shivering, at midnight, on the wintry banks of the Ohio, and mingling her tears with the torrents that froze as they fell. Yet this unfortunate man, thus deluded from his interest and his happiness,--thus seduced from the paths of innocents and peace,--thus confounded in the toils which were deliberately spread for him, and overwhelmed by the mastering spirit and genius of another,--this man, thus ruined and undone, and made to play a subordinate part in this grand drama of guilt and treason,--this man is to be called the principal offender; while he, by whom he was thus plunged in misery, is comparatively innocent, a mere accessory! Is this reason? Is it law? Is it humanity? Sir, neither the human heart nor the human understanding will bear a perversion so monstrous and absurd; so shocking to the soul; so revolting to reason! Wm. Wirt. LII. CAUSE F0R INDIAN RESENTMENT. You say you have bought the country. Bought it? Yes; of whom? Of the poor, trembling natives, who knew that refusal would be vain; and who strove to make a merit of necessity, by seeming to yield with a grace what they knew they had not the power to retain. Alas, the poor Indians! No wonder that they continue so implacably vindictive against the white people. No wonder that the rage of resentment is handed down from generation to generation. No wonder that they refuse to associate and mix permanently with their unjust and cruel invaders and exterminators. No wonder that, in the unabating spite and frenzy of conscious impotence, they wage an eternal war, as well as they are able; that they triumph in the rare opportunity of revenge; that they dance, sing, and rejoice, as the victim shrinks and faints amid the flames, when they imagine all the crimes of their oppressors collected on his head, and fancy the spirits of their injured forefathers hovering over the scene, smiling with ferocious delight at the grateful spectacle: and feasting on the precious odor as it arises from the burning blood of the white man. Yet the people here affect to wonder that the Indians are so very unsusceptible of civilization; or, in other words, that they so obstinately refuse to adopt the manners of the white man. Go, Virginians, erase from the Indian nation the tradition of their wrongs. Make them forget, if you can, that once this charming country was theirs; that over these fields and through these forests their beloved forefathers once, in careless gayety, pursued their sports and hunted their game; that every returning day found them the sole, the peaceful, and happy proprietors of this extensive and beautiful domain. Go, administer the cup of oblivion to recollections like these, and then you will cease to complain that the Indian refuses to be civilized. But, until then, surely it is nothing wonderful that a nation, even yet bleeding afresh from the memory of ancient wrongs, perpetually agonized by new outrages, and goaded into desperation and madness at the prospect of the certain ruin which awaits their descendants, should hate the authors of their miseries, of their desolation, their destruction; should hate their manners, hate their color, hate their language, hate their name, hate everything that belongs to them. No, never, until time shall wear out the history of their sorrows and their sufferings, will the Indian be brought to love the white man, and to imitate his manners. Wm. Wirt. LIII. SPEECH ON THE BRITISH TREATY. The refusal of the posts (inevitable if we reject the treaty) is a measure too decisive in its nature to be neutral in its consequences. If any should still maintain, that the peace with the Indians will be stable without the posts, to them I will urge another reply. I will appeal directly to the hearts of those who hear me, and ask whether conviction is not already planted there. I resort especially to the convictions of the Western gentlemen, whether, supposing no posts and no treaty! the settlers will remain in security? Can they take it upon them to say, that an Indian peace, under these circumstances, will prove firm? No, sir, it will not be peace, but a sword; it will be no better than a lure to draw victims within reach of the tomahawk. On this theme my emotions are unutterable. If I could find words for them, if my powers bore any proportion to my zeal, I would swell my voice to such a note of remonstrance, it should reach every log house beyond the mountains. I would say to the inhabitants, Wake from your false security! Your cruel dangers, your more cruel apprehensions, are soon to be renewed. The wounds yet unhealed are to be torn open again. In the daytime, your path through the woods will be ambushed. The darkness of midnight will glitter with the blaze of your dwellings. You are a father--the blood of your sons shall fatten your corn-field. You are a mother,--the war-whoop shall wake the sleep of the cradle. On this subject you need not suspect any deception on your feelings. It is a spectacle of horror which cannot be overdrawn. If you have nature in your hearts, they will speak a language compared with which all I have said or can say will be poor and frigid. Who will accuse me of wandering out of the subject? Who will say that I exaggerate the tendencies of our measures? Will any one answer by a sneer, that all this is idle preaching? Would any one deny that we are bound, and I would hope to good purpose, by the most solemn sanctions of duty for the vote we give? Are despots alone to be reproached for unfeeling indifference to the tears and blood of their subjects? Are republicans irresponsible? Have the principles on which you ground the reproach upon cabinets and kings no practical influence, no binding force? Are they merely themes of idle declamation, introduced to decorate the morality of a newspaper essay, or to furnish pretty topics of harangue from the windows of that State House? I trust it is neither too presumptuous nor too late to ask, Can you put the dearest interest of society at risk, without guilt and without remorse? It is in vain to offer as an excuse, that public men are not to be reproached for the evils that may happen to ensue from their measures. This is very true where they are unforeseen or inevitable. Those I have depicted are not unforeseen. They are so far from inevitable, we are going to bring them into being by our vote; we choose the consequences, and become as justly answerable for them, as for the measure that we know will produce them. By rejecting the posts, we light the savage fires, we bind the victims. This day we undertake to render account to the widows and orphans whom our decision will make,--to the wretches that will be roasted at the stake,--to our country,--and I do not deem it too serious to say, to conscience and to God. We are answerable; and if duty be anything more than a word of imposture, if conscience be not a bugbear, we are preparing to make ourselves as wretched as our country. There is no mistake in this case; there can be none. Experience has already been the prophet of events, and the cries of our future victims has already reached us. The Western inhabitants are not a silent and uncomplaining sacrifice. The voice of humanity issues from the shade of the wilderness. It exclaims, that while one hand is held up to reject this treaty, the other grasps the tomahawk. It summons our imagination to the scenes that will open. It is no great effort of the imagination to conceive that events so near are already begun. I can fancy that I listen to the yells of savage vengeance and the shrieks of torture! Already they seem to sigh in the western wind! Already they mingle with every echo from the mountains! F. Ames. LIV. SPEECH AGAINST A LIBELLER. I am one of those who believe that the heart of the wilful and deliberate libeller is blacker than that of the highway robber, or of one who commits the crime of midnight arson. The man who plunders on the highway may have the semblance of an apology for what he does. An affectionate wife may demand subsistence; a circle of helpless children raise to him the supplicating hand for food. He may be driven to the desperate act by the high mandate of imperative necessity. The mild features of the husband and father may intermingle with those of the robber and soften the roughness of the shade. But the robber of character plunders that which "not enricheth him," though it makes his neighbor "poor indeed." The man who at the midnight hour consumes his neighbor's dwelling does him an injury which perhaps is not irreparable. Industry may rear another habitation. The storm may indeed descend upon him until charity opens a neighboring door; the rude winds of heaven may whistle around his uncovered family. But he looks forward to better days; he has yet a hook left to hang a hope on. No such consolation cheers the heart of him whose character has been torn from him. If innocent he may look, like Anaxagoras, to the heavens; but he must be constrained to feel this world is to him a wilderness. For whither shall he go? Shall he dedicate himself to the service of his country? But will his country receive him? Will she employ in her councils, or in her armies, the man at whom the "slow unmoving finger of scorn" is pointed? Shall he betake himself to the fireside? The story of his disgrace will enter his own doors before him. And can he bear, think you, can he bear the sympathizing agonies of a distressed wife? Can he endure the formidable presence of scrutinizing, sneering domestics? Will his children receive instructions from the lips of a disgraced father? Gentlemen, I am not ranging on fairy ground. I am telling the plain story of my client's wrongs. By the guiltless hand of malice his character has been wantonly massacred,--and he now appears before a jury of his country for redress. Will you deny him this redress? Is character valuable? On this point I will not insult you with argument. There are certain things to argue which is treason against nature. The Author of our being did not intend to leave this point afloat at the mercy of opinion, but with His own hand has He kindly planted in the soul of man an instinctive love of character. This high sentiment has no affinity to pride. It is the ennobling quality of the soul; and if we have hitherto been elevated above the ranks of surrounding creation, human nature owes its elevation to the love of character. It is the love of character for which the poet has sung, the philosopher toiled, the hero bled. It is the love of character which wrought miracles at ancient Greece; the love of character is the eagle on which Rome rose to empire. And it is the love of character, animating the bosoms of her sons, on which America must depend in those approaching crises that may "try men's soul's." Will a jury weaken this our nation's hope? Will they by their verdict pronounce to the youth of our country, that character is scarce worth possessing? We read of that philosophy which can smile at the destruction of property--of that religion which enables its possessor to extend the benign look of forgiveness and complacency to his murderers. But it is not in the soul of man to bear the laceration of slander. The philosophy which could bear it we should despise. The religion which could bear it we should not despise,--but we should be constrained to say, that its kingdom was not of this world. Griffin. LV. NEW ENGLAND AND THE UNION. Glorious New England! thou art still time to thy ancient fame, and worthy of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, have assembled in this far-distant land to celebrate thy birthday. A thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused by the spirit of the hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest, like sweet dews of morning, the gentle recollections of our early life; around thy hills and mountains cling, like gathering mists, the mighty memories of the Revolution; and, far away in the horizon of thy past, gleam, like thy own bright northern lights, the awful virtues of our Pilgrim Sires! But while we devote this day to the remembrance of our native land, we forget not that in which our happy lot is cast. We exult in the reflection, that though we count by thousands the miles which separate us from our birthplace, still our country is the same. We are no exiles, meeting upon the banks of a foreign river to swell its waters with our homesick tears. Here floats the same banner which rustled above our boyish heads, except that its mighty folds are wider, and its glittering stars increased in number. The sons of New England are found in every State of the broad Republic. In the East, the South, and the unbounded West, their blood mingles freely with every kindred current. We have but changed our chamber in the paternal mansion; in all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit it are our brothers. To us the Union has but one domestic hearth; its household gods are all the same. Upon us then peculiarly devolves the duty of feeding the fires upon that kindly hearth, of guarding with pious care those sacred household gods. We cannot do with less than the whole Union; to us it admits of no division. In the veins of our children flows Northern and Southern blood. How shall it be separated? Who shall put asunder the best affections of the heart, the noblest instincts of our nature? We love the land of our adoption; so do we that of our birth. Let us ever be true to both, and always exert ourselves in maintaining the unity of our country, the integrity of the Republic. Accursed, then, be the hand put forth to loosen the golden cord of the Union!--thrice accursed the traitorous lips which shall propose its severance! But no; the Union cannot be dissolved. Its fortunes are too brilliant to be marred; its destinies too powerful to be resisted. Here will be their greatest triumphs, their most mighty development. And when, a century hence, this Crescent City shall have filled her golden horns,--when within her broad-armed port shall be gathered the products of the industry of a hundred millions of freemen,--when galleries of art and halls of learning shall have made classic this mart of trade,--then may the sons of the Pilgrims, still wandering from the bleak hills of the North, stand upon the banks of the great river and exclaim with mingled pride and wonder,--"Lo, this is our country: when did the world ever behold so rich and magnificent a city,--so great and glorious a Republic!" S. S. Prentiss. LVI. ON SENDING RELIEF TO IRELAND. We have assembled, not to respond to shouts of triumph from the West, but to answer to the cry of want and suffering which comes from the East. The Old World stretches out her arms to the New. The starving parent supplicates the young and vigorous child for bread. There lies, upon the other side of the wide Atlantic, a beautiful island famous in history and in song. Its area is not so great as that of the State of Louisiana, while its population is almost half that of the Union. It has given to the world more than its share of genius and of greatness. It has been prolific in statesmen, warriors, and poets. Its brave and generous sons have fought successfully all battles but their own. In wit and humor it has no equal, while its harp, like its history, moves to tears, by its sweet but melancholy pathos. Into this fair region God has seen fit to send the most terrible of all those fearful ministers who fulfil his inscrutable decrees. The earth has failed to give her increase; the common mother has forgotten her offspring, and her breast no longer affords them their accustomed nourishment. Famine, gaunt and ghastly famine, has seized a nation in its strangling grasp; and unhappy Ireland, in the sad woes of the present, forgets, for a moment, the gloomy history of the past. Oh, it is terrible, in this beautiful world: which the good God has given us, and in which there is plenty for us all, that men should die of starvation! You who see, each day, poured into the lap of your city, food sufficient to assuage the hunger of a nation, can form but an imperfect idea of the horrors of famine. In battle, in the fulness of his pride and strength, little recks the soldier whether the hissing bullet sings his sudden requiem, or the cords of life are severed by the sharp steel. But he who dies of hunger, wrestles alone, day after day with his grim and unrelenting enemy. The blood recedes, the flesh deserts, the muscles relax, and the sinews grow powerless. At last, the mind, which, at first, had bravely nerved itself for the contest, gives way, under the mysterious influences which govern its union with the body. Then he begins to doubt the existence of an overruling Providence; he hates his fellow-men, and glares upon them with the longings of a cannibal, and it may be, dies blaspheming! Who will hesitate to give his mite to avert such awful results? Surely not the citizens of New Orleans, ever famed for deeds of charity and benevolence. Freely leave your hearts and purses opened, heretofore, to the call of suffering humanity. Nobly did you respond to oppressed Greece and to struggling Poland. Within Erin's borders is an enemy more cruel than the Turk, more tyrannical than the Russian. Bread is the only weapon that can conquer him. Let us, then load ships with this glorious munition, and, in the name of our common humanity wage war against this despot Famine. Let us, in God's name, "cast our bread upon the waters," and if we are selfish enough to desire it back again, we may recollect the promise, that it shall return to us after many days. S. S. Prentiss. LVII. THE NEW ENGLAND COMMON SCHOOL. Behold yon simple building near the crossing of the village road! It is small, and of rude construction, but stands in a pleasant and quiet spot. A magnificent old elm spreads its broad arms above, and seems to lean towards it, as a strong man bends to shelter and protect a child. A brook runs through the meadow near, and hard by there is an orchard; but the trees have suffered much, and bear no fruit, except upon the most remote and inaccessible branches. From within its walls comes a busy hum, such as you may hear in a disturbed beehive. Now peep through yonder window, and you will see a hundred children with rosy cheeks, mischievous eyes, and demure faces, all engaged, or pretending to be so, in their little lessons. It is the public school,--the free, the common school,--provided by law; open to all; claimed from the community as a right, not accepted as a bounty. Here the children of the rich and poor, high and low, meet upon perfect equality, and commence, under the same auspices, the race of life. Here the sustenance of the mind is served up to all alike, as the Spartans served their food upon the public table. Here, young Ambition climbs his little ladder, and boyish Genius plumes his half-fledged wing. From among these laughing children will go forth the men who are to control the destinies of their age and country; the statesman, whose wisdom is to guide the Senate; the poet, who will take captive the hearts of the people, and bind them together with immortal song; the philosopher, who, boldly seizing upon the elements themselves, will compel them to his wishes, and, through new combinations of their primal laws, by some great discovery, revolutionize both art and science. The common village-school is New England's fairest boast,--the brightest jewel that, adorns her brow. The principle that society is bound to provide for its members' education as well as protection, so that none need be ignorant except from choice, is the most important that belongs to modern philosophy. It is essential to a republican government. Universal education is not only the best and surest, but the only sure, foundation for free institutions. True liberty is the child of knowledge; she pines away and dies in the arms of ignorance. Honor, then, to the early fathers of New England, from whom came the spirit which has built a school-house by every sparkling fountain, and bids all come as freely to the one as to the other. S. S. Prentiss. LVIII. CHRISTIANITY THE SOURCE OF REFORM. The great element of reform is not born of human wisdom: it does not draw its life from human organizations. I find it only in Christianity. "Thy kingdom come!" There is a sublime and pregnant burden in this prayer. It is the aspiration of every soul that goes forth in the spirit of Reform. For what is the significance of this prayer? It is a petition that all holy influences would penetrate, and subdue, and dwell in the heart of man, until he shall think, and speak, and do good, from the very necessity of his being. So would the institutions of error and wrong crumble and pass away. So would sin die out from the earth; and the human soul living in harmony with the Divine Will, this earth would become like Heaven. It is too late for the reformers to sneer at Christianity,--it is foolishness for them to reject it. In it are enshrined our faith in human progress,--our confidence in reform. It is indissolubly connected with all that is hopeful, spiritual, capable in man. That men have misunderstood it, and perverted it, is true. But it is also true, that the noblest efforts for human melioration have come out of it,--have been based upon it. Is it not so? Come, ye remembered ones, who sleep the sleep of the just,--who took your conduct from the line of Christian philosophy--come from your tombs, and answer! Come, Howard, from the gloom of the prison and the taint of the lazar-house, and show us what philanthropy can do when imbued with the spirit of Jesus. Come, Eliot, from the thick forest where the red man listens to the Word of Life;--come, Penn, from thy sweet counsel and weaponless victory,--and show us what Christian zeal and Christian love can accomplish with the rudest barbarians or the fiercest hearts. Come, Raikes, from thy labors with the ignorant and the poor, and show us with what an eye this Faith regards the lowest and the least of our race; and how diligently it labors, not for the body, not for the rank, but for the plastic soul that is to course the ages of immortality. And ye, who are a great number,--ye nameless ones,--who have done good in your narrow spheres, content to forego renown on earth, and seeking your reward in the Record on High,--come and tell us how kindly a spirit, how lofty a purpose, or how strong a courage, the Religion ye professed can breathe into the poor, the humble, and the weak. Go forth, then, Spirit of Christianity, to thy great work of Reform! The Past bears witness to thee in the blood of thy martyrs, and the ashes of thy saints and heroes: the Present is hopeful because of thee; the Future shall acknowledge thy omnipotence. E. H. Chapin. LIX. NORTHERN LABORERS. The gentleman, sir, has misconceived the spirit and tendency of Northern institutions. He is ignorant of Northern character. He has forgotten the history of his country. Preach insurrection to the Northern laborers! Who are the Northern laborers? The history of your country is their history. The renown of your country is their renown. The brightness of their doings is emblazoned on its every page. Blot from your annals the words and the doings of Northern laborers, and the history of your country presents but a universal blank. Sir, who was he that disarmed the Thunderer; wrested from his grasp the bolts of Jove; calmed the troubled ocean; became the central sun of the philosophical system of his age, shedding his brightness and effulgence on the whole civilized world; whom the great and mighty of the earth delighted to honor; who participated in the achievement of your Independence, prominently assisted in moulding your free institutions, and the beneficial effects of whose wisdom will be felt to the last moment of "recorded time?" Who sir, I ask, was he? A Northern laborer, a Yankee tallow-chandler's son,--a printer's runaway boy! And who, let me ask the honorable gentleman, who was he that, in the days of our Revolution, led forth a northern army,--yes, an army of Northern laborers,--and aided the chivalry of South Carolina in their defence against British aggression, drove the spoilers from their firesides, and redeemed her fair fields from foreign invaders? Who was he? A Northern laborer, a Rhode Island blacksmith,--the gallant General Greene, who left his hammer and his forge, and went forth conquering and to conquer in the battle for our Independence! And will you preach insurrection to men like these? Sir, our country is full of the achievements of Northern laborers. Where is Concord, and Lexington, and Princeton, and Trenton, and Saratoga, and Bunker Hill, but in the North? And what, sir, has shed an imperishable renown on the never-dying names of those hallowed spots, but the blood and the struggles, the high daring, and patriotism, and sublime courage of Northern laborers? The whole North is an everlasting monument of the freedom, virtue, intelligence, and indomitable independence of Northern laborers! Go, sir, go preach insurrection to men like these! The fortitude of the men of the North, under intense suffering for liberty's sake, has been almost godlike! History has so recorded it. Who comprised that gallant army, without food, without pay shelterless, shoeless, penniless, and almost naked, in that dreadful winter,--the midnight of our Revolution,--whose wanderings could be traced by their blood-tracks in the snow; whom no arts could seduce, no appeal lead astray, no sufferings disaffect; but who, true to their country and its holy cause, continued to fight the good fight of liberty until it finally triumphed? Who, sir, were these men? Why, Northern laborers! Yes, sir, Northern laborers! Who, sir, were Roger Sherman, and--but it is idle to enumerate. To name the Northern laborers who have distinguished themselves, and illustrated the history of their country, would require days of the time of this House; nor is it necessary. Posterity will do them Justice. Their deeds have been recorded in characters of fire! C. Naylor. LX. BROUGHAM'S ATTACK ON CANNING DESCRIBED. Upon that occasion, the oration of Brougham was, at the outset, disjointed and ragged, and apparently without aim or application. He careered over the whole annals of the world, and collected every instance in which genius had degraded itself at the footstool of power, or principle had been sacrificed for the vanity or the lucre of place; but still there was no allusion to Canning, and no connection that ordinary men could discover with the business before the House. When however, he had collected every material which suited his purpose,--when the mass had become big and black, he bound it about and about with the cords of illustration and of argument; when its union was secure, he swung it round and round with the strength of a giant and the rapidity of a whirlwind, in order that its impetus and effect might be more tremendous; and, while doing this, he ever and anon glared his eye, and pointed his finger to make the aim and direction sure. Canning was the first who seemed to be aware where and how terrible was to be the collision; and he kept writhing his body in agony, and rolling his eyes in fear, as if anxious to find some shelter from the impending bolt. The House soon caught the impression, and every man in it was glancing his eye fearfully, just towards the orator, and then towards the Secretary. There was, save the voice of Brougham, which growled in that undertone of muttered thunder, which is so fearfully audible, and of which no speaker of the day was fully master but himself, a silence as if the angel of retribution had been flaring in the face of all parties the scroll of their personal and political sins. A pen, which one of the Secretaries dropped upon the matting, was heard in the remotest part of the house; and the voting members, who often slept in the side-galleries during the debate, started up as though the final trump had been sounding them to give an account of their deeds. The stiffness of Brougham's figure had vanished; his features seemed concentrated almost to a point; he glanced toward every part of the House in succession; and, sounding the death-knell of the Secretary's forbearance and prudence, with both his clinched hands upon the table, he hurled at him an accusation more dreadful in its gall, and more torturing in its effects than ever had been hurled at mortal man within the same walls. The result was instantaneous--was electric; it was as when the thunder-cloud descends upon some giant peak--one flash, one peal--the sublimity vanished, and all that remained was the small and cold pattering of rain. Canning started to his feet, and was able only to utter the unguarded words, "It is false!" to which followed a dull chapter of apologies. From that moment, the House became more a scene of real business than of airy display and angry vituperation. Anonymous. LXI. SOUTH CAROLINA DURING THE REVOLUTION. It is with unfeigned reluctance, Mr. President, that I enter upon the performance of this part of my duty. I shrink almost instinctively from a course, however necessary, which may have a tendency to excite sectional feelings and sectional jealousies. But, sir, the task has been forced upon me, and I proceed right onward to the performance of my duty. Be the consequences what they may, the responsibility is with those who have imposed upon me this necessity. The Senator from Massachusetts has thought proper to cast the first stone, and if he shall find, according to the homely adage, that "he lives in a glass house,"--on his head be the consequences. The gentleman has made a great flourish about his fidelity to Massachusetts. I shall make no professions of zeal for the interests and honor of South Carolina--of that my constituents shall Judge. If there be one State in the Union, Mr. President, (and I say it not in a boastful spirit,) that may challenge comparison with any other for a uniform, zealous, ardent, and uncalculating devotion to the Union, that State is South Carolina. Sir, from the very commencement of the Revolution up to this hour, there is no sacrifice, however great, she has not cheerfully made; no service she has hesitated to perform. She has adhered to you in your prosperity, but in your adversity she has clung to you with more than filial affection. No matter what was the condition of her domestic affair's--though deprived of her resources, divided by parties, or surrounded by difficulties,--the call of the country has been to her as the voice of God. Domestic discord ceased as the sound--every man became at once reconciled to his brethren, and the sons of Carolina were all seen crowding together to the temple, bringing their gifts to the altar of their common country. What, sir, was the conduct of the South during the Revolution? Sir, I honor New England for her conduct in that glorious struggle; but great as is the praise which belongs to her, I think at least equal honor is due to the South. They espoused the cause of their brethren with generous zeal which did not suffer them to stop to calculate their interest in the dispute. Favorites of the mother country, possessed of neither ships nor seamen to create commercial rivalship, they might have found in their situation a guaranty that their trade would be forever fostered and protected by Great Britain. But trampling on all considerations, either of interest or of safety; they rushed into the conflict, and fighting for principle, perilled all in the sacred cause for freedom. Never was there exhibited in the history of the world, higher examples of noble daring, dreadful suffering, and heroic endurance, than by the Whigs of Carolina during that Revolution. The whole State, from the mountain to the sea, was overrun by an overwhelming force of the enemy. The fruits of industry perished on the spot where they were produced, or were consumed by the foe. The "plains of Carolina" drank up the most precious blood of her citizens,--black and smoking ruins marked the places which had been the habitations of her children! Driven from their homes into the gloomy and almost impenetrable swamps, even there the spirit of liberty survived, and South Carolina, sustained by the example of her Sumters and her Marions, proved by her conduct, that though her soil might be overrun, the spirit of her people was invincible. R. Y. Hayne. LXII. INCOMPETENCY OF PARLIAMENT TO PASS THE UNION BILL. Sir,--I, in the most express terms, deny the competency of Parliament to abolish the Legislature of Ireland. I warn you, do not dare to lay your hand on the Constitution.--I tell you that if, circumstanced as you are, you pass an act which surrenders the government of Ireland to the English Parliament, it will be a nullity and that no man in Ireland will be bound to obey it. I make the assertion deliberately,--I repeat it and I call on any man who hears me, to take down my words;--you have not been elected for this purpose,--you are appointed to act under the Constitution, not to alter it,--you are appointed to exercise the functions of legislators, and not to transfer them,--and if you do so, your act is a dissolution of the government,--you resolve society into its original elements, and no man in the land is bound to obey you. Yourselves you may extinguish, but Parliament you cannot extinguish,--it is enthroned in the hearts of the people,--it is enshrined in the sanctuary of the Constitution,--it is immortal as the island which it protects. As well might the frantic suicide hope that the act which destroys his miserable body should extinguish his eternal soul. Again I therefore warn you, do not dare to lay your hands on the Constitution; it is above your power. Sir, I do not say that the Parliament and the people, by mutual consent and cooperation, may not change the form of the Constitution. But, thank God, the people have manifested no such wish,--so far as they have spoken, their voice is decidedly against this daring innovation. You know that no voice has been uttered in its favor, and you cannot be infatuated enough to take confidence from the silence which prevails in some parts of the kingdom; if you know how to appreciate that silence, it is more formidable than the most clamorous opposition,--you may be rived and shivered by the lightning before you hear the peal of the thunder! But, sir, we are told we should discuss this question with calmness and composure. I am called on to surrender my birthright and my honor, and I am told I should be calm and composed. National pride! Independence of our country! These, we are told by the Minister, are only vulgar topics fitted for the meridian of the mob, but unworthy to be mentioned in such an enlightened assembly as this; they are trinkets and gew-gaws fit to catch the fancy of childish and unthinking people like you, sir, or like your predecessor in that chair, but utterly unworthy of the consideration of this House, or of the matured understanding of the noble lord who condescends to instruct it! Gracious God! We see a Perry re-ascending from the tomb and raising his awful voice to warn us against the surrender of our freedom, and we see that the proud and virtuous feelings which warmed the breast of that aged and venerable man, are only calculated to excite the contempt of this young philosopher, who has been transplanted from the nursery to the cabinet, to outrage the feelings and understanding of the country. W. C. Plunkett. LXIII. WASHINGTON. Sir, it matters very little, what immediate spot may have been the birthplace of such a man as Washington. No people can claim, no country appropriate him. The boon of Providence to the human race,--his fame is eternity, and his residence, creation. Though it was the defeat of our arms, and the disgrace of our policy, I almost bless the convulsion in which he had his origin. If the heavens thundered, and the earth rocked, yet, when the storm had passed, how pure was the climate that it cleared! How bright in the brow of the firmament was the planet which it revealed to us! In the production of Washington, it does really appear as if Nature was endeavoring to improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the ancient world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of the new. Individual instances, no doubt there were,--splendid exemplifications of some single qualification. Cæsar was merciful, Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient; but it was reserved for Washington to blend them all in one, and, like the lovely masterpiece of the Grecian artist, to exhibit, in one glow of associated beauty, the pride of every model and the perfection of every master. As a general, he marshalled the peasant into a veteran, and supplied by discipline the absence of experience; as a statesman, he enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the most comprehensive system of general advantage; and such was the wisdom of his views, and the philosophy of his counsels, that, to the soldier and the statesman, he almost added the character of the sage! A conqueror, he was untainted with the crime of blood; a revolutionist, he was free from any stain of treason; for aggression commenced the contest, and his country called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, necessity stained, victory returned it. If he had paused here, history might have doubted what station to assign him; whether at the head of her citizens or her soldiers, her heroes or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his career, and banishes all hesitation. Who like Washington, after having emancipated a hemisphere, resigned its crown, and preferred the retirement of domestic life to the adoration of a land he might be almost said to have created! Happy, proud America! The lightnings of heaven yielded to your philosophy! The temptations of earth could not seduce your patriotism. C. Phillips. LXIV. EDUCATION. Of all the blessings which it has pleased Providence to allow us to cultivate, there is not one which breathes a purer fragrance, or bears a heavenlier aspect than education. It is a, companion which no misfortune can depress, no clime destroy no enemy alienate, no despotism enslave; at home a friend, abroad an introduction, in solitude a solace, in society an ornament; it chastens vice, it guides virtue, it gives at once a grace and government to genius. Without it, what is man? A splendid slave! A reasoning savage, vascillating between the dignity of an intelligence derived from God, and the degradation of passion participated with brutes; and in the accident of their alternate ascendency, shuddering at the terrors of a hereafter, or embracing the horrid hope of annihilation. What is this wondrous world of his residence? "A mighty maze, and all without a plan:" a dark, and desolate, and dreary cavern, without wealth, or ornament, or order. But light up within it the torch of knowledge, and how wondrous the transition! The seasons change, the atmosphere breathes, the landscape lives, earth unfolds its fruits, ocean rolls in its magnificence, the heavens display their constellated canopy, and the grand animated spectacle of nature rises revealed before him, its varieties regulated, and its mysteries resolved! The phenomena which bewilder, the prejudices which debase, the superstitions which enslave, vanish before education. Like the holy symbol which blazed upon the cloud before the hesitating constantly, if man follow but its precepts, purely it will not only lead him to the victories of this world, but open the very portals of Omnipotence for his admission. Cast your eye over the monumental map of ancient grandeur, once studded with the stars of empire and the splendors of philosophy. What erected the little State of Athens into a powerful Commonwealth, placing in her hand the sceptre of legislation, and wreathing round her brow the imperishable chaplet of literary fame? What extended Rome, the heart of banditti, into universal empire? What animated Sparta with that high, unbending, adamantine courage, which conquered Nature herself, and has fixed her in the sight of future ages, a model of public virtue, and a proverb of national independence? What but those wise public institutions which strengthened their minds with early application, informed their infancy with the principles of actions, and sent them into the world too vigilant to be deceived by its calms, and too vigorous to be shaken by its whirlwinds? C. Phillips. LXV. CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. He is fallen! We may now pause before that splendid prodigy, which towered amongst us like some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance its magnificence attracted. Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne a sceptered hermit, wrapped in the solitude of his own originality. A mind, bold, independent, and decisive,--a will, despotic in its dictates,--an energy that distanced expedition, and a conscience pliable to every touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary character,--the most extraordinary, perhaps, that in the annals of this world ever rose, or reigned, or fell. Flung into life in the midst of a revolution that quickened every energy of a people who acknowledge no superior, he commenced his course, a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity! With no friend but his sword, and no fortune but his talents, he rushed into the list where rank, and wealth, and genius had arrayed themselves, and competition fell from him as from the glance of destiny. He knew no motive but interest,--he acknowledged no criterion but success,--he worshiped no God but ambition, and with an eastern devotion he knelt at the shrine of his idolatry. Subsidiary to this, there was no creed that he did not profess, there was no opinion that he dill not promulgate; in the hope of a dynasty, he upheld the crescent; for the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the cross; the orphan of St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the republic; and with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the throne and the tribune, he reared the throne of his despotism. A professed Catholic, he imprisoned the pope; a pretended patriot, he impoverished the country; and in the name of Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore without shame, the diadem of the Cæsars. C. Phillips. LXVI. A COLLISION OF VICES. My honorable and learned friend began by telling us that, after all, hatred is no bad thing in itself "I hate a Tory," says my honorable friend; "and another man hates a cat; but it does not follow that he would hunt down the cat, or I the Tory." Nay, so far from it, hatred, if it be properly managed, is, according to my honorable friend's theory, no bad preface to a rational esteem and affection. It prepares its votaries for a reconciliation of differences; for lying down with their most inveterate enemies, like the leopard and the kid in the vision of the prophet. This dogma is a little startling, but it is not altogether without precedent. It is borrowed from a character in a play, which is, I dare say, as great a favorite with my learned friend as it is with me,--I mean the comedy of the Rivals; in which Mrs. Malaprop, giving a lecture on the subject of marriage to her niece (who is unreasonable enough to talk of liking, as a necessary preliminary to such a union), says, "What have you to do with your likings and your preferences, child? Depend upon it, it is safest to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle like a blackamoor before we were married; and yet, you know, my dear, what a good wife I made him." Such is my learned friend's argument, to a hair. But finding that this doctrine did not appear to go down with the House so glibly as he had expected my honorable and learned friend presently changed his tack and put forward a theory which, whether for novelty or for beauty, I pronounce to be incomparable; and, in short, as wanting nothing to recommend it but a slight foundation in truth. "True philosophy," says my honorable friend, "will always continue to lead men to virtue by the instrumentality of their conflicting vices. The virtues where more than one exists, may live harmoniously together; but the vices bear mortal antipathy to one another, and, therefor, furnish to the moral engineer the power by which he can make each keep the other under controls." Admirable! but upon this doctrine, the poor man who has but one single vice must be in a very bad way. No fulcrum no moral power, for effecting his cure! Whereas his more fortunate neighbor, who has two or more vices in his composition, is in a fair way of becoming a very virtuous member of society. I wonder how my learned friend would like to have this doctrine introduced into his domestic establishment. For instance, suppose that I discharge a servant because he is addicted to liquor, I could not venture to recommend him to my honorable and learned friend. It might be the poor man's only fault and therefor clearly incorrigible; but, if I had the good fortune to find out that he was also addicted to stealing, might I not with a safe conscience send him to my learned friend with a strong recommendation, saying "I send you a man whom I know to be a drunkard; but I am happy to assure you he is also a thief: you cannot do better than employ him; you will make his drunkenness counteract his thievery, and no doubt you will bring him out of the conflict a very moral personage!" G. Canning. LXVII. "MEASURES, NOT MEN" If I am pushed to the wall, and forced to speak my opinion, I have no disguise nor reservation:--I do think that this is a time when the administration of the Government ought to be in the ablest and fittest hands; I do not think the hands in which it is now placed answer to that description. I do not pretend to conceal in what quarter I think that fitness most eminently resides; I do not subscribe to the doctrines which have been advanced, that, in times like the present, the fitness of individuals for their political situation is no part of the consideration to which a member of Parliament may fairly turn his attention. I know not a more solemn or important duty that a member of Parliament can have to discharge, than by giving, at fit seasons, a free opinion upon the character and qualities of public men. Away with the cant of "measures, not men!" the idle supposition that it is the harness, and not the horses, that draws the chariot along! No, sir, if the comparison must be made, if the distinction must be taken, men are everything, measures computatively nothing. I speak, sir, of times of difficulty and danger; of times when systems are shaken, when precedents and general rules of conduct fail. Then it is, that not to this or that measure,--however prudently devised, however blameless in execution,--but to the energy and character of individuals, a state must be indebted for its salvation. Then it is that kingdoms rise or fall in proportion as they are upheld, not by well meant endeavors (laudable though they may be), but by commanding, overawing talents,--by able men. And what is the nature of the times in which we live? Look at France, and see what we have to cope with, and consider what has made her what she is. A man! You will tell me that she was great, and powerful, and formidable, before the days of Bonaparte's government; that he found in her great physical and moral resources; that he had but to turn them to account, True, and he did so. Compare the situation in which he found France with that to which he has raised her. I am no panegyrist of Bonaparte; but I cannot shut my eyes to the superiority of his talents, to the amazing ascendency of his genius, Tell me not of his measures and his policy. It is his genius, his character, that keeps the world in awe. Sir, to meet, to check, to curb, to stand up against him, we want arms of the same kind. I am far from objecting to the large military establishments which are proposed to you. I vote for them, with all my heart. But, for the purpose of coping with Bonaparte, one great, commanding spirit is worth them all. G. Canning. LXVIII. PARLIAMENTARY REFORM. My Lords, I do not disguise the intense solicitude which I feel for the event of this debate, because I know full well that the peace of the country is involved in the issue. I cannot look without dismay at the rejection of this measure of parliamentary reform. But, grievous as may be the consequences of a temporary defeat, temporary it can only be; for its ultimate, and even speedy success, is certain. Nothing can now stop it. Do not suffer yourselves to be persuaded that, even if the present ministers were driven from the helm, any one could steer you through the troubles which surround you, without reform. But our successors would take up the task in circumstances far less auspicious. Under them, you would be fain to grant a bill, compared with which, the one we now proffer you is moderate indeed. Hear the parable of the Sibyl; for it conveys a wise and wholesome moral. "She now appears at your gate, and offers you mildly the volumes--the precious volumes--of wisdom and peace. The price she asks is reasonable; to restore the franchise, which, without any bargain, you ought voluntarily to give. You refuse her terms--her moderate terms;--she darkens the porch no longer. But soon--for you cannot do without her wares--you call her back. Again she comes, but with diminished treasures; the leaves of the book are in part torn away by lawless hands, in part defaced with characters of blood. But the prophetic maid has risen in her demands;--it is Parliaments by the year--it is vote by the ballot--it is suffrage by the million! From this you turn away indignant; and, for the second time, she departs. Beware of her third coming! for the treasure you must have; and what price she may next demand, who shall tell? It may even be the mace which rests upon that woolsack! What may follow your course of obstinacy, if persisted in, I cannot take upon me to predict, nor do I wish to conjecture. But this I know full well; that as sure as man is mortal, and to err is human, justice deferred enhances the price at which you must purchase safety and peace;--nor can you expect to gather in another crop than they did who went be fore you, if you persevere in their utterly abominable husbandry of sowing injustice and reaping rebellion. But, among the awful considerations that now bow down my mind, there is one that stands preeminent above the rest. You are the highest judicature in the realm; you sit here as judges, and decide all causes, civil and criminal, without appeal. It is a Judge's just duty never to pronounce a sentence, in the most trifling case, without hearing. Will you make this the exception? Are you really prepared to determine, but not to hear, the mighty cause, upon which a Nation's hopes and fears hang? You are? Then beware of your decision! Rouse not, I beseech you, a peace-loving but a resolute people! Alienate not from your body the affections of a whole Empire! As your friend, as the friend of my order, as the friend of my country, as the faithful servant of my sovereign, I counsel you to assist, with your uttermost efforts, in preserving the peace, and upholding and perpetuating the Constitution. Therefore, I pray and exhort you not to reject this measure. By all you hold most dear--by all the ties that bind every one of us to our common order and our common country, I solemnly adjure you--I warn you--I implore you--yea, on my bended knees, I supplicate you,--reject not this bill! Lord Brougham. LXIX. DENUNCIATION OF SLAVERY. I trust at length the time has come, when Parliament will no longer bear to be told, that slave-owners are the best lawgivers on slavery; no longer suffer our voice to roll across the Atlantic in empty warnings and fruitless orders. Tell me not of rights,--talk not of the property of the planter in his slave. I deny his rights,--I acknowledge not the property. The principles, the feelings of our common nature, rise in rebellion against it. Be the appeal made to the understanding or to the heart, the sentence is the same, that rejects it. In vain you tell me of laws that sanction such a claim! There is a law above all the enactments of human codes,--the same throughout the world,--the same in all times; such as it was before the daring genius of Columbus pierced the night of ages, and opened to one world the source of power, wealth, and knowledge,--to the others all unutterable woes, such is it at this day; it is the law written by the finger of God on the heart of man; and be that law, unchangeable and eternal, while men despise fraud, and loathe rapine, and hate blood, they shall reject with indignation the wild and guilty fantasy, that man can hold property in man! In vain ye appeal to treaties,--to covenants between nations. The covenants of the Almighty, whether the old covenant or the new, denounce such unholy pretensions. To these laws did they of old refer, who maintained the African trade. Such treaties did they cite, and not untruly; for, by one shameful compact, you bartered the glories of Blenheim for the traffic in blood. Yet, in despite of law and of treaty, that infernal traffic is now destroyed, and its votaries put to death like other pirates. How came this change to pass? Not, assuredly, by Parliament leading the way; but the country at length awoke; the indignation of the people was kindled; it descended in thunder, and smote the traffic, and scattered its guilty profit to the winds. Now, then, let the planters beware,--let their assemblies beware,--let the government at home beware,--let the Parliament beware! The same country is once more awake,--awake to the condition of negro slavery; the same indignation kindles in the bosom of the same people; the same cloud is gathering that annihilated the slave-trade; and if it shall descend again, they, on whom its crash may fall, will not be destroyed before I have warned them; but I pray that their destruction may turn away from us the more terrible judgments of God! Lord Brougham. LXX. THE TEACHERS OF MANKIND. There is nothing which the adversaries of improvement are more wont to make themselves merry with than what is termed the "march of intellect;" and here I will confess, that I think, as far as the phrase goes, they are in the right. It is a very absurd, because a very incorrect expression. It is little calculated to describe the operation in question. It does not picture an image at all resembling the proceedings of the true friends of mankind. It much more resembles the progress of the enemy to all improvement. The conqueror moves in a march. He stalks onward with the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of warp,"--banners flying--shouts rending the air--guns thundering--and martial music pealing, to drown the shrieks of the wounded, and the lamentations for the slain. Not thus the schoolmaster, in his peaceful vocation. He meditates and prepares in secret the plans which are to bless mankind; he slowly gathers round him those who are to further their execution, he quietly, though firmly, advances in his humble path, laboring steadily, but calmly, till he has opened to the light all the recesses of ignorance, and torn up by the roots the weeds of vice. His is a progress not to be compared with anything like a march; but it leads to a far more brilliant triumph, and to laurels more imperishable than the destroyer of his species, the scourge of the world, ever won. Such men--men deserving the glorious title of Teachers of Mankind--I have found, laboring conscientiously, though, perhaps obscurely, in their blessed vocation, wherever I have gone. I have found them, and shared their fellowship, among the daring, the ambitious, the ardent, the indomitably active French; I have found them among the persevering, resolute, industrious Swiss; I have found them among the laborious, the warmhearted, the enthusiastic Germans; I have found them among the high-minded, but enslaved Italians; and in our own country, God be thanked, their numbers everywhere abound, and are every day increasing. Their calling is high and holy; their fame is the property of nations; their renown will fill the earth in after-ages, in proportion as it sounds not far off in their own times. Each one of those great teachers of the world, possessing his soul in peace, performs his appointed course; awaits in patience the fulfillment of the premises; and, resting from his labors, bequeathed his memory to the generation whom his works have blessed, and sleeps under the humble but not inglorious epitaph, commemorating it one in whom mankind lost a friend, and no man got rid of an enemy." Lord Brougham. LXXI. THE GREATNESS OF WASHINGTON. Great he was, preëminently great, whether we regard him sustaining alone the whole weight of campaigns all but desperate, or gloriously terminating a just warfare by his resources and his courage; presiding over the jarring elements of his political council, alike deaf to the storms of all extremes, or directing the formation of a new government for a great people, the first time that so vast an experiment had ever been tried by man; or, really, retiring from the supreme power to which his virtue had raised him over the nation he had created, and whose destinies he had guided as long as his aid was required,--retiring with the veneration of all parties, of all nations, of all mankind, in order that the rights of men might be conserved, and that his example never might be appealed to by vulgar tyrants. This is the consummate glory of Washington; a triumphant warrior where the most sanguine had a right to despair; a successful ruler in all the difficulties of a course wholly untried; but a warrior, whose sword only left its sheath when the first law of our nature commanded it to be drawn; and a ruler who, having tasted of supreme power, gently and ostentatiously desired that the cup might pass from him, nor would suffer more to wet his lips than the most solemn and sacred duty to his To his country and his God required! To his latest breath did this great patriot maintain the noble character of a captain the patron of peace, and a statesman the friend of justice. Dying, he bequeathed to his heirs the sword which he had worn in the war for liberty, and charged them "never to take it from the scabbard but in self-defence, or in defence of their country and her freedom;" and commanded them that, "when it should thus be drawn, they should never sheathe it, nor ever give it up, but prefer falling with it in their hands to the relinquishment thereof,"--words, the majesty and simple eloquence of which are not surpassed in the oratory of Athens and Rome. It will be the duty of the historian and the sage, in all ages, to let no occasion pass of commemorating this illustrious man; and, until time shall be no more, will a test of the progress which our race has made in wisdom and virtue be derived from the veneration paid to the immortal name of Washington! Lord Brougham. LXXII. WASHINGTON, A MAN OF GENIUS. How many times have we been told that Washington was not a man of genius, but a person of excellent common sense, of admirable judgement, of rare virtues! He had no genius, it seems. O no! genius, we must suppose, is the peculiar and shining attribute of some orator, whose tongue can spout patriotic speeches; or some versifier, whose muse can hail Columbia; but not of the man who supported States on his arm, and carried America in his brain. What is genius? Is it worth anything? Is splendid folly the measure of its inspiration? Is wisdom its base and summit?--that which it recedes from, or tends toward? And by what definition do you award the name to the creator of an epic, and deny it to the creator of a country? On what principle is it to be lavished on him who sculptures in perishing marble the image of possible excellence, and withheld from him who built up in himself a transcendent character, indestructible as the obligations of duty, and beautiful as her rewards? Indeed, if by genius of action, you mean will enlightened by intelligence, and intelligence energized by will,--if force and insight be its characteristics, and influence its test, and if great effects suppose a cause proportionally great, a vital, causative mind,--then was Washington most assuredly a man of genius, and one whom no other American has equalled in the power of working morally and mentally on other minds. His genius was of a peculiar kind, the genius of character, of thought and the objects of thought solidified and concentrated into active faculty. He belongs to that rare class of men,--rare as Homers and Miltons, rare as Platos and Newtons,--who have impressed their characters upon nations without pampering national vices. Such men have natures broad enough to include all the facts of a people's practical life, and deep enough to discern the spiritual laws which underlie, animate, and govern those facts. E. P. Whipple. LXXIII. IRISH ALIENS AND ENGLISH VICTORIES. I should be surprised, indeed, if; while you are doing us wrong, you did not profess your solicitude to do us justice. From the day on which Strongbow set his foot upon the shore of Ireland, Englishmen were never wanting in protestations of their deep anxiety to do us justice;--even Strafford, the deserter of the people's cause,--the renegade Wentworth who gave evidence in Ireland of the spirit of instinctive tyranny which predominated in his character,--even Strafford, while he trampled upon our rights, and trod upon the heart of the country, protested his solicitude to do justice to Ireland! What marvel is it, then, that gentlemen opposite should deal in such vehement protestations? There is, however, one man, of great abilities,--not a member of this House, but whose talents and whose boldness have placed him in the topmost place in his party,--who, disdaining all imposture, and thinking it the best course to appeal directly to the religious and national antipathies of the people of this country,--abandoning all reserve, and flinging off the slender veil by which his political associates affect to cover, although they cannot hide, their motives,--distinctly and audaciously tells the Irish people that they are not entitled to the same privileges as Englishmen; and pronounces them, in any particular which could enter his minute enumeration of the circumstances by which fellow-citizenship is created, in race, identity, and religion to be aliens--to be aliens in race--to be aliens in country--to be aliens in religion! Aliens! Good God! was Arthur, Duke of Wellington, in the House of Lords,--and did he not start up and exclaim, "Hold! I have seen the aliens do their duty!" The Duke of Wellington is not a man of an excitable temperament. His mind is of a cast too martial to be easily moved; but, notwithstanding his habitual inflexibility, I cannot help thinking that, when he heard his Roman Catholic countrymen (for we are his countrymen) designated by a phrase as offensive as the abundant vocabulary of his eloquent confederate could supply,--I cannot help thinking that he ought to have recollected the many fields of fight in which we have been contributors to his renown. "The battles, sieges, fortunes, that he has passed," to have come back upon him. He ought to have remembered that, from the earliest achievement in which he displayed that military genius which has placed him foremost in the annals of modern warfare, down to that last and surpassing combat which has made his name imperishable,--from Assaye to Waterloo,--the Irish soldiers, with whom your armies are filled, were the inseparable auxiliaries to the glory with which his unparalleled successes have been crowned. Whose were the arms that drove your bayonets at Vimiera through the phalanxes that never reeled to the shock of war before? What desperate valor climbed the steeps and filled the moats at Badajos? All his victories should have rushed and crowded back upon his memory,--Vimiera, Badajos, Salamanca, Albuera, Toulouse, and, last of all, the greatest-- Tell me--for you were there,--I appeal to the gallant soldier before me, from whose opinions I differ, but who bears, I know, a generous heart in an intrepid breast;--tell me, for you must needs remember, on that day when the destinies of mankind were trembling in the balance,--while death fell in showers when the artillery of France was levelled with a precision of the most deadly science, when her legions, incited by the voice and inspired by the example of their mighty leader, rushed again and again to the onset,--tell me if, for an instant, when to hesitate for an instant was to be lost, the "aliens" blenched? And when, at length, the moment for the last and decided movement had arrived, and the valor which had so long been wisely checked was, at last, let loose,--when, with words familiar but immortal, the great captain commanded the great assault,--tell me if Catholic Ireland with less heroic valor than the natives of this your own glorious country precipitated herself upon the foe? The blood of England, Scotland, and of Ireland, flowed in the same stream, and drenched the same field. When the chill morning dawned, their dead lay cold and stark together;--in the same deep pit their bodies were deposited; the green corn of spring is now breaking from their commingled dust; the dew falls from heaven upon their union in the grave. Partakers in every peril, in the glory shall we not be permitted to participate; and shall we be told as a requital, that we are estranged from the noble country for whose salvation our life-blood was poured out? R. L. Sheil. LXXIV. THE ILIAD AND THE BIBLE. Of all the books with which, since the invention of writing, this world has been deluged, very few have produced any perceptible effect on the mass of human character. By far the greater part have been, even by their contemporaries, unnoticed and unknown. Not many a one has made its little mark upon that generation that produced it, though it sunk with that generation to utter forgetfulness. But, after the ceaseless toil of six thousand years, how few have been the works, the adamantine basis of whose reputation has stood unhurt amid the fluctuations of time, and whose impression can be traced through successive centuries, on the history of our species! When, however, such a work appears, its effects are absolutely incalculable; and such a work, you are aware, is the Iliad of Homer. Who can estimate the results produced by the incomparable efforts of a single mind? Who can tell what Greece owes to this first-born of song? Her breathing marbles, her solemn temples, her unrivalled eloquence, and her matchless verse, all point us to that transcendent genius, who, by the very splendor of his own effulgence, woke the human intellect from the slumber of ages. It was Homer who gave laws to the artist; it was Homer who inspired the poet; it was Homer who thundered in the Senate; and, more than all, it was Homer who was sung by the people; and hence a nation was cast into the mould of one mighty mind, and the land of the Iliad became the region of taste, the birthplace of the arts. But, considered simply as an intellectual production, who will compare the poems of Homer with the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments? Where in the Iliad shall we find simplicity and pathos which shall vie with the narrative of Moses, or maxims of conduct to equal in wisdom the Proverbs of Solomon, or sublimity which does not fade away before the conceptions of Job, or David, or Isaiah, or St. John? But I cannot pursue this comparison. I feel that it is doing wrong to the mind which dictated the Iliad, and to those other mighty intellects on whom the light of the holy oracles never shined. If, then, so great results have flowed from this one effort of a single mind, what may we not expect from the combined efforts of several, at least his equals in power over the human heart? If that one genius, though groping in the thick darkness of absurd idolatry, wrought so glorious a transformation in the character of his countrymen, what may we not look for from the universal dissemination of those writings on whose authors was poured the full splendor of eternal truth? If unassisted human nature, spell-bound by a childish mythology, have done so much, what may we not hope for from the supernatural efforts of preeminent genius, which spake as it was moved by the Holy Ghost? Dr. Wayland. LXXV. ON ADMITTING CALIFORNIA TO THE UNION. A year ago, California was a mere military dependency of our own. To-day, she is a State, more populous than the least, and richer than several of the greatest of our thirty States. This same California, thus rich and populous, is here asking admission into the Union, and finds us debating the dissolution of the Union itself. No wonder if we are perplexed with ever-changing embarrassments! No wonder if we are appalled by ever-increasing responsibilities! No wonder if we are bewildered by the ever-augmenting magnitude and rapidity of national vicissitudes! SHALL CALIFORNIA BE RECEIVED? For myself, upon my individual judgment and conscience, I answer--yes. Let California come in. Every new State, whether she come from the east or the west every new State, coming from whatever part of the continent she may, is always welcome. But, California, that comes from the clime where the west dies away into the rising east,--California, that bounds at once the empire and the continent,--California, the youthful queen of the Pacific, in her robes of freedom, gorgeously inlaid with gold, is doubly welcome. The question now arises, shall this one great people, having a common origin, a common language, a common religion, common sentiments, interests, sympathies and hopes, remain one political state, one nation, one republic; or shall it be broken into two conflicting, and, probably, hostile nations or republics? Shall the American people, then, be divided? Before deciding on this question, let us consider our position, our power, and capabilities. The world contains no seat of empire so magnificent as this; which, embracing all the varying climates of the temperate zone, and traversed by wide expanding lakes and long branching rivers, offers supplies on the Atlantic shores to the overcrowded nations of Europe, and, on the Pacific coast, intercepts the commerce of the Indies. The nations thus situated, and enjoying forest, mineral, and agricultural resources unequaled, if endowed, also with moral energies adequate to the achievement of great enterprises, and flavored with a government adapted to their character and condition, must command the empire of the seas, which, alone, is real empire. We think we may claim to have inherited physical and intellectual vigor, courage, invention, and enterprise; and the systems of education prevailing among us, open to all the stores of human science and art. The Old World and the Past were allotted by Providence to the pupilage of mankind. The New World and the Future seem to have been appointed for the maturity of mankind, with the development of self-government, operating in obedience to reason and judgment. We may, then, reasonably hope for greatness, felicity, and renown, excelling any hitherto attained by any nation, if, standing firmly on the continent, we lose not our grasp on either ocean. Whether a destiny so magnificent would be only partially defeated, or whether it would be altogether lost by a relaxation of the grasp, surpasses our wisdom to determine, and happily it is not important to be determined. It is enough, if we agree, that expectations so grand, yet so reasonable and so just, ought not in any degree to be disappointed. And now, it seems to me, that the perpetual unity of the empire hangs on the decision of this day and this hour. California is already a State,--a complete and fully appointed State. She never again can be less than that. She never again can be a province or a colony; nor can she be made to shrink or shrivel into the proportions of a federal dependent territory. California, then, henceforth and forever, must be, what she is now,--a State. The question whether she shall be one of the United States of America, has depended on her and on us. Her election has been made. Our consent alone remains suspended; and that consent must be pronounced now or never. W. H. Seward. LXXVI. A HIGHWAY TO THE PACIFIC. Mr. President, I go for a national highway from the Mississippi to the Pacific. And I go against all schemes of individuals or of companies, and especially those who come here and ask of the Congress of the United States to give themselves and their assigns the means of making a road, and taxing the people for the use of it. If they should make it, they are to tax us for the use of it--tax the people eight or ten millions a year for using a road which their own money built. A fine scheme, that! But they would never build it, neither themselves nor their assigns. It would all end in stock-jobbing. I repudiate the whole idea, sir. I go for a national highway--no stock-jobbing. We find all the localities of the country precisely such as a national central road would require. The Bay of San Francisco, the finest in the world, is in the centre of the western coast of North America; it is central, and without a rival. It will accommodate the commerce of that coast, both north and south, up to the frozen regions, down to the torrid zone. It is central in that respect. The commerce of the broad Pacific Ocean will centre there. The commerce of Asia will centre there. Follow the same latitude across the country, and it strikes the centre of the valley of the Mississippi. It strikes the Mississippi near the confluence of all the great waters which concentrate in the valley of the Mississippi. It comes to the centre of the valley;--it comes to St. Louis. Follow the prolongation of that central line, and you find it cutting the heart of the great States between the Mississippi River and the Atlantic Ocean, Illinois, Indiana Ohio a part of Virginia, Kentucky, and Pennsylvania,--they are all traversed or touched by that great central line. We own the country, from sea to sea, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and upon a breadth equal to the length of the Mississippi, and embracing the whole temperate zone. Three thousand milks across, and half that breadth, is the magnificent parallelogram of our domain. We can run a national central road through and through, the whole distance, under our flag and under our laws. Military reasons require us to make it; for troops and munitions must go there. Political reasons require us to make it; it will be a chain of union between the Atlantic and Pacific States. Commercial reasons demand it from us; and here I touch a boundless field, dazzling and bewildering the imagination from its vastness and importance. The trade of the Pacific Ocean, of this western coast of North America, and of eastern Asia, will all take its track; and not only for ourselves, but for posterity. Sir, in no instance has the great Asiatic trade failed to carry the nation or the people which possessed it to the highest pinnacle of wealth and power, and with it, to the highest attainments of letters, art, and science. And so will it continue to be. An American road to India, through the heart of our country will revive upon its line all the wonders of which we have read, and eclipse them. The western wilderness, from the Pacific to the Mississippi, will spring into life under its touch. A long line of cities will grow up. Existing cities will take a new start. The state of the world calls for a new road to India, and it is our destiny to give it--the last and greatest. Let us act up to the greatness of the occasion, and show ourselves worthy of the extraordinary circumstances in which we are placed, by securing, while we can, an American road to India, central and national, for ourselves and our posterity, now and hereafter, for thousands of years to come. T. H. Benton. LXXVII. ADDRESS TO POLISH EXILES AT LONDON. It is eighty-one years since Poland first was quartered by a nefarious act of combined royalty, which the Swiss Tacitus, John Müller, well characterized by saying that "God permitted the act, to show the morality of kings;" and it is twenty-four years since down-trodden Poland made the greatest--not the last--manifestation of her imperishable vitality, which the cabinets of Europe were either too narrow-minded to understand, or too corrupt to appreciate. Eighty-one years of still unretributed crime, and twenty-four years of misery and exile! It is a long time to suffer, and not to despair. And all along this time, you, proscribed patriots of Poland, were suffering, and did not despair. You stood up before the world, a living statue, with unquenchable life-flame of patriotism streaming through its petrified limbs; you stood up a protest of eternal right against the sway of imperious might; a "Mene Tekel Upharsin," written in letters of burning blood on the walls of overweening despotism. Time, misery, and sorrow have thinned the ranks of your scattered Israel; you have carried your dead to the grave, and those who survive went on to suffer and to hope. Wherever oppressed Freedom reared a banner, you rallied around;--the living statue changed to a fighting hero. Many of yours fell; and, when crime triumphed once more over virtue and right, you resumed the wandering exile's staff and did not despair. Many among you, who were young when they last saw the sun rise over Poland's mountains and plains, have your hair whitened and your strength broken with age, anguish, and misery; but the patriotic heart kept the freshness of its youth; it is young in love for Poland, young in aspirations for freedom, young in hope, and youthfully fresh in determination to break Poland's chains. What a rich source of noble deeds patriotism must be, that has given you strength to suffer so much and never to despair! You have given a noble example to all of us,--your younger brother in the family of exiles. When the battle of Cannæ was lost, and Hannibal was measuring by bushels the rings of the fallen Roman knights, the Senate of Rome voted thanks to Consul Terentius Varro for "not having despaired of the Commonwealth." Proscribed patriots of Poland! I thank you that you have not despaired of resurrection and of liberty. The time draws nigh when the oppressed nations will call their aggressors to a last account; and the millions of freemen, in the fulness of their right, and their self-conscious strength, will class judgment on arrogant conquerors, privileged murderers, and perjured kings. In that supreme trial, the oppressed nations will stand one for all, and all for one. L. Kossuth. LXXVIII. KOSSUTH ON HIS CREDENTIALS. Let ambitious fools,--let the pigmies who live on the scanty food of personal envy, when the very earth quakes beneath their feet; let even the honest prudence of ordinary household times, measuring eternity with that thimble with which they are wont to measure the bubbles of small party interest, and, taking the dreadful roaring of the ocean for a storm in a water-glass;--let those who believe the weather to be calm, because they have drawn a nightcap over their ears, and, burying their heads in pillows of domestic comfort, do not hear Satan sweeping in a hurricane over the earth; let envy, ambition, blindness, and the pettifogging wisdom of small times,--let all these artistically investigate the question of my official capacity, or the nature of my public authority; let them scrupulously discuss the immense problem whether I still possess, or possess no longer, the title of my once-Governorship; let them ask for credentials, discuss the limits of my commission, as representative of Hungary. I pity all such frog and mouse fighting. I claim no official capacity,--no public authority, no representation;--boast of no commission, of no written and sealed credentials. I am nothing but what my generous friend, the senator from Michigan, has justly styled me, "a private and banished man." But, in that capacity I have a nobler credential for my mission than all the clerks of the world can write,--the credential that I am a "man;" the credential that I am a "patriot;" the credential that I love with all sacrificing devotion my oppressed fatherland and liberty; the credential that I hate tyrants, and have sworn everlasting hostility to them; the credential that I feel the strength to do good service to the cause of freedom; good service, as perhaps few men can do, because I have the iron will, in this my breast, to serve faithfully devotedly, indefatigably, that noble cause. I have the credential that I trust to God in heaven, to justice on earth; that I offend no laws, but cling to the protection of the laws. I have the credential of my people's undeniable confidence and its unshaken faith; to my devotion, to my manliness, to my honesty, and to my patriotism; which faith I will honestly answer without ambition, without interest, as faithfully as ever, but more skillfully, because schooled by adversities. And I have the credential of the justice of the cause I plead, and of the wonderful sympathy which, not my person, but that cause, has met, and meets, in two hemispheres. These are my credentials, and nothing else. To whom this is enough, he will help me, so far as the law permits and it is his good pleasure. To whom these credentials are not sufficient, let him look for a better accredited man. LXXIX. THE IDES OF MARCH. To-day is the fourth anniversary of the Revolution in Hungary. Anniversaries of revolutions are almost always connected with the recollections of some patriot's death,--fallen on that day, like the Spartans at Thermopylæ, martyrs of devotion to their fatherland. Almost in every country there is some proud cemetery, or some modest tombstone, adorned on such a day by a garland of evergreen,--the pious offering of patriotic tenderness. I passed the last night in a sleepless dream; and my soul wandered on the magnetic wings of the past, home to my beloved, bleeding land. And I saw, in the dead of the night, dark veiled shapes, with the paleness of eternal grief upon their brow--but terrible in the fearless silence of that grief--gliding over the churchyards of Hungary and kneeling down to the head of the graves, and depositing the pious tribute of green and cypress upon them; and, after a short prayer, rising with clenched fists and gnashing teeth, and then stealing away tearless! and silent as they came,--stealing away, because the bloodbounds of my country's murder lurks from every corner on that night, and on this day, and leads to prison those who dare to show a pious remembrance to the beloved. To-day, a smile on the lips of a Magyar is taken for a crime of defiance to tyranny; and a tear in his eye is equivalent to a revolt. And yet I have seen, with the eye of my home-wandering soul, thousands performing the work of patriotic piety. And I saw more. When the pious offerers stole away, I saw the honored dead half risen from their tombs, looking to the offerings, and whispering gloomily, "Still a cypress, and still no flower of joy! Is there still the chill of winter and the gloom of night over thee, Fatherland? Are we not yet revenged?" And the sky of the east reddened suddenly, and quivered with bloody flames; and from the far, far west, a lightning flashed like a star-spangled stripe, and within its light a young eagle mounted and soared towards the quivering flames of the east; and as he drew near, upon his approaching, the flames changed into a radiant morning sun, and a voice from above was heard in answer to the question of the dead: "Sleep yet a short while; mine is the revenge. I will make the stars of the west the sun of the east; and when ye next awake, ye will find the flower of joy upon your cold bed." And the dead took the twig of cypress, the sign of resurrection, into their bony hands, and lay down. Such was the dream of my waking soul. And I prayed; and such was my prayer: "Father, if thou deemest me worthy, take the cup from my people, and give it in their stead to me." And there was a whisper around me like the word "Amen." Such was my dream, half foresight and half prophecy; but resolution all. However, none of those dead whom I saw, fell on the 15th of March. They were victims of the royal perjury which betrayed the 15th of March. The anniversary of our Revolution has not the stain of a single drop of blood. L. Kossuth. LXXX. THE SAME CONTINUED. We, the elect of the nation, sat on that morning busily but quietly, in the legislative hall of old Presburg, and, without any flood of eloquence, passed our laws in short words, that the people shall be free; the burdens of feudalism shall cease; the peasant shall become free proprietor; that equality of duties, equality of rights, shall be the fundamental law; and civil, political, social, and religious liberty shall be the common property of all the people, whatever tongue it may speak, or in whatever church pray; and that a national ministry shall execute these laws, and guard with its responsibility the chartered, ancient independence of our Fatherland. Two days before, Austria's brave people in Vienna had broken its yoke; and summing up despots in the person of their tool, old Metternich, drove him away; and the Hapsburgs, trembling in their imperial cavern of imperial crimes, trembling, but treacherous, and lying and false, wrote with yard-long letters, the words, "Constitution" and "Free Press" upon Vienna's walls; and the people in joy cheered the inveterate liars, because the people knows no falsehood. On the 14th, I announced the tidings from Vienna to our Parliament at Presburg. The announcement was swiftly carried by the great democrat, the steam-engine, upon the billows of the Danube, down to old Buda and to young Pesth, and while we, in the House of Representatives, passed the laws of Justice and freedom, the people of Pesth rose in peaceful but majestic manifestation, declaring that the people should be free. At this manifestation all the barriers raised by violence against the laws, fell of themselves. Not a drop of blood was shed. A man who was in prison because he had dared to write a book, was carried home in triumph through the streets. The people armed itself as a National Guard, the windows were illuminated and bon fires burnt, and when these tidings returned back to Presburg, blended with the cheers from Vienna, they warmed the chill of our House of Lords, who readily agreed to the laws we pro posed. And there was rejoicing throughout the land. For the first time for centuries the farmer awoke with the pleasant feeling that his time was now his own--for the first time went out to till his field with the consoling thought that the ninth part of his harvest will not be taken by the landlord, nor the tenth by the bishop. Both had fully resigned their feudal portion, and the air was brightened by the lustre of freedom, and the very soil budding into a blooming paradise. Such is the memory of the 15th of March, 1848. L. Kossuth. LXXXI. THE SAME CONTINUED. One year later, there was blood, but also victory, over the land; the people because free, fought like demi-gods. Seven great victories we had gained in that month of March. On this very day, the remains of the first ten thousand Russians fled over the frontiers of Transylvania, to tell at home how heavily the blow falls from free Hungarian arms. It was in that very month, that one evening I lay down in the bed, whence in the morning Windischgrätz had risen; and from the battle-field I hastened to the Congress at Debreczin, to tell the Representatives of the nation "It is time to declare our national independence, because it is really achieved. The Hapsburgs have not power to contradict it more." Nor had they. But Russia, having experienced by the test of its first interference, that there was no power on earth caring about the most flagrant violation of the laws of nations, and seeing by the silence of Great Britain and of the United States, that she may dare to violate those laws, our heroes had to meet a fresh force of nearly two hundred thousand Russians. No power cheered our bravely-won independence by diplomatic recognition; not even the United States, though they always professed their principle to be that they recognize every de facto government. We therefore had the right to expect a speedy recognition from the United States. Our struggle rose to European height, but we were left alone to fight for the world; and we had no arms for the new battalions, gathering up in thousands with resolute hearts and empty hands. The recognition of our independence being withheld, commercial intercourse for procuring arms abroad was impossible,--the gloomy feeling of entire forsakedness spread over our tired ranks, and prepared the field for the secret action of treachery; until the most sacrilegious violation of those common laws of nations was achieved, and. the code of "nature and of nature's God" was drowned in Hungary's blood. And I who on the 15th of March, 1848, saw the principle of full civil and religious liberty triumphing in my native land,--who, on the 15th of March, 1849, saw this freedom consolidated by victories,--one year later, on the 15th of March, 1850, was on my sorrowful way to an Asiatic prison. L. Kossuth. LXXXII. THE SAME CONCLUDED. But wonderful are the ways of Divine Providence. It was again in the month of March, 1851, that the generous interposition of the United States cast the first ray of hope into the dead night of my captivity. And on the 15th of March, 1852, the fourth anniversary of our Revolution, guided by the bounty of Providence, here I stand, in the very heart of your immense Republic; no longer a captive, but free in the land of the free, not only not desponding, but firm in confidence of the future, because raised in spirits by a swelling sympathy in the home of the brave; still a poor, a homeless exile, but not without some power to do good to my country and to the cause of liberty, as my very persecution proves. Such is the history of the 15th of March, in my humble life. Who can tell what will be the character of the next 15th of March? Nearly two thousand years ago. the first Cæsar found a Brutus on the Ides or 15th of March. May be that the Ides of March, 1853, will see the last of the Cæsars fall under the avenging might of a thousand-handed Brutus--the name of whom is "the people"--inexorable at last after it has been so long generous. The seat of the Cæsars was first in the south, then from the south to the east, from the east to the west, and from the west to the north. That is their last abode. None was lasting yet. Will the last, and worst, prove luckier? No, it will not. While the seat of the Cæsars was tossed around and thrown back to the icy north, a new world became the cradle of a new humanity, where, in spite of the Cæsars the Genius of Freedom raised (let us hope) an everlasting throne. The Cæsar of the north and the Genius of Freedom have not place enough upon this earth for both of them; one must yield and be crushed beneath the heels of the other. Which is it? Which shall yield? America may decide. L. Kossuth. LXXXIII. THE MAYFLOWER AND THE PILGRIMS. Methinks I see it now that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks, and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now, driven in fury before the raging tempest, in their scarcely seaworthy vessel. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging. The laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening weight, against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after a five months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending on the charity of their shipmaster for a draught of beer on board, drinking nothing but water on shore, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers. Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this. Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching in its last moments at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea?--was it some, or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of lope? Is it possible, that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, a reality so important, a promise yet to be fulfilled so glorious? E. Everett. LXXXIV. THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA. After years of fruitless and heart-sick solicitation, after offering, in effect, to this monarchy and to that monarch, the gift of a hemisphere. the great discoverer touches upon a partial success. He succeeds, not in enlisting the sympathy of his countrymen at Genoa and Venice, for a brave brother-sailor,--not in giving a new direction to the spirit of maritime adventure, which had so long prevailed in Portugal,--not in stimulating the commercial thrift of Henry the Seventh, or the pious ambition of the Catholic king. His sorrowful perseverance touches the heart of a noble princess, worthy the throne which she adorned. The New World, which was just escaping the subtle kingcraft of Ferdinand, was saved to Spain by the womanly compassion of Isabella. It is truly melancholy, however, to contemplate the wretched equipment, for which the most powerful princess of Christendom was ready to pledge her jewels. Floating castles will soon be fitted out to convey the miserable natives of Africa to the golden shores of America; towering galleons will be despatched to bring home the guilty treasures to Spain. But three small vessels, one of which was without a deck, and neither of them, probably, exceeding the capacity of a pilot-boat, and even these impressed into the public service, composed the expedition fitted out under royal patronage, to realize that magnificent conceptions in which the creative mind of Columbus had planted the germs of a new world. No chapter of romance equals the interest of this expedition. The most fascinating of the works of fiction which have issued from the modern press have, to my taste, no attraction compared with the pages in which the first voyage of Columbus is described by Robertson, and still more by our own Irving and Prescott, the last two enjoying the advantage over the Scottish historian of possessing the lately discovered Journals and letters of Columbus himself. The departure from Palos, where, a few days before, he had begged a morsel of bread and a cup of water for his wayworn child,--his final farewell to the Old World at the Canaries,--his entrance upon the trade winds, which then, for the first time, filled a European sail,--the portentous variation of the needle, never before observed, the fearful course westward and westward, day after day, and night after night, over the unknown ocean, the mutinous and ill-appeased crew; at length, when hope had turned to despair in every heart but one, the tokens of land,--the cloud-banks on the western horizon,--the logs of drift-wood,--the fresh shrub, floating with its leaves and berries,--the flocks of land-birds,--the shoals of fish that inhabit shallow water, the indescribable smell of the shore,--the mysterious presentiment that seems ever to go before a great event, and finally, on that ever-memorable night of the 12th of October, 1492, the moving light seen by the sleepless eye of the great discoverer himself, from the deck of the Santa Maria, and in the morning the real, undoubted land, swelling up from the bosom of the deep, with its plains, and hills, and forests, and rocks, and streams, and strange, new races of men;--these are incidents in which the authentic history of the discovery of our Continent excels the specious wonders of romance, as much as gold excels tinsel, or the sun in the heavens outshines the flickering taper. E. Everett. LXXXV. ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. We dismiss them not to the chambers of forgetfulness and death. What we admired, and prized, and venerated in them, can never be forgotten. I had almost said that they are now beginning to live; to live that life of unimpaired influence, of unclouded fame, of unmingled happiness, for which their talents and services were destined. Such men do not, cannot die. To be cold and breathless; to feel not and speak not; this is not the end of existence to the men who have breathed their spirits into the institutions of their country, who have stamped their characters on the pillars of the age, who have poured their hearts' blood into the channels of the public prosperity. Tell me, ye who tread the sods of yon sacred height, is Warren dead? Can you not still see him, not pale and prostrate, the blood of his gallant heart pouring out of his ghastly wound, but moving resplendent over the field of honors with the rose of heaven upon his cheek, and the fire of liberty in his eye? Tell me, ye who make your pious pilgrimage to the shades of Vernon, is Washington indeed shut up in that cold and narrow house? That which made these men, and men like these, cannot die. The hand that traced the charter of independence is, indeed, motionless; the eloquent lips that sustained it are hushed; but the lofty spirits that conceived, resolved, and maintained it, and which alone, to such men, "make it life to live," these cannot expire;-- "These shall resist the empire of decay, When time is o'er, and worlds have passed away; Cold in the dust the perished heart may lie, But that which warmed it once can never die." E. Everett. LXXXVI. THE INDIAN CHIEF TO THE WHITE SETTLER. Think of the country for which the Indians fought! Who can blame them? As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount Hope, that glorious eminence, that ----" throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand, Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,"-- as he looked down, and beheld the lovely scene which spread beneath, at a summer sunset, the distant hill-tops glittering as with fire, the slanting beams streaming across the waters, the broad plains, the island groups, the majestic forest,--could he be blamed, if his heart burned within him, as he beheld it all passing, by no tardy process, from beneath his control, into the hands of the stranger? As the river chieftains--the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains--ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at, if they beheld with bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the settler's axe? the fishing-place disturbed by his saw-mills? Can we not fancy the feelings with which some strong-minded savage, the chief of the Pocomtuck Indians, who should have ascended the summit of the Sugar-loaf Mountain, (rising as it does before us, at this moment, in all its loveliness and grandeur,)--in company with a friendly settler, contemplating the progress already made by the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with which he was advancing into the wilderness, should fold his arms and say "White man, there is eternal war between me and thee! I quit not the land of my fathers, but with my life. In those woods, where I bent my youthful bow; I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide, unrestrained, in my bark canoe. By those dashing waterfalls I will still lay up my winter's store of food; on these fertile meadows I will still plant my corn. "Stranger, the land is mine! I understand not these paper rights. I gave not my consent, when, as thou sayest, these broad regions were purchased, for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? They knew not what they did. "The stranger came, a timid suppliant,--few and feeble, and asked to lie down on the red man's bear-skin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and children; and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and spreads out his parchments over the whole, and says, 'It is mine.' "Stranger! there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup; the white man's dog barks at the red man's heels. If I should leave the land of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west, the fierce Mohawk,--the man-eater,--is my foe. Shall I fly to the east, the great water is before me. No, stranger; here I have lived, and here will I die; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee. "Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction; for that alone I thank thee. And now take heed to thy steps; the red man is thy foe. When thou goest forth by day my bullet shall whistle past thee; when thou liest down by night, my knife is at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not discover thy enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood; thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping-knife; thou shalt build, and I will burn,--till the white man or the Indian perish from the land." E. Everett. LXXXVII. THE MEN OF "SEVENTY-SIX." If we look only at one part of the work of the men of '76 if we see them poring over musty parchments by the midnight lamp, citing the year-books against writs of assistance, disputing themselves hoarse, about this phrase in the charter of Charles the First, and that section in a statute of Edward the Third, we should be disposed to class them with the most bigoted conservatives that ever threw a drag-chain around the limbs of a young and ardent people. But, gracious heavens, look at them again, when the trumpet sounds the hour of resistance; survey the other aspect of their work. See these undaunted patriots, in their obscure caucus gatherings, in their town-meetings, in their provincial assemblies, in their continental congress, breathing defiance to the British Parliament and the British throne. March with their raw militia to the conflict with the trained veterans of the seven years' war. Witness them, a group of colonies, extemporized into a confederacy, entering with a calm self-possession into alliance with the oldest monarchy in Europe; and occupying, as they did, a narrow belt of territory along the coast, plainly peopled, partially cleared, hemmed in by the native savage, by the Alleghenies, by the Ohio, and the Lakes; behold them dilating with the grandeur of the position, radiant in the prospective glories of their career, casting abroad the germs of future independent States, destined, at no distant day, not merely to cover the face of the thirteen British colonies, but to spread over the territories of France and Spain on this continent, over Florida and Louisiana, over New Mexico and California, beyond the Mississippi, beyond the Rocky Mountains,--to unite the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans, the arctic and the torrid zones, in one great network of confederate republican government. Contemplate this, and you will acknowledge the men of Seventy-six to have been the boldest men of progress that the world has ever seen! These are the men whom the Fourth of July invites us to respect and to imitate;--the James Otises and the Warrens, the Franklins and the Adamses, the Patrick Henrys and the Jeffersons, and him whom I may not name in the plural number, brightest of the bright and purest of the pure,--Washington himself. But let us be sure to imitate them, (or strive to do so) in all their great principles, in both parts of their noble and comprehensive policy. Let us reverence them as they reverenced their predecessors,--not seeking to build up the future on the ruins of all that had gone before, nor yet to bind down the living, breathing, burning present to the mouldering relics of the dead past,--but deducing the rule of a bold and safe progress, from the records of a wise and glorious experience. E. Everett. LXXXVIII. THE SAME CONCLUDED. We live at an era as eventful, in my judgment, as that of '76 though in a different way. We have no foreign yoke to throw off but in the discharge of the duty devolved upon us by Providence, we have to carry the republican independence which our fathers achieved, with all the organized institutions of an enlightened community, institutions of religion, law, education, charity, art, and all the thousand graces of the higher culture, beyond the Missouri, beyond the Sierra Nevada; perhaps, in time around the circuit of the Antilles; perhaps to the archipelagoes of the Central Pacific. The pioneers are on the way. Who can tell how far and fast they will travel? Who, that compares the North America of 1753, but a century ago, and numbering but little over a million of souls of European origin; or still more the North America of 1653, when there was certainly not a fifth part of that number; who that compares this with the North America of 1853, its twenty-two millions of European origin, and its thirty-one States, will venture to assign limits to our growth; will dare to compute the time-table of our railway progress, or lift so much as a corner of the curtain that hides the crowded events of the coming century? This only we can plainly see; the Old World is rocking to its foundations. From the Gulf of Finland to the Yellow Sea, everything is shaken. The spirit of the age has gone forth to hold his great review, and the kings of the earth are moved to meet him at his coming. The band which holds the great powers of Europe together in one political league, is strained to its utmost tension. The catastrophe may for a while be staved off; but to all appearance they are hurrying to the verge of one of those conflicts which, like those of Pharsalia and Actium, affect the condition of States for twice ten centuries. The Turkish empire, encamped but for four centuries on the frontiers of Europe, and the Chinese monarchy, contemporary with David and Solomon, are alike crumbling. While these events are passing in the Old World, a tide of emigration, which has no parallel in history is pouring westward, across the Atlantic, and eastward, across the Pacific to our shores. The real political vitality of the world seems moving to the new hemisphere, whose condition and fortune it devolves upon us and our children to mould and regulate. It is a grand,--let me say, a solemn thought,--well calculated to still the passions of the day and to elevate us above the paltry strife of parties. It teaches us that we are called to the highest, and, I do verily believe, the most momentous trust that ever devolved upon one generation of men. Let us meet it with a corresponding temper and purpose,--with the wisdom of a well-instructed experience, and with the foresight and preparation of a glorious future; not on the narrow platforms of party policy and temporary expediency, but in the broad and comprehensive spirit of Seventy-six. E. Everett. LXXXIX. OUR COMMON SCHOOLS. Sir, it is our common schools which gives the keys of knowledge to the mass of the people. Our common schools are important in the same way as the common air, the common sunshine, the common rain,--invaluable for their commonness. They are the corner-stone of that municipal organization which is the characteristic feature of our social system; they are the fountain of that widespread intelligence which, like a moral life pervades the country. From the humblest village-school there may go forth a teacher who, like Newton, shall bind his temples with the stars of Orion's belt; with Herschel, light up his cell with the beams of before-undiscovered planets; with Franklin, grasp the lightning. Columbus, fortified with a few sound geographical principles, was, on the deck of his crazy caravel, more truly the monarch of Castile and Aragon, than Ferdinand and Isabella, enthroned beneath the golden vaults of the conquered Alhambra. And Robinson, with the simple training of a rural pastor in England, when he knelt on the shores of Delft Haven, and sent his little flock upon their Gospel errantry beyond the world of waters, exercised an influence over the destinies of the civilized world, which will last to the end of time. Sir, it is a solemn, a tender, and sacred duty that of education. What, sir, feed a child's body, and let his soul hunger! pamper his limbs and starve his faculties! Plant the earth, cover a thousand hills with your droves of cattle, pursue the fish to their hiding-places in the sea, and spread out your wheatfields across the plain, in order to supply the wants of that body which will soon be as cold and as senseless as the poorest clod, and let the pure spiritual essence within you, with all its glorious capacities for improvement, languish and pine! What! build factories, turn in rivers upon the water-wheels, enchain the imprisoned spirits of steam, to weave a garment for the body, and let the soul remain unadorned and naked! What! send out your vessels to the farthest ocean, and make battle with the monsters of the deep, in order to obtain the means of lighting up your dwellings and workshops, and prolonging the hours of labor for the meat that perisheth, and permit that vital spark which God has kindled, which He has intrusted to our care, to be fanned into a bright and heavenly flame,--permit it, I say, to languish and go out! What considerate man can enter a school and not reflect with awe, that it is a seminary where immortal minds are training for eternity? What parent but is, at times, weighed down with the thought, that there must be laid the foundations of a building which will stand, when not merely temple and palace, but the perpetual hills and adamantine rocks on which they rest, have melted away!