DE WITT'S LITTLE DIALOGUES AND WEE PIECES FOE, PAPA'S OWI BOY AND GIRL. Containing the largest number of tiny articles in prose and rhyme ever got together ©xpressly for the use of the smallest readers and speakers. Strongly and prettily bound. Price 50 Cents. Careful i ever WEE A Choic It is seld pages of a other very they first 1 Add DE WITT'S Glass ?H^ Book. ""Pe* \J M * 11 * Vi 11 Pieoes just JUES from the arching the joined with learn when * fpj&k, A 3 No. 33 Rose Street, New York. OET THE BEST ! GET THE BEST ! The farmer thinks no pains ill-bestowed in preparing the soil and selecting his seed, if he -wishes for a bountiful harvest. How much more necessary is it to give earnest attention to the minds of the Little Folks ? The love of reading is now so universal that there is a demand on the part of parents and guardians for the Best Reading Books, and we have spared neither time nor expense in producing WEBSTER'S LITTLE FOLKS' SPEAKER. COMPRISING Many Standard Pieces, as 'well as a great many entirely original, both Sentimental and Humorous. This book is one of the worthiest of its kLMcL It con- tains Two Hundred and Eleven Pistinct Pieces, in Prose and Poetry, carefully selected from the best Au- thors, express! y for Reading and Recitation in Primary as well as the next grade of Public and Private Schools* Not only is this work of very superior literary merit, but the printing 1 and binding are models of neatness and strength. A careful examination of Webster's Little Folks* Speaker will convince that every article has been care- fully culled, and is marked by true morality as well as by excellence of diction. It can be placed in a child's hand with the certainty that the contents will improve the morals, as well as refine and cultivate the taste. This book contains 200 pages, bound in board, with a brilliant, illuminated cover. Price...- . 50 Cents. A handsome and durable edition, bound in cloth ; elegantly lettered in gilt. Price 75 Cents. BST" Copies of the above Book sent to any address in the world, postage free, on receipt of price. Send Cash Orders to R. M. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose st., N. Y. {Between Duane and Frankfort sis.) GET THE BEST! GET THE BEST! « ■ » "To the making of books there is no end," said the wise son of David. And there should be no end to making new ones if they are an improvement on the books that preceded them. With this principle has the author of the following work been actuated: to reserve and reproduce the very finest things that have appeared in other Readers and Speakers, and to add everything new, fresh and excellent, suitable for such a book. WEBSTER'S YOUTHFUL SPEAKER. CONTAINING A GREAT NUMBER OP Choice, Eloquent and Instructive Pieces, eminently suitable for Declam- ation in School and Academy Exhibitions and on similar occasions. « < » » All the pieces in this book, however different in subject, are mostly expressed in short, sharp and decisive words, except •where the nature of the theme calls for swelling words and harmonious periods. Few books of its nature contain so many different articles, none so many rhetori- cal masterpieces. Not a line has been admitted, however brilliant in expression, that -was even suggestive of im- propriety. There will be found articles in WEBSTER'S YOUTHFUL SPEAKER to suit students of all various tastes, whether cheerful or pensive. The mechanical execution of the book tallies well with the literary matter, being in every way first rate. • , — , This book contains 200 pages, bound in board, with a brilliant illuminated cover. Price 50 Vemta, A handsome and durable edition, bound in cloth, elegantly lettered in gilt. Price 75 Cents* ' Copies of the above book sent to any address in the W07id, postage free, on receipt of price. Send Cash orders to K. M. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose st., N. Y. {Between Duane and Frankfort sts.) FREE! FREE!! FREE!!! tar An immense Descriptive Catakga o f the best Novels, the best Song Books, the best Music and the beet Plays, unequalled and unattainable elsewhere, mailed free upon application to R. M. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose Street, New York. GET THE BEST ! GET THE BEST ! Many of the works intended for the hi jher classes of Academies, N«mal Schools, and similar institutions do not l.eep pace with the progress of the pupils, but offer to the more advanced tbu same simple pieces that sufficed for mere children. It has been a prime object with the publisher of this series to adapt every succeeding book to the gradually expanding and unfolding minds of the class of readers for which each book is expressly intended. This fact will be of interest to tutors and parents, as well as to the pupils, and it will be found that we hav* 1 carried out this idea in preparing WEBSTEE'S PMRESSIYE SPEAKER, A very fine selection of the most admirable pieces, suited for Oratorical .Exhibitions in the hig-her classes of Academies, Colleges, Universities, Normal Schools, and for Intellectual Parlor Entertainments. Among the large number of pieces in this most care- fully prepared Speaker will be found many of th© masterpieces of the greatest Poets and Orators who have written or spoken in the language. Some of the pieces are light and graceful, but never frivolous or unmeaning; some again are strong, ardent, impetuous, but always within the line that separates noble passion from bombast and exaggeration. Each piece will also be found to point a moral, as well as to afford excellent practice f oz.' r eading and speaking in public. This book contains 200 pages, bound in boards, with a brilliant, illuminated ©over. Price 50 Cents* A handsome and durable edition, bound in cloth, elegantly lettered in gilt. Price. ... 7a Cents* KF* Copies of the above Book sent to any address in the world, postage paid, en receipt of price. Send Cash Orders to R. M. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose st., N. Y. (Between Duane and Frankfort sts.) GET THE BEST! GET THE BEST II WEBSTER'S BUSINESS MAN; OR, Coimting-House Correspondent. Containing Plain, Practical Directions for Carrying on every Kind of Commercial and Banking Business. Including- Mercantile Letters on very Conceivable Sub- ject, Laws and Usages of Banking- and Brokerage, Forms and Official Papers of Shipping, Insurance, etc., etc* Also containing an Extensive and very Useful Glossary of Words and Phrases used in Com- mercial and Banking Circles* Together with a very Full Exposition of the Specie and Paper Currency of the Whole World, and their Intrinsic and Nominal Value* BY THE AUTHOR OP rt Webster's ohaxbman's manual," •* Webster's reciter," Webster's prac- tical LETTER-WRITER," ETC., ETC. WEBSTER'S BUSINESS JWCAN treats upon every topic incidental to the experience of a business man. While its mam design is to instruct thfe reader in the details of commercial correspondence, the subject matter of these specimen letters embrace all points of interest to the general trader. Prominence has been given to banking, and the relationship between bank- ers and their dealers, inasmuch as hundreds of thousands of persons main- taining accounts of deposit and discount, are in ignorance of the duties of bankers and of tne the rights and privileges of the dealer. To the body of the work has been appended :— 1. A Glossary of the Technicalities of Commerce, or terms employed by mer- cantile men at home and abroad, as a peculiar and distinctive language not familiar to the general reader. 2. A table of moaeys in which mercantile accounts are kept in various foreign countries, information all important to dealers in imported merchan- dise; and 3. Several forms of important documents not to be found in a majority of works upon book-keeping. This work has been submitted to the perusal of several of our most eminent bankers and traders, and has invariably met with their approval. This Book contains over 200 pages, bound in boards, wife* a splendid illum- inated cover. Price 5® Cents. A. handsome and durable edition of this work, bound In cloth, elegantly lettered in gilt. Price 75 Cents* K3F* Copies of the above Mock sent to ozg address, post-paid!