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WEBSTER'S RECITER;
GSi.
ELOCUTION MADE EASY.
PLAINLY SHOWING
The Proper Attitudes of the Figure
The Various Expressions of the Pace
AND
THE DIFFERENT INFLEXIONS AND
MODULATIONS OF THE VOICE
Clp^Fly Explained by JlunieFoas Engpavings
x> contaiuin|r choice selections of the most tlirilling, passionate
heroic and patriotic speeches and poems, with appro¬
priate instructions to enable tlie learner to fit
himselfjfor either the stage, the bar,
the forum or the pulpit.
By the flathop of "ttlebstep's Ppaetieal Itetter Ifti'itei'."
Published by
HENRY J. WEHMAN,
NEW YORK and CHICAGO.
Copyright, MDCCCLXX, by E. M. Db Witt,
AA A^A/
9'D?^,5
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Admired School Dialogues. Every way worthy of its
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PREFACE.
This volume is not intended for any particular class or section
of individuals. The aim has been to render it of use to all. The
unlearned, equally with the learned, we are satisfied, may glean
useful information from the great variety of topics most carefully
gathered to enhance the utility of this book. Innumerable as are
the number of publications devoted to the Art of Eloquence, they
nearly all fail of fully answering their intention by one of two
faults. Either they are so overlapped with abstruse and recondite
learning, as to be scarcely intelligible to the most profound pundit,
or they are so simple and childish as to be beneath the notice of the
least educated reader. In all our rules, illustrations and examples,
we have endeavored to make our reasons so obvious that even
" he that runs may read "—while we have at the same time sought
to arouse the pupil's reasoning and reflective powers, so that he
would feel that he was acting from intelligible motives.
The author desires that the pupil should fully understand, and
make every effort to convey to his listeners, every idea, emotion
and shade of thought expressed by the many Examples which we
have compiled for his instruction. These selections vary from the
deepest tragedy to the lightest comedy—
" From gvive to gay, from lively to severe."
4
tHEFACfi.
Each individual will find that the perusal and study of this book
though it may fail to render him a Demosthenes or a Cicero—will
yet so quicken and improve his natural gifts that his one talent
may be increased to ten; he will find his attitude more graceful;
his gestures more expressive, his voice more powerful, and his
whole physical powers improved. While giving appropriate utter¬
ance to the noble, sublime, beautiful and amiising lines of our
great writers will expand the mind and poUsh the manners.
The Acthob.
CONTENTS
OF
WEBSTER'S RECITER.
PAGE*
Introduction 9
Eloquence as an Art 12
On tbe Voice 17
On Stress 17
Modulation 19
Example of Modulation 19
Pauses 20
David and Goliath 20
On the Waves of the Voice 23
Murdered Traveller, The 24
On Force of Voice 27
Ode on the Passions 27
Quality of the Voice 30
Orotund, The 30
Tremor, The 30
Aspiration, The 30
Guttural, The 30
Falsetto, The 30
Whisper, The 31
Orotund Voice (Specimen) 31
Tremor, The (Specimen) 32
Aspiration, The (Specimen) 32
Guttural, The (Specimen) 33
Falsetto, The (Specimen). 33
Gestures.... 34
Feet and Lower Limbs 36
First Position of the Left Foot ' 39
Second Position of the Left Foot. 39
Errors to be avoided 39
#
6
CONTEKTS.
PAOB.
Adrancing and Betiring..** 39
Errors of Position ^
Head and Body 40
Errors to be avoided 40
Of the Countenance 40
Hand and Fingrers 42
Action of the Arm... 42
Prince Henry's Address to the Crown Shdke^tare. 43
Falls of Lodore Souihey. 44
Hotspur's Defence Shaketptart. 45
David's Lament over Absalom N. P. Willis, 47
Boy Archer Knowlts, 48
H amlet's Advice to the Players Shakespeare. 53
Chamois Hunter Charles Swain. 54
FalstafTs Boasting Shakespeare. 55
On to Freedom ....Duganne. 58
Satan's Address to the Sun Milton. 69
Mills of God Jhiganne. 63
Ghost Scene in Hamlet Shakespeare. 64
Our Heroes Shall Live H. W. Beecher. 67
Eatberine's Defence Shakespeare. 68
Make Way for Liberty Jhtganne. 69
From a Speech in the United States Senate Webster, 71
Seven Ages of Man Shakespeare. 77
Fretful Man Cowper. 78
American Union Webster. 79
Old Ironsides O. W. Holmes. 80
Plea for the Ox Duganne. 81
Battle of Ivry Macatday. 82
A Modest Wit 84
Laborer, The Wm. D. Gallagher, 87
Drafted ..Mrs. H. L. Bostwick. 88
Public Virtue Henry Clay. 90
Deserted Wife Percival. 91
Ked Jacket HaUeck. 92
Schoolmaster, The J. O. Whittier. 93
Watching Little Children 94
Language O.W.Holmes. 95
Parental Ode Thomas Hood. 96
On the Shores of Tennessee E. L. Beers. iOO
Retreat of the French Army from Moscow Croly. 102
Eruption of Mount Vesuvius Bulwer. 104
Newcastle Apothecary Geo. Coleman. 106
Shylock on the Rack Shakespeare. 108
Marco Bozzaris HaUeck. 112
Cumberland's Crew., 1X4
Sailor Boy's Dream Dimond. 116
There's but one Pair of Stockings to Mend To-night 117
OONi'ENTS.
pAoe.
Home Montgomery, 119
Golden Rules of David Copperlield Dickens, 120
OtbeUo*s Tale of his Wooing Shakespeare, 123
Burial of Sir John Moore 124
To the American Union Tapper, 125
Reply of Mr. Pitt to Horace Wal^ole 127
Two Weavers Hannah Moore, 128
Destiny of our Country B. C. Winthrop. 130
Wedded Lovers First Home James Hall. 131
Address to a Mummy Horace SmiiJi. 13^
No Submission 13|
Apostrophe To Night Young. 13i
American Patriot's Song. 130
Forging of the Anchor Samuel Ferguson, 137
Ship Driven out of its Course Falconer. ^39
Bingen on the Rhine Mrs. Norton. 140
Picture of Domestic Love Campheli, 142
Lucy Gray Wordsworth, 143
The Union Daniel Webster, 147
Death of the Flowers. W. V. Bryant, 148
My Mother's Bible. Morris. 149
Results of Misdirected and Guilty Ambition Adam Smith. 15C
Dyonisius, Pythias and Damon.... 151
Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog Byron. 153
Lion-Slayer 154
Fare Thee Well.. - Byron. 156
Green Mountain Boys W. C, Bryant. 160
Sword of Bunker Hill William Boss Wallace 161
Song of Marion's Men Bryant. 162
The Corsair Byron, 163
Address to Independence 164
The Wreck Byron. 165
Departure of Marmion Scott, 166
War Song of the Greeks Barry Cornwall. 168
Sorrow for the Dead Irving. 171
Valedictory Address to the Senate of the United States, 1842.Henry Clay, 172
Seminole's Reply G. W. Patten. 174
Hamlet's Soliloquy Shakespeare. 175
Extension of the American Union Webster. 176
To the West Gallagher, 178
Fallon Leaves Mrs. Norton. 183
Destruction of Sennacherib Byron. 184
Emir Hassan Bryant. 185
INDEX TO ILLDSTRATIONS.
PASS.
FIGURE I.—Geief 13
FIGURE II.—Dislike 25
FIGURE III.—Modesty 37
FIGURE IV.—Regret 49
FIGURE V.—Resolotios 61
FIGURE VI.—Admiration 73
FIGURE VII.—Caution 85
FIGURE VIII.—Adoration 97
FIGURE IX.—Disdain 109
FIGURE X.—Cursing 121
FIGURE XI.—Appeal. 133
FIGURE XII.—Hate 145
FIGURE XIII.—Patriotism 157
FIGURE XIV.—Courage 169
FIGURE XV.—Invocation 181
WEBSTER'S RECITER
INTEODUCTION.
A TONGUET man generally carries rocks in his pCcket, and
if this is not always the case, yet the converse is almost in¬
variably true: that the man who sits like an owl in com¬
pany, and looks unutterable things, but says nothing, goes
" with many a hungry belly," as our old friend John Bun-
yan expresses it.
However cleverly or wisely a man may think, nobody is
the better for his thoughts unless he lets them out. It is
also better, for their own sake, that they should take the
air; for the correct expression of one's ideas is an aid to
correct thinking. Rivers that run are clearer than stagnant
pools and sluggish streams.
Many a rustic, just emerged from the woods, has been
taken for a fool, or something near it, when he first came to
a seaport town, for the reason that he had never been ac¬
customed to converse except with his oxen, his horses, or
his sheep, and such terms as these can appreciate are not
well adapted to bipeds of the human stripe.
But, after the man has lived awhile in town, daily asso¬
ciating with his own species, he has brightened up, like a
scoured saucepan, and in many cases, has out-stripped those
who enjoyed every advantage of academies, colleges, and
polite acquaintances, from the start.
Talents which areefolded in a napkin and tucked away
16
tKTEODUCTIOK.
out of sight, remain unproductive to the end; and little
does a young man know what is in him till he overhauls bis
luggage and brings forth good things, new and old, from
the secret lockers in which Nature and observation have
stored them.
Try, as the spider did; and if you fail, try again and
again, and ninety-nine chances to a hundred, you will suc¬
ceed. Fortune is sometimes a coy damsel -who requires a
great deal of wooing ; but steady and obstinate perseverance,
as with the other members of her sex, will fetch her at ast.
Therefore, what we say unto one, we say unto all: " Go
in, and win !"
By means of speech, our thoughts are conveyed to each
other. One may judge how much he is indebted to this
fact for the knowledge that hie possesses, and even for many
of those views which he supposes to have cropped out from
his own individual brain, by comparing the man of society
with one who has been all his life isolated from his kind.
Unfortunate creatures of this description have occasion¬
ally been discovered; and they seemed to possess no more
intelligence than the beast of the field, without the instinct
which is given the latter for a guide.
A man standing in the midst of a spacious hall with one
candle in his hand, though it burn well, would seem almost
wholly enveloped in darkness; but when many persons
enter, each one bearing a lighted candle, then every man in
the room has the benefit of all the light, though his indi¬
vidual candle contributes but a small quota to the general
illumination.
The evidence is, therefore, overwhelming, that man was
intended by Nature as a creature of society, receiving and
conferring benefits by association. It is, then, no more than
fair that he should keep his own lamp trimmed and burn¬
ing,—that while each individual enjoys the benefits confer¬
red by the whole mass, he should also throw in his mite
towards the general good.
But, this is not all; by means of social converse, many
XNTRODUCTION.
n
pleasures are obtained, and to some, who are inspired by
the love of fame, distinction, celebrity, and world-wide
renown, are the guerdon of industry and persevering appli¬
cation. By none are these so readily attained as by the suc¬
cessful ORATOR. While the good convensationalist is the
charm of private society, and like the bachelor, " is welcome
wherever he goes," it is the more brilliant destiny of the
irator to move large assemblies, to stir the soul of immense
multitudes, and to exercise a gigantic influence over the
fortunes of his country and the momentous affairs that in¬
terest and excite the whole world.
In order to succeed as an orator, the noviciate should be
thoroughly penetrated with the dignity of his calling. A
buffoon or a Merry Andrew is one thing, an orator is an¬
other. The one amuses, the other instructs, elevates man¬
kind, and improves the public taste.
Although it is necessary that the audience should believe
in the sincerity of the orator, and that he truly believes all
that he utters, still if his delivery is bad, neither sincerity
nor good sentiments will atone for an awkward manner and
an nnpleasant voice
In reading, one is interested only in the ideas conveyed
by the writer, but in listening to a true orator, he is forcibly
impressed and often electrified from sympathy with the
effect which thpse ideas have upon the impassioned soul of
the speaker. By look, gesture, and tone of voice, the feel¬
ings of an animated orator are poured into the breasts of
his audience, when reason and argument alone would suc¬
ceed in obtaining no more than a tame assent to the pro¬
positions of the speaker.
On the other hand, the orator must not be ambitious to
shine as an actor: the two vocations are entirely different.
Very seldom is a public speaker warranted in personating
or mimicing those whom he would hold up to public scorn
or reprobation. The wish to succeed in that line is an
evidenoe of vulgar taste. It is pardonable only in the
12
eloquence as an abt.
actor, who possesses all the talent, the means, and appli¬
ances to sender his representations effective.
A paJ jaote P ~?'re to show off and to force applause, is of¬
fensive to a d&^r J iting audience, and that orator is most
certain of winning the esteem of his listeners, and securing
permanent renown, who so dazzles his audience by pouring
light upon his theme that they cannot see the man himself
ELOQUENCE AS AN ABT.
Let no one imagine that it is necessary to spring forth
from the hand of nature an orator ready made to order,
like a toad-stopl which comes to perfection between the
evening twilight and the dawn.
Orators don't grow in that way. Topsey is the only per¬
son within our remembrance who " growed "
The greatest orators of antiquity were the last persons in
the world who seemed fitted for their vocation by nature.
The greatest orator of all, whose name was Demosthenes,
had a weak voice, an impediment in his speech, and an un¬
gainly habit of shrugging up his shoulders. He used suit¬
able means for overcoming those defects, and then his
eloquence carried everything before it
The voice may be trained to adapt itself to the sentiment
uttered, whether it be indignation, scorn, contempt, g^ef,
pity, admiration, curiosity, fear, hope, or indifference.
Gestures at once suitable and elegant, chaste and yet for¬
cible, have also a powerful effect upon the audience, and
give much added force to the eloquence of thought and
language.
When the voice is weak, it should be strengthened by fre¬
quent practice, by exercising it in the open air, and upon
all convenient occasions.
The taste, and a knowledge of proper gestures, may be im¬
proved not only by hearing lectures on elocution, but also
1 yee Appendix.
BLOaUENCE AS AN AET.
15
by witnessing the exhibition of eloquence by great orators.
Finally, it will be necessary to practise speaking in order to
become an orator.
It is necessary not only to practise a little, but to practise
a great deal. In this way ease, grace, and fluency are ac¬
quired.
Although oratory is an art, it is not afiectation ; it is not
a resort to tricks for the purpose of convincing the hearer
against his better judgment; but, the mind of man is
wavering ; it is not easy to fasten his attention upon a dry
and uninteresting subject, and even a good subject becomes
wearisome if unaccompanied with adjuncts that draw the
attention to what the speaker says. We see this principle
carried out in the most ordinary concerns of life. When
the town crier goes forth to advertise a lost child, he does
not trust to the interest of his subject to draw attention to
his words, but he first rings a bell that the public ear may
be induced to listen to what is to follow. No one thinks of
charging the town crier with fraud or trickery because he
takes this mode of drawing the attention of such persons
as are within the sound of his voice.
Thus it is with the graces of oratory; they are intended
to rivet the attention of the audience upon the speaker, and
to set forth his views and his arguments in the most clear
and forcible manner.
The following extract from Fenelon, archbishop of Cam-
bray, sufficiently illustrates my meaning. I could not have
expressed the idea much better myself:
" I do not hesitate to declare, that I think Demosthenes
superior to Cicero. I am persuaded no one can admire
Cicero more than I do. He adorns whatever he attempts.
He does honor to language. He disposes of words in a
manner peculiar to himself. His style has great variety of
character. Whenever he pleases, he is even concise and
vehement; for instance, against Catiline, against Yerres,
against Anthony. But ornament is too visible in his writ¬
ings. His art is wonderful, but it is perceived. When the
16
fiLOQUElfCE AS Alf Afet.
orator is providing for the safety of the Eepublic, he forgets
not himself, nor permits others to forget him. Demos¬
thenes seems to escape from himself, and to see nothing but
his country. He seeks not elegance of expression; unsought
for, he possesses it. He is superior to admiration. He
makes use of language as a modest man does of dress, only
to cover him. He thunders, he lightens. He is a torrent
which carries everything before it. We cannot criticise,
because we are not ourselves. His subject enchains our at¬
tention, and makes us forget his language. We lose him
from our sight: Philip alone occupies our minds. I am de¬
lighted with' both these orators; but I confess that I am
less affected by the infinite art and magnificent eloquence
of Cicero, than by the rapid simplicity of Demosthenes."
The principles of this work, both as regards the voice and
gesture, are drawn from nature, and are thus no work of in¬
vention. As in physic, men, by seeing that some things
promote health and others destroy it, formed the art upon
those observations; in like manner by perceiving that some
things in discourse are said to advantage, and others not,
they marked those things, in order to imitate the one and
avoid the other; and such is believed to be the origin of all
the principles embraced in the successive chapters of this
work.
These principles, to be fully appropriated by the learner,
must be dwelt upon till they become perfectly familiar—
as familiar as the rules of English syntax to the English
scholar. Where habits either of voice or of gesture are to
be overcome, other habits must be substituted. Nothing
short of habits of correct speaking and of correct action
can meet all the demands of the speaker, as he stands up
to deliver his sentiments before multitudes of assembled
men. He has no time then to make the intonations of his
voice or the movements of his body a study. To secure the
formation of these habits, it is indispensable that the priur
ciples hereafter presented should be contemplated as strictly
practical, and be carried from the exercises of the book into
thfi Voice.—on stress. i1
the daily practice of reading and speaking. The success of
the ancient orators, as also of Fox, of Clay, and many of the
distinguished actors of modem times—proves, as we have
seen, the practicability of thus learning the art of speaking.
ON THE VOICE.
Nothing but practice will improve the voice. Without
continual exercise of the vocal powers, one can never be¬
come an orator.
A good articulation is a rare excellence even among those
who are called good speakers; and such is its value, that it
can even atone for many deficiencies. It is of great service
to the speaker, as it enables him to make himself heard any
where, without any great effort of the lungs, and also
secures to him the attention of his hearers. A good articu¬
lation can scarcely fail to secure attention. And to the
hearei-s also, it is a matter of much interest; since it enables
them distinctly to hear what is said, and that with an
agreeable satisfaction, instead of having to put forth a pain¬
ful effort.
It is necessary not only to strengthen the voice by fre¬
quently speaking or reading pieces aloud, but also to acquire
the habit of pronouncing every word in the sentence dis¬
tinctly, and with proper emphasis.
ON STEESS.
Every sound capable of prolongation, uttered without
excitement, and in a natural manner, commences full and
somewhat abrupt, and gradually decreases in fullness, till it
becomes a mere breathing. Though this movement of the
voice may be varied almost at pleasure, yet it has suggested
the designation of the Radical movement as applicable to
the first part of the soijud; while the last part—the gradual
18
on stress.
decrease and final termination of the sound—has been called
the Vanishing movement of the voice. And these designations
continue the same, on whatever part of the sound the prin¬
cipal force of the voice is laid. This force of voice, however,
is called stress ; and, when given at the opening of the
sound, is called Radical stress, because given on the radical
part of the vocal movement. The stress may be given so as
to fall on the middle of the movement, when it is called the
Median stress; or it may fall at the vanish, that is, at the
close of the sound, in which case it is called the Vanishing
stress. A command of the several functions here described,
is of the utmost importance to the speaker, since they each
have their peculiar significancy, and since, with a few ex¬
ceptions, some one of them must enter into the pronun¬
ciation of every syllable forcibly uttered.
The Vanishing movement begins with a full voice, and
gradually dies away till it becomes inaudible.
Let this exercise be continued till the learuer has acquired
perfect smoothness of voice, and the command of the equa¬
ble movement which decreases gradually till it dies away
in silence. When all the beauties of this vanishing move¬
ment are developed in execution, the ear is scarcely less de¬
lighted than in listening to the higher excellences of music.
This function of the voice should then be carefully culti¬
vated.
The Median stress commences low and swells to a loua
tone in the middle, dying away at the close.
The Vanishing stress is the exact opposite of the vanishing
movement or radical stress. Instead of beginning with a
full sound, the speaker begins low, and gradually becomes
louder till he reaches the end where he breaks suddenly off,
like running up a slope till you get to the top, where you
fall instantly down a precipice and are never heard of after¬
wards.
The Vanishing stress consists of a gradual increase in the
fullness of the sound from the radical to the extreme of the
vanish, which should exhibit a high degree of abruptness.
modulation.
19
MODULATION.
Modulation is the giving to each tone of the voice its
appropriate character and expression—so as to produce mel¬
ody to the ear.
According to the subject the time of modulation should be
regulated. Narration proceeds equally; the pathetic slowly ;
imtruetion, authoritatively; determination, with vigor ; and
passion with rapidity.
The voice is defined as capable of assuming three keys,
the low, the high, and middle, or conversational key, and
to acquire the power of ranging in these with varieties of
degrees of loudness, softness, stress, continuity, and rapid¬
ity, the following characteristics of varied modulation will
be found useful to the student:
examples.
Adoration, Admiration, Solemnity, Sublimity, are governed
by low, loud, slow tones.
Mournfulness, Despondency—by low, soft, tremulous tones.
Fear, without guilt—by low, soft, tremulous tones.
Fear, with guilt—very low, slow tones.
Deep emotion—low, quick, and broken tones.
Conversational voice—is light, and of moderate time.
Dignity—loud and slow tones.
Eaimestness—loud, middle tone.
Revenge—loud, aspirated.
Courage—high, loud, and slow.
Imitative modulation is a great power in the hands of a
skillful speaker or reader. It marks the reader's appre¬
ciation of the sense and beauty of a passage. In poetic
reading and recitation, this branch of elocutionary art is
especially desirable to attain.
Immensity, Sublimity—are expresses, by a prolongation
and swell of the voice.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roU,
Ten thousand Heets sweep over thee in vain.
20
MODULATION.
Motion and sound, in all their modifications, are, in de¬
scriptive reading, more or less imitated.
To glide, to drive, to swell, to flow, to skip, to whirl, to
turni to run, to rattle, etc., all partake of a peculiar modifi¬
cation of the voice, which expresses imitation.
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
PAUSES.
Pauses are of consequence to a correct rendering of sense.
They are of two kinds—first, emphatical pauses, and next,
such as mark distinctions of sense. An emphatical pause is
made after something has been said of peculiar meaning
but the most frequent use of pauses is, to mark the divisions
of sense, and to allow the speaker to draw breath.
The following dialogue, by Hannah More, between David
and Goliath, will prove a useful exercise to the learner.
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 :
DAVID AND GOLIATH.
Ooliath. Where is the mighty man of war, who dares
Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief 1
What victor-king, what general drenched in blood.
Claims this high privilege 1 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 reah^,
What heads of heroes, or what hearts of kings.
In battle killed, or at his altars slain.
Has he to boast 1 Is his bright armory
Thick set with spears, and swords, and coats of mail,
Of vanquished nations, by his single arm
Suhdued 1 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, advancol
PhUistia's gods to Israel's. Soimd, my herald,
Sound for the battle straight!
David. Behold thy foe.
Gol. I see him not.
MODULATION.
Dav. Behold him here.
Got. 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 I thou a nation's champion !
'Twould move my mirth at any other time ;
But trifling's out of tune. Begone, light boy t
And tempt me not too far.
Daw. 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, 1 dare meet the stoutest foe
That ever bathed his hostile spear in blood.
GU. Indeed! 'tis wondrous well I Now, by my gods!
The stripling plays the orator! Vain hoy!
Keep close to that same bloodless war of words.
And thou shalt still be safe. Tongue-valiant r arrior 1
Where is thy sylvan crook, with garlands himg.
Of idle field-flowers I Where thy wanton harp,
Thou dainty-fingered hero I
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-snuflSng vulture. Mark me well.
Around my spear I'll twist thy shining locks.
And toss in air thy bead all gashed with wounds.
Dav. Ha, say'st thou so 1 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 uncircun|Cised tribes confess
22
MODULATION.
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 Elab ; 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!
Ool. Follow me.
In this good spear I trust.