--that a light may there be kindled, which will shine, not merely when every artificial beam is extinguished, but when the affrighted sun has fled away from the heavens! I can add nothing, sir, to this consideration. I will only say, in conclusion, Education,--when we feed that lamp, we perform the highest social duty! If we quench it, I know not where (humanly speaking), for time or for eternity,--" I know not where is that Promethean heat That can its light resume! " E Everett. XC. WEBSTER'S GREATEST PARLIAMENTARY EFFORT. The greatest parliamentary effort made by Mr. Webster, was his second speech on Foot's resolution,--the question at issue being nothing less than this; Is the Constitution of the United States a compact without a common umpire between confederated sovereignties; or is it a government of the people of the United States, sovereign within the sphere of its delegated powers, although reserving a great mass of undelegated rights to the separate State governments and the people? With those who embrace the opinions which Mr. Webster combated in this speech, this is not the time nor the place to engage in an argument; but those who believe that he maintained the true principles of the Constitution, will probably agree, that since that instrument was communicated to the Continental Congress, seventy-two years ago this day by George Washington as President of the Federal Convention, no greater service has been rendered to the country than in the delivery of this speech. Well do I recollect the occasion and the scene. It was truly what Wellington called the battle of Waterloo, a conflict of giants. I passed an hour and a half with Mr. Webster, at his request, the evening before this great effort; and he went over to me, from a very concise brief, the main topics of the speech which he had prepared for the following day. So calm and unimpassioned was the memorandum, so entirely was he at ease himself that I was tempted to think absurdly enough, that he was not sufficiently aware of the magnitude of the occasion. But I soon perceived that his calmness was the repose of conscious power. He was not only at ease, but sportive and full of anecdote; and as he told the Senate playfully the next day he slept soundly that night on the formidable assault of his gallant and accomplished adversary. So the great Condé slept on the eve of the battle of Rocroi; so Alexander slept on the eve of the battle of Arbela; and so they awoke to deeds of immortal fame. As I saw him in the evening, (if I may borrow an illustration from his favorite amusement,) he was as unconcerned and as free of spirit, as some here have often seen him, while floating in his fishing boat along a hazy shore, gently rocking on the tranquil tide, dropping his line here and there, with the varying fortune of the sport. The next morning he was like some mighty Admiral, dark and terrible, casting the long shadow of his frowning tiers far over the sea, that seemed to sink beneath him; his broad pendant streaming at the main, the stars and the stripes at the fore, the mizzen, and the peak; and bearing down like a tempest upon his antagonist, with all his canvas strained to the wind and all his thunders roaring from his broadsides. E. Everett. XCI. WHAT GOOD WILL THE MONUMENT DO. I am met with the great objection, What good will the Monument do? I beg leave, sir, to exercise my birthright as a Yankee, and answer this question by asking two or three more, to which, I believe, it will be quite as difficult to furnish a satisfactory reply. I am asked, What good will the monument do? And I ask, What good does anything do? What is good? Does anything do any good? The persons who suggest this objection, of course think that there are some projects and undertakings that do good; and I should therefore like to have the idea of good explained, and analyzed, and run out to its elements. When this is done, if I do not demonstrate, in about two minutes, that the monument does the same kind of good that anything else does, I shall consent that the huge blocks of granite already laid, should be reduced to gravel, and carted off to fill up the mill-pond; for that, I suppose, is one of the good things. Does a railroad or canal do good? Answer, yes. And how? It facilitates intercourse, opens markets and increases the wealth of the country. But what is this good for? Why, individuals prosper and get rich. And what good does that do? Is mere wealth, as an ultimate end,--gold and silver, without an inquiry as to their use,--are these a good? Certainly not. I should insult this audience by attempting to prove that a rich man, as such, is neither better nor happier than a poor one. But as men grow rich, they live better. Is there any good in this, stopping here? Is mere animal life--feeding, working, and sleeping like an ox--entitled to be called good? Certainly not. But these improvements increase the population. And what? good does that do? Where is the good in counting twelve millions, instead of six, of mere feeding, working, sleeping animals? There is, then, no good in the mere animal life, except that it is the physical basis of that higher moral existence, which resides in the soul, the heart, the mind, the conscience; in good principles, good feelings, good actions (and the more disinterested, the more entitled to be called good) which flow from them. Now, sir, I say that generous and patriotic sentiments, sentiments which prepare us to serve our country, to live for our country, to die for our country,--feelings like those which carried Prescott, and Warren, and Putnam to the battle-field, are good,--good, humanly speaking, of the highest order. It is good to have them, good to encourage them, good to honor them, good to commemorate them;--and whatever tends to animate and strengthen such feelings does as much right down practical good as filling up low grounds and building railroads. This is my demonstration. E. Everett. XCII. EMANCIPATION OF THE CATHOLICS OF IRELAND. This paper, gentlemen, insists upon the necessity of emancipating the Catholics of Ireland, and that is charged as a part of the libel. If they had waited another year, if they had kept this prosecution impending for another year, how much would remain for a jury to decide upon, I should be at a loss to discover. It seems as if the progress of public information was eating away the ground of the prosecution. Since the commencement of the prosecution, this part of the libel has unluckily received the sanction of the legislature. In that interval our Catholic brethren have obtained that admission, which, it seems, it was a libel to propose. In what way to account for this, I am really at a loss. Have any alarms been occasioned by the emancipation of our Catholic brethren? has the bigoted malignity of any individuals been crushed? Or, has the stability of the government, or has that of the country been weakened? Or, are one million of subjects stronger than three millions? Do you think that the benefit they receive should be poisoned by the stings of vengeance? If you think so, you must say to them, "You have demanded your emancipation and you have got it; but we abhor your persons, we are outraged at your success; and we will stigmatize, by a criminal prosecution, the adviser of that relief which you have obtained from the voice of your country." I ask you, gentlemen, do you think, as honest men, anxious for the public tranquillity, conscious that there are wounds not yet completely cicatrized that you ought to speak this language at this time, to men who are too much disposed to think that in this very emancipation they have been saved from their own Parliament by the humanity of their Sovereign? Or, do you wish to prepare them for the revocation of these improvident concessions? Do you think it wise or humane at this moment to insult them, by sticking up in a pillory the man who dared to stand forth as their advocate? I put it to your oaths; do you think that a blessing of that kind, that a victory obtained by justice over bigotry and oppression, should have a stigma cast upon it by an ignominious sentence upon men honest and bold enough to propose that measure? to propose the redeeming of religion from the abuses of the Church--the reclaiming of three millions of men from bondage, and giving liberty to all who had a right to demand it--giving, I say, in the so much censured words of this paper, "Universal Emancipation!" I speak in the spirit of the British law, which makes liberty commensurate with and inseparable from British soil--which proclaims even to the stranger and the sojourner, the moment he sets his foot upon British earth, that the ground on which he treads is holy, and consecrated by the genius of Universal Emancipation. No matter in what language his doom may have been pronounced; no matter what complexion incompatible with freedom an Indian or an African sun may have burned upon him; no matter in what disastrous battle his liberty may have been cloven down; no matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the altar of slavery;--the first moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and the god sink together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in her own majesty; his body swells beyond the measure of his chains that burst from around him and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of Universal Emancipation. J. P. Curran. XCIII. THE PUBLIC INFORMER. But the learned gentleman is further pleased to say, that the traverser has charged the government with the encouragement of informers. This, gentlemen, is another small fact that you are to deny at the hazard of your souls, and upon the solemnity of your oaths. You are upon your oaths to say to the sister country, that the government of Ireland uses no such abominable instruments of destruction as informers. Let me ask you honestly, what do you feel, when in my hearing, when in the face of this audience, you are called upon to give a verdict that every man of us, and every man of you, know by the testimony of your own eyes to be utterly and absolutely false? I speak not now of the public proclamation of informers, with a promise of secrecy and of extravagant reward; I speak not of the fate of those horrid wretches who have been so often transferred from the table to the dock, and from the dock to the pillory; I speak of what your own eyes have seen day after day, during the course of this commission, from the box where you are now sitting--the number of horrid miscreants who avowed upon their oaths that they had come from the very seat of government from the castle, where they had been worked upon by the fear of death and the hopes of compensation to give evidence against their fellows. I speak of the well-known fact that the mild and wholesome councils of this government are holden over these catacombs of living death, where the wretch that is buried a man, lies till his heart has time to fester and dissolve, and is then dug up a witness. Is this fancy, or is it fact? Have you not seen him, after his resurrection from that tomb, after leaving been dug out of the region of death and corruption, make his appearance upon the table, the living image of life and of death, and the supreme arbiter of both? Have you not marked when he entered, how the stormy wave of the multitude retired at his approach? Have you not marked how the human heart bowed to the supremacy of his power, in the undissembled homage of deferential horror? How his glance, like the lightning of heaven, seemed to rive the body of the accused, and mark it for the grave, while his voice warned the devoted wretch of woe and death--a death which no innocence can escape, no art elude, no force resist, no antidote prevent. There was an antidote a juror's oath----but even that adamantine chain that bound the integrity of man to the throne of eternal justice, is solved and melted in the breath that issues from the informer's mouth. Conscience swings from her mooring, and the appalled and affrighted juror consults his own safety in the surrender of the victim. J. P. Curran. XCIV. RED JACKET'S SPEECH TO THE MISSIONARY. Brother, listen to what we say. There was a time when our forefathers owned this great island. Their seats extended from the rising to the setting sun. The Great Spirit had made it for the use of Indians. He had created the buffalo, file deer, and other animals for food. He had made the bear and the beaver. Their skins served us for clothing. He had scattered them over the country, and taught us how to take them. He had caused the earth to produce corn for bread. All this He had done for his red children, because He loved them. If we had some disputes about our hunting-ground, they were generally settled without the shedding of much blood. But an evil day came upon us. Your forefathers came across the great water, and landed on this island. Their numbers were small. They found friends and not enemies. They told us they had fled from their own country for fear of wicked men, and asked for a small seat. We took pity on them; granted their request; and they sat down amongst us. We gave them corn and meat; they gave us poison in return. The white people, brother, had now found our country. Tidings were carried back, and more came amongst us. Yet we did not fear them. We took them to be friends. They called us brothers. We believed them and gave them a larger seat. At length their numbers had greatly increased. They wanted more land; they wanted our country. Our eyes were opened, and our minds became uneasy. Wars took place. Indians were hired to fight against Indians, and many of our people were destroyed. They also brought strong liquor amongst us. It was strong and powerful and has slain thousands. Brother, our seats were once large, and yours were small. You have now become a great people, and we have scarcely a place left to spread our blankets. You have got our country but are not satisfied; you want to force your religion upon us. You say that you are sent to instruct us how to worship the Great Spirit agreeably to his mind; and, if we do not take hold of the religion which you white people teach, we shall be unhappy hereafter. We are told that you have been preaching to the white people in this place. These people are our neighbors. We are acquainted with them. We will wait a little while, and see what effect your preaching has upon them. If we find it does them good, makes them honest, and less disposed to cheat Indians, we will then consider again of what you have said. Brother, you have now heard our answer to your talk, and this is all we have to say at present. Cram. XCV. PARTITION OF POLAND. Now, sir, what was the conduct of your own allies to Poland? Is there a single atrocity of the French, in Italy, in Switzerland, in Egypt, if you please, more unprincipled and inhuman than that of Russia, Austria, and Prussia, in Poland? What has there been in the conduct of the French to foreign powers; what in the violation of solemn treaties; what in the plunder, devastation, and dismemberment of unoffending countries; what in the horrors and murders perpetrated upon the subdued victims of their rage in any district which they have overrun, worse than the conduct of those three great powers in the miserable, devoted, and trampled-on kingdom of Poland, and who have been, or are, our allies in this war for religion and social order, and the rights of nations? "Oh! but you regretted the partition of Poland! " Yes, regretted! You regretted the violence, and that is all you did. You united yourself with the actors; you, in fact, by your acquiescence, confirmed the atrocity. But they are your allies; and though they overran and divided Poland, there was nothing, perhaps, in the manner of doing it which stamped it with peculiar infamy and disgrace. The hero of Poland [Swarrow], perhaps, was merciful and mild! He was "as much superior to Bonaparte in bravery, and in the discipline which he maintained, as he was superior in virtue and humanity! " He was animated by the purest principles of Christianity, and was restrained in his career by the benevolent precepts which it inculcates! Was he? Let unfortunate Warsaw, and the miserable inhabitant's of the suburb of Praga in particular, tell! What do we understand to have been the conduct of this magnanimous hero, with whom, it seems, Bonaparte is not to be compared? He entered the suburb of Praga, the most populous suburb of Warsaw; and there he let his soldiery loose on the miserable, unarmed, and unresisting people. Men, women, and children, nay, infants at the breast, were doomed to one indiscriminate massacre. Thousands of them were inhumanly, wantonly butchered! And for what? Because they had dared to join in a wish to meliorate their own condition as a people, and to improve their Constitution, which had been confessed by their own Sovereign to be in want of amendment. And such is the hero upon whom the cause of religion and social order is to repose! And such is the man whom we praise for his discipline and his virtue, and whom we hold out as our boast and our dependence; while the conduct of Bonaparte unfits him to be even treated with as an enemy? C. J. Fox. XCVI. NATIONAL DISGRACE. Sir, we may look in vain to the events of former times for a disgrace parallel to what we have suffered. Louis the Fourteenth, a monarch often named in our debates, and whose reign exhibits more than any other the extremes of prosperous and of adverse fortune, never, in the midst of his most humiliating distresses, stooped to so despicable a sacrifice of all that can be dear to man. The war of the succession, unjustly begun by him, had reduced his power, had swallowed up his armies and his navies, had desolated his provinces, had drained his treasures, and deluged the earth with the blood of the best and most faithful his subjects. Exhausted by his various calamities, he offered his enemies at one time to relinquish all the objects for which he had begun the war. That proud monarch sued for peace, and was content to receive it from our moderation. But when it was made a condition of that peace, that he should turn his arms against his grandson, and compel him by force to relinquish the throne of Spain,--humbled, exhausted, conquered as he was, misfortune had not yet bowed his spirit to conditions so hard as these. We know the event. He persisted still in the war, until the folly and wickedness of Queen Anne's ministers enabled him to conclude the peace of Utrecht, on terms considerably less disadvantageous even than those he had himself proposed. And shall we, sir, the pride of our age, the terror of Europe, submit to this humiliating sacrifice of our honor? Have we suffered a defeat at Blenheim? Shall we, with our increasing prosperity, our widely diffused capital, our navy, the just subject of our common exultation, ever-flowing coffers, that enable us to give back to the people what, in the hour of calamity, we were compelled to take from them; flushed with a recent triumph over Spain, and yet more than all, while our old rival and enemy was incapable of disturbing us, shall it be for us to yield to what France disdained in the hour of her sharpest distress, and exhibit ourselves to the world, the sole example in its annals of such an abject and pitiful degradation? C. J. Fox. XCVII. A POLITICAL PAUSE. Where, then, sir, is this war, which is prolific of all these horrors, to be carried? Where is it to stop? Not till we have established the house of Bourbon! Or, at least, not until we have had due "experience" of Bonaparte's intentions! And all this without an intelligible motive. All this because you may gain a better peace a year or two hence! So that we are called upon to go on merely as a speculation. We must keep Bonaparte for some time longer at war, as a state of probation! Gracious God, sir! is war a state of probation? Is peace a rash system? Is it dangerous for nations to live in amity with each other? Are your vigilance, your police your common powers of observation, to be extinguished by putting an end to the horrors of war? Cannot this state of probation be as well undergone without adding to the catalogue of human sufferings? "But we must pause!" says the honorable gentleman. What! must the bowels of Great Britain be torn out her best blood be spilled--her treasures wasted--that you may make an experiment? Put yourselves oh! that you would put yourselves on the field of battle, and learn to judge of the sort of horrors that you excite! In former wars a man might, at least, have some feeling, some interest, that served to balance, in his mind, the impressions which a scene of carnage and of death must inflict. If a man had been present at the battle of Blenheim, for instance, and had inquired the motive of the battle, there was not a soldier engaged who could not have satisfied his curiosity, and even, perhaps, allayed his feelings. They were fighting, they knew, to repress the uncontrolled ambition of the Grand Monarch. But if a man were present now at the field of slaughter, and were to inquire for what they were fighting--"Fighting!" would be the answer; "they aren't fighting; they are pausing." "Why is that man expiring? " Why is that other writhing with agony? What means this implacable fury? " The answer must be, "You are quite wrong, sir, you deceive yourself--they are not fighting, do not disturb them they are merely pausing! This man is not expiring with agony--that man is not dead he is only pausing! Lord help you, sir! they are not angry with one another; they have now no cause of quarrel; but their country thinks that there should be a pause. All that you see, sir, is nothing like fighting--there is no harm, nor cruelty, nor bloodshed in it, whatever: it is nothing more than a political pause! It is merely to try an experiment--to see whether Bonaparte will not, behave himself better than heretofore; and in the mean time we have agreed to pause in pure friendship!" And is this the way, sir, that you are to show yourselves the advocates of order? You take up a system calculated to uncivilize the world--to destroy order,--to trample on religion,--to stifle in the heart, not merely the generosity of a noble sentiment, but the affections of social nature; and in the prosecution of this systems you spread terror and devastation all around you. C. J. Fox XCVIII. WASHINGTON'S SWORD AND FRANKLIN'S STAFF. The Sword of Washington! The Staff of Franklin! O, sir, what associations are linked in adamant with these names! Washington, whose sword was never drawn but in the cause of his country, and never sheathed when wielded in his country's cause! Franklin, the philosopher of the thunder-bolt, the printing-press, and the ploughshare! What names are these in the scanty catalogue of the benefactors of human kind! Washington and Franklin! What other two men whose lives belong to the eighteenth century of Christendom, have left a deeper impression of themselves upon the age in which they lived, and upon all after-time? Washington, the warrior and the legislator! In war, contending, by the wager of battle, for the Independence of his country, and for the freedom of the human race,--ever manifesting, amidst its horrors, by precept and by example, his reverence for the laws of peace, and for the tenderest sympathies of humanity; in peace, soothing the ferocious spirit of discord, among his own countrymen, into harmony and union, and giving to that very sword, now presented to his country, a charm more potent than that attributed, in ancient times, to the lyre of Orpheus. Franklin! The mechanic of his own fortune; teaching, in early youth, under the shackles of indigence, the way to wealth, and, in the shade of obscurity, the path to greatness; in the maturity of manhood, disarming the thunder of its terrors, the lightning of its fatal blast; and wresting from the tyrant's hand the still more afflictive sceptre of oppression: while descending the vale of years, traversing the Atlantic Ocean, braving, in the dead of winter, the battle and the breeze, bearing in his hand the Charter of Independence, which he had contributed to form, and tendering, from the self-created nation to the mightiest monarchs of Europe, the olive-branch of peace, the mercurial wand of commerce, and the amulet of protection and safety to the man of peace, on the pathless ocean, from the inexorable cruelty and merciless rapacity of war. And, finally, in the last stage of life, with fourscore winters upon his head, under the torture of an incurable disease, returning to his native land, closing his days as the chief magistrate of his adopted commonwealth, after contributing by his counsels under the Presidency of Washington, and recording his name under the sanction of devout prayer invoked by him to God,--to that Constitution under the authority of which we are assembled, as the Representatives of the North American People, to receive, in the name of them and for them, these venerable relics of the wise, the valiant, and the good founders of our great confederated Republic, these sacred symbols of our golden age. May they be deposited among the archives of our Government! And may every American, who shall hereafter behold them, ejaculate a mingled offering of praise to that Supreme Ruler of the Universe, by whose tender mercies our Union has been hitherto preserved, through all the vicissitudes and revolutions of this turbulent world; and of prayer for the continuance of these blessings, by the dispensations of Providence to our beloved country, from age to age, till time shall be no more! J. Q. Adams. XCIX. THE RIGHT OF PETITION BY WOMEN. The gentleman says that women have no right to petition on political subjects; that it is discreditable, not only to their section of the country, but also to the national character; that these females could have a sufficient field for the exercise of their influence in the discharge of their duties to their fathers, their husbands, or their children--cheering the domestic circle, and shedding over it the mild radiance of the social virtues, instead of rushing into the fierce struggles of political life. I admit, sir, that it is their duty to attend to these things. I subscribe fully, to the elegant compliment, passed by him upon those members of the female sex who devote their time to these duties. But I say that the correct principle is, that women are not only justified, but exhibit the most exalted virtue, when they do depart from the domestic circle, and enter on the concerns of their country, of humanity, and of their God. The mere departure of woman from the duties of the domestic circle, far from being a reproach to her, is a virtue of the highest order, when it is done from purity of motive, by appropriate means, and towards a virtuous purpose. That is the principle I maintain, and which the gentleman has to refute, if he applies the position he has taken to the mothers, the sisters, and the daughters of the men of my district who voted to send me here. The motive, the means, and the purpose of their petition will bear his scrutiny. Why, sir, what does the gentleman understand by "political subjects?" Everything in which this House has an agency-everything which relates to peace and war, or to any of the great interests of society. Are women to have no opinions or actions on subjects relating to the general welfare? Where did the gentleman get this principle? Did he find it in sacred history--in the language of Miriam the Prophetess, in one of the noblest and most sublime songs of triumph that ever met the human eye or ear? Did the gentleman never hear of the deed of Jael, who slew the dreaded enemy of her country? Has he forgotten Esther, who, by her petition saved her people and her country? Sir, I might go through the whole sacred history, and find innumerable examples of women, who not only took an active part in the politics of their times, but who are held up with honor to posterity for doing so. To go from sacred history to profane, does the gentleman there find it "discreditable" for women to take any interest or any part in political affairs? Has he forgotten the Spartan mother, who said to her son, when going out to battle, "My son, come back to me with thy shield, or upon thy shield?" Does he not remember Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, who declared that her children were her jewels? And why? Because they were the champions of freedom. Has he not read of Arria, who, under imperial despotism, when her husband was condemned to die by a tyrant, plunged the sword into her own bosom, and, handing it to her husband, said, "Take it, Pætus, it does not hurt," and expired? To come to a later period, what names are more illustrious than that of Elizabeth, the great British queen, and that of Isabella of Castile, the patroness of Columbus, the virtual discoverer of this hemisphere, for without her that discovery would not have been made? Did they bring "discredit" on their sex by mingling in politics? And what were the women of the United States in the struggle of the Revolution? Were they devoted exclusively to the duties and enjoyments of the fireside? When the soldiers were destitute of clothing, or sick, or in prison, from whence did relief come? From the hearts where patriotism erects her favorite shrine, and from the hand which is seldom withdrawn when the soldier is in need. The voice of our history speaks trumpet-tongued of the daring and intrepid spirit of patriotism burning in the bosoms of the ladies of that day "Politics," sir, "rushing into the vortex of politics!" They gloried in being called rebel ladies, refusing to attend balls and entertainments, but crowding to the hospitals and prison-ships! And, sir, is that spirit to be charged here, in this hall where we are sitting, as being "discreditable" to our country's name? So far from regarding such conduct as a national reproach, I approve of it, and glory in it. J. Q. Adams. C. VALUE OF POPULARITY. MY Lords, I come now to speak upon what, indeed, I would have gladly avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at for the part I have taken in this bill. It has been said by a noble lord on my left hand, that I, likewise, am running the race of popularity. If the noble lord means by popularity, that applause bestowed by after-ages on good and virtuous actions, I have long been struggling in that race; to what purpose, all-trying time can alone determine: but, if the noble lord means that mushroom popularity which is raised without merit, and lost without crime, he is much mistaken in his opinion. I defy the noble lord to point out a single action of my life, in which the popularity of the times ever had the smallest influence on my determinations. I have a more permanent and steady rule for my conduct, the dictates of my own breast. Those that have foregone that pleasing adviser, and given up their mind to be the slave of every popular impulse, I sincerely pity: I pity them still more, if their vanity leads them to mistake the shouts of the mob for the trumpet of fame. Experience might inform them, that many who have been saluted with the huzzahs of a crowd one day, have received its execrations the next; and many who by the popularity of their times, have been held up as spotless patriots, have, nevertheless, appeared upon the historian's page,--when truth has triumphed over delusion,--the assassins of liberty. True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist when justice is equally administered to all,--to the king and to the beggar. Where is the justice, then, or where is the law, that protects a member of Parliament more than any other man from the punishment due to his crimes? The laws of this country allow no place, nor employment to be a sanctuary for crimes; and where I have the honor to sit as judge, neither royal favor, nor popular applause shall ever protect the guilty. Lord Mansfield. CI. SCORN TO BE SLAVES. The voice of your father's blood cries to you from the ground, "My sons, scorn to be slaves! In vain we met the frowns of tyrants; in vain we crossed the boisterous ocean, found a new world, and prepared it for the happy residence of liberty; in vain we toiled; in vain we fought; we bled in vain, if you, our offspring, want valor to repel the assaults of her invaders!" Stain not the glory of your worthy ancestors; but, like them, resolve never to part with your birthright. Be wise in your deliberations, and determined in your exertions for the preservation of your liberty. Follow not the dictates of passion, but enlist yourselves under the sacred banner of reason; use every method in your power to secure your rights; at least, prevent the curses of posterity from being heaped upon your memories. If you, with united zeal and fortitude, oppose the torrent of oppression; if you feel the true fire of patriotism burning in your breasts; if you, from your souls, despise the most gaudy dress which slavery can wear; if you really prefer the lonely cottage, while blessed with liberty, to gilded palaces, surrounded with the ensigns of slavery you may have the fullest assurance that tyranny with her whole accursed train, will hide her hideous head in confusion, shame, and despair. If you perform your part, you must have the strongest confidence, that the same Almighty Being, who protected your pious, and venerable forefathers, who enabled them to turn a barren wilderness into a fruitful field, who so often made bare His arm for their salvation, will still be mindful of their offspring. May that Almighty Being graciously preside in all our councils. May He direct us to such measures as He himself shall approve, and be pleased to bless. May we be ever favored of God. May our land be a land of liberty, the seat of virtue, the asylum of the oppressed, "a name and a praise in the whole earth," until the last shock of time shall bury the empires of the world in undistinguished ruin. J. Warren. CII. LOSS OF THE ARCTIC. It was autumn. Hundreds had wended their way from pilgrimages; from Rome and its treasures of dead art, and its glory of living nature; from the sides of the Switzer's mountains, and from the capitals of various nations, all of them saying in their hearts, we will wait for the September gales to have done with their equinoctial fury, and then we will embark; we will slide across the appeased ocean, and in the gorgeous month of October, we will greet our longed-for native land, and our heart-loved homes. And so the throng streamed along from Berlin, from Paris, from the Orient, converging upon London, still hastening toward the welcome ship, and narrowing every day the circle of engagements and preparations. They crowded aboard. Never had the Arctic borne such a host of passengers, nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us. The hour was come. The signal-ball fell at Greenwich. It was noon also at Liverpool. The anchors were weighed; the great hull swayed to the current; the national colors streamed abroad, as if themselves instinct with life and national sympathy. The bell strikes; the wheels revolve; the signal-gun beats its echoes, in upon every structure along the shore, and the Arctic glides joyfully forth from the jersey, and turns her prow to the winding channel, and begins her homeward run. The pilot stood at the wheel, and men saw him. Death sat upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage, Death was the pilot that steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence nor whispered his errand. And so hope was effulgent, and little gayety disported itself, and joy was with every guest. Amid all the inconveniences of the voyage, there was still that which hushed every murmur,--"Home is not far away." And every morning it was still one night nearer home! Eight days had passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist that forever haunts the vast shallows of Newfoundland. Boldly they made it; and plunging in, its pliant wreaths wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. The last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voyage is done to ship and passengers. At noon there came noiselessly stealing from the north that fated instrument of destruction. In that mysterious shroud, that vast atmosphere of mist, both steamers were holding their way with rushing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible. At a league's distance, unconscious, and at nearer approach, unwarned; within hail, and bearing right towards each other, unseen, unfelt, till in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death-blow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither commander nor officers seemed that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration and respect) ordered away his boat with the first officer to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, oh, that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of Paul on a like occasion, "Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved." They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters gaining upon the hold and rising upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. Oh, had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to mind--had he stood to execute sufficiently the commander's will--we may believe that we should not have had to blush for the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, engineers, waiters, and crew, rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men to the mercy of the deep! Four hours there were from the catastrophe of collision to the catastrophe of sinking! Oh, what a burial was here! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and the flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial-service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been. H. W. Beecher. CIII. THE GLORY AND GRANDEUR OF PEACE. Whatever may be the judgment of poets, of moralist, of satirists, or even of soldiers, it is certain that the glory of arms still exercises no mean influence over the minds of men. The art of war, which has been happily termed by a French divine, the baleful art by which men learn to exterminate one another, is yet held even among Christians, to be an honorable pursuit; and the animal courage, which it stimulates and develops, is prized as a transcendent virtue. It will be for another age, and a higher civilization, to appreciate the more exalted character of the art of benevolence, the art of extending happiness and all good influences, by word or deed, to the largest number of mankind, which, in blessed contrast with the misery, the degradation, the wickedness of war, shall shine resplendent, the true grandeur of peace. All then will be willing to join with the early poet in saying, at least, "Through louder fame attend the martial rage, 'T is greater glory to reform the age." Then shall the soul thrill with a nobler heroism than that of battle. Peaceful industry, with untold multitudes of cheerful and beneficent laborers, shall be its gladsome token. Literature, full of sympathy and comfort for the heart of man, shall appear in garments of purer glory than she has yet assumed. Science shall extend the bounds of knowledge and power adding unimaginable strength to the hands of man, opening innumerable resources in the earth, and revealing new secrets and harmonies in the skies. Art, elevated and refined, shall lavish fresh streams of beauty and grace. Charity, in streams of milk and honey, shall diffuse itself among all the habitations of the world. Does any one ask for the signs of this approaching era? The increasing beneficence and intelligence of our own day, the broad-spread sympathy with human suffering, the widening thoughts of men, the longings of the heart for a higher condition on earth, the unfulfilled promises of Christian progress, are the auspicious auguries of this happy future. As early voyagers over untried realms of waste, we have already observed the signs of land. The green twig and fresh red berry have floated by our bark; the odors of the shore fan our faces; nay, we may seem to descry the distant gleam of light, and hear from the more earnest observers, as Columbus heard, after midnight, from the mast-head of the Pinta, the joyful cry of Land! Land! and lo! a new world broke upon his early morning gaze. C. Sumner. CIV. ANCIENT AND MODERN PRODUCTIONS. The classics possess a peculiar charm, from the circumstance that they have been the models, I might almost say the masters, of composition and thought, in all ages. In the contemplation of these august teachers of mankind, we are filled with conflicting emotions. They are the early voice of the world, better remembered and more cherished still than all the intermediate words that have been uttered, as the lessons of childhood still haunt us when the impressions of later years have been effaced from the mind. But they show with most unwelcome frequency the tokens of the world's childhood, before passion had yielded to the sway of reason and the affections. They want the highest charm of purity, of righteousness, of elevated sentiments, of love to God and man. It is not in the frigid philosophy of the porch and academy that we are to seek these; not in the marvelous teachings of Socrates, as they come mended by the mellifluous words of Plato; not in the resounding line of Homer, on whose inspiring tale of blood Alexander pillowed his head; not in the animated strain of Pindar, where virtue is pictured in the successful strife of an athlete at the Isthmian games; not in the torrent of Demosthenes, dark with self-love and the spirit of vengeance; not in the fitful philosophy and intemperate eloquence of Tully; not in the genial libertinism of Horace, or the stately atheism of Lucretius. No! these must not be our masters; in none of these are we to seek the way of life. For eighteen hundred years the spirit of these writers has been engaged in weaponless contest with the Sermon on the Mount, and those two sublime commandments on which hang all the law and the prophets. The strife is still pending. Heathenism, which has possessed itself of such siren forms, is not yet exorcised. It still tempts the young, controls the affairs of active life, and haunts the meditations of age. Our own productions, though they may yield to those of the ancients in the arrangement of ideas, in method, in beauty of form, and in freshness of illustration, are immeasurably superior in the truth, delicacy, all elevation of their sentiments,--above all, in the benign recollection of that great Christian revelation, the brotherhood of man. How vain are eloquence and poetry compared with this heaven-descended truth! Put in one scale that simple utterance, and in the other the lore of antiquity, with its accumulating glosses and commentaries, and the last will be light and trivial in the balance. Greek poetry has been likened to the song of the nightingale as she sits in the rich, symmetrical crown of the palm-tree, trilling her thick-warbled notes; but even this is less sweet and tender than the music of the human heart. C. Sumner. CV. THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE. Why ought the slave trade to be abolished? Because it is incurable injustice! How much stronger, then, is the argument for immediate than gradual abolition! By allowing it to continue even for one hour, do not my right honorable friends weaken--do they not desert their own arguments of its injustice? If on the ground of injustice it ought to be abolished at last, why ought it not now? Why is injustice to be suffered to remain for a single hour? I know of no evil that ever has existed, nor can imagine any evil to exist, worse than the tearing of eighty thousands persons annually from their native land, by a combination of the most civilized nations in the most enlightened quarter of the globe; but more especially by that nation which calls herself the most free and the most happy of them all. Even if these miserable beings were proved guilty of every crime before you take them off of which however not a single proof is adduced ought we to take upon ourselves the office of executioners? And even if we condescend so far, still can we be justified in taking them, unless we have clear proof that they are criminals? I have shown how great is the enormity of this evil, even on the supposition that we take only convicts and prisoners of war. But take the subject in the other way; take it on the grounds stated by the right honorable gentleman over the way, and how does it stand? Think of eighty thousand persons carried away out of their country, by we know not what means, for crimes imputed; for light or inconsiderable faults; for debt, perhaps; for the crime of witchcraft; or a thousand other weak and scandalous pretexts, besides all the fraud and kidnapping, the villainies and perfidy, by which the slave trade is supplied. Reflect on these eighty thousand persons thus annually taken off! There is something in the horror of it, that surpasses all the bounds of imagination. Admitting that there exists in Africa something like to courts of justice; yet what an office of humiliation and meanness is it in us, to take upon ourselves to carry into execution the partial, the cruel, iniquitous sentences of such courts, as if we also were strangers to all religion, and to the first principles of justice. But that country, it is said, has been in some degree civilized, and civilized by us. It is said they have gained some knowledge of the principles of justice. What sir, have they gained the principles of justice from us? Is their civilization brought about by us! Yes, we give them enough of our intercourse to convey to them the means, and to initiate them in the study of mutual destruction. We give them just enough of the forms of justice to enable them to add the pretext of legal trials to their other modes of perpetuating the most atrocious iniquity. We give them just enough of European improvements, to enable them the more effectually to turn Africa into a ravaged wilderness. But I refrain from attempting to enumerate half the dreadful consequences of this system. Do you think nothing of the ruin and the miseries in which so many other individuals, still remaining in Africa, are involved in consequence of carrying off so many myriads of people? Do you think nothing of their families which are left behind; of the connections which are broken; of the friendships, attachments, and relationships which are burst asunder? Do you think nothing of the miseries in consequence, that are felt from generation to generation; of the privation of that happiness which might be communicated to them by the introduction of civilization, and of mental and moral improvement? A happiness which you withhold from them so long as you permit the slave trade to continue. How shall we hope to obtain, if it be possible, forgiveness from Heaven for these enormous evils we have committed, if we refuse to make use of those means which the mercy of Providence hath still reserved for us, for wiping away the guilt and shame with which we are now covered. If we refuse even this degree of compensation; if, knowing the miseries we have caused, we refuse even now to put a stop to them, how greatly aggravated will be the guilt of Great Britain! and what a blot will these transactions forever be in the history of this country! Shall we, then, delay to repair these injuries, and to begin rendering justice to Africa? Shall we not count the days and hours that are suffered to intervene, and to delay the accomplishment of such a work? Reflect what an immense object is before you; what an object for a nation to have in view, and to have a prospect, under the favor of Providence, of being now permitted to attain! I think the House will agree with me in cherishing the ardent wish to enter without delay upon the measures necessary for these great ends; and I am sure that the immediate abolition of the slave trade is the first, the principal the most indispensable act of policy, of duty, and of justice, that the Legislature of this country has to take, if it is indeed their wish to secure those important objects to which I have alluded, and which we are bound to pursue by the most solemn obligations. W. Pitt. CVI. "LET THERE BE LIGHT." From her earliest colonial history, the policy of Massachusetts has been to develop the minds of all her people, and to imbue them with the principles of duty, To do this work most effectually, she has begun with the young. If she would continue to mount higher and higher towards the summit of prosperity, she must continue the means by which her present elevation has been gained. In doing this, she will not only exercise the noblest prerogative of government, but will coöperate with the Almighty in one of his sublimest works. The Greek rhetorician, Longinus, quotes from the Mosaic account of the creation what he calls the sublimest passage ever uttered: "God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light." From the centre of black immensity effulgence burst forth. Above, beneath, on every side, its radiance streamed out, silent, yet making each spot in the vast concave brighter than the line which the lightning pencils upon the midnight cloud. Darkness fled as the swift beams spread onward and outward, in an unending circumfusion of splendor. Onward and outwards still they move to this day, glorifying, through wider and wider regions of space, the infinite Author from whose power and beneficence they sprang. But not only in the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, did he say, "Let there be light." Whenever a human soul is born into the world, its Creator stands over it, and again pronounces the same sublime words, "Let there be light." Magnificent, indeed, was the material creation, when, suddenly blazing forth in mid space, the new-born sun dispelled the darkness of the ancient night. But infinitely more magnificent is it when the human soul rays forth its subtler and swifter beams; when the light of the senses irradiates all outward things, revealing the beauty of their colors, and the exquisite symmetry of their proportions and forms; when the light of reason penetrates to their invisible properties and laws, and displays all those hidden relations that make up all the sciences; when the light of conscience illuminates the moral world, separating truth from error, and virtue from vice. The light of the newly-kindled sun, indeed, was glorious. It struck upon all the planets, and waked into existence their myriad capacities of life and joy. As it rebounded from them, and showed their vast orbs all wheeling, circle beyond circle, in their stupendous courses, the sons of God shouted for joy. That light sped onward, beyond Sirius, beyond the pole-star, beyond Orion and the Pleiades, and is still spreading onward into the abysses of space. But the light of the human soul flies swifter than the light of the sun, and outshines its meridian blaze. It can embrace not only the sun of our system, but all suns and galaxies of suns; aye! the soul is capable of knowing and of enjoying Him who created the suns themselves; and when these starry lustres that now glorify the firmament shall wax dim, and fade away like a wasted taper, the light of the soul shall still remain; nor time, nor cloud, nor any power but its own perversity, shall ever quench its brightness. Again I would say that whenever a human soul is born into the world, God stands over it, and pronounces the same sublime fiat, "Let there be light!" And may the time soon come, when all human governments shall coöperate with the divine government in carrying this benediction and baptism into fulfillment. H. Mann. CVII. TRUE ELOQUENCE. When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech farther than as it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire to it; they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country hang on the decision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is eloquent; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object--this, this is eloquence; or rather it is something greater and higher than all eloquence, it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. D. Webster. CVIII. SOUTH CAROLINA AND MASSACHUSETTS. The eulogium pronounced by the honorable gentleman on the character of the State of South Carolina, for her Revolutionary and other merits, meets my hearty concurrence. I shall not acknowledge that the honorable member goes before me in regard for whatever of distinguished talent, or distinguished character, South Carolina has produced. I claim part of the honor, I partake in the pride, of her great names. I claim them for countrymen, one and all,--the Laurenses, the Rutledges, the Pinckneys, the Sumters, the Marions,--Americans all, whose fame is no more to be hemmed in by State lines, than their talents and patriotism were capable of being circumscribed within the same narrow limits. In their day and generation, they served and honored the country, and the whole country; and their renown is of the treasures of the whole country. Him whose honored name the gentleman himself bears,--does he esteem me less capable of gratitude for his patriotism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than if his eyes had first opened upon the light of Massachusetts, instead of South Carolina? Sir, does he suppose it in his power to exhibit a Carolina name so bright as to produce envy in my bosom? No, sir, increased gratification and delight, rather. I thank God, that, if I am gifted with little of the spirit which is able to raise mortals to the skies, I have yet none, as I trust, of that other spirit, which would drag angels down. When I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the Senate, or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit, because it happens to spring up beyond the little limits of my own State or neighborhood; when I refuse, for any such cause, or for any cause, the homage due to American talent, to elevated patriotism, to sincere devotion to liberty and the country; or, if I see an uncommon endowment of Heaven,--if I see extraordinary capacity and virtue, in any son of the South, and if, moved by local prejudice or gangrened by State jealousy, I get up here to abate the tithe of a hair from his just character and just fame, may my tongue cleave to the roof my mouth! Sir, let me recur to pleasing recollections, let me indulge in refreshing remembrance of the past; let me remind you that, in early times, no States cherished greater harmony, both of principle and feeling, than Massachusetts and South Carolina. Would to God that harmony might again return! Shoulder to shoulder they went through the revolution, hand in hand they stood round the administration of Washington, and felt his own great arm lean on them for support. Unkind feeling, if it exist, alienation and distrust are the growth, unnatural to such soils, of false principles since sown. They are weeds, the seeds of which that same great arm never scattered. Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none. There she is. Behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her history; the world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, fallen in the great struggle for Independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every State, from New England to Georgia; and there they will lie forever. And, sir, where American Liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives, in the strength of its manhood, and full of its original spirit. If discord and disunion shall wound it; if party strife and blind ambition shall hawk at and tear it; if folly and madness, if uneasiness under salutary and necessary restraint, shall succeed in separating it from that Union, by which alone its existence is made sure, it will stand, in the end, by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked; it will stretch forth its arm with whatever of vigor it may still retain over the friends who gather round it; and it will fall at last, if fall it must, amid the proudest monuments of its own glory, and on the very spot of its origin. D. Webster. CIX. AFRICAN SLAVE TRADE. I deem it my duty on this occasion to suggest, that the land is not yet wholly free from the contamination of a traffic, at which every feeling of humanity must forever revolt,--I mean the African slave trade. Neither public sentiment, nor the law, has hitherto been able entirely to put an end to this odious and abominable trade. At the moment when God in his mercy has blessed the Christian world with a universal peace, there is reason to fear, that, to the disgrace of the Christian name and character, new efforts are making for the extension of this trade by subjects and citizens of Christian States, in whose hearts there dwell no sentiments of humanity or of justice, and over whom neither the fear of God nor the fear of man exercises a control. In the sight of our law, the African slave trader is a pirate and a felon; and in the sight of Heaven, an offender far beyond the ordinary depth of human guilt. There is no brighter page of our history, than that which records the measures which have been adopted by the government at an early day and at different times since, for the suppression of this traffic; and I would call on all the true sons of New England to coöperate with the laws of man, and the justice of Heaven. If there be, within the extent of our knowledge or influence, any participation in this traffic, let us pledge ourselves here, upon the rock of Plymouth, to extirpate and destroy it. It is not fit that the land of the Pilgrims should bear the shame longer. I hear the sound of the hammer, I see the smoke of the furnaces where manacles and fetters are still forged for human limbs. I see the visages of those who by stealth and at midnight labor in this work of hell, foul and dark, as may become the artificers of such instruments of misery and torture. Let that spot be purified, or let it cease to be of New England. Let it be purified, or let it be set aside from the Christian world; let it be put out of the circle of human sympathies and human regards, and let civilized man henceforth have no communion with it. I would invoke those who fill the seats of justice, and all who minister at her altar, that they execute the wholesome and necessary severity of the law. I invoke the ministers of our religion, that they proclaim its denunciation of these crimes, and add its solemn sanctions to the authority of human laws. If the pulpit be silent whenever or wherever there may be a sinner bloody with this guilt within the hearing of its voice, the pulpit is false to its trust. I call on the fair merchant, who has reaped his harvest upon the seas, that he assist in scourging from those seas the worst pirates that ever infested them. That ocean, which seems to wave with a gentle magnificence to waft the burden of an honest commerce, and to roll along its treasures with a conscious pride, that ocean, which hardy industry regards, even when the winds have ruffled its surface, as a field of grateful toil,--what is it to the victim of this oppression, when he is brought to its shores, and looks forth upon it, for the first time, loaded with chains, and bleeding with stripes? What is it to him but a wide-spread prospect of suffering, anguish and death? Nor do the skies smile longer, nor is the air longer fragrant to him. The sun is cast down from heaven. An inhuman and accursed traffic has cut him off in his manhood, or in his youth, from every enjoyment belonging to his being, and every blessing which his Creator intended for him. The Christian communities send forth their emissaries of religion and letters, who stop, here and there, along the coast of the vast continent of Africa, and with painful and tedious efforts make some almost imperceptible progress in the communication of knowledge, and in the general improvement of the natives who are immediately about them. Not thus slow and imperceptible is the transmission of the vices and bad passions which the subjects of Christian States carry to the land. The slave trade having touched the coast, its influence and its evils spread, like a pestilence, over the whole continent, making savage wars more savage and more frequent, and adding new and fierce passions to the contests of barbarians. I pursue this topic no further, except again to say, that all Christendom, being now blessed with peace, is bound by everything which belongs to its character, and to the character of the present age, to put a stop to this inhuman and disgraceful traffic. D. Webster. CX. SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS IN FAVOR OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that in the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But there's a Divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England has driven us to arms; and, blinded to her own interest, for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why, then, should we defer the Declaration? Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life, and his own honor? Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair,--is not he, our venerable colleague, near you, are you not both already the proscribed and predestined objects of punishment and vengeance? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws? If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up, the war? Do we mean to submit to the measures of Parliament, Boston Port Bill and all? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our Country and its rights trodden down in the dust? I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall submit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives? I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved you, that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces, raised, or to be raised, for the defence of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And, if the war must go on, why put off longer the Declaration of Independence? That measure will strengthen us; it will give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects, in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England her self will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct towards us has been a course of injustice and oppression. Her pride will be less wounded, by submitting to that course of things which now predestinates our independence than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she would regard as the result of fortune; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, do we not as soon as possible change this from a civil to a national war? And since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory if we gain the victory? D. Webster. CXI. THE SAME CONCLUDED. If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies; the cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry us and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these Colonies, and I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every Colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. Sir, the Declaration will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities, held under a British king, set before them the glorious object of entire independence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. Read this Declaration at the head of the army; every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honor. Publish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls; proclaim it there; let them hear it, who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon; let them see it, who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out in its support. Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs; but I see, I see dearly through this day's business. You and I, indeed, may run it. We may not live to the time when this Declaration shall be made good. We may die; die colonists; die slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously and on the scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure of Heaven, that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But, while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a free country. But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it, with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual return, they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it; and I leave off, as I begun, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall be my dying sentiment,--Independence now; and Independence Forever! D. Webster. CXII. INFLUENCE OF THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. America has furnished to the world the character of Washington! And if our American institutions had done nothing else, that alone would have entitled them to the respect of mankind. Washington! "First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen!" Washington is all our own! The enthusiastic veneration and regard in which the people of the United States hold him prove them to be worthy of such a countryman; while his reputation abroad redeems the highest honor on his country and its institutions. I would cheerfully put the question to-day to the intelligence of Europe and the world what character of the century, upon the whole, stands out in the relief of history, most pure, most respectable, most sublime; and I doubt not, that, by a suffrage approaching to unanimity, the answer would be Washington! The structure now standing before us, by its uprightness, its solidity, its durability, is no unfit emblem of his character. His public virtues and public principles were as firm as the earth on which it stands; his personal motives, as pure as the serene heavens in which its summit is lost. But, indeed, though a fit, it is an inadequate emblem. Towering high above the column which our hands have builded, beheld, not by the inhabitants of a single city or a single State, but by all the families of man, ascends the colossal grandeur of the character and life of Washington. In all the constituents of the one, in all the acts of the other, in all its titles to immortal love, admiration and renown, it is an American production. It is the embodiment and vindication of our Transatlantic liberty. Born upon our soil of parents also born upon it; never for a moment having had sight of the Old World; instructed, according to the modes of his time, only in the spare, plain, but wholesome elementary knowledge which our institutions provided for the children of the people; growing up beneath and penetrated by the genuine influences of American society; living from infancy to manhood and age amidst our expanding, but not luxurious civilization; partaking in our great destiny of labor, our long contest with unreclaimed nature and uncivilized man, our agony of glory, the war of independence, our great victory of peace, the formation of the Union, and the establishment of the Constitution; he is all, all our own! Washington is ours. That crowded and glorious life, "Where multitudes of virtues passed along, Each pressing foremost, in the mighty throng Ambitious to be seen, then making room For greater multitudes that were to come,"-- that life was the life of an American citizen. I claim him for America. In all the perils, in every darkened moment of the State, in the midst of the reproaches of enemies and the misgiving of friends, I turn to that transcendent name for courage and for consolation. To him who denies or doubts whether our fervid liberty can be combined with law, with order, with the security of property, with the pursuits and advancement of happiness; to him who denies that our forms of government are capable of producing exaltation of soul, and the passion of true glory; to him who denies that we have contributed anything to the stock of great lessons and great examples; to all these I reply by pointing to Washington! D. Webster. CXIII. PUBLIC OPINION. The time has been, indeed, when fleets, and armies, and subsidies, were the principal reliances even in the best cause. But, happily for mankind, a great change has taken place in this respect. Moral causes come into consideration, in proportion as the progress of knowledge is advanced; and the public opinion of the civilized world is rapidly gaining an ascendeney over mere brutal force. It is already able to oppose the most formidable obstruction to the progress of injustice and oppression; and as it grows more intelligent and more intense it will be more and more formidable. It may be silenced by military power, but it cannot be conquered. It is elastic, irrepressible, and invulnerable to the weapons of ordinary warfare. It is that impassive, inextinguishable enemy of mere violence and arbitrary rule, which, like Milton's angels, "Vital in every part, . . . . . Cannot, but by annihilating die." Until this be propitiated or satisfied, it is vain for power to talk either of triumphs or of repose. No matter what fields are desolated, what fortresses surrendered, what armies subdued, or what provinces overrun. In the history of the year that has passed by us, and in the instance of unhappy Spain, we have seen the vanity of all triumphs in a cause which violates the general sense of justice of the civilized world. It is nothing that the troops of France have passed from the Pyrenees to Cadiz; it is nothing that an unhappy and prostrate nation has fallen before them; it is nothing that arrests, and confiscation, and execution, sweep away the little remnant of national resistance. There is an enemy that still exists to check the glory of these triumphs. It follows the conqueror back to the very scene of his ovations; it calls upon him to take notice that Europe, though silent, is yet indignant; it shows him that the sceptre of his victory is a barren sceptre; that it shall confer neither joy nor honor, but shall moulder to dry ashes in his grasp. In the midst of his exultation, it pierces his ear with the cry of injured Justice; it denounces against him the indignation of an enlightened and civilized age; it turns to bitterness the cup of his rejoicing, and wounds him with the sting which belongs to the consciousness of having outraged the opinion of mankind. D. Webster. CXIV. THE MURDERER'S SECRET. The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and steadiness, equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. The circumstances, now clearly in evidence, spread out the whole scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet, the just sound slumbers of the night held him in their soft but strong embrace. The assassin enters, through the window already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall half-lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this, he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on its hinges without noise; and he enters, and beholds his victim before him. The room was uncommonly open to the admission of light. The face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer, and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given! and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death! It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work; and he plies the dagger, though it is obvious that life has been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart, and replaces it again over the wounds of the poniard. To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! He feels for it and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished. The deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder. No eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and it is safe! Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds everything, as in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by man. D. Webster. CXV. THE SAME CONCLUDED. True it is, generally speaking, that murder "will out." True it is, that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern tidings, that those who break the great law of Heaven by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially, in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing every circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intensely dwell on the scene; shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime, the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself; or rather it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment, which it dares not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is devouring it, and it asks no sympathy or assistance, either from heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses, soon comes to possess him; and, like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his courage, it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It must be confessed; it will be confessed; there is no refuge from confession but suicide; and suicide is confession. D. Webster. CXVI. DEFENCE OF AMERICAN CLERGYMEN. By this Will, no minister of the Gospel of any sect or denomination whatever can be authorized or allowed to hold any office within the college; and not only that, but no minister or clergyman of any sect can, for any purpose whatever, enter within the walls that are to surround this college. Now I will not arraign the founder of this institution or his motives for this. I will not inquire into his opinions upon religion. But I feel bound to say, the occasion demands that I should say that this is the most opprobrious, the most insulting and unmerited stigma, that ever was cast, or attempted to be cast, upon the preachers of Christianity, from north to south, from east to west, through the length and breadth of the land, in the history of the country. When have they deserved it? Where have they deserved it? How have they deserved it? They are not to be allowed even the ordinary rights of hospitality; not even to be permitted to put their foot over the threshold of this college! Sir, I take it upon myself to say, that in no country in the world, upon either continent, can there be found a body of ministers of the Gospel who perform so much service to man, in such a full spirit of self-denial, under so little encouragement from government of any kind, and under circumstances almost always much straitened and often distressed, at the ministers of the Gospel in the United States, of all denominations. They form no part of any established order of religion; they constitute no hierarchy; they enjoy no peculiar privileges. In some of the states they are even shut out from all participation in the political rights and privileges enjoyed by their fellow-citizens. They enjoy no tithes, no public provision of any kind. Except here and there in large cities, where a wealthy individual occasionally makes a donation for the support of public worship, what have they to depend upon? They have to depend entirely on the voluntary contributions of those who hear them. And this body of clergymen has shown, to the honor of their own country and to the astonishment of the hierarchies of the Old World that it is practicable in free governments to raise and sustain by voluntary contributions alone a body of clergymen which, for devotedness to their sacred calling, for purity of life and character, for learning, intelligence, piety, and that wisdom which cometh from above, is inferior to none, and superior to most others. I hope that our learned men have done something for the honor of our literature abroad. I hope that the courts of justice and members of the bar of this country have done something to elevate the character of the profession of the law. I hope that the discussions above (in Congress) have done something to meliorate the condition of the human race, to secure and extend the great charter of human rights, and to strengthen and advance the great principles of human liberty. But I contend that no literary efforts, no adjudications, no constitutional discussions, nothing that has been said or done in favor of the great interests of universal man, has done this country more credit, at home and abroad, than the establishment of our body of clergymen, their support by voluntary contributions, and the general excellence off their character for piety and learning. The great truth has thus been proclaimed and proved, a truth which I believe will in time to come shake all the hierarchies of Europe, that the voluntary support of such a ministry, under free institutions, is a practicable idea. D. Webster. CXVII. PEACEABLE SECESSION IMPOSSIBLE. Mr. President, I should much prefer to have heard from every member on this floor declarations of opinion that this Union could never be dissolved, than the declaration of opinion by any body, that, in any case, under the pressure of any circumstances, such a dissolution was possible. I hear with distress and anguish the word "secession," especially when it falls from the lips of those who are patriotic, and known to the country, and known all over the world, for their political services. Secession! Peaceable secession! Sir, your eyes and mine are never destined to see that miracle. The dismemberment of this vast country without convulsion! The breaking up of the fountains of the great deep without ruffling the surface! Who is so foolish, I beg everybody's pardon, as to expect to see any such thing? Sir, he who sees these States, now revolving in harmony around a common centre, and expects to see them quit their places and fly off without convulsion, may look the next hour to see the heavenly bodies rush from their spheres, and jostle against each other in the realms of space, without causing the wreck of the universe. There can be no such thing as peaceable secession. Peaceable secession is an utter impossibility. Is the great Constitution under which we live, covering this whole country, is it to be thawed and melted away by secession, as the snows on the mountain melt under the influence of a vernal sun, disappear almost unobserved, and run off? No, sir! No, sir! I will not state what might produce the disruption of the Union; but, sir, I see as plainly as I see the sun in heaven what that disruption itself must produce; I see that it must produce war, and such a war as I will not describe, in its twofold character. Peaceable secession! Peaceable secession! The concurrent agreement of all the members of this great republic to separate! A voluntary separation, with alimony on one side and on the other. Why, what would be the result? Where is the line to be drawn? What States are to secede? What is to remain American? What am I to be? An American no longer? Am I to become a sectional man, a local man, a separatist, with no country in common with the gentlemen who sit around me here, or who fill the other house of Congress? Heaven forbid! Where is the flag of the republic to remain? Where is the eagle still to tower? or is he to cower, and shrink, and fall to the ground? Why, sir, our ancestors, our fathers and our grandfathers, those of them that are yet living amongst us with prolonged lives, would rebuke and reproach us; and our children and our grandchildren would cry out shame upon us, if we of this generation should dishonor these ensigns of the power of the government and the harmony of that Union which is every day felt among us with so much joy and gratitude. What is to become of the army? What is to become of the navy? What is to become of the public lands? How is each of tile thirty States to defend itself? But, sir, I am ashamed to pursue this line of remark, I dislike it, I have an utter disgust for it. I would rather hear of natural blasts and mildews, war, pestilence, and famine, than to hear gentlemen talk of secession. To break up this great government! to dismember this glorious country! to astonish Europe with an act of folly such as Europe for two centuries has never beheld in any government or any people! No, Sir! no, Sir! There will be no secession! Gentlemen are not serious when they talk of secession. D. Webster. CXVIII. LIBERTY AND UNION. I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that Union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That Union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings; and though our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread farther and farther, they have not outrun its protection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, personal happiness. I have not allowed myself sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recesses behind. I have not coolly weighted the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below; nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union may be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind! When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and clamored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured, bearing for its motto, no such miserable interrogatory as "What is all this worth?" nor those other words of delusion and folly, "Liberty first and Union afterwards," but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment dear to every true American heart,--Liberty AND Union, Now And For Ever, One And Inseparable. D. Webster. CXIX. EVENTS GREAT, BECAUSE OF THEIR RESULTS. Great actions and striking occurrences having excited a temporary admiration, often pass away and are forgotten, because they leave no lasting results, affecting the prosperity and happiness of communities. Such is frequently the fortune of the most brilliant military achievements. Of the ten thousand battles which have been fought, of all the fields fertilized with carnage, of the banners which have been bathed in blood, of the warriors who have hoped that they had risen from the field of conquest to a glory as bright and as durable as the stars, how few that continue long to interest mankind! The victory of yesterday is reversed by the defeat of to-day; the star of military glory, rising like a meteor, like a meteor has fallen; disgrace and disaster hang on the heels of conquest and renown; victor and vanquished presently pass away to oblivion, and the world goes on in its course, with the loss only of so many lives and so much treasure. But if this be frequently, or generally, the fortune of military achievements, it is not always so. There are enterprises, military as well as civil, which sometimes check the current of events, give a new turn to human affairs, and transmit their consequences through ages. We see their importance in their results, and call them great because great things follow. There have been battles which have fixed the fate of nations. These come down to us in history with a solid and permanent interest not created by a display of glittering armor, the rush of adverse battalions, the sinking and rising of pennons, the flight, the pursuit, and the victory; but by their effect in advancing or retarding human knowledge, in overthrowing or establishing despotism, in extending or destroying human happiness. When the traveller pauses on the plains of Marathon, what are the emotions which most strongly agitate his breast? What is that glorious recollection, which thrills through his frame and suffuses his eyes? Not I imagine that Grecian skill and Grecian valor were here most signally displayed; but that Greece herself was here saved. It is because to this spot, and to the event which has rendered it immortal, he refers all the succeeding glories of the republic. It is because if that day had gone otherwise, Greece had perished. It is because he perceives that her philosophers and orators, her poets and painters, her sculptors and architects, her governments and free institutions, point backward to Marathon, and that their future existence seems to have been suspended on the contingency, whether the Persian or the Greek banner should wave victorious in the beams of that day's setting sun. And as his imagination kindles at the retrospect, he is transported back to the interesting moment, he counts the fearful odds of the contending hosts, his interest for the result overwhelms him; he trembles, as if it were still uncertain, and seems to doubt whether he may consider Socrates and Plato, Demosthenes, Sophocles, and Phidias, as secure, yet, to himself and to the world. D. Webster. CXX. THE FUTURE OF AMERICA. Fellow-citizens, the hours of this day are rapidly flying, and this occasion will soon be passed. Neither we nor our children can expect to behold its return. They are in the distant regions of futurity, they exist only in the all-creating power of God, who shall stand here, a hundred years hence, to trace, through us, their descent from the Pilgrims, and to survey, as we have now surveyed, the progress of their country during the lapse of a century. We would anticipate their concurrence with us in our sentiments of deep regard for our common ancestors. We would anticipate and partake the pleasure with which they will then recount the steps of New England's advancement. On the morning of that day, although it will not disturb us in our repose, the voice of acclamation and gratitude, commencing on the rock of Plymouth, shall be transmitted through millions of the sons of the Pilgrims, till it lose itself in the murmurs of the Pacific seas. We would leave, for the consideration of those who shall then occupy our places, some proof that we hold the blessings transmitted from our fathers in just estimation; some proof of our attachment to the cause of good government, and of civil and religious liberty; some proof of a sincere and ardent desire to promote everything which may enlarge the understandings, and improve the hearts, of men. And when, from the long distance of a hundred years, they shall look back upon us, they shall know, at least, that we possessed affections, which, running backward and warming with gratitude for what our ancestors have done for our happiness, run forward also to our posterity and meet them with cordial salutation, ere yet they have arrived on the shore of being. Advance, then, ye future generations! We would hail you, as you rise in your long succession, to fill the places which we now fill, and to taste the blessings of existence, where we are passing, and soon shall have passed, our human duration. We bid you welcome to the healthful skies and the verdant fields of New England. We greet your accession to the great inheritance which we have enjoyed. We welcome you to the blessings of good government, and religious liberty. We welcome you to the treasures of science, and the delights of learning. We welcome you to the transcendent sweets of domestic life, to the happiness of kindred, and parents, and children. We welcome you to the immeasurable blessings of rational existence, the immortal hope of Christianity and the light of everlasting truth. D. Webster. CXXI. LIBERTY OF SPEECH. Important, sir, as I deem it to discuss, on all proper occasions, the policy of the measures at present pursued, it is still more important to maintain the right of such discussion in its full and just extent. Sentiments lately sprung up, and now growing fashionable, make it necessary to be explicit on this point. The more I perceive a disposition to check the freedom of inquiry by extravagant and unconstitutional pretences, the firmer shall be the tone in which I shall assert, and the freer the manner in which I shall exercise it. It is the ancient and undoubted prerogative of this people to canvass public measures, and the merits of public men. It is a "home-bred" right, a fireside privilege. It hath ever been enjoyed in every house, cottage, and cabin, in the nation. It is not to be drawn into controversy. It is as undoubted as the right of breathing the air, or walking on the earth. Belonging to private life as a right, it belongs to public life as a duty; and it is the last duty which those whose representative I am shall find me to abandon. Aiming at all times to be courteous and temperate in its use, except when the right itself shall be questioned, I shall then carry it to its extent. I shall place myself on the extreme boundary of my right, and bid defiance to any arm that would move me from my ground. This high constitutional privilege I shall defend and exercise within this house, and in all places; in times of peace, and in all times. Living, I shall assert it; and, should I leave no other inheritance to my children, by the blessing of God I will leave them the inheritance of free principles, and the example of a manly, independent, and constitutional defence of them. D. Webster. CXXII. WASHINGTON TO THE PRESENT GENERATION. Fellow-citizens,--What contemplations are awakened in our minds, as we assemble here to reenact a scene like that performed by Washington! Methinks I see his venerable form now before me, as presented in the glorious statue by Houdon, now in the capital of Virginia. He is dignified and grave; but his concern and anxiety seem to soften the lineaments of his countenance. The government over which he presides is yet in the crisis of experiment. Not free from troubles at home, he sees the world in commotion and arms, all around him. He sees that imposing foreign powers are half disposed to try the strength of the recently established American government. We perceive that mighty thoughts, mingled with fears as well as hopes, are struggling within him. He heads a short procession over these then naked fields; he crosses yonder stream on a fallen tree; he ascends to the top of this eminence, whose original oaks of the forest stand as thick around him as if the spot had been devoted to Druidical worship, and here he performs the appointed duty of the day. And now, fellow-citizens, if this vision were a reality,--if Washington actually were now amongst us,--and if he could draw around him the shades of the great public men of his own days,--patriots and warriors, orators and statesmen, and were to address us, in their presence, would he not say to us,--"Ye men of this generation, I rejoice, and thank God for being able to see that our labors, and toils, and sacrifices, were not in vain. You are prosperous,--you are happy,--you are grateful. The fire of liberty burns brightly and steadily in your hearts, while duty and the law restrain it from bursting forth in wild and destructive conflagration. Cherish liberty, as you love it;--cherish its securities, as you wish to preserve it. Maintain the Constitution which we labored so painfully to establish and which has been to you such a source of inestimable blessings. Preserve the Union of the States, cemented as it was by our prayers, our tears, and our blood. Be true to God, to your country, and to your duty. So shall the whole Eastern world follow the morning sun, to contemplate you as a nation; so shall all succeeding generations honor you as they honor us; and so shall that Almighty Power which so graciously protected us, and which now protects you, shower its everlasting blessings upon you and your posterity." Great father of your country! we heed your words; we feel their force as if you uttered them with life of flesh and blood. Your example teaches us; your affectionate addresses teach us; your public life teaches us your sense of the value of the blessings of the Union. Those blessings our fathers have tasted, and we have tasted, and still taste. Nor do we intend that those who come after us shall be denied the same high fruition, Our honor as well as our happiness is concerned. We cannot, we dare not, we will not, betray our sacred trust. We will not filch from posterity the treasure placed in our hands to be transmitted to other generations. The bow that gilds the clouds in the heavens, tile pillars that uphold the firmament, may disappear and fall away, in the hour appointed by the will of God; but, until that day comes, or so long as our lives may last, no ruthless hand shall undermine that bright arch of Union and Liberty which spans the continent from Washington to California. D. Webster. CXXIII. THE PLATFORM OF THE CONSTITUTION. A principal object, in his late political movements the gentleman himself tells us, was to unite the entire South; and against whom, or against what, does he wish to unite the entire South? Is not this the very essence of local feeling and local regard? Is it not the acknowledgment of a wish and object to create political strength, by uniting political opinions geographically? While the gentleman wishes to unite the entire South, I pray to know, sir, if he expects me to turn toward the polar star, and, acting on the same principle, to utter a cry of Rally! to the whole North? Heaven forbid! To the day of my death, neither he nor others shall hear such a cry from me. Finally, the honorable member declares that he shall now march off, under the banner of State rights! March off from whom? March off from what? We have been contending for great principles. We have been struggling to maintain the liberty and to restore the prosperity of the country; we have made these struggles here, in the national councils, with the old flag--the true American flag, the Eagle and the Stars and Stripes--waving over the chamber in which we sit. He now tells us, however, that he marches off under the State-rights banner! Let him go. I remain. I am, where I ever have been, and ever mean to be. Here, standing on the platform of the general Constitution,--a platform broad enough, and firm enough, to uphold every interest of the whole country,--I shall still be found. Intrusted with some part in the administration of that Constitution, I intend to act in its spirit, and in the spirit of those who framed it. Yes, sir. I would act as if our fathers, who formed it for us, and who bequeathed it to us, were looking on me,--as if I could see their venerable forms, bending down to behold us from the abodes above! I would act, too, as if the eye of posterity was gazing on me. Standing thus, as in the full gaze of our ancestors and our posterity, having received this inheritance from the former to be transmitted to the latter, and feeling that, if I am born for any good, in my day and generation, it is for the good of the whole country,--no local policy, no local feeling, no temporary impulse, shall induce me to yield my foothold on the Constitution and the Union. I move off under no banner not known to the whole American People, and to their Constitution and laws. No, sir! these walls, these columns, "shall fly From their firm base as soon as I." I came into public life, sir, in the service of the United States. On that broad altar my earliest and all my public vows have been made. I propose to serve no other master. So far as depends on any agency of mine, they shall continue United States;--united in interest and in affection; united in everything in regard to which the Constitution has decreed their union; united in war, for the common defense, the common renown, and the common glory; and united, compacted, knit firmly together, in peace, for the common prosperity and happiness of ourselves and our children! D. Webster. CXXIV. THE VETERANS OF THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL. The great event in the history of the Continent, which we are now met here to commemorate, that prodigy of modern times, at once the wonder and the blessing of the world, is the American Revolution. In a day of extraordinary prosperity and happiness, of high national honor, distinction, and power, we are brought together, in this place, by our love of country by our admiration of exalted character, by our gratitude for signal services and patriotic devotion. And we now stand here to enjoy all the blessings of our own condition, and to look abroad on the brightened prospects of the world, while we still have among us some of those who were active agents in the scenes of 1775, and who are now here, from every quarter of New England, to visit once more, and under circumstances so affecting,--I had almost said so overwhelming, this renowned theatre of their courage and patriotism. Venerable men! you have come down to us from a former generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives, that you may behold this joyous day. You are now where you stood fifty years ago, this very hour, with your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the strife for your country. Behold, how altered! The same heavens are indeed over your heads; the same ocean rolls at your feet; but all else how changed! You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground strowed with the dead and the dying; the impetuous charge; the steady and successful repulse; the loud call to repeated assault; the summoning of all that is manly to repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and death;--all these you have witnessed, but you witness them no more. All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled with wives and children and countrymen in distress and terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of its whole happy population, come out to welcome and greet you with a universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships by a felicity of position appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoyance to you, but your country's own means of distinction and defence. All is peace; and God has granted you this sight of your country's happiness, ere you slumber in the grave. He has allowed you to behold and to partake the reward of your patriotic toils; and he has allowed us, your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and in the name of the present generation, in the name of your country, in the name of liberty, to thank you! But, alas! you are not all here! Time and the sword have thinned your ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, Pomeroy, Bridge! our eyes seek for you in vain amid ibis broken band. You are gathered to your fathers, and live only to your county in her grateful remembrance and your own bright example. But let us not too much grieve, that you have met the common fate of men. You lived at least long enough to know that your work had been nobly and successfully accomplished. You lived to see your country's independence established, and to sheathe your swords from war. On the light of Liberty you saw arise the light of Peace, like "another morn risen on mid-noon;" and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless. But ah! Him! the first great martyr in this great cause! Him! the premature victim of his own self-devoting heart! Him! the head of our civil councils, and the destined leader of our military bands, whom nothing brought hither but the unquenchable fire of his own spirit! Him! cut off by Providence in the hour of overwhelming anxiety and thick gloom; falling ere he saw the star of his country rise; pouring out his generous blood like water, before he knew whether it would fertilize a land of freedom or of bondage!