* on receipt efrttmt price, ROBERT M. BE WITT, PuMisker, 33 Rose Street, {Between Duant and Frankfort 8k., if. F.) GET THE B EST! GET THE BEST! in this free country, where every man that does his duty as a citizen may be at any moment called upon to preside over, or assist in the deliberations and debates of Public Meetings, it behooves all to be thoroughly "posted " as to the ways and means of properly conducting such assemblages. This .book will be found to contain a succinct and practical digest of the many volumes devoted to this important matter ; it is the honey extracted from the hoarded stores of the most eminent writers. A careful study of its thorough- ly prepared pages will find either Chairman or Speaker "armed at all points " that can possibly arise. WEBSTEE'S CHAIRMAN'S MANUAL AND SPEAKER'S SVIiE. Showing plainly and clearly How to Preside Over and Conduct Every Kind of Public Meeting. Witn full Ex- positions of the Manner of Procedure in the American Congress, the British Parliament, the Legislature of New York, the Grand Lodge of F. and A. Masons, etc. TO WHICH IS ADDED Numerous Precedents from the best authorities. Also, the Full Text of the Constitution of the United States, -with all its Various Amendments. By the Author of * ' Webster > Practical Letter Writer, " " Webster's Reciter, ' ' etc. ABSTRACT OF CONTENTS : Preface What is Public Business ? Rules of Order Motions, how made Chairman— his requisites ; necessity of his impartiality ; dignity re- quisite The Meeting Points of Order Debate Speakers Ar- ranging for a Meeting The "Call" A New Club Alma Mater Boys in Blue Committee of Arrangements Caucus and caucusing Conventions Town Meetings Ward Meetings Committees Reso- lutions and Motions Amendments Rules Divisions Yeas and Nays A Quorum Speaking Points of Order and Appeals De- bate Questions Privileged Questions Committee of the Whole Call of the House Adjournment By-Laws of Citizens' Central Com- mittee Forms and Formulas Farmers' Club Insurance Club Social Club British Parliament Congress of United States Business Rules of U. S. Senate Business Rules of U. S. House of Representatives Joint Business Rules of the two Houses Rules of the Senate of New York Relating to Order Rules and Order of the New York Assembly Joint Rules of the Senate and Assembly Routine of a Business Meeting Masonic Rules of Order Parliamentary Authorities Parliamentary Summary Constitution of the United States with all the Amendments. This Book contains over 200 Pages, bound in boards, with a splen- did Illuminated Cover Price 50 Gents. A Handsome and Durable Edition of this Work, bound in cloth, ele- gantly lettered in gilt Price 7S Cents. ^~ Copies of th€ above Book sent to any address in th4 TJniUd StaUs or Ganadas, postpaid, on receipt of retail price. Send Cash orders t© R. M. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose Street, (Between Duane and Frankfort Struts.) k WEBSTER'S RECITER; OR, ELOCUTION MADE EASY. Plainly showing • THE PROPER ATTITUDES OF THE FIGURE, THE VARIOUS EXPRESSIONS OF THE FACE, And the Different Inflexions and Modulation of the Voice, Clearly Explained by NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS. Also Containing Choice Selections of the Most Thrilling^ Passionate,; Heroic and Patriotic Speeches and Poems, with . Appropriate Instructions to enable the Learner to fit himself for either the Stage, the Bar, the Forum 9 or the Pulpit. BY THE AUTHOR OF 'WEBSTER'S PRACTICAL LETTER WRITER." ILLUSTRATIONS. FIGURE I.— Grief. FIGURE II.— Dislike. FIGURE III.— Modesty. FIGURE IV.-Regret. FIGURE V.— Resolution. FIGURE VI.— Admiration. FIGURE VII.— Caution. FIGURE VIII.— Adoration. FIGURE IX— Disdain. FIGURE X.-Cursing. FIGURE XI.— Appeal. FIGURE XII.— Hate. FIGURE XIII.— PATRI0TISM. FIGURE XIV— Courage. FIGURE XV.— Invocation. These Illustrations are very superior, excelling in accuracy of delineation, and beauty of execution, anything ever yet produced for a like purpose. WEBSTER'S RECITER will be found The Right Book, in the Right Place, if it is lound in the hands of every person desirous of making himself a perfeot master of the useful and noble art of Oratory. This book contains over 200 pages, bound in boards, with a splendid illu- minated cover. Priee - * ■ » - 50 Cents. A handsome and durable edition of this work, bound in cloth, elegantly tettered in gilt. Price ----- 75 Cents. Hfiy Copies of the above Books sent to any address in the United States or Ckm*1*t,fru qf charge. &m& Cash Orders to R. M. DB WITT, NO. 33 ROSE STREET, If. ff. / PEESOOTT'S PARAGON RECITER. AN UNUSUALLY ATTRACTIVE COLLECTION OF THE YEEY BEST PIECES SUITABLE FOR HEADING AND RECITATION BY THE SEASIDE AND FIRESIDE, AS WELL AS ADMIRABLY ADAPTED FOR DELIVERY IN THE HALLS OF SCHOOLS, LYCEUMS AXD COLLEGES. AMONG THE ARTICLES WILL BE FOUND MANY PATHETIC, HEROIC, PATRIOTIC AND HUMOROUS I LITERARY MASTERPIECES, GIVING FULL SCOPE FOR EVERY VARIETY OF ELOCUTIONARY AND DRAMATIC TALENT U^ / NEW YORK: DE WITT, PUBLISHER, Xo. 33 Hose Stkeet. Copyright, 1880, by A. T. B. De "Witt. CONTENTS OF !r«M(0tf8 § atpgim mritq. Name. Author. Page. Auction Extraordinary (The) Anonymous 54 American Sailor (The) Commodore Stockton. . . . 57 American Eagle (The) Anonymous 72 Agriculture D. S. Dickinson 84 America Phillips 99 Address of the President of the Lazy Club.. Anonymous .. ,--... 161 Baby's Fingers on the Pane.^ . „. Anonymous 29 Blue and the Gray J^.v5w?v€.#v.....:riES<98«M0e8 40 Backwoodsmen (The) A. Burlingame 119 Bottom Drawer (The) Anonymous 188 Blind Boy (The) Anonymous 151 Cultivation of Oratory Oryille Dewey 31 Cities Anonymous 69 Christianity Essential to Liberty Kossuth 70 Cause of Hungary Kossuth 82 Charcoal Man (The) Trowbridge 156 Drummer Boy's Burial (The)... Anonymous 7 Doesticks 1 Lament for his Friend 39 Drowned in Quicksand Anonymous 46 Dome of the Republic (The) Anonymous. 76 Defence of a Client S. S. Prentiss 87 Despair Dow, Jr 94 Da Capo D. L. Paine 104 4: CONTENTS. Name. Author. Page. Drifting T. B. Read 133 Death of Hale (The) Anonymous 183 Discoveries of Galileo . . .Anonymous 186 Experience with European Guides Mark Twain Gl Empty Nest (The) Lizzie York Case 83 Felon (The) M. G. Lewis 13 Fourth of July Geo. W. Bethune 28 Footsteps on the Other Side Margaret Eytinge 35 Fireman's Wedding (The) W. A. Eaton 90 Fireman's Story Anonymous 115 Fuss at Fires Anonymous 149 Fireman (The) R. T. Conrad 153 Gift of Green Corn Longfellow .,. . 9 Gideon Gray Charles Mackay 12 Grave of the Beloved Washington Irving 164 Greek and Turkman Croly 97 Getting under Way. Mark Twain 172 Good-Night and Good-Morning Lord Houghton 191 Heroism of the Pilgrims R. Choate ... 95 Higher Views of the Union Wendell Phillips 166 Indians (The) Joseph Story 53 Irish Picket (The; Orpheus C. Kerr 121 Isle of Long Ago (The) B . F. Taylor 78 Ike's Composition on the Horse E. P. Shillaber 118 It's All for Bread and Butter Mrs. C. M. Peat 142 Influence of Woman Webster 146 John Wilkes' Bold Predictions (1775) 22 John Maynard Anonymous 173 Kisses , .Rose Hartwick Thorpe. . 25 Katie Lee and Willie Gray Anonymous 109 Knight's Toast (The) -, Anonymous 125 Life of a Bird Mary Howitt 20 Labor is Worship Mrs. F. S Osgood 21 Lost Day (A) Anonymous Ill Lion's Ride (The) Anonymous 127 Life Clock (The) Anonymous. 132 CONTENTS. 5 Name. Author. Page. Lady Clare Tennyson 136 Lost Letter (The) Mrs. Mary Maine 148 Murdered Traveler (The) W. C. Bryant - 15 My Sailor Anonymous 33 Modern Belle (The) Stark 68 Mine Schildhood Author of " Leedle Yawcob Strauss." 80 Maclaine's Child Anonymous 103 Motherless Tnrkeys (The) Marion Douglas 140 Mattie Stevenson Anonymous 152 Nathan's Case Anonymous 37 Niagara Falls Kossuth 65 Noblest Men (The) Anonymous 66 New Year's Eve Anonymous 86 Nobody's Child Phila H Case 89 National Glory Henry Clay 192 Old Schoolmaster (The) Lee O. Harris 23 Over the River Nancy A. W. Priest...... 170 Other Side (The) Anonymous 182 Pioneers (The) Charles Mackay 16 Pilot (The) T.H.Bayly 20 Pearl Nautilus Holmes 34 Poor Man and the Fiend Anonymous 55 Power of Habit (The) Anonymous 73 Polly's Arrival Anonymous 112 Philosophy of Sports (The) Anonymous 184 Plea for the Sailor (A) Anonymous 190 Psalm of the Union (A) Anonymous 52 Relief of Lucknow (The) Robert Lowell 158 Richelieu and France Bulwer 163 Rainy Day (The) Longfellow 187 Ship on Fire (The) Anonymous 17 Spacious Firmament on High Addison 19 Smack in School (The) ■ W. P. Palmer 42 Scene at the Great Natural Bridge Anonymous 43 Saxon Grit (The) Rev. Robert Collyer.... 58 Sifting of Peter H. W. Longfellow 67 6 CONTENTS. Name. Author. Page. Stick Together Anonymous 79 Soldier's Reprieve (The) .Rose Hartwick Thorpe.. 