Dm. 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 occa¬
sionally 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 his second speech, Goliath partly stoops, half shuts his
eyes like a person endeavoring to discern some diminutive
object, and, after looking intently a short time, suddenly
straightens himself up to his full height, and says arro¬
gantly : " 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, col¬
lected, 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.
OK THE -KAVBS OF THE TOIOE.
23
ON THE WAVES OF THE VOICE.
The rising and the falling of the Voice often take "place
in the pronunciation of one long syllable. These variations
of the voice are called waves, and are either equal or un¬
equal. The parts of which it consists are called constit¬
uents.
Whether equal or unequal, the waves may consist of two,
three, or more constituents. The wave may commence with
either an ascending or descending slide. If with an upward
movement, it is called the Direct wave ; if with a downward
movement, the Inverted wave.
The equal wave of the semi-tone cannot be represented
in any way to the eye. If on any long syllable, the learner
will essay to express tender or sympathetic emotions, he will
surely convey the direct or the inverted wave of the median
tone. These tones exquisitely serve to enrich and melodize
the voice.
To aid the learner in acquiring the command of the vocal
movement called the Wave, the following illustrations are
given, the substance of which is found in the Orammar of
Elocution :
" Pity the sorrows of a poor old man."
If long quantity and a plaintive tone be given to the
words '' poor " and " old," in the foregoing example, tliey
will exhibit the direct wave of the semitone ; and if the word
"man " receive a plaintive expression and extended quan¬
tity, and the voice be made to rise on the second part of the
wave, it will show the inverted wave of the semitone.
" Hail! holy light."
If the word " hail" is uttered with long quantity, with a
preceptible downward ending, and without any emphatic
stress, it will show the direct equal wave of the second.
The student will find it to his advantage to practice on
the following lines : «
oil THE WAVES OF TEE VOlCE.
THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.
WILLIAM CULLES BBTANT.
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.
1^0. 2.—See Appendix,
OK fOROE Of yOIOB.
27
ON FOECE OF VOICE.
By force of voice, we mean its strength or power, as the
lion has more force of voice than the dog. The organ or
the bugle has more force than the flute. Great force of
voice is not always needed ; but to the speaker it is some¬
times of infinite importance, while it cannot interfere with
any other vocal function
As an exercise to the voice in its louder or more impas¬
sioned tones, we recommend Collins' Ode on the Passions ;
ODE ON 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;
Exalting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the muse's painting.
By turns, they "felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis 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 rushed, his eyes on fire.
In lightnings owned his secet stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre.
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures, wan Despair—
Low sullen sounds !—^his grief beguiled :
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by by starts 'twas wild.
olT FORCE OF VOICE.
But thou, 0 Hope ! with eyes so fair.
What was thy delighted measure t
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 her song:
And where her sweetest theme 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—hut, with a frown.
Revenge impatient rose.
He threw his 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 wo ;
And, ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat:
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between.
Dejected Pity at his side
Her soul-subduing voice applied.
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, [his head.
While each strained ball of sight—seemed bursting from
Thy numbers. Jealousy, to naught were fixed;
Sad proof of thy distressful state !
Of difiering 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, oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue.
Her bow across her shoulder filing.
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew.
Blew an Inspiring air that dale and thicket rung.
The hunter's call, t^ Faun, and Dryad known.
6lJ FORCE OF VOICfi.
The oak-crowned Sisters, and the 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 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 Tempo's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal-sounding shades.
To some unwearied minstrel dancing:
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings.
Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic roimd, -
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.
0, Music, sphere-descended maid.
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid.
Why, goddess, why, to us denied,
Layest thou thy ancient lyre aside t
As in that loved Athenian bower
You learned in all-commanding power,
Thy|raimic soul, 0 nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart.
Devote to 'Virtue, Fancy, Art t
Arise, as in the elder time.
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age
Fill thy recording sister's page—
'Tis said, and I believe the tale.
Thy humblest reed could more prevail.
Had more of strength, diviner rage.
Than all which charms this laggard age,
Even all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound—
Oh, bid our vain endeavors cease.
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state;
Confirm the tales her sons relate!
30
thk aUALITY of the voice.
THE QUALITY OF THE VOICE.
The voice is known as being sometimes rough, smooth,
harsh, soft, full, slender, musical, shrill, nasal, etc. The
quality of the voice is improved by the exercise and prac¬
tice which are recommended in the preceding sections. We
will examine the quality of the voice under the following
heads: The Orotund, the Tremor, the Aspiration, the Guttu¬
ral, the Falsetto, and the Whisper.
the orotund.
This quality, although sometimes natural, is more fre¬
quently acquired. It is the most pleasing and musical
sound. It enables the speaker to enunciate distinctly. It
is the most powerful tone. It is more readily modulated—
easier to expand or diminish. It is the quality most suitable
for the stately, swelling sentences of Milton, of Dryden, or
of Young. There is nothing in it« practice calculated to
injure the voice for any or all other expressions.
the tremor,
As its title indicates, has the qualities which distinguish
laughter or crying. It should be rarely used—but is easily
acquired by attentively studying from nature.
'j he aspiration.
The pronunciation of the letter h instructs in the meaning
of this division of our subject. It is mostly used in sup¬
pressed passion and whispering.
the guttural.
This quality, as its name imports, is uttered from the
throat. Seldom, only, should it be employed. But if judi¬
ciously used it is highly effective It is most properly used
to convey an expression of scorn, detestation, or contempt.
the falsetto.
This is sometimes called a " head " voice in contradis¬
tinction to the guttural. It may be cultivated and attained
THE QUALITY OF THE VOICE.
31
by practice. It is useful to simulate the whinings of peev¬
ishness, or tbe scream of baffled rage or abject hopeless
terror.
THE WHISPER.
The word illustrates itself. It is, if carefully used, emi¬
nently effective. Both Kean and Forrest have made it more
tdling than the loudest exclamations in many deep tragic
passages.
For practice on these several qualities of voice, we sub¬
join the following extracts:
THE OROTUND VOICE.
Cm\ The fires i' the lowest hell fold in the people!
Call me their traitor !—thou Injurious tribune!
Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths.
In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in
Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say.
Thou liest, unto thee, with a voice as free
As I do pray the gods.
Cor. You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate
As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize
As the dead carcasses of unburled men
That do corrupt my air, 1 banish you;
And here remain with your uncertainty !
Let every feeble rumor shate your hearts !
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes.
Fan you into despair ! Have the power still
To banish your defenders ; till, at length.
Your ignorance (which finds not, till it feels).
Making not reservation of yourselves
(Still your t wn foes), deliver you, as most
Abated captives, to some nation
That won you without blows I Despising
For you, tbe city, thus I turn my back:
There is a world elsewhere.
The above speeches of Coriolanus should be delivered in
the highest tone of voice, with every expression of fury, and
perfect recklessness of the consequences to himself. The
head should be erect, the gestures few but vehement, and
the eyes directed at thti audience, darting fire.
32
THE QUALITY OF THE VOICE.
THE TKEMOR.
0th. That is a fault:
That handkerchief
Did an Egyptian to my mother give :
She was a charmer, and could almost read
The thoughts of people; she told her, while she kept ii,
'Twould make her amiable, and subdue my father
Entirely to her love; but if she lost it,
Or made a gift of it, my father's eye
Should hold her loathly, and his spirits should Lunt
After new fancies: She, dying, gave it me:
And bade me, when my fate would have me wive,
To give it her. I did so : and take heed of't.
Make it a darling like your precious eye;
To lose or give't away, were such perdition.
As nothing else could match.
Des. Is it possible 1
0th. 'Tis true; there's magic in the web of it;
A sibyl, that had numbered in the world
The sun to make two hundred compasses.
In her prophetic fury sew'd the work ;
The worms were hallowed, that did breed the silk;
And it was dyed in laummy, which the skiUful
Conserved of maiden's hearts.
Des. Indeed! is't true 1
0th. Most veritable ; therefore look to't well.
Des. Then would to heaven, that 1 had never seen it.
In the above extract, Othello endeavors to inspire the sus¬
pected Desdemona with superstitious dread. Speaking iu
a suppressed, yet earnest voice, he combines the tremm' with
the asinration, as if fearful that the supernatural powers
would overhear him and inflict sudden vengeance on them
both for losing the enchanted handkerchief.
THE ASPIRATION.
Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen,
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch.
In the dead waist and middle of the night,
Been thus encountered. A figure like your father.
Armed at point, exactly, cap-a-pie.
Appears before them, and, with a solemn march
Goes slow and stately by thena: thrice he walked,
By their oppressed and fear-siirprised eyes.
Within his truncheon's length; whilst they, distilled
THE QUALITY OF THE TOICE. 33
Almost to jelly with the act of fear,
Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me
In dreadful secrecy impart they did ;
And I with them, the third night kept the watch:
Where, as they had delivered, both in time.
Form of the thing, each word made true and good,
The apparition comes : I knew your father;
These hands are not more like.
In thus speaking of the apparition, Horatio looks cau¬
tiously around him as if in momentary expectation of seeing
the ghost of Hamlet start out from the gloom and confront
them again.
THE GUTTURAL.
0th. Had it pleased Heaven
To try me with affliction ; had he rain'd
All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head;
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips ;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience : but (alas!) to make me
A fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at—
0! 0!
Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there, where I have garner'd up my heart;
Where either I must live or bear no life ;
The fountain, from the which my current runs.
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence !
Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads
To knot and gender in !—turn thy complexion there
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubim;
Ay, there, look grim as hell!
Ill the latter part and conclusion of this speech, the voice
sinks into the throat, and affords a fair specimen of the gutj>
tural.
THE FALSETTO.
Bra. 0 thou foul thief, where hast thou stow'd my
daughter !
Damn'd as thou art, thou hast enchanted her:
For I'll refer me to all things of sense,
If she in chains of magic were not bound.
Whether a maid—so tender, fair, and happy;
So opposite to mfirriage, that she shunn'd
34
'■gestures.
The wealthy curled darlings of our nation,
Would ever have, to incur a general mock,
Kun from her guardage to the sooty bosom
Of such a thing as thou : to fear, not to delight,
Judge me the world, if 'tis not gross in sense,
That thou hast practised on her with foul charms:
Abused her delicate youth with drugs or minerals,
That weaken'd motion : — I'll have it disputed on;
'Tis probable, and pal[)able to thinking.
I therefore apprehend and do attach thee.
For an abuser of the world, a practiser
Of arts inhibited and out of warrant:—
Lay hold upon him, if he do resist.
Subdue him at his peril.
In the above, the voice of the wrathful old man, Braban-
tio, breaks into a shrill tone between a shriek and a squeak,
and affords an example of the Falsetto.
We conclude this chapter with another example of the
Falsetto from King Lear : "
Lear. It may be so, my lord—Hear, nature, hear;
Dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if
Thou didst intend to make this creature fruitful!
Into her womb convey sterility !
Dry up in her the organs of increase :
And from her derogate body never spring
A babe to honor her ! If she must teem.
Create her child of spleen; that it may live,
nd be a thwart disnatured torment to her!
et it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth:
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Tui-ri all her mother's pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt; that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child!—Away, away!
GESTURES.
It is natural in speaking to make some motion with the
hands and arms, and that the countenance should express
our feelings. Some nations who are less cold and phleg-
naatic than ourselves, make a great deal of motion. They
are, in every way, more demonstrative. Therefore, oratory
OESTURES.
35
flourishes better among the French and other continental
nations than it does with the English and Americans. We
must endeavor to correct this fault, if we would excel in
elocution; we must exhibit more life.
A curious example of the necessity of gestures took place
in New York, at a genteel boarding house.
The host was a man of very calm exterior on all occasions.
One day the house caught fire. The host saw the flames
bursting out the rear windows. He entered the sitting
room where the boarders were congregated, and, slowly
rubbing one hand over the other, as was his usual custom
when speaking, he made the remark that the house was on
fire.
" Here's a chair, Mr. H ; take a seat," said one of the
gentlemen, politely making room for him.
" The house is on fire," repeated Mr. H without mov¬
ing a muscle of his countenance, or stirring a limb, except
to rub his hands slowly together.
" Yes, rather cool to-day—come to the fire," said one of
the boarders, supposing that the host w^ making some
remark about the weather.
" The house is on fire," answered Mr. H , in the same
tone.
This was repeated five or six times before the boarders
got at his meaning, because it was incredible, that a man
would stand like a 'post in the middle of the floor, and
speak in his usual tone of voice, without the least change
of countenance, while his house was burning over his head.
Mr. H spoke plain English ; but, as neither his voice,
looks, nor gestures were suitable to his words, it took a con¬
siderable time to get at his meaning.
The primary, or involuntary stage of Gesture corresponds
with the tones of the voice. It links itself by expressive
symbols with the passions of the mind; such as the move¬
ment of the facial muscles, the changing of color, and ges¬
ticulations extending over the entire frame. Its secondary,
or involuntary stage, induces various movements controlla-
38
OESTtTRES.
ble by the will. Sticb movements are influenced by example,
and may become awkward, or otherwise, according to the
model selected. We are creatures of imitation; hence the
necessity of choosing graceful models. Pleasing gestures
are as essential to the orator, as dexterity to the fencer;
the latter appeals but to the eye, the former adds force to
words which should carry conviction to the mind. Oratory,
even the most finished, without appropriate gesture, loses
half its charm. We are to develop our natural powers by
careful cultivation. To this end the learner should study
carefully, and put into practice, the instructions following
for the management of the feet and legs, the head and
body, the eyes and countenance, the hand and arm, all of
which play an important part in the gestures of an orator.
THE FEET AND LOWER LIMBS.
Grace and dignity depend much on the position of the
feet and lower limbs. Ease and elegance are combined
by the weight of the body being supported on one leg, the
other being left to preserve the balance, and move freely.
This is the position observable in the best executed statues
of antiquity. The foot supporting the body is firmly plant¬
ed, the body is so erect that a perpendicular passing through
the centre of the neck cuts the heel. There are four suitable
positions. The conditions of all are :
Firstly. The feet are to be three or four inches apart.
Secondly. The toes of each foot should be slightly turned
out.
Thirdly. The feet should be so placed that lines passing
lengthwise through them, shall cross under the heel of the
foot least advanced.
FIRST POSITION OF THE RIGHT FOOT.
The right foot is firmly planted, supporting the weight of
the body. The left, nearly at right angles with it, rests on
the ball of the great toe.
SECOND POSITI N OF THE BIGHT FOOT.
The right is advanced, the weight of the body being on
the left.
No. S.'-See Appendix.
GESTURES.
39
FIRST POSITION OF THE LEFT FOOT.
Similar to first position of right foot.
SECOND POSITION OF THE LEFT FOOT.
Corresponds to second position of right foot.
These are the most natural positions which an orator^
who aims at effect, can assume. The learner will do well to
perfect himself in them, so that without effort, or affecta¬
tion, he will seem to fall into them as easily as he gives ut¬
terance to his words. '
ERRORS TO BE ATOIDED.
Do not support the weight of the body on both feet
equally. When so supported it is not easy to change the
position.
Do not throw the weight of the body on the ball of the
foot. It should rest on the heel.
Do not place the feet too close. By so doing the position
is rendered less firm.
Do not separate the feet too much. If so separated an
awkward, swaggering position results.
Do not point the toes forward in a straight line.
Do not bend the leg supporting the body, or do not keep
the free one straight and stiff.
The changes of position admissible are
ADVANCING AND RETIRING.
First. The speaker must advance or retire by a step of
moderate length.
Secondly. The change must commence with the free foot.
Thirdly. The outward direction of the toes must be pre¬
served during the changes.
Fourthly. The following order in changing is to be ob¬
served :
The advance from first position of either foot is made by
passing into first position of opposite foot; the advance
from second position is made by passing into first position
of ^ame foot*
40
GESTURES.
Betiring from first position of either foot is only passing
into second position of same foot; retiring from second po¬
sition is passing into second position of opposite foot.
ERRORS OF POSITION.
Moving to the right or left in a straight line.
Making the step too long or too short.
Attempting to change position by moving the foot sup¬
porting the body.
Advancing with the toes pointing straight forward.
THE HEAD AND BODY.
Though the orator resorts not to the tricks of the stage
for the management of the head and body, yet there are
actions suitable to both, which he will be wise to study.
The head should be erect, but not stiff. The body should be
upright, with the face and breast turned towards the audi¬
ence ; the shoulders not shrugged up. There should be a
corresponding movement between the body and the motions
of the arm.
ERRORS TO BE AVOIDED.
Do not keep the body in a stiff position. It should be
held in an easy attitude, ready at a moment's notice to fol¬
low the motion of the arm.
Do not hold up or draw back the head too much. Such
positions indicate pride or carelessness.
- Do not incline the head towards the shoulder.
Do not move the head unless in unison with the arm.
Do not turn your side towards the audience.
Do not bend the hody forward too much.
Do not swagger, or incline from side to side.
Do not shrug the shoulders.
This last is a fault that cannot be too much condemned.
OF THE COUNTENANCE.
The index on the dial plate shows not more plainly the
hour, than does the eye the thought passing in the mind.
This may be affirmed of the countenance in general, as of
GESTURES.
41
the eye in particular. One well versed in the expression of
the face says, " When any passion is called into action, such
passion is depicted by the motion of the muscles, and these
motions are accompanied by a strong palpitation of the
heart. If the countenance be tranquil, it always denotes
tranquillity in the region of the breast and of the heart."
Again, " Hence, it appears that the orator who would move
ottters must appear to be moved himself; that is, he must
express his emotions in his countenance and by his manner ;
otherwise his language will be contradicted by his looks, and
his audience! will be more inclined to believe them, which
are the natural and sure indications of the inward mind,
than his words which may easily be feigned and may differ
much from his real sentiments."
None will deny that the eye speaks more truly than the
tongue ; that the forehead denotes calmness, or trouble ; the
lowering brow, indignation; the tell-tale cheek, shame or
fear ; and the expressive lip, scorn.
It has been well observed that, " The parts of the human
face the most movable and the most expressive, are the
inner extremities of the eye-brow, and the angle of the
mouth, and these are precisely the parts of the face which
in brutes have the least expression; for the brutes have
.0 eye-brows, and no power of elevating or depressing the
angle of the mouth. It is in these features therefore that
we should expect to find the muscles of expression peculiar
to man." Having thus shown all that the eyes and coun¬
tenance are capable of, it remains but to guard against the
following faults:—Staring, or fixing the eyes upon vacancy ;
or upon an individual; or foolishly turning them down.
Weeping, unless upon occasions worthy of tears. If the
speaker really feels the loss of some dear friend, or mourns
some public calamity, 'twill be next to impossible to refrain
from tears. He will melt into tears, and cause his audience,
out of pure sympathy, to mingle theirs with his. They
will "weep with those that weep." Well the ancient ora¬
tors understood the use* of tears. The world-renowned
42
dESTtTRSS.
John Bright, when addressing an immense audience upon
the merits of his deceased friend and fellow-laborer,
Richard Cobden, gave vent to his pent-up feelings in a
shower of tears. Not one in the immense crowd but was
moved with this tribute of affection from the brave and
fearless champion of liberty throughout the world.
Enough has been said of the tears of sympathy. It re¬
mains but to warn the young aspirant against those of
hypocrisy.
Frowning, staring, smiling unmeaningly, pushing out, or
biting the lips, are faults the orator must avoid.
THE HAND AND FINGERS
Play a very important part in Gesture Indeed many
wants and thoughts can be expressed more forcibly by their
aid than by words. We denote grief by placing the hand
over the eyes. Truth, or emotion is expressed by placing
the hand on the breast. Reflection by placing the finger
on the chin. Silence is expressed by putting the fore-finger
on the lips. Such gestures are to be used sparingly, and
appropriately ; always bearing in mind that the action is to
be suited to the word. Bear also in mind that every motion
of the arm is to be made gracefully, without effoi*t, or jerk¬
ing about. The following faults need but to be noticed to
be avoided:
Cleaving the air with the hand, or forming it into a
scoop; nervous twitchings of the fingers, or crossing them;
clasping the hands, or placing the palm of one on that of
the other. These, with similar childish gestures, cannot be
too strongly condemned.
ACTION OF THE ARM.
The appropriate action of the arm is one of the most im¬
portant aids to oratory. The following hints will be found
most useful:—In all actions of the arm the speaker is to
aim at freedom ; that is, an entire absence of stiffness, or
angularity. Every movement .should seem to come from
the shoulder; the elbow should not originate such move¬
ment.
EXAMPLES.
PRINCE HENRY'S ADDRESS TO THE CROWN.
SHAKESPEARE.
This piece affords a fine example of mingled dignity and
pathos.
No ; I will sit and watch here by the king.
Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,
Being so troublesome a bedfellow 1
0 polish'd perturbation ! golden cafe !
That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide
To many a watchful night!—sleep with it now!
Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet,
As he, whose brow, with homely biggin bound,
Snores out the watch of night. 0 majesty !
When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
Like a rich aiinor, woni in heat of day.
That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath
There lies a downy feather, which stirs not:
Did he suspire, that light and weightless down
Perforce must move.—My gracious lord! my father!
This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep.
That from this golden rigol hath divorced
So many English kings. Thy due, from me,
Is tears, and heavy sorrows of the blood;
Which nature, love, and filial tenderness.
Shall, 0 dear father, pay thee plenteously :
My due, from thee, is this imperial crown;
Which, as immediate from thy place and blood.
Derives itself to me» Lo, here it sits—
43
44
THE FALLS OF LODURE.
Which Heaven shall guard: And put the world's
whole strength
Into one giant arm, it shall not force
This lineal honor from me : This from thee
Will I to mine leave, as 'tis left to me.
THE FALLS OF LODORE.
SOUTHBT.
A matchless exercise for gaining, by practice, a perfect
control of the voice, so as to enunciate rapidly and distinctly.
It is full of varied expression, which the sense will indicate:
How does the water come down at Lodore 1
Here it comes sparkling.
And there it lies darkling;
Here smoking and frothing.
Its tumult and wrath in.
It hastens along, conflicting and strong;
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging.
Its caverns and rocks among.
Rising and leaping,
Binking and creeping, -
Swelling and flinging.
Showering and springing.
Eddying and whisking.
Spouting and frisking;
Turning and twisting;
Around and around.
Collecting, disjecting.
With endless rebound.
Smiting and fighting.
In turmoil delighting.
Confounding, astounding,
I>izz5ring and deafening the ear with its sound.
Receding and speeding.
And shocking and rocking.
And darting and parting.
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing.
And dripping and skipping.
And hitting and spitting
And shining and twining,
hotspur's defence.
45
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring.
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing.
And running and stunning.
And hurrying and skurr3dng,
And glittering and frittering.
And gathering and feathering.
And dinning and spinning.
And foaming and roaming.
And hopping and dropping.
And working and jerking.
And gurggling and struggling.
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering.
And falling and brawling, and sprawling.
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and crinkling and twinkling.
And sounding and hounding and rounding.
And bubbling and troubling and doubling;
Dividing and gliding and sliding.
Grumbling and rumbling and tumbling.
Clattering and battering and shattering,
And gleaming and streaming and skimming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing.
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping.
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling;
Retreating and meeting and beating and sheeting.
Delaying and straying and spraying and playing,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing.
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling ;
And thumping and bumping and flumping and jumping.
And thrashing and clashing and flashing and splashing;
And so never ending.
But always descending.
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending.
All at once and all o'er.
With a mighty uproar;—
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
HOTSPUR^S DEFENCE.
Nothing in our language is finer for fiery declamation
wid bitter irony than^the gallant Percy's Defence of his
46
hotspur's defence.
conduct, before his sovereign. is simply magnificent, and
has been a favorite with the greatest actors that ever graced
the boards:
My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But, 1 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 dress'd.
Fresh as a bridegroom : and his chin new reap'd,
Show'd 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 ;
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there.
Took it in snuflf;—and still he smil'd and talk'd:
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 holyday and lady terms
He question'd me ; among the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answer'd 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 tiling on earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villainous saltpetre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tail fellow had destroyed
So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns.