--how shall I struggle with the emotions that stifle the utterance of thy name! Our poor work may perish; but thine shall endure! This monument may moulder away; the solid ground it rests upon may sink down to a level with the sea; but thy memory shall not fail! Wheresoever among men a heart shall be found that beats to the transports of patriotism and liberty, its aspirations shall be to claim kindred with thy spirit! D. Webster. CXXV. REPLY TO THE REFLECTIONS OF MR. WALPOLE. Sir the atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honorable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny; but content myself with wishing,--that I may be one of those whose follies cease with their youth; and not of that number who are ignorant in spite of experience. Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, I will not, sir, assume the province of determining; but surely, age may become justly contemptible,--if the opportunities which it brings have passed away without improvement, and vice appears to prevail when the passions have subsided. The wretch who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and whose age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object of either abhorrence or contempt; and deserves not that his gray hairs should secure him from insult. Much more, sir, is he to be abhorred,--who, as he has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and becomes more wicked with less temptation; who prostitutes himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin of his country. But youth, sir, is not my only crime. I have been accused of acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part may either imply some peculiarities of gesture, or dissimulation of my real sentiments, and the adoption of the opinions and language of another man. In the first sense the charge is too trifling to be confuted, and deserves only to be mentioned that it may be despised. I am at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language: and though I may perhaps, have some ambition, yet to please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself under any restraint, nor very solicitously copy his diction, or his mien, however matured by age, or modelled by experience. If any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behavior, imply that I utter any sentiments but my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain; nor shall any protection shelter him from the treatment he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple trample upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity intrench themselves, nor shall anything but age restrain my resentment; age which always brings one privilege, that of being insolent and supercilious without punishment. But with regard, sir, to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion, that if I had acted a borrowed part I should have avoided their censure; the heat that offended them was the ardor of conviction, and that zeal for the service of my country, which neither hope nor fear shall influence me to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. I will exert my endeavors, at whatever hazard, to repel the aggressor, and drag the thief to justice,--whoever may protect them in their villainy and whoever may partake of their plunder. Lord Chatham. CXXVI. SPEECH AGAINST THE AMERICAN WAR. I cannot, my Lords, I will not, join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. This, my Lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment. It is not a time for adulation: the smoothness of flattery cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must, if possible, dispel the delusion and darkness which envelop it, and display, in its full danger and genuine colors, the ruin which is brought to our doors. Can ministers still presume to expect support in their infatuation? Can parliament be so dead to its dignity and duty, as to give their support to measures thus obtruded and forced upon them? Measures, my Lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire to scorn and contempt. "But yesterday and Britain might have stood against the world; now none so poor as to do her reverence." The people, whom we at first despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as enemies, are abetted against us, supplied with every military store, have their interests consulted, and their ambassadors entertained by our inveterate enemy--and ministers do not, and dare not, interpose with dignity or effect. The desperate state of our army abroad is in part known. No man more highly esteems and honors the British troops than I do; I know their virtues and their valor: I know they can achieve anything but impossibilities; and I know that the conquest of British America is an impossibility. You cannot, my Lords, you cannot conquer America. What is your present situation there? We do not know the worst; but we know that in three campaigns, we have done nothing, and suffered much. You may swell every expense, accumulate every assistance, and extend your traffic to the shambles of every German despot; your attempts will be forever vain and impotent--doubly so, indeed, from this mercenary aid on which you rely; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your adversaries, to over run them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty. If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms--never, Never, NEVER! Lord Chatham. CXXVII. SPEECH AGAINST EMPLOYING INDIANS IN WAR. But, my Lords, who is the man that, in addition to the disgraces and mischiefs of our army, has dared to authorize and associate to our arms the tomahawk and scalping-knife of the savage?--to call into civilized alliance the wild and inhuman inhabitants of the woods?--to delegate to the merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights, and to wage the horrors of this barbarous war against our brethren? My Lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and punishment. But, my Lords, this barbarous measure has been defended, not only on the principles of policy and necessity but also on those of morality; "for it is perfectly justifiable," says Lord Suffolk, "to use all the means which God and nature have put into our hands." I am astonished!--I am shocked! to hear such principles confessed;--to hear them avowed in this House, or in this country. My Lords, I did not intend to encroach so much on your attention, but I cannot repress my indignation--I feel myself impelled to speak. My Lords, we are called upon as members of this House, as men, as Christians, to protest against such horrible barbarity!--"That God and nature have put into our hands"! What ideas of God and nature that noble lord may entertain, I know not; but I know, that such detestable principles are equally abhorrent to religion and humanity. What! to attribute the sacred sanction of God and nature to the massacres of the Indian scalping-knife! to the cannibal savage, torturing, murdering, devouring, drinking the blood of his mangled victims! Such notions shock every precept of morality, every feeling of humanity, every sentiment of honor. These abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal of them, demand the most decisive indignation. I call upon that right reverend, and this most learned bench, to vindicate the religion of their God, to support the justice of their country. I call upon the bishops to interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn; upon the learned judges to interpose the enmity of their ermine,--to save us from this pollution. I call upon the honor of your Lordships, to reverence the dignity of our ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and humanity of my country, to vindicate the national character. I invoke the genius of the constitution! From the tapestry that adorns these walls, the immortal ancestor of this noble lord frowns with indignation at the disgrace of his country. In vain did he defend the liberty, and establish the religion of Britain, against the tyranny of Rome, if these worse than popish cruelties, and inquisitorial practices, are endured among us. To send forth the merciless cannibal, thirsting for blood!--against whom?--your Protestant brethren! to lay waste their country, to desolate their dwellings, and extirpate their race and name, by the aid and instrumentality of these horrible hounds of war! Spain can no longer boast preëminence in barbarity. She armed herself with bloodhounds, to extirpate the wretched natives of Mexico, and we improve on the inhuman example even of Spanish cruelty; we turn loose these savage hell-hounds against our brethren and countrymen in America, endeared to us by every tie that can sanctify humanity. I again call upon your Lordships, and upon every order of men in the State, to stamp upon this infamous procedure the indelible stigma of the public abhorrence. And I again implore those holy prelates of our religion to do away this iniquity; let them perform a lustration, to purify the country from this deep and deadly sin. My Lords, I am old and weak, and at present unable to say more; but my feelings and indignation were too strong to have said less. I could not have slept this night in my bed, nor even reposed my head upon my pillow, without giving vent to my eternal abhorrence of such enormous and preposterous principles. Lord Chatham. CXXVIII. HONORABLE AMBITION. I have been accused of ambition in presenting this measure--ambition, inordinate ambition. If I had thought of myself only, I should have never brought it forward. I know well the perils to which I expose myself: the risk of alienating faithful and valued friends, with but little prospect of making new ones, if any new ones could compensate for the loss of those we have long tried and loved; and the honest misconception both of friends and foes. Ambition? If I had listened to its soft and seducing whispers; if I had yielded myself to the dictates of a cold, calculating, and prudential policy, I would have stood still and unmoved. I might even have silently gazed on the raging storm, enjoyed its loudest thunders, and left these who are charged with the care of the vessel of State to conduct it as they could. I have been, heretofore, often unjustly accused of ambition. Low, grovelling souls, who are utterly incapable of elevating themselves to the higher and nobler duties of pure patriotism,--beings who, forever keeping their own selfish ends in view, decide all public measures by their presumed influence on their aggrandizement--judge me by the venal rule which they prescribe to themselves. I have given to the winds those false accusations, as I consign that which now impeaches my motives. I have no desire for office, not even the highest. The most exalted is but a prison, in which the incarcerated incumbent daily receives his cold, heartless visitants, marks his weary hours, and is cut off from the practical enjoyment of all the blessings of genuine freedom. I am no candidate for any office in the gift of the people of these States, united or separated; I never wish, never expect to be. Pass this bill, tranquillize the country, restore confidence and affection in the Union, and I am willing to go home to Ashland, and renounce public service forever. I should there find, in its groves, under its shades, on its lawns, midst my flocks and herds, in the bosom of my family, sincerity and truth, attachment and fidelity, and gratitude which I have not always found in the walks of public life. Yes, I have ambition! but it is the ambition of being the humble instrument, in the hands of Providence, to reconcile a divided people; once more to revive concord and harmony in a distracted land,--the pleasing ambition of contemplating the glorious spectacle of a free, united, prosperous, and fraternal people. H. Clay. CXXIX. THE NOBLEST PUBLIC VIRTUE. There is a sort of courage, to which--I frankly confess it--I do not lay claim; a boldness to which I dare not aspire; a valor which I cannot covet. I cannot lay myself down in the way of the welfare and happiness of my country. That, I cannot, I have not the courage to do. I cannot interpose the power with which I may be invested,--a power conferred, not for my personal benefit or aggrandizement, but for my country's good,--to check her onward march to greatness and glory. I have not courage enough,--I am too cowardly for that! I would not, I dare not, lie down, and place my body across the path that leads my country to prosperity and happiness. This is a sort of courage widely different from that which a man may display in his private conduct and personal relations. Personal or private courage is totally distinct from that higher and nobler courage which prompts the patriot to offer himself a voluntary sacrifice to his country's good. Apprehensions of the imputation of the want of firmness sometimes impel us to perform rash and inconsiderate acts. It is the greatest courage to be able to bear the imputation of the want of courage. But pride, vanity, egotism, so unaimiable and offensive in private life, are vices which partake of the character of crimes in the conduct of public affairs. The unfortunate victim of these passions cannot see beyond the little, petty, contemptible circle of his own personal interest. All his thoughts are withdrawn from his country, and concentrated on his consistency, his firmness, himself. The high, the exalted, the sublime emotions of a patriotism which, soaring toward heaven, rises far above all mean, low, or selfish things, and is absorbed by one soul-transporting thought of the good and glory of one's country, are never felt in his impenetrable bosom. That patriotism which, catching its inspiration from on high, and, leaving at an immeasurable distance below all lesser, groveling, personal interests and feelings,--animates and prompts to deeds of self-sacrifice, of valor, of devotion and of death itself,--that is public virtue; that is the noblest, the sublimest of all public virtues. H. Clay. CXXX. PLEA FOR THE UNION. At a moment when the White House itself is in danger of conflagration, instead of all hands uniting to extinguish the flames, we are contending about who shall be its next occupant. When a dreadful crevasse has occurred, which threatens inundation and destruction to all around it, we are contesting and disputing about the profits of an estate which is threatened with total submersion. Mr. President, it is passion, passion--party, party, and intemperance--that is all I dread in the adjustment of the great questions which unhappily at this time divide our distracted country. Sir, at this moment we have in the legislative bodies of this Capitol and in the States, twenty-odd furnaces in full blast, emitting heat and passion, and intemperance, and diffusing them throughout the whole extent of this broad land. Two months ago all was calm in comparison to the present moment. All now is uproar, confusion, and menace to the existence of the Union, and to the happiness and safety of this people. Sir, I implore Senators, I entreat them, by all that they expect hereafter, and by all that is dear to them here below, to repress the ardor of these passions, to look to their country to its interests, to listen to the voice of reason. Mr. President, I have said--what I solemnly believe--that the dissolution of the Union and war are identical and inseparable; that they are convertible terms. Such a war, too, as that would be, following the dissolution of the Union! Sir, we may search the pages of history, and none so furious, so bloody, so implacable, so exterminating, from the wars of Greece down, including those of the Commonwealth of England, and the revolution of France--none, none of them raged with such violence, or was ever conducted with such bloodshed and enormities, as will that war which shall follow that disastrous event--if that event ever happen--the dissolution of the Union. And what would be its termination? Standing armies and navies, draining the revenues of each portion of the dissevered empire, would be created; exterminating war would follow-not a war of two or three years, but of interminable duration until some Philip or Alexander, some Cæsar or Napoleon, would rise to cut the Gordian Knot, and solve the problem of the capacity of man for self-government, and crush the liberties of both the dissevered portions of this Union. Can you, sir, lightly contemplate these consequences? Can you yield yourself to a torrent of passion, amidst dangers which I have depicted in colors far short of what would be the reality, if the event should ever happen? I implore gentlemen--I adjure them from the South or the North, by all they hold dear in this world--by all their love of liberty, by all their veneration for their ancestors--by all their regard for posterity--by all their gratitude to Him who has bestowed upon them such unnumbered blessings--by all the duties which they owe to mankind, and all the duties they owe to themselves--by all these considerations, I implore upon them to pause--solemnly to pause--at the edge of the precipice before the fearful and disastrous leap is taken into the yawning abyss below, from which none who take it will ever return in safety. And, finally, Mr. President, I implore, as the best blessing which Heaven can bestow upon me on earth, that if the direful and sad event of the dissolution of the Union shall happen, I may not survive to behold the melancholy and heart-rending spectacle. H. Clay. CXXXI. NATIONAL GLORY. We are asked, what have we gained by the war? I have shown that we have lost nothing, either in rights, territory, or honor; nothing, for which we ought to have contended, according to the principles of the gentlemen on the other side, or according to our own. Have we gained nothing by the war? Let any man look at the degraded condition of the country before the war,--the scorn of the universe, the contempt of ourselves, and tell me if we have gained nothing by the war. What is our present situation? Respectability and character abroad; security and confidence at home. If we have not obtained, in the opinion of some, the full measure of retribution, our character and Constitution are placed on a solid basis, never to be shaken. The glory acquired by our gallant tars on the sea, by our Jacksons and our Browns on the land is that nothing? true we had our vicissitudes: there are humiliating events which the patriot cannot review without deep regret; but the great account when it comes to be balanced, will be found vastly in our favor. Is there a man who would obliterate from the proud pages of our history, the brilliant achievements of Jackson, Brown, and Scott, and the host of heroes on land and sea whom I cannot enumerate? Is there a man who could not desire a participation in the national glory acquired by the war? Yes, national glory, which, however the expression may be condemned by some, must be cherished by every genuine patriot. What do I mean by national glory? Glory such as Hull, Jackson, and Perry have acquired. And are gentlemen insensible to their deeds, to the value of them in animating the country in the hour of peril hereafter? Did the battle of Thermopylæ preserve Greece but once? While the Mississippi contributes to bear the tributes of the Iron Mountains and the Alleghenies to her delta, and to the Gulf of Mexico, the eighth of January shall be remembered, and the glory of that day shall stimulate future patriots, and nerve the arms of unborn freemen, in driving the presumptuous invader from our country's soil. Gentlemen may boast of their insensibility to feelings inspired by the contemplation of such events. But I would ask, does the recollection of Bunker's Hill, Saratoga, and Yorktown, afford no pleasure? Every act of noble sacrifice of the country, every instance of patriotic devotion to her cause, has its beneficial influence. A nation's character is the sum of its splendid deeds; they constitute one common patrimony, the country's inheritance. They awe foreign powers; they arouse and animate our own people. I love true glory. It is this sentiment which ought to be cherished; and, in spite of cavils, and sneers, and attempts to put it down, it will rise triumphant, and finally conduct this nation to that height, to which nature and nature's God have destined it. H. Clay. CXXXII. BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF C�SAR. Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may be the better judge. If there be any in this assembly,--any dear friend of Cæsar's--to him I say, that Brutus' love to Cæsar was not less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves; than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honor for his valor, and death for his ambition. Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply,--- None? Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cæsar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart;--that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. Shakespeare. CXXXIII. HAMLET'S ADDRESS TO THE PLAYERS. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, grippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as life the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robtustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, we for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod. I pray you, avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold, as it were, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one, must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players, that I have seen play,--and heard others praise, and that highly,--not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, Pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Shakespeare. CXXXIV. FALSTAFF'S DESCRIPTION OF HIS SOLDIERS. If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I have misused the king's press outrageously. I have got, in exchange of an hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good householders, yeoman's sons; inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as have been asked twice on the banns; such a commodity of warm slaves, as had as life hear the devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a culverin worse than a struck deer or a hurt wild duck. I pressed me none but such toasts in butter, with hearts in their breasts no bigger than pins' heads; and they bought out their services; and now my whole charge consists of slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his sores; discarded, unjust serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and hostlers trade-fallen, the cankers of a calm world and a long peace; and such have I to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their services, that you would think, that I had an hundred and fifty tattered prodigals, lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets, and pressed the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat. Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if--they had gyves on; for, indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There's but a shirt and a half in all my company; and the half-shirt it is two napkins tacked together, and thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host of St. Albans, or the red-nosed innkeeper of Daintry. But that's all one; they'll find linen enough on every hedge. Shakespeare. CXXXV. SOLILOQUY ON CHARACTER. As young as I am, I have observed these three swashers. I am boy to them all three: but all they three, though they would serve me, could not be man to me; for, indeed, three such antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph,--he is white-livered, and red-faced; by the means whereof 'a faces it out, but fights not. For Pistol,--he hath a killing tongue, and a quiet sword; by the means whereof 'a breaks words, and keeps whole weapons. For Nym,--he hath heard, that men of a few words are the best men; and therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest 'a should be thought a coward; but his few bad words are matched with as few good deeds; for 'a never broke any man's head but his own, and that was against a post, when he was drunk. They will steal anything, and call it--purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case; bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three half-pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching; and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel; I knew, by that piece of service, the men would carry coals. They would have me as familiar with men's pockets, as their gloves or their handkerchiefs; which makes much against my manhood, if I should take from another's pocket, to put into mine; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave them, and seek some better service: their villainy goes against my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up. Shakespeare. CXXXVI. DEATH OF HAMILTON. A short time since, and he who is the occasion of our sorrows, was the ornament of his country. He stood on an eminence; and glory covered him. From that eminence he has fallen--suddenly, forever, fallen. His intercourse with the living world is now ended; and those who would hereafter find him must seek him in the grave. There, cold and lifeless, and the heart which just now was the seat of friendship. There, dim and sightless is the eye, whose radiant and enlivening orb beamed with intelligence; and there, closed forever are those lips, on whose persuasive accents we have so often and so lately hung with transport. From the darkness which rests upon his tomb there proceeds, methinks, a light in which it is clearly seen that those gaudy objects which men pursue are only phantoms. In this light how dimly shines the splendor of victory--how humble appears the majesty of grandeur. The bubble which seemed to have so much solidity has burst; and we again see that all below the sun is vanity. True, the funeral eulogy has been pronounced. The sad and solemn procession has moved. The badge of mourning has already been decreed, and presently the sculptured marble will lift up its front, proud to perpetuate the name of Hamilton, and rehearse to the passing traveller his virtues. Just tributes of respect! And to the living useful. But to him, mouldering in his narrow and humble habitation, what are they? How vain! how unavailing! Approach, and behold--while I lift from his sepulchre its covering. Ye admirers of his neatness, ye emulous of his talents and his fame, approach, and behold him now. How pale! how silent! No martial bands admire the adroitness of his movements. No fascinated throng weep--and melt--and tremble at his eloquence!--Amazing change. A shroud! a coffin! a narrow subterraneous cabin! This is all that now remains of Hamilton! And is this all that remains of him?--During a life so transitory, what lasting monument then can our fondest hopes erect? My brethren! we stand on the borders of an awful gulf, which is swallowing up all things human. And is there, amidst this universal wreck, nothing stable, nothing abiding, notating immortal, on which poor, frail, dying man can fasten? Ask the hero, ask the statesman, whose wisdom you have been accustomed to revere, and he will tell you. He will tell you, did I say? He has already told you, from his death-bed, and his illumined spirit still whispers from the heavens, with well-known eloquence, the solemn admonition. "Mortals! hastening to the tomb, and once the companions of my pilgrimage, take warning and avoid my errors--Cultivate the virtues I have recommended--Choose the Saviour I have chosen--Live disinterestedly--Live for immortality; and would you rescue anything from final dissolution, lay it up in God." Dr. Nott. CXXXVII. INVECTIVE AGAINST MR. FLOOD. It is not the slander of an evil tongue that can defame me. I maintain my reputation in public and in private life. No man who has not a bad character can ever say that I deceived; no country can call me cheat. But I will suppose such a public character. I will suppose such a man to have existence. I will begin with his character in its political cradle, and I will follow him to the last state of political dissolution. I will suppose him, in the first stage of his life, to have been intemperate; in the second, to have been corrupt; and in the last, seditious; that after an envenomed attack upon the persons and measures of a succession of viceroys, and after much declamation against their illegalities and their profusion, he took office, and became a supporter of government when the profusion of ministers had greatly increased, and their crimes multiplied beyond example. At such a critical moment, I will suppose this gentleman to be corrupted by a great sinecure office to muzzle his declamation, to swallow his invective, to give his assent and vote to the ministers, and to become a supporter of government, its measures, its embargo, and its American war. I will suppose, that with respect to the Constitution of his country that part, for instance, which regarded the Mutiny Bill, when a clause of reference was introduced, whereby the articles of war, which were, or hereafter might be, passed in England, should be current in Ireland without the interference of Parliament--when such a clause was in view, I will suppose this gentleman to have absconded. Again, when the bill was made perpetual, I will suppose him again to have absconded; but a year and a half after the bill had passed then I will suppose this gentleman to have come forward, and to say that your Constitution had been destroyed by the Perpetual Bill. With respect to commerce, I will suppose this gentleman to have supported an embargo which lay on the country for three years, and almost destroyed it; and when an address in 1778, to open her trade, was propounded, to remain silent and inactive. In relation to three fourths of our fellow-subjects, the Catholics, when a bill was introduced to grant them rights of property and religion, I will suppose this gentleman to have come forth to give his negative to their pretensions. With regard to the liberties of America, which were inseparable from ours, I will suppose this gentleman to have been an enemy, decided and unreserved; that he voted against her liberty, and voted, moreover, for an address to send four thousand Irish troops to cut the throats of the Americans; that he called these butchers "armed negotiators," and stood with a metaphor in his mouth, and a bribe in his pocket, a champion against the rights of America, the only hope of Ireland, and the only refuge of the liberties of mankind. Thus defective in every relationship, whether to Constitution, commerce, or toleration, I will suppose this man to have added much private improbity to public crimes; that his probity was like his patriotism, and his honor on a level with his oath. He loves to deliver panegyrics on himself. I will interrupt him, and say, "Sir, you are mistaken if you think that your talents have been as great as your life has been reprehensible. You began your parliamentary career with an acrimony and personality which could have been justified only by a supposition of virtue. After a rank and clamorous opposition you became, on a sudden, silent; you were silent for seven years; you were silent on the greatest questions; and you were silent for money! You supported the unparalleled profusion and jobbing of Lord Harcourt's scandalous ministry--the address to support the American war--the other address to send four thousand men, which you had yourself declared to be necessary for the defence of Ireland, to fight against the liberties of America, to which you had declared yourself a friend. You, sir, who manufacture stage-thunder against Mr. Eden for his anti-American principles--you, sir, whom it pleases to chant a hymn to the immortal Hampden--you, sir, approved of the tyranny exercised against America; and you, sir, voted four thousand Irish troops to cut the throats of the Americans fighting for their freedom, fighting for your freedom, fighting for the great principle, Liberty! But you found, at last (and this should be an eternal lesson to men of your craft and cunning), that the King; had only dishonored you; the court had bought, but would not trust you; and, having voted for the worst measures, you remained, for seven years, the creature of salary, without the conscience of government. Mortified at the discovery, and stung by disappointment, you betake yourself to the sad expedients of duplicity. You try the sorry game of a trimmer in your progress to the acts of an incendiary. You give no honest support either to the government or the people; observing, with regard to both prince and people, the most impartial treachery and desertion, you justify the suspicion of your Sovereign, by betraying the government, as you had sold the people, until, at last, by this hollow conduct, and for some other steps, the result of mortified ambition, being dismissed, and another person put in your place, you fly to the ranks of the Volunteers and canvas, for mutiny. "Such has been your conduct; and at such conduct every order of your fellow-subjects have a right to exclaim! The merchant may say to you--the constitutionality may say to you--the American may say to you--and I, I now say, and say to your beard, sir,--'you are not an honest man!'" H. Gratton. CXXXVIII. GRATTAN'S REPLY TO MR. CORRY. Has the gentleman done? Has he completely done? He was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of his speech. There was scarce a word he uttered that was not a violation of the privileges of the House. But I did not call him to order, why? because the limited talents of some men render it impossible for them to be severe without being unparliamentary. But before I sit down, I shall show him how to be severe and parliamentary at the same time. On any other occasion, I should think myself justifiable in treating with silent contempt anything which might fall from that honorable member; but there are times, when the insignificance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of the accusation. I know the difficulty the honorable gentleman labored under when he attacked me, conscious that, on a comparative view of our characters, public and private, there is nothing he could say which would injure me. The public would not believe the charge. I despise the falsehood. If such a charge were made by an honest man, I would answer it in the manner I shall do before I sit down. But I shall first reply to it when not made by an honest man. The right honorable gentleman has called me "an unimpeached traitor." I ask why not "traitor," unqualified by any epithet? I will tell him; it was because he durst not. It was the act of a coward, who raises his arm to strike, but has not courage to give the blow. I will not call him villain, because it would be unparliamentary, and he is a privy counsellor. I will not call him fool, because he happens to be chancellor of the exchequer. But I say he is one who has abused the privilege of Parliament, and the freedom of debate, by uttering language, which, if spoken out of the House, I should answer only with a blow. I care not how high his situation, how low his character, how contemptible his speech; whether a privy counsellor or a parasite, my answer would be a blow. He has charged me with being connected with the rebels. The charge is utterly, totally and meanly false. Does the honorable gentleman rely on the report of the House of Lords for the foundation of his assertion? If he does, I can prove to the committee there was a physical impossibility of that report being true. But I scorn to answer any man for my conduct, whether he be a political coxcomb, or whether he brought himself into power by a false glare of courage or not. I have returned, not as the right honorable member has said, to raise another storm--I have returned to discharge an honorable debt of gratitude to my country, that conferred a great reward for past services, which, I am proud to say, was not greater than my desert. I have returned to protect that Constitution, of which I was the parent and founder, from the assassination of such men as the right honorable gentleman and his unworthy associates. They are corrupt,--they are seditious,--and they, at this very moment, are in a conspiracy against their country. I have returned to refute a libel, as false as it is malicious, given to the public under the appellation of a report of the committee of the Lords. Here I stand ready for impeachment or trial. I dare accusation. I defy the honorable gentleman; I defy the government; I defy their whole phalanx; let them come forth. I tell the ministers, I will neither give quarter nor take it. I am here to lay the shattered remains of my constitution on the floor of this House, in defence of the liberties of my country. CXXXIX. SPEECH OF TITUS QUINCTIUS TO THE ROMANS. You have seen it--posterity will know it! in the fourth consulship of Titus Quinctius, our enemies came in arms, to the very gates of Rome,--and went away unchastised! But who are they that our dastardly enemies thus despise?--the consuls, or you, Romans? If we are in fault, depose us, or punish us yet more severely. If you are to blame--may neither gods nor men punish your faults! only may you repent!--No, Romans, the confidence of our enemies is not owing to their courage, or to their belief of your cowardice; they have been too often vanquished, not to know both themselves and you. Discord, discord is the ruin of this city! The eternal disputes, between the senate and the people, are the sole cause of our misfortunes. While we set no bounds to our dominion, nor you to your liberty; while you impatiently endure Patrician magistrates, and we Plebeian; our enemies take heart, grow elated, and presumptuous. In the name of the immortal gods, what is it, Romans, you would have? You desired Tribunes; for the sake of peace, we granted them. You were eager to have Decemvirs; we consented to their creation. You grew weary of these Decemvirs; we obliged them to abdicate. Your hatred pursued them when reduced to private men; and we suffered you to put to death, or banish, Patricians of the first rank in the republic. You insisted upon the restoration of the Tribuneship; we yielded; we quietly saw Consuls of your own faction elected. You have the protection of your Tribunes, and the privilege of appeal; the Patricians are subjected to the decrees of the Commons. Under pretence of equal and impartial laws, you have invaded our rights; and we have suffered it, and we still suffer it. When shall we see an end of discord? When shall we have one interest, and one common country? Victorious and triumphant, you show less temper than we, under defeat. When you are to contend with us, you can seize the Aventine hill, you can possess yourselves of the Mons Sacer. The enemy is at our gates,--the �squiline is near being taken,--and nobody stirs to hinder it! But against us you are valiant, against us you can arm with diligence. Come on, then, besiege the senate-house, make a camp of the forum, fill the jails with our chief nobles, and when you have achieved these glorious exploits, then, at last, sally out at the �squiline gate, with the same fierce spirits, against the enemy. Does your resolution fail you for this? Go then, and behold from our walls your lands ravaged, your houses plundered and in flames, the whole country laid waste with fire and sword. Have you anything here to repair these damages? Will the Tribunes make up your losses to you? They will give you words as many as you please; bring impeachments in abundance against the prime men in the State; heap laws upon laws; assemblies you shall have without end; but will any of you return the richer from these assemblies? Extinguish, O Romans, these fatal divisions; generously break this cursed enchantment, which keeps you buried in a scandalous inaction. Open your eyes and consider the management of those ambitious men, who, to make themselves powerful in their party, study nothing but how they may foment divisions in the commonwealth. CXL. THE BOSTON MASSACRE. Tell me, ye bloody butchers! ye villains high and low! ye wretches who contrived, as well as you who executed, the inhuman deed! do you not feel the goads and stings of conscious guilt pierce through your savage bosoms? Though some of you may think yourselves exalted to such a height that bids defiance to the arms of human justice, and others shroud yourselves beneath the mask of hypocrisy, and build your hopes of safety on the low arts of cunning, chicanery, and falsehood; yet do you not sometimes feel the gnawings of that worm which never dies? Do not the injured shades of Maverick, Gray, Caldwell, Attucks, and Carr, attend you in your solitary walks, arrest you even in the midst of your debaucheries, and fill even your dreams with terror? Ye dark, designing knaves! ye murderers! parricides! how dare you tread upon the earth which has drank in the blood of slaughtered innocents, shed by your wicked hands? How dare you breathe that air which wafted to the ear of Heaven the groans of those who fell a sacrifice to your accursed ambition? But, if the laboring earth does not expand her jaws; if the air you breathe is not commissioned to be the minister of death; yet hear it, and tremble! the eye of Heaven penetrates the darkest chambers of the soul; traces the leading clew through all the labyrinths which your industrious folly has devised; and you, however you may have screened yourselves from human eyes, must be arraigned, must lift your hands, red with the blood of those whose deaths you have procured, at the tremendous bar of God. John Hancock. CXLI. ENTERPRISE OF NEW ENGLAND. As to the wealth, Mr. Speaker, which the colonies have drawn from the sea by their fisheries, you had all that matter fully opened at your bar. You surely thought those acquisitions of value; for they seemed even to excite your envy; and yet the spirit by which that enterprising employment has been exercised, ought rather, in my opinion, to have raised your esteem and admiration. And pray, sir, what in the world is equal to it? Pass by the other parts, and look at the manner in which the people of New England have of late carried on the whale fishery. Whilst we follow them among the tumbling mountains of ice, and behold them penetrating into the deepest frozen recesses of Hudson's Bay and Davis's Straits, whilst we are looking for them beneath the arctic circle, we hear that they have pierced into the opposite region of polar cold, that they are at the antipodes, and engaged under the frozen serpent of the south. Falkland island, which seemed too remote and romantic an object for the grasp of national ambition, is but a stage and resting-place in the progress of their victorious industry. Nor is the equinoctial heat more discouraging to them than the accumulated winter of both the poles. We know that whilst some of them draw the line and strike the harpoon on the coast of Africa, others run the longitude, and pursue their gigantic game along the coast of Brazil. No sea but what is vexed by their fisheries. No climate that is not witness to their toils. Neither the perseverance of Holland, nor the activity of France, nor the dexterous and firm sagacity of English enterprise, ever carried this most perilous mode of hardy industry to the extent to which it has been pushed by this recent people; a people who are still, as it were, but in the gristle, and not yet hardened into the bone of manhood. When I contemplate these things; when I know that the colonies in general owe little or nothing to any care of ours, and that they are not squeezed into this happy form by the constrains of watchful and suspicious government, but that through a wise and salutary neglect, a generous nature has been suffered to take her own way to perfection; when I reflect upon these effects, when I see how profitable they have been to us, I feel all the pride of power sink, and all presumption in the wisdom of human contrivances melt and die away within me. My rigor relents. I pardon something to the spirit of liberty. E. Burke. CXLII. THE RIGHT OF ENGLAND TO TAX AMERICA. But Mr. Speaker, "we have a right to tax America." Oh, inestimable right! Oh, wonderful, transcendent right! the assertion of which has cost this country thirteen provinces, six islands, one hundred thousand lives, and seventy millions of money. Oh, invaluable right! for the sake of which we have sacrificed our rank among nations, our importance abroad, and our happiness at home! Oh, right! more dear to us than our existence, which has already cost us so much, and which seems likely to cost us our all. Infatuated man! Miserable and undone country! not to know that the claim of right, without the power of enforcing it, is nugatory and idle. We have a right to tax America, the noble lord tells us therefore we ought to tax America. This is the profound logic which comprises the whole chain of his reasoning. Not inferior to this was the wisdom of him who resolved to shear the wolf. What, shear a wolf! Have you considered the resistance, the difficulty, the danger of the attempt? No, says the madman, I have considered nothing but the right. Man has a right of dominion over the beasts of the forest; and therefore I will shear the wolf. How wonderful that a nation could be thus deluded! But the noble lord deals in cheats and delusions. They are the daily traffic of his invention; and he will continue to play to his cheats on this House, so long as he thinks them necessary to his purpose, and so long as he has money enough at command to bribe gentlemen to pretend that they believe him. But a black and bitter day of reckoning will surely come; and whenever that day comes, I trust I shall be able, by a parliamentary impeachment, to bring upon the heads of the authors of our calamities the punishment they deserve. E. Burke. CXLIII. DESCRIPTION OF JUNIUS. Sir,--How comes this Junius to have broken through the cobwebs of the law, and to range uncontrolled, unpunished, through the land? The myrmidons of the court have been long, and are still pursuing him in vain. They will not spend their time upon me, or you, or you. No! they disdain such vermin, when the mighty boar of the forest, that has broken through all their toils, is before them. But what will all their efforts avail? No sooner has he wounded one than he lays down another dead at his feet. For my part, when I saw his attack upon the king, I own my blood ran cold. I thought he had ventured too far, and there was an end of his triumphs. Not that he had not asserted many truths:--Yes, sir, there are in that composition many bold truths, by which a wise prince might profit. It was the rancor and venom, with which I was struck. In these aspects the North-Briton is as much inferior to him, as in strength, wit, and judgment. But while I expected, in this daring flight, his final ruin and fall, behold him rising still higher, and coming down souse upon both Houses of Parliament. Yes, he did make you his quarry, and you still bleed from the wounds of his talons. You crouched, and still crouch, beneath his rage. Nor has he dreaded the terrors of your brow, sir; he has attacked even you--he has--and I believe you have no reason to triumph in the encounter. In short, after carrying away our royal eagle in his pounces, and dashing him against a rock, he has laid you prostrate. King, lords and commons, are but the sport of his fury. Were he a member of this House, what might not be expected from his knowledge, his firmness, and integrity? He would be easily known by his contempt of all danger, by his penetration, by his vigor. Nothing would escape his vigilance and activity. Bad ministers could conceal nothing from his sagacity; nor could promises nor threats induce him to conceal anything from the public. E. Burke. CXLIV. TRUE STATESMANSHIP. The true lawgiver ought to have a heart full of sensibility. He ought to love and respect his kind, and to fear himself. It may be allowed to his temperament to catchy his ultimate object with an intuitive glance, but his movements toward it ought to be deliberate. Political arrangement, as it is a work for social ends, is to be wrought only by social means. There mind must conspire with mind. Time is required to produce all the good we aim at. Our patience will achieve more than our force. If I might venture to appeal to what is so much out of fashion in Paris, I mean to experience, I should tell you that in my course I have known, and, according to my measure, have coöperated with great men; and I have never yet seen any plan which has not been mended by the observations of those who were much inferior in understanding to the person who took the lead in business. By a slow but well-sustained progress the effect of each step is watched; the good or ill success of the first gives light to us in the second; and so, from light to light, we are conducted with safety through the whole series. We see that the parts of the system do not clash. The evils latent in the most promising contrivances are provided for as they arise. One advantage is as little as possible sacrificed to another. We compensate, we reconcile, we balance. We are enabled to unite into a consistent whole the various anomalies and contending principles that are found in the minds and affairs of men. From hence arises not an excellence in simplicity but one far superior, an excellence in composition. Where the great interests of mankind are concerned through a long succession of generations, that succession ought to be admitted into some share in the councils which are so deeply to affect them. If justice requires this, the work itself requires the aid of more minds than one age can furnish. It is from this view of things that the best legislators have been often satisfied with the establishment of some sure, solid, and ruling principle in government; a power like to that which some of the philosophers have called a plastic nature; and having fixed the principle, they have left it afterward to its own operation. E. Burke. CXLV. THE QUEEN OF FRANCE AND THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY. I hear, and I rejoice to hear, that the great lady, the other object of the triumph, has borne that day (one is interested that beings made for suffering should suffer well), and that she bears all the succeeding days--that she bears the imprisonment of her husband, and her own captivity, and the exile of her friends, and the insulting adulation of addresses, and the whole weight of her accumulated wrongs, with a serene patience, in a manner suited to her rank and race and becoming the offspring of a sovereign distinguished for her piety and her courage; that, like her, she has lofty sentiments; that she feels with the dignity of a Roman matron; that in the last extremity she will save herself; and that, if she must fall, she will fall by no ignoble hand. It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in, glittering like the morning star full of life and splendor and joy. Oh! what a revolution! and what a heart must I have, to contemplate, without emotion, that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult? But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists and calculators has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage while it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness. E. Burke. CXLVI. PERORATION OF OPENING SPEECH AGAINST HASTINGS. In the name of the Commons of England, I charge all this villany upon Warren Hastings, in this last moment of my application to you. My Lords, what is it that we want here to a great act of national justice? Do we want a cause, my Lords? You care the cause of oppressed princes, of undone women of the first rank, of desolated provinces, and of wasted kingdoms. Do you want a criminal, my Lords? When was there so much iniquity ever laid to the charge of any one? No, my Lords, you must not look to punish any other such delinquent from India. Warren Hastings has not left substance enough in India to nourish such another delinquent. My Lords, is it a prosecutor you want? You have before you the Commons of Great Britain as prosecutors; and I believe my Lords, that the sun, in his beneficent progress round the world, does not behold a more glorious sight than that of men, separated from a remote people by the material bounds and barriers of nature, united by the bond of a social and moral community--all the Commons of England resenting, as their own, the indignities and cruelties, that are offered to all the people of India. Do we want a tribunal? My Lords, no example of antiquity, nothing in the modern world, nothing in the range of human imagination, can supply us with a tribunal like this. My Lords, here we see virtually, in the mind's eye, that sacred majesty of the Crown, under whose authority you sit and whose power you exercise. We have here all the branches of the royal family, in a situation between majesty and subjection, between the sovereign and the subject--offering a pledge, in that situation, for the support of the rights of the Crown and the liberties of the people, both which extremities they touch. My Lords, we have a great hereditary peerage here; those who have their own honor, the honor of their ancestors, and of their posterity, to guard, and who will justify as they always have justified, that provision in the Constitution by which justice is made an hereditary office. My Lords, we have here a new nobility, who have risen, and exalted themselves by various merits, by great civil and military services, which have extended the fame of this country from the rising to the setting sun. My Lords, you have here, also, the lights of our religion; you have the bishops of England. My Lords, you have that true image of the primitive Church in its ancient form, in its ancient ordinances, purified from the superstitions and the vices which a long succession of ages will bring upon the best institutions. My Lords, these are the securities which we have in all the constituent parts of the body of this House. We know them, we reckon, we rest upon them, and commit safely the interests of India and of humanity into your hands. Therefore, it is with confidence, that, ordered by the Commons, I impeach Warren Hastings, Esquire, of high crimes and misdemeanors, I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great Britain, in Parliament assembled, whose parliamentary trust he has betrayed. I impeach him in the name of all the Commons of Great Britain, whose national character he has dishonored. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose laws, rights, and liberties he has subverted, whose property he has destroyed, whose country he has laid waste and desolate. I impeach him in the name, and by virtue of those eternal laws of Justice which he has violated. I impeach him in the name of human nature itself, which he has cruelly outraged, injured and oppressed, in both sexes, in every age, rank, situation and condition of life. E. Burke. CXLVII. PERORATION OF CLOSING SPEECH AGAINST HASTINGS. My Lords, at this awful close, in the name of the Commons, and surrounded by them, I attest the retiring, I attest the advancing generations between which, as a link in the great chain of eternal order, we stand.--We call this Nation, we call the world to witness, that the Commons have shrunk from no labor; that we have been guilty of no prevarication, that we have made no compromise with crime; that we have not feared any odium whatsoever, in the long warfare which we have carried on with the crimes--with the vices--with the exorbitant wealth--with the enormous and overpowering influence of Eastern corruption. My Lords, your House yet stands; it stands as a great edifice; but let me say, that it stands in ruins that have been made by the greatest moral earthquake that ever convulsed and shattered this globe of ours. My Lords, it has pleased Providence to place us in such a state that we appear every moment to be on the verge of some great mutations. There is one thing, and one thing only, which defies all mutation; that which existed before the world, and will survive the fabric of the world itself,--I mean justice; that justice which, emanating from the Divinity, has a place in the breast of every one of us, given us for our guide in regard to ourselves, and with regard to others, and which will stand, after this globe is burned to ashes, our advocate or our accuser before the great Judge, when He comes to call upon us for the tenor of a well-spent life. My Lords, the Commons will share in every fate with yon? Lordships; there is nothing sinister which can happen to you, in which we shall not be involved; and, if it should so happen, that we shall be subjected to some of those frightful changes which we have seen; if it should happen that your Lordships, stripped of all the decorous distinctions of human society, should, by hands at once base and cruel, be led to those scaffolds and machines of murder upon which great kings and glorious queens have shed their blood, amidst the prelates, amidst the nobles, amidst the magistrates, who supported their thrones,--may you in those moments feel that consolation which I am persuaded they felt in the critical moments of their dreadful agony! My Lords, there is a consolation, and a great consolation it is, which often happens to oppressed virtue and fallen dignity; it often happens that the very oppressors and persecutors themselves are forced to bear testimony in its favor. The Parliament of Paris had an origin very, very similar to that of the great court before which I stand; the Parliament of Paris continued to have a great resemblance to it in its Constitution, even to its fall; the Parliament of Paris, my Lords,--was; it is gone! It has passed away; it has vanished like a dream! It fell pierced by the sword of the Compte de Mirabeau. And yet that man, at the time of his inflicting the death-wound of that Parliament, produced at once the shortest and the grandest funeral oration that ever was or could be made upon the departure of a great court of magistracy. When he pronounced the death sentence upon that Parliament, and inflicted the mortal wound, he declared that his motives for doing it were merely political, and that their hands were as pure as those of justice itself, which they administered--a great and glorious exit, my Lords, of a great and glorious body! My Lords, if you must fall, may you so fall! But, if you stand, and stand I trust you will, together with the fortunes of this ancient monarchy--together with the ancient laws and liberties of this great and illustrious kingdom, may you stand as unimpeached in honor as in power; may you stand, not as a substitute for virtue, but as an ornament of virtue, as a security for virtue; may you stand long, and long stand the terror of tyrants; may you stand the refuge of afflicted Nations; may you stand a sacred temple, for the perpetual residence of an inviolable justice! E. Burke. CXLVIII. THE CRISIS OF THE NATION. Lay hold on this opportunity of our salvation, Conscript Fathers,--by the Immortal Gods I conjure you!--and remember that you are the foremost men here, in the council chamber of the whole earth. Give one sign to the Roman people that even as now they pledge their valor--so you pledge your wisdom to the crisis of the State. But what need that I exhort you? Is there one so insensate as not to understand that if we sleep over an occasion such as this, it is ours to bow our necks to a tyranny not proud and cruel only, but ignominious--but sinful? Do ye not know this Antony? Do ye not know his companions? Do ye not know his whole house--insolent--impure--gamesters--drunkards? To be slaves to such as he, to such as these, were it not the fullest measure of misery conjoined with the fullest measure of disgrace? If it be so--may the gods avert the omen--that the supreme hour of the republic has come, let us, the rulers of the world, rather fall with honor, than serve with infamy! Born to glory and to liberty, let us hold these bright distinctions fast, or let us greatly die! Be it, Romans, our first resolve to strike down the tyrant and the tyranny. Be it our second to endure all things for the honor and liberty of our country. To submit to infamy for the love of life can never come within the contemplation of a Roman soul! For you, the people of Rome--you whom the gods have appointed to rule the world--for you to own a master, is impious. You are in the last crisis of nations. To be free or to be slaves--that is the question of the hour. By every obligation of man or States it behooves you in this extremity to conquer-as your devotion to the gods and your concord among yourselves encourage you to hope--or to bear all things but slavery. Other nations may bend to servitude; the birthright and the distinction of the people of Rome is liberty. Cicero. CXLIX. EXTRACT FROM DEMOSTHENES. Yes, Athenians, I repeat it, you yourselves are the contrivers of your own ruin. Lives there a man who has confidence enough to deny it? Let him arise, and assign, if he can, any other cause of the success and prosperity of Philip. "But," you reply, "what Athens may have lost in reputation abroad, she has gained in splendor at home. Was there ever a greater appearance of prosperity? a greater face of plenty? Is not the city enlarged? Are not the streets better paved, houses repaired and beautified?" Away with such trifles! Shall I be paid with counters? An old square new vamped up! a fountain! an aqueduct! are these acquisitions to brag of? Cast your eye upon the magistrate under whose ministry you boast these precious improvements. Behold the despicable creature, raised all at once from dirt to opulence; from the lowest obscurity to the highest honors. Have not some of these upstarts built private houses and seats, vying with the most sumptuous of our public palaces? And how have their fortunes and their power increased, but as the commonwealth has been ruined and impoverished? To what are we to impute these disorders, and to what cause assign the decay of a State so powerful and flourishing in past times? The reason is plain. The servant is now become the master. The magistrate was then subservient to the people: all honors, dignities, and preferments, were disposed by the voice and favor of the people; but the magistrate, now, has usurped the right of the people, and exercises an arbitrary authority over his ancient and natural lord. You, miserable people! the meanwhile, without money, without friends,--from being the ruler, are become the servant; from being the master, the dependent: happy that these governors, into whose hands you have thus resigned your own power, are so good and so gracious as to continue your poor allowance to see plays. Believe me, Athenians, if, recovering from this lethargy, you would assume the ancient spirit and freedom of your fathers if you would be your own soldiers and own commanders, confiding no longer your affairs in foreign or mercenary hands--if you would charge yourselves with your own defense, employing abroad, for the public, what you waste in unprofitable pleasures at home, the world might once more behold you making a figure worthy of Athenians. "You would have us, then, (you say,) do service in our armies in our own persons; and, for so doing, you would have the pensions we receive in time of peace, accepted as pay in time of war. Is it thus we are to understand you?" Yes, Athenians, 't is my plain meaning. I would make it a standing rule, that no person, great or little, should be the better for the public money, who would grudge to employ it for the public service. Are we in peace? the public is charged with your subsistence. Are we in war, or under a necessity, as at this time, to enter into a war? let your gratitude oblige you to accept, as pay in defence of your benefactors, what you receive, in peace, as mere bounty. Thus, without any innovation--without altering or abolishing anything but pernicious novelties, introduced for the encouragement of sloth and idleness--by converting only for the future, the same funds, for the use of the serviceable, which are spent, at present, upon the unprofitable, you may be well served in your armies--your troops regularly paid--justice duly administered--the public revenues reformed and increased--and every member of the commonwealth rendered useful to his country according to his age and ability without any further burden to the State. This, O men of Athens, is what my duty prompted me to represent to you upon this occasion.--May the gods inspire you to determine upon such measures, as may be most expedient, for the particular and general good of our country! CL. EXTRACT FROM DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN. Athens never was once known to live in a slavish, though a secure obedience to unjust and arbitrary power. No; our whole history is one series of noble contests for preëminence; the whole period of our existence hath been spent in braving dangers, for the sake of glory and renown. And so highly do you esteem such conduct, so consonant to the Athenian character that those of your ancestors who were most distinguished in the pursuit of it, are ever the most favorite objects of your praise--and with reason. For who can reflect without astonishment upon the magnanimity of those men, who resigned their lands, gave up their city and embarked in their ships, to avoid the odious state of subjection?--who chose Themistocle, the adviser of this conduct, to command their forces and, when Cyrsilus proposed that they should yield to the terms prescribed, stoned him to death? Nay the public indignation was not yet allayed. Your very wives inflicted the same vengeance on his wife. For the Athenians of that day looked out for no speaker, no general to procure them a state of prosperous slavery. They had the spirit to reject even life, unless they were allowed to enjoy that life in freedom. Should I then attempt to assert that it was I who inspired you with sentiments worthy of your ancestors, I should meet the just resentment of every hearer. No; it is my point to show, that such sentiments are properly your own--that they were the sentiments of my country, long before my days. I claim but my share of merit, in having acted on such principles, in every part of my administration. He, then, who condemns every part of my administration, he who directs you to treat me with severity, as one who hath involved the State in terrors and dangers, while he labors to deprive me of present honor, robs you of the applause of all posterity. For, if you now pronounce, that, as my public conduct hath not been right, Ctesiphon must stand condemned it must be thought that you yourselves have acted wrong, not that you owe your present state to the caprice of fortune. But it cannot be! No, my countrymen! it cannot be you have acted wrong, in encountering danger bravely, for the liberty and the safety of all Greece. No! by those generous souls of ancient times, who were exposed at Marathon! By those who stood arrayed at Platæa! By those who encountered the Persian fleet at Salamis! Who fought at Artemisium! No! by all those illustrious sons of Athens, whose remains lie deposited in the public monuments. CLI. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The reign of Queen Elizabeth may be considered as the opening of the modern history of England, especially in its connection with the modern system of Europe, which began about that time to assume the form that it preserved till the French Revolution. It was a very memorable period, of which the maxims ought to be engraven on the head and heart of every Englishman. Philip the Second, at the head of the greatest empire then in the world openly was aiming at universal domination. To the most extensive and opulent dominions, the most numerous and disciplined armies, the most renowned captains, the greatest revenue, he added also the most formidable power over opinion. Elizabeth was among the first objects of his hostility. That wise and magnanimous princess placed herself in the front of the battle for the liberties of Europe. Though she had to contend at home with his fanatical faction, which almost occupied Ireland, which divided Scotland, and was not of contemptible strength in England, she aided the oppressed inhabitants of the Netherlands in their just and glorious resistance to his tyranny; she aided Henry the Great in suppressing the abominable rebellion which anarchical principles had excited and Spanish arms had supported in France, and after a long reign of various fortune, in which she preserved her unconquered spirit through great calamities and still greater dangers, she at length broke the strength of the enemy, and reduced his power within such limits as to be compatible with the safety of England and of all Europe. Her great heart inspired her with a higher and a nobler wisdom--which disdained to appeal to the low and sordid passions of her people even for the protection of their low and sordid interests, because she knew, or, rather, she felt that there are effeminate, creeping, cowardly, short-sighted passions, which shrink from conflict, even in defence of their own mean objects. In a righteous cause she roused those generous affections of her people, which alone teach boldness, constancy, and foresight, and which are therefore the only safe guardians of the lowest as well as the highest interests of a nation. In her memorable address to the army, when the invasion of her kingdom was threatened by Spain, this woman of heroic spirit disdained to speak to them of their ease and their commerce, and their wealth and their safety. No! She touched another chord--she spoke of their national honor, of their dignity as Englishmen, of "the foul scorn that Parma or Spain should dare to invade the borders of her realms." She breathed into them those grand and powerful sentiments, which exalt vulgar men into heroes which led them into the battle of their country armed with holy and irresistible enthusiasm; which ever cover with their shield all the ignoble interests that base calculation, and cowardly selfishness tremble to hazard, but shrink from defending. J. Mackintosh. CLII. THE FREE PRESS. Gentlemen, there is one point of view in which this case seems to merit your most serious attention. The real prosecutor is the master of the greatest empire the world ever saw; the defendant is a defenseless, proscribed exile. I consider this case, therefore, as the first of a long series of conflicts between the greatest power in the world and the only Free Press remaining in Europe. Gentlemen, this distinction of the English Press is new--it is a proud and melancholy distinction. Before the great earthquake of the French Revolution had swallowed up all the asylums of free discussion on the Continent, we enjoyed that privilege, indeed, more fully than others; but we did not enjoy it exclusively. It existed, in fact, where it was not protected by law; and the wise and generous connivance of governments was daily more and more secured by the growing civilization of their subjects. In Holland, in Switzerland, in the imperial towns of Germany, the press was either legally or practically free. Holland and Switzerland are no more; and, since the commencement of this prosecution, fifty imperial towns have been erased from the list of independent States by one dash of the pen. Three or four still preserve a precarious and trembling existence. I will not say by what compliances they must purchase its continuance. I will not insult the feebleness of States, whose unmerited fall I do most bitterly deplore. One asylum of free discussion is still inviolate. There is still one spot in Europe where man can fully exercise his reason on the most important concerns of society, where he can boldly publish his judgment on the acts of the proudest and most powerful tyrants. The Press of England is still free. It is guarded by the free Constitution of our forefathers. It is guarded by the hearts and arms of Englishmen; and, I trust I may venture to say that if it be to fall, it will fall only under the ruins of the British Empire. It is an awful consideration, gentlemen. Every other monument of European liberty has perished. That ancient fabric which has been gradually raised by the wisdom and virtues of our fathers still stands. It stands, thanks be to God! solid and entire--but it stands alone, and it stands amid ruins. Believing, then, as I do, that we are on the eve of a great struggle--that this is only the first of a long series of conflicts between reason and power that you have now in your hands committed to your trust, the protection of the only Free Press remaining in Europe, now confined to this kingdom; and addressing you therefore as the guardians of the most important interests of mankind--convinced that the unfettered exercise of reason depends more on your present verdict than on any other that was ever delivered by a jury,--I trust I may rely with confidence on the issue--I trust that you will consider yourselves as the advanced guard of Liberty--as having this day to fight the first battle of free discussion against the most formidable enemy that it ever encountered! J. Mackintosh. CLIII. THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. The liberty of the press, on general subjects, comprehends and implies as much strict observance of positive law as is consistent with perfect purity of intention, and equal and useful society. What that latitude is, cannot be promulgated in the abstract, but must be judged in the particular instance, and consequently, upon this occasion, must be judged of by you without forming any possible precedent for any other case. If gentlemen, you are firmly persuaded of the singleness and purity of the author's intentions, you are not bound to subject him to infamy, because in the zealous career of a just and animated composition, he happens to have tripped with his pen into an intemperate expression in one or two instances of a long work. If this severe duty were binding on your conscience, the liberty of the press would be an empty sound, and no man could venture to write on any subject, however pure his purpose, without an attorney at one elbow and a counsel at the other. From minds thus subdued by the terrors of punishment, there could issue no works of genius to expand the empire of human reason, nor any masterly compositions on the general nature of government, by the help of which the great commonwealths of mankind have founded their establishments; much less any of those useful applications of them to critical conjunctures, by which, from time to time, our own Constitution, by the exertion of patriot citizens, has been brought back to its standard. Under such terrors, all the great lights of science and civilization must be extinguished; for men cannot communicate their free thoughts to one another with a lash held over their heads. It is the nature of everything that is great and useful both in the animate and inanimate world, to be wild and irregular, and we must be contented to take them with the alloys which belong to them, or live without them. Genius breaks from the fetters of criticism, but its wanderings are sanctioned by its majesty and wisdom when it advances in its path: subject it to the critic, and you tame it into dulness. Mighty rivers break down their banks in the winter, sweeping away to death the flocks which are fattened on the soil that they fertilize in the summer: the few may be saved by embankments from drowning, but the flock must perish for hunger. Tempests occasionally shake our dwellings and dissipate our commerce; but they scourge before them the lazy elements, which without them would stagnate into pestilence. In like manner, Liberty herself, the last and best gift of God to his creatures, must be taken Just as she is: you might pare her down into bashful regularity, and shape her into a perfect model of severe, scrupulous law, but she would then be Liberty no longer; and you must be content to die under the lash of this inexorable justice which you had exchanged for the banners of Freedom. Lord Erskine. CLIV. BRITISH TYRANNY IN INDIA. I am driven in the defence of my client, to remark, that it is mad and preposterous to bring to the standard of justice and humanity the exercise of a dominion founded upon violence and terror. It may and must be true that Mr. Hastings has repeatedly offended against the rights and privileges of Asiatic government, if he was the faithful deputy of a power which could not maintain itself for an hour without trampling upon both. He may and must have offended against the laws of God and nature, if he was the faithful viceroy of an empire wrested in blood from the people to whom God and nature had given it. He may and must have preserved that unjust dominion over timorous and abject nations by a terrifying overbearing, insulting superiority, If he was the faithful administrator of your government, which, leaving no root in consent or affection no foundation in similarity of interests--no support from any one principle which cements men together in society, could only be upheld by alternate stratagem and force. The unhappy people of India, feeble and effeminate as they are from the softness of their climate, and subdued and broken as they have been by the knavery and strength of civilization, still occasionally start up in all the vigor and intelligence of insulted nature. To be governed at all, they must be governed with a rod of iron; and our empire in the East would, long since, have been lost to Great Britain, if civil skill and military prowess had not united their efforts to support an authority--which Heaven never gave--by means which it never can sanction. Gentlemen, I think I can observe that you are touched with this way of considering the subject, and I can account for it. I have not been considering it through the cold medium of books, but have been speaking of man and his nature, and of human dominion, from what I have seen of them myself among reluctant nations submitting to our authority. I know what they feel, and how such feelings can alone be repressed. I have heard them in my youth from a naked savage, in the indignant character of a prince surrounded by his subjects, addressing the Governor of a British colony, holding a bundle of sticks in his hand, as the notes of his unlettered eloquence. "Who is it," said the jealous ruler over the desert, encroached upon by the restless foot of English adventure--"who is it that causes this river to rise in the high mountains, and to empty itself into the ocean? Who is it that causes to blow the loud winds of winter, and that calms them again in summer? Who is it that rears up the shade of those lofty forests, and blasts them with the quick lightning at his pleasure? The same Being who gave to you a country on the other side of the waters, and gave ours to in; and by this title we will defend it," said the warrior, throwing down his tomahawk upon the ground, and raising the war-sound of his nation. These are the feelings of subjugated man all round the globe; and depend upon it, nothing but fear will control where it is vain to look for affection. If England, from a lust of ambition and dominion, will insist on maintaining despotic rule over distant and hostile nations, beyond all comparison more numerous and extended than herself, and gives commission to her viceroys to govern them with no other instructions than to preserve them, and to secure permanently their revenues, with what color of consistency or reason can she place herself in the moral chair, and affect to be shocked at the execution of her own orders; adverting to the exact measure of wickedness and injustice necessary to their execution, and, complaining only of the excess as the immorality, considering her authority as a dispensation for breaking the commands of God, and the breach of them as only punishable when contrary to the ordinances of man? Such a proceeding, gentlemen, begets serious reflection. It would be better, perhaps, for the masters and the servants of all such governments to join in supplication, that the great Author of violated humanity may not confound them together in one common judgment. Lord Erskine. CLV. DECLARATION OF RIGHT. I might as a constituent, come to your bar and demand my liberty. I do call upon you by the laws of the land, and their violation; by the instructions of eighteen counties; by the arms, inspiration, and providence of the present moment--tell us the rule by which we shall go; assert the law of Ireland; declare the liberty of the land! I will not be answered by a public lie, in the shape of an amendment; nor, speaking for the subjects' freedom, am I to hear of faction. I wish for nothing but to breathe in this our island, in common with my fellow-subjects, the air of liberty. I have no ambition, unless it be to break your chain and contemplate your glory. I never will be satisfied so long as the meanest cottager in Ireland has a link of the British chain clanking to his rags. He may be naked,--he shall not be in irons. And I do see the time at hand; the spirit is gone forth; the Declaration of Right is planted; and though great men should fall off, yet the cause shall live; and though he who utters this should die, yet the immortal fire shall outlast the humble organ who conveys it, and the breath of liberty, like the word of the holy man will not die with the prophet, but survive him. H. Grattan. CLVI. POLITICS AND RELIGION. That religion has, in fact, nothing to do with the politics of many who profess it, is a melancholy truth. But that it has of right, no concern with political transactions, is quite a new discovery. If such opinions, however, prevail, there is no longer any mystery in the character of those whose conduct in political matters violates every precept and slanders every principle of the religion of Christ. But what is politics? Is it not the science and the exercise of civil rights and civil duties? And what is religion? Is it not an obligation to the service of God, founded on his authority, and extending to all our relations, personal and social? Yet religion has nothing to do with politics? Where did you learn this maxim? The Bible is full of directions for your behavior as citizens. It is plain, pointed; awful in its injunctions on ruler and ruled as such: yet religion has nothing to do with politics! You are commanded "in all your ways to acknowledge Him." In everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, to let your requests be made known unto God "And whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, to do all in the name of the Lord Jesus." Yet religion has nothing to do with politics! Most astonishing! And is there any part of your conduct in which you are, or wish to be, without law to God, and not under the law of Jesus Christ? Can you persuade yourselves that political men and measures are to undergo no review in the judgment to come? That all the passion and violence, the fraud and falsehood and corruption, which pervade the system of party, and burst out like a flood at the public elections, are to be blotted from the catalogue of unchristian deeds, because they are politics? Or that a minister of the gospel may see his people, in their political career, bid defiance to their God in breaking through every moral restraint, and keep a guiltless silence, because religion has nothing to do with politics? I forbear to press the argument farther; observing only that many of our difficulties and sins may be traced to this pernicious notion. Yes, if our religion had had more to do with our politics; if, in the pride of our citizenship, we had not forgotten our Christianity; if we had prayed more and wrangled less about the affairs of our country, it would have been infinitely better for us at this day J. M. Mason STANDARD SELECTIONS. POETRY CLVII. THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming-- Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming! And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O say, does that Star-spangled Banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses! Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream: 'T is the Star-spangled Banner!--O long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! And where are the foes who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood hath washed out their foul footsteps' pollution! No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave; And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! O, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blessed with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a Nation Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto--"In God is our trust;" And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! F. S. Key. CLVIII. ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH Higher, higher, will we climb, Up the mount of glory, That our names may live through time In our country's story; Happy, when her welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls. Deeper, deeper, let us toil, In the mines of knowledge; Nature's wealth, and learning's spoil, Win from school and college; Delve we then for richer gems Than the stars of diadems. Onward, onward, may we press Through the path of duty; Virtue is true happiness, Excellence true beauty. Minds are of celestial birth; Make we then a heaven of earth. Closer, closer, let us knit Hearts and hands together, Where our fireside comforts sit, In the wildest weather; O! they wander wide who roam For the joys of life from home! J. Montgomery. CLIX. THE L0VE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME. There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons imparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth. The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every clime, the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of Nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While, in his softened looks, benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life! In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? Art thou a man?--a patriot?--look around; O! thou shalt find, however thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home! J. Montgomery. CLX. THE BELLS Hear the sledges with the bells-- Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that over sprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells-- Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, All in time, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! O, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells, How it dwells On the future! how it tells Of rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells-- Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of time, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor, Now--now to sit, or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. O, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-- Of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells-- Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people--ah, the people-- They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute nor human They are Ghouls; And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells with the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells-- Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells-- To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells; To the tolling of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells; Bells, bells, bells-- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells! E. A. Poe. CLXI. THE RAVEN. Once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-- While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- Only this, and nothing more." Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow; From my books, surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore-- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore-- Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or madam truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door;-- Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- 'T is the wind, and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore: Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,-- Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,-- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly shore-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door-- With such a name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-- On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore-- Of 'Nevermore'--'Nevermore'" But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking, "Nevermore." Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen Censor, Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aiden, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from of my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, And the lamp-light, o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor-- Shall be lifted--nevermore! E. A. Poe. CLXII. SPIRIT OF PATRIOTISM. Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,-- "This is my own,--my native land!" Whose heart hath never within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go mark him well,-- For him,--no minstrel raptures swell! High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored and unsung! Sir W. Scott. CLXIII. LOCHINVAR. Young Lochinvar is come out of the West! Through all the wide Border his steed is the best; And save his good broadsword he weapon had none;-- He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar! He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;-- But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented--the gallant came late; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar! So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among tribesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all. Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword-- For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word-- "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?-- Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" "I long wooed your daughter;--my suit you denied: Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide! And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure--drink one cup of wine. There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!" The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up-- He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup! She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,-- With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar;-- "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lively her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace! While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bridemaidens whispered, "'T were better, by far, To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!" One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear-- When they reached the hall door, where the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung!-- "She is won!--we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" cried young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie lea! But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see!-- So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar! Sir W. Scott. CLXIV. MARMION TAKING LEAVE OF DOUGLAS. The train from out the castle drew; But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:-- "Though something I might plain," he said, "Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your king's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,-- Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble earl, receive my hand." But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:-- "My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still Be open, at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation-stone;-- The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp!" Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And--"This to me!" he said,-- "An 't were not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, Haughty peer, He who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate! And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, E'en in thy pitch of pride, Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near-- (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee, thou'rt defied! And if thou said'st I am not a peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!" On the earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth: "And darest thou, then, To beard the lion in his den,-- The Douglas in his hall? And hopest thou hence unscathed to go? No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!-- Up drawbridge, grooms! what, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall." Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need,-- And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous gate behind him rung: To pass, there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume. The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise; Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim: And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, A shout of loud defiance pours, And shakes his gauntlet at the towers! Sir W. Scott. CLXV. HIGHLAND WAR-SONG. Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, hark to the summons! Come in your war-array, gentles and commons. Come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlocky. Come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one. Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes. Come as the winds come, when forests are rended, Come as the waves come, when navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master. Fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the onset! Sir W. Scott. CLXVI. DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. The king stood still Till the last echo died; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe:-- "Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom! "Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "But death is on thee; I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;-- But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom! "And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee. Absalom! "And now, farewell! 'T is hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!-- And thy dark skin!--oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy Absalom!" He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively as if in prayer; And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently--and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. N. P. Willis. CLXVII. "LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE." Look not upon the wine when it Is red within the cup! Stay not for pleasure when she fills Her tempting beaker up! Though clear its depths, and rich its glow, A spell of madness lurks below. They say 't is pleasant on the lip, And merry on the brain; They say it stirs the sluggish blood, And dulls the tooth of pain. Ay--but within its glowing deeps A stinging serpent, unseen, sleeps. Its rosy lights will turn to fire, Its coolness change to thirst; And, by its mirth, within the brain A sleepless worm is nursed. There's not a bubble at the brim That does not carry food for him. Then dash the brimming cup aside, And spill its purple wine; Take not its madness to thy lip-- Let not its curse be thine. 'T is red and rich but grief and woe Are in those rosy depths below. N. P. Willis. CLXVIII. THE LEPER. Day was breaking, When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense lamp Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof, Like an articulate wail; and there, alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb, And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom:-- "Depart! depart, O child Of Israel, from the temple of thy God! For He has smote thee with His chastening rod, And to the desert-wild, From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, That from thy plague His people may be free. "Depart! and come not near The busy mart, the crowded city, more; Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er. And stay thou not to hear Voices that call thee in the way; and fly From all who in the wilderness pass by. "Wet not thy burning lip In streams that to a human dwelling glide; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide; Nor kneel thee down to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well, or river's grassy brink. "And pass not thou between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze; And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen; Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. "And now depart! and when Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him, Who, from the tribes of men, Selected thee to feel His chastening rod-- Depart! O leper! and forget not God!" And he went forth--alone! not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart Breaking within him now, to come and speak Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way, Sick and heart-broken, and alone--to die! For God had cursed the leper! It was noon, And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched The loathsome water to his fevered lips, Praying he might be so blest--to die! Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee, He drew the covering closer on his lip, Crying, "Unclean!--unclean!" and in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name-- "Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone Of a rich instrument--most strangely sweet; And the dull pulses of disease awoke, And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. "Helon arise!" And he forgot his curse, And rose and stood before him. Love and awe Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye, As he beheld the Stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on His brow The symbol of a lofty lineage wore; No followers at His back, nor in His hand Buckler, or sword, or spear--yet in His mien Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, A kingly condescension graced His lips, The lion would have crouched to in his lair. His garb was simple, and His sandals worn; His statue modelled with a perfect grace; His countenance, the impress of a God, Touched with the open innocence of a child; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon; His hair, unshorn, Fell to His shoulders; and His curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, As if His heart was moved; and stooping down, He took a little water in His hand And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!" And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshiped him. N. P. Willis. CLXLX. PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE. The golden light into the painter's room Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth, And in the soft and dewy atmosphere, Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus-- The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth With its far-reaching fancy, and with form And color clad them, hiss fine earnest eye Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of His thin nostril, and his quivering lip Were like the wingéd god's, breathing from his fight "Bring me the captive, now! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift, And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens--around me play Colors of such divinity to-day. "Ha! bind him on his back! Look!--as Prometheus in my picture here! Quick!--or he faints!--stand with the cordial near! Now--bend him on the rack! Press down the poisoned links into his flesh! And tear agape that healing wound afresh! "So,--let him writhe! How long Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! What a fine agony works upon his brow! Ha! gray-haired and so strong! How fearfully he stifles that short moan! Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan! "'Pity' thee! So I do! I pity the dumb victim at the altar-- But does the robed priest for his pity falter? I'd rack thee, though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine-- What were ten thousand to a fame like mine? "But, there's a deathless name! A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn-- And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone-- By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on! "Ay--though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-- Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first-- Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, And taunt its mother till my brain went wild-- "All--I would do it all-- Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot-- Thrust foully into earth to be forgot! O heavens!--but I appall Your heart, old man!--forgive--ha! on your lives Let him not faint! rack him till he revives! "Vain--vain--give o'er. His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now-- Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow! Gods! if he do not die, But for one moment--one--till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips! "Shivering! Hark! he mutters Brokenly now--that was a difficult breath-- Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death? Look! how his temple flutters! Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! He shudders--gasps--Jove help him--so--he's dead." How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought, And enthrones peace forever. Putting on The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns The heart to ashes, and with not a spring Left in the bosom for the spirit's life, We look upon our splendor, and forget The thirst of which we perish! Oh, if earth be all, and heaven nothing, What thrice mocked fools are we! N. P. Willis. CLXX. CASABIANCA. The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. The flames rolled on. He would not go Without his father's word; That father faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud: "say, father, say If yet my task is done!" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. "Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair; And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child Like banners in the sky. Then came a burst of thunder sound-- The boy--oh! where was he! Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea, With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young faithful heart! Mrs. Hemans. CLXXI. THE BENDED BOW. There was heard the sound of a coming foe, There was sent through Britain a bended bow; And a voice was poured on the free winds far, As the land rose up at the sound of war: Heard ye not the battle horn? Reaper! leave thy golden corn! Leave it for the birds of heaven; Swords must flash, and spears be riven: Leave it for the winds to shed,-- Arm! ere Britain's turf grows red! And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on. Hunter! leave the mountain chase! Take the falchion from its place! Let the wolf go free to-day; Leave him for a nobler prey! Let the deer ungalled sweep by,-- Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh! And the hunter armed, ere the chase was done; And the bended bow and the voice passed on. Chieftain! quit the joyous feast! Stay not till the song hath ceased: Though the mead be foaming bright, Though the fire gives ruddy light, Leave the hearth and leave the hall,-- Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall! And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown; And the bended bow and the voice passed on. Prince! thy father's deeds are told In the bower and in the hold, Where the goatherd's lay is sung, Where the minstrel's harp is strung! Foes are on thy native sea,-- Give our bards a tale of thee! And the prince came armed, like a leader's son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on. Mother! stay thou not thy boy! He must learn the battle's joy. Sister! bring the sword and spear, Give thy brother words of cheer! Maiden! bid thy lover part; Britain calls the strong in heart! And the bended bow and the voice passed on; And the bards made song of a battle won. Mrs. Hemans. CLXXII. THE BETTER LAND. "I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! O where is that radiant shore?-- Shall we not seek it and weep no more?-- Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance thro' the myrtle boughs?" --"Not there, not there, my child!" "Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?" --"Not there, not there, my child!" "Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?-- Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?" Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?" --"Not there, not there, my child!" "Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-- Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, --It is there, it is there, my child" Mrs. Hemans. CLXXIII. LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woads against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of Exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear;-- They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea! And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free! The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared;-- This was their welcome home! There were men with hoary hair Amidst that Pilgrim band; Why have they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow, serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus, afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? --They sought a faith's pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found-- Freedom to worship God! Mrs. Hemans. CLXXIV BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire;-- "I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--O! break my father's chain!" --"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day! Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way." Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, With one that 'midst them stately rode, as leader in the land: "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went; He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took-- What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? That hand was cold--a frozen thing--it dropped from his like lead! He looked up to the face above,--the face was of the dead! A plume waved o'er the noble brow,--the brow was fixed and white: He met at last, his father's eyes,--but in them was no light! Up from the ground he sprang and gazed,--but who could paint that gaze? They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze;-- They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood; For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. "Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then: Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! He thought on all his hopes, and all his young renown,-- He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,-- "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for, now; My king is false,--my hope betrayed! My father--O! the worth, The glory, and the loveliness are passed away from earth! "I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet! I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then;--for thee my fields were won; And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!" Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train; And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led And sternly set them face to face--the king before the dead:-- "Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?-- Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought,--give answer, where are they? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay! "Into these glassy eyes put light;--be still! keep down thine ire!-- Bid these white lips a blessing speak,--this earth is not my sire: Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed!-- Thou canst not?--and a king!--his dust be mountains on thy head" He loosed the steed,--his slack hand fell;--upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place: His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain:-- His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain. Mrs. Hemans. CLXXV. BERNARDO AND KING ALPHONSO. With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appeared, Before them all in the palace hall, The lying king to beard; With cap in hand and eye on ground, He came in reverend guise, But ever and anon he frowned, And flame broke from his eyes. "A curse upon thee," cries the king, "Who com'st unbid to me! But what from traitor's blood should spring, Save traitor like to thee? His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart,-- Perchance our champion brave May think it were a pious part To share Don Sancho's grave." --"Whoever told this tale, The king hath rashness to repeat," Cries Bernard, "here my gage I fling Before the liar's feet! No treason was in Sancho's blood-- No stain in mine doth lie: Below the throne what knight will own The coward calumny? "The blood that I like water shed, When Roland did advance, By secret traitors hired and led, To make us slaves of France; The life of king Alphonso I saved at Roncesval-- Your words, Lord King, are recompense Abundant for it all. "Your horse was down--your hope was flown-- I saw the falchion shine That soon had drunk your royal blood, Had I not ventured mine; But memory soon of service done Deserteth the ingrate; You've thanked the son for life and crown By the father's bloody fate. "Ye swore upon your kingly faith To set Don Sancho free; But, curse upon your paltering breath! The light he never did see; He died in dungeon cold and dim, By Alphonso's base decree; And visage blind and stiffened limb, Were all they gave to me. "The king that swerveth from his word, Hath stained his purple black; No Spanish lord will draw his sword Behind a liar's back; But noble vengeance shall be mine, And open hate I'll show-- The king hath injured Carpio's line, And Bernard is his foe!" --"Seize, seize him!" loud the King doth scream; "There are a thousand here! Let his foul blood this instant stream;-- What! caitiffs, do ye fear? Seize, seize the traitor!" But not one To move a finger dareth; Bernardo standeth by the throne, And calm his sword he bareth. He drew the falchion from the sheath, And held it up on high; And all the hall was still as death;-- Cries Bernard, "Here am I-- And here's the sword that owns no lord, Excepting Heaven and me; Fain would I know who dares its point,-- King, Condé or Grandee." Then to his mouth his horn he drew-- It hung below his cloak-- His ten true men the signal knew, And through the ring they broke; With helm on head, and blade in hand, The knights the circle break, And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, And the false king to quake. "Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "What means this warlike guise? Ye know full well I jested-- Ye know your worth I prize!" But Bernard turned upon his heel, And, smiling, passed away:-- Long rued Alphonso and his realm The jesting of that day! J. G. Lockhart. CLXXVI. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. One more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly Young, and so fair! Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing: Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully Gentle and humanly; Not of the stains of her-- All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; While wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful Near a whole city full Home she had none! Sisterly, brotherly Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. When the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood with amazement Houseless by night. The bleak winds of March Made her tremble and shiver But not the dark arch, Of the black flowing river. Mad from life's history Glad to death's mystery Swift to be hurled-- Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world-- In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran. Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly Young, and so fair! Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, smooth, and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity, Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest. --Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, Over her breast! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour! T. Hood. CLXXVII. SONG OF THE SHIRT. With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread,-- Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the "Song of the Shirt." "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work,--work,--work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's, oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! "Work,--work,--work! Till the brain begins to swim, Work,--work,--work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! "Oh! men, with sisters dear! Oh! men with mothers and wives! --It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch,--stitch,--stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt. "But why do I talk of death, That Phantom of grizzly bone? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own; It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! "Work,--work,--work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread,--and rags.-- That shattered roof,--and this naked floor,-- A table,--a broken chair,-- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! "Work,--work,--work! From weary chime to chime! Work,--work,--work, As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. "Work,--work,--work, In the dull December light, And work,--work,--work, When the weather is warm and bright; While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the Spring. "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweets-- With the sky above my head And the grass beneath my feet; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal! "Oh! for but one short hour, A respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart; But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!" With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread-- Stitch!--stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,-- Would that its song could reach the rich!-- She sang this "Song of the Shirt." T. Hood. CLXXVIII. LOOK ALOFT. In the tempest of life, when the waves and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, "Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If thy friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe, Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed, "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the visions which hope spreads in light to the eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest,--the son of thy heart, The wife of thy bosom,--in sorrow depart, "Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb, To that soil where affection is ever to bloom. And, oh! when Death comes in his terror to cast His fears on the future, his pall on the past, In that moment of darkness with hope in thy heart, And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft"--and depart. J. Lawrence. CLXXIX. PRESS ON. Press on! there's no such word as fail! Press nobly on! the goal is near,-- Ascend the mountain! breast the gale! Look upward, onward,--never fear! Why should'st thou faint? Heaven smiles above, Though storm and vapor intervene; That sun shines on, whose name is Love, Serenely o'er Life's shadowed scene. Press on! surmount the rocky steeps, Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch; He fails alone who feebly creeps; He wins who dares the hero's march. Be thou a hero! let thy might Tramp on eternal snows its way, And, through the ebon wails of night Hew down a passage unto day. Press on! if once and twice thy feet Slip back and stumble, harder try; From him who never dreads to meet Danger and death, they're sure to fly. To coward ranks the bullet speeds, While on their breasts, who never quail, Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds, Bright courage, like a coat of mail. Press on! if Fortune play thee false To-day, to-morrow she'll be true; Whom now she sinks, she now exalts Taking old gifts, and granting new. The wisdom of the present hour Makes up for follies past and gone;-- To weakness strength succeeds, and power From frailty springs,--press on! press on! Press bravely on! and reach the goal, And gain the prize, and wear the crown; Faint not! for to the steadfast soul Come wealth, and honor, and renown. To thine own self be true, and keep Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil; Press on! and thou shalt surely reap A heavenly harvest for thy toil. P. Benjamin. CLXXX. KINDNESS. The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter Have their own season. 'T is a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when sectarian juice renews the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort which by daily use Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear Of him who thought to die unmourned 't will fall Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand To know the bonds of fellowship again; And shed on the departing soul a sense More precious than the benison of friends About the honored death-bed of the rich, To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near and feels. Sergeant Talfourd. CLXXXI. HOW'S MY BOY? Ho, sailor of the sea! How 's my boy--my boy? "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?" My boy John-- He that went to sea-- What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. You come back from sea And not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. How's my boy--my boy? And unless you let me know I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Brass button or no, sailor, Anchor or crown or no! Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton-- "Speak low, woman, speak low!" And why should I speak low, sailor? About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'll sing him over the town! Why should I speak low, sailor?-- "That good ship went down." How 's my boy--my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor, I never was aboard her. Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound, Her owners can afford her! I say how's my John?-- "Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." How's my boy--my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother-- How's my boy--my boy? Tell me of him and no other! How's my boy--my boy? S. Dobell. CLXXXII. EXCELSIOR. The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, "Excelsior!" His brow was sad; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath; And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue! "Excelsior!" In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright: Above, the spectral glaciers shone; And from his lips escaped a groan, "Excelsior!" "Try not the pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead. The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, "Excelsior!" "O, stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!"-- A tear stood in his bright blue eye; But still he answered with a sigh, "Excelsior!" "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!" This was the peasant's last good night;-- A voice replied, far up the height, "Excelsior!" At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered their oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, "Excelsior!" A traveller,--by the faithful hound, Half buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, "Excelsior!" There, in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless but beautiful he lay; And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star,-- "Excelsior!" H. W. Longfellow. CLXXXIII. A PSALM OF LIFE. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us further than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting; And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;-- Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. H. W. Longfellow. CLXXXIV. THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. All is finished, and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendors dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old, Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest; And far and wide With ceaseless flow His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast. He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay, In honor of her marriage-day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The bride of the gray old sea. Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, knocking away the shores and spurs. And see! she stirs! She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms. And lo! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the ocean seemed to say, "Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray; Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms." How beautiful she is! how fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care! Sail forth into the sea, O ship! Through wind and wave, right onward steer! The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear. Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity, Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be! For gentleness, and love, and trust, Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives! Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity, with all its fears, With all its hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What workman wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge, and what a heat, Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. Fear not each sudden sound and shock; 'T is of the wave, and not the rock; 'T is but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale. In spite of rock and tempest roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee: Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee--are all with thee. H. W. Longfellow. CLXXXV. THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. Forced from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn; To increase a stranger's treasures, O'er the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold; But though slave they have enrolled me, Minds are never to be sold. Still in thought as free as ever, What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever, Me to torture, me to task? Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit Nature's claim; Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards; Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords. Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Is there One who reigns on high? Has He bid you buy and sell us, Speaking from His throne, the sky? Ask Him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges Agents of His will to use? Hark! He answers,--wild tornadoes, Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which He speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations Afric's sons should undergo, Fixed their tyrants' habitation Where his whirlwinds answer--No. By our blood in Afric wasted, Ere our necks received the chain; By the miseries that we tasted, Crossing in your barks the main; By our suffering since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart; All, sustained by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart. Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the color of our kind. Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours. W. Cowper. CLXXXVI. LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. Toll for the brave! the brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, and laid her on her side. A laud-breeze shook the shrouds, and she was overset; Down went the Royal George, with all her crew complete! Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought his work of glory done. It was not in the battle; no tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; she ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath, his fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down, with twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, once dreaded by our foes, And mingle with our cup the tear that England owes! Her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, and plow the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred shall plow the waves no more. W. Cowper. CXXXVII. SLAVERY. O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more. My ear is pained, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is filled. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is severed as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colored like his own; and having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause, Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews, bought and sold, has ever earned. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home--then why abroad? And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire; that, where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. W. Cowper. CLXXXVIII. THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY. Blaze with your serried columns! I will not bend the knee! The shackles ne'er again shall bind The arm which now is free. I've mailed it with the thunder, When the tempest muttered low; And where it falls, ye well may dread The lightning of its blow! I've scared ye in the city, I've scalped ye on the plain; Go, count your chosen, where they fell Beneath my leaden rain! I scorn your proffered treaty! The pale-face I defy! Revenge is stamped upon my spear, And blood my battle-cry! Ye've trailed me through the forest, Ye've tracked me o'er the stream; And struggling through the everglade, Your bristling bayonets gleam; But I stand as should the warrior, With his rifle and his spear;-- The scalp of vengeance still is red, And warns ye,--Come not here! I loathe ye in my bosom, I scorn ye with my eye, And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath, And fight ye till I die! I never will ask ye quarter, And I never will be your slave; But I'll swim the sea of slaughter, Till I sink beneath the wave! G. W. Patten. CLXXXIX. THE THREE BEATS. Roll--roll!--How gladly swell the distant notes From where, on high, yon starry pennon floats! Roll--roll!--On, gorgeously they come, With plumes low-stooping, on their winding way, With lances gleaming in the sun's bright ray:-- "What do ye here, my merry comrades,--say?"-- "We beat the gathering drum; 'T is this which gives to mirth a lighter tone, To the young soldier's cheek a deeper glow, When stretched upon his grassy couch, alone, It steals upon his ear,--this martial call Prompts him to dreams of gorgeous war, with all "Its pageantry and show!" Roll--roll!--"What is it that ye beat?" "We sound the charge!--On with the courser fleet!-- Where 'mid the columns, red war's eagles fly, We swear to do or die!-- 'T is this which feeds the fires of Fame with breath, Which steels the soldier's heart to deeds of death; And when his hand, Fatigued with slaughter, pauses o'er the slain, 'T is this which prompts him madly once again To seize the bloody brand!" Roll--roll!--"Brothers, what do ye here, Slowly and sadly as ye pass along, With your dull march and low funereal song?" "Comrade! we bear a bier! I saw him fall! And, as he lay beneath his steed, one thought, (Strange how the mind such fancy should have wrought!) That, had he died beneath his native skies, Perchance some gentle bride had closed his eyes And wept beside his pall!" G. W. Patten. CXC. THE BATTLE OF IVRY. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war! Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre! O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League draw out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry and Egmont's Flemish spears! There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The King has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his People, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our lord, the King!" "And if my standard-bearer fall,--as fall full well he may, For never saw! promise yet of such a bloody fray,-- Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies now, upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest, And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein, D'Aumale hath cried for quarter--the Flemish Count is slain; Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The fields are heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van "Remember Saint Bartholomew!" was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, then--"No Frenchman is my foe; Down, down with every foreigner! but let your brethren go." O! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre! Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne! Weep, weep and rend your hair for those who never shall return! Ho! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright! Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night! For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre! T. B. Macaulay. CXCI. THE SOLDIER FROM BINGEN. A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers. There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. and 'midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; But some were young--and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; And one had come from Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine! "Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, and I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate're they would, but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen--calm Bingen on the Rhine! "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen--dear Bingen on the Rhine! "There's another--not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry,--too fond for idle scorning,-- Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain--my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine! "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk And her little hand lay lightly! confidingly in mine: But we'll meet no more at Bingen--loved Bingen on the Rhine!" His voice grew faint and hoarser,--his grasp was childish weak,-- His eyes put on a dying look--he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-- The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land--was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strewn; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine! Mrs Norton. CXCII. "GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER." Give me three grains of corn, mother, Only three grains of corn; It will keep the little life I have, Till the coming of the morn. I am dying of hunger and cold, mother, Dying of hunger and cold, And half the agony of such a death My lips have never told. It has gnawed like a wolf at my heart, mother, A wolf that is fierce for blood,-- All the livelong day, and the night beside, Gnawing for lack of food. I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, And the sight was heaven to see,-- I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, But you had no bread for me. How could I look to you, mother, How could I look to you, For bread to give to your starving boy, When you were starving too? For I read the famine in your cheek, And in your eye so wild, And I felt it in your bony hand, As you laid it on your child. The queen has lands and gold, mother, The queen has lands and gold, While you are forced to your empty breast A skeleton babe to hold,-- A babe that is dying of want, mother, As I am dying now, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, And famine upon its brow. What has poor Ireland done, mother, What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve, Perishing, one by one? Do the men of England care not, mother, The great men and the high, For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, Whether they live or die? There is many a brave heart here, mother, Dying of want and cold, While only across the channel, mother, Are many that roll in gold; There are rich and proud men there, mother, With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night, Would give life to me and you. Come nearer to my side, mother, Come nearer to my side, And hold me fondly, as you held My father when he died; Quick, for I cannot see you, mother; My breath is almost gone; Mother! dear mother! ere! die, Give me three grains of corn. Miss Edwards. CXCIII. TELL'S APOSTROPHE TO LIBERTY. Once more I breathe the mountain air; once more I tread my own free hills! My lofty soul Throws all its fetters off; in its proud flight, 'T is like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon-- With eye undazzled. O! ye mighty race That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guard My own proud land; why did ye not hurl down The thundering avalanche, when at your feet The base usurper stood? A touch, a breath, Nay, even the breath of prayer, ere now, has brought Destruction on the hunter's head; and yet The tyrant passed in safety. God of heaven! Where slept thy thunderbolts? O LIBERTY! Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which Life is as nothing; hast thou then forgot Thy native home? Must the feet of slaves Pollute this glorious scene? It cannot be. Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom In spots where man has never dared to tread; So thy sweet influence still is seen amid These beetling cliffs. Some hearts still beat for thee, And bow alone to Heaven; thy spirit lives, Ay,--and shall live, when even the very name Of tyrant is forgot. Lo! while I gaze Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow, The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes A crown of glory on his hoary head; O! is not this a presage of the dawn Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, bright And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus, I vow To live for Freedom, or with her to die! O! with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God And bless Him that it was so. It was free,-- From end to end, from cliff to lake 't was free,-- Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks, And plow our valleys, without asking leave; Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow, In very presence of the regal sun! How happy was I in it then! I loved Its very storms! Yes, I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from His cloud, and smiled To see Him shake His lightnings o'er my head, And think! had no master save His own! Ye know the jutting cliff; round which a track Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow To such another one, with scanty room For two abreast to pass? Overtaken there By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along, And while gust followed gust more furiously, As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wished me there,--the thought that mine was free, Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, Blow on! This is THE LAND of LIBERTY! J. S. Knowles. CXCIV. WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. Ye crags and peaks: I'm with you once again! I hold to you the hands ye first beheld, To show they still are free. Methinks I hear A spirit in your echoes answer me, And bid your tenant welcome to his home Again!--O sacred forms, how proud you look! How high you lift your heads into the sky! How huge you are! how mighty, and how free! Ye are the things that tower, that shine,--whose smile Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms, Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty, I'm with you once again!--I call to you With all my voice!--I hold my hands to you, To show they still are free. I rush to you As though I could embrace you! --Scaling yonder peak, I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow O'er the abyss;--his broad-expanded wings Lay calm and motionless upon the air, As if he floated there without their aid, By the sole act of his unlorded will, That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively I bent my brow; yet kept he rounding still His airy circle, as in the delight Of measuring the ample range beneath And round about; absorbed, he heeded not The death that threatened him. I could not shoot!-- 'T was Liberty! I turned my bow aside, And let him soar away! J. S. Knowles. CXCV. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last, strong agony, a dying warrior lay,-- The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. "They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er, That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege lord and master born, that I--ha! ha! must die. "And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear; Think ye he's entered at my gate--has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot;-- I'll try his might, I'll brave his power!--defy--and fear him not! "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin; Bid each retainer arm with speed; call every vassal in. Up with my banner on the wall,--the banquet board prepare,-- Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there!" An hundred hands were busy then; the banquet forth was spread, And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread; While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, Lights gleamed on harness, plume and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured, On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board; While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state, Armed cap-à-pie, stern Rudiger, with gilded falchion, sat. "Fill every beaker up, my men! pour forth the cheering wine! There 's life and strength in every drop,--thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, my vassals true?--mine eyes are waxing dim: Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim! "Ye're there, but yet I see you not!--forth draw each trusty sword, And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board! I hear it faintly!--louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath? Up, all!--and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto death!'" Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a, deafening cry, That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high: "Ho! cravens! Do ye fear him? Slaves! traitors! have ye flown? Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone? "But I defy him!--let him come!" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half-way up; And with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, There in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat--dead! A. G. Greene. CXCVI. THE WATER DRINKER. O, water for me! Bright water for me, And wine for the tremulous debauchee. Water cooleth the brow, and cooleth the brain, And maketh the faint one strong again; It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea, All freshness, like infant purity; O, water, bright water, for me, for me! Give wine, give wine, to the debauchee! Fill to the brim! fill, fill to the brim; Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim! For my hand is steady, my eye is true, For I, like the flowers, drink nothing but dew. O, water, bright water's a mine of wealth, And the ores which it yieldeth are vigor and health. So water, pure water, for one, for me! And wine for the tremulous debauchee. Fill again to the brim, again to the brim! For water strengtheneth life and limb! To the days of the aged it addeth length, To the might of the strong it addeth strength; It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight, 'T is like quaffing a goblet of morning light! So, water, I will drink nothing but thee, Thou parent of health and energy! When over the hills, like a gladsome bride, Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride, And, leading a band of laughing hours, Brushes the dew from the nodding flowers, O! cheerily then my voice is heard Mingling with that of the soaring bird, Who flingeth abroad his matin loud As he freshens his wing in the cold, gray cloud. But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew, Drowsily flying, and weaving anew Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea, How gently, O sleep, fall thy poppies on me! For I drink water, pure, cold, and bright, And my dreams are of heaven the livelong night. So hurrah for thee, water! hurrah! hurrah! Thou art silver and gold, thou art ribbon and star, Hurrah for bright water! hurrah! hurrah! E. Johnson. CXCVII. CHAMOUNI. Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! Riseth from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As will a wedge. But, when I look again, It is thine own calm home thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought; entranced in prayer, I worshiped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody,-- So sweet we know not we are listening to it,-- Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing--there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven. Awake, my soul! Not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and silent ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs! all join my hymn. Thou, first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! O, struggling with the darkness of the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink,-- Companion of the morning star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald--wake! O wake! and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jaggéd rocks, Forever shattered, and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam? And who commanded,--and the silence came,-- "Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest"? Ye ice-falls! ye, that from the mountain's brow, Adown enormous ravines slope amain,-- Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? "God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer: and let the ice-plains echo, "God!" "God!" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And, in their perilous fall, shall thunder, "God!" Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth "God!" and fill the hills with praise! Once more, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depths of clouds, that veil thy breast-- Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,-- Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me--Rise, O, ever rise! Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills! Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great Hierarch, tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, "Earth, with her thousand voices, praises god." S. T. Coleridge. CXCVIIII. "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT T0 AIX." I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,-- Nor galloped less steadily Roland, a whit. 'T was moonset at starting; but, while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld, 't was morning as plain as could be; And from Mechlin church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!" At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its sprays And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her, We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Loos and past Tongrés, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" "How they 'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer, Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is friends flocking round As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which, (the burgesses voted by common consent,) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. R. Browning. CXCIX. THE SWORD. 'T was on the battle-field; and the cold pale moon Looked down on the dead and dying; And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail, Where the young and brave were lying. With his father's sword in his red right hand, And the hostile dead around him, Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground, And the grave's icy sleep had bound him. A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking; Careless he stepped where friend and foe Lay alike in their life-blood reeking. Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, The soldier paused beside it; He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength, But the grasp of the dead defied it. He loosed his hold, and his noble heart Took part with the dead before him; And he honored the brave who died sword in hand, As with softened brow he leaned o'er him. "A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it: Before I would take that sword from thine hand, My own life's blood should dye it. "Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, Or the wolf to batten o'er thee; Or the coward insult the gallant dead, Who in life had trembled before thee." Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, Where his warrior foe was sleeping; And he laid him there, in honor and rest, With his sword in his own brave keeping. Miss Landon. CC. THE FIREMAN. Hoarse wintry blasts a solemn requiem sung To the departed day, Upon whose bier The velvet pall of midnight lead been flung, And Nature mourned through one wide hemisphere Silence and darkness held their cheerless sway, Save in the haunts of riotous excess; And half the world in dreamy slumbers lay, Lost in the maze of sweet forgetfulness. When lo! upon the startled ear, There broke a sound so dread and drear,-- As, like a sudden peal of thunder, Burst the bands of sleep asunder, And filled a thousand throbbing hearts with fear. Hark! the faithful watchman's cry Speaks a conflagration nigh!-- See! yon glare upon the sky Confirms the fearful tale. The deep-mouthed bells with rapid tone, Combine to make the tidings known; Affrighted silence now has flown, And sounds of terror freight the chilly gale! At the first note of this discordant din, The gallant fireman from his slumber starts; Reckless of toil and danger, if he win The tributary meed of grateful hearts. From pavement rough, or frozen ground, His engine's rattling wheels resound, And soon before his eyes The lurid flames, with horrid glare, Mingled with murky vapors rise, In wreathy folds upon the air, And veil the frowning skies! Sudden a shriek assails his heart,-- A female shriek, so piercing wild, As makes his very life-blood start:-- "My child! Almighty God, my child!" He hears, And 'gainst the tottering wall The ponderous ladder rears: While blazing fragments round him fall, And crackling sounds assail his ears, His sinewy arm, with one rude crash, Hurls to the earth the opposing sash; And, heedless of the startling din, Though smoky volumes round him roll, The mother's shriek has pierced his soul,-- See! see! he plunges in! The admiring crowd, with hopes and fears, In breathless expectation stands, When, lo! the daring youth appears, Hailed by a burst of warm, ecstatic cheers, Bearing the child triumphant in his arms. Anonymous. CCI. SPEAK GENTLY. Speak gently: it is better far To rule by love than fear. Speak gently: let no harsh words mar The good we might do here. Speak gently; love doth whisper low The vows that true hearts bind; And gently friendship's accents flow,-- Affection's voice is kind. Speak gently to the little child, Its love be sure to gain; Teach it in accents soft and mild,-- It may not long remain. Speak gently to the young; for they Will leave enough to bear: Pass through this life as best we may, 'T is full of anxious care. Speak gently to the aged one, Grieve not the care-worn heart; The sands of life are nearly run,-- Let such in peace depart. Speak gently, kindly to the poor; Let no harsh tone be heard; They have enough they must endure, Without an unkind word. Speak gently to the erring;--know They must have toiled in vain; Perchance unkindness made them so;-- O! win them back again. Speak gently! He who gave His life To bend man's stubborn will, When elements were fierce with strife, Said to them, "Peace! be still." Speak gently: 't is a little thing Dropped in the heart's deep well; The good, the joy which it may bring, Eternity shall tell. Anonymous. CCII. THE PASSIONS. When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possessed beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined: Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatched her instruments of sound, And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for Madness ruled the hour, Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rustled, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woeful measures wan Despair-- Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still through all the song; And, where her sweetest notes she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;-- And longer had she sung:--but with a frown, Revenge impatient rose: He threw the blood-stained sword in thunder down; And with a withering look The war-denouncing trumpet took And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And, though sometimes, each dreamy pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed: Sad proof of thy distressful state! Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; And, from her wild, sequestered seat, In notes, by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft from rocks around Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!-- The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known! The oak-crowned Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest: But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unworried minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:-- Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;-- And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. W. Collins. CCIII. NEW ENGLAND. Hail to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast; The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on glory's brightest bed, A fearless host: No slave is here--our unchained feet Walk freely, as the waves that beat Our coast. Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave To seek this shore; They left behind the coward slave To welter in his living grave;-- With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, They sternly bore Such toils as meaner souls had quelled; But souls like these, such toils impelled To soar. Hail to the acorn, when first they stood. On Bunker's height, And, fearless stemmed the invading flood, And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, In desperate fight! O! 't was a proud, exulting day, For even our fallen fortunes lay In light. There is no other land like thee, No dearer shore; Thou art the shelter of the free; The home, the port of liberty Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, Till time is o'er. Ere I forget to think upon Thy land, shall mother curse the son She bore. Thou art the firm unshaken rock, On which we rest; And rising from thy hardy stock, Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, And slavery's galling chains unlock, And free the oppressed: All, who the wreath of freedom twine, Beneath the shadow of their vine Are blest. We love thy rude and rocky shore, And here we stand-- Let foreign navies hasten o'er, And on our heads their fury pour, And peal their cannon's loudest roar, And storm our land: They still shall find, our lives are given To die for home;--and leant on Heaven Our hand. J. G. Percival. CCIV. SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY. From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal frame began: When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead! Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began: From harmony, to harmony, Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum, Cries, "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat!" The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair disdainful dame. But oh! what art can teach, What human voice can reach The sacred Organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above. Orpheus could lead the savage race, And trees uprooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre; But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher; When to her Organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appeared-- Mistaking earth for heaven! As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blest above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on highs The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky. J. Dryden. CCV. THE SAILOR'S SONG. The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoever I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep. I love, O how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the sou'west blasts do blow. I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she was and is to me; For I was born on the open sea! The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the ocean-child! I've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea! B. W. Proctor. CCVI. NAPOLEON. His falchion flashed along the Nile; His hosts he led through Alpine snows; O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while, His eagle flag unrolled,--and froze. Here sleeps he now, alone! Not one Of all the kings, whose crowns he gave, Bends o'er his dust;--nor wife, nor son, Has ever seen or sought his grave. Behind this sea-girt rock, the star That led him on from crown to crown, Has sunk; and nations from afar Gazed as it faded and went down. High is his couch;--the ocean flood, Far, far below, by storms is curled; As round him heaved, while high he stood A stormy and unstable world. Alone he sleeps! The mountain cloud That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. Pause here! The far-off world, at last, Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its mitres cast, Lies powerless now beneath these stones. Hark! comes there, from the pyramids, And from Siberian wastes of snow, And Europe's hills, a voice that bids The world he awed to mourn him? No: The only, the perpetual dirge That's heard there, is the sea-bird's cry,-- The mournful murmur of the surge,-- The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. J. Pierpont. CCVII. WARREN'S ADDRESS AT BUNKER HILL. Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it--ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you! they're a-fire! And, before you, see-- Who have done it!--from the vale On they come!--and will ye quail?-- Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be! In the God of battles trust! Die we may, and die we must;-- But, O! where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where heaven its dews shall shed On martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell! J. Pierpont. CCVIII. THANATOPSIS. To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language. For his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,-- Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around-- Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-- Comes a still voice:--Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet if the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world,--with kings, The powerful of the earth,--the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre.--The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are dining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and traverse Barca's desert sands; Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings,--yet--the dead are there, And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep;--the dead reign there alone.-- So shalt thou rest--and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man-- Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. W. C. Bryant. CCIX. THE AFRICAN CHIEF. Chained in the market-place he stood, A man of giant frame, Amid the gathering multitude That shrunk to hear his name,-- All stern of look and strong of limb, His dark eye on the ground; And silently they gazed on him, As on a lion bound. Vainly, but well, that chief had fought-- He was a captive now; Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, Was written on his brow: The scars his dark broad bosom wore Showed warrior true and brave: A prince among his tribe before, He could not be a slave. Then to his conqueror he spake-- "My brother is a king: Undo this necklace from my neck, And take this bracelet ring, And send me where my brother reigns, And I will fill thy hands With store of ivory from the plains, And gold dust from the sands." --"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold Will I unbind thy chain; That bloody hand shall never hold The battle-spear again. A price thy nation never gave Shall yet be paid for thee; For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, In land beyond the sea." Then wept the warrior chief, and bade To shred his locks away, And, one by one, each heavy braid Before the victor lay. Thick were the platted locks, and long, And deftly hidden there Shone many a wedge of gold among The dark and crispèd hair. "Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold, Long kept for sorest need: Take it--thou askest sums untold-- And say that I am freed. Take it--my wife, the long, long day, Weeps by the cocoa-tree, And my young children leave their play, And ask in vain for me." --"I take thy gold,--but I have made Thy fetters fast and strong, And ween that by the cocoa shade Thy wife shall wait thee long." Strong was the agony that shook The captive's frame to hear, And the proud meaning of his look Was changed to mortal fear. His heart was broken,--crazed his brain-- At once his eye grew wild: He struggled fiercely with his chain, Whispered,--and wept,--and smiled; Yet wore not long those fatal bands, And once, at shut of day, They drew him forth upon the sands,-- The foul hyena's prey. W. C. Bryant. CCX. THE BATTLE-FIELD. Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encounter'd in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of her brave,-- Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save. Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; Alone the chirp of flitting birds And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry: Oh, be it never heard again! Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life. A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weapon'd throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown--yet faint thou not, Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born. Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers. Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who help'd thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust Like those who fell in battle here. Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. W. C. Bryant. CCXI. HALLOWED GROUND. What's hallowed ground! Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee? That's hallowed ground--where mourned and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed;-- But where's their memory's mansion? Is 't Yon churchyard's bowers? No; in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours. What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 'T is not the sculptured piles you heap! In dews that heavens far distant weep, Their turf may bloom; Or genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb. But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served mankind--And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high? To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die. Is 't death to fall for freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws:-- What can alone ennoble fight? A noble cause! Give that! and welcome war to brace Her drums! and rend heaven's reeking space! The colors painted face to face, The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse led on the chase, Shall still be dear! And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven!--but Heaven rebukes my zeal! The cause of truth and human weal, O God above! Transfer it from the sword's appeal To peace and love! Peace, love! the cherubim, that join Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine;-- Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine Where they are not;-- The heart alone can make divine Religion's spot. To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous rites in domes august? See mouldering stones and metals' rust Belie the vaunt, That man can bless one pile of dust With chime or chant. Fair stars! are not your beings pure? Can sin, can death your worlds obscure? Else why so swell the thoughts at your Aspect above? Ye must be Heaven's that make us sure Of heavenly love! And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time; That man's regenerate soul from crime Shall yet be drawn, And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn. What's hallowed ground? 'T is what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!-- Peace! independence! truth! go forth Earth's compassed round; And your high-priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground. T. Campbell. CCXII. THE EXILE OF ERIN. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,-- The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when, at twilight, repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill: But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion; For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fervor of youth's warm emotion, He sung the bold anthem of "Erin go bragh!" "Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger-- "The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger: A home and a country remain not to me! Never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of 'Erin go bragh!' "Erin! my country! though sad and forsaken In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore! But, alas! in a far, foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! O cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me! They died to defend me!--or live to deplore! "Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure! Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall! "Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw;-- Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, 'Erin mavournin--Erin go bragh!'" T. Campbell. CCXIII. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A chieftain to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!" "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle. And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. "And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. "His horsemen hard behind us ride-- Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover!" Out spoke the hardy highland wight, "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady:-- "And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And, in the scowl of heaven, each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,-- Their trampling sounded nearer. "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When O! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her. And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,-- His wrath was changed to wailing! For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade His child he did discover:-- One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. "Come back! Come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--O my daughter!" 'T was vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing: The wafers wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. T. Campbell. CCXIV. FALL OF WARSAW. O! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man! Warsaw's last champion from her heights surveyed, Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid-- O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live!--with her to die! He said; and on the rampart heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly,-- "Revenge, or death!"--the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm! In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew;-- O! bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career. Hope for a season bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell! 0 righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save? Where was thine arm, O vengeance! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Sion and of God? Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! O! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell,--the Bruce of Bannockburn! Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see that man hath yet a soul,--and dare be free! A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of Desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven! Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world! T. Campbell. CCXV. HOHENLINDEN. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven; Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; And louder than the bolts of Heaven Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden's hills of stainéd snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'T is morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye Brave Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part, where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. T. Campbell. CCXVI. WAR-SONG OF THE GREEKS, 1822. Again to the battle Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; Our land,--the first garden of Liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free; For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale, dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefather's graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us. Ah! what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid?--Be the combat our own! And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone; For we've sworn by our country's assaulters, By the virgins they've dragged from our altars, By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,-- That living we will be victorious, Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not; Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide--waves engulf--fire consume us, But they shall not to slavery doom us: If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves,-- But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, And new triumphs on land are before us. To the charge!--Heaven's banner is o'er us! This day--shall ye blush for its story? Or brighten your lives with its glory?-- Our women--O say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be that would slacken, Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth. Strike home!--and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes. Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the ocean: Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee sing, And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring. Our hearths shall be kindled with gladness, That were cold, and extinguished in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,-- When the blood of you Mussulman cravens Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens. T. Campbell. CCXVII. THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. I saw him on the battle-eve When like a king he bore him; Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave, And prouder chiefs, before him. The warrior and the warrior's deeds, The morrow and the morrow's meeds,-- No daunting thought came o'er him; He looked around him, and his eye Defiance flashed to earth and sky. He looked on ocean,--its broad breast Was covered with his fleet: On earth,--and saw from east to west His bannered millions meet; While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast, Shook with the war-cry of that host, The thunder of their feet! He heard the imperial echoes ring,-- He heard, and felt himself a king. I saw him next alone;--nor camp Nor chief his steps attended; Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp With war-cries proudly blended. He stood alone, whom Fortune high So lately seemed to deify, He, who with Heaven contended, Fled like a fugitive and slave!-- Behind, the foe; before, the wave! He stood--fleet, army, treasure, gone-- Alone, and in despair! But wave and wind swept ruthless on, For they were monarchs there; And Xerxes, in a single bark, Where late his thousand ships were dark Must all their fury dare. What a revenge, a trophy, this, For thee, immortal Salamis! Miss Jewsbury. CCXVIII. OLD IRONSIDES. Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky;-- Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea! O, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave! Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave! Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms-- The lightning and the gale! O. W. Holmes. CCXIX. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said. Into the valley of Death, Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered; Theirs not to make reply Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell, Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered: Plunged in the battery smoke, Right through the line they broke Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre stroke, Shattered and sundered; Then they rode back, but not-- Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them, Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well, Came through the jaws of hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! A. Tennyson. CCXX. ARNOLD WINKELREID. "Make way for liberty!"--he cried; Made way for liberty, and died!-- It must not be: this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power! All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yield,-- She must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the numbers she could boast; But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he, On whose sole arm clung victory. It did depend on one indeed; Behold him,--Arnold Winkelreid! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmarked he stood among the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face; And, by the motion of his form, Anticipate the bursting storm; And, by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. But 't was no sooner thought than done,-- The field was in a moment won! "Make way for liberty!" he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp: "Make way for liberty!" he cried-- Their keen points met from side to side; He bowed amongst them like a tree, And thus made way for liberty. Swift to the breach his comrades fly: "Make way for liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; While, instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all: An earthquake could not overthrow. A city with a surer blow. Thus Switzerland again was free; Thus Death made way for liberty! J. Montgomery. CCXXI. NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD. New England's dead!--New England's dead! On every hill they lie; On every field of strife made red By bloody victory. Each valley, where the battle poured Its red and awful tide, Beheld the brave New England sword, With slaughter deeply dyed. Their bones are on the northern hill, And on the southern plain, By brook and river, lake and rill, And by the roaring main. The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell; For by their blood that land was bought, The land they loved so well. Then glory to that valiant band, The honored saviours of the land! O! few and weak their numbers were,-- A handful of brave men; But to their God they gave their prayer, And rushed to battle then. The God of battles heard their cry, And sent to them the victory. They left the ploughshare in the mould, Their flocks and herds without a fold, The sickle in the unshorn grain, The corn, half-garnered on the plain, And mustered in their simple dress, For wrongs to seek a stern redress; To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,-- To perish or o'ercome their foe. And where are ye, O fearless men? And where are ye to-day? I call:--the hills reply again That ye have passed away; That on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound. The bugle's wild and warlike blast Shall muster them no more; An army now might thunder past, And they not heed its roar. The starry flag 'neath which they fought, In many a bloody day, From their old graves shall rouse them not; For they have passed away. I. M'Lellan. CCXXII. NEVER GIVE UP. Never give up! it is wiser and better Always to hope, than once to despair;-- Fling off the load of doubt's cankering fetters, And break the dark spell of tyrannical care. Never give up, or the burden may sink you,-- Providence kindly has mingled the cup; And in all trials and troubles bethink you, The watchword of life must be, "Never give up!" Never give up; there are chances and changes, Helping the hopeful, a hundred to one, And through the chaos, High wisdom arranges Ever success, if you'll only hold on. Never give up; for the wisest is boldest, Knowing that Providence mingles the cup, And of all maxims, the best, as the oldest, Is the stern watchword of "Never give up!" Never give up, though the grape-shot may rattle, Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst; Stand like a rock, and the storm or the battle Little shall harm you, though doing their worst. Never give up; if adversity presses, Providence wisely has mingled the cup; And the best counsel in all your distresses Is the brave watchword of "Never give up!" Anonymous. CCXXIII. MARCO BOZZARIS. At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour, When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power: In dreams, through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet ring; Then pressed that monarch's throne--a king;-- As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood,-- There had the glad earth drunk their blood, On old Platæa's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they. An hour passed on--the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last; He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke--to die midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet-loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike--till the last armed foe expires; Strike--for your altars and your fires; Strike--for the green graves of your sires,-- God--and your native land!" They fought--like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered--but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won: Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal-chamber, Death! Come to the mother, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in Consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,-- And thou art terrible!--The tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Bozzaris! with the storied brave, Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee--there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. We tell thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,-- One of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die! F. G. Halleck. CCXXIV. THE AMERICAN FLAG. When freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there! She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle bearer downy And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land! Majestic monarch of the cloud! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning's lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven! Child of the sun! to thee 't is given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke,-- And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war,-- The harbingers of victory! Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn; And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnights pall; Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home! By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float, that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! J. R. Drake. CCXXV. THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. Do not lift him from the bracken, leave him lying where he fell-- Better bier ye cannot fashion: none beseems him half so well As the bare and broken heather, and the hard and broken sod, Whence his angry soul ascended to the judgment-seat of God! Winding-sheet we cannot give him--seek no mantle for the dead, Save the cold and spotless covering showered from heaven upon his head. Leave his broadsword as we found it, rent and broken with the blow, That, before he died, avenged him on the foremost of the foe. Leave the blood upon the bosom--wash not off that sacred stain; Let it stiffen on the tartan, let his wounds unclosed remain, Till the day when he shall show them at the throne of God on high, When the murderer and the murdered meet before their Judge's eye. Nay--ye should not weep, my children! leave it to the faint and weak; Sobs are but a woman's weapons--tears befit a maiden's cheek. Weep not, children of Macdonald! weep not thou, his orphan heir; Not in shame, but stainless honor, lies thy slaughtered father there; Weep not--but when years are over, and thine arm is strong and sure, And thy foot is swift and steady on the mountain and the muir, Let thy heart be hard as iron, and thy wrath as fierce as fire, Till the hour when vengeance cometh for the race that slew thy sire! Till in deep and dark Glenlyon rise a louder shriek of woe, Than at midnight, from their eyry, scared the eagles of Glencoe; Louder than the screams that mingled with the howling of the blast, When the murderers' steel was clashing, and the fires were rising fast; When thy noble father bounded to the rescue of his men, And the slogan of our kindred pealed throughout the startled glen; When the herd of frantic women stumbled through the midnight snow, With their fathers' houses blazing, and their dearest dead below! Oh, the horror of the tempest, as the flashing drift was blown, Crimsoned with the conflagration, and the roofs went thundering down! Oh, the prayers, the prayers and curses, that together winged their flight From the maddened hearts of many, through that long and woful night!-- Till the fires began to dwindle, and the shots grew faint and few, And we heard the foeman's challenge only in a far halloo: Till the silence once more settled o'er the gorges of the glen, Broken only by the Cona plunging through its naked den. Slowly from the mountain summit was the drifting veil withdrawn, And the ghastly valley glimmered in the gray December dawn. Better had the morning never dawned upon our dark despair! Black amidst the common whiteness rose the spectral ruins there: But the sight of these was nothing more than wrings the wild dove's breast, When she searches for her offspring round the relics of her nest. For in many a spot the tartan peered above the wintry heap, Marking where a dead Macdonald lay within his frozen sleep. Tremblingly we scooped the covering from each kindred victim's head, And the living lips were burning on the cold ones of the dead. And I left them with their dearest--dearest charge had every one-- Left the maiden with her lover, left the mother with her son. I alone of all was mateless--far more wretched I than they, For the snow would not discover where my lord and husband lay. But I wandered up the valley, till I found him lying low, With the gash upon his bosom, and the frown upon his brow-- Till I found him lying murdered where he wooed me long ago. Woman's weakness shall not shame me--why should I have tears to shed? Could I rain them down like water, O my hero! on thy head-- Could the cry of lamentation wake thee from thy silent sleep, Could it set thy heart a-throbbing, it were mine to wail and weep! But I will not waste my sorrow, lest the Campbell women say That the daughters of Clanranald are as weak and frail as they. I had wept thee, hadst thou fallen, like our fathers, on thy shield, When a host of English foemen camped upon a Scottish field. I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished with the foremost of his name, When the valiant and the noble died around the dauntless Græme! But I will not wrong thee, husband, with my unavailing cries, Whilst thy cold and mangled body, stricken by the traitor, lies; Whilst he counts the gold and glory that this hideous night has won, And his heart is big with triumph at the murder he has done. Other eyes than mine shall glisten, other hearts be rent in twain, Ere the heath-bells on thy hillock wither in the autumn rain. Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest, and I'll veil my weary head, Praying for a place beside thee, dearer than my bridal-bed: And I'll give thee tears, my husband, if the tears remain to me, When the widows of the foeman cry the coronach for thee! W. E. Aytoun. CCXXVI. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his false fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory. C. Wolfe. CCXXVII. THE MANIAC. Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe! She is not mad who kneels to thee, For what I'm now, too well I know, And what I was, and what should be. I'll rave no more in proud despair; My language shall be mild, though sad: But yet I firmly, truly swear, I am not mad, I am not mad. My tyrant husband forged the tale Which chains me in this dismal cell; My fate unknown my friends bewail-- Oh! jailer, haste that fate to tell; Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer: His heart at once 't will grieve and glad To know though kept a captive here, I am not mad, I am not mad. He smiles in scorn, and turns the key; He quits the grate; I knelt in vain; His glimmering lamp still, still I see-- 'T is gone! and all is gloom again. Cold, bitter cold!--No warmth! no light!-- Life, all thy comforts once I had; Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night, Although not mad; no, no, not mad. 'Tis sure some dream--some vision vain! What! I--the child of rank and wealth,-- Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, Bereft of freedom, friends, and health? Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled, Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head; But 'tis not mad; no, 'tis not mad. Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, A mother's face, a mother's tongue? She'll never forget your parting kiss, Nor round her neck how fast you clung; Nor how with her you sued to stay; Nor how that suit your sire forbade; Nor how--I'll drive such thoughts away! They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad. His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled! His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone! None ever bore a lovelier child: And art thou now forever gone? And must I never see thee more, My pretty, pretty, pretty lad? I will be free! unbar the door! I am not mad, I am not mad. Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries? His chain some furious madman breaks; He comes!--I see his glaring eyes; Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes-- Help! help!--He's gone!--Oh! fearful woe, Such screams to hear, such sights to see! My brain, my brain,--I know, I know, I am not mad, but soon shall be. Yes, soon; for lo you!--while I speak-- Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare! He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek, He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror!--the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;-- Ay, laugh, ye fiends;--I feel the truth; Your task is done--I'm mad! I'm mad! Lewis. CCXXVIII. RIENZI TO THE ROMANS. Friends! I come not here to talk. Ye know too well The story of our thraldom. We are slaves! The bright sun rises to his course, and lights A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave; not such, as swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fame,-- But base, ignoble slaves!--slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords, Rich in some dozen paltry villages; Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great In that strange spell--a name! Each hour, dark fraud Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cries out against them. But this very day, An honest man, my neighbor,--there he stands-- Was struck--struck like a dog, by one who wore The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth, He tossed not high his ready cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men, And suffer such dishonor?--men, and wash not The stain away in blood? Such shames are common. I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, I had a brother once, a gracious boy, Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look Of Heaven upon his face, which limners give To the beloved disciple. How I loved That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years, Brother at once and son! He left my side, A summer bloom on his fair cheeks a smile Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour, The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves! Have ye brave sons?--Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die! Have ye fair daughters?--Look To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice, Be answered by the lash! Yet, this is Rome, That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne Of beauty ruled the world! Yet, we are Romans. Why in that elder day to be a Roman Was greater than a King! And once again-- Hear me, ye walls that echoed to the tread Of either Brutus!--once again I swear The Eternal City shall be free! Miss Mitford. CCXXIX. THE BELL OF THE "ATLANTIC." Toll, toll, toll! Thou bell by billows swung, And, night and day, thy warning words Repeat with mournful tongue! Toll for the queenly boat, Wrecked on yon rocky shore! Sea-weed is in her palace halls,-- She rides the surge no more. Toll for the master bold, The high-souled and the brave, Who ruled her like a thing of life Amid the crested wave! Toll for the hardy crew, Sons of the storm and blast, Who long the tyrant ocean dared; But it vanquished them at last. Toll for the man of God, Whose hallowed voice of prayer Rose calm above the stifled groan Of that intense despair! How precious were those tones, On that sad verge of life, Amid the fierce and freezing storm, And the mountain billows' strife! Toll for the lover, lost To the summoned bridal train! Bright glows a picture on his breast, Beneath th' unfathomed main. One from her casement gazeth Long o'er the misty sea: He cometh not, pale maiden,-- His heart is cold to thee! Toll for the absent sire, Who to his home drew near, To bless a glad, expecting group,-- Fond wife, and children dear! They heap the blazing hearth, The festal board is spread, But a fearful guest is at the gate;-- Room for the sheeted dead! Toll for the loved and fair, The whelmed beneath the tide,-- The broken harps around whose strings The dull sea-monsters glide! Mother and nursling sweet, Reft from the household throng; There's bitter weeping in the nest Where breathed their soul of song. Toll for the hearts that bleed 'Neath misery's furrowing trace; Toll for the hapless orphan left, The last of all his race! Yea, with thy heaviest knell, From surge to rocky shore, Toll for the living,--not the dead, Whose mortal woes are o'er. Toll, toll, toll! O'er breeze and billow free; And with thy startling lore instruct Each rover of the sea. Tell how o'er proudest joys May swift destruction sweep, And bid him build his hopes on high,-- Lone teacher of the deep! Mrs. Sigourney. CCXXX. THE STRUGGLE FOR FAME. If thou wouldst win a lasting fame,-- If thou the immortal wreath wouldst claim, And make the future bless thy name,-- Begin thy perilous career, Keep high thy heart, thy conscience clear, And walk thy way without a fear. And if thou hast a voice within, That ever whispers, "Work and win," And keeps thy soul from sloth and sin;-- If thou canst plan a noble deed, And never flag till it succeed, Though in the strife thy heart should bleed;-- If thou canst struggle day and night, And, in the envious world's despite, Still keep thy cynosure in sight;-- If thou canst bear the rich man's scorn, Nor curse the day that thou wert born To feed on husks, and he on corn;-- If thou canst dine upon a crust, And still hold on with patient trust, Nor pine that fortune is unjust;-- If thou canst see, with tranquil breast, The knave or fool in purple dressed, Whilst thou must walk in tattered vest;-- If thou canst rise ere break of day, And toil and moil till evening gray, At thankless work, for scanty pay;-- If in thy progress to renown Thou canst endure the scoff and frown Of those who strive to pull thee down;-- If thou canst bear the averted face, The gibe, or treacherous embrace, Of those who run the self-same race;-- If thou in darkest days canst find An inner brightness in thy mind, To reconcile thee to thy kind:-- Whatever obstacles control, Thine hour will come--go on--true soul! Thou'lt win the prize, thou'lt reach the goal. If not--what matters? Tried by fire, And purified from low desire, Thy spirit shall but soar the higher. Content and hope thy heart shall buoy, And men's neglect shall ne'er destroy Thy secret peace, thy inward joy! C. Mackay. CCXXXI. THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM. In slumbers of midnight, the sailor-boy lay; His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But watch-worn and weary his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; While memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise-- Now, far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport he raises the latch, And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear, And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; Joy quickens his pulse--all hardships seem o'er, And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest-- "O God, thou hast blest me--I ask for no more." Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear? 'T is the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky! 'T is the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere! He springs from his hammock--he flies to the deck; Amazement confronts him with images dire-- Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck-- The masts fly in splinters--the shrouds are on fire! O! sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight! In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss-- Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss! O! sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge. On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid; Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, And every part suit to thy mansion below. Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye-- O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul! Dimond. CCXXXII. ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES. Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk from the first touch of Liberty's war, Be sucked out by tyrants or stagnate in chains! On--on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, Ye locusts of tyranny!--blasting them o'er: Fill--fill up their wide, sunny waters, ye sails, From each slave-mart in Europe, and poison their shore. May their fate be a mockword--may men of all lands Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands, Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls! And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, Base slaves! may the whet of their agony be, To think--as the damned haply think of the heaven They had once in their reach,--that they might have been free. Shame! shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat Ever rose o'er the zero of Castlereagh's heart, That did not, like Echo, your war-hymn repeat, And send back its prayers with your Liberty's start! Good God! that in such a proud moment of life, Worth ages of history--when, had you but hurled One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world! That then--O, disgrace upon manhood! e'en then You should falter--should cling to your pitiful breath, Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer a slave's life to a glorious death! It is strange!--it is dreadful! Shout, Tyranny, shout Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er"-- If there lingers one spark of her fire, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once more. For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free, Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss, Far nobler to live the brute-bondman of thee, Than sully even chains by a struggle like this. T. Moore. CCXXXIII. THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE BERLIN LANDSTURM. Father of earth and heaven! I call thy name! Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll; Mine eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame; Father, sustain an untried soldier's soul. Or life, or death, whatever be the goal That crowns or closes round this struggling hour, Thou knowest, if ever from my spirit stole One deeper prayer, 't was that no cloud might lower On my young fame!--O hear! God of eternal power! Now for the fight--now for the cannon-peal-- Forward--through blood, and toils and cloud, and fire! Glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel, The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire; They shake--like broken waves their squares retire,-- On, hussars!--Now give them rein and heel; Think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire;-- Earth cries for blood--in thunder on them wheel! This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph-seal! Körner. CCXXXIV. THE MAIN TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE. Old Ironsides at anchor lay In the harbor of Mahon; A dead calm rested on take bay,-- The waves to sleep had gone; When little Hal, the Captain's son, A lad both brave and good, In sport, up shroud and rigging ran, And on the main truck stood! A shudder shot through every vein,-- All eyes were turned on high! There stood the bop with dizzy brain, Between the sea and sky; No hold had he above, below; Alone he stood in air: To that far height none dared to go;-- No aid could reach him there. We gazed,--but not a man could speak! With horror all aghast, In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, We watched the quivering mast. The atmosphere grew thick and hot, And of a lurid hue;-- As riveted unto the spot, Stood officers and crew. The father came on deck:--he gasped, "Oh God! Thy will be done!" Then suddenly a rifle grasped, And aimed it at his son: "Jump, far out, boy into the wave! Jump, or I fire!" he said; "That only chance your life can save! Jump, jump, boy!" He obeyed. He sunk, he rose, he lived,--he moved,-- And for the ship struck out. On board, we hailed the lad beloved, With many a manly shout. His father drew, in silent joy, Those wet arms round his neck-- Then folded to his heart his boy, And fainted on the deck. G. P. Morris. CCXXXV. CATILINE ON HIS BANISHMENT FROM ROME. Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free, From daily contact of the things I loathe? "Tried and convicted traitor!"--Who says this? Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head? Banished?--I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain! I held some slack allegiance till this hour; But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords; I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, I have within my heart's hot cells shut up, To leave you in your lazy dignities. But here I stand and scoff you: here I fling Hatred and full defiance in your face. Your consul's merciful. For this all thanks. He dares not touch a hair of Catiline. "Traitor!" I go but I return. This trial!-- Here I devote your senate! I've had wrongs, To stir a fever in the blood of age, Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel. This day's the birth of sorrows!--This hour's work Will breed proscriptions. Look to your hearths, my lords; For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods, Shapes hot from Tartarus!--all shapes and crimes; Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn; Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup; Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe, Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones; Till anarchy comes down on you like Night, And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave! G. Croly. CCXXXVI. APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be or have been before, To mingle with the Universe and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean--roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin--his control Stops with the shore!--upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction, thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth:--there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into the yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-- Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy watery wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts:--not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-- Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow-- Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests: in all time, Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime-- The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. Lord Byron. CCXXXVII. BATTLE OF WATERLOO. There was a sound of revelry by night; And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell;-- But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it?--No: 't was but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet-- But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and crumblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which never might be repeated. Who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar-- And near, the beat of the alarming drum, Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;-- While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips--"The foe! they come! they come!" And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard--and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:-- How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years: And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,-- Over the unreasoning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow, In its next verdure; when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low! Last noon beheld them full of lusty life; Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife; The morn, the marshalling in arms; the day, Battle's magnificently-stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover,--heaped and pent, Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent! Lord Byron. CCXXXVIII. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strewn. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still. And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances uplifted, the trumpet unknown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! Lord Byron. CCXXXIX. SPEECH OF MOLOCH. My sentence is for open war. Of wiles, More inexpert, I boast not; them let those Contrive who need, or when they need, not now; For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest, Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait The signal to ascend, sit lingering here, Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place Accept this dark, opprobrious den of shame, The prison of his tyranny, who reigns By our delay? No; let us rather choose, Armed with hell-flames and fury, all at once, O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way, Turning our tortures into horrid arms Against the torturer; when, to meet the noise Of his almighty engine, he shall hear Infernal thunder, and for lightning, see Black fire and horror shot with equal rage Among his angels,--and his throne itself, Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire, His own invented torments. But, perhaps, The way seems difficult and steep to scale, With upright wing, against a higher foe. Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, That in our proper motion we ascend Up to our native seat; descent and fall To us adverse. Who but felt of late, When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, With what compulsion and laborious flight, We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy then; The event is feared. Should we again provoke Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find To our destruction; if there be in hell, Fear to be worse destroyed. What can be worse Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned In this abhorred deep to utter woe; Where pain of unextinguishable fire Must exercise us without hope of end, The vassals of his anger, when the scourge Inexorable, and the torturing hour Calls us to penance? More destroyed than thus We should be quite abolished and expire. What fear we then? what doubt we to incense His utmost ire? which to the height enraged, Will either quite consume us, and reduce To nothing this essential (happier far, Than miserable, to have eternal being,) Or, if our substance be indeed divine, And cannot cease to be, we are at worst On this side nothing; and by proof we feel Our power sufficient to disturb his heaven, And with perpetual inroads to alarm, Though inaccessible, his fatal throne; Which, if not victory--is yet Revenge. Milton. CCXL. ANTONY'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears: I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interréd with their bones: So let it be with Cæsar, The noble Brutus Hath told you, Cæsar, was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Cæsar, answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, (For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men), Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Cæsar, seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Cæsar, hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause: What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason! Bear with me: My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar, And I must pause till it come back to me. But yesterday the word of Cæsar, might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O Masters! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men. I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honorable men: But here's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar,-- I found it in his closet; 't is his will. Let but the commons hear this testament (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read), And they, would go and kiss dead Cæsar's, wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, Unto their issue.-- If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle; I remember The first time ever Cæsar, ever put it on; 'T was on a summer's evening in his tent; That day he overcame the Nervii.-- Look! In this place ran Cassius's dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this, the well-belovéd Brutus stabbed; And as he plucked his curséd steel away, Mark, how the blood of Cæsar, followed it!-- This was the most unkindest cut of all! For when the noble Cæsar, saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquished him! Then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar, fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I and you, and all of us, fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel The dint of pity:--these are gracious drops. Kind souls! what, weep you when you but behold Our Cæsar, vesture wounded? Look ye here! Here is himself--marred, as you see, by traitors. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny! They that have done this deed are honorable! What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it! They are wise and honorable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts: I am no orator, as Brutus is; But as you all know me, a plain, blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood:--I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know; Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus, And Brutus, Antony, there were an Antony, Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Cæsar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny! Shakespeare. CCXLI. HAMLETS SOLILOQUY. To be,--or not to be;--that is the question:-- Whether 't is nobler in the mind, to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune; Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them?--To die,--to sleep,-- No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die,--to sleep;-- To sleep! perchance to dream;--ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despiséd love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life; But that the dread of something after death,-- The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns,--puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, with this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. Shakespeare. CCXLII. SOLILOQUY OF HAMLET'S UNCLE. Oh! my offence is rank; it smells to heaven; It hath the primal, eldest curse upon 't, A brother's murder! Pray I cannot, Though inclination be as sharp as 't will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this curséd hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood; Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy, But to confront the visage of offence? And what's in prayer, but this twofold force,-- To be forestalled, ere we come to fall, Or pardoned being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past.--But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? "Forgive me my foul murder!" That cannot be; since I am still possessed Of those effects for which I did the murder,-- My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardoned, and retain the offence? In the corrupted currents of this world, Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice; And oft 't is seen, the wicked prize itself Buys out the law: but 't is not so above; There is no shuffling; there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? What rests? Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it, when one can not repent? O wretched state! O bosom, black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engag'd! Help, angels! make assay! Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! All may be well. Shakespeare. CCXLIII. PERSEVERANCE KEEPS HONOR BRIGHT. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes. Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devoured As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done, Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honor bright. To have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; For Honor travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; For Emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an entered tide, they all rush by, And leave you hindmost;-- Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O'errun and trampled on. Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours: For Time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand; And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly, Grasps-in the comer: Welcome ever smiles, And Farewell goes out sighing. O, let not Virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, alacrity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating Time. One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin,-- That all, with one consent, praise new-born gauds, Though they are made and moulded of things past; And give to dust, that is a little gilt, More land than gilt o'erdusted. The present eye praises the present object: Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what not stirs: The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and yet it may again, If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive, And case thy reputation in thy tent; Whose glorious deeds, did but in these fields of late, Made emulous missions 'mongst the gods themselves, And drave great Mars to faction. Shakespeare. CCXLIV. MACBETH'S SOLILOQUY. Is this a dagger, which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? come, let me clutch thee:-- I have thee not; and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight, or art thou but A dagger of the mind--a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before. There's no such thing: It is the bloody business, which informs Thus to mine eyes.--Know, o'er the one half world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep; now Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered Murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my where-about, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. [A bell rings.] Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell, That summons thee to heaven or to hell. Shakespeare. CCXLV. ROMEO IN THE GARDEN. But soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!-- Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid, art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious: Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady: O, it is my love! O, that she knew she were!-- She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold; 't is not to me she speaks: Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright, That birds would sing, and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! She speaks:-- O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air. Shakespeare. CCXLVI. POLONIUS TO LAERTES. My blessing with you! And these few precepts in thy memory, Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar: The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade: beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, Bear it, that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy; rich not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France, of the best rank and station, Are most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft, loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all,--to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man! Shakespeare. CCXLVII. WOLSEY, ON BEING CAST OFF BY THE KING. Nay, then, farewell! I have touched the highest point of all my greatness; And, from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting: I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow, blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And, when he thinks,--good easy man,--full surely His greatness is a ripening,--nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have. And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again! Shakespeare. CCXLVIII. WOLSEY TO CROMWELL. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of,--say, I taught thee,-- Say, Wolsey,--that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,-- Found thee away, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.-- Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me! Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition! By that sin fell the angels: how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee: Corruption wins not more than honesty; Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim'st at, be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fallest, O Cromwell, Thou fallest a blesséd martyr! Serve the king; And--Prithee, lead me in: There, take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny; 't is the king's; my robe, And my integrity to Heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, He would not, in mine age, Have left me naked to mine enemies! Shakespeare. CCXLIX. GRIFFITH'S DESCRIPTION OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. May it please your highness To hear me speak his good now? This Cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashioned to much honor. From his cradle, He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one: Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not, But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer; And though he were unsatisfied in getting, (Which was a sin), yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely; ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he raised in you, Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good he did it; The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heaped happiness upon him; For then and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being little: And to add greater honors to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God. Shakespeare. BOOK SECOND. RECENT SELECTIONS FOR RECITATION AND DECLAMATION IN PROSE AND POETRY. BOOK SECOND. RECENT SELECTIONS. PROSE. CCL. THE ORATORS OF REVOLUTIONS. And then and thus comes the orator of that time, kindling with their fire; sympathizing with that great beating heart; penetrated, not subdued; lifted up rather by a sublime and rare moment of history made real to his consciousness; charged with the very mission of life, yet unassured whether they will hear or will forbear; transcendent good within their grasp, yet a possibility that the fatal and critical opportunity of salvation will be wasted; the last evil of nations and of men overhanging, yet the siren song of peace--peace when there is no peace--chanted madly by some voice of sloth or fear,--there and thus the orators of revolutions come to work their work! And what then is demanded, and how it is to be done, you all see; and that in some of the characteristics of their eloquence they must all be alike. Actions, not law or policy: whose growth and fruits are to be slowly evolved by time and calm; actions daring, doubtful but instant; the new things of a new world,--these are what the speaker counsels; large, elementary, gorgeous ideas of right, of equality, of independence, of liberty, of progress through convulsion,--these are the principles from which he reasons, when he reasons,--these are the pinions of the thought on which he soars and stays; and then the primeval and indestructible sentiments of the breast of man,--his sense of right, his estimation of himself, his sense of honor, his love of fame, his triumph and his joy in the dear name of country, the trophies that tell of the past, the hopes that gild and herald her dawn,--these are the springs of action to which he appeals,--these are the chords his fingers sweep, and from which he draws out the troubled music, "solemn as death, serene as the undying confidence of patriotism," to which he would have the battalions of the people march! Directness, plainness, a narrow range of topics, few details, few but grand ideas, a headlong tide of sentiment and feeling; vehement, indignant, and reproachful reasonings,--winged general maxims of wisdom and life; an example from Plutarch; a pregnant sentence of Tacitus; thoughts going forth as ministers of nature in robes of light, and with arms in their hands; thoughts that breathe and words that burn,--these vaguely, approximately, express the general type of all this speech. R. Choate. CCLI. THE ELOQUENCE OF REVOLUTIONS The capital peculiarity of the eloquence of all times of revolution, is that the actions it persuades to are the highest and most heroic which men can do, and the passions it would inspire, in order to persuade to them, are the most lofty which man can feel. "High actions and high passions"--such are Milton's words, high actions through and by high passions; these are the end and these the means of the orator of the revolution. Hence are his topics large, simple, intelligible, affecting. Hence are his views broad, impressive, popular; no trivial details, no wire-woven developments, no subtle distinctions and drawing of fine lines about the boundaries of ideas, no speculation, no ingenuity; all is elemental, comprehensive, intense, practical, unqualified, undoubting. It is not of the small things of minor and instrumental politics he comes to speak, or men come to hear. It is not to speak or to hear about permitting an Athenian citizen to change his tribe; about permitting the Roman knights to have jurisdiction of trials equally with the Senate; it is not about allowing a £10 householder to vote for a member of Parliament; about duties on indigo, or onion-seed, or even tea. "That strain you hear is of an higher mood." It is the rallying-cry of patriotism, of liberty, in the sublimest crisis of the State,--of man. It is a deliberation of empire, of glory, of existence, on which they come together. To be or not to be, that is the question. Shall the children of the men of Marathon become slaves of Philip? Shall the majesty of the Senate and people of Rome stoop to wear the chains forging by the military executors of the will of Julius Cæsar? Shall the assembled representatives of France, just waking from her sleep of ages to claim the rights of man,--shall they disperse, their work undone, their work just commencing; and shall they disperse at the order of the king? or shall the messenger be bid to go, in the thunder-tones of Mirabeau,--and tell his master that "we sit here to do the will of our constituents, and that we will not be moved from those seats but by the point of the bayonet?" Shall Ireland bound upward from her long prostration, and cast from her the last links of the British chain, and shall she advance "from injuries to arms, from arms to liberty," from liberty to glory? Shall the thirteen Colonies become, and be free and independent States, and come unabashed, unterrified, an equal, into the majestic assembly of the nations? These are the thoughts with which all bosoms are distended and oppressed. Filled with these, and with these flashing in every eye, swelling every heart, pervading electric all ages, all orders, like a visitation, "an unquenchable public fire," men come together,--the thousands of Athens around the Bema, or in the Temple of Dionysus,--the people of Rome in the forum, the Senate in that council-chamber of the world,--the masses of France, as the spring-tide, into her gardens of the Tuileries, her club-rooms, her hall of the convention,--the representatives, the genius, the grace, the beauty of Ireland into the Tuscan Gallery of her House of Commons,--the delegates of the Colonies into the Hall of Independence at Philadelphia,--thus men come in an hour of revolution, to hang upon the lips from which they hope, they need, they demand, to hear the things which belong to their national salvation, hungering for the bread of life. R. Choate. CCLII. AMERICAN NATIONALITY. By the side of all antagonisms, higher than they, stronger than they, there rises colossal the fine sweet spirit of nationality, the nationality of America! See there the pillar of fire which God has kindled and lifted and moved for our hosts and our ages. Gaze on that, worship that, worship the highest in that. Between that light and our eyes a cloud for a time may seem to gather; chariots, armed men on foot, the troops of kings may march on us, and our fears may make us for a moment turn from it; a sea may spread before us, and waves seem to hedge us up; dark idolatries may alienate some hearts for a season from that worship; revolt, rebellion, may break out in the camp, and the waters of our springs may run bitter to the taste and mock it; between us and that Canaan a great river may seem to be rolling; but beneath that high guidance our way is onward, ever onward; those waters shall part, and stand on either hand in heaps; that idolatry shall repent; that rebellion shall be crushed; that stream shall be sweetened; that overflowing river shall be passed on foot dryshod, in harvest time; and from that promised land of flocks, fields, tents, mountains, coasts, and ships, from north and south, and east and west, there shall swell one cry yet, of victory, peace, and thanksgiving! R. Choate. CCLII. THE SAME CONTINUED. Think of this nationality first as a state of consciousness, as a spring of feeling, as a motive to exertion, as blessing your country, and as reacting on you. Think of it as it fills your mind and quickens your heart, and as it fills the mind and quickens the heart of millions around you. Instantly, under such an influence, you ascend above the smoke and stir of this small local strife; you tread upon the high places of the earth and of history; you think and feel as an American for America; her power, her eminence, her consideration, her honor, are yours; your competitors, like hers, are kings; your home, like hers, is the world; your path, like hers, is on the highway of empires; our charge, her charge, is of generations and ages; your record, her record, is of treaties, battles, voyages, beneath all the constellations; her image, one, immortal, golden, rises on your eye as our western star at evening rises on the traveller from his home; no lowering cloud, no angry river, no lingering spring, no broken crevasse, no inundated city or plantation, no tracts of sand, arid and burning, on that surface, but all blended and softened into one beam of kindred rays, the image, harbinger, and promiser of love, hope, and a brighter day! But if you would contemplate nationality as an active virtue, look around you. Is not our own history one witness and one record of what it can do? This day and all which it stands for,--did it not give us these? This glory of the fields of that war, this eloquence of that revolution, this one wide sheet of flame which wrapped tyrant and tyranny and swept all that escaped from it away, forever and forever; the courage to fight, to retreat, to rally, to advance, to guard the young flag by the young arm and the young heart's blood, to hold up and hold on till the magnificent consummation crowned the work,--were not all these imparted or inspired by this imperial sentiment? Has it not here begun the master-work of man, the creation of a national life? Did it not call out that prodigious development of wisdom, the wisdom of constructiveness which illustrated the years after the war, and the framing and adopting of the Constitution? Has it not, in general, contributed to the administering of that government wisely and well since? R. Choate. CCLIV. THE SAME CONCLUDED. Look at it! It has kindled us to no aims of conquest. It has involved us in no entangling alliances. It has kept our neutrality dignified and just. The victories of peace have been our prized victories. But the larger and truer grandeur of the nations, for which they are created, and for which they must one day, before some tribunal, give an account, what a measure of these it has enabled us already to fulfil! It has lifted us to the throne, and has set on our brow the name of the Great Republic. It has taught us to demand nothing wrong, and to submit to nothing wrong; it has made our diplomacy sagacious, wary, accomplished; it has opened the iron gate of the mountains and planted our ensign on the great, tranquil sea. It has made the desert to bud and blossom as the rose; it has quickened to life the giant brood of useful arts; it has whitened lake and ocean with the sails of a daring, new, and lawful trade; it has extended to exiles, flying as clouds, the asylum of our better liberty. It has kept us at rest within all our borders; it has repressed without blood the intemperance of local insubordination; it has scattered the seeds of liberty, under law and under order, broadcast; it has seen and helped American feeling to swell into a fuller flood; from many a field and many a deck, though it seeks not war, makes not war, and fears not war, it has borne the radiant flag, all unstained; it has opened our age of lettered glory; it has opened and honored the age of the industry of the people! R. Choate. CCLV. THE NATIONAL ENSIGN. Sir, I must detain you no longer. I have said enough, and more than enough, to manifest the spirit in which this flag is now committed to your charge. It is the national ensign, pure and simple; dearer to all our hearts at this moment, as we lift it to the gale, and see no other sign of hope upon the storm-cloud which rolls and rattles above it, save that which is reflected from its own radiant hues; dearer, a thousand-fold dearer to us all, than ever it was before, while gilded by the sunshine of prosperity and playing with the zephyrs of peace. It will speak for itself far more eloquently than I can speak for it. Behold it! Listen to it! Every star has a tongue; every stripe is articulate. There is no language or speech where their voices are not heard. There's magic in the web of it. It has an answer for every question of duty. It has a solution for every doubt and perplexity. It has a word of good cheer for every hour of gloom or of despondency. Behold it! Listen to it! It speaks of earlier and of later struggles. It speaks of victories, and sometimes of reverses, on the sea and on the land. It speaks of patriots and heroes among the living and the dead: and of him, the first and greatest of them all, around whose consecrated ashes this unnatural and abhorrent strife has so long been raging--"the abomination of desolation standing where it ought not." But before all and above all other associations and memories--whether of glorious men, or glorious deeds, or glorious places--its voice is ever of Union and Liberty, of the Constitution and the Laws. Behold it! Listen to it! Let it tell the story of its birth to these gallant volunteers, as they march beneath its folds by day, or repose beneath its sentinel stars by night. Let it recall to them the strange, eventful history of its rise and progress; let it rehearse to them the wondrous tale of its trials and its triumphs, in peace as well as in war; and, whatever else may happen to it or to them, it will never be surrendered to rebels; never be ignominiously struck to treason; nor be prostituted to any unworthy or unchristian purpose of revenge, depredation, or rapine. And may a merciful God cover the head of each one of its brave defenders in the hour of battle. R. C. Winthrop. CCLVI. THE CAUSE. "Union for the sake of the Union"; "our country, our whole country, and nothing but our country";--these are the mottoes, old, stale, hackneyed, and threadbare as they may have seemed when employed as the watchwords of an electioneering campaign, but clothed with a new power, a new significance, a new gloss, and a new glory, when uttered as the battlecries of a nation struggling for existence; these are the mottoes which can give a just and adequate expression to the Cause in which you have enlisted. Sir, I thank Heaven that the trumpet has given no uncertain sound, while you have been preparing yourselves for the battle. This is the Cause which has been solemnly proclaimed by both branches of Congress, in resolutions passed at the instance of those true-hearted sons of Tennessee and Kentucky--Johnson and Crittenden--and which, I rejoice to remember at this hour, received your own official sanction as a Senator of the United States. This is the Cause which has been recognized and avowed by the President of the United States, with a frankness and fearlessness which have won the respect and admiration of all. This is the Cause which has been so fervently commended to us from the dying lips of a Douglas, and by the matchless living voices of a Holt and an Everett. This is the Cause in which the heroic Anderson, lifting his banner upon the wings of prayer,--and looking to the guidance and guardianship of the God in whom he trusted, went through that fiery furnace unharmed, and came forth, not indeed without the smell of fire and smoke upon his garments, but with an undimmed and undying lustre of piety and patriotism on his brow. This is the Cause in which the lamented Lyon bequeathed all that he had of earthly treasure to his country, and then laid down a life in her defense, whose value no millions could measure. This is the Cause in which the veteran chief of our armies crowned with the laurels which Washington alone had worn before him, and renouncing all inferior allegiance at the loss of fortune and of friends, has tasked, and is still tasking to the utmost the energies of a soul whose patriotism no age could chill. This is the Cause to which the young and noble McClellan, under whose lead it is your privilege to serve, has brought that matchless combination of sagacity and science, of endurance modesty, caution, and courage, which have made him the hope of the hour, the bright particular star of our immediate destiny. And this, finally, is the Cause which has obliterated, as no other cause could have done, all divisions and distinction of party, nationality, and creed; which has appealed alike to Republican, Democrat, and Union Whig, to native citizen and to adopted citizen; and in which not the sons of Massachusetts or of New England or of the North alone, not the dwellers on the Hudson, the Delaware, and the Susquehanna only, but so many of those, also, on the Potomac and the Ohio, the Mississippi and the Missouri, on all the lakes, and in all the vast Mesopotamia of the mighty West--yes, and strangers from beyond the seas, Irish and Scotch, German, Italian, and French--the common emigrant and those who have stood nearest to a throne--brave and devoted men from almost every nation under heaven--men who have measured the value of our country to the world by a nobler standard than the cotton crop; and who realize that other and momentous destinies are at stake upon our struggle than such as can be wrought upon any mere material looms and shuttles--all, all are seen rallying beneath a common flag, and, exclaiming with one heart and voice: "The American Union--it must be, and shall be preserved." R. C. Winthrop. CCLVII. THE ASSAULT ON CHARLES SUMNER. On the 22d of May, when the Senate and House had clothed themselves in mourning for a brother fallen in the battle of life, in the distant State of Missouri, the Senator from Massachusetts sat in the silence of the Senate chamber, engaged in employments appertaining to his office, when a member from this House, who had taken an oath to sustain the Constitution, stole into the Senate, that place which had hitherto been held sacred against violence, and smote him as Cain smote his brother. One blow was enough; but it did not satiate the wrath of that spirit which had pursued him through two days. Again, and again, and again, quicker and faster fell the leaden blows, until he was torn away from his victim, when the Senator from Massachusetts fell into the arms of his friends, and his blood ran down the floor of the Senate. Sir, the act was brief and my comments on it shall be brief also. I denounce it in the name of the Constitution which it violated. I denounce it in the name of the sovereignty of Massachusetts, which was stricken down by the blow. I denounce it in the name of humanity. I denounce it in the name of civilization, which it outraged. I denounce it in the name of that fair play, which bullies and prize-fighters respect. What, strike a man when he is pinioned, when he cannot respond to a blow! Call you that chivalry? In what code of honor did you get your authority for that? God knows my heart. I desire to speak with kindness. I speak in no spirit of revenge. I do not believe the member has a friend who must not in his heart of hearts condemn the act. Even the member himself--if he has left a spark of that chivalry and gallantry attributed to him--must loathe and scorn the act. But much as I reprobate the act, much more do I reprobate the conduct of those who stood by and saw the outrage perpetrated. O, magnanimous Slidell! O, prudent Douglas! O, audacious Toombs! Sir, there are questions arising out of this, which are far more important than those of a mere personal nature. Of these personal considerations I shall speak when the question comes properly before us, if I am permitted to do so. The higher question involves the very existence of the government itself. If, sir, freedom of speech is not to remain to us, what is the government worth? If we from Massachusetts, or any other State,--senators or members of the House, are to be called to account by some "gallant uncle," when we utter something which does not suit their sensitive nature, we desire to know it. If the conflict is to be transferred from the peaceful, intellectual field to one where, it is said, "honors are easy and responsibilities equal," then we desire to know it. Massachusetts, if her sons and representatives are to have the rod held over them,--though she utters no threats,--may be called upon to withdraw them to her own bosom, where she can furnish to them that protection which is not vouchsafed to them under the flag of their common country. But while she permits us to remain, we shall do our duty; we shall speak whatever we choose to speak, whatever we will, and however we will, regardless of the consequences. Sir, the sons of Massachusetts are educated, at the knees of their mothers, in the doctrines of peace and good-will, and God knows we desire to cultivate those feelings,--feelings of social kindness, and public kindness. The House will bear witness that we have not violated or trespassed upon any of them; but, sir, if we are pushed too long and too far, there are men from the old Commonwealth of Massachusetts who will not shrink from a defence of freedom of speech, and the State they represent: in any field where they may be assailed. A. Burlingame. CCLVIII. STRENGTH OF THE GOVERNMENT. I know that I may be met at once by the objection that our general government is, after all, but a qualified and imperfect government. I may be reminded that it was from Massachusetts that the amendment came which expressly declares that all powers not given, are withheld. And then it may be asked, is there not here a manifest division of sovereignty and of power, and does not this show that much is wanting--that all which is retained at home is wanting--to constitute the full strength of a national government? My answer is twofold. First, I say, the national government has at this moment, by force of the Constitution, all the strength--absolutely all--which it needs, or could profitably use, as a central national government. I answer next, that by the admirable provisions of our Constitution, the reserved powers of every State may be, and, so far as that State does its duty, will be, prepared and developed to their utmost efficiency, and then imparted to the nation in its need. Do we want a proof and illustration of all this? Very recent events have supplied one, which history will not forget, if we do. How happened it that, a few weeks since, when the general government seemed to be feeble, and was in peril, and the demand--I may as well say the cry for help came forth--why was it that Massachusetts was the first to spring to the rescue? Why was it that she was able, in four days from that in which this cry reached her, to add a new glory to the day of Lexington? Why was it that she could begin that offering of needed aid which has since poured itself in a full, and swollen, and rushing stream, into the war power of the national government? Even as I ask the question, the answer is in all your minds. It is, that Massachusetts could do this because she had done her own duty beforehand. She could do this because, within her own bounds, she had prepared and organized her own strength, and stood ready for the moment when she could place it in the outstretched hands of the government. And other States followed, offering their contributions with no interval--with almost too little of delay; with a haste which was sometimes precipitation; with an importunate begging for acceptance--all of it yet far behind the earnest desire and demand of the people of these States, until at length we stood before an astonished world the strongest government on the face of the earth. Stronger, therefore, for all the purposes to which our national government should apply its strengths stronger for all the good it can do and all the harm it can prevent, that government is, as it is now constructed, and because it is so constructed, than it could be if it were the single, central, consolidated power of other nations. And it will show its strength, not by preventing all checks and reverses, for that is impossible; but, as I believe, in prompt and thorough recovery from them. T. Parsons. CCLIX. THE HIGHER LAW. In the whole political history of our own country, there has been no sin so atrocious as the repudiation of a higher than human law. It is stark atheism; for, with the law, this position virtually denies also the providence of God, and makes men and nations sole arbiters of their own fortunes. But "the Heavens do rule." If there be institutions or measures inconsistent with immutable rectitude, they are fostered only under the ban of a righteous God; they inwrap the germs of their own harvest of shame, disorder, vice, and wretchedness; nay, their very prosperity is but the verdure and blossoming which shall mature the apples of Sodom. O, how often have our legislators had reason to recall those pregnant words of Jefferson,--sad indeed is it that they should have become almost too trite for repetition, without having worked their way into the national conscience,--"I tremble for my country, when I consider that God is just!" The nations that have passed away, the decaying nations, the convulsed thrones, the smouldering rebellion-fires of the Old World, reveal the elements of national decline and ruin, and hold out baleful signals over the career on which our republic is hurrying; assuring us, by the experience of all climes and ages, that slavery, the unprincipled lust of power and territory official corruption and venality, aggressive war, partisan legislation, are but "sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind." Our statesmen of the "manifest destiny" type seem to imagine oar country necessary to the designs of Providence. So thought the Hebrews, and on far more plausible grounds, of their commonwealth; but, rather than fulfil to such degenerate descendants the promise made to their great ancestor, "God is able," said the divine Teacher. "of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham." Our destiny must be evolved, not from the blending of the world's noblest races in our ancestral stock; not from a position in which we hold the keys of the world's commerce, and can say to the North, "Give up," and to the South, "Keep not back;" not from our capacity to absorb and assimilate immigrant millions. Destiny is but the concrete of character. God needs no man or nation. He will bring in the reign of everlasting righteousness; and as a people, we must stand or fall as we accept or spurn that reign. Brethren, scholars, patriots also, I trust,--you whose generous nurture gives you large and enduring influence,--seek for the country of your pride and love, above all things else, her establishment on the eternal right as on the Rock of Ages. Thus shall there be no spot on her fame, no limit to her growth, no waning to her glory. A. P. Peabody. CCLX. "STEP TO THE CAPTAINS OFFICE AND SETTLE." This old watchword, so often heard by travellers in the early stages of steam-navigation, is now and then ringing in our ears with a very pointed and pertinent application. It is a note that belongs to all the responsibilities of this life for eternity. There is a day of reckoning, a day for the settlement of accounts. All unpaid bills will then have to be paid; all unbalanced books will have to be settled. There will be no loose memorandums forgotten; there will be no heedless commissioners for the convenience of careless consciences; there will be no proxies; there will be no bribed auditors. Neither will there be such a thing as a hesitating conscience; but the inward monitor, so often drugged and silenced on earth, will speak out. There will be no doubt nor question as to the right and wrong. There will be no vain excuses! nor any attempt to make them. There will be no more sophistry, no more considerations of expediency, no more pleading of the laws of men and the customs of society, no more talk about organic sins being converted into constructive righteousness, or collective and corporate frauds releasing men from individual responsibilities. When we see a man, a professed Christian, running a race with the worshippers of wealth and fashion, absorbed in the vanities of the world, or endeavoring to serve both God and mammon, we hear the voice, Step to the captain's office and settle! When we see editors and politicians setting power in the place of goodness, and expediency in the place of justice and law in the place of equity, and custom in the place of right, putting darkness for light, and evil for good, and tyranny for general benevolence, we think of the day when the issuers of such counterfeit money will be brought to light, and their sophistries and lies exposed,--for among the whole tribe of unprincipled politicians there will be great consternation when the call comes to step to the captain's office and settle. When we see unjust rulers in their pride of power fastening chains upon the bondmen, oppressing the poor, and playing their pranks of defiant tyranny before high heaven, then also come these words to mind, like a blast from the last trumpet, Step to the captain's office and settle! G. B. Cheever CCLXI. THE MURDER OF THE SOUL. There are some people whose sympathies have been excited upon the subject of slavery, who, if they can only be satisfied that the slaves have enough to eat, think it is all very well, and that nothing more is to be said or done. If slaves were merely animals, whose only or chief enjoyment consisted in the gratification of their bodily appetites, there would be some show of sense in this conclusion. But, in fact, however crushed and brutified, they are still men; men whose bosoms beat with the same passions as our own; whose hearts swell with the same aspirations,--the same ardent desire to improve their condition; the same wishes for what they have not; the same indifference towards what they have; the same restless love of social superiority; the same greediness of acquisition; the same desire to know; the same impatience of all external control. The excitement which the singular case of Caspar Hauser produced a few years since in Germans is not yet forgotten. From the representations of that enigmatical personage, it was believed that those from whose custody he declared himself to have escaped, had endeavored to destroy his intellect, or rather to prevent it from being developed, so as to detain him forever in a state of infantile imbecility. This supposed attempt at what they saw fit to denominate the murder of the soul, gave rise to great discussions among the German jurists; and they soon raised it into a new crime, which they placed at the very head of social enormities. It is this very crime, the murder of the soul, which is in the course of continuous and perpetual perpetration throughout the southern States of the American Union; and not upon a single individual only, but upon nearly one half of the entire population. Consider the slaves as men, and the course of treatment which custom and the laws prescribe is an artful, deliberate and well-digested scheme to break their spirit; to deprive them of courage and of manhood; to destroy their natural desire for an equal participation in the benefits of society; to keep them ignorant, and therefore weak; to reduce them, if possible, to a state of idiocy; to crowd them down to a level with the brutes. R. Hildreth. CCLXII. JUDICIAL TRIBUNALS. Let me here say that I hold judges, and especially the Supreme Court of the country, in much respect; but I am too familiar with the history of judicial proceedings to regard them with any superstitious reverence. Judges are but men, and in all ages have shown a full share of frailty. Alas! alas! the worst crimes of history have been perpetrated under their sanction. The blood of martyrs and of patriots, crying from the ground, summons them to judgment. It was a Judicial tribunal which condemned Socrates to drink the fatal hemlock, and which pushed the Saviour barefoot over the pavements of Jerusalem, bending beneath his cross. It was a judicial tribunal which, against the testimony and entreaties of her father, surrendered the fair Virginia as a slave; which arrested the teachings of the great apostle to the Gentiles, and sent him in bonds from Judea to Rome; which, in the name of the Old Religion, adjudged the saints and fathers of the Christian Church to death, in all its most dreadful forms; and which afterwards, in the name of the New Religion, enforced the tortures of the Inquisition, amidst the shrieks and agonies of its victims, while it compelled Galileo to declare, in solemn denial of the great truth he had disclosed, that the earth did not move round the sun. It was a judicial tribunal which, in France, during the long reign of her monarchs, lent itself to be the instrument of every tyranny, as during the brief reign of terror it did not hesitate to stand forth the unpitying accessory of the unpitying guillotine. Ay, sir, it was a judicial tribunal in England, surrounded by all the forms of law, which sanctioned every despotic caprice of Henry the Eighth, from the unjust divorce of his queen, to the beheading of Sir Thomas More; which lighted the fires of persecution that glowed at Oxford and Smithfield, over the cinders of Latimer, Ridley, and John Rogers; which, after elaborate argument, upheld the fatal tyranny of ship-money against the patriotic resistance of Hampden; which, in defiance of justice and humanity, sent Sydney and Russell to the block; which persistently enforced the laws of Conformity that our Puritan Fathers persistently refused to obey; and which afterwards, with Jeffries on the bench, crimsoned the pages of English history with massacre and murder--even with the blood of innocent woman. Ay, sir, and it was a judicial tribunal in our country, surrounded by all the forms of law, which hung witches at Salem,--which affirmed the constitutionality of the Stamp Act, while it admonished "jurors and the people" to obey,--and which now, in our day has lent its sanction to the unutterable atrocity of the Fugitive Slave Bill. C. Sumner. CCLXIII. SLAVERY THE MAINSPRING OF THE REBELLION. The whole quantity of slave-owners, great and small, according to the recent census, is not more than four hundred thousand; out of whom there are not more than one hundred thousand who are interested to any considerable extent in this peculiar species of property; and yet this petty oligarchy--itself controlled by a squad still more petty--in a population of many millions, has aroused and organized this gigantic rebellion. The future historian will record that the present rebellion--notwithstanding its protracted origin, the multitudes it has enlisted, and its extensive sweep--was at last precipitated by fewer than twenty men; Mr. Everett says, by as few as ten. It is certain that thus far it has been the triumph of a minority; but of a minority moved, inspired, combined, and aggrandized by slavery. And now this traitorous minority, putting aside all the lurking, slimy devices of conspiracy steps forth in the full panoply of war. Assuming to itself all the functions of a government, it organizes States under a common head--sends ambassadors into foreign countries--levies taxes--borrows money--issues letters of marque--and sets armies in the field, summoned from distant Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas, as well as from nearer Virginia, and composed of the whole lawless population--the poor who cannot own slaves as well as the rich who own them--throughout the extensive region where, with satanic grasp, this slaveholding minority claims for itself "--ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace." Pardon the language which I employ. The words of the poet do not picture too strongly the object proposed. And now these parricidal hosts stand arrayed openly against that paternal Government to which they owed loyalty, protection, and affection Never in history did rebellion assume such a front. Call their numbers four hundred thousand or two hundred thousand--what you will--they far surpass any armed forces ever before marshalled in rebellion; they are among the largest ever marshalled in war. And all this is in the name of slavery, and for the sake of slavery, and at the bidding of slavery. The profligate favorite of the English monarch--the famous Duke of Buckingham--was not more exclusively supreme--even according to those words by which he was exposed to the judgment of his contemporaries: "Who rules the kingdom? The king. "Who rules the king? The Duke. "Who rules the Duke? The Devil." The prevailing part here attributed to the royal favorite belongs now to slavery, which in the rebel States is a more than royal favorite. Who rules the rebel States? The President. Who rules the President? Slavery. Who rules slavery?-- The latter question I need not answer. But all must see--and nobody can deny--that slavery is the ruling idea of this rebellion. It is slavery which marshals these hosts and breathes into their embattled ranks its own barbarous fire. It is slavery which stamps its character alike upon officers and men. It is slavery which inspires all, from the general to the trumpeter. It is slavery which speaks in the words of command, and which sounds in the morning drum-beat. It is slavery which digs trenches and builds hostile forts. It is slavery which pitches its white tents and stations its sentries over against the national capital. It is slavery which sharpens the bayonet and casts the bullet; which points the cannon and scatters the shell, blazing, bursting with death. Wherever this rebellion shows itself--whatever form it takes--whatever thing it does--whatever it meditates--it is moved by slavery; nay, it is slavery itself, incarnate, living, acting, raging, robbing, murdering, according to the essential law of its being. C Sumner. CCLXIV. ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA. Mr. President, with unspeakable delight I hail this measure and the prospect of its speedy adoption. It is the first instalment of that great debt which we all owe to an enslaved race, and will be recognized in history as one of the victories of humanity. At home, throughout our own country, it will be welcomed with gratitude, while abroad it will quicken the hopes of all who love freedom. Liberal institutions will gain everywhere by the abolition of slavery at the national Capital. Nobody can read that slaves were once sold in the markets of Rome, beneath the eyes of the sovereign Pontiff without confessing the scandal to religion, even in a barbarous age; and nobody can hear that slaves are now sold in the markets of Washington, beneath the eyes of the President, without confessing the scandal to liberal institutions. For the sake of our good name, if not for the sake of justice, let the scandal disappear. Slavery, beginning in violence, can have no legal or constitutional existence, unless through positive words expressly authorizing it. As no such positive words can be found in the Constitution, all legislation by Congress supporting slavery must be unconstitutional and void, while it is made still further impossible by positive words of prohibition guarding the liberty of every person within the exclusive jurisdiction of Congress. But the question is asked, Shall we vote money for this purpose? I cannot hesitate; and I place it at once under the sanction of that commanding charity proclaimed by prophets and enjoined by apostles, which all history recognizes and which the Constitution cannot impair. From time immemorial every government has undertaken to ransom its subjects from captivity,--and sometimes a whole people has felt its resources well bestowed in the ransom of its prince. Religion and humanity have both concurred in this duty, as more than usually sacred. "The ransom of captives is a great and excelling office of justice," exclaims one of the early fathers. The power thus commended has been exercised by the United States under important circumstances with the coöperation of the best names of our history, so as to be without question. If slavery be unconstitutional in the national Capital, and if it be a Christian duty, sustained by constitutional examples, to ransom slaves, then your swift desires cannot hesitate to adopt the present bill, and it becomes needless to enter upon other questions, important perhaps, but irrelevant. C. Sumner. CCLXV. THE SAME CONCLUDED. Of course, I scorn to argue the obvious truth that the slaves here are as much entitled to freedom as the white slaves that enlisted the early energies of our Government. They are men by the grace of God, and this is enough. There is no principle of the Constitution, and no rule of justice, which is not as strong for the one as for the other. In consenting to the ransom proposed, you will recognize their manhood, and, if authority be needed, you will find it in the example of Washington, who did not hesitate to employ a golden key to open the house of bondage. Let this bill pass, and the first practical triumph of freedom for which good men have longed, dying without the sight--for which a whole generation has petitioned, and for which orators and statesmen have pleaded--will at last be accomplished. Slavery will be banished from the national Capital. This metropolis, which bears a venerated name, will be purified; its evil spirit will be cast out; its shame will be removed; its society will be refined; its courts will be made better; its revolting ordinances will be swept away; and even its loyalty will be secured. If not moved by justice to the slave, then be willing to act for your own good and in self-defence. If you hesitate to pass this bill for the blacks, then pass it for the whites. Nothing is clearer than that the degradation of slavery affects the master as much as the slave; while recent events testify that wherever slavery exists, there treason lurks, if it does not flaunt. From the beginning of this rebellion, slavery has been constantly manifest in the conduct of the masters, and even here in the national Capital, it has been the traitorous power which has encouraged and strengthened the enemy. This power must be suppressed at every cost, and if its suppression here endangers slavery elsewhere, there will be a new motive for determined action. Amidst all present solicitudes the future cannot be doubtful. At the national Capital slavery will give way to freedom; but the good work will not stop here. It must proceed. What God and nature decree rebellion cannot arrest. And as the whole wide-spreading tyranny begins to tumble, then, above the din of battle, sounding from the sea and echoing along the land, above even the exaltations of victory on well-fought fields, will ascend voices of gladness and benediction, swelling from generous hearts wherever civilization bears sway, to commemorate a sacred triumph whose trophies, instead of tattered banners, will be ransomed slaves. C. Sumner. CXLXVI. EXTRACT FROM FAREWELL ADDRESS AT NEW ORLEANS. I shall speak in no bitterness, because I am not conscious of a single personal animosity. Commanding the Army of the Gulf, I found you captured, but not surrendered; conquered, but not orderly; relieved from the presence of an army, but incapable of taking care of yourselves. I restored order, punished crime, opened commerce, brought provisions to your starving people, reformed your currency, and gave you quiet protection, such as you had not enjoyed for many years. The enemies of my country unrepentant and implacable, I have treated with merited severity. I hold that rebellion is treason, and that treason persisted in is death, and any punishment short of that due a traitor gives so much clear gain to him from the clemency of the government. Upon this thesis have I administered the authority of the United States, because of which I am not unconscious of complaint. I do not feel that I have erred in too much harshness, for that harshness has ever been exhibited to disloyal enemies to my country, and not to my loyal friends. To be sure, I might have regaled you with the amenities of British civilization, and yet been within the supposed rules of civilized warfare. You might have been smoked to death in caverns, as were the Covenanters of Scotland, by the command of a general of the royal house of England; or roasted, like the inhabitants of Algiers during the French campaign; your wives and daughters might have been given over to the ravisher, as were the unfortunate dames of Spain in the Peninsular war; or you might have been scalped and tomahawked, as our mothers were at Wyoming by the savage allies of Great Britain, in our own Revolution; your property could have been turned over to indiscriminate "loot," like the palace of the Emperor of China; works of art which adorned your buildings might have been sent away, like to paintings of the Vatican; your sons might have been blown from the mouths of cannon, like the Sepoys at Delhi; and yet all this would have been within the rules of civilized warfare as practised by the most polished and the most hypocritical nations of Europe. For such acts the records of the doings of some of the inhabitants of your city toward the friends of the Union, before my coming, were a sufficient provocative and justification. But I have not so conducted. On the contrary, the worst punishment inflicted, except for criminal acts punishable by every law, has been banishment with labor to a barren island, where I encamped my own soldiers before marching here. It is true I have levied upon the wealthy rebels, and paid out nearly half a million of dollars to feed forty thousand of the starving poor of all nations assembled here, made so by this war. I saw that this rebellion was a war of the aristocrats against the middling men--of the rich against the poor; a war of the landowner against the laborer; that it was a struggle for the retention of power in the hands of the few against the many; and I found no conclusion to it, save in the subjugation of the few and the disenthralment of the many. I, therefore, felt no hesitation in taking the substance of the wealthy, who had caused the war, to feed the innocent poor, who had suffered by the war. And I shall now leave you with the proud consciousness that I carry with me the blessings of the humble and loyal, under the roof of the cottage and in the cabin of the slave! and so am quite content to incur the sneers of the salon, or the curses of the rich. B. F. Butler. CCLXVII. CONCLUSION OF FAREWELL ADDRESS AT NEW ORLEANS. I found you trembling at the terrors of servile insurrection All danger of this I have prevented by so treating the slave that he had no cause to rebel. I found the dungeon, the chain, and the lash your only means of enforcing obedience in your servants. I leave them peaceful, laborious, controlled by the laws of kindness and justice. I have demonstrated that the pestilence can be kept from your borders. I have added a million of dollars to your wealth in the form of new land from the batture of the Mississippi. I have cleansed and improved your streets, canals, and public squares, and opened new avenues to unoccupied land. I have given you freedom of elections greater than you have ever enjoyed before. I have caused justice to be administered so impartially that your own advocates have unanimously complimented the judges of my appointment. You have seen, therefore, the benefit of the laws and justice of the government against which you have rebelled. Why, then, will you not all return to your allegiance to that government,--not with lip-service, but with the heart. I conjure you, if you desire ever to see renewed prosperity, giving business to your streets and wharves--if you hope to see your city become again the mart of the Western world, fed by its rivers for more than three thousand miles, draining the commerce of a country greater than the mind of man hath ever conceived--return to your allegiance. If you desire to leave to your children the inheritance you received from your fathers--a stable constitutional government; if you desire that they should in the future be a portion of the greatest empire the sun ever shone upon--return to your allegiance. There is but one thing that stands in the way. There is but one thing that at this hour stands between you and the Government--and that is slavery. The institution, cursed of God, which has taken its last refuge here, in His providence will be rooted out as the tares from the wheat, although the wheat be torn up with it. I have given much thought to the subject. I came among you, by teachings, by habit of mind, by political position, by social affinity, inclined to sustain your domestic laws, if by possibility they might be with safety to the Union. Months of experience and observation have forced the conviction that the existence of slavery is incompatible with the safety either of yourselves or of the Union. As the system has gradually grown to its present huge dimensions, it were best if it could gradually be removed; but it is better, far better, that it should be taken out at once, than that it should longer vitiate the social, political, and family relations of your country. I am speaking with no philanthropic views as regards the slave, but simply of the effect of slavery on the master. See for yourselves. Look around you and say whether this saddening, deadening influence has not all but destroyed the very framework of your society. I am speaking the farewell words of one who has shown his devotion to his country at the peril of his life and his fortune, who, in these words, can have neither hope nor interest, save the good of those he addresses; and let me here repeat, with all the solemnity of an appeal to Heaven to bear me witness, that such are the views forced upon me by experience. Come, then, to the unconditional support of the Government. Take into your own hands your own institutions; remodel them according to the laws of nations and of God, and thus attain that great prosperity assured to you by geographical position, only a portion of which was heretofore yours. B. F. Butler. CCLXVIII. RECONSTRUCTION OF THE UNION. I am not for the Union as it was. I have the honor to say, as a Democrat, and as an Andrew Jackson Democrat, I am not for the Union as it was, because I saw, or thought I saw, the troubles in the future which have burst upon us; but having undergone those troubles, having spent all this blood and this treasure, I do not mean to go back again and be cheek by jole, as I was before, with South Carolina, if I can help it. Mark me now; let no man misunderstand me; and I repeat, lest I may be misunderstood (for there are none so difficult to understand as those who do not wish to)--mark me again,--I say, I do not mean to give up a single inch of the soil of South Carolina If I had been living at that time, and had the position, the will, and the ability, I would have dealt with South Carolina as Jackson did, and kept her in the Union at all hazards; but now that she has gone out, I would take care that when she comes in again she should come in better behaved; that she should no longer be the firebrand of the Union, ay, that she should enjoy what her people never yet enjoyed, the blessings of a republican form of government. And, therefore, in that view I am not for the reconstruction of the Union as it was. I have spent treasure and blood enough upon it, in conjunction with my fellow-citizens, to make it a little better, and I think we can have a better Union. It was good enough if it had been let alone. The old house was good enough for me, but the South pulled it down, and I propose, when we build it up, to build it up with all the modern improvements. And one of the logical sequences, it seems to me, that follow inexorably and inevitably, from the proposition that we are dealing with alien enemies, is the question, what is our duty in regard to the confiscation of their property? And that would seem to me to be very easy of settlement under the Constitution, and without any discussion, if my proposition is right. Has it not been held from the beginning of the world down to this day, from the time the Israelites took possession of the land of Canaan, which they got from alien enemies, has it not been held that the whole of the property of those alien enemies belongs to the conqueror, and that it has been at his mercy and his clemency what should be done with it? And for one, I would take it and give it to the loyal man--loyal from the heart,--at the South, enough at least to make him as well as he was before; and I would take the rest of it and distribute it among the volunteer soldiers who have gone forth in the service of their country; and so far as I know them, if we should settle South Carolina with them, in the course of a few years, I should be quite willing to receive her back into the Union. B. F. Butler. CCLXIX. SPEECH AT THE UNION SQUARE MEETING IN NEW YORK. But we are called upon to act. There is no time for hesitation or indecision--no time for haste and excitement. It is a time when the people should rise in the majesty of their might, stretch forth their strong arm, and silence the angry waves of tumult. It is time the people should command peace. It is a question between union and anarchy--between law and disorder. All politics for the time being are and should be committed to the oblivion of the grave. The question should be, "Our country, our whole country, and nothing but our country." We should go forward in a manner becoming a great people, But six months ago, the material prosperity of our country was at its greatest height. To-day, by the fiat of madness, we are plunged in distress and threatened with political ruin, anarchy, and annihilation. It becomes us to stay the hands of this spirit of disunion. The voice of the Empire State can be potential in this unnatural strife. She has mighty power for union. She has great wealth and influence, and she must bring forward that wealth and exert that influence. She has numerous men, and she must send them to the field, and in the plenitude of her power command the public peace. This is a great commercial city--one of the modern wonders of the earth. With all the great elements that surround her, with her commercial renown, with her architectural magnificence, and with her enterprise and energy, she is capable of exercising a mighty power for good in silencing the angry waves of agitation. While I would prosecute this war in a manner becoming a civilized and a Christian people, I would do so in no vindictive spirit. I would do it as Brutus set the signet to the death-warrant of his son--"Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free." I love my country; I love this Union. It was the first vision of my early years; it is the last ambition of my public life. Upon its altar I have surrendered my choicest hopes. I had fondly hoped that in approaching age it was to beguile my solitary hours, and I will stand by it as long as there is a Union to stand by and when the ship of the Union shall crack and groan, when the skies lower and threaten, when the lightnings flash, the thunders roar, the storms beat, and the waves run mountain-high, if the ship of State goes down, and the Union perishes, I would rather perish with it than survive its destruction. Let us, my friends, stay up the hands of Union men in other sections of the country. How much have they sacrificed of advantage of national wealth, of political promotion! Let us aid them and cheer them on. Let us, my fellow-citizens, rally round the flag of our country, the flag of our fathers, the glorious flag known and honored throughout the earth, and now rendered more illustrious by the gallant Anderson. In the spirit of peace and forbearance he waved it over Fort Sumter. The pretended authorities of South Carolina and the other Southern States attacked him because they seemed to consider him a kind of minister plenipotentiary. Let us maintain our flag in the same noble spirit that animated him, and never desert it while one star is left. If I could see my bleeding, torn, maddened, and distracted country once more restored to quiet and lasting peace under those glorious stars and stripes, I should almost be ready to take the oath of the infatuated leader in Israel--Jephthah and swear to sacrifice the first living thing that I should meet on my return from victory. D. S. Dickinson. CCLXX. THE PERPETUITY OF THE UNION. Give up the Union? Never! The Union shall endure, and its praises shall be heard when its friends and its foes, those who support, and those who assail, those who bare their bosoms in its defence, and those who aim their daggers at its heart, shall all sleep in the dust together. Its name shall be heard with veneration amid the roar of the Pacific's waves, away upon the river of the North and East where liberty is divided from monarchy, and be wafted in gentle breezes upon the Rio Grande. It shall rustle in the harvest and wave in the standing corn, on the extended prairies of the West, and be heard in the bleating folds find lowing herds upon a thousand hills. It shall be with those who delve in mines, and shall hum in the manufactories of New England, and in the cotton-gins of the South. It shall be proclaimed by the Stars and Stripes in every sea of earth, as the American Union, one and indivisible; upon the great thoroughfares, wherever steam drives, and engines throb and shriek, its greatness and perpetuity shall be hailed with gladness. It shall be lisped in the earliest words, and ring in the merry voices of childhood, and swell to Heaven upon the song of maidens. It shall live in the stern resolve of manhood, and rise to the mercy-seat upon woman's gentle availing prayer. Holy men shall invoke its perpetuity at the altars of religion, and it shall be whispered in the last accents of expiring age. Thus shall survive and be perpetuated the American Union; and when it shall be proclaimed that time shall be no more, and the curtain shall fall, and the good shall be gathered to a more perfect union, still may the destiny of our dear land recognize the conception, that "Perfumes as of Eden flowed sweetly along, And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung, Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, The Queen of the world, and the child of the skies." D. S. Dickinson. CCLXXI. OUR REFORMERS. What to-day is the position of the men who, for the past thirty years, have worked to bring our practice into conformity with the principles of the Government, and who, in the struggle against established and powerful interests, have accepted political disability and humiliated lives? Have any of these been put in governing places where their proved fidelity would guarantee the direct execution of what is to-day the nearly unanimous will of the people? Certainly not yet. So far, the virtue of the reformers is its own reward. While they are yet living, their mantles have fallen upon the shoulders of others to whom you have given high position, but they are still laboring in narrow paths--broadening, to be sure, and brightening--for the rough ground is passed, and their sun of victory is already rising. We give deep sympathy and honor to the men who, in the interests of civilization, separated themselves from mankind to penetrate the chill solitudes of the Arctic regions. Their names remain an added constellation in polar skies. But, we know that bitter skies and winter winds are not so unkind as man's ingratitude. And why, then, do we withhold sympathy and honor from these men who have so unflinchingly trod their isolated paths of self-appointed duty, accepting political and social excommunication--these heroes of the moral solitudes? But even as it is, our reformers have a better lot than history usually records for such; they have the satisfaction not only to see but to enter, with the people whom they led, into the promised land. And perhaps they are well satisfied to repose, and to rest upon their finished work, feeling surely that they have been faithful servants and that their country will yet say to them, "Well done!" Sometimes, in unfamiliar countries, the traveller finds himself shrouded in fog and the way so hidden, the features of the country so singularly cleansed from the reality, that he cannot safely move. But if some friendly mountain side lets him ascend a few hundred feet above, he finds himself suddenly in a clear atmosphere with a blue sky and a shining sun. Below him the smaller objects that misled and bewildered him lie hidden; before him stand out, salient and clear, the leading ridges and great outlines of the country which point out to him the right way, and show him where he may reach a place of security and repose for the night, and he goes on his journey confidently. And so it is with those men who devote their lives, unflinchingly and singly, to the public good to the maintenance of principles and the advocacy of great reforms. They live in a pure atmosphere. And such ought also to be the character of the men whom we elevate to our high places. Raised into that upper air, and charged with the general safety, they are expected to be impersonal; they are expected to see over and beyond the personal ambitions and individual interests which of necessity influence men acting individually; their horizon is universal, and they see broadly defined the great principles which lead a nation continuously on to a settled prosperity and a sure glory. And as a condition of our material safety we should see to it that only such men are put in such places. Men capable of receiving a conviction and realizing a necessity--men able to comprehend the spirit of the age and the country in which we live, and fearless in working up to it. J. C. Fremont. CCLXXII. PUBLIC RUMOR. The counsel for the prosecution has said that if the Reverend defendant has not been duly charged with heretical teachings by actual evidence, he has been so charged by public rumor; and he gravely contends that a clergyman charged by public rumor may be required to exculpate himself before an ecclesiastical council. There is a passion known among men as the most eager, implacable, remorseless of passions, a moral curiosity, named by psychologists the odium theologicum. It thrives on the slightest possible food. It lives on air. Public rumor is substantial enough for its richest diet. Public Rumor! I was educated to despise it. An established public opinion, we must treat with due respect, but disparaging rumor, however public, I should be ashamed to own as a motive for one action of my life. When the counsel for the prosecution passed his eulogy on the memory of Dr. Croswell, I could not but think what a rebuke his whole life was to public rumor. If ever man was the destined victim of public rumor, that man was William Croswell. Not left to its low haunts, but elevated by Episcopal sanction, promulgated by Episcopal proclamation, it charged him with teaching doctrines and observances "degrading to the character of the Church and perilling the souls of the people." But in patience and confidence he lived it all down. He went forward in the discharge of his noble duties, in daily prayers, daily public service, daily ministrations to the poor, sick and afflicted, not without much suffering from the relentless attacks of party spirit,--sufferings which shortened his days on earth,--and the daily beauty of his life made ugly the countenance of detraction and defamation. Public confidence, a plant of slow growth, grew about him. Public justice was rendered to him without a movement of his own. He fell, at his post, with all his armor on. At the time of the evening sacrifice, the angel touched him and he was called away. He fell, with his face to the altar, with the words of benediction on his lips, surrounded by a devoted congregation, mourned by an entire community. All men rose up and called him blessed. From the distinguished Rector of St. Paul's, exclaiming, in the words of the prophet, "My father, my father, the chariots of Israel and the horsemen thereof!" to the humble orphan child in the obscure alley, who missed his daily returning visit,--all, all, with one accord, sent up their voices as incense to Heaven. I had the privilege to be one of the number who received him on his entrance into this city, to take charge of his newly formed parish. I am proud and grateful to remember that I was one of those on whom, in his long struggle, in a measure, according to my ability, he leaned for support. And after seven years, I believe seven years to the very day that we received him, I had the melancholy privilege, with that same company, of bearing his body up that aisle which he had so often ascended in his native dignity and in the beauty of holiness. I should be an unworthy parishioner, pupil, I may say friend of his, if I allowed myself to defer for a moment to public rumor on a question of character or principle. I should be forgetful of his example if I permitted any one to do so who looked to me for counsel or direction. No, gentlemen, let us all, laymen or clergymen, call to mind his life and his death, and let public rumor blow past us as the idle wind. R. H. Dana, Jr. CCLXXIII. THE POLITICAL ENFRANCHISEMENT OF THE NORTH. Mr. Chairman; Will the people of the Free States unite in one earnest effort to recover their personal and political equality, and to retrieve the honor of the country? It must be done! But, let us not deceive ourselves. The task is no easy one. Oligarchies have ruled the world. Our national government has always been qualified by the element of a slaveholding aristocracy. This aristocracy is powerful,--powerful in its unity of interest, the common slave property, with its values and its perils. It is powerful in its character as a caste. Unlike all other modern aristocracies it is a caste, and the most formidable, exclusive and ineradicable of all castes--a caste founded on race and color. It is powerful in the ordinary elements of power which oligarchies possess. The slaveholding education gives elements of control, the bearing and habit of command, and the assertion of superiority. This exercises its influence over weak minds. People doubtful of their own gentility bow to the established aristocracy of slavery. The thing that hath been is that which shall be, and there is no new thing under the sun. What forces are we to bring into the field against them?--the divided, heterogeneous masses of a free and equal people. The vast class of the timid, mercenary and time-serving belong to the strongest. Slavery has had them. We shall never have them until we show ourselves the strongest. Will the trading and moneyed interests, so powerful in the Northern cities, do their duty? Is there force enough, virtue enough, in our thirteen millions to assert their political equality, to achieve their own enfranchisement, to make freedom national and slavery sectional; to secure the future to freedom? The few next years will answer this question. You appeal to the spirit of 1776. Remember that the Dutch revolution was as glorious as our own. Holland began in civil and religious liberty, with heroism, freedom, industry and prosperity. In time the Dutch learned to make material interests their ruling motive. They ceased to live for ideas, and where are they now? Prosperous, educated, industrious and--despised! The high tone, the glory is gone! But is such to be the fate of Massachusetts,--of New England? Massachusetts, in times past, has lived and suffered for ideas, for principles, for abstractions. Powerful influences have been exerted, from the highest quarters, to bring her into subjection to material interests and unheroic maxims, to sap the chivalry and enthusiasm of her youth. But it is not too late, Let her slough this all off in her hour of trial! Let her cast off her disguises and her rags together, and stand forth in the garb and attitude of a hero! This work must be done. If the men of scholarship and accomplishments and wealth who have heretofore enjoyed prominence, do not feel themselves up to the work, the people will call the cobbler from his stall, the factory-boy from his loom, the yeoman from his plough, but the work shall be done. Fishermen and tent-makers renovated the world. The Roman centurion was sent to a fisherman who lodged at the house of a tanner by the seaside, to hear what, should be done for mankind. Why do we hesitate? What provocation more do we propose to wait for? They have added Slave States by a coup d'état: shall we wait until they have added Cuba and Mexico? They are forcing slavery upon the Territories: must we wait until they have succeeded? They have violated one solemn compact: how many more must they break before we assert our right? They have struck down a Senator in his place. They are already designating the next victim: must we wait until he has fallen? The Senator from Georgia spoke truth when he said the deed was done in the right time and right manner. There needed an act as bad as it could be made to rouse the spirit of the North. Let the priest be slain at the altar-stone. Let these Herods mingle blood with their sacrifices. It is needed. We have been so long sentient that the spirit of freedom must be roused by violence. It is not fit that the land of the Pilgrims should bear the shame longer! By the duty we owe to justice and liberty throughout the world, by the natural pride of men, by the cultivated honor of gentlemen, it is not fit that we bear the shame longer! R. H. Dana, Jr. CCLXXIV. THE EDUCATION OF THE WAR. Over and above the ordinary and universal means of intellectual development, the Divine Providence, now and then, prepares extraordinary means to the same end, in those social convulsions and calamities that shake whole nations with the mighty upheavals of thought and passion. A war of secession and disintegration is upon us. The nation's integrity and its very life are at stake. It is an epoch that the most sluggish minds cannot sleep through. They who never thought before must think now. They who never felt before must feel now. The intellect of the nation is aroused in the presence of this immense issue. It is an educational epoch. Its perils, trials, sacrifices, are the school-discipline of God. The mind of the people grows up whole cubits of stature in a short time. The heart of the people is moved to its deepest depths,--of all classes, but most of the most numerous and the governing class, the agricultural. And the heart is always the head's best ally. Deep feeling begets strong thinking. Sentiments of patriotism and loyalty, newborn and fervid, awaken and reinforce the intellect, raise up character, enlarge the whole man. And this reviving and reinvigorating influence will not pass away with the trials that produced it. When God educates it is not for a day, but for generations. When He quickens a new life in the soul of a people, it is a life that lasts. When He touches the human harp with His own mighty, but tender hand, the sound remains in the strings for an age, and for ages. Long after this war shall have closed, and its distresses passed away, its moral and intellectual compensations will remain. Every village will have its war-worn veterans to tell the story of Antietam, and Gettysburg, and Port Hudson, and many another field of daring achievement. Almost every farm-house in the land will have its sacred and inspiring memories of a father, son, or brother, who fought for his country, whom they, and their posterity after them, must henceforth love and take thought for as their very mother. And every village graveyard will have its green mounds, that shall need no storied monuments to clothe them with a peculiar consecration,--graves that hold the dust of heroes,--graves that all men approach with reverent steps,--graves out of whose solemn silence shall whisper inspiring voices, telling the young from generation to generation, how great is their country's worth and cost, and how beautiful and noble it was to die for it. G. Putnam. CCLXXV. WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY FEBRUARY 22, 1864. Meanwhile, the military signs of the hour are auspicious. Already we seem to see the dawn breaking in the horizon. In these latter months, we have heard it from all loyal tongues, and seen it in all loyal faces--the confident hope that the day of triumph and peace is ready to break and shine on into noonday fulness. The nation's banner, torn and soiled in battle, but with every star and stripe kept whole and radiant in its fair expanse, shall be brought back to the Capitol; and it may well be that he, the illustrious civic leader, who first flung it to the breeze in the nation's necessity, should be the man whose hands shall be privileged to furl it again in Peace,--he, who sits worthily in the chair that once held Washington; he, so honest and pure in his great function, so wise and prudent, so faithful and firm;--God bless and preserve Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States! Therefore, if it be in our hearts this day, bending at the shrine of Washington, to renew our vow to preserve the country which he gave us for a sacred inheritance, we can do it with good hope. And verily we must vow, and keep the vow, cost what it may of time or wealth, or blood,--for his sake, and our own, and our children's, and humanity's sake, we must. It is true, there is no perpetuity for national existence, or for individual influence or renown. Earthly empires must decay at last, and with them the vital presence, the living influence of their founders and fathers. This magnificent polity--his, ours--must, doubtless, one day, share the common fate, and where it goes down, the star of Washington must set with it, and his name pass, an unheeded word, into the dead annals of the obsolete ages. But O! not yet--say it, Americans!--not now! The laurel chaplet must not be torn from his brow while it is still so fresh and green, and not yet fully wreathed. His statues must not be pushed from their pedestals to be crumbled into common earth, until the centuries have had time to hallow them with their venerable stains. This fair palace of national freedom, of which he was the master-builder, must not crumble into ruin, till it shall have given a shelter and a home, security, glory, and peace, to the children's children, and the remote posterity of those for whom he reared it with the loving ardor of his great soul and the strength of his mighty arm. It must not, need not, shall not be. To think of it for a moment is base recreancy and intolerable shame. Forbid it, thou God of nations, and our fathers God! Forbid it, ye, my countrymen, as ye have the power--ay, ten times the power that is requisite. Only rise up again, and yet again, in your strength, and by all that is dear and sacred in the name and fame of your country's Father, swear that it shall not be, and then it cannot be. Give anew your heart and soul and faith, unswerving fidelity, whole-hearted loyalty--your voice, your strength, your wealth all that you are or possess, to this great cause, give these unitedly, fervently, with one shout, one blow, and in perfect accord, and then it will not be. Then the mad enterprise of rebellion is crushed, and the fiend goes howling back, baffled, to his place. Then your birthright is rescued from the destroyer, And when this anniversary shall return, next year, or the next, yonder marble form in our Capitol shall exchange the look of majestic sorrow which seems to have gathered over it, for a smile of grateful joy; and those lips of stone shall move and grow fervid with words of exultant and benedictory congratulation. Forth, then, friends and compatriots, to the work that shall save the storm-tossed ark of our liberties and our hopes. G. Putnam. CCLXXVI. OUR HEROIC DEAD. There is a history in almost every home of Massachusetts, which will never be written; but the memory of kindred has it embalmed forever. The representatives of the pride and hope of uncounted households, departing, will return no more. The shaft of the archer, attracted by the shining mark, numbers them among his fallen. In the battles of Big Bethel, of Bull Run, of Ball's Bluff, of Roanoke Island, of Newbern, of Winchester, of Yorktown, of Williamsburg, of West Point, of Fair Oaks, the battles before Richmond from Mechanicsville to Malvern Hill, of James Island, of Baton Rouge, of Cedar Mountain, of Bull Run again, of Chantilly of Washington in North Carolina, of South Mountain, of Antietam, of Fredericksburg, of Goldsborough,--through all the capricious fortunes of the war, the regiments of Massachusetts have borne her flag by the side of the banner of the Union. And, beyond the Atlantic slope, every battle-field has drunk the blood of her sons, nurtured among her hills and sands, from which in adventurous manhood they turned their footsteps to the West. Officers and enlisted men have vied with each other in deeds of valor. This flag, whose standard-bearer, shot down in battle, tossed it from his dying hand nerved by undying patriotism, has been caught by the comrade, who in his turn has closed his eyes for the last time upon its starry folds as another hero-martyr clasped the splintered staff and rescued the symbol at once of country and of their blood-bought fame. How can fleeting words of human praise gild the record of their glory? Our eyes suffused with tears, and blood retreating to the heart, stirred with unwonted thrill, speak with the eloquence of nature, uttered but unexpressed. From the din of the battle, they have passed to the peace of eternity. Farewell! warrior, citizen, patriot, lover, friend,--whether in the humbler ranks or bearing the sword of official power, whether private, captain, surgeon, or chaplain, for all these in the heady fight have passed away,--Hail! and Farewell! Each hero must sleep serenely on the field where he fell in a cause "sacred to liberty and the rights of mankind." "Worn by no wasting, lingering pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way." J. A. Andrew. CCLXXVII. HONOR TO OUR HEROES. The heart swells with unwonted emotion when we remember our sons and brothers, whose constant valor has sustained on the field, during nearly three years of war, the cause of our country, of civilization, and liberty. Our volunteers have represented Massachusetts, during the year just ended, on almost every field and in every department of the army where our flag has been unfurled. At Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, Vicksburg, Port Hudson, and Fort Wagner, at Chickamauga, Knoxville, and Chattanooga,--under Hooker, and Meade, and Banks, and Gillmore, and Rosecrans, Burnside, and Grant; in every scene of danger and of duty, along the Atlantic and the Gulf, on the Tennessee, the Cumberland, the Mississippi and the Rio Grande,--under Dupont and Dahlgren, and Foote, and Farragut and Porter,--the sons of Massachusetts have borne their part, and paid the debt of patriotism and valor. Ubiquitous as the stock they descend from, national in their opinions and universal in their sympathies, they have fought shoulder to shoulder with men of all sections and of every extraction. On the ocean, on the rivers, on the land, on the heights where they thundered down from the clouds of Lookout Mountain the defiance of the skies, they have graven with their swords a record imperishable, The Muse herself demands the lapse of silent years to soften, by the influences of Time, her too keen and poignant realization of the scenes of War--the pathos, the heroism, the fierce joy, the grief of battle. But, during the ages to come, she will brood over their memory. Into the hearts of her consecrated priests will breathe the inspirations of lofty and undying Beauty, Sublimity and Truth, in all the glowing forms of speech, of literature and plastic art. By the homely traditions of the fireside--by the head-stones in the church-yard consecrated to those whose farms repose far off in rude graves by the Rappahannock, or sleep beneath the sea,--embalmed in the memories of succeeding generations of parents and children, the heroic dead will live on in immortal youth. By their names, their character, their service, their fate, their glory, they cannot fail:-- "They never fail who die In a great cause; the block may soak their gore; Their heads may sodden in the sun, their limbs Be strung to city gates and castle walls; But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years Elapse and others share as dark a doom, They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts Which overpower all others, and conduct The world at last to Freedom." The edict of Nantes maintaining the religious liberty of the Huguenots gave lustre to the fame of Henry the Great, whose name will gild the pages of philosophic history after mankind may have forgotten the martial prowess and the white plume of Navarre. The Great Proclamation of Liberty will lift the Ruler who uttered it, our Nation and our Age, above all vulgar destiny. The bell which rang out the Declaration of independence, has found at last a voice articulate, to "Proclaim Liberty throughout all the Land unto all the Inhabitants thereof." It has been heard across oceans, and has modified the sentiments of cabinets and kings. The people of the Old World have heard it, and their hearts stop to catch the last whisper of its echoes. The poor slave has heard it, and with bounding joy, tempered by the mystery of religion, he worships and adores. The waiting Continent has heard it, and already foresees the fulfilled prophecy, when she will sit "redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled by the irresistible Genius of Universal Emancipation." J. A. Andrew. CCLXXVIII. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE CONTEST. I hold this armed contest to be a great historical movement, and to have high moral interest and significance because it is to determine the character of the institutions under which we, and those who come after us, are to live. You are not merely sustaining the administration of President Lincoln against unlawful combinations, but you are fighting on the side of law, order, government, civilization and progress. The result of this war is to settle the question whether they who are hereafter to inhabit this magnificent country are or are not to have that primal blessing of a good government, without which the most abundant material resources are as valueless as scientific books or philosophical installments would be among the most barbarous tribes of Africa or Australia. Surely there cannot be imagined a war more worthy of calling forth all the energies of a great people than this. And if I am asked to define my meaning more distinctly and precisely, I say that the questions now submitted to the stern arbitrament of war are substantially these: Is the Constitution of the United States a compact or a law? Is this Union a Commonwealth, a State, or is it merely a confederacy or a copartnership? Is there a right of secession in the separate States, singly or collectively, other than the right of revolution? These are momentous questions, and if they can be settled in no other way than by a war, then such a war is worth the price it costs, great as that is. For if the right of secession be fairly and logically deducible from the Constitution--if any State, upon its own mere motion, with cause or without cause, can withdraw from the Union as a partner may dissolve a copartnership--then the Constitution itself is a stupendous failure, the men who made it were bungling journeymen and not master-mechanics, and to institutions of our country, so far from deserving our gratitude and admiration, are worthy only of our contempt. The hour has come, and the men have come, to settle these issues, fraught with such vital consequences to unborn millions. The dusky clouds, surcharged with electric fires, that stand front to front in mid air and darken the heavens with their power, have been long in gathering; let the storm continue till the air is cleared--and no longer. I want to have it now determined that for all future time any State, or any cluster of States, that may attempt to coerce or bully a legal and constitutional majority by the threat of secession, shall be met with the answer: "You don't go out of this Union unless you are strong enough to fight your way out." I want to have the armed heel of the country crush the serpent head of secession, now and forever, so that it shall never again glare with its baleful eyes, or brandish its venomous tongue. Let not the fate and fortunes of this glorious country be committed to the keeping of a clumsy, misshapen raft, compacted of twenty-four or thirty-four logs, good enough to float down a river, but sure to go to pieces when it gets into deep water; Let let them be embarked on board a goodly ship, well found, well fastened, well manned--in which every timber and plank has been so fashioned as to contribute to the beauty and strength of the whole fabric, with a good seaman at the helm, the Constitution in the binnacle, and the stars and stripes at the masthead. When the time of my departure shall come, let me feel, let me know, that I leave those whom I love under the protection of a government good enough to secure the affection of its subjects, and strong enough to enforce their obedience. Remember that if a strong government be sometimes bad, a weak government is never good. G. S. Hillard. CCLXXIX. THE MILITARY CAPACITY OF THE PEOPLE. We have cause for gratitude in the military capacity which our people have developed. We had no great standing armies. We had but a single thoroughly furnished military school. There was no military profession proper, inviting young men on the threshold of life to choose the trade of arms. A soldier's garb was a rare spectacle, and every child ran to the window to gaze at the passing glitter. Whence should come our fighting men if the bugle should blow? You must have men before you have soldiers. Our institutions raised men. Proverbially the Yankee can turn his hand to anything. He likes to do well what he undertakes. He has a pride in showing himself equal to his position. Above all, he has force of personal character. When a Northern regiment makes a charge, it is not merely the weight of so much physical humanity; there goes weight of character with it. Why, there is an accomplished schoolmaster there, and the best blacksmith of the village, and a solid merchant, and a dexterous lawyer, and the handiest coachman of the stable, and a well known stage-driver on a prominent public route, and a butcher with an unerring cleaver, and a jolly tar whose vessel never missed stays with his hand at the wheel; do you suppose that these men are going to charge like so many nameless Hessians? Why, it is a personal matter with every one of them. They go in under orders, to be sure, but they have not lost the sense of individual responsibility. The thing is to be well done because they are there. I know it, my friends, the personal character of our recruits lends weight and irresistibleness to them as soldiers. There have been no braver men, no stouter soldiers, in all war's red annals, than these armed clerks, farmers, college boys, and their comrades of every peaceful calling. Each community keeps the name of some young hero, nobler than Spartan mothers ever welcomed on his shield. Redder blood never stained the earth, than those full libations our new mustered ranks have poured out for union, law, and liberty. There has been no fighting in the bloody past of human story, where muzzle to muzzle and steel to steel, bold hearts have more truly played the man, than in those battles of two years past in which our citizen armies have saved our nationality. Never have the hardships of the camp, the march, the field, and the trenches, and the merciless privations of imprisonment been more heroically endured. It was not needed--and our President said it well--to consecrate the sacred acres of Gettysburg; that was already done by the deep baptism that had laved those hills, and not that field only, but all the sands and sods and waves our boys' brave blood have crimsoned. No land beneath the blue heavens was ever kept by stouter living bulwarks; no mourners ever had a nobler heritage than those that mourn our soldier-dead. A. L. Stone. CCLXXX. LIMIT TO HUMAN DOMINION. God has given the land to man, but the sea He has reserved to Himself. "The sea is His, and He made it." He has given man "no inheritance in it; no, not so much as to set his foot on." If he enters its domain, he enters it as a pilgrim and a stranger. He may pass over it, but he can have no abiding place upon it. He cannot build his house, nor so much as pitch his tent within it. He cannot mark it with his lines, nor subdue it to his uses, nor rear his monuments upon it. It steadfastly refuses to own him as its lord and master. Its depths do not tremble at his coming. Its waters do not flee when he appeareth. All the strength of all his generations is to it as a feather before the whirlwind; and all the noise of his commerce, and all the thunder of his navies, it can hush in a moment within the silence of its impenetrable abysses. Whole armies have gone down into that unfathomable darkness, and not a floating bubble marks the place of their disappearing. If all the populations of the world, from the beginning of time, were cast into its depths the smooth surface of its oblivion would close over them in an hour; and if all the cities of the earth, and all the structures and monuments ever reared by man were heaped together over that grave for a tombstone, it would not break the surface of the deep or lift back their memory to the light of the sun and the breath of the upper air. The sea would roll its billows in derision, a thousand fathoms deep, above the topmost stone of that mighty sepulchre. The patient earth submits to the rule of man, and the mountains bow their rocky heads before the hammer of his power and the blast of his terrible enginery. The sea cares not for him; not so much as a single hair's breadth can its level be lowered or lifted by all the art, and all the effort, and all the enginery of all the generations of time. He comes and goes upon it, and a moment after it is as if he had never been there. He may engrave his titles upon the mountain top, and quarry his signature into the foundations of the globe, but he cannot write his name on the sea. And thus, by its material uses and its spiritual voices, does the sea ever speak to us, to tell up that its builder and maker is God. He hewed its channels in the deep, and drew its barriers upon the stand, and cast its belted waters around the world. He fitted it to the earth and the sky, and poised them skilfully, the one against the other, when He "measured the waters in the hollow of His hand, and meted out heaven with the span, and comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighted the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance." He gave the sea its wonderful laws, and armed it with its wonderful powers, and set it upon its wonderful work. "O'er all its breadth His wisdom walks, On all its waves His goodness shines." L. Swain. CCLXXXI. THE BATTLE OF CIVILIZATIONS. Our war is only an appeal from the nineteenth century of freedom and ballots to the system of the sixteenth century. The old conflict,--a new weapon, that is all. The South thought because once, twice, thrice, the spaniel North had gotten down on her knees, that this time, also, poisoned by cotton-dust, she would kiss her feet. But instead of that, for the first time in our history, the North has flung the insult back, and said: "By the Almighty, the Mississippi is mine, and I will have it." Now, when shall come peace? Out of this warlike conflict, when shall come peace? Just as it came in the conflict of parties and discussion. Whenever one civilization gets the uppermost positively, then there will be peace, and never till then. There is no new thing under the sun. The light shed upon our future is the light of experience. Seventy years have not left us ignorant of what the aristocracy of the South means and plans. The South needs to rule, or she goes by the board. She is a wise power. I respect her for it. She knows that she needs to rule. What does Mr. Jefferson Davis plan? Do you suppose he plans for an imaginary line to divide South Carolina from New York and Massachusetts? What good would that do? An imaginary line would not shut out ideas. But she must bar out those ideas. That is the programme in the South. He imagines he can broaden his base by allying himself to a weaker race. He says: "I will join marriage with the weak races of Mexico and the Southwest, and then, perhaps, I can draw to my side the Northwest, with its interests as an agricultural population, naturally allied to me, and not to the Northeast, with its tariff set of States." And he thinks thus, a strong, quiet, slaveholding empire, he will bar New England and New York out in the cold, and will have comparative peace. But if he bar New England out in the cold, what then? She is still there. And give it only the fulcrum of Plymouth Rock an idea will upheave the continent. Now, Davis knows that better than we do,--a great deal better. His plan, therefore is to mould an empire so strong, so broad, that it can control New England and New York. He is not only to found a slaveholding despotism, but he is to make it so strong that, by traitors among us, and hemming us in by power, he is to cripple, confine, break down, the free discussion of these Northern States. Unless he does that, he is not safe. He knows it. Now I do not say he will succeed, but I tell you what I think is the plan of a statesmanlike leader of this effort. To make slavery safe, he must mould Massachusetts, not into being a slaveholding Commonwealth, but into being a silent, unprotesting Commonwealth; that Maryland and Virginia, the Carolinas, and Arkansas, may be quiet, peaceable populations. He is a wise man. He knows what he wants, and he wants it with a will, like Julius Cæsar of old. He has gathered every dollar and every missile south of Mason and Dixon's line to hurl a thunderbolt that shall serve his purpose. And if he does achieve a separate confederacy, and shall be able to bribe the West into neutrality, much less alliance, a dangerous time, and a terrible battle, will these Eastern States have. For they will never make peace. The Yankee who comes out of Cromwell's bosom will fight his Naseby a hundred years, if it last so long, but he will conquer. In other words, Davis will try to rule. If he conquers, he is to bring, in his phrase, Carolina to Massachusetts. And if we conquer, what is our policy? To carry Massachusetts to Carolina. In other words, carry Northern civilization all over the South. It is a contest between civilizations. Which ever conquers supersedes the other. W. Phillips. CCLXXXII. SECESSION THE DEATH OF SLAVERY. Severed from us, South Carolina must have a government. You see now a reign of terror,--threats to raise means. That can only last a day. Some system must give a support to a government. It is an expensive luxury. You must lay taxes to support it. Where will you levy your taxes? They must rest on productions. Productions are the result of skilled labor. You must educate your laborer, if you would have the means for carrying on a government. Despotisms are cheap; free governments are a dear luxury,--the machinery is complicated and expensive. If the South wants a theoretical republic, she must pay for it, she must have a basis for taxation. How will she pay for it? Why, Massachusetts, with a million workmen,--men, women, and children,--the little feet that can just toddle bringing chips from the wood-pile.