144 Sergeant's Story (The) Wyoming Kit 129 Scouts in Camp (The) Wyoming Kit 154 Sick Englishman in Germany (The) Altered from Thos. Hood 167 Salathiel to Titus Croly 169 Strawberries Trowbridge 176 Spartacus to the Roman Envoys Epes Sargent 177 To Whom We Shall Give Thanks Anonymous 79 Trust John G. Whittier 124 Take Care of the Minutes Anonymous 191 Uncle Joe . Anonymous 26 Uncle Pete's Counsel to the Newly Married . Edmund Kirke 123 Uncrowned Kings Anonymous 189 Visit of Lafayette to America S. S. Prentiss 101 Washington's Statue H. S. Tuckerman 18 Woman's Story (A) Eula Lee 45 Why He Wouldn't Sell the Farm A. Alphonse DaytuN 48 When the Mists. Have Cleared Away An n vmous 139 White Hands , Wyn Riel 141 Where ? Rose Terry Cooke 179 Westward Ho ! W. K. Cole 181 Wolves (The) Trowbridge 102 fjrmotfs paragon %tiith- THE DEUMMEE BOY'S BUEIAL. ANONYMOUS. All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley- swept ; All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept. One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke ; But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke. Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day, And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay, For the foeman held possession of that hard-won battle plain, In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain. Once again the night dropped round them — night so holy and so calm, That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm. On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest, Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast. And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told ; How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled. Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars. 8 pkescott's pakagon kecitee. Hark ! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low, Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's mur- muring flow ? Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground, Came two little maidens — sisters — with a light and hasty tread, And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread. And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts they stood Where the Drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude. They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store, And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore. Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears. But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er, And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore. Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about. But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun. And then those little maidens — they were children of our foes — Laid the body of our Drummer- boy to undisturbed repose. TEESCOTT S PAEAGON EECITEK. GUT OF GEEEN CORN. LONGFELLOW. You shall hear how Hiawatha Prayed and fasted in the forest, — Not for greater skill in hunting, Not for greater craft in fishing, Not for triumphs in the battle, And renown among the warriors ; But for profit of the people, For advantage of the nations. On the fourth day of his fasting In his lodge he lay exhausted ; From his couch of leaves and branches Gazing with half -open eyelids, Full of shadowy dreams and visions, On the dizzy, swimming landscape, On the gleaming of the water, On the splendor of the sunset, — And he saw a youth approaching Dressed in garments green and yellow, Coming through the purple twilight, Through the splendor of the sunset ; Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead, And his hair was soft and golden. Standing at the open doorway, Long he looked at Hiawatha, Looked with pity and compassion On his wasted form and features, And, in accents like the sighing Of the south- wind in the tree-tops, Said he, " 0, my Hiawatha ! All your prayers are heard in heaven. " From the Mastar of Life descending, I, the friend of man, Mondamin, Come to warn you and instruct you, How by struggle and by labor You shall gain what you have prayed for. 10 prescott's paragon reciter. Rise up from your bed of* branches, Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me ! You will conquer and o'ercome me ; Make a bed for me to lie in, Where the rain may fall upon me, "Where the sun may come and warm me ; Strip these garments, green and yellow, Strip this nodding plumage from me, Lay me in the earth, and make it Soft and loose and light above me. " Let no hand disturb my slumber, Let no weed nor worm molest me, Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, Come to haunt me and molest me ; Only come yourself to watch me Till I wake, and start and quicken, Till I leap into the sunshine. Rise, and stoutly wrestle with me ! " Faint with famine, Hiawatha Started from his bed of branches, From the twilight of his wigwam, Forth into the flush of sunset Came, and wrestled with Mondamin ; At his touch he felt new courage Throbbing in his brain and bosom, Felt new life and hope and vigor Run through every nerve and fibre. So they wrestled there together In the glory of the sunset ; And the more they strove and struggled, Stronger still grew Hiawatha. Round about him spun the landscape, Sky and forest reeled together, And his strong heart leaped within him, As the sturgeon leaps and struggles In a net to break its meshes ; Like a ring of fire around him Blazed and flared the red horizon, prescott's paragon reciter. 11 And a hundred suns seemed looking At the combat of the wrestlers. Suddenly upon the greensward All alone stood Hiawatha, Panting with his wild exertion, Palpitating with the struggle ; And before him, breathless, lifeless, Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, Plumage torn, and garments tattered, Dead he lay there in the sunset. And victorious Hiawatha Made the grave as he commanded, Stripped the garments from Mondamin, Stripped his tattered plumage from him, Laid him in the earth, and made it Soft and loose and light above him. Homeward then went Hiawatha To the lodge of old Nokomis, And the seven days of his fasting Were accomplished and completed. But the place was not forgotten Where he wrestled with Mondamin ; Nor forgotten nor neglected Was the grave where lay Mondamin, Sleeping in the rain and sunshine, Where his scattered plumes and garments Faded in the rain and sunshine. Day by day did Hiawatha Go to wait and watch beside it ; Kept the dark mould soft above it, Kept it clean from weeds and insects, Drove away with scoffs and shoutings, Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. Till at length a small green feather From the earth shot slowly upward, Then another and another, And before the summer ended Stood the maize in all its beauty, 12 prescott's paragon reciter. With its shining robes about it, And its long soft yellow tresses ; And in rapture Hiawatha Cried aloud, "It is Mondamin ! Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin 1 " And still later, when the autumn Changed the long green leaves to yellow; And the soft and j uicy kernels Grew like wampum hard and yellow, Then the ripened ears he gathered, Stripped the withered husks from off them, As he once had stripped the wrestler, — Gave the first feast of Mondamin, And made known unto the people This new gift of the Great Spirit. GIDEON GEAY. CHARLES MACKAY. Gideon Gray — poor Gideon Gray ! He lies in the meadow grass, And all day long looks up at the clouds, And watches them as they pass, — He smiles to them, sings to them, shouting aloud If the little clouds lay behind ; And waves his arms as the oak tree waves Its boughs to the summer wind. And what doth he think ? What doth he see In the darkness and the shade ? His soul is in the outer dark, — None knows but the God who made. Gideon Gray — poor Gideon Gray ! He sits by the wintry fire, And watches the live coals in the grate With eyes that never tire prescott's paragon reciter. 13 He sings a song to the chirruping flames, And balances to and fro All day long, like the tick of the clock, While the pine log embers glow. There is no meaning in his mirth, — His tenantless eyes express Nothing but ignorance of pain, And a stone-like happiness. Gideon Gray — poor Gideon Gray ! No misery touches him ; He hath no care ; the shadow of grief Were light to a soul so dim. Oh ! give us grief, 'tis better than this ; Sorrow on Sorrow's head Ten times piled were a lighter load Than a happiness so dread. Come, Sorrow, come ! we'll bare our breasts To meet thy heaviest blow, Resigned — if Reason keep her seat To guide us as we go. THE PELON. M. G. LEWIS. Oh ! mark his wan and hollow cheeks, and mark his eye-balls glare, And mark his teeth in anguish clenched — the anguish of des- pair ! Know, three days since, his penance o'er, yon culprit left a jail ; And since three days, no food has passed his lips, so parched and pale. " Where shall I turn ? " the wretch exclaims ; " where hide my shameful head ? How fly from scorn, or how contrive to earn my honest bread ? 