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald, disjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answer'd indirectly, as I said;
And 1 beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation.
Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
david's lameut over absalom.
47
DAVID'S LAMENT OVERJABSALOM.
n. p. vilbis.
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 t/iee 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 1 wont to feel ray pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee.
And hear thy sweet ' wy 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!''
46
THE BOY AECHEK.
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.
SHEKIOAN 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 de¬
livered :
SCENE.—Exterior of Tell's cottage. Enter Albert (Tell's ton)
with bow and arrows, and Verker.
Verner. Ah! Albert! What have you there 1
Albert. My bow and arrows, Vemer.
Ver. When will you use them like your father, boy 1
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 mo
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 1
No. 4.—See Appendix.
THE BOY ARCHER.
51
Vbr. Oh, fy ! it wants a hand. [Exit Vbrner.
Aih. A hand's
An inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it.
Mliile Albert continues to shoot. Tell etUers and watches him some
time, in si/enee.
Tell. That's scarce a miss that comes so near the mark ?
WeH aimed, young archer! With what ease he bends
The bow. To see those sinews, who'd believe
Such strength did lodge in them 1 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 t
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 I
See well the mark. Kivet your eye to it
There let it stick, fast as the arrow would.
Could you but send it there. (Albert slwots)]
You've missed again I 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 I '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 I
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.
THE BOY ARCHER.
Tdl. Well said, my boy ! Knelt you when you got up
To-day ?
Alh. I did; and do so every day.
Tell. I know you do ! And think you, when you kneel,
To whom you kneel 1
Alh. To Him who made me, father.
Tell. And in whose name 1
AW. The name of Him who died
For me and all men, that all men and 1
Should live
Tell. That's right. Eemember 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 stafif.
Don't keep me waiting. [HtU Albert
Tell paces the stage in thought. He-enter Albert.
AW. 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 1 Carest thou for
The mountain mist that settles on the peak,
AVhen thou art upon it 1 Dost thou tremble at
The torrent roaring from the deep ravine.
Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie I
Or faintest thou at the thunder-clap, when on
The hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud.
And it doth hurst around thee I 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 he there than I.
Tell. Heaven speeding thee.
Alh. Heaven speeding me.
Tell. Show me thy staflT. Art sure
hamlet's advice to the players.
53
Of the point 1 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 «iow !
'Tis well there is a moon to-night.
You're sure of the track 1
^16. Quite sure.
Tell. The buskin of
That leg's untied; stoop down and fasten it.
You know the point where you must round the cliflf?
.did. 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.
HAMLET'S ADVICE TO THE PLAYERS.
shakespeare.
This lecture can never be too often read, or too deeply
pondered over, by all who aim at distinction either in the
pulpit, the forum or on the stage. In a nutshell it contains
nearly all the golden rules of oratory :
Enter Hamlet, and ee^-tainplayers.
Smn. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you,
trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your
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. 0, 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
iuch a fellow whipped for o'er-doing Termagant; it out-herods
Herod: pray you, avoid it.
First Play. I warrant your honor.
Ham. 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'er-step not the modesty of
nature: for anything so overdone is trom the purpose of playing,
whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twero,
the mirror up to nature^ to show virtue her own feature, scorn her
54
THE CHAMOIS HUNTER.
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 unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the
censure of which one, must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole
theatre of others. 0, 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.
First Play. I hope, we have reformed that indifferently with us.
Ham. 0, reform it altogether. And let tho.se, that play your
clowns, speak no more than is set down for them : for there be of
them, that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren
spectators to laugh too ; though, in the mean time, some necessary
question of the play be then to be considered; that's villainous;
and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. do, make
you ready. [Exeunt players.
THE CHAMOIS HUNTER.
CHARLES SWAIH.
This piece gives an opportunity for using a full, fine, round
bugle-like tone, and should be delivered with a swelling
chest, a glowing cheek, and a sparkling eye. Meanwhile
the action should be free and dashing :
Away to the Alps !
For the hunters are there,
To rouse the chamois
In his rock-vaulted lair.
From valley to mountain
See !—swiftly they go—
As the ball from the rifle—
The shaft from the bow.
Nor chasms, nor glaciers.
Their firmness dismay;
Undaunted, they leap
Like young leopards at play;
And the dash of the torrent
Sounds welcome and dear,
As the voice of a friend
To the wanderer's ear.
tALSTAFP's BOASTINU.
55
They reck not the music
Of hound or of horn,
The neigh of the courser,
The gladness of morn.
The blasts of the tempest
Their dark sinews brace;
And the wilder the danger.
The sweeter the chase.
With spirits as strong
As their footsteps are light,
On—onward they speed,
In the joy of their might:
Till eve gathers round them.
And silent and deep—
The bleak snow their pillow—
The wild hunters sleep.
FALSTAFF S BOASIING.
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 h«
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. Hen. What's the matter 1
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 t where is it!
Fal. Where is it 1 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 buck¬
ler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw eece
siynuin. I never dealt better since I was a man : all would not do.
A plague of all coward|!—Let them speak: if they speak more or
less than truth, they are villains, and Uie sons of darkness.
36
FALSTAFF'S BOASTIHa.
p. Hen. speak, sirs: how was it ?
Gads. We four set upon some dozen,
Pal. Sixteen, at least, my lord.
Gads. And bound them.
Peto. No, no, they were not bound.
Pal. You rogue, they were boimd, 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.
Pal. And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.
P. Hen. What, fought ye with them all 1
Pal. 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.
Pal. 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 1 thou said'st but two, even now.
Pal. Four, Hal; 1 told thee four.
Poins. Ay, ay, he said four.
Pal. 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 1 why, there were but four, even now.
Pal. In buckram.
Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits.
Pal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.
P. Hen. Pr'ythee, let him alone ; we shall have more anon.
Pal. Dost thou hear me, Hal ?
P. Hen. Ay, and mark thee too. Jack.
Pal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. The nine in buckram
that I told thee of,
P. Hen. So, two more already.
Pal. Their points being broken,
Poins. Down fell their hose.
Pal. 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. 0 monstrous I eleven buckram men grown out of two !
Pal. 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,
falstaff's boasting.
57
Fal. What, art thou mad 1 art thou mad ■? is not the truth, the
truth 7
F. Hen. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green,
when It was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand 1 come, tell us
thy reason; what sayest thou to this ?
Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.
Fai. What, upon compulsion't 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-flsli,—0, for breath to utter what is like
thee!—you tailor's yard, you sheathe, you bow-case, yoti 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, Falstafi", you carried your
guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for
mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I beard bull-calf. What
a slave art thou, to hack thy sword, as thou hast done ; and then
say, it was in fight I What trick, what device, what starting-hole,
canst now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent
shame 1
Poins. Come, let's hear. Jack : What trick hast thou now I
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 1
Should I turn upon the true prince 1 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 in¬
stinct. I shall think the betterjof 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.—Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of
gold. All the titles of good fellowship come to you I What, shall
we be merry I shall we have a play extempore I
58
ON TO FREEDOM.
ON TO FREEDOM.
DUOANNE.
This poem sbould 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 Bichmond !* And still another cry—' On
"to England !' Better than either is the cry—' On to Freedom 1' "
Chables Sumneb.
On to Freedom ! On to Freedom !
'Tis the everlasting cry
Of the floods that strive with ocean—
Of tlie 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!
0 ! thou stony-hearted Pharaoh !
Vainly warrest thou with God!
Moveless, at thy palace portals,
Moses waits, with lifted rod !
0 I 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 Freedotn ! On to Freedom 1
Satan's address to the sun.
69
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!
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 lino, until he catches the exact
meaning intended to be conveyed—then, following the ex¬
amples already given, he should declaim it repeatedly:
0 thou, that, with surpassing glory crown'd,
Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world ; at whose sight ail the stars
Hide their diminish'd heads ; to thee I call.
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
0 Sun ! to tell thee how I hate thy heams.
That hring to my remembrance from what state
1 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 higjiest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude
SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SDN.
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 ?
0, had his powerful destiny ordain'd
Me some inferior angel, I had stood
Then happy ; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition! Yet why not 1 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 1
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse
But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all 1
Be then his love accursed, since love or hate.
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy wiU
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable ! which way shall I fly
Inflnite wrath and infinite despair 1
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.
0 then at last relent : Is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left 1
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 I 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 unscq*
What faint submission swore 1 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:
No. 5.—See Appendix.
THE MILLS OF GOD.
63
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.
THE MILLS OF GOD.
DOOANKE.
Apart from the noble sentiments of these verses, and their
exquisite diction—in which every word is the best that could
possibly he 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 !
1 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, 0 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.
64
THE GHOST SCENE IN HAMLET.
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 GHOST SCENE IN HAMLET.
shakespeare,
in the following scene—from which is omitted some of the
dialogue—the young orator will find excellent opportunities
for practising himself in attitude, gesture and expression.
Hamlet's whole appearance should denote a solemn awe, hi?
voice should be tremulous—particularly when he addresses
the visitant from the other world as father ; then his whole
frame should tremble with emotion, and his voice break, a.®
if overcome by the flood of painful recollections. The
" Ghost's'' part should be delivered in a low, impressive,
guttural tone, suggestive of the hollow echoes of the tomb:
Enter Ghost.
Sfmlet. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!—
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd.
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked, or charitable.
Thou comest in such a questionable shape.
That I will speak to thee ; I'll call thee, Hamlet,
King, father ; Royal Dane, 0, answer me;
THE GHOST SCENE IN HAMLET.
Let me not burst in ignorance ! but tell,
Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death.
Have burst their cerements ! why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw thee quietly in-urn'd.
Hath ope'd his ponderous and marble jaws.
To cast thee up again ! What may this mean.
That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel,
Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon.
Making night hideous ; and we fools of nature.
So horridly to shake our disposition,
Witli thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls ?
Say, why is this 1 wherefore 7 what should we do 1
Ghost. I am thy father's spirit;
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night:
And, for the day, confined to fast in fires.
Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature.
Are burnt and purged away. But.that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood ;
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres;
Thy knotted and combined locks to part.
And each particular hair to stand an-end.
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine :
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood:—List, list, 0 list!—
If thou didst ever thy dear father love,—
Hasn. 0 heaven !
Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.
Sam. Murder 7
Ghost. Murder most foul, as in the best it is ;
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
Sam. Haste me to know it; that I, with wings as swift
As meditation, or the thoughts of love.
May sweep to my revenge.
Ghost. I find thee apt;
And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed
That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,
Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear:
'Tis given out, that, sleeping in mine orchard,
A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark
Is by a forged process of my death
Rankly abused : but know, thou noble youth,
The serpent, that did sting thy father's life.
Now wears his crown.
Sam. 0, my prophetic soul! my imcle!
OhQst. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterous beast
THE GHOST SCENE IN HA.M:LET.
With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,
(0 wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power
So to seduce!) won to his shameful lust
The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen ;
0, Hamlet, what a falling ofif was there!
From me, whose love was of that dignity.
That it went hand in hand even with the vow
I made to her in marriage ; and to decline
Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor
To those of mine!
But virtue, as it never will be moved.
Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven ;
So lust, though to a radiant angel link'd.
Will sate itself in a celestial bed.
And prey on garbage,
But, soft! methinks I scent the morning air;
Brief let me be :—Sleeping within mine orchard.
My custom always of the afternoon.
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole
With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial.
And in the porches of mine ear did pour
The leprous distilraent: whose effect
Holds such an enmity with blood of man,
That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through
The natural gates and alleys of the body;
And, with a sudden vigor, it doth posset
And curd, like eager droppings into milk.
The thin and wholesome blood : so did it mine;
And a most instant tetter bark'd about.
Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust.
All my smooth body.
Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand.
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd:
Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,
Unhousel'd, disappointed, unaneal'd;
No reckoning made, hut sent to my account,
With all my imperfections on my head :
0 horrible ! 0 horrible ! most horrible !
If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not;
Let not the royal bed of Denmark be
A couch for luxury and damned incest.
But, howsoever thou pursuest this act.
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught j leave her to Heaven,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once 1
The glow-worm shows the matin to be near.
Otm HEROES SHALL LIVE.
67
And 'gins to pale his uneffectual Are!
Adieu, adieu, adieu ! remember me. [Exit.
Ham. 0 all you host of heaven ! 0 rartli! What else 1
And shall I couple hell 1—0 fy!—Hold, hold, my heart;
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old.
But bear me stiffly up! — Remember thee 1
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe. Remember thee 1
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,
That youth and observation copied there;
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Witliin the book and volume of my brain,
Unmix'd with baser matter : yes, by Heaven,
0 most pernicious woman!
0 villain, villain, smiling, damned villain I
My tables,—meet it is, I set it down.
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain 1
At least, I am sure, it may be so in Denmark: (writing)
So, uncle, there you are. Now, to my word;
It is. Adieu, adieu ! remember me.
1 have sworn't.
I
t
OUR HEROES SHALL LIVE.
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 1 Are they dead that
yet act 1 Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire
the people with nobler motives, and more heroic patriotism 1
Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. Jt 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 b% confessed of o.ur modern heroes, as it is
of an ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death
than by his whole life.
68
Kathebine's defence.
KATHERINE'S DEFENCE.
SHAKESPEARE.
In tne oeginning of this speeca Queen Katharine speaks
in a low, subdued tone, in a kneeling posture. When she
speaks of her conduct as a wife and mother her eyes suf¬
fuse with tears—her voice grows tremulous with agitation;
but as she replies to the cutting insinuation of her enemies,
her form grows erect and dilates with all the power of con¬
scious rectitude, and her lip curls with haughty disdain.
Meanwhile her tones become sharp and biting:
Q. Kath. Sir, I desire you do me right, and justice;
And to bestow your pity on me: for
I am a most poor woman, and a stranger.
Bom out of your dominions ; having here
No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance
Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir.
In what have I offended you; what cause
Hath my behavior given to your displeasure.
That thus you should proceed to put me off.
And take your good grace from me 1 Heaven witness
I have been to you a true and humble wife.
At all times to your will conformable:
Ever in fear to kindle your dislike,
Yea, subject to your countenance ; glad, or sorry.
As I saw it inclined. When was the hour,
I ever contradicted j'our desire,
Or made it not mine too ? Or which of your friends
Have I not strove to love, although I knew
He were mine enemy 1 what friend of mine,
That had to him derived your anger, did I
Continue in my liking ? nay, gave notice
He was from thence discharged 1 Sir, call to mind.
That I have been your wife, in this obedience.
Upward of twenty years, and have been blest
With many children by you: If, in the course
And process of this time, you can report.
And prove it too, against mine honor aught.
My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty.
Against your sacred person, in God's name.
Turn me away ; and let the foul'st contempt
Shut door upon me and so give me up
To the sharpest kind of justice. Please you, cW
The king, your father, was reputed for
kAKE WAY FOR Liberty.
69
A prince most prudent, of an excellent
And unmatch'd wit and judgment: Ferdinand,
My father, king of Spain, was reckon'd one
The wisest prince, that there had reign'd by many
A year before : It is not to be question'd.
That they had gather'd a wise council to them
Of every realm that did debate this business.
Who deem'd our marriage lawful: Wherefore I humbly
Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may
Be by my friends in Spain advised; whose counsel
I will implore: if not, i' th' name of God
Your pleasure be fulfilled i ♦ * ♦ *
My lord, my lord,
I am a simple woman, much too weak
To oppose your cunning. You aie meek and humble-mouth'd ;
You sign your place and calling, in full seeming.
With meekness and humility : but your heart
Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride.
You have, by fortune, and his highness' favors,
Gone slightly o'er low steps ; and now are mounted.
Where powers are your retainers : and your words,
Domestics to you, serve your will, as't please
Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you.
You tender more your person's honor, than
Your high profession spiritual: That again
I do refuse you for my judge.
MAKE WAY FOR LIBERTY.*
SUGAirNE.
This animated poem should commence with a low, devout
tone, gradually swelling into almost trumpet-like notes, as
the stern conflict is described in heroic strains:
Under the oaks of Sempach
The Switzers knelt in prayer.
And sware upon their sword-hilts
The oath their fathers sware.
Under the oaks of Sempach
Their fathers' swords they bared,
And dared the powers of Slavery
Their valiant fathers dared.
• " Arnold Struthan de Winkelried, a knight of Underwalden, burst sud¬
denly from the ranks. ' I will open a passage for Liiierty,' he cried. He
threw himself on the enemy's pikes, grasped as many of them as he could
reach, and bore them to tl* ground, as he fell. His comrades rushed over
his body."—i'lOTda, Hist, of Hit lldvelic Cantons.
MAKE WAT FOR LIBEETT.
Duke Leopold's knights in armor,
Duke Leopold's spearmen tall,
With shields o'erlapped, and lance-points.
Stood up, like castle wall ;
And when the Swissmen smote them.
Their angry armor rang.
Like anvils under hammers—
With hoarse and sullen clang !
And when the Switzers charged them.
So well they hore the shock.
The mountain-men fell backward.
Like billows from a rock—
Fell hack, with dead and dying.
Fell back, with doubts and fears.
That none might pass the shield-wall.
Or break the hedge of spears!
Behold! the fateful moment—
The hour of Freedom's stress !
Then stood fort'n Arnold Winkelried,
From all the dubious press.
He looked upon the Switzers,
And saw their fear and doubt—
" I'll make a path for Liberty !"
Bold Winkelried cried out.
He turned upon the Austrians,
And flung his arms apart:
He clasped a score of lance-points.
And joined them at his heart.
As bride embraces bridegroom.
He hugged the lovely death :
" I make a path for Liberty
He said, with dying breath.
And after him the Switzers
No more knew doubts or fears :
They parsed the broken shield-wall—
They passed the hedge of spears:
And where he fell they mounted,
O'er shattered helm and shield.
And drave the Austrian spoilers
Front Sernpach's gory tteld 1
Five hundred years have mouldered
O'er W inkelried the Swiss :
No slave hath breathed in Switzerland
From that brave day to this.
FROM A SPEECH IN THE UNITED STATES SENATE 71
And as the Lord yet liveth,
I cannot help but pray
Some Winkelried might lift his voice
In mine own land to-day !
Some stern and loyal leader,
To shame our doubts and fears.
And cleave for us the shield-wall,
And break the hedge of spears :
Some hero-man, o'ermastering
A slavish time like this—
To make a path for Liberty—
Like Winkelried the Swiss!
t
FROM A SPEECH IN THE UNITED STATES SENATE.
DANIEL WEBSTER.
Let the student carefully and understandingly read this
magnificent burst of eloquence. When the full meaning of
every sentence is clearly conceived there will no difficulty
in giving suitable action and expression to every part:
Mr. President,—When the mariner has been tossed, for many
days, in thick weather and on an unknown sea, he naturally avails
himself of the first pause in the storm, the earliest glance of the
sun, to take his latitude, and ascertain how far the elements have
driven him from his true course. Let us imitate this prudence, and
before we float further on the waves of this debate, refer to the
point from which we departed, that we may at least be able to
conjecture where we now are. I ask for the reading of the resolu¬
tion. * ♦ * * ♦ ♦
We have thus heard, sir, what the resolution is, which is actually
before us for consideration ; and it will readily occm- to every one
that it is almost the only subject about which something has not
been said, in the speech, running through two days, by which the
senate has been now entertained by the gentleman from South Car¬
olina.
Every topic in the wide range of our public affairs, whether
past or present,—everything general or local, whether belonging
to national politics or party politics,—seems to have attracted more
or less of the honorable member's attention, save only the resolu¬
tion before the senate. He has spoken of everything but the pub¬
lic lands. They have escaped his notice. To that subject, in all
his excursions, he has not paid even the cold respect of a passing
glance.
When this debate, sir, Was to be resumed, on Thursday morning,
72 FROM A SPEECH IN THE UNITED STATES SENATE.
it so happened that it would have been convenient for me to be
elsewhere. The honorable member, however, did not incline to
put off the discussion to another day. He had a shot, he said, to
return, and he wished to discharge it. That shot, sir,—which it
was kind thus to inform us was coming, that we might stand out
of the way, or prepare ourselves to fall before it, and die with de¬
cency,—has now been received.
Under all advantages, and with expectation awakened by the
tone which preceded it, it has been discharged, and has spent its
force. It may become me to say no more of its effect, than that,
if nobody is found, after all, either killed or wounded by it, it is not
the first time, in the history of human affairs, that the vigor and
success of the war have not quite come up to the lofty and sound¬
ing phrase of the manifesto.
The gentleman, sir, in declining to postpone the debate, told
the senate, with the emphasis of his hand upon his heai t, that there
was something rankling here, which he wished to relieve. [Mr. H.
here I'ose, and disclaimed having used the word ranUing.^ It would
not, Mr. President, be safe for the honorable member to appeal to
those around him, upon the question, whether he did, in fact, make
use of that word.
But he may have been unconscious of it. At any rate; it is
enough that he disclaims it. But still, with or without the use of
that particular word, he had yet something here, he said, of which
he wished to rid himself by an immediate reply. In this respect,
sir, I have a great advantage over the honorable gentleman.
There is nothing here, sir, which gives me the slightest uneasiness;
neither fear, nor anger, nor that which is sometimes more trouble¬
some than either,—the consciousness of having been in the wrong.
There is nothing, either originating here, or now received here by
the gentleman's shot.
Nothing original, for I had not the slightest feeling of disrespect
or unkindness towards the honorable member. Some passages, it
is true, had occurred, since our acquaintance in this body, which I
could have wished might have been otherwise ; but I had used
philosophy, and forgotten them.
When the honorable member rose, in his first speech, I paid him
the respect of attentive listening ; and when he sat down, though
surprised, and I must say even astonished, at some of his opinions,
nothing was further from my intention than to commence any per¬
sonal warfare; and through the whole of the few remarks I made
in answer, I avoided studiously and carefully everything which I
thought possible to be construed into disrepect.
And, sir, while there is thus nothing originating here, which I
wished at any time, or now wish, to discharge, I must repeat, also,
that nothing has been received here, which rankles, or in any way
gives me annoyance. I will not accuse the honorable member of
-No. 6.—See Appendix,
FEOM A SPEECH IX THE UNITED STATES SENATE. 75
violating the rules of civilized war, I wili not say, that he poisoned
his arrows.
But whether his shafts were, or were not, dipped in that which
would have caused rankling, if they had reached, there was not, as
it happened, quite strength enough in the bow to bring them to
their mark. If he wishes now to gather up those shafts, he must
look for them elsewhere; they will not be found fixed and quiver-
sng in the object at which they were aimed.
The honorable member complained that I had slept on his
speech. I must have slept on it, or not slept at all. The moment
the honorable member sat down, his friend from Missouri rose,
and with much honied commendation of the speech, suggested
that the impressions which it had produced were too charming and
delightful to be disturbed by other sentiments or other sounds,
and proposed that the senate should adjourn.
Would it have been quite amiable in me, sir, to interrupt this ex¬
cellent good feeling 1 Must I not have been absolutely malicious,
if 1 could have thrust myself forward, to destroy sensations thus
pleasing 1 Was it not much better and kinder, both to sleep upon
them myself, and to allow others, also, the pleasure of sleeping
upon them 1
But if it be meant, by sleeping upon his speech, that I took
time to prepare a reply to it, it is quite a mistake ; owing to other
engagements, I could not employ even the interval between the
adjournment of the senate and its meeting the next morning, in
attention to the subject of this debate. Nevertheless, sir, the
mere matter of fact is undoubtedly true—I did sleep on the gen¬
tleman's speech ; and slept soundly.
And I slept equally well on his speech of yesterday, to which I
am now replying. It is quite possible that in this respect, also, I
possess some advantage over the honorable member, attributable,
doubtless, to a cooler temperament on my part; for, in truth, I
slept upon his speeches remarkably well.