--Massachusetts only pays her own board and lodging, and lays by about four per cent a year. And South Carolina, with one half idlers, and the other half slaves, a slave doing only half the work of a freeman,--only one quarter of the population actually at work, how much do you suppose she lays up? Lays up a loss! By all the laws of political economy, she lays up bankruptcy; of course she does! Put her out, and let her see how sheltered she has been from the laws of trade by the Union! The free labor of the North pays her plantation patrol; we pay for her government, we pay for her postage, and for everything else. Launch her out, and let her see if she can make the year's ends meet! And when she tries, she must educate her labor in order to get the basis for taxation. Educate slaves! Make a locomotive with its furnaces of open wirework, fill them with anthracite coal, and when you have raised it to a white heat, mount and drive it through a powder magazine, and you are safe, compared with a slaveholding community educating its slaves. But South Carolina must do it, in order to get the basis for taxation to support an independent government. The moment she does it, she removes the safeguard of slavery. What is the contest in Virginia now? Between the men who want to make their slaves mechanics, for the increased wages it will secure, and the men who oppose, for fear of the influence it will have on the general security of slave property and white throats. Just that dispute will go on, wherever the Union is dissolved. Slavery comes to an end by the laws of trade. Hang up your Sharpe's rifle, my valorous friend! The slave does not ask the help of your musket. He only says, like old Diogenes to Alexander, "Stand out of my light!" Just take your awkward proportions, you Yankee Democrat and Republican, out of the light and heat of God's laws of political economy, and they will melt the slaves' chains away! W. Phillips. CCLXXXIII. THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE ANTI-SLAVERY MOVEMENT. No matter where you meet a dozen earnest men pledged to a new idea,--wherever you have met them, you have met the beginning of a revolution. Revolutions are not made: they come. A revolution is as natural a growth as an oak. It comes out of the past. Its foundations are laid far back. The child feels; he grows into a man, and thinks; another, perhaps, speaks, and the world acts out the thought. And this is the history of modern society. Men undervalue the Anti-slavery movement, because they imagine you can always put your finger on some illustrious moment in history, and say, here commenced the great change which has come over the nation. Not so. The beginning of great changes is like the rise of the Mississippi. A child must stoop and gather away the pebbles to find it. But soon it swells broader and broader, bears on its ample bosom the navies of a mighty republic, fills the Gulf, and divides a continent. I remember a story of Napoleon which illustrates my meaning. We are apt to trace his control of France to some noted victory, to the time when he camped in the Tuileries, or when he dissolved the Assembly by the stamp of his foot. He reigned in fact when his hand was first felt on the helm of the vessel of state, and that was far back of the time when he had conquered in Italy, or his name had been echoed over two continents. It was on the day when five hundred irresolute men were met in that Assembly which called itself, and pretended to be, the government of France. They heard that the mob of Paris was coming the next morning, thirty thousand strong, to turn them, as was usual in those days, out of doors. And where did this seemingly great power go for its support and refuge? They sent Tallien to seek out a boy-lieutenant,--the shadow of an officer,--so thin and pallid that, when he was placed on the stand before them, the President of the Assembly, fearful, if the fate of France rested on the shrunken form, the ashy cheek before him, that all hope was gone, asked, "Young man, can you protect the Assembly?" And the stern lips of the Corsican boy parted only to reply, "I always do what I undertake!" Then and there Napoleon ascended his throne; and the next day, from the steps of St. Roche, thundered forth the cannon which taught the mob of Paris, for the first time, that it had a master. That was the commencement of the Empire. So the Anti-slavery movement commenced unheeded in that "obscure hole" which Mayor Otis could not find, occupied by a printer and a black boy. W. Phillips. CCLXXXIV. "TOUCH NOT SLAVERY" What! you the descendants of those men of iron who preferred a life-or-death struggle with misery on the bleak and wintry coast of New England to submission to priestcraft and kingcraft; you, the offspring of those hardy pioneers who set their faces against all the dangers and difficulties that surround the early settler's life; you, who subdued the forces of wild nature, cleared away the primeval forest, covered the end less prairie with human habitations; you, this race of bold reformers who blended together the most incongruous elements of birth and creed, who built up a government which you called a model republic, and undertook to show mankind how to be free; you, the mighty nation of the West, that presumes to defy the world in arms, and to subject a hemisphere to its sovereign dictation; you, who boast of recoiling from no enterprise ever so great, and no problem ever so fearful--the spectral monster of Slavery stares you in the face, and now your blood runs cold, and all your courage fails you? For half a century it has disturbed the peace of this Republic; it has arrogated to itself your national domain; it has attempted to establish its absolute rule, and to absorb even your future development; it has disgraced you in the eyes of mankind, and now it endeavors to ruin you if it cannot rule you; it raises its murderous hand against the institutions most dear to you; it attempts to draw the power of foreign nations upon your heads; it swallows up the treasures you have earned by long years of labor; it drinks the blood of your sons and the tears of your wives and now, every day it is whispered in your ears, "Whatever Slavery may have done to you, whatever you may suffer, touch it not! No matter how many thousand millions of your wealths it may cost, no matter how much blood you may have to shed in order to disarm its murderous hand, touch it not! No matter how many years of peace and prosperity you may have to sacrifice in order to prolong its existence, touch it not! And if it should cost you your honor, touch it not!" Listen to this story: On the Lower Potomac, as the papers tell us, a negro comes within our lines, and tells the valiant defenders of the Union that his master conspires with the rebels, and has a quantity of arms concealed in a swamp; our soldiers go and find the arms; the master reclaims the slave; the slave is given up; the master ties him to his horse, drags him along eleven miles to his house, lashes him to a tree, and, with the assistance of his overseer, whips him three hours--three mortal hours; then the negro dies. That black man served the Union; Slavery attempts to destroy the Union; the Union surrenders the black man to Slavery, and he is whipped to death--touch it not! Let an imperishable blush of shame cover every cheek in this boasted land of freedom--but be careful not to touch Slavery! Ah, what a dark divinity is this, that we must sacrifice to it our peace, our prosperity, our blood, our future, our honor! What an insatiable vampire is this that drinks out the very marrow of our manliness! Pardon me; this sounds like a dark dream, like the offspring of a hypochondriac imagination; and yet--have I been unjust in what I have said? Carl Schurz. CCLXXXV. OHIO. Ohio rises before the world as the majestic witness to the beneficent reality of the democratic principle. A commonwealth younger in years than he who addresses you, not long ago having no visible existence but in the emigrant wagons, now numbers almost as large a population as that of all England when it gave birth to Raleigh, and Bacon, and Shakespeare, and began its continuous attempts at colonizing America. Each one of her inhabitants gladdens in the fruit of his own toil. She possesses wealth that must be computed by thousands of millions; and her frugal, industrious and benevolent people, at once daring and prudent, unfettered in the use of their faculties, restless in enterprise, do not squander the accumulations of their industry in vain show, but ever go on to render the earth more productive, more beautiful, and more convenient to man; mastering for mechanical purposes the unwitting forces of nature; keeping exemplary good faith with their public creditors; building in half a century more. churches than all England has raised since this continent was discovered; endowing and sustaining universities and other seminaries of learning. Conscious of the dynamic power of mind in action as the best of fortresses, Ohio keeps no standing army but that of her school-teachers, of whom she pays more than twenty thousand; she provides a library for every school-district; she counts among her citizens more than three hundred thousand men who can bear arms, and she has more than twice that number of children registered as students in her public schools. Here the purity of domestic morals is maintained by the virtue and dignity of woman. In the heart of the temperate zone of this continent, in the land of corn, of wheat, and the vine, the eldest daughter of the Ordinance of 1787, already the young mother of other commonwealths that bid fair to vie with her in beauty, rises in her loveliness and glory, crowned with cities, and challenges the admiration of the world. Hither should come the political skeptic, who, in his despair, is ready to strand the ship of state; for here he may learn how to guide it safely on the waters. Should some modern Telemachus, heir to an island empire, touch these shores, here he may observe the vitality and strength of the principle of popular power; take from the book of experience the lesson that in public affairs great and happy results follow in proportion to faith in the efficacy of that principle, and learn to rebuke ill-advised counsellors who pronounce the most momentous and most certain of political truths a delusion and a failure. G. Bancroft. CCLXXXVI. THE CONTROVERSY BETWEEN THE NORTH AND SOUTH. It is exceedingly desirable that all parts of this great Confederacy shall be at peace, and in harmony, one with another. Let us do our part to have it so. Even though much provoked, let us do nothing through passion and ill temper. Even though the Southern people will not so much as listen to us, let us calmly consider their demands, and yield to them if, in our deliberate view of our duty, we possibly can. The question is, What will satisfy them? Simply this: We must not only let them alone, but we must, somehow, convince them that we do let them alone. This, we know by experience, is no easy task. We have been trying to convince them from the very beginning of our organization, but with no success. In all our platforms and speeches we have constantly protested our purpose to let them alone; but this has had no tendency to convince them. What will convince them? This, and this only: cease to call slavery wrong, and join them in calling it right. And this must be done thoroughly--done in acts as well as in words. Silence will not be tolerated we must place ourselves avowedly with them. Senator Douglas's new sedition law must be enacted and enforced suppressing all declarations that slavery is wrong, whether made in politics, in presses, in pulpits or in private. We must arrest and return their fugitive slaves with greedy pleasure. We must pull down our Free State constitutions. The whole atmosphere must be disinfected from all taint of opposition to slavery, before they will cease to believe that all their troubles proceed from us. I am quite aware they do not state their case precisely in this way. Most of them would probably say to us: "Let us alone, do nothing to us, and say what you please about slavery." But we do let them alone--have never disturbed them--so that, after all, it is what we say, which dissatisfies them. They will continue to accuse us of doing, until we cease saying. Nor can we justifiably withhold this, an any ground save our conviction that slavery is wrong. If slavery is right, all words, acts, laws, and constitutions against it, are themselves wrong, and should be silenced, and swept away. If it is right, we can not justly object to its nationality--its universality; if it is wrong, they cannot justly insist upon its extension--its enlargement. All they ask, we could readily grant, if we thought slavery right; all we ask, they could as readily grant, if they thought it wrong. Their thinking it right and our thinking it wrong, is the precise fact upon which depends the whole controversy. Thinking it right, as they do, they are not to blame for desiring its full recognition, as being right; but, thinking it wrong, as we do, can we yield to them? Can we cast our votes with their view, and against our own? In view of our moral, social, and political responsibilities, can we do this? Wrong as we think slavery is, we can yet afford to let it alone where it is, because that much is due to the necessity arising from its actual presence in the nation; but can we, while our votes will prevent it, allow it to spread into the National Territories, and to overrun us here in these Free States? If our sense of duty forbids this, then let us stand by our duty, fearlessly and effectively. Neither let us be slandered from our duty by false accusations against us, nor frightened from it by menaces either of destruction to the government or of dungeons to ourselves. LET US HAVE FAITH THAT RIGHT MAKES MIGHT, AND IN THAT FAITH, LET US, TO THE END DARE TO DO OUR DUTY AS WE UNDERSTAND IT. A. Lincoln. CCLXXXVII. THE PRETEXT OF REBELLION. If war must come--if the bayonet must be used to maintain the Constitution--I can say, before God, my conscience is clear. I have struggled long for a peaceful solution of the difficulty. I have not only tendered those States what was theirs of right, but I have gone to the very extreme off magnanimity, The return we receive is war, armies marched upon our Capital obstructions and danger to our navigation, letters of marque to invite pirates to prey upon our commerce, a concerted movement to blot out the United States of America from the map of the globe. The question is, Are we to be stricken down by those who, when they can no longer govern, threaten to destroy? What cause, what excuse do disunionists give us for breaking up the best government on which the sun of heaven ever shed its rays? They are dissatisfied with the result of a Presidential election. Did they never get beaten before? Are we to resort to the sword when we get defeated at the ballot-box? I understand that the voice of the people expressed in the mode appointed by the Constitution must command the obedience of every citizen. They assume, on the election of a particular candidate, that their rights are not safe in the Union. What evidence do they present of this? I defy any man to show any act on which it is based. What act has been omitted or been done? I appeal to these assembled thousands, that so far as the constitutional rights of the Southern States--I will say the constitutional rights of slaveholders--are concerned, nothing has been done, and nothing omitted, of which they can complain. There has never been a time, from the day that Washington was inaugurated first President of these United States, when the rights of the Southern States stood firmer under the laws of the land than they do now; there never was a time when they had not as good a cause for disunion as they have to-day. What good cause have they now that has not existed under every administration? If they say the Territorial question--now, for the first time, there is no act of Congress prohibiting slavery anywhere. If it be the non-enforcement of the laws, the only complaints that I have heard have been of the too vigorous and faithful fulfillment of the Fugitive Slave Law. Then what reason have they? The slavery question is a mere excuse. The election of Lincoln is a mere pretext. The present secession movement is the result of an enormous conspiracy formed more than a year since--foraged by leaders in the Southern Confederacy more than twelve months ago. They use the slavery question as a means to aid the accomplishment of their ends. They desired the election of a Northern candidate, by a sectional vote, in order to show that the two sections cannot live together. When the history of the two years from the Lecompton charter down to the Presidential election shall be written, it will be shown that the scheme was deliberately made to break up this Union. They desired a Northern Republican to be elected by a purely Northern vote, and now assign this fact as a reason why the sections may not longer live together. If the disunion candidate in the late Presidential contest had carried the united South, their scheme was, the Northern candidate successful, to seize the Capital last spring, and, by a united South and divided North, hold it. That scheme was defeated in the defeat of the disunion candidate in several of the Southern states. The conspiracy is now known. Armies have been raised, war is levied to accomplish it. There are only two sides to the question. Every man must be for the United States or against them. There can be no neutrals in this war; only patriots or traitors. S. A. Douglass. CCLXXXVIII. NO NEUTRALS; ONLY PATRIOTS OR TRAITORS. But this is no time for a detail of causes. The conspiracy is now known. Armies have been raised, war is levied to accomplish it. There are only two sides to the question. Every man must be for the United States or against them. There can be no neutrals in this war; only patriots or tractors. We cannot close our eyes to the sad and solemn fact that war does exist. The government must be maintained, its enemies overthrown; and the more stupendous our preparations the less the bloodshed, and the shorter the struggle will be. But we must remember certain restraints on our action even in time of war. We are a Christian people, and the war must be prosecuted in a manner recognized by Christian nations. We must not invade constitutional rights. The innocent must not suffer, nor women or children be the victims. Savages must not be let loose. But while I sanction no war on the rights of others, I will implore my countrymen not to lay down their arms until our own rights are recognized. The Constitution and its guarantees are our birth right, and I am ready to enforce that inalienable right to the last extent. We cannot recognize secession. Recognize it once, and you have not only dissolved government, but you have destroyed social order, and upturned the foundations of society You have inaugurated anarchy in its worst form, and will shortly experience all the horrors of the French Revolution. Then we have a solemn duty,--to maintain the government. The greater our unanimity, the speedier the day of peace. We have prejudices to overcome from a fierce party contest waged a few short months since. Yet these must be allayed. Let us lay aside all criminations and recriminations as to the origin of these difficulties. When we shall have again a country, with the United States flag floating over it, and respected on every inch of American soil, it will then be time enough to ask who and what brought all this upon us. I have said more than I intended to say. It is a sad task to discuss questions so fearful as civil war; but sad as it is, bloody and disastrous as I expect the war will be, I express it as my conviction, before God, that it is the duty of every American citizen to rally round the flag of his country. S. A. Douglass. CCLXXXIX. ON THE ORDINANCE OF SECESSION IN THE GEORGIA CONVENTION. This step, once taken, can never be recalled; and all the baleful and withering consequences that follow will rest on the convention for all coming time. When we and our posterity shall see our lovely South desolated by the demon of war, which this act of yours will inevitably invite and call forth; when your green fields of waving harvests shall be trodden down by the murderous soldiery and the very car of war sweeping over our land; our temples of justice laid in ashes; all the horrors and desolation of war upon us, who but this convention will be held responsible for it? and who but him who shall have given his vote for this unwise and ill-timed measure shall be held to strict account for this suicidal act by the present generation, and probably cursed and execrated by posterity for all coming time, for the wide and desolating ruin that will inevitably follow this act you now propose to perpetrate? Pause, I entreat you, and consider for a moment what reasons you can give that will ever satisfy yourselves in calmer moments,--what reasons you can give to your fellow-sufferers in the calamity that it will bring upon us? What reason can you give the nations of the earth to justify it? They will be the calm and deliberate judges in the case, and to what cause, or one overt act can you point, on which to rest the plea of justification? What right has the North assailed? What interest of the South has been invaded? What justice has been denied? and what claim founded in justice and right has been withheld? can either of you to-day name one governmental act of wrong deliberately and purposely done by the government at Washington of which the South has a right to complain? I challenge the answer! While, on the other hand, let me show the facts (and believe me, gentlemen, I am not here the advocate of the North, but am here the firm friend and lover of the South and her institutions, and for this reason I speak thus plainly and faithfully for yours, mine, and every other man's interest, the words of truth and soberness,) let me show the facts, I say, of which I wish you to judge, and I will only state facts which are clear and undeniable, and which now stand as records authentic in the history of our country. When we of the South demanded the slave-trade, or the importation of Africans for the cultivation of our lands, did they not yield the right for twenty years? When we asked a three-fifths representation in Congress for our slaves, was it not granted? When we asked and demanded the return of any fugitive from justice, or the recovery of those persons owing labor or allegiance, was it not incorporated in the constitution? and again ratified and strengthened in the Fugitive Slave Law of 1850? Do you reply that in many instances they have violated this compact, and have not been faithful to their engagements? As individuals and local communities they may have done so; but not by the sanction of government; for that has always been true to Southern interests. Leaving out of the view, for the present, the countless millions of dollars you must expend in a war with the North, there will be thousands and tens of thousands of your sons and brothers slain in battle, and opened up as sacrifices upon the altar of ambition,--and for what, we ask again? It is for the overthrow of the American government, established by our common ancestry cemented and built up by their sweat and blood, and founded on the broad principles of Right, Justice, and Humanity? And, as such, I must declare here, as I have often done before, and which has been repeated by the greatest and wisest of statesman and patriots in this and other lands, that it is the best and freest government,--the most equal in its rights,--the most just in its decisions--the most lenient in its measures: and the most inspiring in its principles to elevate the race of men, that the sun in heaven ever shone upon. Now, for you to attempt to overthrow such a government as this, under which we have lived for more than three quarters of a century, in which we have gained our wealth, our standing as a nation, our domestic safety while the elements of peril are round us with peace and tranquility accompanied with unbounded prosperity and rights unassailed--is the height of madness, folly and wickedness, to which I can neither lend my sanction nor my vote. A. H. Stephens. CCXC. "THE HIRELING LABORERS" OF THE NORTH. The Senator from South Carolina [Mr. Hammond] exclaims: "The man who lives by daily labor, your whole hireling class of manual laborers, are essentially slaves; and they feel galled by their degradation." What a sentiment is this to hear uttered in the councils of this democratic republic! This language of scorn and contempt is addressed to senators who were not nursed by a slave; whose lot it was to toil with their own hands,--to eat bread, earned, not by the sweat of another's brow, but by their own. Sir, should the Senator and his agitators and lecturers come to Massachusetts, on a mission to teach our "hireling class of manual laborers," our "slaves," the "tremendous secret of the ballot-box," and to help "combine and lead them," these stigmatized "hirelings" would reply to the Senator and his associates: "we are freemen; we are the peers of the gifted and the wealthy; we know 'the tremendous secret of the ballot-box;' and we mould and fashion these institutions that bless and adorn our free Commonwealth! These public schools are ours, for the education of our children; these libraries, with their accumulated treasures, are ours; these multitudinous and varied pursuits of life, where intelligence and skill find their reward, are ours. Labor is here honored and respected, and great examples incite us to action. "All around us, in the professions, in the marts of commerce, on the exchange where merchant princes and capitalists do congregate, in these manufactories and workshops where the products of every clime are fashioned into a thousand forms of utility and beauty, on these smiling farms fertilized by the sweat of free labor, in every position of private and of public life,--are our associates, who were but yesterday what you call 'hireling laborers,' and therefore, 'essentially slaves!' In every department of human effort are noble men who sprang from our ranks,-men whose good deeds will be felt, and will live in the grateful memories of men, when the stones reared by the hands of affection to their honored names shall crumble into dust. Our eyes glisten and our hearts throb over the bright, glowing, and radiant pages of our history that record the deeds of patriotism of the sons of New England who sprang from our ranks, and wore the badges of toil. While the names of Benjamin Franklin, Roger Sherman, Nathaniel Greene, and Paul Revere, live on the brightest pages of our history, the mechanics of Massachusetts and New England will never want illustrious examples to incite us to noble aspirations and noble deeds. "Go home, sir, and say to your privileged class, which you vauntingly say leads progress, civilization, and refinement, that in the opinion of the 'hireling laborers' of Massachusetts, if you have no sympathy for your African bondsmen, you should, at least, sympathize with the millions of your own race, whose labor your have dishonored and degraded by slavery! You should teach your millions of poor and ignorant white men, so long oppressed by your policy, the 'tremendous secret that the ballot-box is stronger than an army with banners!' You should 'combine' and lead them to the adoption of a policy which shall secure their own emancipation from a degrading thraldom!" H. Wilson. CCXCI. THE DEATH OF SLAVERY THE LIFE OF THE NATION. We of America have been accustomed to contemplate, with something of gratified and patriotic pride, the wondrous progress of our country, and the strength and stability of our Government. Gazing with beaming eye and throbbing heart upon the grandeur and beauty of this splendid edifice of constitutional government in America, we came to believe that it was as imperishable as the memory of its illustrious builders. We dreamed for our native land a glorious destiny--a magnificent career among the nations during the coming ages. But our firm, confident faith is now shaken--our bright hopes are now dimmed--our lofty pride is now humbled--our gorgeous visions of the future glories of the Republic are now obscured by the storm of battle. Our country, the land of so much of affection, of pride and of hope, now presents to the startled and astonished gaze of mankind an appalling, humiliating, and saddening spectacle. Treasonable menaces of other days have now ripened into treasonable deeds. Civil war holds its carnival, and reaps its bloody harvest. The nation is grappling with a gigantic conspiracy--struggling for existence--for the preservation of its menaced life--against a rebellion that finds no parallel in the annals of the world. Why is it that the land resounds with the measured tread of a million of armed men? Why is it that our bright waters all stained and our green fields reddened with fraternal blood? Why is it that the young men of America, in the pride and bloom of early manhood, are summoned from homes, from the mothers who bore them, from the wives and sisters who love them, to the fields of bloody strife--there to do soldiers' duties, bear soldiers' burdens, and fill soldiers' graves? Why is it that thousands of the men and the women of Christian America are sorrowing, with aching hearts and tearful eyes, for the absent, the loved, and the lost? Why is it that the heart of loyal America throbs, heavily oppressed with anxiety and gloom, for the future of the country? These crimes against the peace of the country and the life of the nation are all, all to eternize the hateful dominion of man over the souls and bodies of his fellow-men--to make slavery perpetual and its power forever dominant in Christian and Republican America. These sacrifices of property of health, of life--these appalling sorrows and agonies now upon us, are all the inflictions of slavery, in its gigantic effort to found a slaveholding empire in America. Yes, slavery is the "architect of ruin" who organized this mighty conspiracy against the unity and existence of the Republic. Slavery is the traitor that plunged the Nation into the fire, and blood, and darkness of civil war. Slavery is the criminal whose hands are dripping with the blood of our murdered sons. Before the tribunal of mankind, of the present and of coming ages--before the bar of the ever-living God--the loyal heart of America holds slavery responsible for every dollar sacrificed, for every drop of blood shed, for every pang of toil, of agony, and of death for every tear wrung from suffering or affection, in this godless rebellion now upon us. For these treasonable deeds, these crimes against freedom, humanity, and the life of the Nation, slavery should be doomed by the loyal people of America to a swift, utter, and ignominious annihilation. Slavery, bold, proud, domineering with hate in its heart, scorn in its eye, defiance in its mien, has pronounced against the existence of republican institutions in America, against the supremacy of the Government, the unity and life of the Nation. Slavery, hating the cherished institutions that tend to secure the rights and enlarge the privileges of mankind, despising the toiling masses, as "mudsills" and "white slaves," defying the Government, its Constitution and its laws, has openly pronounced itself the mortal and unappeasable enemy of the Republic. Slavery stands now the only clearly pronounced foe our country has on the globe. Therefore, every word spoken, every line written, every act performed, that keeps the breath of life, for a moment, in slavery, is against the existence and perpetuity of democratic institutions against the dignity of the toiling millions of America--against the liberty, the peace, the honor, the renown, and the life of the Nation. In the lights of to-day that flash upon us from camp and battle-field, the loyal eye, heart, and brain of America sees and feels and realizes that THE DEATH OF SLAVERY IS THE LIFE OF THE NATION! The loyal voice of patriotism throughout all the land pronounces, in clear accents, that AMERICAN SLAVERY MUST DIE THAT THE AMERICAN REPUBLIC MAY LIVE! H. Wilson. CCXCII. THE FANATICISM OF MASSACHUSETTS. This, sir, is not the first time in her history that Massachusetts has drawn upon herself reproach and rebuke for unbending adherence to the rights of human nature. In the days of her colonial existence, her unshrinking devotion to the rights of mankind often drew upon her the censure of the pliant supporters of the British Crown; but the world now quotes and commends her inspiring example. Now her abhorrence of human slavery brings upon her the condemnation of its advocates and apologists, but the hour will yet come, in the march of time, when her unwavering fidelity to an unpopular cause in spite of obloquy and reproach, will be a source of inspiration to men struggling to recover lost rights. Massachusetts clings with the tenacity of profound conviction to the teachings of her own illustrious sons. She was taught by Benjamin Franklin that "slavery is an atrocious debasement of human nature;" by John Adams that "consenting to slavery is a sacrilegious breach of trust;" by John Quincy Adams that "slavery taints the very sources of moral principle"--"establishes false estimates of virtue and vice;" by Daniel Webster that "it is a continual and permanent violation of human rights"--"opposed to the whole spirit of the Gospels and to the teachings of Jesus Christ;" by William Ellery Channing that "to extend and perpetuate the evil, we cut ourselves off from the communion of nations; we sink below the civilization of our age; we invite the scorn, indignation and abhorrence of the world." Massachusetts cannot forget or repudiate these words of her immortal sons. The distinguishing opinion of Massachusetts concerning slavery in America is often flippantly branded in these Halls, as wild, passionate, unreasoning fanaticism. Senators of the South! tell me, I pray you tell me, if it be fanaticism for Massachusetts to see in this age, what your peerless Washington saw in his age "the direful effects of slavery?" Is it fanaticism for Massachusetts to believe as your Henry believed, that "slavery is as repugnant to humanity as it is inconsistent with the Bible, and destructive to liberty?" Is it fanaticism for her to believe as your Madison believed, that "slavery is a dreadful calamity?" Is it fanaticism for her to believe with your Monroe, that "slavery has preyed upon the vitals of the union and has been prejudicial to all the States in which it has existed?" Is it fanaticism for her to believe with your Martin that "slavery lessens the sense of the equal rights of mankind, and habituates us to tyranny and oppression?" Is it fanaticism for her to believe with your Pinckney that "it will one day destroy the reverence for liberty, which is the vital principle of a Republic?" Is it fanaticism for her to believe with your Henry Clay, that "slavery is a wrong, a grievous wrong, and no contingency can make it right?" Surely, Senators who are wont to accuse Massachusetts of being drunk with fanaticism, should not forget that the noblest men the South has given to the service of the Republic, in peace and in war, were her teachers. H. Wilson. CCXCIII. DEFENCE OF MASSACHUSETTS. Massachusetts, in her heart of hearts, loves liberty--loathes slavery. I glory in her sentiments; for the heart of our common humanity is throbbing in sympathy with her opinions. But she is not unmindful of her constitutional duties, of her obligations to the Union and to her sister States. Up to the verge of constitutional power she will go in maintenance of her cherished convictions; but she has not shrunk, and she does not mean to shrink, from the performance of her obligations as a member of this Confederation of constellated States. She has never sought, she does not seek, to encroach, by her own acts or by the action of the Federal Government, upon the constitutional rights of her sister States. Jealous of her own rights, she will respect the rights of others. Claiming the power to control her own domestic policy, she freely accords that power to her sister States. Concealing the rights of others, she demands her own. Loyal to the Union, she demands loyalty in others. Here, and now, I demand of her accusers that they file their bill of specifications, and produce the proofs of their allegations, or forever hold their peace. In other days, when Adams, Webster, Davis, Everett, Cushing, Choate, Winthrop, Mann, Rantoul, and their associates graced these chambers, Massachusetts was then, as she is now, the object of animadversion and assault. I have sometimes thought, Mr. President, that these continual assaults upon the Commonwealth of Massachusetts were prompted--not by her faults, but by her virtues rather--not by the sense of justice, but by the spirit of envy and jealousy and uncharitableness. Unawed, however, by censure or menace, she continues in her course, upward and onward, to the accomplishment of her high destinies. She is but a speck, a mere patch on the surface of America, hardly more than one four-hundredth part of the territory of the Republic, with a rugged soil and still more rugged clime. But on that little spot of the globe is a Common wealth where common consent is recognized as the only just basis of fundamental law, and personal freedom is secured in its completest individuality. In that Commonwealth are one and a quarter million of freemen, with skilled hand and cultivated brain,--with mechanic arts and manufactures on every streamlet, and commerce on the waves of all the seas--with institutions of moral and mental culture open to all, and art, science, and literature illustrated by glorious names--with benevolent institutions for the sons and daughters of misfortune and poverty, and charities for humanity the wide world over, The heart, the soul, the reason of Massachusetts send up unceasing aspirations for the unity, indivisibility, and perpetuity of the North American Republic; but if it shall be rent, torn, dissevered, she will not lose her faith in God and humanity, she will not go down with the falling fortunes of her country without making a struggle to preserve and perpetuate free institutions. So long as the ocean shall roll at her feet, so long as God shall send her health-giving breezes and sunshine and rain, she will endeavor to illustrate, in the future as in the past, the daily beauty of freedom secured and protected by law. H. Wilson. CCXCIV. EMANCIPATION. Shall these once slaves but now freemen be remanded back to bondage? No: "personal property once forfeited is always forfeited." No: slaves once legally free are always free. No, no; thrice no, by the ashes of our fathers, by the altar of our God! The "chosen curses," and the "hidden thunder in the stores of heaven" will forbid the rendition--a crime to them, a malediction to their masters, a shame to us, and a disgrace to the age. If these children of wrong and oppression are the lawful spoil of our victorious arms, give up to the enemy your proudest national memorials--the sword of Washington, the staff of Franklin, that time-worn but immortal parchment which just authoritatively published your Independence to the world--give up to him the blood-stained flags and trophies which, upon the bristling crest of battle, our heroic defenders have wrenched from his desperate grasp; give up to him this Capitol itself and throw at his feet the President's head, before you give up the most abject of these bondsmen disenthralled; for in surrendering them you will squander one of those priceless moments, big with the future, worth more than a whole generation of either bond or free, the rare and pregnant occasion placed in your hand by the fortune of war of wiping forever African slavery from the American continent. If this deliverance is ever vouchsafed, then shall we be purged forever of the sole source of our weakness and dissension in the past; then will pass away forever the sole cloud that threatens the glory of our future; then will the American Union be transfigured into a more erect and shining presence, and tread with firm footsteps a loftier plane, and cherish nobler theories, and carry its head nearer the stars; then will it be no profanation to wed its redeemed and unpolluted name to that of immortal Liberty; then Liberty and Union will go on, hand in hand, and, under a holier inspiration and with more benign and blessed auspices, will revive their grand mission of peacefully acquiring and peacefully incorporating contiguous territories, and peacefully assimilating their inhabitants; then from the Orient to the Occident, from the flowery shores of the great Southern Gulf to the frozen barriers of the great Northern Bay, will they unite in spreading a civilization, not intertwined with slavery, but purged of its contamination, a civilization which means universal emancipation, universal enfranchisement, universal brotherhood. Despair not, then, soldiers, statesmen, citizens, women, we are fighting energetically for a nation's life. The cloud which now shuts down before your vision will yet disclose its silver lining. Peace shall be born from war, and out of chaos order shall yet emerge. We shall dwell together in harmony, and but one nation shall inhabit our sea-girt borders. We seem sailing along the land, hearing the ripple that breaks upon the shore, where our recreated and regenerated Republic, after it has passed through this fiery furnace of war, these gates of death, shall be permanently installed. We shall yet tread its meadows and pastures green, trade in its marts, live in its palaces worship in its temples, and legislate in its Capitol. H. C. Deming. CCXCV. PROTECTION FOR TENNESSEE. The amendments to the Constitution which constitute the Bill of Rights, declare that "a well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed." Our people are denied this right secured to them in their own constitution and the constitution of the United States; yet we hear no complaints here of violations of the Constitution in this respect. We ask the Government to interpose to secure us this constitutional right. We want the passes in our mountains opened, we want deliverance and protection for a down-trodden and oppressed people who are struggling for their independence without arms. If we had had ten thousand stand of arms and ammunition when the contest commenced, we should have asked no further assistance. We have not got them. We are a rural people; we have villages and small towns--no large cities. Our population is homogeneous, industrious, frugal, brave, independent; but now harmless and powerless, and oppressed by usurpers. You may be too late in coming to our relief or you may not come at all though I do not doubt you will come--and they may trample us under foot; they may convert our plains into graveyards, and the caves of our mountains into sepulchers; but they will never take us out of this Union, or make us a land of slaves--no, never! We intend to stand as firm as adamant, and as unyielding as our own majestic mountains that surround us. Yes, we will be as fixed and as immovable as are they upon their bases. We will stand as long as we can; and if we are overpowered and Liberty shall be driven from the land, we intend before she departs to take the flag of our country with a stalwart arm, a patriotic heart, and an honest tread, and place it upon the summit of the loftiest and most majestic mountain. We intend to plant it there, and leave it, to indicate to the inquirer who may come in after times, the spot where the Goddess of Liberty lingered and wept for the last time, before she took her flight from a people once prosperous, free, and happy. We ask the Government to come to our aid. We love the Constitution as made by our fathers. We have confidence in the integrity and capacity of the people to govern themselves. We have lived entertaining these opinions; we intend to die entertaining them. We may meet with impediments, and may meet with disasters, and here and there a defeat; but ultimately freedom's cause must triumph, for-- "Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son, Though baffled oft, is ever won." Yes, we must triumph. My faith is strong, based on the eternal principles of right that a thing so monstrously wrong as this rebellion cannot triumph. I say, let the battle go on--it is freedom's cause--until the Stars and Stripes ( God bless them!) shall again be unfurled upon every cross-road, and from every house-top throughout the Confederacy North and South. Let the Union be reinstated; let tie law be enforced; let the Constitution be supreme. A. Johnson. CCXCVI. THE SUBMISSIONISTS. With the curled lip of scorn we are told by the disunionists that, in thus supporting a Republican Administration in its endeavors to uphold the Constitution and the laws, we are "submissionists," and when they have pronounced this word, they suppose they have imputed to us the sum of all human abasement. Well, let it be confessed, we are "submissionists," and weak and spiritless as it may be deemed by some, we glory in the position we occupy. The law says, "Thou shalt not swear falsely;" we submit to this law, and while in the civil or military service of the country, with an oath to support the Constitution of the United States resting upon our consciences, we would not, for any earthly consideration, engage in the formation or execution of a conspiracy to subvert that very Constitution and with it the Government to which it has given birth. Write us down, therefore, "submissionists." Nor are we at all disturbed by the flippant taunt that, in thus submitting to the authority of our Government, we are necessarily cowards. We know whence this taunt comes, and we estimate it at its true value. We hold that there is a higher courage in the performance of duty than in the commission of crime. The tiger of the jungle and the cannibal of the South Sea Islands have that courage in which the revolutionists of the day make their especial boast; the angels of God and the spirits of just men made perfect have had, and have that courage which submits to the law. Lucifer was a non-submissionist, and the first secessionist of whom history has given us any account, and the chains which he wears fitly express the fate due to all who openly defy the laws of their Creator and of their country. He rebelled because the Almighty would not yield to him the throne of heaven. The principle of the Southern rebellion is the same. Indeed, in this submission to the laws, is found the chief distinction between good men and devils. A good man obeys the laws of truth, of honesty, of morality, and all those laws which have been enacted by competent authority for the government and protection of the country in which he lives; a devil obeys only his own ferocious and profligate passions. The principle on which this rebellion proceeds, that laws have in themselves no sanctions, no binding force upon the conscience, and that every man, under the promptings of interest, or passion, or caprice, may at will, and honorably, too, strike at the government that shelters him, is one of utter demoralization, and should be trodden out as you would tread out a spark that has fallen on the roof of your dwelling. Its unchecked prevalence would resolve society into chaos, and leave you without the slightest guarantee for life, liberty, or property. It is time, that, in their majesty, the people of the United States should make known to the world that this Government, in its dignity and power, is something more than a moot court, and that the citizen who makes war upon it is a traitor, not only in theory but in fact, and should have meted out to him a traitor's doom. The country wants no bloody sacrifice, but it must and will have peace, cost what it may. J. Holt. CCXCVII. ADDRESS TO KENTUCKY VOLUNTEERS. Soldiers, next to the worship of the Father of us all, the deepest and grandest of human emotions is the love of the land that gave us birth. It is an enlargement and exaltation of all the tenderest and strongest sympathies of kindred and of home. In all centuries and climes it has lived and has defied chains and dungeons and racks to crush it. It has strewed the earth with its monuments, and has shed undying lustre on a thousand fields on which it has battled. Through the night of ages, Thermopylæ glows like some mountain peak on which the morning sun has risen, because twenty-three hundred years ago, this hallowing passion touched its mural precipices and its crowning crags. It is easy, however, to be patriotic in piping times of peace, and in the sunny hour of prosperity. It is national sorrow, it is war, with its attendant perils and horrors, that tests this passion, and winnows from the masses those who, with all their love of life, still love their country more. While your present position is a most vivid and impressive illustration of patriotism, it has a glory peculiar and altogether its own. The mercenary armies which have swept victoriously over the world, and have gathered so many of the laurels that history has embalmed, were but machines drafted into the service of ambitious spirits whom they obeyed, and little understood or appreciated the problems their blood was poured out to solve. But while you have all the dauntless physical courage which they displayed, you add to it a thorough knowledge of the argument on which this mighty movement proceeds, and a moral heroism which, breaking away from the entanglements of kindred, and friends, and State policy enables you to follow your convictions of duty, even though they should lead you up to the cannon's mouth. It must, however, be added, that with elevation of position come corresponding responsibilities. Alike in the inaction of the camp, and amid the fatigues of the march, and the charge and shouts of battle, you will remember that you have in your keeping not only your own personal reputation, but the honor of your native State, and, what is infinitely more inspiring, the honor of that blood-bought and beneficent Republic whose children you are. Any irregularity on your part would sadden the land that loves you; any faltering in the presence of the foe would cover it with immeasurable humiliation. Soldiers, when Napoleon was about to spur on his legions to combat on the sands of an African desert, pointing them to the Egyptian pyramids that loomed up against the far-off horizon, he exclaimed, "From yonder summits forty centuries look down upon you." The thought was sublime and electric; but you have even more than this. When you shall confront those infuriated hosts, whose battle-cry is, "Down with the government of the United States," let your answering shout be, "The Government as our fathers made it;" and when you strike, remember that not only do the good and the great of the past look down upon you from heights infinitely above those of Egyptian pyramids, but that uncounted generations yet to come are looking up to you, and claiming at your hands the unimpaired transmission to them of that priceless heritage which has been committed to our keeping. I say its unimpaired transmission--in all the amplitude of its outlines, in all the symmetry of its matchless proportions, in all the palpitating fulness of its blessings; not a miserably shrivelled and shattered thing, charred by the fires and torn by the tempests of revolution, and all over polluted and scarred by the bloody poniards of traitors. J. Holt. CCXCVIII. THE AMERICAN QUESTION IN ENGLAND. Citizens of Carlyle, I have endeavored to present to your view a faithful picture of the religion and politics, the objects and the aims, of the rebel confederate States of America; of those States that at this moment, through their commissioned emissaries on this side the Atlantic, are seeking admission into the Commonwealth of Christian nations! One of these accredited representatives is, while I am speaking, upon our shores; and on the behalf of the object of these men some of our leading journals are daily writing laborious articles; for them our shipbuilders are constructing warlike vessels, not to meet an equal foe in fair fight, but to plunder and destroy defenseless merchantmen, engaged in the lawful and laudable trade of carrying the legitimate products of one country to the markets of another; for these men our capitalists are raising money, that, if possible, they may render successful a rebel slaveholders' revolt--a revolt which for wickedness and infamy has no parallel save in the impious rebellion of Lucifer and his compeers. Yonder, across the wide waste of waters, four millions of helpless slaves--the victims of the cruelty and lust of Southern men-stealers--raise their fettered hands and imploringly inquire what part you will take in the conflict which involves their fate and that of their posterity; whether you will give aid and comfort to their oppressors, or whether you will send them words of sympathy and hope, and give encouragement and support to the friends of freedom in the North, who are nobly sacrificing property and life for their redemption. What answer will you return to this appeal? What think you is the duty of England in this life-or-death contest between the North and the South? Of England, whose heart was with the cause of the heroic black population of Hayti, when, under the leadership of the immortal Toussaint l'Ouverture, they were resisting unto blood, in the cause of liberty, the mercenary hordes of Napoleon? Of England who, with disinterested ardor, fought the battle of the Greeks against the Turks? Of England, who has so often raised her voice on behalf of bleeding, crusaded, denationalized Poland? Who has welcomed in her cities, and cherished in her homes, the illustrious patriot Louis Kossuth? Whose best wishes and earnest prayers have ever attended the efforts in the cause of freedom of Mazzini and Garibaldi? In what do the struggles in which England has heretofore sympathized, differ from that which is now convulsing America? Is it not a contest between a vile slaveholding oligarchy on the one hand, and the upholders of free democratic institutions and the friends of emancipation on the other? The only difference, if difference there be, is this, that the conspirators against human rights in the South are fighting for objects immeasurably more base and more deeply stained with guilt than any which were ever sought by the crowned kings and despots of the Old World. The confederate banditti of the South are fighting for what their Vice-president avows is a new idea--a government based upon the perpetual enslavement of the laboring class. In a conflict between liberty and slavery between a free democratic government and the foulest despotism which the enemies of mankind ever conspired together to establish, where should England stand? On the side of two hundred and fifty thousand traitors and tyrants, or on the side of four millions of slaves? England with her past history and glorious traditions, England that extinguished the accursed slave trade, and abolished colonial slavery, whose cathedrals and council chamfers and market places are adorned with the statues of Howard and Wilberforce, and Clarkson, and Buxton, and Sturge? It may be granted that, when the Government of the North first armed for the defence of the national life, it did not at once decree the universal abolition of slavery; and I have given, as I think, good and sufficient reasons why it did not and could not. The action of the President at the beginning was restricted to constitutional objects. Those objects were--the enforcement of the laws; the suppression of a local insurrection; the reintegration of the disputed territory; the protection of the Capitol and its archives from the spoliating hands of traitors. But the seat of government saved; the President seated firmly in the chair; the Congress duly assembled; and the machinery of the Constitution set to work; and then commenced, and were carried out, a series of measures such as were never before accomplished in the same space of time by any government in the world. First we saw the National District purged from the pollution and shame of slavery; then, the prohibition of slavery forever in the vast Territories of the Northwest; then, the enforcement of the laws against the slave trade, and the execution of Gordon the slave trader; then, an offer of compensation to such slave States as would adopt measures of emancipation; then, the recognition of the independence of the black republics of Hayti and Liberia; and finally, a proclamation of freedom to all the slaves within the rebel States. It was said of Napoleon that he would go down to posterity with the code which bears his name, in his hand. It may be said of Abraham Lincoln, that he will descend to future time, holding in his hand the Great Charter of the Negro's rights his Emancipation Proclamation of January, 1863. With such a President, at the head of such a people, engaged in such a cause, need I answer the questions I have so often put to you, on which side should England be found in the great American struggle? G. Thompson. CCXCIX. PATRIOTISM. Right and wrong, justice and crime, exist independently of our country. A public wrong is not a private right for any citizen. The citizen is a man bound to know and do the right, and the nation is but an aggregation of citizens. If a man should shout, in the delirium of his dinner, "My country, by whatever means extended and bounded: my country, right or wrong;" he merely repeats the words of the thief who steals in the streets or of the trader who swears falsely at the Custom-House, both of them chuckling "My fortune, however acquired." Thus, gentlemen, we see that a man's country is not a certain area of land--of mountains, rivers, and woods--but it is principle; and patriotism is loyalty to that principle. In poetic minds and in popular enthusiasm this feeling becomes closely associated with the soil and symbols of the country. But the secret sanctification of the soil and the symbol is the idea which they represent, and this idea the patriot worships through the name and the symbol, as a lover kisses with rapture the glove of his mistress and wears a lock of her hair upon his heart. So, with passionate heroism, of which tradition is never weary of tenderly telling, Arnold Von Winkelreid gathers into his bosom the sheaf of foreign spears, that his death may give life to his country. So Nathan Hale, disdaining no service that his country demands, perishes untimely, with no other friend than God and the satisfied sense of duty. So George Washington, at once comprehending the scope of the destiny to which his country was devoted, with one hand put aside the crown, and with the other sets his slaves free. So, through all history from the beginning, a noble army of martyrs has fought fiercely and fallen bravely for that unseen mistress, their country. So, through all history to the end, as long as men believe in God, that army must still march and fight and fall--recruited only from the flower of mankind--cheered only by their own hope of humanity, strong only in their confidence in their cause. G. W. Curtis. CCC. POLITICAL MORALITY. Have we no interest that the controlling force in this country shall be a moral force?--that it shall conspire with the great idea of Liberty, and not degrade and destroy it? The theory of our institutions is our pride. But it is a pitiful truth that our public life has become synonymous with knavery. If a politician is introduced, you feel of your pockets. It is shameful that it is universally conceded that the best men, the men of intelligence and probity, generally avoid politics, and that the word itself has come to mean something not to be touched without defilement. Consequently, what good men will not touch, bad men will. It is understood that bribery carries the election; and the Presidency is the result of an adroit process of financial engineering. I have myself been shown a handful of bank-notes publicly displayed in the ante-room of a Legislature, and sagaciously told: "That is the logic for legislators." Men think they cannot afford to go to Congress, and send other men to do their duties to the State--forgetting that we can have nothing without paying for it, and that if we hope to enjoy the best government in the world we must give time and labor, each one of us, and not suppose that the country will govern itself nor bad men govern it well. Remember that the greatness of our country is not in its achievement, but in its promise--a promise which cannot be fulfilled without that sovereign moral sense--without a sensitive national conscience. If it were a question of the mere daily pleasure of living, the gratification of taste, opportunity of access to the great intellectual and æsthetic results of human genius, and whatever embellishes human life, no man could hesitate for a moment between the fulness of foreign lands in these respects, and the conspicuous poverty of our own. What have we done? We have subdued and settled a vast domain. We have made every inland river turn a mill, and wherever, on the dim rim of the globe, there is a harbor, we have lighted it with an American sail. We have bound the Atlantic to the Mississippi, so that we drift from the sea to the prairie upon a cloud of vapor; and we are stretching one hand across the continent to fulfil the hope of Columbus in a shorter way to Cathay, and with the other we are grasping under the sea to clasp there the hand of the old continent, that so the throbbing of the ocean may not toss us further apart, but be as the beating of one common pulse of the world. Yet these are the results common to all national enterprise, and different with us only in degree, not in kind. These are but the tools with which to shape a destiny. Commercial prosperity is only a curse, if it be not subservient to moral and intellectual progress; and our prosperity will conquer us, if we do not conquer our prosperity. G. W. Curtis. CCCI. IDEAS THE LIFE OF A PEOPLE. The leaders of our Revolution were men of whom the simple truth is the ugliest praise. Of every condition in life, they were singularly sagacious, sober and thoughtful. Lord Chatham spoke only the truth when he said to Franklin, of the men who composed the first colonial Congress: "The Congress is the most honorable assembly of statesmen since those of the ancient Greeks and Romans in the most virtuous times." Given to grave reflection, they were neither dreamers nor missionaries, and they were much too earnest to be rhetoricians. It is a curious fact, that they were generally men of so calm a temper that they lived to extreme age. With the exception of Patrick Henry and Samuel Adams, they were most of them profound scholars, and studied the history of mankind that they might know men. They were so familiar with the lives and thoughts of the wisest and best minds of the past that a classic aroma hangs about their writings and their speech; and they were profoundly convinced of what statesmen always know, and the adroitest mere politicians never perceive--that ideas are the life of a people--that the conscience, not the pocket, is the real citadel of a nation, and that when you have debauched and demoralized that conscience by teaching that there are no natural rights, and that therefore there is no moral right or wrong in political action, you have poisoned the wells and rotted the crops in the ground. The three greatest living statesmen of England knew this also--Edmund Burke knew it, and Charles James Fox, and William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. But they did not speak for the King or parliament, or the English nation. Lord Gower spoke for them when he said in Parliament: "Let the Americans talk about their natural and divine rights! their rights as men and citizens! their rights from God and nature! I am for enforcing these measures!" My lord was contemptuous, and the King hired the Hessians, but the truth remained true. The Fathers saw the scarlet soldiers swarming over the sea, but more steadily they saw that national progress had been secure only in the degree that the political system had conformed to natural Justice. They knew the coming wreck of property and trade, but they knew more surely that Rome was never so rich as when she was dying, and, on the other hand, the Netherlands, never so powerful as when they were poorest. Farther away, they read the names of Assyria, Greece, Egypt. They had art, opulence, splendor. Corn enough grew in the valley of the Nile. The Syrian sword was as sharp as any. They were merchant princes, and the clouds in the sky were rivalled by their sails upon the sea. They were soldiers, and their frown frightened the world. "Soul, take thine ease." those Empires said, languid with excess of luxury and life. Yes: but you remember the King who had built his grandest palace, and was to occupy it upon the morrow, but when the morrow came the palace was a pile of ruins. "Woe is me!" cried the King, "who is guilty of this crime?" "There is no crime," replied the sage at his side; "but the mortar was made of sand and water only, and the builders forgot to put in the lime." So fell the old empires, because the governors forgot to put justice into their governments. G. W. Curtis. CCCII. THE SAME CONCLUDED. These things our fathers saw and pondered. I do not mean that when the Writs of Assistance were issued, or the Stamp Act proposed, or Port Bill passed, they did not oppose them upon technical and legal grounds. Undoubtedly they did. But their character, and habits, and studies, were such that, as the tyranny encroached, they rose naturally into the sphere of fundamental truths, as into a purer and native air. In great crises, men always revert to first principles, as in sailing out of sight of land the mariner consults celestial laws. So the Fathers began at the beginning, with God and human nature, and derived their government from truths which they disdained to prove, asserting them to be self-evident. Thus the Revolution was not the struggle of a class only, but of a people. It was not merely the rebellion of subjects whose pockets were threatened, it was the protest of men whose instincts had been outraged. As Mr. Webster was fond of saying, it was fought on a preamble. A two-penny tax on tea or paper was not the cause, it was only the occasion, of the Revolution. The spirit which fought the desperate and disastrous battle on Long Island yonder was not a spirit which could be quieted by the promise of sugar gratis. The chance of success was slight--the penalty of failure was sure. But they believed in God, they kissed wife and child, left them in His hand, and kept their powder dry. Then to Valley Forge, the valley of the shadow of death--with feet bleeding upon the sharp ground--with hunger, thirst, and cold dogging their steps--with ghastly death waiting for them in the snow, they bore that faith in ideas which brought their fathers over a pitiless sea to a pitiless shore. Ideas were their food; ideas were their coats and camp-fires. They knew that their ranks were thin and raw, and the enemy trained and many. But they knew, also, that the only difficulty with the proverb that God fights upon the side of the strongest battalions is that it is not true. If you load muskets with bullets only, the result is simply a question of numbers. But one gun loaded with an idea is more fatal than the muskets of a whole regiment. A bullet kills a tyrant, but an idea kills tyranny, What chance have a thousand men fighting for a sixpence a day against a hundred fighting for life and liberty, for home and native land? In such hands, the weapons themselves feel and think. And so the family firelocks and rusty swords, the horse-pistol and old scythes of our fathers thought terribly at Lexington and Monmouth, at Saratoga and Eutaw Springs. The old Continental muskets thought out the whole Revolution. The English and Hessian arms were better and brighter than ours; but they were charged only with saltpetre. Our guns were loaded and rammed home with ideas. G. W. Curtis. CCCIII. EMANCIPATION THE WAR POLICY OF THE PRESIDENT. At length the skies are cleared, and the oracles have spoken. The ultimate achievement is already determined in the irreversible purpose of the loyal States; and that purpose is, a restored republic from the Gulf to the Lakes,--and a Republic of Freemen. When the war first broke out, the free States became at once united for the safety of the capital and for vengeance upon those who had dishonored the common flag. Time passed on; the capital was supposed to be secure; changing fortune visited our arms; the people of the North became divided; some insisted upon an instant order of emancipation; others insisted upon no emancipation at all. One there was, as it has seemed to me, who abided the time of Providence and possessed his soul in patience; he was the President. He waited, counselled, struggled for a restored Union, before which and in comparison with which all other things should be subordinated. Within seventeen months after the first gun--so short are the historic stages in our time--he issued his proclamation of freedom with three months of notice. It saved the heart of the North and of a portion of Europe. In the mean time the loyal arms had rescued several States from the clutch of revolt, and the inquiry everywhere arose, when, and how, and in what manner, the policy of emancipation should be applied. Then again it was, in the fulness of time, that the second Presidential proclamation came forth for the restoration of the States upon the basis of the equality of all men before God. Upon that he will stand, and upon that we shall stand, with no faltering or retracing step, until from the waters of the Gulf to the woods of the North, and from the Atlantic to the Pacific sea, this broad beat of empire shall possess an invincible people with no clanking manacle to fetter the creatures of God. Accepting this, then, as the fixed policy of the States which are to subjugate the rebellion, we may felicitate ourselves upon the part we are permitted to bear in human events--that a measure, which in other countries and in more peaceful ages would have required a quarter or a half a century for its accomplishment, has become the announced edict of the loyal people of the United States, within the space of thirty-four months. The abolishment of the slave trade by the British Government, initiated by Wilberforce, supported by Pitt and Fox, and Burke and Granville, was accomplished only after seventeen years of parliamentary agitation. When Mr. Fox, in 1806 submitted this, which proved to be the last motion he ever made in Parliament, and lived to witness its success, nobly did he declare: "That if, during the forty years he had sat in Parliament, he had been so fortunate as to accomplish that object, and that only, he should think he had done enough." If Mr. Fox might take to his heart that gratulation over the first sanction extorted from the Legislature of Great Britain for the abolition of the slave trade, may I not reclaim it with redoubled force for the American Magistrate under whose decree four millions of men will burst the bondage of ages, and mount enriched and ennobled to the enfranchisements of immortality. The literature of England is rich with the eloquence of eulogium upon the statesman whose star was in the ascendant when freedom became the policy of the Empire; but I choose to appropriate it to him upon this side of the ocean, who has achieved the highest honor of mortal lot; who has won a triumph which leaves every other triumph of humanity and justice out of sight behind it, and for which, to the end of time, mankind will revere his name and bless his memory. A. H. Bullock. CCCIV. THE DUTY OF THE HOUR. As to duty, that is clear from what I have already told you. We owe allegiance to the Government of the Union, and its history to the breaking out of the present foul rebellion, the memory of the men who gave it to us, the untold blessings it has conferred upon us, the support it has given to constitutional liberty everywhere, the gratitude we owe to Washington, whom Providence, it has been said, left childless, that his country might call him father, will all unite in making that allegiance a pleasure as well as a duty. To be false to such a Government, to palter even with the treason that seeks its downfall, to associate with the wicked men or the madmen who are in arms against it, would be as vile a dishonor and as base a crime as fallen man ever perpetrated. Peace, in such a crisis--the cry of our opponents--how is it to be attained? How, upon their plan, but by a gross violation of our clearest obligations--or total disregard of an allegiance to which we are bound, not only by the Constitution, but by the pledge our ancestors gave for us? The force the Government is raising is not, as is falsely alleged by the conspirators, to subjugate States or citizens. It is but to vindicate the Constitution and the laws, and maintain the existence of the government. It is but to suppress the "insurrection," force the citizen to return to his duty, and restore him to the unequalled benefits of the Union. And when this is done, as done it will be if there is justice in Heaven, the authors of the present calamity will be consigned to the execrations of the civilized world, and punished, perhaps, if that is possible, more severely by the people whom, by arts and subterfuges, they have so deluded and deceived. R. Johnson. CCCV. THE FIRST GUN FIRED AT SUMTER. As if to show how coldly and calmly all this had been calculated beforehand by the conspirators, to make sure that no absence of malice aforethought should degrade the grand malignity of settled purpose into the trivial effervescence of transient passion, the torch which was literally to launch the first missile, figuratively, to "fire the Southern heart" and light the flame of civil war, was given into the trembling hand of an old white-headed man, the wretched incendiary whom history will handcuff in eternal infamy with the temple-burner of ancient Ephesus. The first gun that spat its iron insult at Fort Sumter, smote every loyal American full in the face. As when the foul witch used to torture her miniature image, the person it represented suffered all that she inflicted on his waxen counterpart, so every buffet that fell on the smoking fortress was felt by the sovereign nation of which that was the representative. Robbery could go no farther, for every loyal man of the North was despoiled in that single act as much as if a footpad had laid hands upon him to take from him his father's staff and his mother's Bible. Insult could go no farther, for over those battered walls waved the precious symbol of all we most value in the past and hope for in the future,--the banner under which we became a nation, and which, next to the cross of the Redeemer, is the dearest object of love and honor to all who toil or march or sail beneath its waving folds of glory. O. W. Holmes. CCCVI. OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. We shall have success if we truly will success,--not other wise. It may be long in coming,--Heaven only knows through what trials and humblings we may have to pass before the full strength of the nation is duly arrayed and led to victory, We must be patient, as our fathers were patient; even in our worst calamities we must remember that defeat itself may be a gain where it costs our enemy more in relation to his strength than it costs ourselves. But if, in the inscrutable providence of the Almighty, this generation is disappointed in its lofty aspirations for the race, if we have not virtue enough to ennoble our whole people, and make it a nation of sovereigns, we shall at least hold in undying honor those who vindicated the insulted majesty of the Republic, and struck at her assailants so long as a drum-beat summoned them to the field of duty. Citizens of Boston, sons and daughters of New England, men and women of the North, brothers and sisters in the bond of the American Union, you have among you the scared and wasted soldiers who have shed their blood for your temporal salvation. They bore your Nation's emblems bravely through the fire and smoke of the battlefield; nay, their own bodies are starred with bullet-wounds and striped with sabre-cuts, as if to mark them as belonging to their country until their dust becomes a portion of the soil which they defended, In every Northern graveyard slumber the victims of this destroying struggle. Many whom you remember playing as children amidst the clover-blossoms of our Northern fields, sleep under nameless mounds, with strange Southern wild-flowers blooming over them. By those wounds of living heroes, by those graces of fallen martyrs, by the hopes of your children, and the claims of your children's children yet unborn, in the name of outraged honor, in the interest of violated sovereignty, for the life of an imperilled nation, for the sake of men everywhere and of our common humanity, for the glory of God and the advancement of His kingdom on earth, your country calls upon you to stand by her through good report and through evil report, in triumph and in defeat, until she emerges from the great war of Western civilization, Queen of the broad continent, arbitress in the councils of earth's emancipated peoples; until the flag that fell from the wall of Fort Sumter floats again inviolate, supreme, over all her ancient inheritance, every fortress, every capital, every ship, and this warring land is once more a united nation. O. W. Holmes. CCCVII. MANHOOD AND COUNTRY BEFORE WEALTH AND LUXURY. Let us say it plainly it will not hurt our people to be taught that there are other things to be cared for besides money making and money spending; that the time has come when manhood must assert itself by brave deeds and noble thoughts; when womanhood must assume its most sacred office, "to warn, to comfort," and, if need be, "to command" those whose services their country calls for. This Northern section of the land has become a great variety shop, of which the Atlantic cities are the long-extended counter. We have grown rich for what? To put gilt bands on coachmen's hats? To sweep the foul sidewalks with the heaviest silks which the toiling artisans of France can send us? To look through plate-glass windows, and pity the brown soldiers,--or sneer at the black ones? to reduce the speed of trotting horses a second or two below its old minimum? to color meerschaums? to flaunt in laces, and sparkle in diamonds? to dredge our maiden's hair with gold-dust? to float through life, the passive shuttlecocks of fashion, from the avenues to the beaches, and back again from the beaches to the avenues? Was it for this that the broad domain of the Western hemisphere was kept so long unvisited by civilization?--for this, that Time, the father of empires, unbound the virgin zone of this youngest of his daughters, and gave her, beautiful in the long veil of her forests, to the rude embrace of the adventurous Colonists? All this is what we see around us, now,--now, while we are actually fighting this great battle, and supporting this great load of indebtedness. Wait till the diamonds go back to the Jews of Amsterdam; till the plate-glass window bears the fatal announcement, For Sale, or to Let; till the voice of our Miriam is obeyed as she sings:-- "Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms!" till the gold-dust is combed from golden locks, and hoarded to buy bread; till the fast-driving youth smokes his clay-pipe on the platform of the horse-car; till the music-grinders cease because none will pay them; till there are no peaches in the windows at twenty-four dollars a dozen, and no heaps of bananas and pine-apples selling at the street-corners; till the ten-flounced dress has but three flounces, and it is a felony to drink champagne; wait till these changes show themselves, the signs of deeper wants, the preludes of exhaustion and bankruptcy; then let us talk of the Maelstrom;--but till then, let us not be cowards with our purses, while brave men are emptying their hearts upon the earth for us; let us not whine over our imaginary ruin, while the reversed current of circling events is carrying us farther and farther, every hour, beyond the influence of the great failing which was born of our wealth, and of the deadly sin which was our fatal inheritance! O. W. Holmes. CCCVIII. OUR COUNTRY'S GREATEST GLORY. The true glory of a nation is in an intelligent, honest, industrious Christian people. The civilization of a people depends on their individual character; and a constitution which is not the outgrowth of this character is not worth the parchment on which it is written. You look in vain in the past for a single instance where the people have preserved their liberties after their individual character was lost. It is not in the magnificence of its palaces, not in the beautiful creations of art lavished on its public edifices, not in costly libraries and galleries of pictures, not in the number or wealth of its cities, that we find pledges of a nation's glory. The ruler may gather around him the treasures of the world, amid a brutalized people; the senate chamber may retain its faultless proportions long after the voice of patriotism is hushed within its wails; the monumental marble may commemorate a glory which has forever departed. Art and letters may bring no lesson to a people whose heart is dead. The true glory of a nation is in the living temple of a loyal, industrious, and upright people. The busy click of machinery, the merry ring of the anvil, the lowing of peaceful herds, and the song of the harvest-home, are sweeter music than pæans of departed glory, or songs of triumph in war. The vine-clad cottage of the hillside, the cabin of the woodsman, and the rural home of the farmer are the true citadels of any country. There is a dignity in honest toil which belongs not to the display of wealth or the luxury of fashion. The man who drives the plough, or swings his axe in the forest, or with cunning fingers plies the tools of his craft, is as truly the servant of his country, as the statesman in the senate or the soldier in battle. The safety of a nation depends not alone on the wisdom of its statesmen or the bravery of its generals. The tongue of eloquence never saved a nation tottering to its fall; the sword of a warrior never stayed its destruction. There is a surer defence in every Christian home. I say Christian home, for I allow of no glory to manhood which comes not from the cross. I know of no rights wrung from tyranny, no truth rescued from darkness and bigotry, which has not awaited on a Christian civilization. Would you see the image of true glory, I would show you villages where the crown and glory of the people was in Christian schools, where the voice of prayer goes heaven-ward, where the people have that most priceless gift--faith in God. With this as the basis, and leavened as it will be with brotherly love, there will be no danger in grappling with any evils which exist in our midst; we shall feel that we may work and bide our time, and die knowing that God will bring victory. Bishop Whipple. CCCIX. OUR NATIONAL ANNIVERSARY. We celebrate to-day no idle tradition--the deeds of no fabulous race; for we tread in the scarcely obliterated footsteps of an earnest and valiant generation of men, who dared to stake life, and fortune, and sacred honor, upon a declaration of rights, whose promulgation shook tyrants on their thrones, gave hope to fainting freedom, and reformed the political ethics of the world. The greatest heroes of former days have sought renown in schemes of conquest, based on the love of dominion or the thirst for war; and such had been the worship of power in the minds of men, that adulation had ever followed in the wake of victory. How daring then the trial of an issue between a handful of oppressed and outlawed colonists, basing their cause, under God, upon an appeal to the justice of mankind and their own few valiant arms. And how immeasurably great was he, the fearless commander, who, after the fortunes and triumphs of battle were over, scorned the thought of a regal throne for a home in the hearts of his countryman. Amidst the rejoicings of this day, let us mingle something of gratitude with our joy--something of reverence with our gratitude--and something of duty with our reverence. Let us cultivate personal independence in the spirit of loyalty to the State. and may God grant that we may always be able to maintain the sovereignty of the State in the spirit of integrity to the Union. Thus shall still be shed imperishable honors upon the American name thus perpetuated, through all coming time, the heritage which has been bequeathed to us by our fathers. Whatever shall be the fate of other governments, ours thus sustained, shall stand forever. As has been elsewhere said, nation after nation may rise and fall, kingdoms and empires crumble into ruin, but our own native land, gathering energy and strength from the lapse of time, shall go on and still go on its destined way to greatness and renown. And when thrones shall crumble into dust, when sceptres and diadems shall have been forgotten, till Heaven's last thunder shall shake the world below, the flag of the republic shall still wave on, and its Stars, its Stripes, and its Eagle, shall still float in pride, and strength, and glory, "Whilst the earth bears, a plant, Or the sea rolls a wave." A. H. Rice. CCCX. SOUTHERN USURPATIONS AND NORTHERN CONCESSIONS. Why did these Southerners make war upon the country, converting their own domain into a receptacle of stolen goods, and the hiding-place of mercenaries, murderers, and madmen, and ours into one vast recruiting tent? Tell me, you cowardly and traitorous Northmen, who talk about peace before the last armed foe has expired on the soil his attainted blood defiles, or of compromise, while yet the walls of our hospitals resound with the groans of the mangled, and are damp with the death-dew of the expiring? Tell me, you traitors, Davis, Pickens, Stephens, and Floyd? what do you say provoked you to the point where forbearance ceased to be a virtue? What had we of the North usurped that belonged to you? I inquire not now of what some among us may have said. I challenge any act of usurpation by the non-slaveholding States against your rights as members of the confederacy. Facts are incontrovertible. What had we done? What provision of the Federal Constitution had we violated? For once lay aside your declamation and abuse, and soberly and truthfully state your grievances. You know, and we know, and the world knows, that we made no encroachment upon your reserved rights as a party to the compact between your fathers and ours. You know, also, that we have been so terrified at your reiterated threats against the family peace and general welfare, that, in our anxiety to preserve national concord, we have sacrificed personal honor and State pride. You called us "mudsills" and "greasy mechanics," until labor almost began to be ashamed of its God-given dignity. You beat our representatives in the national council chambers, because they expressed the views of those whom they served. You denied us freedom of speech in all your borders. This and much else, before the last burden, which broke our uncomplaining patience into active, and, as you are destined to learn, terrible resistance and deserved retribution. But what had we done? How sinned against you? In 1820 you wanted a geographical limit assigned to your peculiar institution and we passed the law known as the Missouri Compromise. You got sick of this when it appeared that slavery would not be a gainer thereby, as it was supposed, and begged a repeal of the act. It was repealed. In 1850, you clamored for further legislation in favor of your property in human beings, and the fugitive slave law was placed on the nation's statute book. You continually cried, "Give, give!" and we gave. But nothing would satisfy your rapacity; you had resolved to quarrel with us. Do you remind me that we did not return your escaped slaves? This is only half the truth. Whenever you came after your chattel, with legal proofs of ownership, we caught and caged him, and sent him back to you, often at our own expense. If you did not think it worth your while to hunt up your runaway, it was none of our concern. Sometimes a man among us, more of a humanitarian than a jurisconsult, and better versed in the law of nature than the law of the land, illegally, but conscientiously, aided your bondman to escape. John Brown did so, and you hanged him for it! But no State, as such, and no authority within a State, ever hesitated or refused to fulfil its constitutional obligations to you on this head. But you did not mean to be satisfied. You meant to rebel. You have rebelled, and you must abide the consequences. R. Busteed. CCCXI. MONUMENTAL HONORS TO PUBLIC BENEFACTORS. What parent, as he conducts his son to Mount Auburn or to Bunker Hill, will not, as he pauses before their monumental statues, seek to heighten his reverence for virtue, for patriotism, for science, for learning, for devotion to the public good, as he bids him contemplate the form of that grave and venerable Winthrop, who left his pleasant home in England to come and found a new republic in this untrodden wilderness; of that ardent and intrepid Otis, who first struck out the spark of American independence; of that noble Adams, its most eloquent champion on the floor of Congress; of that martyr Warren, who laid down his life in its defense; of that self-taught Bowditch, who, without a guide, threaded the starry mazes of the heavens; of that Story, honored at home and abroad as one of the brightest luminaries of the law, and, by a felicity of which I believe there is no other example, admirably portrayed in marble by his son? What citizen of Boston, as he accompanies the stranger around our streets, guiding him through our busy thoroughfares, to our wharves, crowded with vessels which range every sea and gather the produce of every climate, up to the dome of this capitol, which commands as lovely a landscape as can delight the eye or gladden the heart, will not, as he calls his attention at last to the statues of Franklin and Webster, exclaim:--"Boston takes pride in her natural position, she rejoices in her beautiful environs, she is grateful for her material prosperity; but richer than the merchandise stored in palatial warehouses, greener than the slopes of sea-girt islets, lovelier than this encircling panorama of land and sea, of field and hamlet, of lake and stream, of garden and grove, is the memory of her sons, native and adopted; the character, services and fame of those who have benefited and adorned their day and generation. Our children, and the schools at which they are trained, our citizens, and the services they have rendered:--these are our monuments, these are our jewels, these our abiding treasures." E. Everett. CCCXII. THE CRIME OF THE REBELLION. I call the war which the Confederates are waging against the Union a "Rebellion," because it is one, and in grave matters it is best to call things by their right names. I speak of it as a crime, because the Constitution of the United States so regards it, and puts "rebellion" on a par with "invasion." The Constitution and law not only of England, but of every civilized country regard them in the same light; or rather they consider the rebel in arms as far worse than the alien enemy. To levy war against the United States is the constitutional definition of treason, and that crime is, by every civilized government: regarded as the highest which citizen or subject can commit. Not content with the sanctions of human justice, of all the crimes against the law of the land it is singled out for the denunciations of religion. The litanies of every church in Christendom, as far as I am aware, from the metropolitan cathedrals of Europe to the humblest missionary chapel in the islands of the sea, concur with the Church of England in imploring the Sovereign of the universe, by the most awful adjurations which the heart of man can conceive or his tongue utter, to deliver us from "sedition, privy conspiracy and rebellion." And reason good,--for while a rebellion against tyranny; a rebellion designed, after prostrating arbitrary power, to establish free government on the basis of justice and truth, is an enterprise on which good men and angels may look with complacency; an unprovoked rebellion of ambitious men against a beneficent government, for the purpose--the avowed purpose-of establishing, extending, and perpetuating any form of injustice and wrong, is an imitation on earth of that first foul revolt of "the Infernal serpent," against which the Supreme Majesty of Heaven sent forth the armed myriads of his angels, and clothed the right arm of his Son with the three-bolted thunders of Omnipotence. Lord Bacon, "in the true marshalling of the sovereign degrees of honor," assigns the first place to "the Conditores Imperiorum, founders of States and Commonwealths "; and truly to build up from the discordant elements of our nature; the passions, the interests, and the opinions of the individual man; the rivalries of family, clan, and tribe; the influences of climate and geographical position; the accidents of peace and war accumulated for ages, to build up, from these oftentimes warring elements, a well-compacted, prosperous and powerful State, if it were to be accomplished by one effort, or in one generation, would require a more than mortal skill. To contribute in some notable degree to this the greatest work of man, by wise and patriotic counsel in peace, and loyal heroism in war, is as high as human merit can well rise, and far more than to any of those to whom Bacon assigns this highest place of honor, whose names can hardly be repeated without a wondering smile,--Romulus; Cyrus, Cæsar, Ottoman, Israel,--is it due to our Washington, as the founder of the American Union. But if to achieve or help to achieve this greatest work of man's wisdom and virtue gives title to a place among the chief benefactors, rightful heirs of the benedictions, of mankind, by equal reason shall the bold bad men who seek to undo the noble work,--Eversores Imperiorum, destroyers of States,--who for base and selfish ends rebel against beneficent governments, seek to overturn wise constitutions, to lay powerful republican unions at the foot of foreign thrones, bring on civil and foreign war, anarchy at home, dictation abroad, desolation, ruin,--by equal reason, I say, yes a thousand fold stronger, shall they inherit the execrations of ages. E. Everett. CCCXIII. A TRIBUTE TO OUR HONORED DEAD. How bright are the honors which await those who with sacred fortitude and patriotic patience have endured all things that they might save their native land from division and from the power of corruption. The honored dead! They that die for a good cause are redeemed from death. Their names are gathered and garnered. Their memory is precious. Each place grows proud for them who were born there. There is to be, ere long, in every village, and in every neighborhood, a glowing pride in its martyred heroes. Tablets shall preserve their names. Pious love shall renew their inscriptions as time and the unfeeling elements efface them. And the national festivals shall give multitudes of precious names to the orator's lips. Children shall grow up under more sacred inspirations, whose elder brothers dying nobly for their country, left a name that honored and inspired all who bore it. Orphan children shall find thousands of fathers and mothers to love and help those whom dying heroes left as a legacy to the gratitude of the public. Oh, tell me not that they are dead--that generous hosts that airy army of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism? Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. It was your son: but now he is the nation's. He made your household bright: now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sister's, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you. Now he is augmented, set free, and given to all. Before he was yours: he is ours. He has died from the family that he might live to the nation. Not one name shall be forgot ten or neglected: and it shall by-and-by be confessed of our modern heroes, as it is of an ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his whole life. Neither are they less honored who shall bear through life the marks of wounds and sufferings. Neither epaulette nor badge is so honorable as wounds received in a good cause. Many a man shall envy him who henceforth limps. So strange is the transforming power of patriotic ardor, that men shall almost covet disfigurement. Crowds will give way to hobbling cripples, and uncover in the presence of feebleness and helplessness. And buoyant children shall pause in their noisy games, and with loving rererence honor them whose hands can work no more, and whose feet are no longer able to march except upon that journey which brings good men to honor and immortality. Oh, mother of lost children! set not in darkness nor sorrow whom a nation honors. Oh, mourners of the early dead, they shall live again, and live forever. Your sorrows are our gladness. The nation lives because you gave it men that love it better than their own lives. And when a few more days shall have cleared the perils from around the nation's brow, and she shall sit in unsullied garments of liberty, with justice upon her forehead, love in her eyes, and truth upon her lips, she shall not forget those whose blood gave vital currents to her heart, and whose life, given to her, shall live with her life till time shall be no more. Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register; and till the mountains are worn out, and the rivers forget to flow, till the clouds are weary of replenishing springs, and the springs forget to gush, and the rills to sing, shall their names be kept fresh with reverent honors which are inscribed upon the book of National Remembrance. H. W. Beecher. CCCXIV. ON THE CONFISCATION BILL. Few of those engaged in this rebellion will ever be made to suffer in their persons; and if they are to be left in the full possession and enjoyment of their cotton, their lands, and their negroes, the innocent will have been made to suffer while the guilty will go unpunished. Shall the fathers of the gallant sons whose mangled bodies have been borne back to Illinois by hundreds, from the bloody fields of Belmont, of Donelson, and Pea Ridge, be ground down by onerous taxes, which shall descend upon their children to the third and fourth generations, to defray the expenses of defending the Government against traitors, and we forbear to touch even the property of the authors of these calamities, whose persons are beyond our reach? Suppose ye that the loyal people of this country will submit to such injustice? I believe I represent as loyal, as patriotic and as brave a constituency as any other Senator. I claim nothing more. While I am proud of the part which the soldiers of my own State took in defeating the enemy in the West, I do not claim for them any superiority over the other soldiers of the Republic. The brave men who besieged Donelson, and who, after fighting through the day for three consecutive days, lay each night on the ground without shelter, exposed to the rain and sleet, were chiefly Illinoisans. It was there that rebellion received the heavy blow which has staggered it ever since. Forty dead bodies were borne from that bloody field to one small town in my State, and buried in a common grave. The Union forces at Pea Ridge were also largely made up of soldiers from Illinois. Suppose ye that I can go back to Illinois, among the relatives of those who have been cruelly destroyed, and propose to levy taxes upon them in order to conciliate and compensate the murderers, for that is really what exempting rebel property from confiscation amounts to? Sir, I know not if they would submit to such injustice; and yet there are those who not only talk of an amnesty to the men who have brought these troubles upon the country, but oppose providing the mild punishment of confiscation of property for those who shall continue hereafter to war upon the Government, and whose persons are beyond our reach. Do gentlemen regard it as conciliatory to oblige us to lay taxes upon those whose habitations have been consumed, to reward those who have burned them? upon those whose whole property has been stolen, to reward the thieves? upon those whose relatives have been slain, to compensate the murderers? In my judgment, justice, humanity, and mercy herself all demand that we at once provide that the supporters of this cruel and wicked rebellion should henceforth be made to feel its burdens. When the rebels, whose hands are dripping with the blood of loyal citizens, shall have grounded their arms, it will be time enough to talk of clemency; but to have our sympathies excited in their behalf now, when fighting to overthrow the Government, is cruelty to the loyal men who have rallied to its support. L. Trumbull. CCCXV. THE CRITTENDEN COMPROMISE. Sir, what are the remedies that are proposed for the present condition of things, and what have they been from the beginning? They have been propositions of compromise; and Senators have spoken of peace, and of the horrors of civil war; and gentlemen who have contended for the right of the people of the Territories to regulate their own affairs, and who have been horrified at the idea of a geographical line dividing free States from slave States, free territory from slave territory,--and we have proclaimed that the great principle upon which the Revolution was fought was that of the right of the people to govern themselves, and that it was a monstrous doctrine for Congress to interfere in any way with its own Territories--these gentlemen come forward here with propositions to divide the country on a geographical line; and not only that, but to establish slavery south of the line; and they call this the Missouri Compromise! The proposition known as the Crittenden Compromise is no more like the Missouri Compromise than is the government of Turkey like that of the United States. The Missouri Compromise was a law declaring that in all the territory which we had acquired from Louisiana, north of a certain line of latitude, slavery or involuntary servitude should never exist. But it said nothing about the establishment of slavery south of that line. It was a compromise made in order to admit Missouri into the Union as a slave State, in 1820. That was the consideration for the exclusion of slavery from all the country north of 36° 30'. Now, sir, I have no objection to the restoration of the Missouri Compromise as it stood in 1854, when the Kansas-Nebraska Bill repealed it. The proposition known as the Crittenden Compromise declares not only that "in the territory south of the said line of latitude, slavery of the African race is thereby recognized as existing, and shall not be interfered with by Congress;" but it provides further, that, in the territory we shall hereafter acquire south of that line, slavery shall be recognized, and not interfered with by Congress; but "shall be protected as property by all the departments of the territorial government during its continuance;" so that, if we make acquisitions on the south of territories now free, and where by the laws of the land the footsteps of slavery have never been, the moment we acquire jurisdiction over them, the moment the stars and stripes of the Republic float over those free territories, they carry with them African slavery, established beyond the power of Congress and beyond the power of any territorial legislature or of the people, to keep it out: and we are told that this is the Missouri Compromise! Now, sir, why cannot we have peace, I ask, upon the compromise measures of 1850? Why disturb them? They were enacted by great men. They gave peace to the country. Why is it necessary now to overturn them? Restore the old Missouri Compromise as it stood; let us go back to the settlement made in 1850, and there let us stand. What more would Senators have? The South were satisfied with that settlement. Have we disturbed it? Are we proposing to disturb it? Not at all. You yourselves disturbed it, and brought these difficulties upon the country. I have always insisted that the people of the Northern States were in no manner responsible for slavery in the Southern states; and why? Because they had no power in regard to it. Each State has a right to manage its own domestic affairs. I will not interfere with it where I have no authority by the Constitution to interfere; but I will never consent, the people of my State will never consent, the people of the great Northwest, numbering more in white population than all your Southern States together, never will consent by their act to establish African slavery anywhere. No, sir; I will never agree to put into the Constitution of the country a clause establishing or making perpetual slavery anywhere. No, sir; no human being shall ever be made a slave by my vote. Not one single foot of God's soil shall ever be dedicated to African slavery by my act--never! Never! L. Trumbull. CCCXVI. REPLY TO SENATOR BRECKINRIDGE. The Senator from Kentucky stands up here in opposition to what he sees is the overwhelming sentiment of the Senate, and utters reproof, malediction and prediction combined. I would ask him, sir, what would you havre us to do now--a rebel army within twenty mites of us, advancing or threatening to advance to destroy your Government? Will the Senator yield to rebellion? Will he shrink from armed insurrection? Will his State justify it? Will its better public opinion allow it? Shall we send a flag of truce? What would he have? Or would he conduct this war so feebly that the whole world would smile at us in derision? What would he have? These speeches of his, sown broadcast over the land--what clear, distinct meaning have they? Are they not intended for disorganization in our very midst? Are they not intended to dull our weapons? Are they not intended to destroy our zeal? Are they not intended to animate our enemies? Sir, are they not words of brilliant, polished treason, even in the very Capitol of the Confederacy? Be with the enemy or with us. I come, then, to emancipation. And, first, I ask my countrymen to proclaim emancipation to the slaves as a matter of necessity to ourselves; for unless it be by accident, we are not to come out of this contest as one nation, except by emancipation. Confiscation of the property of the rebels may be necessary and just; but it is not enough. It will not save us in "this rugged and awful crisis." It is inadequate to meet the exigency in which the country is placed. We must have emancipation. The political salvation of the country demands it; and it is inevitable. The time is approaching when emancipation must take place, and we have now, I think, only a choice of ways. Emancipation may be achieved by the slaves themselves; it may be effected by the Government of the United States; it may come through the desperation of the slaveholding rebels themselves. But come it must. I say, then, let us, at the head of our armies, on the soil of South Carolina, proclaim Freedom--freedom to all her slaves, and then enforce the proclamation as far and as fast as we have opportunity. Let the blow fall first on that State which first rebelled, as a warning and a penalty for her perfidy in this business, which began at the moment that her delegates penned their names to the Constitution. Next, Florida, impotent in her treachery, with less than a hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, and with property not equal to that of a single ward in this city, and that purchased with the money of the people,--emancipate her slaves, and invite the refugees from slavery in the South, for the moment to assemble there, if they desire, and take possession of the soil. And next in this work of emancipation I name Texas, a State purchased by a costly war with Mexico and which went out of the Union because she could not extend slavery in the Union. Let us teach her people that in the Union or out of the union, slavery is not to be extended. Emancipate the slaves in Texas, and invite men from the army, invite men from the North, invite men from Ireland, invite men from Germany,--the friends of freedom, of every name and every nation?