14 prescott's paragon reciter. This branded hand would gladly toil ; hut when for work I pray, Who views this mark, ' A felon ! ' cries, and loathing turns away. " My heart has greatly erred — but now would fain return to good ! My hand has deeply sinned— but yet has ne'er been stained with blood ! For alms, or work, in vain I sue — the scorners both deny ; I starve ! I starve 1 Then what remains ? this choice — to sin, or die ! " Here, Virtue spurns me with disdain, — there, Pleasure spreads her snare ; Strong habit drives me back to vice ; and, urged by fierce despair, I strive, while hunger gnaws my heart, to fly from shame — in vain ! World ! 'tis thy cruel will ! — I yield, and plunge in guilt again ! " There's mercy in each ray of light that mortal eyes e'er saw ; There's mercy in each breath of air that mortal lips e'er draw ; There's mercy both for bird and beast in Heaven's indulgent plan ; There's mercy in each creeping thing ; but man has none for man ! Ye proudly honest ! when you heard my wounded conscience groan, Had generous hand, or feeling heart, one glimpse of mercy shown, That act had made, from burning eyes, sweet tears of virtue roll, Had fixed my heart, assured my faith — and heaven had gained a soul ! " pbescott's paragon beciteb. 15 THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. W. C. BRYANT. When spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again, The murdered traveller's bones were found, Far down a narrow glen. The fragrant birch, above him, hung Her tassels in the sky ; And many a vernal blossom sprung, And nodded careless by. The red bird warbled, as he wrought His hanging nest o'erhead ; And fearless, near the fatal spot, Her young the partridge led. But there was weeping far away ; And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Grew sorrowful and dim. They little knew who loved him so, The fearful death he met, When shouting o'er the desert snow, Unarmed, and hard beset ; — Nor how, when round the frosty pole The northern dawn was red, The mountain wolf and wild cat stole To banquet on the dead ; — Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier, And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear. 16 prescott's paragon reciter. But long they looked, and feared, and wept, Within his distant home ; And dreamed, 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. THE PIONEEKS. CHARLES MACKAY. Rouse ! brothers, rouse I we've far to travel, Free as the winds we love to roam, Far through the prairie, far through the forest, Over the mountains, we'll find a home. We cannot breathe in crowded cities, We're strangers to the ways of trade ; We long to feel the grass beneath us, And ply the hatchet and the spade. Meadows and hills and ancient woodlands Offer us pasture, fruit and corn ; Needing our presence, courting our labor ; — Why should we linger like men forlorn ? We love to hear the ringing rifle, The smiting axe, the falling tree ; — And though our life be rough and lonely, If it be honest, what care we ? Fair elbow room for men to thrive in ! Wide elbow room for work or play ! If cities follow, tracing our footsteps, Ever to westward shall point our way ! Rude though our life, it suits our spirit. And new born states in future years. Shall own us founders of a nation — And bless the hardy Pioneers.. prescott's paragon reciter. 17 THE SHIP ON FIEE. ANONYMOUS. There was joy in the ship as she furrowed the foam, For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home. The young mother folded her babe to her breast, And sang a sweet song as she rocked it to rest ; And the husband sat cheerily down by her side, And looked with delight on the face of his bride. " Oh happy ! " said he, " when our roaming is o'er, We'll dwell in a cottage that stands by the shore ; Already in fancy its roof I descry, And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky, Its garden so green and its vine-covered wall, And the kind friends awaiting to welcome us all ! " Hark ! hark ! what was that ? Hark ! hark to the shout ! * ' Fire ! fire ! " then a tramp and a rush and a rout, And an uproar of voices arose on the air, And the mother knelt down ; and the half-spoken prayer That she offered to Heaven, in her agony wild, Was, •* Father ! have mercy ! look down on my child ! " Fire ! fire ! it is raging above and below ; The smoke and hot cinders all blindingly blow. The cheek of the sailor grew pale at the sight, And his eyes glittered wild in the glare of the light. The smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher ! " Heaven help us ! 'tis fearful to perish by fire ! " They prayed for relief, and not vainly they prayed ; For at noon the sun shone, in full splendor arrayed ; " A sail, ho ! a sail ! " cried the man on the lee ; " A sail ! " and all turned their glad eyes o'er the sea. " They spy us, they heed us ! the signal is waved ! They bear down to help us — thank Heaven ! we are saved ! " 18 peescott's paeagon eecitee. WASBJNGTOH'S STATUE. H. T. TUCKERMAN. The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung, Has peopled earth with grace, — Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung, A bright and peerless race ; But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before A shape of loftier name Than his, who Glory's wreath with meekness wore, The noblest son of Fame. Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stained, His gaze around is cast, As if the joys of Freedom, newly-gained, Before his vision passed ; As if a nation's shout of love and pride With music filled the air, And his calm soul was lifted on the tide Of deep and grateful prayer ; As if the crystal mirror of his life To fancy sweetly came, With scenes of patient toil and noble strife, Undimmed by doubt or shame ; As if the lofty purpose of his soul Expression would betray — ■ The high resolve Ambition to control, And thrust her crown away ! Oh ! it was well in marble firm and white To carve our hero's form, Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight, Oar star amid the storm ! Whese matchless truth has made his name divine, And human freedom sure, His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine While man and time endure ! And it is well to place his image there, Upon the soil he blest ; Let meaner spirits who its councils share, Revere that silent guest ! prescott's paeagon kecitek. 19 Let us go up with high and sacred love To look on his pure brow, And as, with solemn grace, he points above, Renew the patriot's vow ! THE SPACIOUS FIEMAMENT ON HIGH. ADDISON. The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim ; The unwearied sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display, And publishes to every land The work of an almighty Hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail. The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening earth, Repeats the story of her birth ; Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets, in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round this dark terrestrial ball ! What though no real voice nor sound, Amid their radiant orbs be found ! In Reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, Forever singing, as they shine, " The Hand that made us is Divine." 20 pbescott's pabagon eeciteb. THE PILOT. T. H. BAYLY. ** Oh, pilot, 'tis a fearful night ; there's danger on the deep ; I'll come and pace the deck with thee, I do not dare to sleep." ' k Go down," the sailor cried, "go down ! this is no place for thee : Fear not, but trust in Providence wherever thou may'st be. " " Ah, pilot, dangers often met we all are apt to slight, And thou hast known these raging waves but to subdue their might." " It is not apathy," he cried, " that gives this strength to me : Fear not, but trust in Providence wherever you may'st be. On such a night the sea engulfed my father's lifeless form, My only brother's boat went down in just so wild a storm, And such, perhaps, may be my fate, but still I say to thee, Fear not, but trust in Providence wherever you may'st be." THE LIFE OF A BIKD. MARY HOWITT. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Skimming about on the breezy sea, Cresting the billows like silvery foam, And then wheeling away to its cliff-built home ! What joy it must be to sail, upborne By a strong free wind, through the rosy morn, To meet the young sun face to face, And pierce like a shaft the boundless space ! How pleasant the life of a bird must be ! Wherever it listeth, there to flee ; To go, when a joyful fancy calls, Dashing adown 'mong the waterfalls ; prescott's paragon reciter. 