But the gentleman inquires why he was made the object of such
a reply 1 Why was he singled out ? If an attack has been madd
on the East, he, he assures us, did not begin it; it was the gentle¬
man from Missouri. Sir, I answered the gentleman's speech be¬
cause I happened to hear it; and because, also, I chose to give
an answer to that speech, which, if unanswered, I thought most
likely to produce injurious impressions.
I did not stop to inquire who was the original drawer of the
bill. I found a responsible endorser before me; and it was my
purpose to hold him liable, and to bring him to his just responsi¬
bility, without delay. But, sir, this interrogatory of the honorable
member was only introductory to another.
He proceeded to ask me whether I had turned upon him, in this
debate, from the consciousness that I abould find an overmatch, if"
76 FROM A SPEECH IN THE UNITED STATES SENATE.
I ventured on a contest with his friend from Missouri. If, sir, the
honorable member, ex gratia modestioe,* had chosen thus to defer
to his friend, and to pay him a compliment, without intentional
disparagement to others, it would have been quite according to
the friendly courtesies of debate, and not at all ungrateful to my
own feelings.
I am not one of those, sir, who esteem any tribute of regard,
whether light and occasional, or more serious and deliberate,
which may be bestowed on others, as so much unjustly withholden
from themselves. But the tone and manner of the gentleman's
question forbid me that I thus interpret it. I am not at liberty to
consider it as nothing more than a civilty to his friend.
It had an air of taunt and disparagement, something of the
loftiness of asserted superiority, which does not allow me to pass
it over without notice. It was put as a question for me to answer,
and so put as if it were difficult for me to answer. Whether I
deemed the member from Missouri an overmatch for myself, in
debate here I It seems to me, sir, that this is extraordinary lan¬
guage, and an extraordinary tone, for the discussions of this
body.
Matches and overmatches ! Those terms are more applicable
elsewhere than here, and fitter for other assemblies than this.
Sir, the gentleman seems to forget where and what we are. This
is a senate; a senate of equals ; of men of individual honor and
personal character, and of absolute independence.
We know no masters ; we acknowledge no dictators. This is a
hall for mutual consultation and discussion ; not an arena for the
exhibition of champions. I offer myself, sir, as a match for no
man ; I throw the challenge of debate at no man's feet.
But then, sir, since the honorable member has put the question
in a manner that calls for an answer, I will give him an answer;
and I tell him, that, holding myself to be the humblest of the
members here, I yet know nothing in the arm of his friend from
Missouri, either aloije, or when aided by the arm of his friend
from South Carolina, that need deter even me from espousing what¬
ever opinions I may choose to espouse, from debating whenever I
may choose to debate, or from speaking whatever I may see fit to
say, on the floor of the senate.
Sir, when uttered as matter of commendation or compliment, I
should dissent from nothing which the honorable member might
say of his friend. Still less do I put forth any pretensions of my
own. But, when put to me as matter of taunt, I throw it back,
and say to the gentleman that he could possibly say nothing less
likely than such a comparison to wound my pride of personal
character. The anger of its tone rescued the remark from inten-
• For the sake of modesty
THE SEVEX AGES OF MAN.
77
«ona1 irony, which, otherwise, probably, would have been its gen¬
eral acceptation.
But, sir, if it be imagined that by this mutual quotation and
commendation ; if it be supposed that, by casting the characters of
the drama, assigning to each his part,—to one the attack, to an¬
other the cry of onset; or, if it be thought that by a loud and
empty vaunt of anticipated victory any laurels are to be wot Lsre ;
if it be imagined, especially, that any or all these things will shake'
any purpose of mine,—1 can tell the honorable member, once for
all, that he is greatly mistaken, and that he is dealing with one of
whose temper and character he has yet much to learn.
Sir, I shall not allow myself, on this occasion,—I hope on no
occasion,—to be betrayed into any loss of temper; but if pro¬
voked—as I trust I never shall be—into crimination and recrim¬
ination, the honorable member may, perhaps, find that, in that con¬
test, there will be blows to take as well as blows to give ; that others
can state comparisons as significant, at least, as his own ; and that
his impunity may possibly demand of him whatever powers of
taunt and sarcasm he may possess. I commend him to a prudent
husbandry of his resources.
THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN.
SHAKESPEABE.
This charming epitome of human life affords, in its brief
space, almost every variety of expression. Running the
gamut from the faint moan of infancy to the resonant base
of manhood—again declining to the low, weak cadence of
senility and feebleness:
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 woefui ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow: Then, a soldier.
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
78
THE FRETFTTL MAN.
Even in the cannon's mouth ; And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
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 saved, a world too w'de
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly vcice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound : Last scene of ad.
That ends this strange eventful history.
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
THE FRETFUL MAN.
COWPER.
This extract admits of much imitation or even mimicry.
The tones, fidgetty manner, and vinegar aspect of the fretful
man should be closely " taken off:
Some fretful tempers wince at every touch,—
You always do too little or too much :
■ You speak with life, in hopes to entertain,—
Your elevated voice goes through the brain;
You fall at once into a lower key,—
That's worse, the drone-pipe of an humble-bee.
The southern sash admits too strong a light;
You rise and drop the curtain,—^now 'tis night.
He shakes with cold; you stir the /ire, and strive
To make a blaze, — that s roasting him alive.
Serve him with venison, and he chooses fish ;
With sole,—that's just the sort he would not wish.
He takes what he at first professed to loathe,
And in due time feeds heartily on both ;
Yet still o'erclouded with a constant frown.
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down.
Your hope to please him vain on every plan.
Himself should work that wonder, if he can.
Alas ! his efforts double his distress.
He likes yours little, and his own still less;
Thus always teasing others, always teased.
His only pleasure is to be displeased.
THE AMEEICAIT UNION.
79
THE AMERICAN UNION.
DANIEL WEBSTEB.
At first the speaker should speak iu solemn, almost state¬
ly and impressive tones, with but little fire, or action; hut
when the oraior sees, as in a vision,- the future destiny of
the Union, his voice should resound and his action become
animated:
I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in
view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the pre-
•ervation 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 imion we reached only by the discipline of our virtues, in
the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities
of disordered flnance, 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 per¬
sonal happiness.
I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond tbe 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 precipiice of
disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the
depth of the ahyss below; nor could I regard him.as a safe coun¬
sellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be
mainly bent on considering, not how the union should be best pre¬
served, 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 pros¬
pects 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 dis¬
honored fragments of a once glorious union ; on states dissevered,
discordant, beliigerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched,
it may be, in fraternal blood!
80
OLD I.HON StDES.
Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the
gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored through¬
out 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 1 nor those other words of
delusion and folly. Liberty first, and union afterward; but every¬
where, 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!
OLD IRONSIDES.
OLIVER W. HOLMES.
The following was written when it was proposed to dis¬
mantle the celebrated United States Ship, " The Constitu¬
tion "—popularly called " Old Ironsides." Most of the lines
should be delivered in round, resonant, ringing tones:
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down 1
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 1
A tLEA FOE THE OX.
81
A PLEA FOR THE OX. -
DUGANNE.
This beautiful poem should be recited with a calm, even,
devout dignity ; occasionally rising into energetic expres¬
sion 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 I and yet, with flowers
A> child can lead this Ox of ours ;
And yoke his ponderous :\eck, 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 (lies for Man !
And, through the long, long years of God,
Since laboring Adam delved the sod,
I hear no human voice that mocks
The hue which God hath given His Ox I
While burdening toils bow down his back,
Who asks if he be white or blaek ?
And when his generous blood is shed.
Who shall deny its common red ?
" Ye shall not muzzle "—God hath sworn—v
" 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, 0 righteous Lord! so long.
Bowed down, and yet so brave and strong—•
I think no Christian, Just and true.
Can spurn this poor 0^ for his hue
82
THE EATTIE OP IVRT.
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 daves—
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 diflference 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 he—free!
THE BATTLE OF IVRY.
MACAULAT.
Being a supposed song of triumph; the pitch of the voice
should be high and ringing, as a silver clarion. Where the
action of the fight is more particularly described, the utter¬
ance should be as rapid as possible consistently with clear¬
ness ;
How 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-fluids green, and sunny vines, 0 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.
THE BATTLE OF IVRY.
83
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 1
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 !
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, in deafening shout, " God save our lord, the
king!"
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may—
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray—
Press where you see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of
war.
And be your oriflamtne, to^^lay, 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 St. 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 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 I
Now God be praised, the day is ours I Mayenne hath turned his
rein,
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter, the Flemish count is slain,
Tlieir 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 St. 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."
84
A MODEST WIT.
Oh ! 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 Antwer p monks may sing a mass for tliy poor spearmen's
souls !
Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright!
Ho I burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night I
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 I
A MODEST WIT.
The reciter should quietly read the beginning of this piece
in an ordinary conversational tone. The flippant taunts of
the nabob should be spoken with a supercilious drawl—the
replies of Modestus with a calm, slightly veiled, but yet per¬
ceptible, irony:
A supercilious nabob of the East—
Haughty, being great—purse-proud, being rich—
A governor, or general, at the least,
I have forgotten which—
Had in his family a humble youth,
Who went from England, in his patron's suite,
An unassuming boy, and in truth
A lad of decent parts and good repute.
This youth had sense and spirit;
But yet, with ail his sense,
Excessive diffidence
Obscured his merit.
One daj', at table, flushed with pride and wine.
His honor, proudly free, severely merry.
Conceived it would be vastly fine
To crack a joke upon his secretary.
" Young man," he said, " by wbat art, craft, or trade
Did your good father gain a livelihood 1 "—
" He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said,
" And in his time was reckoned good."
THE LABORER.
87
" A saddler, eh 1 and taught you Greek,
Instead of teaching you to sew!
Pray, why did not your father make
A saddler, sir, of you ?"
Each parasite then, as in duty bound.
The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.
At length Modestus, bowing low.
Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),
" Sir, by your leave, I fain would know
Your father's trade 7 "
" My father's trade! Come, come, sir ! that's too bad !
My father's trade ! Why, blockhead, are you mad 7
My father, sir, did never stoop so low—
He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."
" Excuse the liberty I take,"
Modestus said, with archness on his brow,—
" Pray, why did not your father make
A gentleman of you 7 "
THE LABORER.
WM. D. OALLAOHER.
This piece, full of noble sentiment, expressed in nervous,
manly language, should. be declaimed with a rather loud,
and somewhat appealing tone, as if the speaker was reason¬
ing with his auditor:
Stand up, erect! Thou hast the form
And likeness of thy God !—who more 7
A soul as dauntless mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm
And pure, as breast e'er wore.
What then 7—Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began
As any of the throng.
Who is thine enemy 7 the high
In station, or in wealth the chief 7
The great, who coldly pass thee by.
With proud step and averted eye 7
Nay ! nurse not sych belief.
68
DRAtTtiJ.
If true unto thyself thou wast,
What were the proud one's scorn to thee t
A feather, which thou mightest cast
Aside, as idly as the blast
The light leaf from the tree.
No:—uncurbed passions, low desires.
Absence of noble self-respect.
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
Forever, till thus checked;
These are thine enemies—thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot:
Thy labor and thy life accursed.
0, stand erect! and from them burst!
And longer suffer not!
Thou art thyself thine enemy !
The great!—what better they than thou?
As theirs, is not thy will as free 1
Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow ?
True, wealth thou hast not—'tis hut dust!
Nor place, uncertain as the wind !
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water may despise the lust
Of both—a noble mind !
With this, and passions under ban.
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then : that thy little span
Of life may be well trod !
. DRAFTED.
MRS. H. n. 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 I Drafted 1 My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at
his books;
No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie—as delicate, too, in his looks.
DBAFTED. 89
Why, it seems but a day since he helped me, girl-like, in my
kitchen at tasks;
He drafted ! Great God, can it he that our President knows what
he asks 1
He never could wrestle, this hoy, 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 hall on the common—and you have drafted a child
at his play!
" Not a patriot 1 " Fie ! Did I whimper when Robert stood up
with his gun,
And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard
of Bull Run 1
Pointing his finger at Harry, hut turning his eyes to the wall,
" There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert,
"if I am to fall."
" Eighteen 1" Oh I know I And yet narrowly ; just a wee babe
on the day
When his father got up fi om 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 1
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 1
Five stalwart sons has my neighbor, and never the lot upon one;
Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's wili that is
donel
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 bis
breast? •
90 PUBLIC VIRTUE.
Too render for parting with sweet hearts % Too fair to be'crippled
or scarred 1
My boy ! Thank God for these tears—I was growing so hitter and
hard!
Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes m your knap¬
sack 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 am him for Fre^or
and Right!
PUBLIC VIRTUE.
HENRT CLAT.
The speaker snould commence this with a rather slow,
measured manner, and a rather low tone, which rises grad¬
ually as the glowing thoughts seem to fill the soul; till at
the last paragraph the voice should rise, the form dilate as
if under the inspiration enkindled by the glorious theme :
I hope, that in all that relates to personal fimness, all that con¬
cerns a just appreciation of the insignificance of human life,—
whatever may be attempted to threaten or alarm a soul not easily
swayed by opposition, or awed or intimidated by menace,—a stout
heart and a steady eye, that can survey, unmoved and undaunted,
any mere personal perils that assail this poor, transient, perishing
frame, I may, without disparagement, compare with other men.
But there is a sort of courage, which, 1 frankly confess it, I do
not possess,—a boldness to which I dare not aspire, a valor which
I cannot covet. I cannot lay myself down in the way of the wel¬
fare and happiness of my country. That I cannot, I have not the
courage to do. I cannot interpose the power w;th which I may
be invested—a power conferred, not for my personal benefit, nor
for my aggrandizement, but for my country's good—to check her
THE DESERTED WIFE
91
onward march to greatness and glory. I have not courage enough.
I am too cowardly for that
I would not, I dare not, in the exercise of such a trust, lie down,
and place my body across the path that leads my country to pros¬
perity an^ 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 some-
tmes impel us to perform rash and inconsiderate acts. It is the
g eatest courage to be able to bear the imputation of the want of
courage. But pride, vanity, egotism, so unamiable 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 interests. 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 thonght of
the good and the glory of one's country, are never felt in his im¬
penetrable bosom. That patriotism, which, catching its inspir¬
ations from the immortal God, and leaving at an immeasurable
distance below all lesser, grovelling, personal interests and feelings,
animates and prompts to deeds of self-sacrifice, of valor, of de¬
votion, and of death itself,—that is public virtue; that is the
noblest, the sublimest, of all public virtues !
THE DESERTED WIFE.
PEECIVAL.
These lines should be spolcen in a somewhat low tone—
rising at times a little above an ordinary conversational
style of speaking—sorrow, deep sorrow, should be expressed
by the depth rather than the strength of the voice :
He comes not—I have watched the moon go down.
But yet he comes not. Once it was not so.
He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow.
The while he holds his riot in that town.
Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep.
And he will wake my infant from its sleep,
To blend its feeble waillhg with my tears.
tlEt) JAClCEt.
0 ! how I love a mother's watch to keep,
Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers
My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fixed and deep.
1 had a husband once, who loved me—now
He ever wears a frown upon his brow.
And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip.
As bees from laurel flowers a poison sip.
But yet I cannot hate—0 ! there were hours
When I could hang forever on his eye.
And time, who stole with silent swiftness by.
Strewed, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.
T loved him then—he loved me too. My heart
Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile;
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart;
And though he often sting me with a dart,
Venomed and barbed, and waste upon the vile
Caresses which his babe and mine should share,—
Though he should spurn me,—I will calmly bear
His madness ; and should sickness come and lay
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then
I would with kindness, all my wrongs repay
Until the penitent should weep and say.
How injured and how faithful I had been !
BED JACKET.
EALLEOK.
This piece of tine descriptive writing will give the speaker
an excellent opportunity of quietly suggesting an ironical
meaning by the tone and manner of delivery ?
Who will believe 1—^not I—for in deceiving
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream,
I cannot spare the luxury of believing
That all things beautiful are what they seem.
Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing
Would, like the patriarch's, soothe a dying hour;
With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing.
As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight bower ;
With look like patient Job's, eschewing evil;
With motions graceful as a bird's in air ;
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil
That e'er clinched fingers in a captive's hair?
tHE SCEOOLMASTEE.
95
That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain,
Deadlier than that which bathes the upas-tree;
And in thy wrath, a nursing cat-o'-mountain
Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee 1
And underneath that face like summer's oceans
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear.
Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions—
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow—all, save fear.
Love—for thy land, as if she were thy daughter.
Her pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars;
Hatred—of missionaries and cold water;
Pride—in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ;
Hope—that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit
Remembered and revenged when thou art gone ;
Sorrow—that none are left thee to inherit
Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne.
THE SCHOOLMASTER.
J. G. WHITTIEE.
This should be recited in a quiet, rather subdued tone, in
a pleasant, almost conversational style, a style by the way,
often very effective, both at the bar and on the stump; as a
relief from the more elevated and highly wrought elo¬
quence :
Brisk wielder of the birch and rule.
The master of the district school
Held at the fire his favored place ;
Its warm glow lit a laughing face
Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared
The uncertain prophecy of beard.
He teased the mitten-blinded cat,
Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat.
Sang songs, and told us what befalls
In classic Dartmouth's college halls.
Bom the wild northern hills among.
From whence his yeoman father wrung
By patient toil subsistence scant.
Not competence and yet not want.
He early gained the power-to pay
His cheerful, self-reliant way;
Could doff at ease his scholar's gown
To peddle wares frSm town to town}
94
WATHCINO LITTLE CSILDREK.
Or through the long vacation's reach
In lonely lowland districts teach,
Where all the droll experience found
At stranger hearths in boarding round,
The moonlit skater's keen delight,
The sleigh-drive through the frosty night,
The rustic party, with its rough
Accompaniment of blind-man's huff,
And whirling plate, and forfeits paid,
His winter task a pastime made.
Happy the snow-locked homes wherein
He tuned his merry violin.
Or played the athlete in the barn.
Or held the good dame's winding yam.
Or mirth-provoking versions told
Of classic legends rare and old.
Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome
Had all the commonplace of home^
And little seemed at best the odds
'Twixt Yankee peddlers and old gods;
Where Pindus-born Araxes took
The guise of any grist-mill brook.
And dread Olympus at his will
Became a whortleberry hill.
WATCHING LITTLE CHILDREN.
This should be spoken in a simple, unaffected manner,
the voice slightly raised, and the tones, pure, distinct, but
in no part strongly emphasized. The speaker will do well
to remember that there are times when emphasis ceases to
im/phatic :
Mother, watch the little feet
Climbing o'er the garden wall,.
Rounding through the busy street.
Ranging cellar, shed and haU.
Never count the moments lost.
Never mind the time it costs;
Little feet will go astray;
Guide, them, mother, while you may.
Mother, watch the little hand
Picking berries by the way,
Making houses in the sand.
Tossing up the fragrant hay.
LANGUAGE.
95
Never dare the question ask,
" Why to me this weary task 1 "
These same little hands may prove
Messengers of light and love.
Mother, watch the little tongue
Prating eloquent and wild ;
What is said and what is sung,
By the happy, joyous child.
Catch the word while yet unspoken,
Stop the vow before 'tis broken ;
This same tongue may yet proclaim
Blessings on the Saviour's name.
Mother, watch the little heart.
Beating soft and warm for you;
Wholesome lessons now impart;
Keep, 0 keep that young heart true;
Culling out each noxious weed.
Sowing good and precious seed ;
Harvest rich you then may see,
Bipening for eternity.
LANGUAGE.
O. W. HOLMES.
In this piece—(not only exceedingly humorous but high¬
ly instructive)—by carefully enunciating the words pointed
out as correct and incorrect, and referring to his dictionary
for their pronunciation, the student will have learned to
ovoid errors which frequently mar the elocution of other¬
wise great orators:
Some words on language may he well applied.
And take them kindly, though they touch your pride.
Words lead to things ; a scale is more precise,—
Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, vice.
Our cold North-easter's icy fetter clips
The native freedom of the Saxon lips;
See the brown peasant of the plastic South,
How all his passions play about his mouth !
With us, the feature that transmits the soul,
A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole.
The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk
Tie the small muscles, when he strives to talk:
96
A PARENTAL ODE.
Not all the pumice of the polished town
Can smooth this roughness of the harnyard down;
Eich, honored, titled, he betrays his race
By this one mark,—^he's awkward in the face
Nature's rude impress, long before he knew
The sunny street that holds the sifted few.
It can't he helped, though, if we're taken young.
We gain some freedom of the lips and tongue;
But school and college often try in vain
To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain ;
One stubborn word will prove this axiom true—
No late-caught rustic can enunciate view.
A few brief stanzas may be well employed
To speak of errors we can all avoid.
Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope
The careless churl that speak« of s6ap for soap;
Her edict exiles from her fair abode
The clownish voice that utters road for road ;
Less stern to him who calls his coat a coat,
And steers his boat believing it a boat.
She pardoned one, our classic city's boast.
Who said, at Cambridge, mbst instead of most;
But knit her brows, and stamped her angry foot,
To hear a teacher call a root a rbot.
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 over hard to roll the British E;
Do put your accents ip the proper spot;
Don't,—let me beg you,—don't say " Howl" for " WhatT"
And when you stick on conversation's burs.
Don't strew the pathway with those dreadf^ nrs.
A PAEENTAL ODE
To my Son, aged Three Years and Five Months,
THOMAS HOOD.
The lines not in parenthesis should be recited with a joy¬
ous, proud, exulting tone ; the lines within parenthesis with
a voice and manner exactly the reverse :
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!)
(. 8.—See Appendi*.
i. FAKENTAL ODE.
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather light,
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,
(Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin I)
Thou little tricksy Puck !
With antic joys 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 afire!)
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 Pays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him, if he pulls its 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 stamped from nature's mint,
(Where did he leam that squint ?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off, with another shove 1)
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 scisscys, snipping at your gown!)
loo
ON THE SHOBES OF TENNESSEE.
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 1)
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 !)
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 ej acnlated 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."
OK THE SHOEES OE TEKKE8SEK
" Massa's berry kind to Pompey 5
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:
Mehhe she would miss the flowers
She used to love in Tennessee.
" 'Pears like, she was watching Masssr—
If Pompey should beside him stay,
Mehhe she'd remember better
How for him she used to pray;
Telling him that way up yonder
White as snow his soul would he,'
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.
102 KETBEAT OF THE FBEUOfl ARMY FROM MOSCOW,
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 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.
RETREAT OF THE FRENCH ARMY FROM MOSCOW.
CBOLT.
This should be delivered in an animated, but solemn man¬
ner ; the voice rather high, being elevated, as the action
described is full of life ; falling gradually as solemn reflec¬
tions are conjured up by the awful fate of "The Grand
Army : "
Magnificence of ruin ! What has time.
In all it ever gazed upon of war,
Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime.
Seen, with that battle's vengeance to compare!
How glorious shone the invaders' pomp afar!
Like pampered lions from the spoil they came;
The land before them, silence and despair.
The land behind them, massacre and flame:
Blood will have tenfold blood :—What are they now ! A name.
Homeward by hundred thousands,—column deep.
Broad square, loose squadron,—rolling like the flood
When mighty torrents from their channels leap.
Rushed through the land the haughty multitude.
RETREAT OF THE FRENCH ARMY FROM MOSCOW. 103
Billow on endless billow; on, through wood,
O'er rugged hill, down sunless, marshy vale,
The death-devoted moved ; to clangor rude
Of drum, and horn, and dissonant clash of mail,
Glancing disastrous light before that sunbeam pale.
The hour of vengeance strikes! Hark to the gale.
As it hursts hollow through the rolling clouds.
That from the north in sullen grandeur sail.
Like floating Alps ! Advancing darkness broods
Ul)on the wild horizon ; and the woods.
Now sinking into brambles, echo shrill.
As the gust sweeps them ; and those upper floods
Shoot on the leafless houghs the sleet-drops chill.