--bid them welcome to the millions of acres of fertile lands we shall there confiscate, and they will form a barrier of freemen, a wall of liberty, over which, or through which, or beneath which it will be impossible for slavery to extend itself. These three States may be sufficient for warning, for refuge, and for security against the spread of slavery; but I would have it distinctly understood, that by the next anniversary of the birth of the Father of his Country, we shall emancipate the slaves in all the disloyal and rebellious States if they do not previously return to their allegiance. But justice to the slaves, no less than necessity to us, demands emancipation. Certainly they have been subjected to a sufficient apprenticeship under slavery, through two centuries, to prepare them for freedom if ever they are to be prepared. I say, then, justice to the slave demands emancipation. Let us maintain the principles of the declaration of Independence. The fundamental difference on which the North and South have divided for thirty years is on that part of the Declaration which says "All men are created equal." They have denied it; we have undertaken to maintain it. Jefferson meant, when he penned that immortal truth, not that men are equal physically, intellectually, or morally, but that no one is born under any political subserviency to his fellow man. Let us maintain the doctrine now. These slaves are men; Jefferson did not hesitate to call them "brethren." The declaration concerning the equality of men applies to them as to us; and now that in the progress of events the South has relieved us from responsibility in regard to eleven disloyal States, let us stand forth as a nation in our original strength and purity, maintaining the ideas to which our fathers gave utterance. That we may have ground on which to stand and defend ourselves in this contest, let us declare in the presence of these slaveholders and rebels, in the presence of Europe, that we proclaim THE EQUALITY OF ALL MEN. G. S. Boutwell. CCCXVIII. THE RECONSTRUCTION OF LOUISIANA. Mr. President and Fellow-citizens--At the request of the Committee of Arrangements, I am present as a spectator, to witness the imposing and grand ceremonies of this interesting occasion, and reluctantly to express in words my great gratification at the progress that has been made in the restoration of Louisiana to the Union of States, and in the majestic evidence before me of the returning loyalty of its people. I have watched with the deepest interest the momentous events in the struggle through which we are passing, from its inception to the present hour. In common with the mass of my countrymen I have sorrowed at reverses, and rejoiced in victories. I have mourned over the heroes who have fallen on the field of battle--my brothers in blood, my brothers in arms--and have joined in the honors which a grateful people have showered upon the gallant spirits who upon the sea and upon the land have led our hosts to victory. They never can be forgotten. Day by day and hour by hour, I have observed the receding armies of the enemy, until more than half the territory covered by the shadow of the rebel flag at the beginning of the war, has fallen into the possession of the Government, and is covered by the Stars and Stripes--the emblem of Liberty, now and forever, here and everywhere. We have, indeed, enough to rejoice our hearts in the progress of our armies, and to give joy to the festivities of this glad hour,-- "But much remains To conquer still. Peace hath her victories No less renowned than war." In order to maintain the ground we have recovered with such terrible sacrifice of precious life, and to enable the gallant leaders and heroic men of our armies to retire to the walks of civil life again, it is necessary that civil institutions of government should be reëstablished, and a new, subdued, yet patriotic spirit, like that which held "The helm of Rome, when robes, not arms, Repelled the fierce Epirote and the bold African," should animate our people and restore the pristine purity and power of the nation. Louisiana has not been faithless to her duties, nor is she now, nor will she be in the future. Among the truest spirits in the hour of trial were her sons and her daughters. Among the bravest and truest upon the field of battle have been her volunteers. She was the first in this great revolution of ideas rather than arms, to organize her public schools upon a war footing, and infuse into the uncorrupted hearts of their pupils this new sentiment of nationality, by the daily repetition, with the morning prayers, of the magnificent anthems of American liberty. She was the first to institute the system of compensated labor, that makes the restoration of the institution of slavery on this continent impossible that compels us to prepare for the elevation of the oppressed race among us, and the ultimate recognition of all their rights. She is the first in this revolution of ideas to give to the social element of the people a national interest and a national spirit in the great drama of life through which we are passing. And here, to-day, with this splendid pageant--here, to-day, at the inauguration which consummates an election by the people of more than ordinary purity and of unrestricted freedom--here, to-day she is to recognize, as a national sentiment for the new age and the new history, the doctrine that Union AND Liberty, now and forever, must be, and will be, one and inseparable. In proportion to the confidence with which the people of the American continent shall view the results of this day's history so will arise, in all parts of our land, a cry of joy as of a people liberated from the bondage of slavery and death. And from the hearthstone and the altar will arise the prayer of the good and wise, that this first gleam of light will prove a joyful harbinger of a perpetual day of peace, prosperity, and power. N. P. Banks. CCCXIX. THE BIBLE--ITS INFLUENCE. This Book has taken such a hold on the world as no other. The literature of Greece, which goes up like incense from that land of temples and heroic deeds, has not half the influence of this Book from a nation alike despised in ancient and modern times. It is read of a Sunday in all the thirty thousand pulpits of our land. In all the temples of Christendom is its voice lifted up, week by week. The sun never sets on its gleaming page. It goes equally to the cottage of the plain man and the palace of the king. It is woven into the literature of the scholar, and colors the talk of the street. The bark of the merchant cannot sail the sea without it; no ship of war goes to the conflict but the Bible is there! It enters men's closets; mingles in all the grief and cheerfulness of life. The affianced maiden prays God in Scripture for strength in her new duties; men are married by Scripture. The Bible attends them in their sickness; when the fever of the world is on them, the aching head finds a softer pillow if such leaves lie underneath. The mariner, escaping from shipwreck, clutches this first of his treasures, and keeps it sacred to God. It goes with the peddler, in his crowded pack; cheers him at eventide, when he sits down dusty and fatigued; brightens the freshness of his morning face. It blesses us when we are born; gives names to half Christendom; rejoices with us; has sympathy for our mourning; tempers our grief to finer issues. It is the better part of our sermons. It lifts man above himself; our best of uttered prayers are its storied speech, wherewith our fathers and the patriarchs prayed. The timid man, about awaking from this dream of life, looks through the glass of Scripture and his eye grows bright; he does not fear to stand alone, to tread the way unknown and distant, to take the death-angel by the hand, and bid farewell to wife, and babes, and home. Men rest on this their dearest hopes. It tells them of God, and of his blessed Son; of earthly duties and of heavenly rest. Foolish men find it the source of Plato's wisdom, and the science of Newton, and the art of Raphael; wicked men use it to rivet the fetters of the slave. Men who believe nothing else that is Spiritual, believe the Bible all through; without this they would not confess, say they, even that there was a God. T. Parker. CCCXX. THE BIBLE--ITS DEEP AND LASTING POWER. For this deep and lasting power of the Bible there must be an adequate cause. That nothing comes of nothing is true all the world over. It is no light thing to hold, with an electric chain, a thousand hearts, though but an hour, beating and bounding with such fiery speed. What is it then to hold the Christian world, and that for centuries? Are men fed with chaff and husks? The authors we reckon great, whose word is in the newspaper, and the market-place, whose articulate breath now sways the nation's mind, will soon pass away, giving place to other great men of a season, who in their turn shall follow them to eminence and then to oblivion. Some thousand "famous writers" come up in this century, to be forgotten in the next. But the silver cord of the Bible is not loosed, nor its golden bowl broken, as Time chronicles its tens of centuries passed by. Has the human race gone mad? Time sits as a refiner of metal; the dross is piled in forgotten heaps, but the pure gold is reserved for use, passes into the ages, and is current a thousand years hence as well as to-day. It is only real merit that can long pass for such. Tinsel will rust in the storms of life. False weights are soon detected there. It is only a heart that can speak deep and true, to a heart; a mind to a mind; a soul to a soul; wisdom to the wise, and religion to the pious. There must then be in the Bible, mind, conscience, heart and soul, wisdom and religion. Were it otherwise, how could millions find it in their lawgiver, friend, and prophet? Some of the greatest of human institutions seem built on the Bible; such things will not stand on heaps of chaff but on mountains of rocks. T. Parker. CCCXXI. SUPPORT OF THE GOVERNMENT BY FORCE. What we have to do is clear. The dictate of wisdom, the impulse of patriotism, the instinct of safety and preservation, the lessons of the past, the hopes of the future, all bid us uphold the constitutional Government of the United States, and by the power of force--a power which, of necessity, underlies all government--carry it triumphantly through this conflict, till its legitimate results are attained. Upon this power of force, the conspirators against this Government have relied from the beginning. They have expected to appeal to it, as is evident from the extent to which the Northern forts, arsenals, and people have been robbed of arms and munitions of war, which, during the last administration, were sent into the Southern States in numbers altogether disproportionate to their population, and unauthorized by law. If they believed in the right of peaceable secession from the Government of the United States, as a right clearly admitted and secured by the Constitution, it is strange that they should have made such far-sighted preparations to maintain this right by forcible resistance to its authority. To this power, these conspirators and those whom they had beguiled from their allegiance, made a direct appeal when they fired their first shot upon Fort Sumter. This appeal, the United States Government is compelled to meet, and by the strong arm of its military power, at the point of the bayonet, and beneath the smoke and blaze of its guns, enforce the obedience which reason, if it had not been dethroned, would never have refused, and recover the allegiance which patriotism, if it had not been deceived and bewildered, would never have relinquished. In this case, it is not the Government that inaugurates civil war, but the men who, by treason and rebellion, are seeking to overturn it; and for this gigantic crime,--the crime of disturbing the peace of thirty millions of people, of attempting to dismember a Union fraught with manifest advantages to all embraced in it, and to overturn, by force, a Government benignant in its sway, and mighty in its protection, its benefits, and its blessings,--for this crime they have no justification. Under civil institutions, republican and representative in their character, where there are legitimate, constitutional channels provided for the expression of the popular will, through which the Government can be modified, its organic or its statute laws reached, altered, amended, so as to meet the wishes of the majority, or protect the rights of a minority, there can be no justification of rebellion that will stand before the world, or secure a verdict of approval from the pen of impartial history. If we would secure for ourselves that approval, let us stand be this constitutional Government of the United States, and at whatever cost, carry it thorough to the legitimate results of this conflict. S. K. Lothrop. BOOK SECOND. RECENT SELECTIONS. POETRY. CCCXXII. OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. Lay down the axe, fling by the spade: Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field. Our country calls; away! away! To where the blood-stream blots the green, Strike to defend the gentlest sway That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts--see Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we Must beat the banded traitors back. Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, And moved as soon to fear and flight, Men of the glade and forest! leave Your woodcraft for the field of fight. The arms that wield the axe must pour An iron tempest on the foe; His serried ranks shall reel before The arm that lays the panther low. And ye who breast the mountain storm By grassy steep or highland lake, Come, for the land ye love, to form A bulwark that no foe can break. Stand, like your own gray cliff's that mock The whirlwind; stand in her defence: The blast as soon shall move the rock As rushing squadron's bear ye thence. And ye, whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away, Come from the depth of her green land As mighty in your march as they; As terrible as when the rains Have swelled them over bank and bourn, With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn. And ye who throng, beside the deep, Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap On his long murmuring marge of sand, Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim, He rises, all his floods to pour, And flings the proudest barks that swim, A helpless wreck against the shore. Few, few were they whose swords, of old, Won the fair land in which we dwell; But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike for that broad and goodly land, Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Right move hand in hand, And glorious must their triumph be. W. C. Bryant. CCCXXIII. NOT YET. O country, marvel of the earth! O realm to sudden greatness grown! The age that gloried in thy birth, Shall it behold thee overthrown? Shall traitors lay that greatness low? No, Land of Hope and Blessing, No! And we who wear thy glorious name, Shall we, like cravens, stand apart, When those whom thou hast trusted, aim The death-blow at thy generous heart? Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo! Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No! And they who founded, in our land, The power that rules from sea to sea, Bled they in vain, or vainly planned To leave their country great and free? Their sleeping ashes, from below, Send up the thrilling murmur, No! Knit they the gentle ties which long These sister States were proud to wear, And forged the kindly links so strong For idle hands in sport to tear-- For scornful hands aside to throw? No, by our fathers' memories, No! Our humming marts, our iron ways, Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest, The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays, The calm, broad Ocean of the West, And Mississippi's torrent flow, And loud Niagara, answer, No! Not yet the hour is nigh, when they Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit, Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say, "Proud country, welcome to the pit! So soon art thou, like us, brought low?" No, sullen group of shadows, No! For now, behold the arm that gave The victory in our fathers' day, Strong as of old, to guard and save-- That mighty arm which none can stay-- On clouds above and fields below, Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No! W. C. Bryant. CCCXXIV. THE AMERICAN FLAG. At last, at last, each glowing star In that pure field of heavenly blue, On every people shining far, Burns, to its utmost promise true. Hopes in our fathers' hearts that stirred, Justice, the seal of peace, long scorned, O perfect peace! too long deferred, At last, at last, your day has dawned. Your day has dawned, but many an hour Of storm and cloud, of doubt and tears, Across the eternal sky must lower, Before the glorious noon appears. And not for us that noontide glow: For us the strife and toil shall be; But welcome toil, for now we know Our children shall that glory see. At last, at last, O Stars and Stripes! Touched in your birth by Freedom's flame, Your purifying lightning wipes Out from our history its shame. Stand to your faith, America! Sad Europe listen to our call! Up to your manhood, Africa! That gracious flag floats over all. And when the hour seems dark with doom, Our sacred banner, lifted higher, Shall flash away the gathering gloom With inextinguishable fire. Pure as its white the future see! Bright as its red is now the sky! Fixed as its stars the faith shall be, That nerves our hands to do or die. G. W. Curtis CCCXXV. AM I FOR PEACE? YES. For the peace which rings out from the cannons' throat, And the suasion of shot and shell, Till Rebellion's spirit is trampled down To the depths of its kindred hell. For the peace which shall follow the squadron's tramp, Where the brazen trumpets bray, And, drunk with the fury of storm and strife, The blood-red chargers neigh. For the peace which shall wash out the leprous stain Of our slavery--foul and grim, And shall sunder the fetters which creak and clank On the down-trodden dark man's limb. I will curse him as traitor, and false of heart, Who would shrink from the conflict now, And will stamp it, with blistering, burning brand, On his vitreous, Cain-like brow. Out! out of the way! with your spurious peace, Which would make us Rebellion's slaves; We will rescue our land from the traitorous grasp, Or cover it with our graves. Out! out of the way! with your knavish schemes! You trembling and trading pack! Crouch away in the dark, like a sneaking hound That its master has beaten back. You would barter the fruit of our fathers' blood, And sell out the Stripes and Stars, To purchase a place with Rebellion's votes, Or escape from Rebellion's scars. By the widow's wail, by the mother's tears, By the orphans who cry for bread, By our sons who fell, we will never yield Till Rebellion's soul is dead. Anonymous. CCCXXVI. THE GREAT BELL ROLAND. Toll! Roland, toll! In Old St. Bavon's tower, At midnights hour, The great bell Roland spoke! All souls that slept in Ghent awoke! What meant the thunder stroke? Why trembled wife and maid? Why caught each man his blade? Why echoed every street With tramp of thronging feet All flying to the city's wall? It was the warning call That Freedom stood in peril of a foe! And even timid hearts grew bold Whenever Roland tolled, And every hand a sword could hold! So acted men Like patriots then, Three hundred years ago! Toll! Roland, toll! Bell never yet was hung, Between whose lips there swung So grand a tongue! If men be patriots still, At thy first sound True hearts will bound, Great souls will thrill! Then toll and strike the test Through each man's breast, Till loyal hearts shall stand confess'd,-- And may God's wrath smite all the rest! Toll! Roland, toll! Not now in old St. Bavon's tower-Not now at midnight hour-- Not now from River Scheldt to Zuyder Zee, But here,--this side the sea!--. Toll here, in broad, bright day!-For not by night awaits A noble foe without the gates, But perjured friends within betray, And do the deed at noon! Toll! Roland, toll! Thy sound is not too soon! To Arms! Ring out the Leader's call! Reëcho it from East to West, Till every hero's breast Shall swell beneath a soldier's crest! Toll! Roland, toll! Till cottager from cottage wall Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun! The sire bequeathed them to the son, When only half their work was done! Toll! Roland, toll! Till swords from scabbards leap! Toll! Roland, toll! What tears can widows weep Less bitter than when brave men fall? Toll! Roland, toll! In shadowed hut and small Shall lie the soldier's pall, And hearts shall break while graves are filled! Amen! So God has willed! And may his grace anoint us all! Toll! Roland, toll! The Dragon on thy tower Stands sentry to this hour, And Freedom so stands safe in Ghent! And the merrier bells now ring, And in the land's serene content Men shout "God save the King!" Until the skies are rent! So let it be; For a kingly king is he Who keeps his people free! Toll! Roland, toll! Ring out across the sea! No longer They but We Have now such need of thee! Toll! Roland, toll! Forever may thy throat Keep dumb its warning note Till Freedom's perils be outbraved! Toll! Roland, toll! Till Freedom's flag, wherever waved, Shall overshadow not a man enslaved! Toll! Roland, toll! From Northern lake to Southern strand, Toll! Roland, toll! Till friend and foe, at thy command, Once more shall clasp each other's hand, And shout, one-voiced, "God save the land!" And love the land that God hath saved! Toll! Roland, toll! T. Tilton. CCXXVII. THE MASSACHUSETTS LINE. Still first, as long and long ago, Let Massachusetts muster: Give her the post right next the foe; Be sure that you may trust her. She was the first to give her blood For Freedom and for Honor; She trod her soil to crimson mud: God's blessing be upon her! She never faltered for the right, Nor ever will hereafter: Fling up her name with all your might; Shake roof-tree and shake rafter. But of old deeds she need not brag,-- How she broke sword and fetter: Fling out again the old striped Flag; She'll do yet more and better. In peace, her sails fleck all the seas; Her mills shake every river; And where are scenes so fair as these God and her true hands give her? In war, her claim who seek to rob? All others come in later: It is hers first to front the Mob, The Tyrant, and the Traitor. God bless, God bless, the glorious State! Let her have way to battle! She'll go where batteries crash with fate, Or where thick rifles rattle. Give her the Right, and let her try; And then who can may press her; She'll go straight on, or she will die: God bless her, and God bless her! R. Lowell. CCCXXVIII. ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE. "Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey-- Massa won't be with you long; And I fain would hear the south wind Bring once more the sound to me, Of the wavelets softly breaking On the shores of Tennessee. "Mournful though the ripples murmur, As they still the story tell, How no vessels float the banner That I've loved so long and well, I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and stripes on sloop and shallop, Sailing up the Tennessee. "And, Pompey, while old massa's waiting For death's last despatch to come, If that exiled starry banner Should come proudly sailing home, You shall greet it, slave no longer-- Voice and hand shall both be free That shouts and points to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee." "Massa's berry kind to Pompey; But ole darkey's happy here, Where he's tended corn and cotton For 'ese many a long-gone year. Over yonder Missis's sleeping-- No one tends her grave like me; Mebbie she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee. "'Pears like she was watching Massa-- If Pompey should beside him stay, Mebbie she'd remember better How for him she used to pray; Telling him that way up yonder White as snow his soul would be, If he served the Lord of heaven While he lived in Tennessee." Silently the tears were rolling Down the poor old dusky face, As he stepped behind his master, In his long accustomed place. Then a silence fell around them, As they gazed on rock and tree Pictured in the placid waters Of the rolling Tennessee. Master dreaming of the battle Where he fought by Marion's side, When he bid the haughty Tarleton Stoop his lordly crest of pride. Man, remembering how yon sleeper Once he held upon his knee, Ere she loved the gallant soldier, Ralph Vervair, of Tennessee. Still the south wind fondly lingers 'Mid the veteran's silvery hair; Still the bondman close beside him Stands behind the old arm-chair, With his dark-hued hand uplifted, Shading eyes he bends to see Where the woodland boldly jutting Turns aside the Tennessee. Thus he watches cloud-born shadows Glide from tree to mountain crest, Softly creeping, aye and ever, To the river's yielding breast. Ha! above the foliage yonder Something flutters wild and free! "Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! The flag's come back to Tennessee!" "Pompey hold me on your shoulder, Help me stand on foot once more, That I may salute the colors As they pass my cabin-door. Here's the paper signed that frees you; Give a freeman's shout with me-- 'God and Union!' be our watchword Evermore in Tennessee." Then the trembling voice grew fainter, And the limbs refused to stand; One prayer to Jesus--and the soldier Glided to that better land. When the flag went down the river Man and master both were free, While the ringdove's note was mingled With the rippling Tennessee. E. L. Beers. CCCXXIX. A BATTLE-SONG FOR FREEDOM. Men of action! men of might! Stern defenders of the right! Are you girded for the fight? Have you marked and trenched the ground, Where the din of arms must sound, Ere the victor can be crowned? Have you guarded well the coast? Have you marshalled all your host? Standeth each man at his post? Have you counted up the cost? What is gained and what is lost, When the foe your lines have crost? Gained--the infamy of fame. Gained--a dastard's spotted name. Gained--eternity of shame. Lost--desert of manly youth. Lost--the right you had by birth. Lost--lost!--freedom for the earth. Freemen, up! The foe is nearing! Haughty banners high uprearing-- Lo, their serried ranks appearing! Freemen, on! The drums are beating! Will you shrink from such a meeting? Forward! Give them hero greeting! From your hearths, and homes, and altars, Backward hurl your proud assaulters. He is not a man that falters. Hush! The hour of fate is nigh, On the help of God rely! Forward! We will do or die. G. Hamilton. CCCXXX. THE VOICE OF THE NORTH. Up the hill-side, down the glen, Rouse the sleeping citizen: Summon out the might of men! Like a lion growling low-Like a night-storm rising slow-Like the tread of unseen foe-- It is coming--it if nigh! Stand your homes and altars by, On your own free threshold die. Clang the bells in all your spires, On the gray hills of your sires Fling to heaven your signal-fires. Oh! for God and duty stand, Heart to heart and hand to hand, Round the old grates of the land. Whoso shrinks or falters now, Whoso to the yoke would bow, Brand the craven on his brow. Freedom's soil has only place For a free and fearless race-- None for traitors false and base. Perish party--perish clan; Strike together while you can, Like the strong arm of one man. Like the angel's voice sublime, Heard above a world of crime, Crying for the end of Time. With one heart and with one mouth, Let the North speak to the South; Speak the word befitting both. J. G. Whittier. CCCXXXI. THE WATCHERS. Beside a stricken field I stood; On the torn turf, on grass and wood, Hung heavily the dew of blood. Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain, But all the air was quick with pain And gusty sighs and tearful rain. Two angels, each with drooping head And folded wings and noiseless tread, Watched by that valley of the dead. The one with forehead saintly bland And lips of blessing, not command, Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand. The other's brows were scarred and knit, His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, His hands for battle-gauntlets fit. "How long!" I knew the voice of Peace,-- "Is there no respite?--no release?-- When shall the hopeless quarrel cease? "O Lord, how long!--One human soul Is more than any parchment scroll, Or any flag thy winds unroll. "What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave? How weigh the gift that Lyon gave, Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave? "O brother! if thine eye can see, Tell me how and when the end shall be, What hope remains for thee and me." Then Freedom sternly said: "I shun No strife nor pang beneath the sun, When human rights are staked and won. "I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock, I watered in Toussaint's cell of rock, I walked with Sidney to the block. "The Moor of Marston felt my tread, Through Jersey snows the march I led, My voice Magenta's charges sped. "But now through weary day and night, I watch a vague and aimless fight For leave to strike one blow aright. "On either side my foe they own: One guards through love his ghastly throne, And one through fear to reverence grown. "Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, By open foes, or those afraid To speed thy coming through my aid? "Why watch to see who win or fall?-- I shake the dust against them all, I leave them to their senseless brawl." "Nay," Peace implored: "yet longer wait; The doom is near, the stake is great; God knoweth if it be too late. "Still wait and watch; the way prepare Where I with folded wings of prayer May follow, weaponless and bare." "Too late!" the stern, sad voice replied "Too late!" its mournful echo sighed,-- In low lament the answer died. A rustling as of wings in flight, An upward gleam of lessening white, So passed the vision, sound and sight. But round me, like a silver bell Rung down the listening sky to tell Of holy help, a sweet voice fell. "Still hope and trust," it sang; "the rod Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, But all is possible with God!" J. G. Whittier. CCCXXXII. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach-tree fruited deep, Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-walls-- Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind; the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that her heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight. "Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast; "Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word: "Who touches a hair of your gray head Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet: All day long that free flag tossed Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town! J. G. Whittier. CCCXXXIII. PRO PATRIA. INSCRIBED TO THE SECOND NEW HAMPSHIRE REGIMENT. The grand old earth shakes at the tread of the Norsemen, Who meet, as of old, in defence of the true; All hail to the stars that are set in their banner! All hail to the red, and the white, and the blue! As each column wheels by, Hear their hearts' battle-cry,-- It was Warren's,--'Tis sweet for our country to die! Lancaster and Coös, Laconia and Concord, Old Portsmouth and Keene, send their stalwart young men; They come from the plough, and the loom, and the anvil, From the marge of the sea, from the hill-top and glen. As each column wheels by, Hear their hearts' battle-cry,-- It was Warren's,--'Tis sweet for our country to die! The prayers of fair women, like legions of angels, Watch over our soldiers by day and by night; And the King of all glory, the Chief of all armies, Shall love them and lead them who dare to do right! As each column wheels by, Hear their hearts' battle-cry,-- 'T was Warren's,--'Tis sweet for our country to die! T. B. Aldrich. CCXXXIV. THE CALVARY CHARGE. With bray of the trumpet And roll of the drum, And keen ring of bugle, The cavalry come. Sharp clank the steel scabbards, The bridle-chains ring, And foam from red nostrils The wild chargers fling. Tramp! tramp! o'er the greensward That quivers below, Scarce held by the curb-bit The fierce horses go! And the grim-visaged colonel, With ear-rending shout, Peals forth to the squadrons The order--"Trot out!" One hand on the sabre, And one on the rein, The troopers move forward In line on the plain. As rings the word "Gallop!" The steel scabbards clank, And each rowel is pressed To a horse's hot flank: And swift is their rush As the wild torrent's flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below. "Charge!" thunders the leader: Like shaft from the bow Each mad horse is hurled On the wavering foe. A thousand bright sabres Are gleaming in air; A thousand dark horses Are dashed on the square. Resistless and reckless Of aught may betide, Like demons, not mortals, The wild troopers ride. Cut right! and cut left!-- For the parry who needs? The bayonets shiver Like wind-shattered reeds. Vain--vain the red volley That bursts from the square,-- The random-shot bullets Are wasted in air. Triumphant, remorseless, Unerring as death,-- No sabre that's stainless Returns to its sheath. The wounds that are dealt By that murderous steel Will never yield case For the surgeon to heal. Hurrah! they are broken-- Hurrah! boys, they fly-- None linger save those Who but linger to die. Rein up your hot horses And call in your men,-- The trumpet sounds "Rally To color" again. Some saddles are empty, Some comrades are slain, And some noble horses Like stark on the plain, But war's a chance game, boys, And weeping is vain. F. A. Durivage. CCCXXXV. THE CUMBERLAND. At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle-blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the South uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. "Strike your flag!" the Rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never!" our gallant Morris replies; "It is better to sink than to yield!" And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the main mast-head, Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream. Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam! H. W. Longfellow. CCCXXXVI. UNITED STATES NATIONAL ANTHEM. God of the Free! upon Thy breath Our Flag is for the Right unrolled, As broad and brave as when its stars First lit the hallowed time of old. For Duty still its folds shall fly; For Honor still its glories burn, Where Truth, Religion, Valor, guard The patriot's sword and martyr's urn. No tyrant's impious step is ours; No lust of power on nations rolled: Our Flag--for friends, a starry sky; For traitors, storm in every fold. O thus we'll keep our Nation's life, Nor fear the bolt by despots hurled; The blood of all the world is here, And they who strike us strike the world! God of the Free! our Nation bless In its strong manhood as its birth; And make its life a Star of Hope For all the struggling of the Earth. Then shout beside thine Oak, O North! O South! wave answer with thy Palm; And in our Union's heritage Together sing the Nation's Psalm! W. R. Wallace. CCCXXXVII. THE FISHERMAN OF BEAUFORT. The tide comes up, and the tide goes down, And still the fisherman's boat, At early dawn and at evening shade, Is ever and ever afloat: His net goes down, and his net comes up, And we hear his song of glee: "De fishes dey hates de ole slave nets, But comes to de nets of de free." The tide comes up, and the tide goes down, And the oysterman below Is picking away, in the slimy sands, In the sands ob de long ago. But now if an empty hand he bears, He shudders no more with fear, There's no stretching-board for the aching bones, And no lash of the overseer. The tide comes up, and the tide goes down, And ever I hear a song, As the moaning winds, through the moss-hung oaks, Sweep surging ever along: "O massa white man! help de slave, And de wife and chillen too; Eber dey'll work, wid de hard worn hand Ef ell gib 'em de work to do." The tide comes up, and the tide goes go down, But it bides no tyrant's word, As it chants unceasing the anthem grand, Of its Freedom to the Lord. The fisherman floating on its breast Has caught up the key-note true: "De sea works, mass, for 't sef and God, And so must de brack man too." "Den gib him de work, and gib him de pay, For de chillen and wife him love; And de yam shall grow, and de cotton shall blow, And him nearer, nebber rove; For him love de ole Carlina State, And de ole magnolia-tree: Oh! nebber him trouble de icy Norf, Ef de brack folks am go free." Mrs. F. D. Gage. CCCXXXVIII. THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY. What flower is this that greets the morn, Its hues from heaven so freshly born? With burning star and flaming band It kindles all the sunset land;-- O, tell us what its name may be! Is this the Flower of Liberty? It is the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty! In savage Nature's far abode Its tender seed our fathers sowed; The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud, Its opening leaves were streaked with blood, Till, lo! earth's tyrants shook to see The full-blown Flower of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty! Behold its streaming rays unite One mingling flood of braided light,-- The red that fires the Southern rose, With spotless white from Northern snows, And, spangled o'er its azure, see The sister Stars of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty! The blades of heroes fence it round; Where'er it springs is holy ground; From tower and dome its glories spread; It waves where lonely sentries tread; It makes the land as ocean free, And plants an empire on the sea! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty! Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower, Shall ever float on dome and tower, To all their heavenly colors true, In blackening frost or crimson dew,-- And God love us as we love thee, Thrice holy Flower of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty! O. W. Holmes. CCCXXXIX. AN APPEAL. Listen, young heroes! your country is calling! Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true! Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling, Fill up the ranks that have opened for you! You whom the fathers made free and defended, Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame! Yon whose fair heritage spotless descended, Leave not your children a birthright of shame! Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping! Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in his pall! Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping,-- "Off for the Wars!" is enough for them all. Break from the arms that would fondly caress you! Hark! 't is the bugle-blast, sabres are drawn! Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you, Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone! Never or now! cries the blood of a nation, Poured on the turf where the red rose should bloom; Now is the day and the hour of salvation,-- Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom! Never or now! roars the hoarse-throated cannon Through the black canopy blotting the skies; Never or now! flaps the shell-blasted pennon O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies! From the foul dens where our brothers are dying, Aliens and foes in the land of their birth,-- From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lying Pleading in vain for a handful of earth,-- From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered, Furrowed and ridged by the battle-field's plough, Comes the loud summons; too long you have slumbered, Hear the last Angel-trump--Never or Now! O. W. Holmes. CCCXL. THE LAST CHARGE. Now men of the North! will you join in the strife For country, for freedom, for honor, for life? The giant grows blind in his fury and spite,-- One blow on his forehead will settle the fight! Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning of steel, And stun him with cannon-bolts peal upon peal! Mount, troopers, and follow your game to its lair, As the hound tracks the wolf and the beagle the hare! Blow, trumpets, your summons, till sluggards awake! Beat, drums, till the roofs of the fainthearted shake! Yet, yet, ere the signet is stamped on the scroll, Their names may be traced on the blood-sprinkled roll! Trust not the false herald that painted your shield: True honor to-day must be sought on the field! Her scutcheon shows white with a blazon of red,-- The life-drops of crimson for liberty shed! The hour is at hand, and the moment draws nigh! The dog-star of treason grows dim in the sky! Shine forth from the battle-cloud, light of the morn, Call back the bright hour when the Nation was born! The rivers of peace through our valleys shall run, As the glaciers of tyranny melt in the sun; Smite, smite the proud parricide down from his throne,-- His sceptre once broken, the world is our own! O. W. Holmes. CCCXLI. VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION. 'Tis midnight: through my troubled dream Loud wails the tempest's cry; Before the gale, with tattered sail, A ship goes plunging by. What name? Where bound? The rocks around Repeat the loud halloo. --The good ship Union, Southward bound: God help her and her crew! And is the old flag flying still That o'er your fathers flew, With bands of white and rosy light, And field of starry blue? --Ay! look aloft! its folds full oft Have braved the roaring blast, And still shall fly when from thy sky This black typhoon has past! Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark! May I thy peril share? --O landsman, these are fearful seas The brave alone may dare! --Nay, ruler of the rebel deep, What matters wind or wave? The rocks that wreck your reeling deck Will leave me nought to save! O landsman, art thou false or true? What sign hast thou to show? --The crimson stains from loyal veins That hold my heart-blood's flow! --Enough! what more shall honor claim? I know the sacred sign; Above thy head our flag shall spread! Our ocean path be thine! The bark sails on; the Pilgrim's cape Lies low along her lee, Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes To lock the shore and sea. No treason here! it cost too dear To win this barren realm! And true and free the hands must be That hold the whaler's helm. Still on! Manhattan's narrowing bay No Rebel cruiser scars; Her raters feel no pirate's keel That flaunts the fallen stars! But watch the light on yonder height,-- Ay, pilot, have a care! Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud The capes of Delaware! Say, pilot, what this fort may be, Whose sentinels look down From moated wails that show the sea Their deep embrasures' frown? The Rebel host claims all the coast, But these are friends, we know, Whose footprints spoil the "sacred soil," And this is?--Fort Monroe! The breakers roar,--how bears the shore? --The traitorous wreckers' hands Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays Along the Hatteras sands. --Ha! say not so! I see its glow! Again the shoals display The beacon light that shines by night, The Union Stars by day! The good ship flies to milder skies, The wave more gently flows; The softening breeze wafts o'er the seas The breath of Beaufort's rose. What fold is this the sweet winds kiss, Fair-striped and many-starred, Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls, The twins of Beauregard? What! heard you not Port Royal's doom? How the black war-ships came And turned the Beaufort roses' bloom To redder wreaths of flame? How from Rebellion's broken reed We saw his emblem fall, As soon his curséd poison-weed Shall drop from Sumter's wall? On! on! Pulaski's iron hail Falls harmless on Tybee! Her topsails feel the freshening gale,-- She strikes the open sea; She rounds the point, she threads the Keys That guard the Land of Flowers, And rides at last where firm and fast Her own Gibraltar towers! The good ship Union's voyage is o'er, At anchor safe she swings, And loud and clear with cheer on cheer Her joyous welcome rings: Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave, It thunders on the shore,-- One flag, one land, one heart, one hand, One Nation, evermore! O. W. Holmes. CCCXLII. THE STRIPES AND THE STARS. O Star Spangled Banner! the flag of our pride! Though trampled by traitors and basely defied, Fling out to the glad winds your Red, White, and Blue, For the heart of the North-land is beating for you! And her strong arm is nerving to strike with a will Till the foe and his boastings are humbled and still! Here's welcome to wounding and combat and scars And the glory of death--for the Stripes and the Stars! From prairie, O ploughman! speed boldly away-- There's seed to be sown in God's furrows to-day-- Row landward, lone fisher! stout woodman, come home! Let smith leave his anvil and weaver his loom, And hamlet and city ring loud with the cry, "For God and our country we'll fight till we die! Here's welcome to wounding and combat and scars And the glory of death--for the Stripes and the Stars!" Invincible Banner! the Flag of the Free! O, where treads the foot that would falter for thee? Or the hands to be folded, till triumph is won And the eagle looks proud, as of old, to the sun? Give tears for the parting--a murmur of prayer-- Then Forward! the fame of our standard to share! With welcome to wounding and combat and scars And the glory of death--for the Stripes and the Stars! O God of our Fathers! this Banner must shine Where battle is hottest, in warfare divine! The cannon has thundered, the bugle has blown,-- We fear not the summons--we fight not alone! O, lead us, till wide from the Gulf to the Sea The land shall be sacred to Freedom and Thee! With love, for oppression; with blessing, for scars-- One Country--one Banner--the Stripes and the Stars! E. D. Proctor. CCCXLIII. WHO'S READY? God help us! Who's ready? There's danger before! Who's armed and who's mounted? The foe's at the door! The smoke of his cannon hangs black o'er the plain; His shouts ring exultant while counting our slain; And northward and northward he presses his line,-- Who's ready? O, forward!--for yours and for mine! No halting, no discord, the moments are Fates; To shame or to glory they open the gates! There's all we hold dearest to lose or to win; The web of the future to-day we must spin; And bid the hours follow with knell or with chime!-- Who's ready? O, forward!--while yet there is time! Lead armies or councils,--be soldier a-field,-- Alike, so your valor is Liberty's shield! Alike, so you strike when the bugle-notes call, For Country, for Fireside, for Freedom to All! The blows of the boldest will carry the day,-- Who's ready? O, forward!--there's death in delay! Earth's noblest are praying, at home and o'er sea,-- "God keep the great nation united and free!" Her tyrants watch, eager to leap at our life, If once we should falter or faint in the strife; Our trust is unshaken, though legions assail,-- Who's ready? O, forward! and Right shall prevail. Who's ready? "All ready!" undaunted we cry; "For Country, for Freedom, we'll fight till we die; No traitor, at midnight, shall pierce us in rest; No alien, at noonday, shall stab us abreast; The God of our Fathers is guiding us still,-- All forward! we're ready,--and conquer we will!" E. D. Proctor. CCCXLIV. MITCHELL. "HUNG BE THE HEAVENS WITH BLACK." His mighty life was burned away By Carolina's fiery sun; The pestilence that walks by day Smote him before his course seemed run. The constellations of the sky,-- The Pleiades, the Southern Cross,-- Looked sadly down to see him die, To see a nation weep his loss. "Send him to us," the stars might cry,-- "You do not feel his worth below; Your petty great men do not try The measure of his mind to know. "His eye could pierce our vast expanse,-- His ear could hear our morning songs,-- His mind, amid our mystic dance, Could follow all our myriad throngs. "Send him to us! No martyr's soul, No hero slain in righteous wars No raptured saint could e'er control A holier welcome from the stars." Take him, ye stars! Take him on high To your vast realms of boundless space; But once he turned from you to try His name on martial scrolls to trace. That once was when his country's call Said danger to her flag was nigh; And then her banner's stars dimmed all The radiant lights which gemmed the sky. Take him, loved orbs! His country's life,-- Freedom for all,--for these he wars; For these he welcomed bloody strife, And followed in the wake of Mars. W. F. Williams. CCCXLV. WAR SONG. DEDICATED TO THE MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENTS. Up with the Flag of the Stripes and the Stars! Gather together from plough and from loom! Hark to the signal!--the music of wars Sounding for tyrants and traitors their doom. March, march, march, march! Brothers unite--rouse in your might, For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right! Down with the foe to the land and the laws! Marching together our country to save, God shall be with us to strengthen our cause, Nerving the heart and the hand of the brave. March, march, march, march! Brother's unite--rouse in your might, For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right! Flag of the Free! under thee will we fight, Shoulder to shoulder, our face to the foe; Death to all traitors, and God for the Right! Singing this song as to battle we go: March, march, march, march! Freemen unite--rouse in your might For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right! Land of the Free--that our fathers of old, Bleeding together, cemented in blood-- Give us thy blessing, as brave and as bold, Standing like one, as our ancestors stood-- We march, march, march, march! Conquer or fall! Hark to the call: Justice and Freedom for one and for all! Chain of the slave we have suffered so long-- Striving together thy links we will break! Hark! for God hears us, as echoes our song, Sounding the cry to make Tyranny quake: March, march, march, march! Conquer or fall! Rouse to the call-- Justice and Freedom for one and for all! Workmen, arise! There is work for us now; Ours the red ledger for bayonet pen; Sword be our hammer, and cannon our plough; Liberty's loom must be driven by men. March, march, march, march! Freemen we fight, roused in our might, For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right. W. W. Story. CCCXLVI. THE BLACK REGIMENT; OR, THE SECOND LOUISIANA AT THE STORMING OF PORT HUDSON. Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land-- So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee Waiting the great event, Stands the Black Regiment. Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come-- Told them what work was sent For the Black Regiment. "Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down like the whining hound-- Bound with red stripes of pain In our old chains again!" Oh! what a shout there went From the Black Regiment. "Charge!" Trump and drum awoke; Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh; Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear, man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel, All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the Black Regiment. "Freedom!" their battle-cry "Freedom! or leave to die!" Ah! and they meant the word, Not as with us 't is heard, Not a mere party shout; They gave their spirits out; Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood, Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death, Praying--alas! in vain!-- That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty! This was what "Freedom" lent To the Black Regiment. Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. Oh, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true! Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the Black Regiment! G. H. Boker. CCCXLVII. FORWARD! God, to the human soul, And all the spheres that roll, Wrapped by his Spirit in their robes of light, Hath said: "The primal plan, Of all the world, and man, Is forward! Progress is your law--your right." The despots of the earth, Since Freedom had her birth, Have to their subject nations said, "Stand still;" So, from the Polar Bear, Comes down the freezing air, And stiffens all things with its deadly chill. He who doth God resist-- God's old antagonist-- Would snap the chain that binds all things to him; And in his godless pride, All peoples would divide, And scatter even the choirs of seraphim. God, all the orbs that roll, Binds to one common goal-- One source of light and life--his radiant throne. In one fraternal mind All races would he bind, Till every man in man a brother own. Tyrants with tyrants league, Corruption and intrigue To strangle infant Liberty conspire. Around her cradle, then, Let self-devoted men Gather, and keep unquenched her vital fire. When Tyranny, grown bold, To Freedom's host cries, "Hold! Ye towards her temple at your peril march;" "Stop," that great host replies, Raising to heaven its eyes, "Stop, first, the host that moves across yon arch!" When Tyranny commands, "Hold thou my victim's hands, While I more firmly rivet on his chains, Or with my bowie-knife I'll take your craven life, Or show my streets bespattered with your brains,"-- Freedom with forward tread, Unblenching, turns her head, And drawing from its sheath her flashing glave, Calmly makes answer: "Dare Touch of my head one hair, I'll cut the cord that holds your every slave!" J. Pierpont. BOOK THIRD. HUMOROUS SELECTIONS FOR RECITATION AND DECLAMATION IN PROSE AND POETRY. BOOK THIRD. HUMOROUS SELECTIONS. PROSE. CCCXLVIII. PLEA OF SERJEANT BUZFUZ, IN "BARDELL vs. PICKWICK." The plaintiff gentlemen, the plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying for many years the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford. Some time before his death he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell Street; and here she placed in her front parlor window a written placard, bearing this inscription--"Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Enquire within." I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document--"Apartments furnished for a single gentleman!" Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no fear--she had no distrust--she had no suspicion--all was confidence and reliance. "Mr. Bardell," said the widow, "Mr. Bardell was a man of honor--Mr. Bardell was a man of his word--Mr. Bardell was no deceiver--Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for consolation in single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let." Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse, (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen,) the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlor window. Did it remain their long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill had been in the parlor window three days--three days, gentlemen--a being erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired within; he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick--Pickwick, the defendant. Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few attractions; and I gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness and systematic villainy. I say systematic villainy gentlemen, and when I say systematic villainy, let me tell the defendant, Pickwick, if he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down with you; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate them; and let me tell him further, as my lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be intimidated, nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first or the last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff, or be he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson. I shall allow you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell's house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bar-dell, during the whole of that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for wear when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave half-pence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and after inquiring whether he had won any alley-tors or commoneys lately, (both of which I understand to be species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town,) made use of this respectable expression--"How would you like to have another father?" Two letters have passed between these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of the defendant, and which speak volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervid, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery--letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye--letters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first:--"Garraway's, twelve o'clock--Dear Mrs. B.--Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick." Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick! Chops! Gracious heavens! and tomato sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away by such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicions--"Dear Mrs. B.--I shall not be at home to-morrow. Slow coach." And then follows this very remarkable expression:--"Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan!" The warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan? When was the peace of mind of man or woman broken or disturbed about a warming-pan, which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic furniture? Why is Mrs. Barbell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire--a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeable to some preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I know it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will soon be greased by you! But enough of this, gentlemen: it is difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awakened. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down--but there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass but there is no invitation for them to inquire within, or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps; his "alley-tors" and his "commoneys" are alike neglected; he forgets the long familiar cry of "knuckle-down," and at tip-chesse, or odd-and-even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in Goswell Street-Pickwick, who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward--Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato sauce and warming-pans--Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen--heavy damages, is the only punishment with which you can visit him; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen. C. Dickens CCCXLIX. MR. PUFF'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. Sir,--I make no secret of the trade I follow. Among friends and brother authors, I love to be frank on the subject, and to advertise myself vivâ vocé. I am, sir, a practitioner in panegyric; or, to speak more plainly, a professor of the art of puffing, at your service--or anybody's else. I dare say, now, you conceive half the very civil paragraphs and advertisements you see to be written by the parties concerned, or their friends. No such thing; nine out of ten manufactured by me, in the way of business. Yon must know, sir, that from the first time I tried my hand at an advertisement, my success was such, that for some time after I led a most extraordinary life, indeed. Sir, I supported myself two years entirely by my misfortunes; by advertisements To the charitable and humane! and To those whom Providence has blessed with affluence! And, in truth, I deserved what I got; for I suppose never man went through such a series of calamities in the same space of time. Sir, I was five times made a bankrupt, and reduced from a state of affluence, by a train of unavoidable misfortunes; then, sir, though a very industrious tradesman, I was twice burned out, and lost my little all both times. I lived upon those fires a month. I soon after was confined by a most excruciating disorder, and lost the use of my limbs. That told very well; for I had the case strongly attested, and went about to collect the subscriptions myself. I was afterwards twice tapped for a dropsy, which declined into a very profitable consumption. I was then reduced to--O no!--then I became a widower with six helpless children. All this I bore with patience, though I made some occasional attempts at felo de se; but, as I did not find those rash actions answer, I left off killing myself very soon. Well, sir, at last, what with bankruptcies, fires, gouts, dropsies, imprisonments, and other valuable calamities, having got together a pretty handsome sum, I determined to quit a business which had always gone rather against my conscience, and in a more liberal way still to indulge my talents for fiction and embellishments, through my favorite channel of diurnal communication; and so, sir, you have my history. R. B. Sheridan. CCCL. LYCEUM SPEECH OF MR. ORATOR CLIMAX. Mr. President,--Happiness is like a crow perched upon the neighboring top of a far distant mountain, which some fisherman vainly strives, to no purpose, to ensnare. He looks at the crow, Mr. President,--and--Mr. President the crow looks at him; and, sir, they both look at each other. But the moment he attempts to reproach him, he banishes away like the schismatic taints of the rainbow, the cause of which it was the astonishing and perspiring genius of a Newton, who first deplored and enveloped the cause of it. Cannot the poor man, sir, precipitate into all the beauties of nature, from the loftiest mounting up to the most humblest valley as well as the man prepossessed of indigence? Yes, sir; while trilling transports crown his view, and rosy hours allure his sanguinary youth, he can raise his mind up to the laws of nature, incompressible as they are, while viewing the lawless storm that kindleth up the pretentious roaring thunder, and fireth up the dark and rapid lightnings, and causeth it to fly through the intensity of space, that belches forth those awful and sublime meteors, and roll-abolly-aliases, through the unfathomable regions of fiery hemispheres. Sometimes, sir, seated in some lonely retreat, beneath the shadowy shades of an umbrageous tree, at whose venal foot flows some limping stagnant stream, he gathers around him his wife and the rest of his orphan children. He there takes a retrospective view upon the diagram of futurity, and casts his eye like a flashing meteor forward into the past. Seated in their midst, aggravated and exhaled by the dignity and independence coincident with honorable poverty, his countenance irrigated with an intense glow of self-deficiency and excommunicated knowledge, he quietly turns to instruct his little assemblage. He there endeavors to distil into their young youthful minds useless lessons, to guard their juvenile youths against vice and immortality. There, on a clear sunny evening, when the silvery moon is shining forth in all her indulgence and ubiquity, he teaches them the first sediments of gastronomy, by pointing out to them the bear, the lion, and many other fixed invisible consternations, which are continually involving upon their axletrees, through the blue cerulean fundamus above. From this vast ethereal he dives with them to the very bottom of the unfathomable oceans, bringing up from thence liquid treasures of earth and air. He then courses with them on the imaginable wing of fancy through the boundless regions of unimaginable either, until, swelling into impalpable immensity, he is forever lost in the infinite radiation of his own overwhelming genius. Anonymous. CCCLI. BULLUM vs. BOATUM. What a profound study is the law! How shall I define it? Law is--law. Law is--law; and so forth, and hereby and aforesaid, provided always, nevertheless, notwithstanding. Law is like a country dance; people are led up and down in it till they are tired. It is like physic; they that take the least of it are best off. Law is like a homely gentlewoman; very well to follow. Law is like a scolding wife; very bad when it follows us. Law is like a new fashion; people are bewitched to get into it; it is also like bad weather; most people are glad when they get out of it. We will now mention, in illustration, a case that came before us,--the case of Bullum vs. Boatum. It was as follows:-- There were two farmers--farmer A. and farmer B. Farmer A was seized or possessed of a bull; farmer B. was seized or possessed of a ferry-boat. Now, the owner of the ferry-boat, having made his boat fast to a post on shore, with a piece of hay twisted rope-fashion, or, as we say, vulgo vocato, a hay-band,--after he had made his boat fast to the aforesaid post (as it was very natural for a hungry man to do) went up to town to dinner. Farmer A.'s bull (as it was natural for a hungry bull to do) came down town to look for a dinner; and, observing, discovering, seeing, and spying out some turnips in the bottom of the ferryboat, ate up the turnips, and, to make an end of his meal, fell to work upon the hay-band. The boat, being eaten from its moorings, floated down the river with the bull in it; it struck against a rock, beat a hole in the bottom of the boat, and tossed the bull overboard; whereupon the owner of the bull brought his action against the boat for running away with the bull. The owner of the boat brought his action against the bull for running away with the boat. And thus notice of trial was given, Bullum vs. Boatum, Boatum vs. Bullum. The counsel for the bull begun with saying:--"My lord, and you, gentlemen of the jury, we are counsel in this cause for the bull. We are indicted for running away with the boat. Now, my lord, we have heard of running horses, but never of running bulls before. Now, my lord, the bull could no more run away with the boat than a man in a coach may be said to run away with the horses; therefore, my lord, how can we punish what is not punishable? How can we eat what is not eatable? Or, how can we drink what is not drinkable? Or, as the law says, how can we think what is not thinkable? Therefore, my lord, as we are counsel in this cause for the bull, if the jury should bring the bull in guilty, the jury would be guilty of a bull." The counsel for the boat observed, that the bull should be non-suited, because, in his declaration, he had not specified what color he was of; for thus wisely, and thus learnedly, spoke the counsel:--"My lord, if the bull was of no color, he must be of some color; and, if he was not of any color, what color could the bull be of?" I overruled this motion myself, by observing the bull was a white bull, and that white is no color; besides, as I told my brethren, they should not trouble their heads to talk of color t in law, for the law can color anything. This cause being afterwards left to a reference, upon the award, both bull and boat were acquitted, it being proved that the tide of the river carried them both away; upon which I gave it as my opinion, that, as, the tide of the river carried both bull and boat away, both bull and boat had good action against the water-bailiff. My opinion being taken, an action was issued, and, upon the traverse, this point of law arose: How, wherefore, and whether, why, when, and what, whatsoever, whereas, and whereby, as the boat was not a compos mentis evidence, how could an oath be administered? That point was soon settled by Boatum's attorney declaring that, for his client, he would swear anything. The water-bailiff's charter was then read, taken out of the original record in true law Latin; which set forth in their declaration, that they were carried away either by the tide of flood or the tide of ebb. The character of the water-bailiff was as follows: "Aquæ bailiffi est magistratus in choici, sapor omnibus fishibus qui habuerunt finos et scalos, claws, shells, et talos, qui swimmare in freshibus, vel saltibus riveris, lakos, pondis, canalibus et well-boats, sive oysteri, prawni, whitini, shrimpi, turbutus solus;" that is, not turbots alone, but turbots and soles both together. But now comes the nicety of the law; for the law is as nice as a new-laid egg. Bullum and Boatum mentioned both ebb and flood, to avoid quibbling; but, it being proved that they were carried away neither by the tide of flood nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly upon the top of high water, they were nonsuited; but, such was the lenity of the court, that, upon their paying all costs they were allowed to begin again de novo. G. A Stevens. CCCLII. PLEADING EXTRAORDINARY. May it please the Court--Gentlemen of the Jury--You sit in that box as the great reservoir of Roman liberty, Spartan fame, and Grecian polytheism. You are to swing the great flail of justice and electricity over this immense community, in hydraulic majesty, and conjugal superfluity. You are the great triumphal arch on which evaporates the even scales of justice and numerical computation. You are to ascend the deep arcana of nature, and dispose of my client with equiponderating concatenation, in reference to his future velocity and reverberating momentum. Such is your sedative and stimulating character. My client is only a man of domestic eccentricity and matrimonial configuration, not permitted, as you are, gentlemen, to walk in the primeval and lowest vales of society, but he has to endure the red-hot sun of the universe, on the heights of nobility and feudal eminence. He has a beautiful wife of horticultural propensities, that hen-pecks the remainder of his days with soothing and bewitching verbosity that makes the nectar of his pandemonium as cool as Tartarus. He has a family of domestic children, that gathers around the fireplace of his peaceful homicide in tumultudinous consanguinity, and cry with screaming and rebounding pertinacity for bread, butter, and molasses. Such is the glowing and overwhelming character and defeasance of my client, who stands convicted before this court of oyer and terminer, and lex non scripta, by the persecuting pettifogger of this court, who is as much exterior to me as I am interior to the judge, and you, gentlemen of the jury. This Borax of the law here has brought witnesses into this court, who swear that my client has stolen a firkin of butter. Now, I say, every one of them swore to a lie, and the truth is concentrated within them. But if it is so, I justify the act on the ground that the butter was necessary for a public good, to tune his family into harmonious discord. But I take no other mountainous and absquatulated grounds on this trial, and move that a quash be laid upon this indictment. Now I will prove this by a learned expectoration of the principle of the law. Now butter is made of grass, and, it is laid down by St. Peter Pindar, in his principle of subterraneous law, that grass is couchant and levant, which in our obicular tongue, means that grass is of a mild and free nature; consequently, my client had a right to grass and butter both. To prove my second great principle, "let facts be submitted to a candid world." Now butter is grease, and Greece is a foreign country, situated in the emaciated regions of Liberia and California; consequently my client cannot be tried in this horizon, and is out of the benediction of this court. I will now bring forward the ultimatum respondentia, and cap the great climax of logic, by quoting an inconceivable principle of law, as laid down in Latin, by Pothier, Hudibras, Blackstone, Hannibal, and Sangrado. It is thus: Hæc hoc morus multicaulis, a mensa et thoro, ruta baga centum. Which means; in English, that ninety-nine men are guilty, where one is innocent. Now, it is your duty to convict ninety-nine men first; then you come to my client, who is innocent and acquitted according to law. If these great principles shall be duly depreciated in this court, then the great North pole of liberty, that has stood so many years in pneumatic tallness, shading there publican regions of commerce and agriculture, will stand the wreck of the Spanish Inquisition, the pirates of the hyperborean seas, and the marauders of the Aurora Blivar! But, gentlemen of the jury, if you convict my client, his children will be doomed to pine away in a state of hopeless matrimony; and his beautiful wife i will stand lone and delighted like a dried up mullen-stalk in a sheep-pasture. Anonymous. CCCLIII. FUSS AT FIRES. It having been announced to me, my young friends, that you were about forming a fire-company, I have called you together to give you such directions as long experience in a first-quality engine company qualifies me to communicate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair of panthers. Run any way, except the right way,--for the furthest way round is the nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the top of a wood-pile, so much the better; you can then get a good view of the neighborhood. If a light breaks on your view, "break" for it immediately; but be sure you don't jump into a bow window. Keep yelling, all the time; and, if you can't make night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come across, and set them yelling, too; 't will help amazingly. A brace of cats dragged up stairs by the tail would be a "powerful auxiliary." When you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the fences in the vicinity. If it be a chimney on fire, throw salt down it; or if you can't do that, perhaps the best plan would be to jerk off the pump-handle and pound it down. Don't forget to yell, all the while, as it will have a prodigious effect in frightening off the fire. The louder the better, of course; and the more ladies in the vicinity, the greater necessity for "doing it brown." Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good earnest, and make any man "smoke" that interrupts you. If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot, cut them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. Don't forget to yell! Should the stable be threatened, carry out the cow-chains. Never mind the horse,--he'll be alive and kicking; and if his legs don't do their duty, let them pay for the roast. Ditto as to the hogs,--let them save their own bacon, or smoke for it. When the roof begins to burn, get a crow-bar and pry away the stone steps; or, if the steps be of wood, procure an axe and chop them up. Next, cut away the wash-boards in the basement story; and if that don't stop the flames, let the chair-boards on the first floor share a similar fate. Should the "devouring element" still pursue the "even tenor of its way," you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch out the pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time! If you find a baby a-bed, fling it into the second story window of the house across the way; but let the kitten carefully down in a work-basket. Then draw out the bureau drawers, and empty their contents out of the back window; telling somebody below to upset the slop-barrel and rain-water hogshead at the same time. Of course, you will attend to the mirror. The further it can be thrown, the more pieces will be made. If anybody objects, smash it over his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop the tongs down from the second story; the fall might break its legs, and render the poor thing a cripple for life. Set it straddle of your shoulder, and carry it down carefully. Pile the bedclothes carefully on the floor, and throw the crockery out of the window. By the time you will have attended to all these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burnt down. In either case, your services will be no longer needed; and, of course, you require no further directions. Anonymous. CCCLIV. MR. PEPPERAGE'S PERORATION. The Union! Inspiring theme! How shall I find words to describe its momentous magnificence and its beatific lustre? The Union!--it is the ark of our safety!--the palladium of our liberties!--the safeguard of our happiness!--and the ægis of our virtues! In the Union we live and move and go ahead It watches over us at our birth--it fans us in our cradles--it accompanies us to the district school--it gives us our victuals in due season--it selects our wives for us from "America's fair daughters," and it does a great many other things; to say nothing of putting us to sleep sometimes, and keeping the flies from our innocent repose. While the Union lasts, we have the most remarkable prospect of plenty of fodder, with occasional drinks. By its beneficent energies, however, should the present supply give out, we shall rise superior to the calculations of an ordinary and narrow prudence, and take in Cuba, Hayti, and Mexico, and such parts of all contiguous islands as may offer prospects for an advantageous investment. Palsied be the arm, then, and blistered the tongue, and humped the back, and broken the legs, and eviscerated the stomach, of every person who dares to think, or even dream of harming it! May the heaviest curses of time fall upon his scoundrelly soul! May his juleps curdle in his mouth. May he smoke none but New Orleans tobacco! May his family be perpetually ascending the Mississippi in a steamboat! May his own grandmother disown him! And may the suffrages of his fellow-citizens pursue him like avenging furies, till he is driven howling into Congress. For oh! my dear, dear friends--my beloved fellow-citizens, who can foretell the agonies, or the sorrows, or the blights, and the anguish, and the despair, and the black eyes, and the bloody noses, that would follows upon the dispersion of our too happy, happy family. The accursed myrmidons of despotism, with gnashing teeth and blood-stained eyes, would rush at large over the planet. They would lap the crimson gore of the most respectable and wealthy citizens. The sobs of females, and the screams of children, would mingle with the bark of dogs and the crash of falling columns. A universal and horrid night would mantle the skies, and one by one, the strong pillars of the universe go crumbling into ruin, amid the gleam of bowie-knives and the lurid glare of exploding steamboats. Anonymous. CCCLV. FOURTH OF JULY ORATION. Feller-Citizens,--I've bin honored with a invite to norate before you to-day; and when I say that I scarcely feel ekal to the task, I'm sure you will believe me. I'm a plane man. I don't know nothing about no ded langwidges and am a little shaky on livin ones. There 4, expect no flowry talk from me. What I shall say will be to the pint, right strate out. I am not a politician and my other habits air good. I've no enemys to reward, nor friends to sponge. But I'm a Union man. I luv the Union--it is a Big thing and it makes my hart bleed to see a lot of ornery people a-movin heaven--no, not heaven, but the other place--and earth, to bust it up. Feller-citizens--I haint got time to notis the growth of Ameriky frum the time when the Mayflowers cum over in the Pilgrim and brawt Plymouth Rock with them, but every skool boy nose our career has bin tremenjis. You will excuse me if I don't prase the early settlers of the Kolonies. I spose they ment well, and so, in the novel and techin langwidge of the nusepapers, "peas to their ashis." There was no diskount, however, on them brave men who fit, bled and died in the American Revolushun. We need n't be afraid of setting 'em up two steep. Like my show, they will stand any amount of prase. G. Washington was abowt the best man this world ever sot eyes on, He was a clear-headed, warm-harted, and stiddy goin man. He never slept over! The prevailin weakness of most public men is to slop over! They git filled up and slop. They Rush Things. They travel too much on the high presser principle. They git onto the fust poplar hobby-hoss which trots along, not caring a cent whether the beest is even goin, clear sited and sound or spavined, blind and bawky. Of course they git throwed eventooualy, if not sooner. When they see the multitood goin it blind they go pel mel with it, instid of exerted theirselves to set it right. They can't see that the crowd which is now bearin then triumfuntly on its shoulders will soon diskiver its error and cast them into the hoss pond of oblivyon, without the slitest hesitashun. Washington never slopt over. That was n't George's stile. He luved his country dearly. He was n't after the spiles. He was a human angel in a 3 cornered hat and knee britches, and we shant see his like right away. My frends, we cant all be Washingtons, but we kin all be patrits and behave ourselves in a human and a Christian manner. When we see a brother goin down hill to Ruin let us not give him a push, but let us seize rite hold of his coat-tails and draw him back to Morality. Imagine G. Washington and P. Henry in the characters of seseshers! As well fancy John Bunyan and Dr. Watts in spangled tites, doin the trapeze in a one-horse circus. I tell you, feller-citizens, it would have bin ten dollars in Jeff Davis's pocket if he'd never been born! C. F. Brown. BOOK THIRD. HUMOROUS SELECTIONS. POETRY. CCCLVI. The DUEL. In Brentford town, of old renown, There lived a Mister Bray Who fell in love with Lucy Bell, And so did Mister Clay. To see her ride from Hammersmith, By all it was allowed, Such fair "outside" was never seen,-- An angel on a cloud. Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay, "You choose to rival me, And court Miss Bell; but there your court No thoroughfare shall be. "Unless you now give up your suit, You may repent your love;-- I who have shot a pigeon match, Can shoot a turtle dove. "So pray, before you woo her more, Consider what you do: If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,-- I'll pop it into you." Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray, "Your threats I do explode;-- One who has been a volunteer Knows how to prime and load. "And so I say to you, unless Your passion quiet keeps, I, who have shot and hit bulls' eyes, May chance to hit a sheep's!" Now gold is oft for silver changed, And that for copper red; But these two went away to give Each other change for lead. But first they found a friend apiece, This pleasant thought to give-- That when they both were dead, they'd have Two seconds yet to live. To measure out the ground, not long The seconds next forbore; And having taken one rash step, They took a dozen more. They next prepared each pistol pan, Against the deadly strife; By putting in the prime of death Against the prime of life. Now all was ready for the foes; But when they took their stands, Fear made them tremble so, they found They both were shaking hands. Said Mr. C. to Mr. B., "Here one of us must fall, And, like St. Paul's Cathedral now, Be doomed to have a ball. "I do confess I did attach Misconduct to your name! If I withdraw the charge, will then Your ramrod do the same?" Said Mr. B., "I do agree;-- But think of Honor's courts,-- If we go off without a shot, There will be strange reports. "But look! the morning now is bright, Though cloudy it begun; Why can't we aim above as if We had called out the sun?" So up into the harmless air Their bullets they did send; And may all other duels have That upshot in the end. T. Hood. CCCLVII. MUSIC FOR THE MILLION. Amongst the great inventions of this age, Which every other century surpasses, Is one,--just now the rage,-- Called "Singing for all classes," That now, alas! have no more ear than asses, To learn to warble like the birds in June-- In time and tune, Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses! Whether this grand harmonic scheme Will ever get beyond a dream, And tend to British happiness and glory May be no, and may be yes, Is more than I pretend to guess-- However here's my story. In one of those small, quiet streets, Where business retreats, To shun the daily bustle and the noise The shoppy Strand enjoys, But land, joint-companies, and life-insurance Find past endurance-- In one of these back streets, to peace so dear, The other day a ragged wight Began to sing with all his might, "I have a silent sorrow here!" Heard in that quiet place, Devoted to a still and studious race, The noise was quite appalling! To seek a fitting simile, and spin it, Appropriate to his calling, His voice had all Lablache's body, in it; But oh! the scientific tone it lacked, And was in fact Only a forty-boatswain power of bawling! 'T was said indeed for want of vocal nous The stage had banished him when he 'tempted it, For though his voice completely filled the house, It also emptied it. However, there he stools Vociferous--a ragged don! And with his iron pipes laid on-- A row to all the neighborhood. In vain were sashes closed, And doors against the persevering Stentor; Though brick and glass, and solid oak opposed, The intruding voice would enter, Heedless of ceremonial or decorum, Den, office, parlor, study, and sanctorum; Where clients and attorneys, rogues and fools, Ladies, and masters who attend the schools, Clerks, agents all provided with their tools, Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools, With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em-- How it did bore 'em! Louder and louder still, The fellow sang with horrible good-will, Curses, both loud and deep, his sole gratuities, From scribes bewildered, making many a flaw, In deeds of law They had to draw; With dreadful incongruities In posting legers, making up accounts, To large amounts, Or casting up annuities-- Stunned by that voice so loud and hoarse, Against whose overwhelming force No invoice stood a chance, of course! From room to room, from floor to floor, From Number One to Twenty-four, The nuisance bellowed; till all patience lost, Down came Miss Frost, Expostulating at her open door-- "Peace, monster, peace! Where is the new police? I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray, Do n't stand there bawling, fellow, don't! You really send my serious thoughts astray, Do--there's a dear, good man--do, go away." Says he, "I won't!" The spinster pulled her door to with a slam, That sounded like a wooden d--n; For so some moral people, strictly loth To swear in words, however up, Will crash a curse in setting down a cup, Or through a door-post vent a banging oath,-- In fad, this sort of physical transgression Is really no more difficult to trace, Than in a given face A very bad expression. However in she went Leaving the subject of her discontent To Mr. Jones's clerk at Number Ten; Who throwing up the sash, With accents rash, Thus hailed the most vociferous of men; "Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant; I cannot write a sentence--no one can't! So pack up your trumps,-- And stir your stumps." Says he "I shan't!" Down went the sash, As if devoted to "eternal smash." (Another illustration Of acted imprecation,) While close at hand, uncomfortably near, The independent voice, so loud and strong, And clanging like a gong, Roared out again the everlasting song, "I have a silent sorrow here!" The thing was hard to stand! The music-master could not stand it, But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand, As savage as a bandit, Made up directly to the tattered man, And thus in broken sentences began: "Com--com--I say! You go away! Into two parts my head you split-- My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit, When I do play-- You have no business in a place so still! Can you not come another day?" Says he, "I will." "No--no--you scream and bawl! You must not come at all! You have no right, by rights, to beg- You have not one off leg-- You ought to work--you have not some complaint-- You are not cripple in your back or bones-- Your voice is strong enough to break some stones"-- Says he, "It ain't." "I say you ought to labor! You are in a young case, You have not sixty years upon your face, To come and beg your neighbor-- And discompose his music with a noise More worse than twenty boys-- Look what a street it is for quiet! No cart to make a riot, No coach, no horses, no postillion: If you will sing, I say, it is not just To sing so loud." Says he, "I must! I'm singing for the million!" T. Hood. CCCLVIII. ODE T0 MY BOY, AGED THREE YEARS. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin-- (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestruck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air-- (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy! There goes my ink.) Thou cherub, but of earth; Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!) With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life-- (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball--bestride the stick-- (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as the star,-- (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,-- (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above.) T. Hood. CCCLIX. THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. I wrote some lines, once on a time In wondering merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good. They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit in the general way, A sober man am I. I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him, To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb! "These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), "There'll be the devil to pay." He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon a grin. He read the next; the grin grew broad. And shot from ear to ear; He read the third; a chuckling noise I now began to hear. The fourth; he broke into a roar; The fifth; his waistband split; The sixth; he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit. Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man; And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can. O. W. Holmes. CCCLX. THE SEPTEMBER GALE. I'm not a chicken; I have seen Full many a chill September, And though I was a youngster then, That gale I well remember; The day before my kite-string snapped, And I, my kite pursuing, The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;-- For me two storms were brewing! It came as quarrels sometimes do, When married pairs get clashing; There was a heavy sigh or two, Before the fire was flashing,-- A little stir among the clouds, Before they rent asunder,-- A little rocking of the trees, And then came on the thunder. Oh! how the ponds and rivers boiled, And how the shingles rattled! And oaks were scattered on the ground, As if the Titans battled; And all above was in a howl, And all below a clatter,-- The earth was like a frying-pan, Or some such hissing matter. It chanced to be our washing-day, And all our things were drying; The storm came roaring through the lines, And set them all a flying; I saw the shirts and petticoats Go riding off like witches; I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,-- I lost my Sunday breeches! I saw them straddling through the air, Alas! too late to win them; I saw them chase the clouds as if A demon had been in them; They were my darlings and my pride,-- My boyhood's only riches,-- "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,-- "My breeches! O my breeches!" That night I saw them in my dreams, How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded thread, The winds had whistled through them; I saw the wide and ghastly rents, Where demon claws had torn them; A hole was in their amplest part, As if an imp had worn them. I have had many happy years, And tailors kind and clever, But those young pantaloons have gone Forever and forever! And not till fate has cut the last Of all my earthly stitches, This aching heart shall cease to mourn My loved, my long-lost breeches! O. W. Holmes. CCCLVI. LOVE AND MURDER. In Manchester a maiden dwelt, Her name was Ph�be Blown; Her cheeks were red, her hair was black, And, she was considered by good judges to be by all odds the best looking girl in town. Her age was nearly seventeen, Her eyes were sparkling bright; A very lovely girl she was, And for about a year and a half there had been a young man paying his attention to her, by the name of Reuben Wright. Now Reuben was a nice young man As any in the town, And Ph�be loved him very dear, But, on account of his being obliged to work for a living, he never could make himself agreeable to old Mr. and Mrs. Brown. Her parents were resolved Another she should wed, A rich old miser in the place, And old Brown frequently declared, that rather than have his daughter marry Reuben Wright, he'd sooner knock him in the head. But Ph�be's heart was brave and strong, She feared not her parents' frowns; And as for Reuben Wright so bold, I've heard him say more than fifty times that (with the exception of Ph�be) he did n't care a cent for the whole race of Browns. So Ph�be Brown and Reuben Wright Determined they would marry; Three weeks ago last Tuesday night, They started for old Parson Webster's, determined to be united in the holy bonds of matrimony, though it was tremendous dark, and rained like the old Harry. But Captain Brown was wide awake, He loaded up his gun, And then pursued the loving pair; He overtook 'em when they'd got about half way to the Parson's, and then Reuben and Ph�be started off upon the run. Old Brown then took a deadly aim Toward young Reuben's head, But, oh! it was a bleeding shame, He made a mistake, and shot his only daughter, and had the unspeakable anguish of seeing her drop right down stone dead. Then anguish filled young Reuben's heart, And vengeance crazed his brain, He drew an awful jack-knife out, And plunged it into old Brown about fifty or sixty times, so that it's very doubtful about his ever coming to again. The briny drops from Reuben's eyes In torrents pouréd down,-- And in this melancholy and heart-rending manner terminates the history of Reuben and Ph�be and likewise old Captain Brown. Anonymous. CCCLXII. THE REMOVAL. A nervous old gentleman, tired of trade,-- By which, though, it seems, he a fortune had made,-- Took a house 'twixt two sheds, at the skirts of the town, Which he meant, at his leisure, to buy and pull down. This thought struck his mind when he viewed the estate; But, alas! when he entered he found it too late; For in each dwelt a smith;--a more hard-working two Never doctored a patient, or put on a shoe. At six in the morning, their anvils, at work, Awoke our good squire, who raged like a Turk. "These fellows," he cried, "such a clattering keep, That I never can get above eight hours of sleep." From morning till night they keep thumping away,-- No sound but the anvil the whole of the day; His afternoon's nap and his daughter's new song, Were banished and spoiled by their hammer's ding-dong. He offered each Vulcan to purchase his shop; But, no! they were stubborn, determined to stop; At length, (both his spirits and health to improved,) He cried, "I'll give each fifty guineas to move." "Agreed!" said the pair; "that will make us amends." "Then come to my house, and let us part friends; You shall dine; and we'll drink on this joyful occasion, That each may live long in his new habitation." He gave the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale; He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale; So much was he pleased with the thought that each guest Would take from him noise, and restore him to rest. "And now." said he, "tell me, where mean you to move? I hope to some spot where your trade will improve." "Why, sir," replied one with a grin on his phiz, "Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his!" Anonymous. CCCLXIII. NONGTONGPAW. John Bull for pastime took a prance, Some time ago, to peep at France; To talk of sciences and arts, And knowledge gained in foreign parts. Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, And answered John in heathen Greek: To all he asked, 'bout all he saw, 'T was "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas." John, to the Palais-Royal came, Its splendor almost struck him dumb. "I say, whose house is that there here?" "House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."-- "What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John; "This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he 's plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw." John saw Versailles from Marlé's height, And cried, astonished at the sight, "Whose fine estate is that there here?" "State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "His? What the land and houses too? The fellow's richer than a Jew: On everything he lays his claw! I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw." Next tripping came a courtly fair, John cried, enchanted with her air, "What lovely wench is that there here?" "Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, he again? Upon my life! A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw: I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw." "But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John. "Je vous n'entends paw."--"what is he gone? Wealth fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave! His race is run, his game is up,-- I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup; But since he chooses to withdraw, Good-night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw." C. Dibdin. CCCLXIV. THE SWELLS SOLILOQUY ON THE WAR. I don't approve this hawid waw; Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes; And guns and drums are such a baw-- Why don't the pawties compwamise? Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms; But why must all the vulgah crowd Pawsist in spawting uniforms In cullaws so extremely loud? And then the ladies--precious deahs!-- I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow; Bai Jove! I really have my feahs They wathah like the howid wow! To hear the chawming cweatures talk, Like patwons of the bloody wing, Of waw and all its dawty wark?-- It does n't seem a pwappah thing! I called at Mrs. Gween's last night, To see her niece, Miss Mary Hertz, And found her making--cwushing sight!-- The weddest kind of flannel shirts! Of cawce I wose and saught the daw, With fewy flashing from my eyes! I can't approve this hawid waw;-- Why don't the parties compromise? Vanity Fair. CCCLXV. THE ALARMED SKIPPER. Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though "lying low," How near New York their schooners ran. They greased the lead before it fell, And then, by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, They always guessed their reckoning right. A skipper gray, whose eye's were dim, Could tell by tasting, just the spot, And so below, he'd "dowse the glim,"-- After, of course, his "something hot." Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found; No matter how his craft would rock, He slept,--for skippers' naps are sound! The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead. One night, 't was Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag,--the pedler's son; And so he mused (the wanton wretch), "To-night I'll have a grain of fun. "We're all a set of stupid fools, To think the skipper knows by tasting, What ground he's on; Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff; with all their basting!" And so he took the well-greased lead, And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck--(a parsnip bed),-- And then he sought the skipper's berth. "Where are we now, sir, please to taste." The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung! The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,-- "Nantucket 's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!" J. T. Fields. CCCLXVI. THE COLD-WATER MAN. It was an honest fisherman, I knew him passing well; And he lived by a little pond, Within a little dell. A grave and quiet man was he, Who loved his hook and rod; So even ran his line of life His neighbors thought it odd. For science and for books, he said He never had a wish; No school to him was worth a fig, Except a school of fish. In short, this honest fisherman, All other tools forsook; And though no vagrant man was he, He lived by hook and crook. He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth, Nor cared about a name; For though much famed for fish was he, He never fished for fame! To charm the fish he never spoke, Although his voice was fine; He found the most convenient way Was just to drop a line! And many a gudgeon of the pond, If they could speak to-day, Would own, with grief, the angler had A mighty taking way! One day, while fishing on a log, He mourned his want of luck,-- When suddenly, he felt a bite, And jerking--caught a duck! Alas! that day this fisherman Had taken too much grog; And being but a landsman, too, He could n't keep the log! 