21 Then wheeling about with its mates at play, Above and below, and among the spray, Hither and thither, with screams as wild As the laughing mirth of a rosy child ! What joy it must be, like a living breeze-, To nutter about through the flowering trees ; Lightly to soar, and to see beneath The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, And the yellow furze, like fields of gold, That gladden some fairy regions old. On mountain tops, on the billowy sea, On the leafy stems of the forest tree, How pleasant the life of a bird must be ! LABOE IS WOSSHIP. MBS. P. S. OSGOOD. " Labor is worship/' the robin is singing ; " Labor is worship/' the wild bee is ringing ; Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. Labor is life — 'tis the still water faileth, Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; Keep the watch wound, else the dark rust assaileth ; Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labor is glory — the flying cloud lightens ; Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ; Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune. Labor is health — lo ! the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life-current leaping ! How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides ' 22 pkescott's paragon recjter. Labor is wealth — in the sea the pearl groweth ; Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; Temple and statue the marble block hides. Work — for some good, be it ever so slowly ; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly ; Labor — all labor is noble and holy ; Let thy good deeds be thy prayer to thy God. JOHN WILKES' BOLD PEEDIOTIONS (1775), You call the Americans rebels. Whether their present state is that of rebellion or of a fit and just resistance to unlawful acts of power, I shall not declare. This I know : a successful resistance is a revolution, not a rebellion. Rebellion indeed appears on the back of a flying enemy, but Revolution flames on the breastplate of the victorious warrior. Who can tell, sir, whether, in consequence of this day's vio- lent and mad address to His Majesty, the scabbard may not be thrown away by them as well as by us, and should success at- tend them, whether, in a few years, the independent Americans may not celebrate the glorious era of the Revolution of 1775, as we do that of 1688 ? In the great scale of empire you will de- cline, I fear, from the decisions of this day, and the Americans will rise to independence, to power, to all the greatness of the most renowned States ! For they build on the solid basis of general public liberty. The Americans will sooner declare themselves independent, and risk every consequence, than submit to the galling yoke which administration is preparing for them. In the most harsh manner you are declaring them rebels ! Every idea of a recouciliation will now vanish. They will pursue the most vigorous course in their own defence. The whole continent of North America will be dismembered from Great Britain, and the wide arch of the raised empire will fall. But may the just vengeance of the people overtake the authors of these per- nicious counsels ! pbescott's pakagon ebciteb. 23 THE OLD SCHOOLMASTER LEE O. HARRIS. He sat at his desk at the close of day ; For he felt the weight of his many years ; His form was bent and his hair was gray, And his eyes were dim with the falling tears. The school was out and his task was done, And the house seemed now so strangely still, As the red beam of the setting sun Stole silently over the window-sill. Stole silently into the twilight gloom ; And the depending shadows fell athwart The vacant seats and vacant room, And the vacant place in the old man's heart ; For his school had been all in all to him, Who had no wife, no children, no land, no gold, But his frame was weak and his eyes were dim, And the fiat was issued at last — " Too old." He bowed his head on his trembling hands A moment, as one might bend to pray ; " Too old ! " they say, and the school demands A wiser and younger head to-day. " Too old ! too old ! " these men forget It was I who guided their tender years ; Their hearts were hard, and they pitied not My trembling lips and my falling tears. " Too old ! too old ! " it was all they said, I looked in their faces one by one, But they turned away, and my heart was lead ; " Dear Lord, it is hard, but Thy will be done." 24 prescott's paragon reciter. The night stole on, and a blacker gloom Was over the vacant benches cast ; The master sat in the silent room, But his mind was back in the days long past. And the shadows took, to his tear-dimmed sight, Dear well-known forms ; his heart was thrilled With the blessed sense of its own delight. For the benches all were filled ; And he slowly rose at his desk and took His well-worn Bible that lay within, And he said, as he lightly tapped the book : "It is the hour — let school begin.'' And he smiled as his kindly glances fell On the well-beloved faces there — John, Rob, and Will, and laughing Nell, And blue-eyed Bess, with the golden hair, And Tom, and Charley, and Ben, and Paul Who stood at the head of the spelling class- All in their places — and yet they all Were lying under the graveyard grass. He read the book and he knelt to pray, And he called the classes to recite, For the darkness all had rolled away From a soul that saw by an inward light. With words of praise for a work of care, With a kind reproof for a broken rule, The old man tottered, now here, now there, Through the spectral ranks of his shadow school. Thus all night long, till the morning came, And darkness folded her robe of gloom, And the sun looked in, with his eye of flame, On the vacant seats of the silent room. prescott's paragon reciter. 25 The wind stole over the window-sill, And swept through the aisles in a merry rout, But the face of the master was white and still ; His work was finished and his school was out. KISSES. ROSE HARTWICK THORPE. Little child, when twilight shadows Close the western gates of gold, Then those loving arms of mother's Tenderly about thee fold. Over lip, and cheek, and forehead, Like a shower caresses fall ; For a mother's kiss at twilight Is the sweetest kiss of all. Pretty maiden at the gateway, Shy, sweet face and downcast eyes, Two white, trembling hands imprisoned, How the golden moment flies ! Lips that softly press thy forehead, All the rosy blushes call ; For a lover's kiss at twilight Is the fondest kiss of all. Happy wife, the noble husband, More than half a lover yet — For those sunny hours of wooing Are too sweet to soon forget — On thy smiling lips uplifted, Full of love his kisses fall ; For a husband's kiss at parting Is the dearest kiss of all. 26 pkescott's pakagon eecjtee. Weary mother, little children, With their dimpled hands so fair, Passing over cheek and forehead, Soothe away all pain and care. Lead your doubting heart to Heaven, Where no dreary shadows fall ; For the kiss of sinless childhood Is the purest kiss of all. UNCLE JOE. ANONYMOUS I have in memory a little story, That few indeed would care to tell but me ; 'Tis not of love, nor fame, nor yet of glory, Although a little colored with the three ; In very truth, I think as much, perchance, As most tales disembodied from romance. Joe lived about the village, and was neighbor To every one who had hard work to do ; If he possessed a genius, 'twas for labor, Most people thought ; but there was one or two Who sometimes said, when he arose to go, " Come again and see us, Uncle Joe ! " The " Uncle " was a courtesy they gave, And felt they could afford to give to him, Just as the master makes of some good slave An Aunt Jemima, or an Uncle Jim ; And of this dubious kindness Joe was glad ; Poor fellow, it was all he ever had ! A mile or so away he had a brother — A rich, proud man, that people didn't hire ; But Joe had neither sister, wife, nor mother, And baked his corn- cake at his cabin fire pkescott's paragon reciter. 27 After the day's work, hard for you or me, But he was never tired — how could he be? They called him dull, but he had eyes of quickness For everybody that he could befriend ; Said one and all, " How kind he is in sickness," But there, of course, his goodness had an end. Another praise there was might have been given, For one or more days out of every seven — With his old pickaxe swung across his shoulder, And downcast eyes, and slow and sober tread, He sought the place of graves, and each beholder Wondered, and asked some other who was dead ; But when he digged all day, nobody thought That he had done a whit more than he ought. At length one winter, when the sunbeams slanted Faintly and cold across the churchyard snow, The bell tolled out — alas ! a grave was wanted, And all looked anxiously for Uncle Joe ; His spade stood there against his own roof -tree, There was his pickaxe too, but where was he ? They called and called again, but no replying ; Smooth at the window, and about the door The snow in cold and heavy drifts was lying ; He didn't need the daylight any more, One shook him roughly, and another said, " As true as preaching, Uncle Joe is dead ! " And when they wrapped him in the linen, fairer, And finer, too, than he had worn till then, They found a picture — haply of the sharer Of sunny hope some time ; or where or when They did not care to know, but closed his eyes And placed it in the coffin where he lies ! 