That, on the hurrying crowds, in freezing showers distil
They reach the wilderness ! The majesty
Of solitude is spread before their gaze—
Stem nakedness, dark earth, and wrathful sky!
If ruins were there, they had ceased to blaze;
If blood were shed, the ground no more betrays.
E'en by a skeleton, the crime of man :
Behind them rolls the deep and drenching haze.
Wrapping their rear in night; before their van
The struggling daylight shows the unmeasured desert wan.
Still on they sweep, as if the hurrying march
Could bear them from the rushing of His wheel.
Whose chariot is the whirlwind. Heaven's clear arch
At once is covered with a livid veil;
In mixed and fighting heaps the deep clouds reel:
Upon the dense "horizon hangs the sun
In sanguine light, an orb of burning steel;
The snows wheel down through twilight thick and dun
Now tremble, men of blood!—the Judgment has begun!
The trumpet of the northern winds has blown.
And it is answered by the dying roar
Of armies, on that boundless field o'erthrown:
Now, in the awful gusts, the desert hoar
Is tempested—a sea without a shore.
Lifting its feathery waves. The legions fly!
Volley on volley down the hailstones pour!
Blind, famished, frozen, mad, the wanderers die.
And, dying, hear the storm more wildly thunder bjr.
104 AW BEUPTION OF MOUNT TESUVIUS.
AN ERUPTION OF MOUNT VESUVIUS.
BULWEB.
The following magnificent description of perhaps the
most awful phenomenon in nature, gives full scope for al¬
most every tone and gesture. Care should, however, be
taken that the natural grandeur of the subject be not mar¬
red by a stilted, pompous, or affected delivery. Let the
speaker try to realize the thoughts and fe'>lings of a specta¬
tor of the dark scene of desolation, and he cannot go amiss:
The eyes of the crowd beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapor
shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic
pine-tree ; the trunk, blackness; tlie 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 diunb. 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 frag¬
ments of burning stone ! Over the crushing vines, over the deso¬
late 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 <rf 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 intolera¬
ble crimson, gushing forth through the columns of smoke far smd
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 grind-
AN ERtTFTION OF MOtTNT VESUVIUS. 10«
ing 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 dames ; and at
various intervals the fires rose fiercely and sullenly against the solid
gloom. The citizens had endeavored 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 confront¬
ing each, as demons contending for a world. These were of one
deep blood-red hue of fire, which lighted up the whole atmos¬
phere ; 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 the molten lava. Darkly red through the
profound gloom of their banks, they flowed slowly on, as towards
the deyot^ city. And through the still air was heard the rattling
of the fragments of rock, hurling one upon another, as they were
home 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 soimd, 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 wrapt them as a veil.
The whole elements of civilization were broken up. If " in the
the darkness, wife was separated from husband, or parent from
child, vain was the hope of re-union. Each hurried blindly and
confusedly on. Nothing was left save the law of self-preservation.
106
tHE NEWCASTLE ATOTHECARY.
THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. '
GEOROE COLEMAN.
This piece gives a rare opportunity for variety of expres¬
sion, and is also an excellent example for practising rapidity
of utterance, and quick changes of tone and manner. The
speaker, however, should be careful to suppress his own
mirth, and give the conversation in a grave, matter-of-fact
•nanner:
A man in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with death to wrestle:
Entering the field against the grimly foe.
Armed with a mortar and a pestle.
Yet some aflSrm, no enemies they are;
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair.
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother:
So (many a sufiering patient saith).
Though the apothecary fights with Death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.
A member of this ,^scu1apian line
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill.
Or make a bill;
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head,
Or chatter scandal by your bed.
A * A * * *
His fame full six miles round the country ran.
In short, in reputation he was adlvi» ;
All the old women called him " a fine man !"
His name was Bolus.
Benjamin Bolus, though in trade
(Which oftentimes will genius fetter),
Bead works of fancy, it is said,
And cultivated the belles lettres.
And why should this be thought so odd I
Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic ?
Of poetry though patron god,
Apollo patronizes physic.
Bolus loved verse and took so much delight in't.
That his prescriptions he resolved to write in t.
THK NEWCASTLE APOTHEOAKT.
No opportunity he e'er let pass
Of writing the directions on his labels
In dapper couplets, like Chiy's fables,
Or, rather, like the lines in Hudibras.
Apothecary's verse !—and where's the treason t
'T is simply honest dealing; not a crime;
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.
He had a patient lying at death's door.
Some three miles from the town,—it might be four";
To whom, one evening. Bolus sent an article
In pharmacy, that's called cathartical.
And on the label of the stuff
He wrote this verse.
Which one would think was clear enou^
And terse:—
" WTien taken.
To be well thaken"
Next morning early. Bolus rose.
And to the patient's house he goes
Upon his pad.
Who a vile trick of-stumbling had;
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;
But that's of course ;
For what's expected from a horse,
With an apothecary on his back 1
Bolus arrived, and gave a doubtful tap,'
Between a single and a double rap.
Knocks of this kind
Are given by gentlemen who teach tp danoe ;
By fiddlers, and by opera-singers ;
One loud, and then a little one beUnd,
As if the knocker fell by chance
Out of their fingers. I
The servant lets him in with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place-r-
Portending some disaster;
John's countenance as rueful looked and grim.
As if the apothecary had physicked him.
And not his master.
" Well, how's the patient 1" Bolus said;
John shook his head.
" Indeed!—hum ! ha!—that's very odd!
He took the draught 1" ^ohn gave a nod.
108
SHYLOCK ON THE BACK.
" Well, how 1 what then 1 speak out, you dunce
"Why, then," says John, " we shook him once."—
" Shook him!—how ?" Bolus stammered out.—
"We jolted him about "—
" Zounds ! shake a patient, man!—a shake won't do.—
"No, sir, and so we gave him two. '—
" Two shakes! odd's curse !
'Twould make the patient worse."—
" It did so, sir, and so a third we tried."—
" Well, and what then V—" Then, sir, my master died."
SHYLOCK ON THE RACK.
SHAKESPEARE.
The following scene from " The Merchant of Venice " will
give the young orator a chance to perfect himself in the de¬
lineation of many and opposite passions. There are the taunts
and heartless jests of the young coxcombs terribly con¬
trasted by the violent outburst of the almost heart-broken
usurer; who pours out the venom of his hatred with the
most bitter vindictiveness of hatred and scorn :
Salar. How now, Shylock 1 what news among the merchants 1
Shyloeh. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my
daughter's flight.
Solar. That's certain ; I for my part, knew the tailor that made
the wings she flew withal.
Solan. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged;
and then it is the complexion of them aU to leave the dam.
Shy. She is damn'd for it.
Salor. That's certain, if the devil may he her judge.
Shy. My own flesh and blood to rebel!
Solar. Out upon it, old carrion ! rebels it at these years 1
Shy. I say my daughter, is my flesh and blood.
Salar. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers, than
between jet and ivory; more between your bloods, than there is
between red wine and rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether
Antonio have had any loss at sea or no ?
Shy. There I have another bad match ; a bankrupt, a prodigal,
who dares scarce show his head on the Rialtoa beggar that
used to come so smug upon the mart;—let him look to his bond;
he was wont to call me usurer ;—^let him look to his bond •, he was
wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy;—let him look to his
bond.
No. 9.—See Appendix.
Shylock on the back.
Ill
Solar. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh :
What's that good for 1
Sh;/. To bait flsh withal: if it will feed nothing else, it will feed
my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me of half a
million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my
nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine
enemies; and what's his reason 1 I am a Jew: Hath not a Jew
eyes ? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections,
passions 1 fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons,
subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed
and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is 1 if
you prick us, do we not bleed 1 if you tickle us do we not laugh 1
if you poison us do we not die 1 and if you wrong us, shall we
not revenge 1 if we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you
in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility 1 re*-
venge; if a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be
by Christian example ? why, revenge. The villainy you teach me,
I will execute; and it shaU go hard, but I will better the instruc¬
tion.
^(er a Servant,
Senr. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires
to speak with you both.
Solar, We have been up and down to seek him.
Unter Tubal.
Solan. Here comes another of the tribe j a third cannot be
matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew.
[Exeunt Salan. Salar. and Servant.
SAy. How now. Tubal, what news from Genoa » hast thou found
my daughter 1
Ttfi. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.
SAy. Why, there, there, there, there ! a diamond gone, cost me
two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our
nation till now; I never felt it till now; two thousand ducats in
that; and other precious, precious jewels.—I would my daughter
were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear I would she were
hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin I No news of them 1
—Why, so ;—and I know not what's spent in the search : Why, thou
loss upon loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find
the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge : nor no ill luck stirring,
but what lights o' my shoulders; no sighs, but o' my breathing;
no tears, but o' my shedding.
TuA. Yes, other men have ill luck too; Antonio, as I heard in
Genoa,—
SAy. What, what, what 1 ill luck, ill luck 1
TuA. —hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis.
SAy. I thank God, I thai^ God: Is it true 1 is it true 1
112
IfARCO BOZZABIS.
JSib. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck.
Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal;—Good news, good news: ha I
ha!—^Where 1 in Genoa t
Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, four¬
score ducats!
Shy. Thou stick'st a dagger in me : 1 shall never see my gold
again: Fourscore ducats at a sitting I fourscore ducats !
Tub. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company
to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break.
Shy. I am very glad of it: I'll plague him ; I'll torture him; I
am glad of it.
Tub. One of them showed me a ring, that he had of your daughter
for a monkey.
Shy. Out upon her ! Thou torturest me. Tubal: it was my tur¬
quoise; I had it of Leah, when I was a bachelor: I would not
have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.
Ttd>. But Antonio is certainly undone.
Shy. Nay, that's true, that's very true: Go, Tuhal, fee me an
officer, bespeak him a fortnight before : I will have the heart of
him, if he forfeit; for were he out of Venice, I can make what mer¬
chandise I will: Go, go. Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue:
go, good Tubal; at our synagogue. Tubal. [£reunt.
MARCO BOZZARIS.
HALLECK.
A more effective piece for forcible declamation is not to be
found in the whole range of patriotic poetry. At first the
speaker should enunciate in a low measured manner. When
the assault of the camp by the Greeks is described, the voice
should rise in pitch and increase in power until it rivals a
"blast of that dread bom, on Fontarabian echoes borne."
After the fall of the hero, the tones should become almost
dirge-like, rising, however, at times into prophetic rapture:
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 &
MABCO BOZZABIS.
Then wore his monarch's signet ring,
Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king:
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, .
Ajb 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 Platasa'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 I 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 Aires;
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 slaia j
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud huzza,
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's, when she feels.
For the first time, her first-bom's breath }
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke.
And crowded cities^ait its stroke j
Il4 the Cumberland's oreV^.
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.
Best 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 bom to die.
THE CUMBERLAND'S CREW.
This unpretentious, and very affecting poem, which prob-
ably was written by one whose hands were hard with
ramming home cartridges upon the gallant old ship, is well
worthy of being often recited. It should be spoken with a
sti'ong voice, in a bold, martial tone, as if the speaker was
more used to making his voice heard above the raging storm
than in the still calm of a fashionable drawing-room:
Oh! shipmates, come, gather, and join in my ditty;
It's of a terrible battle that happened of late:
Let each good Union tar shed a sad tear of pity.
When he thinks of the once gallant Cumberland's fata.]
The eighth day of March told a terrible story.
And many a brave tar to this world bid adieu!
Yet our Flag it was wrapt in a mantle of glory.
By the heroic deeds of the Cumberland's crew.
Oh that ill-fated day, about ten in the morning,
The sky it was clear, and bright shone the sun:
The drums of the Cumberland sounded a warning.
That told every seaman to stand by his gun.
the Cumberland's cre"W.
115
An iron-clad frigate down on us came bearing,
And high in the air the Rebei flag flew;
The pennant of treason she proudly was waving,
Determined to conquer the Cumberland's crew.
Then up spoke our Captain with stern resolution,
Saying: " My boys, of this monster now don't be dismayed."
We swore to maintain our beloved Constitution,
And to die for our country we are not afraid !
We fight for the Union : our cause it is glorious,
To the Stars and the Stripes we will stand ever true.
We'll sink at our quarters, or conquer victorious !
Was answered, with cheers, from the Cumberland's crew.
Now our gallant ship fired her guns' dreadful thunder.
Her broad-side, like hail, on the Rebel did pour :
The people gazed on, struck with terror and wonder:
The shots struck his side.s, and glanced harmless o'er;
But the pride of our navy could never be daunted.
The' the dead and the wounded her deck they did strew:
And the Flag of our Union how proudly it flaunted.
Sustained by the blood of the Cumberland's crew!
Slowly they sunk beneath Virginia's waters !
Their voices on earth will ne'er be heard more.
They'll he wept by Columbia's brave sons and fair daughters I
May their blood be avenged on Virginia's shore!
In that battle-stained grave they are silently lying—
Their souls have for ever to earth bid adieu !
But the Star-Spangled Banner above them is flying—
It was nailed to the mast by the Cumberland's crew!
They fought us three hours with stern resolution.
Till those Rebels found cannon would never avail them ;
For, the Flag of Secession has no power to gall them,
Tho' the blood from their scuppers it crimson'd the tide I
She struck us amidst-ship, our planks she did sever:
Her sharp iron prong pierced our noble ship through:
And still, as they sunk on that dark rolling river,
" We'll die at our guns !" cried the Cumberland's crew.
Columbia's sweet birth-right of Freedom's communion.
Thy Flag never floated so proudly before:
For the spirits of those that died for the Union,
Above its broad folds now exultingly soar!
And when our sailors in battle assemble,
God bless our dear Banner, the Red, 'White, Blue!
Beneath its bright Stars, we'll cause tyrants to tremble.
Or sink at our guns, like ^le Cumberland's crew !
116
THE SAILOR BOY'S DREAM,
THE SAILOR BOY'S DREAM.
DIOMKD.
This popular piece should bo recited in an unaffected, sim¬
ple, pure, and melodious manner, until the Sailor Boy is
rudely awakened from his happy dream—then the action
should be animated—frenzied—and the voice thrillingly
loud and effective. At the end, the voice should sink into a
low monody-hkc tone:
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.
Ho dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers.
And pleasures that waited on life's merry mom;
While Memory stood sidewise, half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, hut secreted its thom.
Then Fancy, her magical pinions spread wide.
And hado the young dreamer in cctasy rise:
Now far, far behind him the green waters glide.
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.
The jessamine clambers in flowers 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 hoy in a love-kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.
The heart of the sleeper heats high in his breast;
Joy quickens his pulse—all hardships seem o'er;
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest:
" Kind Fate, thou has blessed me; I ask for no more."
Ah! what is that flame which now hursts on his eye t
Ah ! what is that sound which now larums his ear 1
'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky!
'Tis the crashing of thimders, the groan of the sphere!
Be springs from his hammock—^he flies to the deck—
Amazement confronts him with images dire-
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel awreck—
The masts fly in splinters—the shrouds are on Are I
thehe's but one pair of stockings to mend. 117
Like mountains the billows tremendously swell—
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save;
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave 1
0 sailor boy ! woe to thy dream of delight!
In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss ;
Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright,
Thy parents' fond pleasure, and love's honeyed kiss 7
0 sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again
Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay;
Unblessed and unhonored, do^vn 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-flowers 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 :
0 sailor boy ! sailor boy! peace to thy soul 1
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 -yorsted balls—a score.
there's but one pair of stockings to henl^.
The good 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 flre-light 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 fa/ 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,^
lid
" 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 toward 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."
HOME.
MONTGOMEKV.
This choice piece should be spoken in a tone expressive of
mingled pride and delight; the eye kindling with pleasure,
the voice full and melodious:
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 emparadise 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 blost,
A dearer, sweeter sgot than aU^the rest,
120 GOLDEil RTTLES OF DAVID COFFERFIELD.
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,
Strew 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 t
Art thou a man 7—a patriot 7—look aroimd;
0, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam.
That land thy country, and that spot thy home 1
GOLDEN KULES OE DAVID COPPERFIELD.
DICKENS.
The following specimen of fine English prose is here given
that the speaker may accustom himself to what every pub¬
lic debater will often find he is frequently called upon to do
—namely—to read extracts, resolutions, etc. Head slowly;
giving to every word its due importance, and enunciating
every syllable clearly and distinctly:
I feel as if it were not for me to record, even though this manu¬
script is intended for no eyes but mine, how hard I worked at tuat
tremendous short-hand, and all improvement appertaining to it, in
my sense of responsibility to Dora and her aunts. I will only add,
to what I have already written of my perseverance at this time of
my life, and of a patiept and continuous energy which then began
to be matured within me, and which I know to be the strong part
of my character, if it have any strength at all, that there, on look¬
ing back, I find the source of my success.
I have been very fortunate in worldly matters; many men have
worked much harder, and not succeeded half so well; bat I never
could have done what I have done, without the habits of punctual¬
ity, order, and diligence, without the determination to concentrate
myself on one object at a time, no matter how quickly its success¬
or should come upon its heels, which I then formed. Heaven knows
I write this in no spirit of self-'.audation.
The man who reviews his life, as I do mine, in going on here, from
page to page, had need to have been a good man, indeed, if he would
be spared the sharp consciousness of many talents neglected, many
Ko. 10.—See Appendix.
Othello's taLe of ins woomo.
opportunities wasted, many erratic and perverted feelings constant¬
ly at war within his breast, and defeating him. I do not hold one
natural gift, I dare say, that I have not abused. My meaning
simply is, tha»' whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with
all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself to,
I have devoted myself to completely; that, in great aims and in
small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest.
I have never believed it possible that any natural or improved
ability can claim immunity from the companionship of the steady,
plain, hard-working qualities, and hope to gain its end. There is
no such thing as such fulfillment on this earth. Some happy tal¬
ent, and some fortunate opportunity, may form the two sides of
the ladder on which some men mount; but the rounds of that
ladder must be made of stufT to stand wear and tear; and there is
no substitute for thorough-going, ardent, and sincere earnestness.
Never to put one hand to anything, on which I could throw my
whole self; and never to affect depreciation of my work, whatever
it was; I find, now, to have been my golden rules.
OTHELLO'S TALE OF HIS WOOING.
SHAKESPEARB.
In this piece the speaker should assume an attitude of
calm dignity—equally removed from arrogant hauteur as
from timid subserviency. As Othello warms at the recital
of his daring deeds and wonderful adventures his voice
grows stronger, his actions bolder. Whenever he refers di¬
rectly to Desdemona, a pleasant smile irradiates his features,
and his tones become soft and flute-like:
OttieUo. As truly as to Heaven
I do confess the vices of my blood.
So justly to your grave ears I'll present
How I did thrive in this fair lady's love,
And she in mine.
Duke. Say it, Othello.
0th. Her father loved me; oft invited me,
Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battle, sieges, fortunes.
That I have pass'd.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days
To the very moment that he bade.me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances.
Of moving accidents, by flood and field;
Of hair breadth 'scap^ i' the imminent deadly breach;
124
TSB BUBIAL OF SIB JOHH MOOBB.
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence,
And portance in my travel's history;
Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle.
Bough 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 hear,
Would Desdemona seriously incline:
But 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 meaen
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart.
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate.
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 passed;
And I loved her, that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used.
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
This p.ece should be spoken in a full, deep voice, as solemn
and sweet as the gravest tones of an organ :
Not a drum was heard nor a funeral note.
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot.
O'er the grave where our hero was hurled.
We hurled him darkly at dead of night.
The sods with our bayonets turning—
By the struggling moon-heam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.
TO THE AMERICAN UNION
123
No useless cofBn enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud we bound 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 of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed.
And smoothed down his lowly pillow.
That the foe and the stranger would tread on 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 nothing he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him
But half of our heavy task was done.
When the clock told the hour for retiring.
And we heard by the distant and random gun
That the foe was suddenly firing;
Slowly and sadly we laid him down
From the field of his fame fresh and gory.
We carved not a line—we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.
TO THE AMERICAN UNION.
TUPPEE.
This piece needs little action or gesture; but should be
spoken in a clear, bold tone of voice :
Giant aggregate of nations.
Glorious whole of glorious parts.
Unto endless generations
Live united, hands and hearts!
Be it storm or summer-weather.
Peaceful-calm or battle-jar.
Stand in beauteous strength together,
Sister States, as now ye are !
Every petty class-dissension.
Heal it up as quick as thought;
Every paltry place-pretension.
Crush it, a^^ing of naught:
TO THE AMERICAN UNION.
Let no narrow private treason
Your great onward progress bar.
But remain, in right and reason,
Sister States, as now ye are!
Fling away absurd ambition !
People, leave that toy to kings ;
Envy, jealousy, suspicion.
Be above such grovelling things,
In each other joys delighted.
All your hate be—joys of war,
And by all means keep united.
Sister States, as now ye are 1
Were I but some scornful stranger,
Still my counsel would be just;
Break the band, and all is danger,
Mutual fear and dark distrust:
But you know me for a brother
And a friend who speak from far;
Be as one, then, with each other.
Sister States, as now ye are!
If it seems a thing unholy
Freedom's soil by slaves to till.
Yet, be just, and sagely, slowly
Nobly, cure that ancient ill:
Slowly,—haste is fatal ever;
Nobly,—lest good faith ye mar;
Sagely,—not in wrath to sever
Sister States, as now ye are!
Charmed with your commingled beauty,
England sends the signal round,
" Every man must do his duty •'
To redeenl from bonds the bound
Then indeed your banner's brightness,
Shining clear from every star.
Shall proclaim your joint uprightness
Sister States, as now ye are 1
So, a peerless constellation
May those stars forever blaze!
Th7'ee-and-ten-times-threefold nation.
Go-ahead in power and praise !
Like the many-breasted goddess
Throned on her Ephesian car.
Be—one heart in many bodies 1
Sister States, as now, ye are I
REPLT OF MR. PITT TO HORACE WALPOLE. 127
REPLY OF MR. PITT TO HORACE WALPOLE,
On being taunted on account of youth.
The attitude of the speaker throughout this speech should
he proudly erect—as if conscious that he was fully the peer
of any that listened to his harangue. As he lashes his
adversary with a scourge of serpents, his curled lip and
bitter invective should be in manifest contrast with his lofty
bearing, as he compares himsidt with his calumniator;
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 may
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 deter¬
mining ; but surely age may become justly contemptible, if the
opportunities which it brings have passed away without improve¬
ment, 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 either of
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 become 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; 1 have been accused of
acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part may either imply some
peculiarities of gesture, or a dissimulation of my real sentiments,
and an adoption of the opinions and language of another man.
In the first sense, sir, 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, perhaps, I may have some ambition to please this gentle¬
man, I shall not lay myself under any restraint, nor very solicit
ously copy his diction or his mien, however m.atured by age, oi
modelled by experience.
But if any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behavior
imply that I utter any sentiments but ray orvn, I shall treat him af
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
128
THE TWO WEAVERS.
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 is the ardor of convic¬
tion, and that zeal for the serrice of my country which neither
hope nor fear shall influence me to suppress. I will not sit uncon¬
cerned 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
him in his villainy, and whoever may partake of his plunder.
THE TWO WEAVERS.
HANNAH MORE.
This piece should be spoken in a simple, unaffected con¬
versational manner ; still it admits of much quiet emphasiSi
and subdued irony :
As at their work two weavers sat.
Beguiling time with friendly chat,
T'aey touched upon the price of meat,
So high, a weaver scarce could eat.
" What with my brats and sickly wife,"
Quotn 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 1 Why none to me 1
" 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;
THE TWO WEAVERS.
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 1 where's the border 1
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."
130
DESTINT OF DUE COUNTRY.
DESTINY OF OUR COUNTRY.
B. C. WIIfTHBOP.
This finale of a very brilliant speech, should be delivered
in a plain, solid and even severe style, as though the orator
were uttering thoughts and conclusions as solemn and im¬
portant as were ever coined into language. The voice
should be rather elevated, as though the speaker meant
every tone to be fully heard:
Here, then, sir, I bring these remarks to a close. I have ex¬
plained, to the best of my ability, the views which I entertain of
the great questions of the day. Those views maybe misrepresent¬
ed 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.