'T was all in vain with might and main He strove to reach the shore; Down, down he went, to feed the fish He'd baited oft before! The jury gave their verdict, that 'T was nothing else but gin, That caused the fisherman to be So sadly taken in; Though one stood out upon a whim, And said the angler's slaughter, To be exact about the fact, Was clearly gin-and-water. The moral of this mournful tale, To all is plain and clear,-- That drinking habits bring a man Too often to his bier; And he who scorns to "take the pledge," And keep the promise fast, May be, in spite of fate, a stiff Cold-water man, at last! J. G. Saxe. CCCLXVII. WHITTLING. The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool, The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby; His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it, Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it; And, in the education of the lad, No little part that implement hath had,-- His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings A growing knowledge of material things. Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart, His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod, its sharp explosion and rebounding wad, His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone, Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed, His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win, His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin; Or, if his father lives upon the shore, You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor," Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers stanch And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch. Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven, Ere long he'll solve you any problem given; Make any jim-crack, musical or mute, A plough, a couch, an organ or a flute; Make you a locomotive or a clock, Cut a canal, or build a floating dock, Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block;-- Make anything, in short, for sea or shore, From a child's rattle, to a seventy-four;-- Make it, said I?--Ay, when he undertakes it, He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it. And when the thing is made, whether it be To move on earth, in air, or on the sea; Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide, Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide; Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring, Whether it be a piston or a spring, Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass, The thing designed shall surely come to pass; For, when his hand 's upon it, you may know That there's go in it, and he'll make it go. J. Pierpont. CCCLXVIII. HOTSPUR'S ACCOUNT OF A FOP. My liege, I did deny no prisoners. But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped, Showed like a stubble land at harvest-home. He was perfumed like a milliner; And. 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon, He gave his nose, and took 't away again;-- And still he smiled and talked; And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He called them--untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He questioned me; among the rest, demanded My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf. I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, To be so pestered with a popinjay, Out of my grief and my impatience, Answered neglectingly, I know not what; He should, or he should not;--for he made me mad. To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman, Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!) And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise; And that it was a great pity, so it was, This villainous saltpetre should be digged Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier. This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said; And, I beseech you, let not this report Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love and your high majesty. Shakespeare. CCCLXIX. HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE. Hard by a poet's attic lived a chemist, Or alchemist, who had a mighty Faith in the elixir vitæ; And, though unflattered by the dimmest Glimpse of success, kept credulously groping And grubbing in his dark vocation; Stupidly hoping To onto the art of changing metals, And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles, By mystery of transmutation. Our starving poet took occasion To seek this conjurer's abode; Not with encomiastic ode, Of laudatory dedication, But with an offer to impart, For twenty pounds, the secret art Which should procure, without the pain Of metals, chemistry, and fire, What he so long had sought in vain, And gratify his heart's desire. The money paid, our bard was hurried To the philosopher's sanctorum, Who, as it were sublimed and flurried Out of his chemical decorum, Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his Crucibles, retort, and furnace, And cried, as he secured the door, And carefully put to the shutter, "Now, now, the secret, I implore! For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter!" With grave and solemn air the poet Cried: "List! O, list, for thus I show it: Let this plain truth those ingrates strike, Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave; THAT WE MAY ALL HAVE WHAT WE LIKE, SIMPLY BY LIKING WHAT WE HAVE!" Horace Smith. CCCLXX. THE THREE BLACK CROWS. Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand: "Hark ye," said he, "'tis an odd story this, About the crows!"--"I don't know what it is," Replied his friend.--"No? I'm surprised at that; Where I came from 't is the common chat; But you shall hear: an odd affair indeed! And that it happened, they are all agreed. Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short, as all the alley knows, Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows." "Impossible!"--"Nay, but it 's really true; I had it from good hands, and so may you." "From whose, I pray?" So having named the man, Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. "Sir, did you tell?"--relating the affair-- "Yes, sir, I did; and if it's worth you care, Ask Mr. Such-a-one; he told it me; But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three." Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, Whip to the third, the virtuoso went. "Sir,"--and so forth--"Why, yes; the thing is fact, Though in regard to number not exact; It was not two black crows; 't was only one; The truth of that you may depends upon, The gentleman himself told me the case." "Where may I find him?"--"Why, in such a place." Away he goes, and having found him out-- "Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know if true what he had heard. "Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?"--"Not I!"-- "Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, And here I find at last all comes to none! Did you say nothing of a crow at all?" "Crow--crow--perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over."--"And pray, sir, what was 't?" "Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, Something that was as black, sir, as a crow." Byrom. CCCLXXI. HELPS TO READ. A certain artist--I've forgot his name-- Had got, for making spectacles, a fame, Or, "helps to read," as, when they first were sold, Was writ upon his glaring sign in gold; And, for all uses to be had from glass, His were allowed by readers to surpass. There came a man into his shop one day-- "Are you the spectacle contriver, pray?" "Yes Sir," said he, "I can in that affair Contrive to please you, if you want a pair." "Can you? pray do, then." So at first he chose To place a youngish pair upon his nose; And, book produced, to see how they would fit, Asked how he liked them. "Like 'em!--not a bit." "Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try These in my hand will better suit your eye?"-- "No, but they don't."--"Well come, sir, if you please, Here is another sort; we'll e'en try these; Still somewhat more they magnify the letter, Now, sir?"--"Why, now, I'm not a bit the better."-- "No! here, take these which magnify still more,-- How do they fit"?--"Like all the rest before!" In short, they tried a whole assortment through, But all in vain, for none of them would do. The operator, much surprised to find So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind! "What sort of eyes can you have got?" said he. "Why very good ones, friend, as you may see." "Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball. Pray let me ask you Can you read at all?" "No! you great blockhead!--If I could, what need Of paying you for any 'helps to read?'" And so he left the maker in a heat, Resolved to post him for an arrant cheat. Byrom. BOOK FOURTH. STANDARD SELECTIONS OF DIALOGUES. BOOK FOURTH. STANDARD DIALOGUES. CCCLXXII. PRINCE ARTHUR OF BRETAGNE. PRINCE ARTHUR--HUBERT--ATTENDANTS. HUB. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras; when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground rush forth, And bind the boy which you shall find with me, Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch. 1 Att. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to it. [Exeunt Attendants.] Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. [Enter Arth.] Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince. Arth. As little prince (having so great a title To be more prince) as may be.--You are sad. Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. Arth. Mercy on me! Methinks nobody should be sad but I: Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, I should be merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt My uncle practices more harm to me. He is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son? No, indeed, is 't not; and I would to Heaven, I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate, He will awake my mercy, which lies dead: Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [Aside.] Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day. In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might, sit all night, and watch with you. I warrant, I love you more than you do me. Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.-- Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now, foolish rheum. [Aside.] Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.-- Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ? Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? Hub. Young boy, I must. Arth. And will you? Hub. And I will. Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at midnight held your head; And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheered up the heavy time; Saying, What lack you? and Where lies your grief? Or, What good love may I perform for you? Many a poor man's son would have lain still, And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you: But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was a crafty love, And call it cunning: do, and if you will: If Heaven be pleased that you should use me ill, Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?-- These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, So much as frown on you? Hub. I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out. Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, And quench its fiery indignation, Even in the matter of mine innocence: Nay, after that, consume away in rust, But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron? An if an angel should have come to me, And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believed him; no tongue, but Hubert's. Hub. Come forth. [Stamps.--Reënter Attendants.] Do as I bid you. Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. Arth. Alas! what need you be so boisterous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the irons angrily. Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to. Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. 1 Att. I am best pleased to be away from such a deed. [Exeunt Attendants.] Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend: He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart. Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. Arth. Is there no remedy? Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. Arth. O, Heaven! that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a meandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. Hub. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue. Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes. Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert! Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes; O, spare mine eyes, Though to no use, but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, And would not harm me. Hub. I can heat it, boy. Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief-- Being create for comfort,--to be used In undeserved extremes. See else yourself: There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, And strewed repentant ashes on his head. Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush, And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert; Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes, And, like a dog, that is compelled to fight, Snatch at his master that does tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong, Deny their office: only you do lack That mercy, which fierce fire, and iron, extends,-- Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes For all the treasure that thine uncle owes. Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out. Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while You were disguised. Hub. Peace; no more: Adieu!-- Your uncle must not know but you are dead; I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports. And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee. Arth. O, Heaven!--I thank you, Hubert. Hub. Silence: no more. Go closely in with me: Much danger do I undergo for thee. Shakespeare. CCCLXXIII. QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. Cassius. That you have wronged me, doth appear in this: You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein, my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, were slighted off. Brutus. You wronged yourself to write in such a case. Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm; To sell and mart your offices for gold, To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last! Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. Cas. Chastisement! Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice?--What! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers,--shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be graspéd thus?-- I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman! Cas. Brutus, bay not me! I'll not endure it. You forget yourself, To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius. Cas. I am. Bru. I say you are not. Cas. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health; tempt me no farther! Bru. Away, slight man! Cas. Is 't possible? Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? Cas O ye gods! ye gods! Must I endure all this? Bru. All this? ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break; Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble! Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth,--yea for my laughter, When you are waspish! Cas. Is it come to this? Bru. You say, you are a better soldier: Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus: I said, an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say, better? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him! Cas. I durst not? Bru. No. Cas. What? durst not tempt him? Bru. For your life, you durst not! Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love; I may do that I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am armed so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;-- For I can raise no money by vile means: By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection! I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces! Can. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Cas. I did not;--he was but a fool That brought my answer back.--Brutus hath rived my heart; A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. Cas. You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world; Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes!--There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine,--richer than gold; If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth; I that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike as thou didst at Cæsar; for, I know, When thou didst hate him worst, then lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius! Brat. Sheathe your dagger; Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O Cassius, you are yokéd with a lamb That carries anger, as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforcéd, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered, too. Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart too. Cas. O, Brutus! Bru. What's the matter? Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor, which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful? Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. Shakespeare. CCCXXLXIV. DOGBERRY'S CHARGE. DOGBERRY--VERGES--THE WATCH. Dog. Are you good men and true? Ver. Yea, or else it were a pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul. Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince's watch. Ver. Well, give them their charge, neighbor Dogberry. Dog. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable? 1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read. Dog. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal. God hath blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune, but to write and read comes by nature. 2 Watch. Both which, master constable,-- Dog. You have; I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore, bear you the lantern. This is your charge;--you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name. 2 Watch. How, if he will not stand? Dog. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave. Ver. If he will not stand when he is bidden he is none of the prince's subjects. Dog. True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's subjects.--You shall also make no noise in the streets: for, for the watch to babble and talk, is most tolerable, and not to be endured. 2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk: we know what belongs to a watch. Dog. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend: only, have a care that your bills be not stolen.--Well, you are to call at all the ale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 2 Watch. How, if they will not? Dog. Why, then, let them alone till they are sober; if they make you not then the better answer, you may say, they are not the men you took them for. 2 Watch. Well, sir. Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. 2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him? Dog. Truly, by your office, you may; but, I think, they that touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is, and steal out of your company. Ver. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog, by my will; much more a man who hath any honesty in him. Ver. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse, and bid her still it. 2 Watch. How, if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us. Dog. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying: for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when it bleats. Ver. 'T is very true. Dog. This is the end of the charge. You, constable, are to present the prince's own person: if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him. Ver. Nay, by 'r lady, that, I think, he cannot. Dog. Five shillings to one on 't, with any man that knows the statues, he may stay him: marry, not without the prince be willing: for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will. Ver. By 'r lady, I think, it be so. Dog. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows' counsels and your own, and good-night.--Come, neighbor. 2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed. Dog. One word more, honest neighbors: I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato's door, for the wedding being there tomorrow there is a great coil to-night.--Adieu; be vigilant, I beseech you. Shakespeare. CCCLXXV. INDIGESTION. DR. GREGORY--PATIENT. [SCENE.----DR. GREGORY'S STUDY. ENTER A PLUMP GLASGOW MERCHANT.] Pa. Good morning, Dr. Gregory! I'm just come into Edinburg about some law business, and I thought when I was here, at any rate, I might just as weel take your advice, sir, about my trouble. Dr. Pray, sir, sit down. And now, my good sir, what may your trouble be? Pa. Indeed, Doctor, I'm not very sure; but I'm thinking it's a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a kind of pickling about my stomachs;--I'm just na right. Dr. You are from the West country, I should suppose, sir? Pa. Yes, sir, from Glasgow. Dr. Ay; pray, sir, are you a glutton? Pa. God forbid, sir; I'm one of the plainest men living in all the West country. Dr. Then, perhaps, you are a drunkard? Pa. No, Dr. Gregory; thank God, no one can accuse me of that. I'm of the Dissenting persuasion, Doctor, and an Elder; so you may suppose I'm na drunkard. Dr. I'll suppose no such thing till you tell me your mode of life. I'm so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I would wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When do you breakfast, and what do you take at it? Pa. I breakfast at nine o'clock; take a cup of coffee, and one or two cups of tea, a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or kipper salmon, or, may be, both, if they're good, and two or three rolls and butter. Dr. Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, at breakfast? Pa. Oh, yes, sir! but I don't count that as anything. Dr. Come, this is a very moderate breakfast. What kind of a dinner do you make? Pa. Oh, sir, I eat a very plain dinner indeed; some soup, and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled; for I dinna care for made dishes; I think, some way, they never satisfy the appetite. Dr. You take a little pudding, teens and afterwards some cheese. Pa. Oh, yes! though I don't care much about them. Dr. You take a glass of ale and porter with your cheese? Pa. Yes, one or the other; but seldom both. Dr. You West-country people generally take a glass of Highland whiskey after dinner. Pa. Yes, we do; it as good for digestion. Dr. Do you take any wine during dinner? Pa. Yes, a glass or two of sherry; but I'm indifferent as to wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer Dr. What quantity of port do you drink? Pa. Oh, very little; not above half a dozen glasses or so. Dr. In the West country it is impossible, I hear to dine without punch? Pa. Yes, sir, indeed, 't is punch we drink chiefly; but for myself unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take more than a couple of tumblers or so, and that's moderate. Dr. Oh, exceedingly moderate indeed! You then, after this slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter? Pa. Yes, before I go to the counting-house to read the evening letters. Dr. And on your return you take supper, I suppose. Pa. No, sir, I canna be said to take supper; just something before going to bed;--a rizzard haddock, or a bit of toasted cheese, or a half-hundred of oysters: or the like o' that and may be, two thirds of a bottle of ale; but I take no regular supper. Dr. But you take a little more punch after that? Pa. No, sir, punch does not agree with me at bedtime. I take a tumbler of warm whiskey-toddy at night; it is lighter to sleep on. Dr. So it must be, no doubt. This, you say, is your every day life; but, upon great occasions, you perhaps exceed a little? Pa. No, sir, except when a friend or two dine with me, or I dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often happen. Dr. Not above twice a week? Pa. No; not oftener. Dr. Of course you sleep well and have a good appetite? Pa. Yes, sir, thank God, I have; indeed, any ill-health that I have is about meal-time. Dr. [Assuming a severe look, knitting his brow, and lowering his eyebrows.] Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow indeed. You come here and tell me you are a moderate man; but upon examination, I find by your own showing that you are a most voracious glutton. You said you were a sober man; yet, by your own showing, you are a beer-swiller, a dram-drinker, a wine-bibber, and a guzzler of punch. You tell me you eat indigestible suppers, and swill toddy to force sleep. I see that you chew tobacco. Now, sir, what human stomach can stand this? Go home, sir, and leave your present [course of ] riotous living, and there are hopes that your stomach may recover its tone, and you be in good health, like your neighbors. Pa. I'm sure, Doctor, I 'm very much obliged to you [taking out a bundle of bank-notes], I shall endeavor to. Dr. Sir, you are not obliged to me:--put up your money, sir. Do you think I 'll take a fee for telling you what you know as well as myself? Though you 're no physician, sir, you are not altogether a fool. Go home, sir, and reform, or, take my word for it, your life is not worth half a year's purchase. CCCLXXVI. THE TWO ROBBERS. [Alexander THE great, in his tent. A man with a fierce countenance, chained and fettered, brought before him.] Alex. What! art thou the Thracian robber, of whose exploits I have heard so much? Rob. I am a Thracian, and a soldier. Alex. A soldier!--a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! the pest of the country! I could honor thy courage; but I must detest and punish thy crimes. Rob. What have I done of which you can complain? Alex. Hast thou not set at defiance my authority; violated the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring the persons and the properties of thy fellow-subjects? Rob. Alexander, I am your captive I must hear what you please to say, and endure what you please to inflict. But my soul is unconquered; and if I reply at all to your reproaches, I will reply like a free man. Alex. Speak freely. Far be it for me take the advantage of my power, to silence those with whom I deign to converse. Rob. I must; then, answer your question by another. How have you passed your life? Alex. Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she will tell you. Among the brave, I have been the bravest; among sovereigns, the noblest; among conquerors, the mightiest. Rob. And does not Fame speak of me, too? Was there ever a bolder captain of a more valiant band? Was there ever-- but I scorn to boast. You yourself know that I have not been easily subdued. Alex. Still, what are you, but a robber--a base dishonest robber? Rob. And what is a conqueror? Have not you, too gone about the earth like an evil genius: blasting the fair fruits of peace and industry; plundering, ravaging, killing without law, without justice, merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion? All that I have done to a single district, with a hundred followers you have done to whole nations, with a hundred thousand. If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and princes. If I have burned a few hamlets, you have desolated the most flourishing kingdoms and cities of the earth. What is then the difference, but that as you were born a king, and I a private man, you have been able to become a mightier robber than I? Alex. But if I have taken like a king, I have given like a king. If I have subverted empires, I have founded greater. I have cherished arts, commerce, and philosophy. Rob. I, too, have freely given to the poor what I took from the rich. I have established order and discipline among the most ferocious of mankind; and I have stretched out my protecting arm over the oppressed. I know, indeed, little of the philosphy you talk of; but I believe neither you nor I shall ever atone to the world for the mischief we have done it. Alex. Leave me.--Take off his chains, and use him well. Are we, then, so much alike? Alexander to a robber?--Let me reflect. Dr. Aiken. CCCLXXVII. THE MISER. LOVEGOLD--JAMES. Love. Where have you been? I have wanted you above an hour. James. Whom do you want, sir,--your coachman or your cook? for I am both one and t' other. Love. I want my cook. James. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman; for you have had no great occasion for him since your last pair of horses were starved; but your cook, sir, shall wait upon you in an instant. [ Puts off his coachman's great-coat and appears as a cook.] Now sir, I am ready for your commands. Love. I am engaged this evening to give a supper. James. A supper, sir! I have not heard the word this half-year; a dinner, indeed, now and then; but, for a supper, I'm almost afraid, for want of practice, my hand is out. Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, and see that you provide a good supper. James. That may be done with a good deal of money, sir. Love. Is the mischief in you? Always money! Can you say nothing else but money, money, money? My children, my servants, my relations, can pronounce nothing but money. James. Well, sir; but how many will there be at table? love. About eight or ten; but I will have supper dressed but for eight; for if there be enough for eight, there is enough for ten. James. Suppose, sir, at one end, a handsome soup; at the other, a fine Westphalia ham and chickens; on one side, a fillet of veal; on the other, a turkey, or rather a bustard, which may be had for about a guinea-- Love. Zounds! is the fellow providing an entertainment for my lord mayor and the court of aldermen? James. Then a ragout-- Love. I'll have no ragout. Would you burst the good people you dog? James. Then pray, sir, what will you have? Love. Why, see and provide something to cloy their stomachs: let there be two good dishes of soup-maigre; a large suet pudding; some dainty, fat pork-pie, very fat; a fine, small lean breast of mutton, and a large dish with two artichokes. There; that's plenty and variety. James. O, dear-- Love. Plenty and variety. James. But, sir, you must have some poultry. Love. No; I'll have none. James. Indeed, sir, you should. Love. Well, then,--kill the old hen, for she has done laying. James. Mercy! sir, how the folks will talk of it; indeed, people say enough of you already. Love. Eh! why, what do the people say, pray? James. Oh, sir, if I could be assured you would not be angry. Love. Not at all; for I'm always glad to hear what the world says of me. James. Why, sir, since you will have it, then, they make a jest of you everywhere; nay, of your servants, on your account. One says, you pick a quarrel with them quarterly, in order to find an excuse to pay them no wages. Love. Poh! poh! James. Another says, you were taken one night stealing your own oats from your own horses. Love. That must be a lie; for I never allow them any. James. In a word, you are the bye-word everywhere; and you are never mentioned, but by the names of covetous, stingy, scraping, old-- Love. Get along, you impudent villain! James. Nay, sir, you said you would n't be angry. Love. Get out, you dog! you-- Fielding. CCCLXXVIII. THE LETTER. SQUIRE EGAN AND HIS NEW IRISH SERVANT, ANDY. Squire. Well, Andy, you went to the postoffice, as I ordered you? Andy. Yis, sir. Squire. Well, what did you find? Andy. A most impertinent fellow indade, sir. Squire. How so? Andy Says I, as decent like as a gentleman, "I want a letther, sir, if you plase." "Who do you want it for?" said the posth-masther, as ye call him. "I want a letter, sir, if you plase," said I "And whom do you want it for?" said he again. "And what 's that to you?" said I. Squire. You blockhead, what did he say to that? Andy. He laughed at me, sir, and said he could not tell what leather to give me, unless I told him the direction. Squire. Well, you told him then, did you? Andy. "The directions I got," said I "was to get a leather here,--that 's the directions." "Who gave you the directions?" says he. "The masther" said I. "And who 's your masther?" said he. "What consarn is that of yours?" said I. Squire. Did he break your head, then? Andy. No sir. "Why you stupid rascal," said he, "if you don't tell me his name, how can I give you his leather?" "You could give it, if you liked," said I; "only you are fond of axing impudent questions, because you think I'm simple." "Get out o' this!" said he. "Your masther must be as great a goose as yourself, to send such a missenger." Squire. Well, how did you save my honor, Andy? Andy. "Bad luck to your impudence!" said I. "Is it Squire Egan you dare say goose to?" "O Squire Egan's your masther?" said he. "Yes," says I; "Have you anything to say agin it?" Squire. You got the letter, then, did you? Andy. "Here 's a leather for the squire," says he. "You are to pay me eleven pence posthage." "What 'ud I pay 'levenpence for?" said I "For posthage," said he. "Did n't I see you give that gentlewoman a leather for four-pence, this blessed minit?" said I; "and a bigger letther than this? Do you think I 'm a fool?" says I? "Here 's a four-pence for you, and give me the letther." Squire. I wonder he did n't break your skull, and let some light into it. Andy. "Go along, you stupid thafe!" says he, because I would n't let him chate your honor. Square. Well, well; give me the letter. Andy. I have n't it, sir. He would n't give it to me, sir. Squire. Who would n't give it to you? Andy. That old chate beyant in the town. Square. Did n't you pay what he asked? Andy. Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated, when he was selling them before my face for four-pence a-piece? Squire. Go back, you scoundrel, or I'll horsewhip you. Andy. He'll murther me, if I say another word to him about the leather; he swore he would. Squire. I'll do it, if he don't, if you are not back in less than an hour. [Exit] Andy. O, that the like of me should be murthered for defending the charrackter of my masther! It's not I'll go to dale with that bloody chate again. I'll off to Dublin, and let the leather rot on his dirty hands, bad luck to him! Anonymous. CCCLXXIX. THE FRENCHMAN'S LESSON. Frenchman. Ha! my friend! I have met one very strange name in my lesson. Vat you call H-o-u-g-h,--eh? Tutor. "Huff." Fr. Très bien, "huff;" and snuff you spell s-n-o-u-p-h? Tut. Oh! no, no! "Snuff" is spelled s-n-u-f-f. In fact, words in o-u-g-h are a little irregular. Fr. Ah, very good!--'t is beautiful language! H-o-u-g-h is "huff." I will remember; and of course, c-o-u-g-h is "cuff." I have a bad "cuff,"--eh? Tut. No, that is wrong; we say "kauff,"--not "cuff" Fr. "Kauff," eh? "Huff," and "kauff;" and, pardonnez-moi, how you call d-o-u-g-h--"duff,"--eh? is it "duff?" Tut. No, not "duff." Fr. Not "duff!" Ah oui; I understand, it is "dauff," --eh? Tut. No; d-o-u-g-h spells "doe." Fr. "Doe!" It 's ver' fine! Wonderful language! It is "doe;" and t-o-u-g-h is "toe," certainement. My beefsteak is very "toe." Tut. Oh! no, no! You should say "tuff." Fr. "Tuff!" And the thing the farmer uses, how you call him, p-l-o-u-g-h,--"pluff," is it? Ha! you smile. I see that I am wrong; it must be "plaff." No? then it is "ploe," like "doe?" It is one beautiful language! ver' fine! "ploe!" Tut. You are still wrong, my friend; it is "plow." Fr. "Plow!" Wonderful language! I shall understand ver' soon. "Plow" "doe" "kauff;" and one more r-o-u-g-h --what you call General Taylor,--"Rauff and Ready?" No? then "Row and Ready?" Tut. No; r-o-u-g-h spells "ruff." Fr. "Ruff," ha? Let me not forget. R-o-u-g-h is "ruff," and b-o-u-g-h is "buff,"--ha? Tut. No; "bow." Fr. Ah! 't is ver' simple! Wonderful language! But I have had vat you call e-n-o-u-g-h,--ha? Vat you call him?--Ha! ha! ha! Anonymous. CCCLXXX. HOW TO TELL BAD NEWS. Mr. H.--Steward. Mr. H. Ha! Steward, How are you, my old boy? How do things go on at home? Steward. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie's dead. Mr. H. Poor mag! so he's gone. How came he to die? Stew. Over-ate himself sir. Mr. H. Did he, faith? a greedy dog; why, what did he get he liked so well? Stew. Horse-flesh, sir; he died of eating horse-flesh. Mr. H. How came he to get so much horse-flesh? Stew. All your father's horses, sir. Mr. H. What! Are they dead, too? Stew. Ay, sir; they died of over-work. Mr. H. And why were they over-worked, pray? Stew. To carry water, sir. Mr. H. To carry water! and what were they carrying water for? Stew. Sure, sir, to put out the fire. Mr. H. Fire! what fire? Stew. Oh, sir, your father's house is burned down to the ground. Mr. H. My father's house burned down! and how came it set on fire? Stew. I think, sir, it must have been the torches. Mr. H. Torches! what torches? Stew. At your mother's funeral. Mr. H. My mother dead! Stem. Ah, poor lady, she never looked up after it. Mr. H. After what? Stew. The loss of your father. Mr. H. My father gone too? Stew. Yes, poor gentleman, he took to his bed as soon as he heard of it. Mr. H. Heard of what? Stew. The bad news, sir, and please your Honor. Mr. H. What! more miseries! more bad news? Stew. Yes, sir, your bank has failed, and your credit is lost, and you are not worth a shilling in the world. I made bold, sir, to come to wait on you about it, for I thought you would like to hear the news. Anonymous. CCCLXXXI. THE CHOLERIC father. CAPT. ABSOLUTE--SIR ANTHONY Capt. A. Sir, I am delighted to see you here and looking so well! Your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health. Sir A. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, are you recruiting here, eh? Capt. A. Yes, sir; I am on duty. Sir A. Well, Jack! I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long. Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty; and I pray fervently that you may continue so. Sir A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my heart. Well, then, Jack, I have been considering that as I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit. Capt. A. Sir, you are very good. Sir A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence. Capt. A Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Such generosity makes the gratitude of reason more lively than the sensation even of filial affection. Sir A. I am glad you are so sensible of my attention; and you shall be master of a large estate in a few weeks. Capt. A. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude. I cannot express the sense I have of your munificence. Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army? Sir A. O, that shall be as your wife chooses. Capt. A. My wife, sir? Sir A. Ay, ay, settle that between you--settle that between you. Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you say? Sir A. Ay, a wife--why did I not mention her before? Capt A. Not a word of her, sir. Sir A. Upon my word, I must n't forget her, though! Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage--the fortune is saddled with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference? Capt. A. Sir! sir, you amaze me! Sir A. What 's the matter? Just now you were all gratitude and duty. Capt. A. I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a fortune, but not one word of a wife. Sir A. Why, what difference does that make? Sir, if you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands. Capt. A. If my happiness is to be the price, I must beg leave to decline the purchase. Pray, sir, who is the lady? Sir A. What 's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and to marry her directly. Capt. A. Sure, sir, that 's not very reasonable, to summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of! Sir A. I am sure, sir, 't is more unreasonable in you to object to a lady you know nothing of. Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that on this point I cannot obey you. Sir A. Hark you, Jack! I have heard you for some time with patience; I have been cool,--quite cool; but take care; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led--when I have my own way; but don't put me in a frenzy. Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey you. Sir A. Now, shoot me, if ever I call you Jack again while I live! Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me. Sir A. Sir, U won't hear a word--not a word!--not one word!--So, give me your promise by a nod; and I 'll tell you what, Jack,--I mean, you dog,--if you don't-- Capt. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness; to-- Sir A. Sir, the lady shall be as ugly as I choose; she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's Museum; she shall leave a skin like a mumps and the beard of a Jew; he shall be all this, sir! Yet, I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty! Capt. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed! Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jackanapes! Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my life. Sir A. 'T is false, sir! I know you are laughing in your sleeve. I know you'll grin when I am gone, sir! Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. Sir A. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if, you please! It won't do with me, I promise you. Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. Sir A. I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog! But it won't do! Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word Sir A. So you will fly out! Can't you be cool like me? What good can passion do? Passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! Don't provoke me! But you rely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog! You play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet, take care; the patience of a saint may be overcome at last! But, mark: I give you six hours and a half to consider of this: if you then agree without any condition, to do everything on earth that I choose, why, I may, in time, forgive you. lf not, don't enter the same hemisphere with me; don't care to breathe the same air, or use the same light, with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commission; I'll lodge a five-and-three-pence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest! I'll disown you. I'll disinherit you! I'll never call you Jack again. [Exit.] Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hand. R. B. Sheridan. CCCLXXXII. ROLLA AND ALONZO. [ENTER ROLLA DISGUISED AS A MONK.] Rolla. Inform me, friend, is Alonzo, the Peruvian, confined in this dungeon? Sentinel. He is. Rolla. I must speak with him. Sentinel. You must not. Rolla. He is my friend. Sentinel. Not if he were your brother. Rolla. What is to be his fate? Sentinel. He dies at sunrise. Rolla. Ha! then I am come in time, Sentinel. Just to witness his death. Rolla. [Advancing toward the door.] Soldier, I must speak with him. Sentinel. [Pushing him back with his gun.] Back! Back! it is impossible. Rolla. I do entreat you, but for one moment. Sentinel. You entreat in vain, my orders are most strict. Rolla. Look on this massive wedge of gold! look on these precious gems! In thy land they will be wealth for thee and thine, beyond thy hope or wish. Take them; they are thine; let me but pass one moment with Alonzo. Sentinel. Away! Wouldest thou corrupt me?--me, an old Castilian! I know my duty better. Rolla. Soldier, hast thou a wife? Sentinel. I have. Rolla. Hast thou children? Sentinel. Four honest, lovely boys. Rolla. Where didst thou leave them? Sentinel. In my native village, in the very cot where I was born. Rolla. Dost thou love thy wife and children? Rolla. Do I love them? God knows my heart,--I do. Rolla. Soldier, imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death, in a strange land,--what would be thy last request? Sentinel. That some of my comrades should carry my dying blessing to my wife and children. Rolla. What if that comrade was at thy prison door, and should there be told, "Thy fellow-soldier dies at sunrise, yet thou shalt not for a moment see him, nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children, or his wretched wife!"-- What would'st thou think of him who thus could drive thy comrade from the door? Sentinel. How! Rolla. Alonzo has a wife and child; and I am come but to receive for her, and for her poor babes the last blessing of my friend. Sentinel. Go in. [Exit sentinel.] Rolla. [ Calls] Alonzo! Alonzo! [Enter Alonzo, speaking as he comes in.] Alonzo. How! is my hour elapsed? Well, I am ready. Rolla Alonzo--Know me! Alonzo. Rolla! Heavens! how didst thou pass the guard? Rolla. There is not a moment to be lost in words. This disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar, as I passed our field of battle. It has gained me entrance to thy dungeon; now take it thou, and fly. Alonzo And Rolla,-- Rolla. Will remain here in thy place. Alonzo. And die for me! No! Rather eternal torture rack me. Rolla. I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not Rolla's; and thy arm may soon deliver me from prison. Or, should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted tree in the desert; nothing lives beneath my shelter. Thou art a husband and a father; the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant depend upon thy life. Go, go, along, not to save thyself but Cora and thy child. Alonzo. Urge me not thus, my friend. I am prepared to die in peace. Rolla. To die in peace! devoting her you have sworn to live for to madness, misery, and death! Alonzo. Merciful Heavens! Rolla. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo,--now mark me well. Thou knowest that Rolla never pledged his word, and shrank from its fulfilment. And here I swear, if thou art proudly obstinate, thou shalt have the desperate triumph of seeing Rolla perish by thy side. Alonzo. O, Rolla! you distract me! Wear you the robe and though dreadful the necessity we will strike down the guard and force our passage. Rolla. What, the soldier on duty here? Alonzo Yes,--else, seeing two, the alarm will be instant death. Rolla. For my nation's safety, I would not harm him. That soldier, mark me, is a man! All are not men that wear the human form. He refused my prayers, refused my gold, refused to admit, till his own feelings bribed him. I will not risk a hair of that man's head, to save my heartstrings from consuming fire But haste! A moment's further pause, and all is lost. Alonzo Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honor and from right.. Rolla. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonor to his friend? [ Throwing the friar's garment over his shoulder.] There! conceal thy face. Now, God be with thee! Kotzebue. CCCLXXXIII. THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER. Traveller. Do you belong to this house, friend? Landlord. No, it belongs to me, I guess. [ The Traveller takes out his memorandum-book, and in a low voice reads what he writes.] Trav. "Mem. Yankee landlords do not belong to their house's [Aloud] You seem young for a landlord: may I ask how old you are? Land. Yes, if you'd like to know. Trav. Hem! [Disconcerted.] Are you a native, sir? Land. No, sir; there are no natives hereabouts. Trav. "Mem. None of the inhabitants natives; ergo, all foreigners." [Aloud] Where were you born, sir? Land. Do you know where Marblehead is? Trav. Yes. Land. Well, I was not born there. Trav. Why did you ask the question, then? Land. Because my daddy was. Trav. But you were born somewhere. Land. That 's true; but as father moved up country afore the townships were marked out, my case is somewhat like the Indian's who was born at Nantucket, Cape Cod, and all along shore. Trav. Were you brought up in this place, sir? Land. No; I was raised in Varmount till mother died, and then, as father was good for nothing after that I pulled up stakes and went to sea a bit. Trav. "Mem. Yankees, instead of putting up gravestones, pull up stakes, and go to sea, when a parent dies" [Aloud] You did not follow the sea long, for you have not the air of a mariner. Land. why, you see, I had a leetle knack at the coopering business; and larning that them folks that carry it on in the West Indies die off fast, I calculated I should stand a chance to get a handsome living there. Trav. And so you turned sailor to get there? Land. Not exactly; for I agreed to work my passage by cooking for the crew, and tending the dumb critters. Trav. Dumb critters! Of what was your lading composed? Land. A leetle of everything;--horses, hogs, hoop-poles, and Hingham boxes; boards, ingyons, soap, candles, and ile. Trav. "Mem. Soap, candles, and ile, called dumb critters by the Yankees." [Aloud.] Did you arrive there safely? Land. No, I guess we did n't. Trav. Why not? Land. We had a fair wind, and sailed a pretty piece, I tell you; but jest afore we reached the eend of our vige, some pirates overhauled us, and stole all our molasses, rum, and gingerbread. Trav. Is that all they did to you? Land. No, they ordered us on board their vessel, and promised us some black-strap. Trav. "Mem. Pirates catch Yankees with a black-strap." [Aloud] Did you accept the invitation? Land. No, I guess we did n't. And so they threatened to fire into us. Trav. What did your captain do? Land. "Fire, and be dammed!" says he, "but you'd better not spill the deacon's ile, I tell you." Trav. And so you ran off, did you? Land. No; we sailed off a small piece. But the captain said it was a tarnal shame to let them steal our necessaries; and so he right about, and peppered them, I tell you. Trav. "Mem. Yankees pepper pirates when they meet them." [Aloud.] Did you take them? Land. Yes, and my shear built this house. Trav. "Mem. Yankees build houses with shears." Land. It 's an ill wind that blows nowhere, as the saying is. And now, may I make so bold as to ask whose name I shall enter in my books? Trav. Mine! Land. Hem!--if it 's not an impertinent question, may I ask which way you are travelling? Trav. Home. Land. Faith! have I not as good a right to catechize you, as you had to catechize me? Trav. Yes. "Mem. Yankees the most inquisitive people in the world,--impertinent, and unwilling to communicate information to travellers." [Aloud] Well, sir, if you have accommodations fit for a gentleman, I will put up with you. Land. They have always suited gentlemen, but I can't say how you'll like 'em. Trav. There is a tolerable prospect from this window. What hill is that, yonder? Land. Bunker Hill, sir. Trav. Pretty hill! If I had my instruments here, I should like to take it. Land. You had better not try. It required three thousand instruments to take it in '75. Tram "Mem. A common Yankee hill cannot be drawn without three thousand instruments." [Aloud] Faith, Landlord, your Yankee draughtsmen must be great bunglers. But come, sir, give me breakfast, for I must be going; There is nothing else in the vicinity worthy the notice of a traveller. Anon. CCCLXXXIV. THE EMBRYO LAWYER. OLD FICKLE--TRISTAM FICKLE. Old F. What reputation, what honor, what profit can accrue to you from such conduct as yours? One moment you tell me you are going to become the greatest musician in the world, and straight you fill my house with fiddlers. Tri. I am clear out of that scrape now, sir. Old F. Then from a fiddler you are metamorphosed into a philosopher; and for the noise of drums, trumpets, and hautboys, you substitute a vile jargon, more unintelligible than was ever heard at the tower of Babel. Tri. You are right, sir, I have found out that philosophy is folly; so, I have cut the philosophers of all sects, from Plato and Aristotle down to the puzzlers of modern date. Old F. How much had I to pay the cooper, the other day, for barreling you up in a large tub, when you resolved to live like Diogenes? Tri. You should not have paid him anything, sir, for the tub would not hold. You see the contents are run out. Old F. No jesting, sir; this is no laughing matter. Your follies have tired me out. I verily believe you have taken the whole round of arts and science in a month, and have been of fifty different minds in half an hour. Tri. And, by that, shown the versatility of my genius. Old F. Don't tell me of versatility, sir. Let me see a little steadiness. You have never yet been constant to anything but extravagance. Tri. Yes, sir, one thing more. Old F. What is that, sir. Tri. Affection for you. However my head may have wandered, my heart has always been constantly attached to the kindest of parents; and, from this moment, I am resolved to lay my follies aside, and pursue that line of conduct which will be most pleasing to the best of fathers and of friends. Old F. Well said, my boy,--well said! You make me happy indeed. [patting him on the shoulder] Now, then, my dear Tristram, let me know what you really mean to do. Tri. To study the law. Old F. The law! Tri. I am most resolutely bent on following that profession. Old F. No! Tri. Absolutely and irrevocably fixed. Old F. Better and better. I am overjoyed. Why, 't is the very thing I wished. Now I am happy. [ Tristram makes gestures as if speaking.] See how his mind is engaged! Tri, Gentlemen of the jury,-- Old F. Why Tristram,-- Tri. This is a cause,-- Old F. O, my dear boy! I forgive you all your tricks. I see something about you, now, that I can depend upon. [ Tristram continues making gestures.] Tri. I am for the plaintiff in this cause,-- Old F. Bravo! bravo! excellent boy! I'll go and order your books directly. Tri. It is done sir. Old F. What, already! Tri. I ordered twelve square feet of books when I first thought of embracing the arduous profession of the law. Old F. What, do you mean to read by the foot? Tri. By the foot, sir; that is the only way to become a solid lawyer. Old F. Twelve square feet of learning! Well,-- Tri. I have likewise sent for a barber, Old F. What, is he to teach you to shave close? Tri. He is to shave one half of my head, sir. Old F. You will excuse me if I cannot perfectly understand what that has to do with the study of the law. Tri. Did you never hear of Demosthenes, sir, the Athenian orator? He had half his head shaved, and locked himself up in a coal-cellar. Old F. Ah! he was perfectly right to lock himself up after having undergone such an operation as that. He certainly would have made rather an odd figure abroad. Tri. I think I see him now, awaking the dormant patriotism of his countrymen,--lightning in his eye, and thunder in his voice: he pours forth a torrent of eloquence, resistless in its force--the throne of Philip trembles while he speaks; he denounces, and indignation fills the bosom of his hearers; he exposes the impending danger, and every one sees impending ruin; he threatens the tyrant,--they grasp their swords; he calls for vengeance, their thirsty weapons glitter in the air, and thousands reverberate the cry. One soul animates the nation, and that soul is the soul of the orator. Old F. O! what a figure he'll make in the King's Bench! But, come, I will tell you now what my plan is, and then you will see how happily this determination of yours will further it. You have [ Tristram makes extravagant gestures, as if speaking,] often heard me speak of my friend Briefwit, the barrister,-- Tri. Who is against me in this cause?-- Old F. He is a most learned lawyer,-- Tri. But as I have justice on my side,-- Old F. Zounds! he does n't hear a word I say! Why, Tristram! Tri. I beg your pardon, sir, I was prosecuting my studies. Old F. Now, attend,-- Tri. As my learned friend observes,--Go on, sir, I am all attention. Old F. Well, my friend the counselor,-- Tri. Say learned friend, if you please, sir. We gentlemen of the law always,-- Old F. Well, well,--my learned friend,-- Tri. A black patch! Old F. Will you listen, and be silent? Tri. I am as mute as a judge. Old F. My friend, I say, has a ward, who is very handsome, and who has a very handsome fortune. She would make you a charming wife. Tri. This is an action, Old F. Now, I have hitherto been afraid to introduce you to my friend, the barrister, because I thought your lightness and his gravity,-- Tri. Might be plaintiff and defendant. Old F. But now you are growing serious and steady, and have resolved to pursue his profession, I will shortly bring you together; you will obtain his good opinion, and all the rest follows of course. Tri. A verdict in my favor. Old F. You marry and sit down, happy for life. Tri. In the King's Bench. Old F. Bravo! Ha, ha, ha! But now run to your study, --run to your study, my dear Tristram, and I'll go and call upon the counsellor. Tri. I remove by habeas corpus. Old F. Pray have the goodness to make haste, then. [Hurrying him off.] Tri. Gentlemen of the jury this is a cause. [Exit.] Old F. The inimitable boy! I am now the happiest father living. What genius he has! He'll be Lord Chancellor one day or other, I dare be sworn. I am sure he has talents! O! how I long to see him at the bar! Allingham. NOTES. Page No. 3. I. BROUGHAM, (broom,) HENRY, Lord, philosopher, law-reformer, statesman, orator, and critic, was born in 1779, at Edinburgh, where he was educated at the High School and University. He united with Jeffrey and Horner in establishing the "Edinburgh Review," and for nearly twenty years he was one of its most regular contributors. Having for a few years practised law at the Scottish bar, he removed to England in 1807, and entered Parliament in 1810. His long parliamentary career has been characterized as one of desultory warfare. "A great part of his life has been spent in beating down; in detecting false pretensions whether in literature or politics; in searching out the abuses of long-established institutions; in laying open the perversions of public charities; in exposing the cruelties of the criminal code; or in rousing public attention to a world of evils resulting from the irregularities in the administration of municipal law." The character of his eloquence is well suited to the purposes of an assailant. "For fierce, vengeful, and irresistible assault," says John Foster, "Brougham stands the foremost man in all the world." This extract is taken from his Inaugural Discourse as Lord Rector of the university of Glasgow delivered in 1825. 4. II. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN was born at Dublin, September, 1751. His father was Thomas Sheridan, author of a Pronouncing Dictionary, and a distinguished teacher of elocution. His career was brilliant and successful, both as a dramatist and an orator. He entered Parliament in 1780 where his first speech was a failure; and when told, at its close, by one of his disappointed friends, that he had better have stuck to his former pursuit of writing plays, he rested his head on his hand for some minutes, and then exclaimed with vehemence, "It is in me, and it shall come out of me!" And so it did. Of his speech against Hastings, on the charge of the Begums, Mr. Pitt said, "an abler speech was perhaps never delivered;" and Mr. Fox characterized it as "the greatest that had been delivered within the memory of man." But his convivial habits betrayed him into gross intemperance, and he became bankrupt in character and health, as well as in fortune, and died on the 7th of July, 1816, at the age of sixty-four, a melancholy example of brilliant talents sacrificed to a love of display and sensual indulgence. 4. II. This is a very useful piece for practice, on account of the excellent illustrations of emphasis and inflections which it affords. The third paragraph is a fine example of the circumflex slides. 5. III. From the speech on the Begum Charge, before the House of Lords, sitting as a High Court of Parliament, June, 1788, and, said to be the most graphic and powerful description to be found in the speeches of Sheridan. --Oude, (ood.): Begums, Hindoo Princesses. --Zenana. (ze-náh-nah): that part of a house in India particularly reserved for women. 6. IV. THOMAS SMITH GRIMKE was born in Charleston S. C., September 26, 1786. He was a descendant of the Huguenots. In the days of Nullification he supported the General Government. He was an eloquent advocate of the Union, and in a Fourth of July Oration at Charleston, in 1809, he graphically depicts the horrors of civil war, which must follow disunion. He died on the 12th of Octobers 1834. 8. V. Lycian (lí-she-an ): Achæan ( a-kee'-an): Hanseatic (han-se-at'-ic), from Hance (hän-seh), a German word signifying "association for mutual support." Hamburg, Lubeck, Bremen, and Frankfort, constitute the present free Hanseatic cities. 12. VIII. CHAUNCEY A. GOODRICH Occupied the chair of Rhetoric and Oratory in Yale College, from 1817 until 1839, when he was transferred to that of Pastoral Theology, which he filled for more than twenty years. His chief literary works are his "Collection of Select British Eloquence," an excellent book, and his revised and enlarged edition of "Webster's Dictionary." Mr. Webster's argument in the Dartmouth College case, was delivered in 1818 and Professor Goodrich says that he went to Washington chiefly for the sake of hearing it. 14. IX. JOSHUA QUINCY was born in 1772 and graduated at Harvard College in 1790. He was in Congress from 1805 until 1813; mayor of Boston for six years, and President of Harvard from 1829 until 1845. He died July 1, 1864. This extract is from his Centennial Address on the Two Hundredth Anniversary of the Settlement of Boston, delivered in 1830. 16 X. Bon Homme Richard: (bo nom ree'-shar'') Guerriére: (ghér-re-air''). 17. XI. WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING, grandson of William Ellery, one of the signers of the Declaration, was born at Newport, R. I., April 7, 1780. In 1798, he was graduated at Harvard, with the highest honors. For nearly forty years he was pastor of the Federal Street Church in Boston. The collection of his Works embraces six volumes. He was one of the most eloquent of American divines, and he wrote largely on war, temperance, slavery, and education. He died October 2, 1842. 22. XIV. Tyrol (tyr'-ol): Innspruk (inns'-prook): Scheldt (skelt). 23. XV. THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER, an Irish patriot and orator. At present a general in the United States Army, and a stanch friend of the Union. 25. XVII. HENRY GRATTAN, born at Dublin, July 3, 1746; died May 14, 1820. He was the greatest of Irish patriots, and the greatest of Irish orators. His forte was reasoning, but it was "logic on fire." A distinguished writer described his eloquence as a "combination of cloud, whirlwind, and flame." His style was elaborated with great care. His language is select, and his periods are easy and fluent. 27. XVIII. RUFUS CHOATE was born at Ipswich, Mass., October 1, 1799, graduated at Dartmouth College, with the highest honors, in 1819, and died at Halifax, while on his way to Europe, July 13, 1859. Gifted with the most brilliant intellectual powers, he was ever a hard student. Mr. Everett says of him, "With such gifts, such attainments, and such a spirit, he placed himself, as a matter of course, not merely at the head of the jurists and advocates, but of the public speakers of the country." His most famous oration is his Eulogy on Daniel Webster, delivered at Dartmouth College. Mr. Choate's works have been edited, and an admirable Memoir of his Life written, by Professor Samuel G. Brown, the whole being published in two octavo volumes. 29. XX. Boëthius ( bo-e'-thi-us). --Sibyl (sib' il ). 30 XXI. From a Lecture on the Eloquence of Revolutionary Periods, delivered in Boston, February 1857. 33. XXIII. gobelin (gob'-e-lin): Pericles ( per'-i-cles). 37. XXVII. MRS. LYDIA MARIA CHILD, whose maiden name was FRANCIS, was born in Massachusetts, but passed a portion of her earlier years in Maine. Her literary productions are numerous and are characterized by vigor and originality of thought. She has been very prominent in the anti-slavery movement. A work on the subject of slaverey, published by her in 1833, produced a great sensation. This selection is from The Rebels, a tale of the Revolution, which was published in 1825, when she was quite young. 41. XXX. PATRICK HENRY. This distinguished "orator of nature" was born in Virginia, May 29, 1736. He was a member of the first Congress, which met in Carpenter's Hall, at Philadelphia, on the 4th of September, 1774. For several years he was governor of Virginia and for more than thirty years he stood among the foremost of American patriots and statesmen. He was one of the earliest and most powerful opponents of British power. In 1765, as member of the House of Burgesses, he introduced his famous resolutions against the Stamp Act, which proved the opening of the American Revolution in the colony of Virginia. He died on the 6th of June, 1799. His life has been written by William Wirt. This speech was delivered about one month before the battle of Lexington, so that his prophecy, "The next gale," &c. was almost literally fulfilled. 44. XXXIII, Præsidium ( pre-sid'-i-um): a guard. -Puéblo ( pwa'-blo ): a village. ---ranch: a hut, or collection of huts; a farming establishment. ---Tehuauntepec (ta-huán-te-pec). 46. XXXIV. REV. ROBERT HALL, an eminent Baptist minister, was born at Arnsby, England, August, 1764, and died at Bristols, on the 21st of February, 1831. His writings, which have been published in six volumes, are highly finished in style, and display a remarkable combination of logical precision, metaphysical acuteness, practical sense and sagacity, with a rich luxuriance of imagination, and all the graces of composition. Dr. Parr says of him--"He has, like Jeremy Taylor, the eloquence of an orator, the fancy of a poet the subtlety of a schoolman, the profoundness of a philosopher, and the piety of a saint." 47. XXXV. JOSEPH STORY was born at Marblehead, Mass., September 18, 1779. In 1810 he was appointed by President Madison Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, and in 1829, he was made Professor of the Dane Law School, which office he held until his death, September 10th, 1845. He was an eminent jurist, an eloquent orator, and a finished scholar. --Siloa: the metre here requires the accent on the first syllable (sil'-o-a, ) though most authorities make it (sil-ó'-a.). 52. XXXIX. REV. ELIJAH KELLOGG, a clergyman in Boston. He wrote this piece especially for declamation. This copy is a recent revision by the author for Hillard's Reader. 54. XL. From a speech delivered in the House of Representatives of the United States, January 8, 1847. 56. XLI. From an oration delivered at the seat of Government, on the occasion of laying the corner-stone of the National Monument to Washington, July 4, 1848. 70. LIII. FISHER AMES was born at Dedham, Mass., April 9th, 1758, where he died, July 4th, 1808 He was a member of the first Congress under the Constitution, in which body he remained eight years. In 1804, he was tendered the Presidency of Harvard College, which he declined.. He was an excellent classical scholar and an accumplished orator. His speech on Jay's Treaty, from which this extract is taken is a production of the deepest pathos and richest eloquence. Webster is said to have committed the whole speech to memory in early life. 92. LXIX. Brougham's career, though brilliant, has been marked by the most extraordinary inconsistencies and contradictions, and now, at the age of eighty-five, forgetting his brave denunciation of slavery, he takes sides with a wicked rebellion, which was set on foot for the establishment of an empire based on slavery. 97. LXXIII. RICHARD LALOR SHIEL was born in Ireland, August 17, 1791 and died in Italy, May 23, 1857. He entered Parliament in 1830, and at the time of his death, he was Minister at the Court of Tuscany. For bold, impassioned declamation, this extract has seldom been equalled. --STRAFFORD, EARL, whose family name was Wentworth. Rene gade, because having at first resisted the arbitrary power of Charles the First, he afterwards became so obnoxious to the people by his own exercise of arbitrary power that he was impeached of high treason and executed. --one man of great abilities: LORD LYNDHURST, who was born in Boston, Mass., May 21, 1772. He was the son of the eminent portrait and historical painter, John Singleton Copley. 68.--Assaye (as-si'), a small town in Hindostan, where the Duke of Wellington commenced his career of victory in a battle fought September 23, 1803. 98. LXXIII. Waterloo: (waw'-ter-loo,) battle of, June 18, 1815. --Vimeira: (ve-ma-e-rah,) a town in Portugal, where the Duke of Wellington defeated the French, August 21, 1808. --Badajos: (bad-ah-hoce') a town in Spain, taken from the French by the Duke of Wellington, April 6, 1812. --Salamanca: (sah-lah-mang'-kah) a city in Spain near which the English, under Wellington totally defeated the French, under Marmont and Clusel, July 22, 1812, --Albuera: (al-boo-a'-rah ) a town in Spain where the British and allies gained a victory over the French, May 16, 1811. --Toulouse: (too-looz') a city in France, where Wellington defeated the French under Soult, April 10, 1814. 99. LXXIV. FRANCIS WAYLAND, President of Brown University from 1827 until 1856, was born at New York, March 11. 1796. 111. LXXXIII. Edward Everett was born at Dorchester Mass., April 11, 1794, took his degree at Harvard College in 1811, and was settled over the church in Brattle Street, Boston, in 1813. In 1815, he was appointed Professor of Greek Literature in Harvard College, and he devoted the four succeeding years to study and travel in Europe, with the view to further qualify himself for its duties, which he assumed in 1819, with those of editor of the "North American Review." Both these positions he held till 1825 when his took his seat in Congress as Representative from Middlesex County, which he held for ten years. He was Governor of Massachusetts from 1836 until 1840. In 1841 he was appointed Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James and on his return home in 1846, was elected President of Harvard College, which position he resigned in 1849. He succeeded Mr. Webster as Secretary of State, in 1852, and in 1853 was chosen to the Senate of the United States, but soon resigned on account of ill health. Edward Everett is the most accomplished orator in this country, and he may justly be styled the Cicero of America. His splendid oration pronounced August 26, 1824, at Cambridge, before the Society of Phi Beta Kappa, closing with the beautiful apostrophe to Lafayette, who was present, placed him before the public as one of the greatest and most accomplished orators who had ever appeared in America. The reputation then achieved by him has been steadily advancing for forty years. On the breaking out of the rebellion, he at once came out boldly in support of the Government and the constitution, and during the struggle thus far, his matchless pen, his eloquent voice, and his great personal influence have been employed, on all proper occasions, in maintaining the cause of his country. Three large octavo volumes of his orations and occasional speeches have been published constituting a body of eloquence and learning, which has been surpassed by no other orator in the language. 111--From an oration delivered at Plymouth, on the anniversary of the landing of the Pilgrims: 22d of December, 1824. 114. LXXXVI. From an oration delivered at Bloody Brook, in South Deerfield, Mass., September 30, 1835, in commemoration of the fall of the "Flower of Essex," at that spot, in King Philip's war, September 18, ( O. S.) 1675. 114. LXXXVI. Mount Hope: a beautiful eminence of Bristol County, R. I., on the west shore of Mount Hope Bay. 118. LXXXVIII. Nevada, (na-vah'-dah): Antilles, (an-teel'): Archipelagoes, (ar-ke-pel'-a-goze). 120 XC. From a eulogy delivered at Boston, September 17, 1850, on the occasion of the inauguration of the statue of Daniel Webster which stands in front of the State House. 121.--Condé (con-da'): Rocroi, (ro-kroi'): Arbela, (ar-bee'-lah). 123. XCII. JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN was born at Nermarket, in the county of Cork, Ireland, July 24, 1750, and died at London, October 14, 1817. His voice was naturally bad, and his articulation so hasty and confused that he went among his school fellows by the name of "Stuttering Jack Curran." His manner was awkward his gesture constrained and meaningless and his whole appearance calculated only to produce laughter, notwithstanding the evidence he gave of superior abilities. All these faults he overcame by severe and patient labor. One of his biographers says,--"His oratorical training was as severe as any Greek ever underwent." Constantly on the watch against bad habits, he practised daily before a glass, reciting passages from Shakespeare, Junius, and the best English orators. He became the most eloquent of all irish advocates, and for more than twenty years he had an unrivalled mastery of the Irish bar. He was member of the Irish House of Commons from 1783 to 1797. In 1806, he was made Master of the Rolls, which office he resigned in 1814. 127 XCV. CHARLES JAMES FOX was born on the 24 th of January, 1749; was educated at Eton College and Oxford University. He was fond of the classics and took up Demosthenes as he did the speeches of Lord Chatham. As an orator he was much indebted to the study of the Greek writers, for the simplicity of his tastes, his entire abstinence from everthing like mere ornament, the terseness of his style, the point and stringency of his reasonings, and the all-pervading cast of intellect which distinguishes his speeches even in the most vehement bursts of impassioned feeling. But his tastes were too exclusively literary. He could discuss Greek metres with Porson, but he had little acquaintance with the foundations of jurisprudence, or the laws of trade; and he always felt the want of an early training in scientific investigation, correspondent to that he re ceived in classical literature. He took his seat in Parliament in 1768. He was the first man in the House of Commons, who took the ground of denying the right of Parliament to tax the colonies without their consent, and he went on identifying himself more and more to the end of life with the popular part of the Constitution, and with the cause of free principles throughout the world, aiming always amid all the conflicts of party "to widen the base of freedom,--to infuse and circulate the spirit of liberty." He made it a point to speak on every question that came up, whether interested in it or not, as a means of exercising and training his faculties, for he was bent on making himself a powerful debater. His love of argument was perhaps the most striking trait of his character, and "he rose," said Mr. Burke, "by slow degrees to be the most brilliant and accomplished debater the world ever saw." There was nothing strained or unnatural in his most vehement bursts of passion, "his feeling," says Coleridge, "was all intellect, and his intellect was all feeling." In his language, Mr. Fox studied simplicity, strength, and boldness. "Give me an elegant Latin and a homely Saxon word," says he, "and I will always choose the latter." He died on the 13th September, 1806, and was buried with the highest honors of the nation, in Westminster Abbey. 127. XCV. This extract is from his speech on the rejection of Bonaparte's overtures for peace which was delivered February 3d, 1800 and was considered by most who heard it as the ablest speech he ever made. This selection is a fine illustration of the use of the circumflex slides. ---Suwarrow: a Russian general. Praga: (prah'-gah). 129. XCVI. Utrecht, (yoo'-trekt): Blenheim, (blen'-hime). 131. XCVIII. JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, son of John Adams, the second President, was born at Braintree, Mass., on the 11th of July, 1767. He took his degree at Harvard College in 1787, a year after his admission, having been prepared for an advanced class, in Europe, where he had previously resided for several years. He studied law with Theophilus Parsons. at Newburyport, and commenced practice in 1790. He was a member of the Senate of the United States from 1803 until 1808. In 1806 he was appointed Boylston Professor of Rhetoric in Harvard College, which office he held for three years. In 1810 he was appointed Minister to Russia, where he remained until 1815, when with other Commissioners he negotiated the treaty of peace with England at Ghent, and was appointed Minister to that country in the same year, a post which his father had occupied before him, and which is now so ably filled by his son, Charles Francis. He served as Secretary of State during the administration of Monroe, whom he succeeded in the Presidency. On his retirement from the Chief Magistracy, he was elected to represent his native district in the House of Representatives, until his death, which occurred the 23d of February, 1848. His career as a member of the House was distinguished for his fearless and uncompromising defence of the right of petition, and for his bold and effective opposition to the usurpation of the slave power. 133. XCIX. Gracchi: (grak'-ki) two distinguished Romans, sons of Cornelia. 135. CI. JOSEPH WARREN, the first great martyr in the cause of independence, was born at Roxbury, Mass., June 11th, 1741, and was killed at the battle of Bunker Hill, June 17, 1775. General Warren acted as a volunteer at the battle of Bunker Hill, serving as a private in the ranks in the redoubt having borrowed a musket from a sergeant. When urged against hazarding his life on that day, be replied enthusiastically,--"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." 141. CV. WILLIAM PITT, the younger, was born on the 28th of May, 1759, and was the second son of Lord Chatham. He was educated at Cambridge university, where he continued nearly seven years, devoting his attention mainly to three things; namely, the classics, mathematics and the logic of Aristotle applied to the purposes of debate. In early life his whole soul seems to have been absorbed by one idea--that of becoming a distinguished orator. "Multum haud multa," was his motto in most of his studies for life. This language gave direction to most of his reading in English Literature; he had the finest parts of Shakspeare by heart; he read the best historians with great care; he entered Parliament in 1781, and at a single bound when only twenty-two years of age, he placed himself in the foremost rank of English statesmen and orators, at the proudest era of English eloquence. He was made Prime Minis ter at the age of twenty-four, and he continued to fill the first place in the councils of his country during most of the remaining period of his life, which terminated on the 23d of January, 1806, in the 47th year of his age. As a debater in the House, his speeches were logical and argumentative. The strength of his oratory was intrinsic, and his speeches were stamped with the inimitable marks of originality. This extract was taken from a. speech of the abolition of the slavetrade, in the House of Commons, 1792, which is regarded as one of the most brilliant displays of his eloquence. 143. CVI. HORACE MANN was born at Franklin, Mass. May 1796, and gradu ated at, Brown University, in 1819, with the highest honors. After a successful career as a politician having served in both branches of the Legislature, on the organization of the Board of Education in Massachusetts, on the 29th of June, 1837 Mr. Mann was elected its Secretary, which office he continued to fill with great ability, for twelve years. His twelve Annual Reports to the Board of Education probably constitute the most readable and instructive series of educational documents which has been produced by one mind in any language. On his retirement from the Secretaryship, he was elected Representative to Congress to fill the vacancy caused by the death of John Quincy Adams. Having served in Congress two terms, he again returned to the educational field by accepting the Presidency of Antioch College, at Yellow Springs, Ohio, where he died. 144. CVII. DANIEL WEBSTER was born at Salisbury, N. H., on the 18th of January, 1782, and graduated at Dartmouth College, in 1801. His college life was distinguished by assiduous and various studies. He was admitted to the bar in 1805, and commenced the practice of law in his native town, but soon after removed to Portsmouth. He removed to Boston in 1816, and died at Marshfield, Mass., October, 1852. He was the first orator, the first Jurist, and the first statesman of his generations in America. His most famous forensic per formance, was his argument in the Dartmouth College case. His greatest parliamentary effort was his second speech on Foote's resolution; and his most important diplomatic service was his negotiation of the treaty of Washington, in 1842. His speeches and orations have been published in six volumes, with an admirable memoir, by Mr. Everett. 157. CXVI. This Will: of Stephen Girard, of Philadelphia, providing for the founding of a college for orphans. 160. CXVIII. This selection is the peroration to Mr. Webster's second speech on Foote's resolution. 165. CXXII. This extract is taken from the address delivered by Mr. Webster on the occasion of laying the corner-stone of the extension of the National Capitol. 168. CXXIV. From the address on the laying of the corner-stone of Bunker Hill Monument, at Charleston, Mass., the 17th of June, 1825. 170. CXXV. WILLIAM PITT, first Earl of Chatham, was born at London, on the 15th of November, 1708. He became a member of Parliament in 1735, at the age of twenty-six, and was made Secretary of State in December, 1756, which office he continued to hold, with a brief interval, until October, 1761. He was appointed to the office of Lord Privy Seal in 1766, and elevated to the peerage with the title of Earl Chatham. He died at Hayes, in Kent, on the 11th of May, 1778 in the seventieth year of his age. His devotion to the interest of the great body, especially the middling classes, of the English nation, won for him the title of "the Great commoner." He consecrated his great talents and commanding eloquence to the defense of the popular part of the Constitution. In the latter part of his life, though suffering much from bodily infirmities, he was the champion of the American cause, standing forth, in presence of the whole British empire, to arraign, as a breach of the Constitution every attempt to tax a people who had no representative in Parliament. This was the era of his noblest efforts in oratory. He has been generally regarded as the most powerful orator of modern times. His success, no doubt was owing in part to his extraordinary personal advantages. In his best days before he was crippled by the gout, his figure was tall and erect; his attitude imposing; his gestures energetic even to vehemence, yet tempered with dignity and grace. His voice was full and clear; his loudest whisper was distinctly heard; his middle notes were sweet and beautifully varied; and, when he elevated his voice to its highest pitch, the House was completely filled with the volume of sound. The effect was awful, except when he wished to cheer or animate; then he had spiritstirring notes which were perfectly irresistible. But although gifted by nature with a fine voice and person, he spared, no effort to add everything that art could confer, for his improvement as an orator. 174 CXXVIII. HENRY CLAY was born in Virginia, April 12, 1777, and died at Washington, June 29, 1852. In early life his advantages of education were limited. He commenced the practice of the law in 1797. His political career began in 1803, and ended in 1852. He was twice Speaker of the National House of Representatives. In 1814, he was one of the commissioners to negotiate the Treaty of Ghent. He represented the State of Kentucky in the United States Senate at various periods from 1806 till 1852. He was Secretary of State during the administration of John Quincy Adams, and he was three times the unsuccessful Whig candidate for the Presidency. He was a man of the warmest sympathies, and he captivated the hearts of all who came in contact with him. He was a patriot, and willingly sacrificed private preference to public good. He said truly in his valedictory address to the Senate,--"In all my public acts, I have had a single eye directed and a warm and devoted heart dedicated to what, in my best judgment, I believed the true interest, the honor, the union, and the happiness of my country required." He was a consummate orator. In his manner he united the gentleness of woman with the pride and dignity of the haughtiest manhood. His style was full flowing, and manly; and his voice was sonorous, sweet, and powerful. 183. CXXXVI. ELIPHALET NOTT was born in Connecticut, in 1773 and is now upwards of ninety years of age. He has occupied the office of President of Union College for about sixty years. The eloquent discourse on the death of Hamilton was delivered at Albany, in 1804. 190. CXL. JOHN HANCOCK, President of the American Congress in 1776, and Signer of the Declaration, was born in Massachusetts in 1739, and died in 1793. This extract is from an oration delivered March 5th on the anniversary of the massacre of Boston citizens by British soldiers, which took place four years before. 191. CXLI. EDMUND BURKE, who was preëminently the great philosophical orator of our language, was born at Dublin January 1. 1730, and died at Beaconsfield, near London, July 9th, 1797. His political career commenced in the House of Commons, of which body he was a member during the greater part of his subsequent life. He wrote out six of his great speeches, the last of which was that on the Nabob of Arcot's debts. He was strenuously opposed to the American war, and two of his greatest speeches that on the Stamp Act, and that on Conciliation with America, supported the cause of the colonies. Of the latter, Mr. Everett says,--"It was less than a month before the commencement of hostilities, that Burke pronounced that truly divine oration on 'Conciliation with America,' which in my poor judgment, excels everything, in the form of eloquence, that has come down to us from Greece or Rome." And he said further,--"Certainly, no compositions in the English tongue can take precedence of those of Burke, in depth of thought, reach of forecast, or magnificence of style. . . . . In political disquisition elaborated in the closet, the palm must perhaps be awarded to Burke over all others, ancient or modern." 203. CL. Platæa, ( pla-te'-a): Artmisium (ar-te-me'-ze-um). 220. CLXII. SIR WALTER SCOTT was born at Edinburgh, Scotland, August 15, 1711, and died at; Abbotsford, his country seat, on the banks of the Tweed, September 21, 1832. He passed through the High School and University of his native city without attaining any marked distinction as a scholar. He made some proficiency in Latin, ethics and history, but he had no taste for Greek. He acquired a general, though not a critical knowledge, of the German, French, Italian, and Spanish languages. But from early youth he was an insatiable reader, and he stored his mind with a vast fund of miscellaneous knowledge. Romances were among his chief favorites, and he had great facility in inventing and telling stories. He became greatly distinguished as a poet before he commenced his career as a novelist. His first great poem, the Lay of the Last Minstrel, published in 1805, was received with enthusiastic admiration, and at once stamped him as a poetical genius. The appearance of Marmion, in 1808 greatly enhanced his reputation as a poet, and the Lady of the Lake, which came out two years later, was still more popular. Here he touched his highest point in poetical composition. His subsequent poems certainly added nothing to his reputation, if, indeed they sustained it. But, "as the old mine gave symptoms of exhaustion," says Bulwer, the new mine, ten times more affluent at least in the precious metals, was discovered. In 1814 he commenced that long and magnificent series of prose fictions which for seventeen years were poured out with an unprecedented prodigality, and which can onlv be compared with the dramas of Shakspeare, as presenting an endless variety of original characters scenes historical situations and adventures. In 1826, he became bankrupt, in consequence of a partnership with a printer and publisher, and, although fifty-five years old, he undertook the heroic task of discharging his heavy pecuniary liabilities by the productions of his pen. In six years of intense literary labor, he nearly accomplished his noble object, but before he reached the goal, he sank exhausted on the course. "In the portion of his life, from his bankruptcy to his death," says Mr. Hillard, "Scott's character shines with a moral grandeur far above mere literary fame." 222. CLXIV. From the poem Marmion.---Tantallon's towers: the ruins of Tantallon Castle occupy a high rock projecting into the German Ocean about two miles east of North Berwick, in the southeastern part of Scotland. 223.--DOUGLAS, ARCHIBALD, Earl of Angus, a man remarkable for strength of body and mind, who died broken-hearted at calamities which befell his house and country at Flooden. 224. CLXV. Pibroch, (pi'-brok). In Scotland, a Highland air played on the bagpipe before the Highlanders when they go out to battle.---Doneuil Dhu, (donnil du): MacDonald the Black. 230. CLXIX. Parrhasius, (par-ra'-zhius): Prometheus, (pro-me'-thuse): Caucasus, (caw'-ca'-sus): lame Lemnian: Vulcan, the artisan of the Olympian gods. 232. CLXX. MRS. FELICIA HEMANS, an admirable woman and sweet hostess, was born at Liverpool, England. September 25, 1793 and died May 16, 1835. Her maiden name was Browne. She was married to Captain Hemans an officer in the British Army, but the union was not a happy one. Her imagination was chivalrous and romantic, and she delighted in picturing the ancient martial glory of England. The purity of her mind is seen in all her works. Though popular, and in many respects excellent, her poetry is calculated to please the fancy rather than to make a deep and lasting impression. 232. CLXX. A true story. Young Casabianca, a boy thirteen years old, son of the commander of the Orient, remained at his post, in the battle of the Nile after the ship bad taken fire and all the guns had been abandoned, and was blown up with the vessel when the flames reached the magazine. 259. CLXXXVI. The Royal George, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a partial ca reening in Portsmouth Harbor, England, was overset about 10, A. M. August 29, 1782. The total loss was believed to be near 1000 souls. 263. CXC. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY was born in the county of Leicester, England, October 25, 1800, and died December, 28, 1859. He was educated at Cambridge University. He was several times elected member of Parliament and for several years he served the government in India as member of the Supreme Council. But his fame rests mainly on his literary productions, the principal of which is his History of England whose popularity has never been exceeded by any other historical work in the language. His essays, which have been collected and published in six volumes, are remarkable for brilliancy of style and richness of matter. As a descriptive poet he has ex-hibited high genius in his "Lays of Ancient Rome." His "Battle of Ivry" has the true trumpet-ring which kindles the soul and stirs the blood.--Ivry (ee'-vree): a town in France where Henry IV. gained a decisive victory over Mayenne, 1590.--oriflamme, (or'-e-flam): the ancient royal standard of France.---Mayenne, Duke: commander of the army of the League.---Remember Saint Bartholomew: the massacre on Saint Bartholomew's Eve, August 23, 1572. 265. CXCI. Bingen,(been'-ghen). 274. CXCVII. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, a man remarkable for his rich poetical imagination his unrivalled colloquial eloquence, and his superior critical powers was born in Devonshire, England, October 20, 1772, and died July 25, 1834. He was educated at Christ's Hospital, London, where he had Charles Lamb for a school-fellow, and at Jesus' College, Cambridge. He afterwards acquired a knowledge of the German language and literature at Ratzburg and Gottingen, In early life he was a Unitarian and a Jacobin, but he subsequently became a Trinitarian and a Royalist. Those who knew him thought him equal to any task; he planned great works in prose and verse which he never executed. His poetical works, of which his Ancient Mariner is the most striking and original, have been collected and published in three volumes. His language is often rich and musical, highly figurative and ornate. His Ode on France was considered by Shelley to be the finest English ode of modern times. His Hymn on Chamouni is equally lofty and brilliant. 274. CXCVII. Chamouni, (sha-moo'-ne): a valley in the Sardinian States, bounded on the south by Mont Blanc, the most remarkable for its picturesque sites and the wild grandeur of its glaciers.---Arve, (arve); a rapid river flowing into the Rhone. 277.--Hierarch, (hi'-e-rark ). 283. CCII. WILLIAM COLLINS, whose poems though small in number are rich in vivid imagery and beautiful description, was born in Chichester, England, December 25, 1720, and died in 1756. His odes are acknowledged to be the best of their kind in the language. His finest lyric is his Ode on the Passions, which has been called "a magnificent gallery of allegorical paintings." 287. CCIV. JOHN DRYDEN, one of the great masters of English verse, was born in Northamptonshire, England, August, 1631, and died May 1, 1700. His Life, by Johnson, is regarded as the most carefully written, the most eloquent and discriminating of all the "Lives of the Poets." His Life was also written by Sir Walter Scott, who edited a complete edition of his works, in eighteen volumes.--St. Cecilia: the patron-saint of music, and the reputed inventress of the organ. 298. CCX. THOMAS CAMPBELL was born at Glasgow, Scotland, July 27, 1777, and died at Boulogne, France, June 15, 1844. He was educated at the university of his native city, and afterwards studied Greek in Germany under the learned Processor Heyne. After travelling on the continent he took up his residence in London in 1803, and devoted himself to literature as a profession. In 1799, at the earlyage of twenty-two years, he published The Pleasures of Hope, a poem of great merit, which captivated all hearts by its exquisite melody, its polished diction and its generous and lofty sentiments. His second great poem, Gertrude of Wyoming, a Pennsylvania Tale, was published in 1809. His genius shines most conspicuously in his shorter poems, his war-songs or lyrics, and his ballads, which have been said to form the richest offering ever made by poetry at the shrine of patriotism. Mr. Hillard says of him,--"No poet of our times has contributed so much in proportion to the extent of his writings, to that stock of established quotations which pass from lip to lip, and from pen to pen, without any thought as to their origin." 303. CCXIV. This fine passage is from the Pleasures of Hope--pandours, (pan-dorz'), the o as in move; the metre of the line requires the accent on the first syllable: infantry soldiers in the service of Austria, from districts near Pandur, in Hungary.--hussars, (hooz'-zarz): light-armed Hungarian horse-soldiers. 304.--Kosciusko, (kos-ci-us'-ko): a Polish patriot and hero, who served on Washington's staff in the war of the Revolution. In the battle which decided the fate of Poland, in 1794, he fell from his horse covered with wounds, and was made prisoner by the enemy. He died in France, in 1817. 305. CCXV. Hohenlinden: (hohen, high; linden, lime-trees,) the name of a village in upper Bavaria, twenty miles east of Munich celebrated for the victory of the French and Bavarians, under Moreau, over the Austrians under Archduke John, December 3, 1800. This battle was witnessed by the poet Campbell from the monastery of St. Jacob. In a letter written at this time, He says: "The sight of Ingoldstadt in ruins, and Hohenlindcn covered with fire, seven miles in circumference, were spectacles never to be forgotten." He has immortalized that conflict in these inimitable stanzas which form one of the grandest battle-pieces that ever were drawn. 305. CCXV, Iser, (e'-zer): the name of a river in the vicinity of Holhenlinden.--Frank: the ancient name of the French.--Hun: a name applied to the barbarous people of Scythia who conquered and gave name to Hungary.--Munich, (mu'-nik). 314. CCXXIII. This is considered one of the best martial lyrics in the language. Its author, FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, was born at Gifford, in Conn., August, 1795. He has written but very little, but that little is of such excellence as to make us regret that he has not written more.--Marco Bozzaris, (bot-sah'-ris): the most famous hero of modern Greece, fell in a night attack on the Turkish camp at Lapsi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were:--"To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain." 315.--Old Platæa's Day: B. C. 479, when the Greeks, under Aristides and Pausanias, defeated the Persians with great slaughter. 317. CCXXIV. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE was born at New York August 7, 1795, and died September 21, 1820. The most popular of his poems is the spirited ode, The American Flag, though his fame rests chiefly on the Culprit Fay, a poem of exquisite fancy and artistic execution. 318. CCXVIII. Old Ironsides: the frigate Constitution. This poem was written when it was proposed to break her up and convert her into a receiving ship, as unfit for service. 321. CCXXVI. CHARLES WOLFE was born at Dublin, Ireland, December 14, 1791, and died February 21, 1823.---Sir John Moore a British general, was killed at Corunna, in Spain, in a battle between the French and English January 16, 1809. He was wrapped in his military cloak and buried by night in a hasty grave on the ramparts of the town. 335. CCXXXVI. From the last canto of Childe Harold. Compare this with the splendid prose poem by Dr. Swains page 396. 336.--Armada, (ar-mah'-da):a naval or military armament espacially applied to the fleet sent by Spain against England, 1588, which was dispersed and shattered by a storm.--Trafalgar, (traf-al-gar'): a cape on the coast of Spain, memorable for the great naval victory of the English under Nelson, who was killed in the action, over the French and Spanish fleets, October 21, 1805. 355. CCL. From a lecture on The Eloquence of Revolutionary Periods, delivered in Boston before the Mechanic Apprentices' Association, February 19, 1857. 356. CCLI. From the same as above. 357.--Mirabeau, (me'-rah-boe''): the greatest of French orators. Bema: a raised place in Athens whence the orators addressed assemblies of the people. 358. CCLII. From an oration delivered in Boston, July 5, 1858, before the Boston Democratic Club, his last address on general political interests. 360. CCLV. From a speech on Boston Common, in the autumn of 1861, on the occasion of presenting a flag to the 22d Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteers, commanded by Senator Wilson. 361. CCLVI. From a speech on Boston Common in 1861, at a grand rally of Union men to promote enlistments to put down the rebellion. 365. CCLVIII. From an oration delivered on the 4th of July, 1861, before the municipal authorities of Boston. 387. CCLXXIV. From an address delivered before the Norfolk County Agricultural Society, September, 1863. 388. CCLXXV. From an oration delivered at Roxbury, before the municipal authorities of the city, February 22, 1864. 391. CCLXXVI. From an address by Governor Andrew, to both branches of the legislature, at the opening of the session, January, 1863. 392. CCLXXVII. From an address before both branches of the Legislature, at the opening of the session, January, 1864. 393. CCLXXVIII. From a speech delivered in 1861 on the occasion of presenting a flag to the Second Regiment of Volunteers. 396. CCLXXX. From a discourse recently delivered by the author, in his own pulpit at Providence, on his return from a voyage to Europe. 404. CCLXXXVI. From the author's speeches in the memorable canvass with Douglas for the senatorship in Illinois. 406. CCLXXXVII. This extract and the succeeding one, are from the author's last great speech delivered at Springfield, Illinois, in 1861. 423. CCXCVIII. GEORGE THOMPSON, the great English agitator and anti-slavery leader delivered numerous addresses in different parts of England, during the summer of 1863, in defence of the American cause. This extract, from one delivered at Carlisle, England, was written out by the author, especially for this book. 433. CCCV. This extract and the two following were taken from an oration delivered July 4, 1863, before the municipal authorities of Boston. 440. CCCXI. From a eulogy on Webster, delivered in Boston, September 17, 1859, on the occasion of the inauguration of his statue, in front of the State House. 441. CCCXII. From an oration delivered at the Dedication of the Soldiers' National Cemetery at Gettysburg, November 19, 1863. 449. CCCXVII. From a speech delivered in Tremont Temple, Boston, 1862. 451. CCCXVIII. From a speech delivered in New Orleans, at a grand celebration, on the occasion of the election of a Union Governor. 455. CCCXXI. From a discourse delivered in Boston, before the Ancient and honorable Artillery Company, at their anniversary, June, 1861. 462. CCCXXVI. Suggested by the President's first call for volunteers, April 16, 1861. The fabulous bell Roland, of Ghent, was an object of great affection to the people because it rang them to arms when Liberty was in danger. 468 CCCXXIX. GAIL HAMILTON, the nom de plume of Miss Abigail Dodge, a popular authoress, who resides in the town of Hamilton Mass. 472. CCCXXXI. Ziska's hunted flock, (shish'-ka): the Hussites in Bohemia.--Toussaint L'Ouverture, the great St. Domingo chief, an unmixed. negro, with no drop of white blood in his veins, having been treacherously arrested by his French foe, he was taken to France, and then sent by Napoleon to the Castle of St. Joux, to a dungeon twelve feet by twenty, built wholly of stone, where he was finally left to starve to death. 478. CCCXXXV. On Saturday, the 7th of March, 1862, the United States sloopof-war Cumberland, commanded by Captain Morris, was sunk in Hampton Roads, by the Confederate iron-clad. Merrimac, her men firing a broadside as she went down, with her flag flying. 490. CCCXLIV. The subject of these stanzas was Ormsby McKnight Mitchell, a distinguished astronomer, and major-general of volunteers in the United States service, who was born in Kentucky, August 28, 1810, and died at Beaufort, S. C., October 30, 1862. He was commander of the department of the South, and was making preparations for a vigorous campaign when he fell a victim to the yellow fever. 493. CCCXLVI. This is one of the finest productions which the present crisis has called forth. General Banks, in his official report of the assault on the fortifications of Port Hudson, on May 27th, thus speaks of the negro troops: "On the extreme right of our line I posted the 1st and 2d regiments of negro troops. . . . . The position occupied by these troops was one of importance and called for the utmost steadiness and bravery in those to whom it was confided. It gives me pleasure to report that they answered every expectation. In many respects their conduct was heroic,--no troops could, be more determined or more daring. They made during the day, three charges upon the batteries of the enemy, suffering very heavy losses, and holding their positon at nightfall with the other troops on the right of our lines. The highest commendation is bestowed upon them by all the officers in command on the right." And thus the question which had been so often asked, Will the negroes fight? was answered, and settled, and ever since our brave white soldiers have been glad to "Hail them as comrades tried." 511. CCCLV. C. F. BROWN, the comic writer, known as Artemus Ward.