28 prescott's paragon reciter. None wrote Ms epitaph, nor saw the beauty Of the pure love that reached into the grave, Nor how in unobtrusive ways of duty, He kept, despite the dark ; but men less brave Have left great names, while not a willow bends Above his dust— poor Joe, he had no friends ! POUKTH OP JULY. GEORGE W. BETHUNE. Maine, from her farthest border, gives the first exulting shout, And from New Hampshire's granite heights, the echoing peal rings out ; The mountain farms of stanch Vermont prolong the thunder- ing call, And Massachusetts answers, " Bunker Hill ! n — a watchword for us all. Rhode Island shakes her sea- wet locks, acclaiming with the free, And staid Connecticut breaks forth in joyous harmony. The giant joy of proud New York, loud as an earthquake's roar, Is heard from Hudson's crowded banks to Erie's crowded shore. Still on the booming volley rolls o'er plains and flowery glades To where the Mississippi's flood the turbid gulf invades ; There, borne from many a mighty stream upon her mightier tide, Come down the swelling, long huzzas from all that valley wide. And wood-crowned Alleghany's call, from all her summits high, Reverberates among the rocks that pierce the sunset sky ; While on the shores and through the swales round the vast inland seas, The stars and stripes, 'midst freemen's songs, are flashing to the breeze. prescott's paragon reciter. 29 The woodsman, from the mother, takes his boy upon his knee, And tells him how their fathers fought and bled for liberty ; The lonely hunter sits him down the forest spring beside, To think upon his country's worth, and feel his country's pride ; — While many a foreign accent, which our God can understand, Is blessing Him for home and bread in this free, fertile land, Yes, when upon the eastern coast we sink to happy rest, The Day of Independence rolls still onward to the west, Till dies on the Pacific shore the shout of jubilee, That woke the morning with its voice along the Atlantic Sea. O God, look down upon the land which thou hast loved so well, And grant that in unbroken truth her children still may dwell ; Nor, while the grass grows on the hill and streams flow through the vale, May they forget their fathers' faith, or in their covenant fail ; Keep, God, the fairest noblest land that lies beneath the sun — " Our country, our whole country, and our country ever one." BABY'S TIMERS OS THE PANE. ANONYMOUS. From the music softly stealing Down the dim arcade of years, Comes the melodies I treasure, Hallowed by my joys and tears ; And amid their magic numbers, Reaching down a golden chain, I can hear a baby's fingers Tapping on the window pane — I can hear a baby's fingers Calling at the window pane. 30 prescott's paragon reciter. When my hands with toil were weary, And the twilight shadows fell, And I wandered slowly homeward To my cot within the dell, Then my weary steps grew lighter, As there floated down the lane, Music sweet of baby's fingers Tapping on the window pane, Music sweet of baby's fingers Calling at the window pane. When the winter storms were beating On the hilltops, cold and white, Or the summer flowers were blooming In my pathway warm and bright ; Still I heard on home returning Rappings light as falling rain — 'Twas the sound of baby's fingers Tapping on the window pane ; 'Twas the sound of baby's fingers Calling at the window pane. Oft the world in coldness met me And would crush me in its pride ; Oft misfortune gathered round me To o'erthrow me with its tide. Sick and weary, faint and hungry, I would wander up that lane ; Then how clear was baby's fingers Tapping at the window pane ; Then how clear was baby's fingers Calling at the window pane. But one eve a darkened shadow Fell across the cottage floor, And the crape upon the morrow Hung in folds along the door. prescott's paragon reciter. 31 Years of weariness and sorrow I have listened all in vain For the sound of baby's fingers Tapping on the window pane ; For the sound of baby's fingers Calling at the window pane. But methinks within a cottage Of the city of pure gold, There is waiting for my footsteps Papa's baby as of old. And some summer day in heaven, Treading up a pearly lane, I shall hear my baby's fingers Tapping on the window pane ; I shall hear my baby's fingers Calling at the window pane. CULTIVATION OF OKATORY. ORVILLE DEWEY. The labors requisite to form the public speaker, are by no means duly appreciated. An absurd idea prevails among our scholars, that the finest productions of the mind are the fruits of hasty impulse, the unf oldings of a sudden thought, the brief visitations of a fortunate hour or evening, the flashings of in- tuition, or the gleamings of fancy. Genius is often compared to lightning from the cloud, or the sudden bursting out of a secret fountain. And eloquence is regarded as if it were a kind of inspiration. When a man has made a happy effort, he is next possessed with an absurd ambition to have it thought that it cost him nothing. He will say, perhaps, that it was a three hours' work. Now it is not enough to maintain that nothing could be more injurious to our youth than this way of thinking ; for the truth is, that nothing can be more false. The mistake lies, in confounding, with the mere arrangement of thoughts, or the manual labor of putting them on paper, the 32 prescott's paragon reciter. long previous preparation of mind, the settled habits of thought. It has taken but three hours, perhaps, to compose an admirable piece of poetry, or a fine speech ; but the reflections of three years, or of thirty, may have been tending to that re- sult. To give the noblest thoughts the noblest expression ; to- stand up in the pure light of reason, or to create a new atmos- phere, as it were, for intellectual vision ; to put on all the glories of imagination, as a garment ; to penetrate the soul, and to make men feel as if they were themselves new creatures, to make them conscious of new powers and a new being ; to exercise in the loftiest measure, the only glorious and godlike sway, — that over willing minds ; to fill the ear, the eye, the inmost soul, with sounds, and images, and holy visions of beauty and grand- eur ; to make truth and justice, to make wisdom and virtue and religion more lovely and majestic things than men had ever thought them before ; to delight as well as to convince ; to charm, to fascinate, to win, to arouse, to calm, to terrify, to overwhelm, — this is the work of eloquence ; and it is a glorious work. The great object of all the liberal arts is to exhibit the mind ; to exhibit character, thought, feeling, in their various aspects. In this consists all their power and sublimity. For this, the painter spreads upon the dull canvas the breathing forms of life ; the sculptor causes the marble to speak ; the architect models the fair and majestic structure, with sublimity enthroned in its dome ; with beauty shaped in its columns, and glory written upon its walls ; and the poet builds his lofty rhyme ; and the eloquent in music, orders his movement and combination of sweet sounds. But, of this mind., the human frame is the ap- pointed instrument. It was designed for this end. For it could have answered all the purposes of physical existence, without any of its present grace and beauty. It was made with no more obvious intent than to be the expression of mind, the organ of the soul, the vehicle of thought. And when all its powers are put in requisition for this purpose, — the voice, with all its thrill- ing tones ; the eye, " through which, as a window, the soul darts •fc^th its light ; " the lips, on which " grace is poured ; " the prescott's paeagon reciter. 