One tie, however, I am persuaded, still rethains to us ill—a com¬
mon devotion to the Union of these States, and i common deter¬
mination to sacrifice everything but principle to its preservation.
Our responsibilities are indeed great. This vast republic, stretch¬
ing 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 flery 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 ai)pall us will soon be remember¬
ed 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 tby breath, can quench the orb of day ?
To-morrow, it repairs its golden flood.
And warms the nations with redoubled ray 1"
WEDDED LOVE'S FIRST HOME.
131
Let us proceed in the settlement of the unfortunate controversies
in which we find ourselves involved, in a spirit of mutual concilia¬
tion and concession ;—let us invoke fervently upon our efforts the
blessings of that Almighty Being who is " the author of peace and
the lover of concord —and we shall still find order springing out
of confusion, harmony evoked from discord, and peace, union and
liberty, once more re-assured to our land !
WEDDED LOVE'S FIRST HOME.
JAMES HALL.
Every line of this little poem, should be given as if each
tone expressed the acme of happiness; even the absent are
hardly mourned, so sweet are the recollections :
'Twas far beyond yon mountains, dear, we plighted vows of love,
The ocean-wave was at our feet, the autumn sky above;
The pebbly shore was covered o'er with many a varied shell.
And on the billow's curling spray the sunbeams glittering fell.
The storm has vexed that billow oft, and oft that sun has set.
But plighted love remains- with us, in peace and lustre yet.
I wiled thee to a lonely haunt, that bashful love might speak
Where none could hear what love revealed, or see the crimson
cheek;
The shore was all deserted, and we wandered there alone.
And not a human step impressed the sand-beach but our own.
Thy footsteps all have vanished from the billow-beaten strand;
The vows we breathed remain with us—they were not traced in
sand.
Far, far we left the sea-girt shore, endeared by childhood's dream.
To seek the humble cot that smiled by fair Ohio's stream;
In vain the mountain cliff opposed, the mountain torrent roared.
For love unfurled her silken wing, and o'er each barrier soared;
And many a wide domain we passed, and many an ample dome.
But none so blessed, so dear to us, as wedded love's first home.
Beyond those mountains now are all that e'er we loved or knew,
The long-remembered many, and the dearly-cherished few:
Tlie home of her we value, and the grave of him we mourn.
Are there ;—and there is all the past to which the heart can turn:
But dearer scenes surround us here, and lovelier joys we trace.
For here is wedded love's flrrt home, its hallowed resting-place.
132
ABDBESS TO A MUMMY.
ADDRESS TO A MUMMY.
HORACE SMITH.
Nearly every verse of this poem admits, indeed calls for,
a change of manner, tone, and gesture; tlia meaning is so
obvious as to instantly suggest the mode of elocution befit¬
ting the idea expressed :
Anl thou hast walked about (how strange a story !)
In Thehes's streets, three thousand years ago.
When the Memnonium was in all its glory.
And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous.
Of which the very ruins are tremendous!
Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy;
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune;
Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, mummy 1
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon ;
Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures.
But with thy bones and flesh and limbs and features.
Tell us—for doubtless thou canst recollect—
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame 1
Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect •
Of either pyramid that bears his name t
Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer I
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?
Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade;
Then say, what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played I
Perhaps thou wert a priest—if so, my struggles
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles
Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat.
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;
Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat.
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass.
Or held by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great temple's dedication.
I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed.
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled.
For thou wert dead and buried and embalmed.
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled
Antiquity appears to have begun
Long after thy primeval race was run.
No, 11.—See A^neodi:^.
NO SUBMISSION.
135
Since first thy form was in this box extended,
We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations:
The Roman empire has begun and ended;
New worlds have risen ; we have lost old nations,
And countless kings have into dust been humbled,
Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.
Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Grus, Apis, Isis,
And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder.
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder 1
If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed.
The nature of thy private life unfold:
A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast.
And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled !
Have children climbed those knees and kissed that face
What was thy name and station, age and race 1
Statue of flesh ! immortal of the dead !
Imperishable type of evanescence !
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed.
And standest undecayed within our presence !
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning.
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning!
Why should this worthless tegument endure
If its undying guest be lost for ever ?
0, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure
In living virtue, that, when both must sever.
Although corruption may our frame consume.
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.
NO SUBMISSION.
This brief stanza affords a fine example for rapid «nd
forceful utterance;
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 engulph, 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.
Tb the charge ! Heq^ren's bannnt is o'er qs,
136
TTTW AMBBICAN FATBIOT'3 SONG.
APOSTROPHE TO NIGHT.
TOFKO.
Slowly, reverently, as if deeply impressed by the angast
and solemn nature of the subject, should these lines be
spoken. There should but little action accompany the
delirory of the language :
0 majestic night!
Nature's great ancestor ! Day's elder born!
And fated to survive the transient sun!
By mortals and immortals seen with awe !
A starry crown thy raven brow adorns,
An azure zone thy waist: clouds, in heaven's loom
Wrought through varieties of shape and shade.
In ample folds of drapery divine.
Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven throughout.
Voluminously pour thy pompous train :
Thy gloomy grandeurs—Nature's most august
Inspiring aspect!—claim a grateful verse.
And like a sable curtain starred with gold,
Drawn o'er my labors past, shall clothe the scene.
Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne.
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.
Silence how dead ! and darkness how profound!
Nor eye, nor listening ear an object finds.
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause;
An awful pause ! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled :
Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more.
THE AMERICAN PATRIOT S SONG.
Deliver this in a bold, exultant tone of voice, with
liberal gesticulation and action :
Hark ! hear ye the sound that the winds on their pinions
Exultingly roll from the shore to the sea.
With a voice that resounds through her boundless dominions 1
'Tis Columbia calls on her sons to be free!
Behold, on yon summits where Heaven has throned her,
How she starts from her proud, inaccessible seat;
ME FORGIKO OF THE AliOHOR.
13?
Behold, on yon summits where Heav en has throned her,
How she starts from her proud, inaccessible seat;
With Nature's impregnable ramparts around her,
And the cataract's thunder and foam at her feet!
In the breeze of the mountains her loose locks are shaken,
While the soul-stirring notes of her warrior-song
From the rock to the valley re-echo, " Awaken,
Awaken, ye hearts that have slumbered too long!"
Yes, Despots! too long did your tyranny hold us
In a vassalage vile, ere its weakness was known;
Till we learned that the links of the chain that controlled us
Were forged by the fears of its captives alone.
That spell is destroyed, and no longer availing.
Despised as detested—pause well ere ye dare
To cope with a people whose spirits and feeling
Are aroused by remembrance and steeled by despair.
Go tame the wild torrent, or stem with a straw
The proud surges that sweep o'er the strand that confines them ;
But presume not again to give freemen a law,
Nor think with the chains they have broken to bind them.
To hearts that the spirit of Liberty flushes.
Resistance is idle, and numbers a dream ;
They burst from control, as the mountain-stream rushes
From Its fetters of ice, in the warmth of the beam.
THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.
SAMUEL EEBOUSOir.
This fine poem is full of points for brilliant declamation ;
at times there should be a flow of rapid narration, rising fre¬
quently 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 stiU 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 moimd heaves
below.
And red and deep a hundred feins burst out at every throo ;
138
THE FORGlNa OP THE Al^C^Oft.
It rises, roars, rends all outright—0, 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
A.S, quivering through his fieece of fiame, the sailing-monster slow
Sinks on the anvil —all about the faces fiery grow.
Hurrah !" they shout, * leap out—^leap outhang, hang 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 'ay on load 1
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 stem, sea after sea ; the mainmast by the hoard;
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 I' 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 cat was cast.
0, trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me.
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea'
0, broad-anned diver of the deep, whose sports can equal thine 1
The good ship weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line ;
A SHIP DRIVEN OUT OP ITS COURSE.
139
And, night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play.
0, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand
Whose be the white bones by thy side, once leagued in patriot
band!
0, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round
thee.
Thine iron side 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—
0, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung.
Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!
A SHIP DRIVEN OUT OF ITS COURSE.
FALCONER.
In the outset this piece should be delivered without any
extraordinary action, or much elevation of voice, but as the
ship's peril becomes more apparent, the action and gestures
should become more impassioned and rapid:
As yet amid this elemental war.
That scatters desolation from afar.
Nor toil, nor hazard, nor distress, appear
To sink the seamen with unmanly fear.
Though their firm hearts no pageant honor boast
They scorn the wretch that trembles in his post;
Who from the face of danger strives to turn.
Indignant from the social hour they spurn.
Though now full oft they felt the raging tide
In proud rebellion climb the vessel's side.
No future ills unknown their souls appall;
They know no danger, or they scorn it all!
But even the generous spirits of the brave.
Subdued by toil, a friendly respite crave;
A short repose alone their thoughts implore.
Their harassed powers by slumber to restore.
Far other cares the master's mind employ.
Approaching perils all his hopes destroy.
In vain he spreads the graduated chart.
And bounds the distance by the rules of art;
140
BINGEN ON THE RHINE.
In vain athwart the mimic seas expands
The compasses to circumjacent lands,
Ungrateful task ! for no asylum trac^,
A passage opened from the watery waste.
Fate seemed to guard with adamantine mound
The path to every friendly port around.
IVhile Albert thus, with secret doubts dismayed,
The geometric distances surveyed ;
On deck the watchful Redmond cries aloud,
Secure your lives—grasp every man a shroud.
Roused from his trance, he mounts with eyes aghast,
When o'er the ship, in indulation vast,
A giant surge down-rushes from on high,
And fore and aft dissevered ruins lie.
BINGEN ON THE RHINE.
MBS. NOBION.
Commence in a firm, but not loud voice, giving a full
swing to the beautiful rhythm of the lines. As the dying
soldier recalls his mother, his sister, and " another, not a sis¬
ter," the voice should grow tremulous, and there should be
a perceptible quiver in it:
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 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 corpse 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«ome were young, and suddenly beheld life's mom decline.
And one had come from Bingen—fair Bingen ou the Rhine.
BINGEN ON THE RHINE.
141
Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age;
And I was, ay e, 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,
1 let them take whato'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—dear 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 pro\idly, 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, 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 that 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—
1 dreamt I stood with her, and saw the yellow simlight 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 beloved of yore and well-remembered walk;
And her little hand lay lightly, oonfidingly 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 was fied.
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 1
•
142
PICTURE OF DOilESTIC LOVE.
PICTURE OF DOMESTIC LOVE.
CAMPBELL.
This piece calls for no loud declamation—no straining of
the voice, but should be recited with a quiet gracefulness^
tin harmony with the theme :
Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought
Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote,
Where love and lore may claim alternate hours.
With peace embosomed in Idalian bowers!
Remote from busy life's bewildered way,
O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway,
Free on the sunny slope or winding shore
With hermit-steps to wander and adore!
There shall he love, when genial morn appeal's,
Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears,
To watch the brightening roses of the sky,
And muse on Nature with a poet's eye!
And when the sun's last splendor lights the deep,
The woods and waves and murmuring winds asleep.
When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail,
And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale.
His path shall be where streamy mountains swell
Their'shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell;
Where mouldering piles and forests intervene.
Mingling with darker tints the living green ;
No circling hills his ravished eye to bound,
Heaven, earth, and ocean, blazing all around.
The moon is up—the watch-tower dimly burns—
And down the vale his sober step returns.
But pauses oft as winding rocks convey
The still sweet fall of music far away;
And oft he lingers from his home awhile.
To watch the dying notes, and start, and smile!
Let winter come I let polar spirits sweep
The darkening world, and tempest-troubled de.ep;
Though boundless snows the withered heath deform.
And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm, .
Yet shall the smile of social love repay.
With mental light, the melancholy day I
And when it's short and sullen noon is o'er,
. The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore.
How bright the faggots in his little hall
Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!
tucf GRAY.
143
How blest he names, in love's familiar tone,
The kind fair friend by nature marked his own;
And, in the waveless mirror of his mind,
Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind,
Since when her empire o'er his heart began.
Since first he called her his before the holy man ?
Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome.
And light the wintry paradise of home;
And let the half-uncurtained window hail
Some way-worn man benighted in the vale !
Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high.
As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky;
While fiery hosts in heaven's wide circle play.
And bathe in Inrid light the milky way ;
Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower,
Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour;
With pathos shall command, with wit beguile
A generous tear of anguish, or a smile!
LUCY GRAY.
WORDSWORTH.
Should be spoken in a natural, medium tone. Any dis¬
play of forced or high utterance would be out of place in
this simple and beautiful ballad:
No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor;
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a cottage door !
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green ;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
" To-night will be a stormy night.
You to the town must go ;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
" That, father, I will gladly do;
'Tis scarcely afternoon—
The minster clock has just struck two.
And yonder is the moon."
ixrcY OUAY.
At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot band;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe—
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time.
She wandered up and down,
And many a hill did Lucy climb.
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on a hill they stood.
That overlooked the moor ;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from the door.
They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,
" In heaven we all shall meet,"—
When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Half breathless, from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorne hedge.
And by the long stone wall;
And then an open field they crossed—
The marks were still the same;
They track them on, nor ever lost.
And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank ]
Those footmarks, one by one.
Into the middle of the plank—
And further there were none !
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
No. 12.—See Appendix.
THE UNION.
X47
[ / THE UNION.
' DANIEL WEBSTEB.
This speech should be delivered in a severe, lofty, grandly
eloquent style. The speaker should look and act as though
impressed by the magnificence of the theme;
And now, Mr. President, I draw these observations to a close.
I have spoken freely, and I meant to do so. I have sought to make
no display ; I have sought to enliven the occasion by no animated
discussion, nor have I attempted any train of elaborate argument.
I have wished only to speak my sentiments fully and at large,
being desirous once and for all to let the senate know, and to let
the country know, the opinions and sentiments which I entertain
on all these subjects.
These opinions are not likely to be suddenly changed. If there
be any future service that I can render to the country, consistently
with these sentiments and opinions, I shall cheerfully render it.
If there be not^ I shall still be glad to have had an opportunity to
disburden my conscience from the bottom of my Heart, and to
make known every political sentiment that therein exists.
And now, Mr. President, instead of speaking of the possibility or
utility of secession, in^teadof 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 th6>
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 con¬
ceptions 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 char¬
acter, founded upon principles of equality, and so constructed, we
hope, as to last forever.
In all its history it has been beneficent: it has tiodden down no
THE DEATH- OF THE FLCWERS.
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 Vdst 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 descrip¬
tion 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 roimd;
la living silver seemed the waves to roll.
And beat the buckler's verge, and bound the wljole."
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
W. C. BBTAKT.
This piece should be recited in a rather low tone, in a
sweet, soft, almost dirge-like manner:
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year.
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead •
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay.
And from the wood-top caws the crow, through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung
and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood 1
Alas! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers
Ai'e lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago.
And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood.
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood.
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on
men.
And the brightness of their smUe was gone from upland, glade
and glen.
And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will
come.
To caU the scxuirrel and the bee from out their winter home,
MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.
149
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees
are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill.
The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he
bore.
And sighs to flnd them in the weed and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died.
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:
In the eold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.
MORBIS.
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—1 see it yet!
What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the h^ls of home!
160
MISDIEECTED AND GUILTY AMBITION.
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.
THE RESULTS OF MISDIRECTED AND GUILTY AMBITION-
ADAM SMITH.
While this instructive article does not call for any drama¬
tic declamation, its meaning can be vastly improved by care¬
ful and judicious expression. It should first be silently read
to gain its points:
To attain to this envied situation, the candidates for fortune too
frequently abandon the paths of virtue ; for, unhappily, the road
which leads to the one. and that which leads to the other, lie some¬
times in opposite directions. ,
But the ambitious man flatters himself that, in the splendid situa¬
tion to which he advances, he will have so many means of command¬
ing the respect and admiration of mankind, and will be enabled to
act with such superior propriety and grace, that the lustre of his
future conduct will entirely cover or efface the foulness of the steps
by which he arrived at that elevation.
In many governments the candidates for the highest stations are
above the law, and if they can attain the object of their ambition,
they have no fear of being called to account for the means by
which they acquired it. They often endeavor, therefore not only
by fraud and falsehood, the ordinary and vulgar arts of intrigue
and cabal, but sometimes by the perpetration of the most enor¬
mous crimes, by murder and assassination, by rebellion and civil
war, to supplant and destroy those who oppose or stand in the way
of their greatness.
They more frequently miscarry than succeed, and commonly
gain nothing but the disgraceful punishment which is due to their
crimes. But though they should be so lucky as to attain that
wished-for^greatness, they are always most miserably disappointed
in the happiness which they expect to enjoy in it.
It is not ease or pleasure, but always honor, of one kind or an¬
other, though frequently an honor very ill understood, that the
ambitious man really pursues. But the honor of his exalted station
appears, both in his own eyes and in those of other people, pel-
DIONYSITJS, tYTHlAS ANT) DAMON.
161
luted and defiled by the baseness of the means through which he
rose to it.
Though by the profusion of every liberal expense, though by
excessive indulgence in every profligate pleasure,—the wretched
but usual resource of ruined characters,—though by the hurry of
public business, or by the prouder and more dazzling tumult of war,
he may endeavor to eflace, both from his own memory and from
that of other people, the remembrance of what he has done, that re¬
membrance never fails to pursue him.
He invokes in vain the dark and dismal powers of forgetfulness
and oblivion. He remembers himself what he has done, and that
remembrance tells him that other people must likewise remember it.
Amidst all the gaudy pomp of the most ostentatious greatness,
amidst the venal and vile adulation of the great and of the learned,
amidst the more innocent though more foolish acclamations of the
common people, amidst all the pride of conquest and the triumph
of successful war, he is still secretly pursued by the avenging furies
of shame and remorse ; and while glory seems to surround him on
all sides, he himself, in his own imagination, sees black and foul
infamy fast pursuing him, and every moment ready to overtake
him from behind.
DIONYSIUS, PYTHIAS AND DAMON.
Few dialogues afford better opportunity for practice than
this excellent one. The speaker should endeavor to personi¬
fy (put himself in his place) each individual, and try to fully
realize the meaning of every word:
Dionysius. Amazing ! what do I see I It is Pythias just arrived
—^it is, indeed, Pythias. 1 did not think it possible. He is come
to die, and to redeem his friend !
Fythias. Yes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my confinement
with no other views than to pay to Heaven the vows I had made;
to settle my family concerns according to the rules of justice ; and
to bid adieu to my children that I might die tranquil and satisfied.
Dionysius. But why dost thou return I Hast thou no fear of
death 1 Is it not mad, then, to seek it I
Pythias. I return to suffer, though I do not deserve death.
Honor forbids me to leave my friend to die for me.
Dionysius. Dost thou, then, love him better than thyself I
Pythias. No, I love him as myself; but I know I ought to suffer
death rather than my friend, since it was I whom thou hadsi
decreed to die. It were not just that Damon should suffer, to free
me from that death which was not for him, but for me only.
Dionysius. But thou sayest that it is as unjust to inflict death
upon thee as upon thy frienc^
152
DIONTSnrS, PYTHIAS AND DAMON.
' Fythtas. Very true; we are both innocent, and it is equally un¬
just to make either of us suffer.
Dionysius. Why dost thou, then, say that it were wrong to put
him to death instead of thee 1
Pythicu. It is unjust in the same degree to inflict death either on
Damon or on myself; but I should be highly culpable to let Damon
suffer that death which the tyrant had prepared for me only.
Dionysius. Dost thou return hither to-day with no other view
than to save the life of thy friend, by losing thy own 1
Pythias. I return, in regard to thee, to suffer a death which it is
common for tyrants to inflict; and, with respect to Damon, to per¬
form my duty by freeing him from the danger which he incurred
by his kindness to me.
Dionysius. And now, Damon, let me speak to thee. Didst thou
not really fear that Pythias would never return, and that thou
wouldst be put to death for him 1
Damon I was but too well assured that Pythias would return;
and that he would be more anxious to keep his promise than to
save his life. Would to heaven that his relations and friends had
detained him by force ! He would then have lived for the comfort
and benefit of good men; and I should then have the satisfaction
of dying for him.
Dionysius. What! art thou not fond of life 1
Damon. No ; I am not, when I see and feel the power of a tyrant.
Dionysius. It is well! Thou shalt see him no more; I will order
thee to be put to death.
Pythias. Pardon the feelings of Damon—of a man who feels for
his dying friend ; but remember it was I who was devoted by thee
to death. I come to submit to it, that I may redeem my friend.
Do not refuse me this comfort in my last hour.
Dionysius. I cannot endure men who despise death and defy my
power.
Damon. Thou canst not endure virtue.
Dionysius. No; I cannot endure that proud, disdainful virtue,
which contemns life, which dreads not pain, and which feels not
the charms of riches and pleasure.
Damon. Thou seest, however, that it is a virtue which feels the
dictates of honor, justice, and friendship.
Dionysius. Guards, take Pj'thias to execution. We shall see
whether Damon will still despise my authority.
Damon. Pythias, by returning to submit himself to thy pleasure,
has merited his life, and deserved thy favor, but I have excited thy
indignation, by placing myself in thy power in order to save him.
Be satisfied, then, with this sacrifice, and put me to death.
Pythias. Hold, Dionysius ; remember it was I alone that offended
thee; Damon could not.
Dionysius. Alas! what do I see and hear I Where am II
How miserable; and how worthy to be so! I have hitherto
MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.
153
known nothing of true virtue. I have spent my life in darkness and
error. Not all my power and honors are sufiicient to produce love.
I cannot boast of having gained a single friend in the course of a
reign of thirty years, and yet these two persons, in private life, love
one another tenderly, fully confide in each other, are mutually
happy and ready to die for each other's preservation.
Pythias. Jiow couldst thou, who hast never loved any person,
expect to have friends 1 If thou hadst loved and respected men,
thou wouldst have secured their love and respect. Thou hast
feared and oppressed mankind, and they both fear and detest thee.
Pionysitts. Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit me as a third
friend in a connection so perfect. I give you your lives, and I will
load you with riches.
Pamon. We have no desire to be enriched by thee ; and as to thy
fuendship, we cannot accept or enjoy it till thou become good and
just. Without these qualities, thou canst be connected with none
but trembling slaves and base flatterers. To be loved and esteemed
by men of free and generous minds, thou must be virtuous, kind,
just, and know how to live on a sort of equality with those who
share and deserve thy friendship.
INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND
DOG.
BTRON.
In this short poem there are lines calling for the expres¬
sion of regret, scorn, contempt and pity;
When some proud son of man returns to earth.
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe.
And storied urns record who rests below ;
' When all is done, upon the tomb is seen.
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend.
The first to welcome, foremost to defend.
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth.
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven.
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man i thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power.
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
JPegraded mass of animated dust 1
154
THE HON-SLAYEK.
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat.
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute miglit bid thee blush for shame
Ye ! who perchance behold this simple um,
Pass on—it honors none you wish to mourn :
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,—and here he lies.
THE LION-SLAYER.
This narrative admits of much variety of intonation, ges¬
ture, and even action. At first, when Gerard's early life is
described, the voice should be used in a plain monotone, but
afterward it may sink almost to a whisper when telling of the
preparations for the conflict, and the stealthy approach of
the lion; while victory and rejoicings naturally suggest a
higher tone, and more rapid and joyous expression :
Julius Gerard was born in France. In 1842, he joined the
French army in Algiers, as a volunteer. He was fond of hunting,
and occasionally went on shooting excursions in the neighborhood
of Bona, for this region abounded in quails, partridges, water¬
fowl, hares, rabbits, foxes, antelopes, jackalls and wild boars. The
soldiers did not generally venture far from the town for fear of the
Arabs, who were yet unconquered, and also from dread of pan¬
thers and lions and flies, for the heights of Algiers are infested
by swarms of green flies, which fix themselves by myriads on the
bodies of men and animals, and worry them to death.