33 whole glowing countenance, the whole breathing frame, which, in their ordinary forms, can express more than the majesty of an Apollo, more than the agony of a Laocoon ; — when every motion speaks, every lineament is more than the written line of genius, every muscle swells with the inspiration of high thoughts, every nerve is swayed to the movings of some mighty theme ; what instrument of music, what glories of the canvas, can equal it ? Eloquence is the combination of all arts, and it excels them all in their separate powers. Nor is it confined to the mere gratification of taste. The great and ultimate object of social existence, is for man to act on man ; and eloquence is the grandest medium of this action. It is not only the highest perfection of a human being (for " the orator must be a good man'') but it is that perfection in act. It is sublimity, beauty, genius, power, in their most glorious exercise. MT SAILOE. ANOXYMOTJS. He sat at my side on that eastern hill, My brave, sweet lad, with the gold-lit hair, And gazed at the vessels which seemed to fill The rippling breadth of the harbor there. The black-hulled vessels from over the sea, The white-sailed vessels that came and went. " I am going to sail away ! " said he, " To sail some day to my heart's content. " I shall see the waving of southland palms, The dark, fierce fronts of the icebergs tall, And gather the grapes in my outstretched arms. From vines on some Spanish convent's wall." Then he drew my hand from beneath his chin, And trailed my fingers across his lips — " Yes, we both shall sail from the town of Lynn, In one of those stanch old black-pro wed ships." 34 pkescott's paragon reciter. So one summer evening his ship set sail, And floated off in the twilight grim ; I heaped up the vessel with blossoms pale, And wept that I could not follow him. And I cannot say that he sees the palms, Nor icy walls, that he longed to see ; But I know he sailed into stronger arms And better lands, when he went from me. O my brave, sweet lad ! how his angel eyes Will gaze out over the ocean dim That reaches from earth into paradise, Till I set my sail and follow him. THE PEAEL NAUTILUS. HOLMES. There is a ship of pearl which poets feign Sails the unshadowed main, The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, — Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil ; prescott's paeagon reciter. 35 Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap forlorn ! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : — Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll ! Leave thy low- vaulted past ! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! FOOTSTEPS ON THE OTHEE SIDE. MARGARET EYTINGE. Sitting in my humble doorway, Gazing out into the night, List'ning to the stormy tumult With, a kind of sad delight — Wait I for the loved who comes not, One whose step I long to hear ; One who, though he lingers from me, Still is dearest of the dear. Hark ! he comes — now, heart, exultant In thy joy forget to chide ; Ah ! 'tis but a stranger's footstep Gone by on the other side ! 36 prescott's paragon reciter. All the night seems filled with weeping, Winds are wailing mournfully, And the rain-tears blent together Journey to the restless sea. I can fancy, sea, you murmur, As they with your waters flow, Like the griefs of single beings Making up a nation's woe, Branches, bid your guests be silent, Hush a moment, fretful rain, Breeze, stop sighing — let me listen Once more — God grant not in vain ; To my cheek the blood is springing Like the blushes of a bride. Joy ! — alas ! again the footsteps Pass upon the other side. Ah ! how many wait forever, For the steps that never come ; Wait until the pitying angels Bear them to a heavenly home. Many in the still of midnight, In the streets have lain and died, While the sound of human footsteps Reached them from the other side. Many a wretch has paused a moment, Glancing round with crazy eyes ; Death looked up from gloomy waters, Death looked down from darkened skies ; Paused, then leaped, where, God knows only, He alone heard " Jesus " cried, And the prayer, lost in the footsteps Passing on the other side. prescott's paragon reciter. 37 Ears, so oft you have deceived me, Heart, such false alarms you beat, I can scarcely dare to trust you ; Yet methinks that up the street Sounds a step I know, now nearer, Faster comes it, till at last, Happy wife ! his arms enfold me, And my weary vigil's past. God, give all who wait an ending To their watch, as sweet as mine ; God, send out of tears and storm-clouds Smiles to cheer and stars to shine. God, bid drooping hearts be hopeful, Strong in faith whate'er betide ; Trusting that ere long the footsteps Will not pass the other side ! NATHAN'S CASE. (AS VIEWED BY AN UNCONVERTED BOON COMPANION.) It a'n't accordin' to natur' for folks to turn right askew, A droppin' out o' the old ways, an droppin 5 into the new, An' what I hear 'em savin' 'bout Nathan, and Nathan's folks, Is suthin' I hev ter Ian 2 at, as one o' the best o' jokes. I've summered an' wintered with Nathan, an' know the cut of his jib, An' know the kind o' grain in his barn, the kind o' corn in his crib ; An' it a'n't any use o' tellin' me, or any one else who knows, That ever a man was born to reap a better thing than he sows. Talks up in meetin', does he ? — in words that are sweet to hear ! 'Twas only a month or so ago he swore like a privateer ! An' it a'n't accordin' to natur' that a tongue with an evil twist Should change its course, an' begin to grind at another kind o' grist. 38 prescott's paragon reciter. Nigh on to death he's been, they say, with a cur'us sort o' com- plaint, That drew the devil out of his bones an' made him a decent saint ; But ther' a' n't enough physic in any o' these 'ere parts, to my mind, To make old Nathan Turner one o' the orthodox kind. Given up drinkin' licker ! — Taken the temp'rance pledge ! Well, that 'ere's news, I tell ye now, that's settin' my teeth on edge ! For it a'n't accordin' to natur' — I say it, who ought to know — An' Nathan Turner's never the man to yield an inch to a foe ! Well, I couldn't be much more took aback, had ye told me that that 'ere root Would 'a' straightened out, an' begun to bear a likely kind o' fruit ; An' I'll hev to think the Lord hisself attended to Nathan's case, For it a'n't accordin' to natur', I know, an' must be a work o> grace ! DOESTICKS' LAMENT POE HIS PKIENB. ANONYMOUS. Dandiful is gone ! Dandiful, my friend, the charm of my chamber, the comforter of my lonely hours, the treasure of my heart, the light of my eyes, the sunshine of my existence, the borrower of my clean shirts and my Sunday pantaloons, is no more. Sorrow is on the heart, heavy grief on the soul, afflic- tion in the home, of Philander Doesticks. I grieve, I mourn, I lament, I weep, I suffer, I pine, I droop, I sink, I despair, I writhe in agony, I feel bad. I have ever tried, O Dandiful, to forgive thy faults, and over- look thy frailties ! Some have insinuated that thou wert selfish. Some have said that thou wert lazy, but such have never seen thee eat. What though thou wert foppish to a degree !— I could forgive thy Shanghai coats thy two-acre turn-down collars, and thy pantaloons so tight thou hadst to pull them on with boot -hooks ; prescott's paragon reciter. 39 thy gorgeous cravat, with its bow projecting on either side like a silken wing ; thy lemon-colored kids ; thy cambric handker- chiefs, dripping with perfumes ; and thy blanket shawl, which made thee resemble a half-breed Scotchman. I could endure thy affected airs before the ladies, that they might call thee Poet ; the abstracted air, the appearance of being lost in thought, the spasmodic recovery ; the shirt- collar loose at the neck, and turned romantically down over the coat ; the long hair brushed back behind thy noticeable ears, to show thy "marble forehead. " How faithful wert thou in thy affections ! how constant to thy first love — fried oysters ; and how attentive to the choice of thy maturer judgment — boiled turkey, with celery. How unwavering in thy economy ,• never parting with a dime in charity, in generosity, or in friendly gift ; but only for a full equivalent. How consistent in thy devotion to music and the drama ; always attending the opera or theatre whenever gen- erous friends would buy the tickets. How fashionably sincere in thy piety, attending churches on Sunday, reading the re- sponses when they could be easily found, and sleeping through the sermon with the greatest respectability. How lovely wert thou in dispositon, how amiable in man- ners ! with what an affectionate air couldst thou kick the match- boy out doors, box the ears of the little candy-girl, and tell the more sturdy apple -woman to go to the dogs. With what a charitable look couldst thou listen to the tale of the shivering beggar-child, couldst see the bare blue feet, and view the scanty dress, while thy generous hand closed with a tighter grasp up- on the cherished pennies in thy pocket. Anatomically speak- ing, friend Dandiful, I suppose thou hadst a heart ; emotion- ally, not a trace of one ; the feeble article which served thee in that capacity knew no more of generous thoughts and noble impulses than a Shanghai pullet knows of the opera of Norma. I shall mourn thy taper legs ; I shall lament thy excruciating neck-tie ; I shall weep that last coat that did so very long a tail unfold ; I shall sorrow for thy unctuous hair, and grieve for thy perfumed whiskers ; I shall look in vain for thy pol- 40 prescott's paragon reciter. ished boots and jeweled hands ; I shall miss thy intellectual countenance, radiant with innocent imbecility. Dandiful, thou wert superlative — there was none greater. Farewell ! Henceforth, friendship to me is but a name, and I survive my bereavement only to concentrate my affections upon my embryonic whiskers. $ 4 c***-*c/. THE BLUE AND THE GBAY. [The women of Columbus, Mississippi, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers.] By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day — Under the one the blue ; Under the other the gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory In the dusk of eternity meet ; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment- day — Under the laurel the blue ; Under the willow the gray. Prom the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe ; prescott's paragon reciter. 