This kind of life was too inglorious for Gerard, and he obtained
an appointment to go to Guelma, near Mount Atlas, where he dis¬
tinguished himself in battle. Gerard had heard that an old lion
from the Atlas mountains, was ravaging the country in that re¬
gion, and had destroyed innumerable victims, men as well as cattle.
The whole population was in despair. Gerard offered to kill the
lion for them.
Taking his dog with him, he crossed the vast plains of Guelma,
which abound in a rich and luxuriant growth of plants. Having
examined the regions the lion had devastated, and made himself
familiar with the localities, he calmly awaited the return of night.
The hour of the evening watch has sounded. Refreshments cir¬
culate in the hospitable tent where are assembled the elders of the
tribe of Arabs resident there. And to stimulate the courage of
Gerard, who was their guest, one of the most gifted of the natives
chants a long ballad in honor of the famous lion-snarer, Arsennc.
THE LION-SLAYEB.
155
Having lighted his pipe, Oerard took leave of his entertainers,
and set forth towards the woody ravines. During the entire sum¬
mer night he explored the district in vain. The next evening he
was still on his daring search. At about eight o'clock the terrific
howling of a lion, repeated again and again by the echo, was heard
to issue from a neighboring ravine. At the dread sound all things
seem to tremble, and all animals, both wild and tame, fled away
and hid themselves from the king of beasts.
Gerard was impatient to meet his foe. He pressed towards him,
and, removing the branches, his eye eagerly attempted to penetrate
the gloom. The watchful dog followed his master's eye, and sud¬
denly crouched at his feet, without uttering so much as a cry of
terror. Fear had palsied his voice.
There stood one of the largest and fiercest of the lions of North
Africa. It was a terrible sight! His shaggy mane floating in the
wind, his eyes seemed to shoot fire, and his mouth was reeking with
blood.
He had planted himself within twenty paces of Gerard, whose
pulse throbbed—^not wit'n fear, but with joy at having reached the
crisis of his enterprise, and finding himself face to face with the
enemy he had been seeking.
The lion saw his antagonist, who' seemed to him an easy and
certain prey, so often had he killed men in his midnight depreda¬
tions. Profiting by the few seconds during which the monster
stood glaring at him, Gerard schooled himself to sustain his flash¬
ing eye without quailing. Then, bringing his weapon cautiously
to his shoulder, he grasped it firmly. His body was slightly in¬
clined forward, resting on limbs as immovable as buttresses of
masonry.
He pauses a moment to steady his aim. If it fail, the monster
will be upon him before he can reload. Life and death are at issue
upon that single shot. Now he is ready. His finger presses the
trigger. An explosion, of sweeter melody to his ear than strains
of softest music, shows that the trusty weapon has not failed.
Stricken exactly between the two eyes, the huge beast shakes the
earth with a convulsive bound; and as the volume of smoke clears
away, Gerard contemplates his victim gasping out his latest breath
at his feet.
As the news spread that the lion was dead, men, women and
children filled the air with shouts of joy. The traces of their de¬
spair and misery passed away. Torches were burned ; guns were
fired as the signal for a feast. Wheaten puddings, light beer and
biscuits circulated freely round. Discordant fiourishes of native
music, songs and dances, made up an Arabian festival, full of spirit
and originality.
The entire population poured forth along the path to the dead
lion, their torches shining like a long riband of flame ; and soon,
illumined by the reflection ot a thous^d torches, the monster was
156
FARE THEE WELt.
seen stretched out motionless on the earth. He measured seven¬
teen feet in length, and a thick, curly and knotted mane veiled
half of his huge form.
One instant kept silent by astonishment, the delirious joy of the
multitude quickly found vent in shouts that rent the air. A thous¬
and voices joined in one, like the voice of a thousand grains of
powder uniting in the report of a cannon, hailed Gerard as the
Lion-Slayer.
Such was his first exploit in a career which has since gained this
young Frenchman such renown. The fame of his prowess quickly
spread abroad, and numerous applications were made to him for
succor from districts ravaged by lions. These he has again and
again accepted, and always with complete success.
There is, it must be recollected, a very essential difference be¬
tween such exploits as those of Gerard and the killing of animals
for sport. The defence of society against beasts of prey is a duty,
and when we see the habitations of peaceful families invaded by
such monsters, who have left the forest to search for prey,—their
flocks ravaged, and their children destroyed,—we should be thank¬
ful that there are men endowed with courage and presence of mind
to become the deliverers of a neighborhood from such fearful in¬
truders.
Julius Gerard may indeed be honored as a hero, for his intrepid¬
ity has freed many a village from a terrible scourge. And the very
qualities which made him a hero, and fitted him to do battle with
fierce lions, would make him disdain to inflict pain, or hurt, or
death, on any of God's harmless creatures.
FARE THEE WELL.
BTRON.
In this beautiful poem—addressed by Byron to his wife—
there is full scope for a portrayal of love, sorrow, tenderness
and bitter sorrow:
Fare thee well! and if for ever.
Still, for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain.
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:
13.—See Appendix,
FARE THEE WELL
159
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show !
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thoo'
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee.
Founded on another's woe:
Though my many faults defaced me.
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound 1
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth.
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is—that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Beth shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a vsidow'd bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather.
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say ' Father!'
Though his care she must forego 1
When her little hand shall press thee.
When her lip to thine is press'd.
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee.
Think of him thy love had bless'd !
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more mayst see.
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest.
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.
160
THE GBEEN MOUNTAIN BOYS.
Every feeling hath been shaken ;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee—by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now;
But 'tis done—all words are idle-
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted.
More than this I scarce can die.
THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS.
W. C. BBTAITT.
This piece should be give in a free, full voice, as if ut¬
tered by brave young soldiers, conscious of their own cour¬
age, and relying in the justice of their cause:
Here we halt our march, and pitch our tent
On the rugged forest ground.
And light our fire with the branches rent
By winds from the beeches round.
Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,
But a wilder is at hand.
With hail of iron and rain of blood, .
To sweep and waste the land.
How the dark wood rings with voices shrill,
That startle the sleeping bird;
To-morrow eve must the voice be still.
And the step must fall unheard.
The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,
In Ticonderoga's towers.
And ere the sun rise twice again.
Must they and the lake be ours.
Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides
Where the fire-flies light the brake ;
A ruddier juice the Briton hides
In his fortress by the lake.
Build high the fire, till the panther leap
From his lofty perch in flight,'
And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep,
For the deeds of to-morrow night, ,
THK SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.
161
THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.
WILMAM HOSS WAIjIiACE.
This piece, instinct with genius and patriotism, although
written as a song, will furnish the student some matchless
stanzas for declamation. The first few lines are plain narra¬
tion—but as the old soldier recalls the field, baptized by
the sacred blood of Warren, he warms with the inspiring
theme, and pours forth the heroic words with rapid utter-
anoe:
He lay upon his dying bed,
His eye was growing dim,
When with a feeble voice he called
His weeping son to him;
Weep not, my boy, the veteran said,
1 bow to Heaven's high will.
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
The sword was brought, the soldier's ey«
Lit with a sudden flame;
And as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured Warren's name j
Then said: —My boy I leave you gold.
But what is richer still:
I'll leave you, mark me, mark me, now,
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
'Twas on that dread, immortal day,
I dared the Briton's band,
A Captain raised his blade on me,
1 tore it from his hand;
And while the glorious battle raged.
It lightened Freedom's will:
For, boy, the God of Freedom blessed
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
Oh! keep the sword—his accents broke,
A smile, and he was dead.
But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade,
Upon his dying bed.
The son remains, the sword remains.
Its glories growing still.
And twenty millions bless the sire
And Sword of Bunker Hill.
162
SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
BRYANT.
To be spoken in a clear, resonant, bold manly voice; with
an erect carriage, fearless gestures, and bold attitude:
Our band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea.
We know its wall of thorny vines.
Its glades of reedy grass.
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.
Woe to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain.
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again ;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil:
We talk the battle over.
And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shoiit»
As if a himt were up.
And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the .wind
That in the pine-top grieves, ,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads—
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
THE OORSAta.
163
Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp—
A moment—and away
Back to the pathiess forest,
Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Sante^
Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And teal's like those of spring..
For them we wear these trusty arms.
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
For ever, from our shore.
THE CORSAIR.
BYRON.
The following lines should be delivered with a full, round
voice, as of one exulting over the high spirits and sense of
freedom imparted by " walking the waters like a thing of
life: "
O'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea.
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam.
Survey our empire and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway—
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell 1 not thou, luxurious slave!
whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
Whom slumber soothes not—pleasure cannot please
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide.
The exulting sense—the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way I
164
ADDRESS TO INDEPENDENCE.
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
And where the feebler faint—can only feel—
Feel—to the rising bosom's inmost core.
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar I
No dread of death—if with us die our foes—
Save that it seems even duller than repose :
Come when it will—we snatch the life of life—
When lost—what recks it—by disease or strife 1
Let him who crawls enamor'd of decay.
Cling to his couch and sicken years away;
Heave his thick breath, and shake bis palsied head;
Ours—^the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul.
Ours with one pang—one bound—escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave.
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave;
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed.
When Ocean shrouds and seimlchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regret sujjply
In the red cup that crowns our memory.
And the brief epitaph in danger's day.
When those who win at length divide the prey.
And cry. Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
" How had the brave who fell exulted now ! "
ADDRESS TO INDEPENDENCE.
We have printed this piece as prose—not measuring it
off into metrical lines, that the reader may see how natur¬
ally the rhythm forms itself upon the tongue :
Thy spirit. Independence, let me share. Lord of the lion heart
and eagle eye! thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, nor heed
the storm that howls along the sky. Thou, guardian genius, thou
didst teach my youth pomp and her tinsel livery to despise; luy
lips, by thee chastised to early truth, ne'er paid that homage which
the heart denies.
Those sculptured walls my feet shall never tread, where varnish¬
ed Vice and Vanity, combined to dazzle and seduce, their banners
spread, and forge vile shackles for the free-born mind; where In¬
solence his wrinkled front uprears, and all the flowers of spurious
fancy blow; and Title his ill-woven chaplot wears—^fiill often
wreathed around the miscreant's brow; where ever-dimpling
Falsehood, pert and vain, presents her sup of stale profession's
THE WBEOK.
166
froth; and pale Disease, with all his bloated train, torments the
sons of gluttony and sloth. In Fortune's car behold the minion
ride, with either India's glittering spoils oppressed ; so moves the
sumpter-mule, in harnessed pride, that bears the treasure which be
cannot taste. For him let venal bards disgrace the bay, and hire¬
ling minstrels wake the tinkling string; her sensual snares let
faithless Pleasure lay, and all her jingling bells fantastic Folly
ring;—disquiet, doubt and dread shall intervene; and Nature,
still to all her feelings just, in vengeance hang a damp on every
scene, shook from the baneful pinions of disgust.
Nature I'll court in her sequestered haunts, by mountain,
meadow, streamlet, grove or cell; where the poised lark his even¬
ing ditty chants, and health, and peace, and contemplation dwell.
There Study shall with Solitude recline, and Friendship pledge me
to his fellow-swains; and Toil and Temperance sedately twine the
slender cord that fluttering life sustains ; and fearless poverty shall
guard the door; and Taste unspoiled the frugal table spread ; and
Industry supply the humble store ; and Sleep, unbribed, his dews
refreshing shed; white-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite, shall
chase far off the goblins of the night; and Independence o'er the
day preside j—propitious power I my patron and my pride 1
THE WRECK.
BYKON.
Scarcely ever has such a startling picture been portrayed
by words. The reader should try by tone, accent, and ges¬
ture to give the author's evident meaning:
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell—
Then shriek'd the timid and stood still the brave—
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave ;
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell.
And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave^
Like one who grapples with his enemy.
And tries to strangle him before he die.
And first one universal shriek there rush'd
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swinger in his agony.
Z66 DEPA&TUEE OF MABMION.
DEPARTURE OE MARMION.
SCOTT.
To deliver this noble extract aright, the student should
carefully study every line, and thus obtain an insight into
the characters of Douglas and Marmion. The voice should
vary as much as possible in" every respect, to personify the
two warriors:
Not far advanced was morning day.
When Marmion did his troop array
To Surrey's camp to ride;
He had safe conduct for his band.
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide:
The ancient earl, with stately grace,
Would Clara on her palfrey place.
And whispered, in an under tone,
" Let the hawk stoop,—his prey is flown! "
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 staid,—
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 1"
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire.
And—" This to me! " he said,—
" An' 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
DEPARTURE OF MARMION.
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,
Even 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 peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near.
Lord Angus, thou hast lied! "
On the earl's cheek the fiush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth ;—" And dar'st thou, then,
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall 1
And hop'st thou thence unscath'd to go 1—
No! by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms!—what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall! "
Lord Marmion turned—well was his need 1—
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 sWm
Along the smooth lake's level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reached Lis band.
He halts and turns with clenched Land,
And shout of loud defiance pours.
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
" Horse! horse ! " the Douglas cried, " and cbaM
But soon he reined his fury's pace:
" A royal messenger he came.
Though most unworthy of the name.
A letter forged ! Saint Jude to speed!
Did ever knight so foul a deed!
At first in heart it liked me ill,
■When the king priised his clerkly skilL
168
WAR SONG OF XHJi GREEKS.
Thanks to Saint Bhthan, son of mine,
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line:
So swore I, and I swear it still,
Let my boy-bishop fret bis fill.
" Saint Mary mend my fiery mood !
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood;
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him, too," he cried;
" Bold can he speak, and fairly ride:
I warrant him a warrior tried."
TVith this his mandate he recalls.
And slowly seeks his castle walls.
WAR SONG OF THE GREEKS.
BABRT CORNWALL.
This should be delivered with a prompt, fearless enuncia¬
tion, as though the speaker's heart was charged with the
electric tire of love of country :
Awake! 'tis the terror of war!
The crescent is tossed on the wind;
But our flag flies on high, like the perilous star
Of the battle. Before and behind.
Wherever it glitters, it darts
Bright death into tyrannous hearts.
Who are they that now hid us be slaves t
They are foes to the good and the free;
Go, hid them first fetter the might of the waves!
The sea may he conquered; but we
Have spirits untamable still.
And the strength to he free,—and the will!
The Helots are come: in their eyes
Proud hate and fierce massacre hum ;
They hate us,—but shall they despise 1
They are come,—shall they ever return 1
0, God of the Greeks I from thy throne
Look dov/n, and we'll conquer alone!
Our fathers,—each man was a god,
His will as a law, and the sound
Of his voice, like a spirit's, was worshipped: he trod,
And thousands fell worshippers round;
From the gates of the West to the Sun,
He bade, and his bidding was done.
No. 14.—See Appendix.
SORROW FOR THE DEAD.
171
And we,—shall we die in our chains,
Who once were as free as the wind 1
Who is it that threatens,—who is it arraigns 1
Are they princes of Europe or Indl
Are they kings to the uttermost pole 1
They are dogs, with a taint on their soul!
80RK0W FOR THE DEAD,
lEVIlfG.
The following extract, as remarkable for the purity of its
expression as the justness of its sentiment, should be spok¬
en in a tone of unaffected feeling:
There is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a
remembrance of the dead, to which we tuni even from the charms
of the living. 0, the grave ! the grave ! It buries every error—
covers every defect—extinguishes every resentment. From its
peaceful bosom spring none hut fond regrets and tender recollec¬
tions. Who can look down upon the grave, even of an enemy, and
not feel a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred
with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him ?
Rut the grave of those we loved—what a place for meditation !
There it is that we call up, in long review, the whloe history of vir¬
tue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments, lavished upon
us—almost unheeded—^in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there
it is that we dwell upon the tenderness—the solemn, awful tender¬
ness—of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled
griefs—its noiseless attendance—its mute, watchful assiduities.
The last testimonies of expiring love! The feeble, fluttering,
thrilling—0, how thrilling!—pressure of the hand! The last
fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us, even from the
threshold of existence! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in
death to give one more assurance of affection !
Ay! go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There set¬
tle the account with thy conscience, for every past benefit unre¬
quited—every past endearment unregarded—of that departed
being, who can never—never—never return, to be soothed by thy
contrition ! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to
the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent,
—^if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that
ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of
thy kindness or thy truth,—if thou art a friend, and hast ever
wrot>ged, in thought, or word, or deed the spirit that generously
confided in thee,—if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one un¬
merited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still b«»
172
VALEDICTORY ADDRESS.
Death thy feetthen be sure that every unkind look, every un-
graciou.s word, every ungentle action will come thronging hack
upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be
sure that thou wilt lie down, sorrowing and repentant, on the
grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear
—more deep, mce bitter, because unheard and unavailing 1
Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of
nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst,
with these tender, yet futile tribuies of regret; but, take warning
by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and
henceforth be more faithful and afibctionate in the discharge of thy
duties to the living.
VALEDICTOEY ADDRESS TO THE SENATE OP THE
UNITED STATES, 1842.
HENRY CLAY.
This eloquent farewell address of the great Eentuckian
should be given with the full, sonorous voice of its author, if
possible—the figure proudly erect, the arm now sweeping
over the Senate, then bearing the good right hand to that
brave honest heart, while with heaven-turned eye he appeals
to the great Searcher of Hearts as to the integrity of his
motives:
And now, allow me to announce, formally and offlcially, my re¬
tirement from the Senate of the United States, and to present the
last motion I shall ever make in this body, but, before I make
that motion, I trust I shall be pardoned if I avail myself, with the
permission and indulgence of the senate, of this last occasion of
addressing to it a few more observations.
I entered the Senate of the United States in December, 1806.
I regarded that body then, and still consider it, as one which may
compare, without disadvantage, with any legislative assembly, either
in ancient or modern times,—whether I look to its dignity, the ex¬
tent and importance of its powers, the ability by which its individ¬
ual members have been distinguished, or its organic constitution.
If compared in any of these respects with the senates either of
France or of England, that of the United States will sustain no
derogation.
With respect to the mode of constituting those bodies, I may ob¬
serve, that, in the House of Peers in England, with the exceptions
of Ireland and of Scotland,—and in that of France with no excep¬
tion whatever,—the members hold their places in their individual
rights, under no delegate authority,—not even from the order to
VALEDICTOEY ADDRESS.
173
which they belong,—but derive tbem from the grant of the crowni
transmitted by descent, or created in new patents of nobility; while
here we have the proud and more noble title of representatives of
sovereign states, of distinct and independent commonwealths.
If we look again at the powers exercised by the senates of France
and England, and by tbe senate of the United States, we shall find
that tbe aggregate of power is much greater here. In all, tbe re¬
spective bodies possess tbe legislative power. In tbe foreign sen¬
ates, as in this, the judicial power is invested, although there it ex¬
ists in a larger degree than here.
But, on tbe other band, that vast, undefined, and undefinable
power, involved in the right to co-operate with the executive in the
formation and ratification of treaties, is enjoyed in all its magni¬
tude and consequence by this body, while it is possessed by neither
of theirs; besides which, there is another function of very great
practical importance—that of sharing with the executive branch in
distributing the immense patronage of this goveniment. In both
these latter respects we stand on grounds different from the House
of Peers either of England or France.
And then, as to the dignity and decorum of its proceedings, and
ordinarily as to the ability of its members, I may, with great truth,
declare that, during the whole long period of my knowledge of this
senate it can, without arrogance or presumption, stand an advan¬
tageous comparison with any deliberate body that ever existed in
ancient or modern times.
Full of attraction, however, as a seat in the senate is, sufficient
as it is to satisfy the aspirations of the most ambitious heart, I have
long determined to relinquish it, and to seek that repose which can
be enjoyed only in the shades of private life, in the circle of one's
own family, and in the tranquil enjoyments included in one en¬
chanting word—Home.
It was my purpose to terminate my connection with this body in
November, 1840, after tbe memorable and glorious political strug¬
gle which distinguished that year ; but I learned, soon after, what
indeed I had for some time anticipated from tbe result of my own
reflections, that an extra session of Congress would be called; and I
felt desirous to co-operate with my political and personal friends in
restoring, if it could be affected, the prosperity of the country, by
the best measures which their united counsels might be able to de¬
vise ; and I therefore attended tbe extra session.
From 1806, the period of ray entrance upon this noble theatre,
with short intervals, to the present time, I have been engaged in
the public councils at home or abroad. Of the services rendered
during that long and arduous period of my life it does not become
me to speak ; history, if she deign to notice me, and posterity, if
the recollection of my humble actions shall be transmitted to pos¬
terity, are the best, the ^uest, and the most impartial judges.
174
THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.
When death has closed the scene, their sentence will be prononnc*
ed, and to that I commit myself.
My public conduct is a fair subject for the criticism and judg¬
ment of my fellow-men; but the motives by which I have been
prompted are known only to the gieat Searcher of the human
heart and to myself; and I trust I may be pardoned for repeating
a declaration made some thirteen years ago, that, whatever errors
—and doubtless there have been many—may be discovered in a
review of my public service, 1 can, with unshaken confidence, ap¬
peal to that Divine Arbiter for the truth of the declaration, that I
have been influenced by no impure purpose, no personal motive ;
have sought no jjersonal aggrandizement; but that, in all my pub¬
lic acts, 1 have had a single eye directed, and a warm and devoted
heart dedicated, to what, in my best judgment, I believed the true
interests, the honor, the union, and the happiness of my country
required.
During that long period, however, I have not escaped the fate of
other public men, nor failed to incur censure and detraction of the
bitterest, most unrelenting, and most malignant character; and
though not always insensible to the pain it was meant to inflict, I
have borne it in general with composure and without disturbance
here [pointing to his breast], waiting, as I have done, in perfect
and undoubting confidence, for the ultimate triumph of justice and
of truth, and in the entire persuasion that time would settle all
things as they should be, and that whatever wrong or injustice I
might experience at the hands of man, He to whom all hearts are
open and fully known would, by the inscrutable dispensations of
his providence, rectify all error, redress all wrong, and cause am¬
ple justice to be done.
THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.
O. W. PATTEN.
This piece calls for a bold, loud tone, with an expression of
face indicative of scorn and hatred:
Blaze, with your serried columns!
1 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;
Ard where it falls ye well may dread
The lightning of its blow!
re scared ye in the city,
I've scalped ye on the plain;
Go, count your chosen, where they fall
Beneath my leaden rain 1
hamlet's soliloaxjy.
115
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 tbrougb the forest,
Ye've tracked me o'er the stream;
And, struggling tbrougb the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam ;
But I stand as should the warrior.
With bis rifle and bis 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 ne'er will ask ye quarter.
And I ne'er will be your slave;
But Til swim the sea of slaughter.
Till I sink beneath the wave!
HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.
SHAKESPEARE.
The first portion of this famous piece should be delivered
with an air of profound melancholy—the tone of voice deep
and sad. As the speaker contrasts his father with his uncle
the eye should fiash, and every tone express admiration of
the one—detestation of the other;
0 that this too, too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew !
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter !
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! oh fie 1 'tis an unweeded garden.
That grows to seed; things rank, and gross in nature,
Possess it merely.
That it should come to this!
But two months dead ; nay, not so much ; not two;
So excellent a king, that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr, so loving to my mother.
That he permitted not the winds of heaveH
Visit her face too rougMy. _____ _
176
EXTENSION OF THE AMEEICAN UNION.
Heaven and earth!
Must I remember 1—^Why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite liad grown
By what it fed on; yet, within a month—
Let me not think—Frailty, thy name is Woman!
A little month ! or ere those shoes were old,
With which she followed my poor father's body.
Like Niobe, all tears—Why, she, even she,—
(0 Heaven! a beast, that wants discourse of reason.
Would have mourned longer!)—married with mine uncle,
My father's brother; but no more like my father.
Than I to Hercules.
Within a month 1—
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her gall6d eyes.
She married I—0 most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to * !
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue L
EXTENSION OF THE AMEBIC AN, UNlbN.
WEBSTER.
This noble speech, and, indeed, all the orations of Webster,
should be delivered with bold, full, clear tones—each word
pronounced plainly and distinctly—the words swelling or¬
gan-like as the speaker becomes inspired by the grandeur
and majesty of his theme:
Your sentiment, Mr. President, calling me up before this meeting,
speaks of the constitution under which we live,—of the Union
which for sixty years has been over us and made us associates
with those who settled at the mouth of the Mississippi and their
descendants, and now, at last, fellow-citizens with those who have
come from all corners of the earth, and settled in California.
I confess I have had my doubts whether the republican system
under which we live could be so vastly extended, without danger
of dissolution. Thus far, I willingly admit, my apprehensions
have not been realized. The distance is vast—the intervening
country is vast. But the representative system on which our gov¬
ernment is established seems to be indefinitely expansive, and
wherever it does extend, it draws after it a love of the Union under
which we exist.
I believe California and New Mexico have had new life inspired
into the people. They consider themselves new beings, a new
EXTENSIOir OP TflE AMERICAN UNION. 177
creation, a new existence. They are not the men they thought
themselves to be, now that they find they are members of this great
government, and hailed as citizens of the United States of Amer¬
ica. I hope, in the providence of God, as this system of states
and representative governments shall extend, that it will be
strengthened.
Social agitations disturb it less. If there has been on the Atlan¬
tic coast, somewhere south of the Potomac (and I will not define
further where it is), if there has been dissatisfaction, that dissatis¬
faction has not been felt in California—it has not been felt on that
side of the Rocky Mountains.
It is a localism; and I am one of those who believe that our
system of government is not to be destroyed by localisms. North
or South. No; we have our private opinions, state prejudices,
local ideas ; but, above all, submerging all, drowning all, is that
great sentiment, that, always and nevertheless, we are Americans.
It is as Americans that we are known the whole world over.
Who asks what state you are from, in Europe, or in Africa, or in
Asia ? Is he an American 1—is he of us I Does he belong to the
flag of the country 1 Does that flag protect him I Does he honor
and support it t Does he rest under the eagle and stars and
stripes I If he does, if he is, all else is subordinate, and worthy
of but little concern.
Now, it is our duty, while we live on the earth, to cherish this
sentiment, to make it prevail, even if it should spread over the
whole continent. It is our duty to carry out English principles,—
I mean, sir, Anglo-Saxon American-English principles,—over the
whole continent; the great principles of Magna Charta, of the
English revolution, and of the English language. Our children
will hear Shakespeare and Milton recited on the shores of the Pa-
ciflc.
Nay, before that, American ideas, which are essentially English
ideas, will penetrate the Mexican, the Spanish mind; and they
will thank God that they have been brought to know something of
civil liberty, of the trial by jury, and of security for personal
rights. As for the rest, let us take courage. The day-spring from
on high has visited us. Light has broken in upon us. There is no
longer imminent danger of dissolution in these United States.
We shall live, and not die—we shall live as united Americans;
and those who have supposed that they could sever us, could rend
one American heart from another, and that secession and meta¬
physics could tear us asunder, will find themselves egregiously mis¬
taken.
Let the mind of the sober American people remain sober; let it
not inflame itself; let it do justice to all. The truest course, and
the surest course is to leave those who meditate disunion to them¬
selves, and see what they can make of it. No, gentlemen, the
i78
TO THE WEST.
time is past ; Americans, North and South will hereafter be more
and more united.
There has been lately aroused a sternness and severity in the
public mind. 1 believe that North and South, there has been in
the last year, a renovation of public sentiment, of the spirit of
union, and, more than all, of attachment to the constitution as in¬
dispensably necessary ; and if we would preserve our nationality,
this spirit of devotion should be largely increased. And who
doubts it t
If we give up that constitution, what are we t You are a Man¬
hattan man—I am a Boston man. Another is a Connecticut, and
another a Ehode Island man. Is it not a great deal better, stand¬
ing hand to hand, and clasping hands, that we should stand as we
have for sixty years, citizens of the same country, membei-s of the
same government, united all—^united now, and united forever 1
That we shall be, gentlemen. There have been difficulties, con¬
tentions, controversies—angry controversies. But I tell you that,
in my judgment,
" those opposed eyes.
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven.
All of one nature, of one substance bred,
Did lately meet in the intestine shock.
Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks,
March all one way."
TO THE WEST.
OALLAOHEB.
While the descriptions of natural scenery should be spoken
in rather restrained, though still enthusiastic manner, neither
voice, action nor gesture should be constrained in the dra¬
matic passages, of which there are many fine ones in tb^
poem:
Land of the West!—green forest-land !
Clime of the fair, and the immense 1
Favorite of Nature's liberal hand.
And child of her munificence !
Filled with a rapture wai-m, intense,
High on a cloud-girt hill 1 stand.
And, with clear vision gazing thence.
Thy glories round me far expand :
Rivers, whose likeness earth has not.
And lakes, that elsewhere seas would be,—
Whose shores the countless wild herds dot.
Fleet as the winds, and all as free;
TO THE WEST.
179
Mountains, that pierce the bending sky,
And with the storm-cloud warfare wage.
Shooting their glittering peaks on high.
To mock the fierce, red lightning's rage •
Arcadian vales, with vine-hung bowers.
And grassy nooks, 'neath heechen shade,
Where dance the never-resting Hours,
To music of the bright cascade;
Skies softly beautiful, and blue
As Italy's, with stars as bright;
Flowers rich as morning's sunrise hue,
And gorgeous as the gemmed midnight.
Land of the West! green forest-land 1
hus hath Creation's bounteous hand
Upon thine ample bosom flung
Charms such as were her gift when the gray world was young 1
Land of the West!—where naught is old
Or fading, but tradition hoary—
Thy yet unwritten annals hold
Of many a daring deed the story !
Man's might of arm hath here been tried.
And woman's glorious strength of soul.
When war's fierce shout rang far and wide.
When vengeful foes at midnight stole
On slumbering innocence, and gave
Nor onset-shout, nor warning word.
Nor Nature s strong appealings heard
From woman's lips, to " spare and save
Her unsuspecting little one,
Her only child—her son ! her son ! "
Unheard the supplicating tone.
Which ends in now a shriek, and now a deep death-groan I
Land of the West I—green forest-laud!
Thine early day for deeds is famed
Which in historic page shall stand
Till bravery is no longer named.
Thine early day !—it nursed a band
Of men who ne'er their lineage shamed;
The iron-nerved, the bravely good,
Who neither spared nor lavished blood-
Aye, ready, morn, or night, or noon ;
Fleet in the race, firm in the field.
Their sinewy arms their only shield—
Courage to death alone to yield;
The men of Daniel Boone!
Their dwelling place the " good green-wood;"
Their favorite haunts—the long arcade.
180
TO THE WEST.
The murmuring and majestic flood,
The deep and solemn shade:
Where to them came the word of God,
When storm and darkness were abroad.
Breathed in the thunder's voice aloud,
And writ in lightning on the cloud.
And thus they lived ; the dead leaves oft,
Heaped by the playful winds, their bed;
Nor wished they couch more warm or soft,
Nor pillow for the head.
Other than fitting root, or stone.
With the scant wood-moss overgrown.
Heroic band ! But they have passed.
As pass the stars at rise of sun:
Melting into the ocean vast
Of Time, and sinking, one by one;
Yet lingering here and there a few,
As if to take a last, long view
Of the domain they won in strife
With foes who battled to the knife.
Peace unto those that sleep beneath us!
All honor to the few that yet do linger with ns{
Land of the West!—thine early prime
Fades in the flight of hurrying Time ;
Thy noble forests fall, as sweep
Europa's myriads o'er the deep ;
And thy broad plains, with welcome warm,
Receive the onward-pressing swarm:
On mountain height, in lowly vale,
By quiet lake, or gliding river,—
Wherever sweeps the chainless gale,
_ Onward sweep they, and forever.
' O, may they come with hearts that ne'er
Can bend a tyrant's chain to wear;
With souls that would indignant turn,
And proud oppression's minions spurn ;
With nerves of steel, and words of flame,
To strike and sear the wretch who'd bring our land to shame 1
Land of the West!—beneath the heaven
There's not a fairer, lovelier clime ;
Nor one to which was ever given
A destiny more high, sublime.
From Alleghany's base, to where
Our western Andes prop the sky.
The home of Freedom's hearts is there.
And o'er it Freedom's eagles fly.
And here, should e'er Columbia's land
No. 15.—See Appendisi.
±HB FALLEN LEAVES.
183
Be rent with fierce intestine feud,
Shall Freedom's latest cohorts stand,
Till Freedom's eagles sink in blood.
And quenched are all the stars that now her banners stud t
THE FALLEN LEAVES.
NORTON.
The first stanza should be spoken in a fresh, joyous, light
tone; the second in a rich, melodious, fuller voice; the third
in a more manly set accent; the last in faint, faltering
tones:
We stand among the fallen leaves,
Young children at our play,
And laugh to see the yellow things
Go rustling on their way ;
Bight merrily we himt them down.
The autumn winds and we.
Nor pause to gaze where snow-drifts lie.
Or sunbeams gild the tree:
With dancing feet we leap along
Where withered boughs are strown,
Nor past nor future checks our song
The present is our own.
We stand among the fallen leaves
In youth's enchanted spnng— '
When Hope (who wearies at the last)
First spreads her eagle wing.
We tread with steps of conscious strength
Beneath the leafless trees.
And the color kindles in our cheek
As blows the winter bi'eeze ;
While, gazing towards the cold gray sky.
Clouded with snow and rain,
We wish the old year all past by.
And the young spring come again.
We stand among the fallen leaves
In manhood's haughty prime—
When first our pausing hearts begin
To love " the olden time ; "
And, as we gaze, we sigh to think
How many a year hath pass'd
Since 'neatli those cold and faded trees
Our footstep#wander'd last;
184
THK DESTBUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
And old companions—^now perchance
Estranged, forgot, or dead—
Come round us, as those autumn leaves
Are crush'd beneath our tread.
We stand among the fallen leaves
In our oum autumn day—
And tott'ring on with feeble steps,
Pursue our cheerless way.
We look not back—too long ago
Hath all we love been lost;
Nor forward—for we may not live
To see our new hope cross'd:
But on we go—the sun's faint beam
A feeble warmth imparts—
Childhood without its joy returns—
The present fills our hearts !
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
BTBOS.
This should be delivered in a lofty, impressive tone
voice, with a grave, solemn, majestic manner '.
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 faca of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleeper 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 hie 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 unblown.
£M1B HASSAN.
185
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!
EMIR HASSAN.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
This piece should be delivered in a quiet, unimpassioned
manner. The slave should speak respectfully to Hassan.
The Emir's responses should be delivered in a solemn tone,
as though he felt he "Was but the servant of the Emir of
Emirs:
Emir Hassan, of the prophet's race.
Asked, with folded hands, the Almighty's grace.
Then, within the banquet hall he sat.
At his meal, upon the embroidered mat.
There a slave before him placed the food.
Spilling from the charger, as he stood.
Awkwardly upon the Emir's breast
Drops that foully stained the silken vest.
To the floor, in great remorse and dread.
Fell the slave, and thus, beseeching said:
" Master, they who hasten to restrain
Rising wrath, in paradise shall reign."
Gentle was the answer Hassan gave:
" I'm not angry." " Yet," pursued the slave,
" Yet doth higher recompense belong
To the injured who forgives a wrong."
" I forgive," said Hassan. " Yet we read,"
So the prostrate slave went on to plead.
That a higher seat in glory still
Waits the man who renders good for ill."
" Slave, receive thy freedom, and behold
In thy hand I lay a purse of gold.
Let me never fail to heed, in aught,
What the prophet of our God hath taught.''
APPEl^DIX.
GRIEF.
Description of Figure 1, Fage 13.
The right foot slightly advanced; the hody fairly poised upon
both feet; the left arm dropped close to the side; the right arm
advanced a little to the front; both hands open ; in the right hand,
the palm downwards ; the head shghtly leaning forward ; the eyes
directed downwards, with lids drooping. This attitude and expres¬
sion is suitable for grief, as when Marc Antony says :
" My heart is in the coffin there
With Caesar."
DISLIKE.
Description of Figure 2, Fage 25.
The right foot somewhat advanced; the left knee a little hent;
the right arm almost falling straight, but a little advanced toward
the middle of the figure ; the left hand a little extended from the
side; the hands almost open, the palms downwards ; the head a
little drooped forward ; the face turned toward the right shoulder.
This position and expression indicates dislike or loathing. Such
an appearance would be that of Othello, when he exclaims:
" What committed 1
Committed!—Oh, thou public commoner t
I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds,"
AFfENDlZ.
181
MODESTY.
Ssieription of Figure S, Page 31'.
. The f<ght rbot set fairly on the groimd; the left heel a little lift¬
ed ; the right arm at fall length, but a few inches from the side;
the hand open, the back of the hand in front; the left arm close to
the body to the elbow; the fore-arm a little extended from the
body, but tending downward; the hand open; the palm down¬
ward. This attitude and gesture will express modesty and
respect for the persons addressed. Thus would Nerval stand in ad¬
dressing Randolph:
" Small is the skill my lord delights to praise
In him he favors ■
Hear from whence it came ;
In a deep cave, remote from public view—«
A hermit lived, a melancholy man," eto.
REGRET.
Deeeription of Figure 4, Page 49,
The right foot forward ; the legs weil together; tkw itght arm
nearly perpendicular with the body ; the hand about on# ibot from
the thigh; the hand nearly open ; the thumb and dngers pointing
down; the left arm close to the body to the elbow, then slightly
extending outward; the head turned a little backward, over the
right shoulder, and very slightly inclined forward; the eyes galling
on the distance. This figure would aptly show regret at losing
some loved object or country. Thus when Adam leaves Eden, bw
says:
" Must I thus leave thee. Paradise 1 thus leave
Thee, native soil! these happy walks and shades.
Fit haunt of Gods 1 where I had hope to spend.
Quiet, tho' sad, the respite of that day
That must be mortal to us both.
* * * Thee, lastly, nuptial bower.
From thee, how sliall I part 1
188
A7FEKDIX.
RESOLUTION.
Deteription of Figure 5, Fage 61.
The heels well together; the form straight; the left arm nearly
perpendicular with the body, and about nine inches from it; the
right arm, as far as the elbow close to the body, from the elbow
rather extended out; the palms of both hands turned down; the
head held firmly, but not boastingly erect. This position and man¬
ner would indicate firmness, as when Daniel Webster stoutly planted
himself on the platform in Old Faneuil Hall, and exclaimed:
" I take no step backward ! "
ADMIRATION.
Description of Figure 6, Fage 73.
The right foot very slightly advanced; the left knee bent a. little
so as to bring the figure into an easy, agreeable posture; the form
quite erect; the shoulders well back ; the right arm stretched out
on a level with the breast; the hand open, and the index finger
pointed at the object spoken of (or to); the left arm close to the
hip, but from the hip slightly extended from the body; the hand
expanded and palm down. Such an attitude and expression would
well befit the lines which Hamlet addresses to his mother:
" See what a grace was seated on this brow ;
Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination, and a form, indeed.
Where every God did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man."
CAUTION.
Description of Figure 7, Fage 85.
The right foot about an inch in advance; the legs close together;
the form at ease; the right arm bent so that the back of the open
fingers touches the lips; the left arm at the side, but slightly ex-
APPENDIX.
189
tended, partly forward, partly side ways ; the hand open, the palm
downwards. This would be a suitable posture and expression when
the jealous Moor is about to stealthily enter the chamber of the
sleeping Desdemona—where he says:
" Tt is the cause, it is the cause, my soul—
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!
It is the cause."
ADORATION.
Description of Figure 8, Page 97.
The right foot moderately advanced; the attitude gracefnUy
easy; the right arm bent at the elbow ; the thumb being on a level
with the shoulder ; the hand open, the palm outward; the left
arm hanging down perpendicular with, and a short distance from
the side, the hand nearly open, the palm down; the head slightly
thrown back; the eyes upturned. An expression and attitude like
this would well betit the utterance of the fine line from Byron:
" Ye stars, which are the poetry of heaven I "
DISDAIN.
Description of Figure 9, Page 109.
The weight of the body resting on the right foot; the left foot
merely touching the toe to the ground ; the right arm extended at
full length, straight from the shoulder ; the hand open, palm down;
the left arm a little from the side; the hand extended; the
palm down; the body proudly erect; the face turned to the right;
the eyes following the pointing of the extended right hand. This
position and gesture is indicative of pride and conscious self-supe¬
riority, as when Coriolanus, turning on the Roman rabble, ex¬
claims :
" Ye common cry of curs, whose breath I hate.
As reek o' the rotten fens ; whose love I prize
As the dead carcasses of unburied men
That do poUute the air!
I banish you! "
190
APPENDIX
CURSING.
Degeription of Figure 10, Page 121.
The feet slightly separated, the right foot very little in advance;
the right arm extended straight from the body, in the direction of
the thing or person addressed; the hand almost open, fingers
slightly contracted; the left arm stififiy at the side, some distance
from the person , palm of open hand to the front; shoulders well
back; head erect; lips wearing a fierce expression ; eyes glancing
malignantly.
These lines from Titnon would well accompany such attitude and
expression:
" Let me look back upon thee, 0 thou wall,
That girdles in those wolves! Dive in the earth.
And fence not Athens ! Matrons, turn incontinent.
Obedience fail in children ! slaves, and fools.
Pluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bench.
And minister in their steads! to general filths
Convert o' the instant green virginity !
Do't in your parent's eyes ! bankrupts, hold fast;
Rather than render back, out with your knives.
And cut your trusters' throats ! bound servants, steal I
Large-handed robbers your gi-ave masters are,
***** son of sixteen.
Pluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire.
With it beat out his brains ! piety, and fear.
Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth.
Domestic awe, night-rest, and neighborhood.
Instruction, manners, mysteries, and trades.
Degrees, observances, customs, and laws.
Decline to your confounding contraries.
And yet confusion live !—Plagues, incident to men,
Your potent and infectious fevers heap
On Athens, ripe for stroke!
APPEAL.
Description of Figure 11, Page 133.
Right foot a little in advance; left knee very slightly bent;
shoulders thrown back somewhat; face a little upturned; eyes
lifted heavenward ; right arm extended ; hand open, and a little
above the level of the forehead; left arm extended almost horizon-
APPBNDIX.
191
tally, so as to bring the wrist just below the belt; the hand open,
palm upwards. So might the following words of Isabella be de¬
livered :
" Merciful Heaven!
Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt,
Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarl^ oak.
Than the soft myrtle;—0, but man, proud man!
Dressed in a little brief authority,—
Most ignorant of what he's most assured.
His glassy essence,—like an angry ape.
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven.
As make the angels weep."
HATE.
Description of Figure 12, Page 145.
The right foot advanced, so that its heel just precedes the left
foot; the body slightly bent back ; the face turned to the sky, the
gaze directed upwards, with a fierce expression; the eyes full of
baleful light; the right arm held straight up ; the fingers very lit¬
tle curved; the left arm extended from the person; the hand open,
palm up. Satan might so have stood when apostrophizing the
sun;
" And add thy name,
Oh, Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams.
That bring to me remembrance from what state I fell."
PATRIOTISM.
Description of Figure 13, Page 157.
The right foot a slight space in advance; the form elevated to
full height; the right arm extended, and the hand just raised to a
level with the eyes; the left arm extended, so that the wrist is on a
level with the waist; the hand open, the palm horizontal with the
body. Such an attitude would be suitable while delivering Scott's
lines:
" Lives there the man with soul so dead.
Who never to himself has said:
' This is my own, my native land 1' "
192
APPENDIX.
COURAGE.
Deteription of Figure 14, Page 169.
The left foot a little in advance; the figure somewhat thrown
back, so that the breast is well advanced; the arms fully extended;
hands open; tlie right hand on a level with forehead; the left on a
level with lower part of thigh ; the right palm partly turned up¬
ward, the left partly down. Brutus might so have stood when he
said to Cassius ;
" And here my naked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plntus' 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 Cassar; for, I know.
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better
Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius."
INVOCATION.
Description of Figure 15, Page 181.
Heels well together; form erect; arms fully extended ; the right
hand to a level with the face; the left arm so that the hand is
below the waist; the head turned sideway as though admiring the
elevated objects looked at. Thus might William Tell have appear¬
ed when addressing the mountaineers of his native land :
" To arms, my friends! And let no sword be sheathed
Until our land, from cliff to lake, is free!
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks,
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow
In very presetice of the regal sun !
A country's never lost, that hath one man
To wrestle with the tyrant who'd enslave her! "
3 5556 017 540 477
-ittle Dialogues for Little People. A charming and en-
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of ])i'ovi(iitig; shorty i)ri^ht ]>ieces which csn he easily memorized by small children. Sent
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Macaulay's " Acting " Dialogues. Containing nearly one
hundred of ihe finest dialot;iiee in ihe luneuatfe, hiclnding clioice pieces for from two to
fifteen characters. Tln-se pieces are ail emiiientiv dramaiic. affording! everv speaker a trood
Clinnce lo act ont (he different parts. Sent hy inuil, post-paid, on receipt, of 25 Cents.
's Dialogues for Young People, on various sub-
fl JECTS AND IN DIFFERENT STYLES. Tliese diaiou'iies ure speclaJiy fitted for
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' and parlor enteitainmeiiLs. Sent hy mail, post-paid, on receipt of 25 Cents.
Macaulay's Dialogfues for Little Foiks. Containing a very
[ iarue niimi>erof inlereHMng ami 6))iriied dialogues on various siil)ject8, for from two to
twenty children. Sent l>y mail, pnst-paid, on rect ipC of 25 Cents.
i
May-Time. A collection of poems, exhibition pieces, and
gnint-B, »*ihtahle for school exercises and out-door enteriHlnineiite on May-day and other
spring festivals. Sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of 25 Cents.
Prescott's Drawing-room Recitations. A fine selection of
ifiiKic, CDmic, uiiil dialectic iiicces, ciin fiilly cimseii ii» lieing peciiliariy "ell adapied fi.r re"
citiii!; iiefore eeii-ci iiiidleiices in rifiiicd domestic circles. Sent by mail, post-paid, on
receiptor 25 Cents.
Prescott's Paragon Reciter. An unusually fine collection
of fresli and oriainni pii ces, as well iis standard selections of prose and poetry, snitable for
recitation and decinmalion in the liigiier classes of sciiools and seminaries. Sent liy mail,
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* Prescott's " Plain " Dialogues. Containing a great num-
^ bcr of sii|>eiior diulouucs upou a vnriei^ uf fiihjectH, all of prcsoiii interCi^t, and appropriate
1). for use ill ^cliooltl and Ijceiims, and in home parties. Siicb pieces are eigtiyed everywhere.
Sent by mail, poet-paid, on receipt of 25 Cents*
Prescott's Standard Recitations. Gathered with great
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schools, and for home recreation and impruvemeut. Sent by mail, post-paid, on receipf
of 25 Cents*
Prescott's " Diamond " Dialogues. A very choice collec-
lion of most excellent and enlerlaining dialogues, many of which were n riiien by a leacber
of much experience, and praciically tested in school exhihilions with entire success. A
wide range of subjects is emiu-aced in this book, from topics of liome and society to selec¬
tions from the he(>t dramas and comedies, giving scope for the employment.of a diversity of
t^ilent in Sheuking and acting. Sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of 25 Cents*
Prescott's Social Readings and Recitations. A collection
ofexcelieiii pi< Ces of wide range of subjects: some full of streiioth, fire, and patrioitsm:
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humor and irreMlstihIe drollery. For use in schools and lyceums, or hy the home fireside.
Sent hy malt, post-paid, on n ceiptof 25 Cents*
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