41 Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day — Under the roses the blue ; Under the lilies the gray, So with an equal splendor The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all ; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day — 'Broidered with gold the blue ; Mellowed with gold the gray. So when the summer calleth On forest and field of grain With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain ; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day — Wet with the rain the blue ; Wet with the rain the gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done ; In the storm of the years that are fading No braver battle was won ; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day — Under the blossoms the blue ; Under the garlands the gray. No more shall the war-cry sever Or the winding rivers be red ; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead ! 42 pkescott's paragon reciter. Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment- day — Love and tears for the blue, Tears and love for the gray. THE SMACK IN SCHOOL. W. P. PALMER. A distant school, not far away 'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter day Was humming with its wonted noise, Of three score mingled girls and boys ; Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent. The while, the master's downward look Was fastened on a copy-book, Eose sharp and clear behind his back, A ratling, rousing, cracking smack, As 'twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss. " What's that? ,r the startled master cries, " That, thir," a little imp replies, " Wath William Willith, if you pleathe : I thaw him kith Thuthannath Peathe ! " With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, " hither, Will ! " Like a wretch taken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head in fear and shame, And to the awful presence came — A great green bashful simpleton, The butt of all good-natured fun. With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, The threatener faltered, — " I'm amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be guilty of an act so rude ! Before the whole set school, to boot ! What evil genius put you to 't ? " peescott's paragon reciter. 43 • 'Tvvas she, herself, sir," sobbed the lad ; ■ * I did not mean to be so bad : But when Susannah shook her culls, And whispered — I was 'fraid of girls, And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, I couldn't stand it, sir, at all, But up and kissed her on the spot. I know — boo hoo ! — 1 ought to not ; But somehow, from her looks — boo hoo ! — I thought she kind o' wished me to." SCENE AT THE GEEAT "NATUKAL BEIDGE." ANONYMOUS. The scene opens with a view of the Great Natural Bridge in Virginia. Two or three lads are standing in the channel be- low. They see the names of hundreds cut in the limestone abutments. A new feeling comes over their young hearts. " What man hath done, man can do," is their watchword ; and fired with this noble spirit, they draw themselves up, and carve their names above those of a hundred full-grown men, who have been there before them. They are all satisfied with this exploit, except one. This am- bitious youth sees a name just above his reach — the name of Washington. It was a glorious thought of the boy to write his name side by side with the great Father of his country. He grasps his knife with a firmer hand ; cuts again into the lime- stone abutment, about a foot above where he stands ; draws himself carefully up to his full length ; and finds himself above every name that was ever chronicled in that mighty wall. His knife is still in his hand, and strength in his sinews, and a new-created aspiration in his heart. He cuts another niche, and again he carves his name in large capitals. Heedless of the entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs again and again. The voices of his friends grow weaker and weaker, un- til they are finally lost on his ear. He now, for the first time, 44 prescott's paragon reciter. casts a look beneath him. Had that glance lasted for a moment, that moment would have been his last. What a meagre chance to escape destruction ! He is too high, too faint, to ask for his father and mother, his brother and sister, to come and witness or avert his destruction. But one of his compan- ions anticipates his desire. Swift as the wind, he bounds down the channel, and the situation of the fated boy is told upon his father's hearthstone. Minutes of almost eternal length roll on, and there are hun- dreds in the rocky channel below and on the heights above, all holding their breath, and awaiting the affecting catastrophe. The poor boy hears the hum of new and numerous voices, both above and below. He can just distinguish the tones of his father, who is shouting with all the energy of despair, " William ! William ! don't look down ! Your mother, and Henry, and Harriet, are all here, praying for you. Keep your eye towards the top." The boy did not look down. His eye is fixed as a flint towards heaven, and his young heart on Him who reigns there. He grasps again his knife. He cuts another niche, and another foot is added to the hundreds that remove him from human help from below. Now the blade is worn up to the last half inch. The boy's head reels ; his eyes seem starting from their sockets ; his last hope is dying in his breast. His life must hang upon the next niche he cuts. At the last faint gash he makes, his knife, his faithful knife, drops from his little, nerveless hand, and ringing along down the precipice, falls at his mother's feet. An involuntary groan of horror runs through the chan- nel below, and then all is still as the grave. At the height of nearly a thousand feet, the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart, and closing his eyes, commends his soul to God. While he thus stands for a moment, reeling, trembling, top- pling over into eternity, a shout from above falls on his ear. The man who is lying with half his body projecting over the precipice has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick as thought the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking youth. No one breathes. Half unclosing his eyes, and with a prescott's paragon reciter. 45 faint, convulsive effort, the boy drops his arms through the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the words God and mother on his lips, just loud enough to be heard in heaven, the tightening rope lifts him out of his last shallow niche up into sunlight, and life, and gladness, safe to his mother's arms ! A WOMAFS STOEY. ETJLA LEE. " Tis only a tenant house yonder, The poorest of its kind." I was listening there at the window, While John threw back the blind. Hark ! 'tis a fireman's trumpet ! The engines rattle and fly, While over the crisp and shining snow The people come hurrying by. The fire, it leaped from sill to sill, Now kissing the roof in glee, While far above the surging crowd An open window I see. " Oh, God ! 'tis a child, leaning far out With its face upturned to the sky. See ! it has folded its tiny hands ; For the love of mercy, fly ! " As I turned to gaze, far up the side Of that blazing, tottering wall Was a form I knew ; it must be John Far up beyond recall ! Up, still upward ; the flames seemed wild And laughed in their maddest way, As if they mocked the brave, strong hands That dared to take their prey. 46 prescott's paragon reciter. Hushed and spell-bound the wondering throng Seemed held by a mighty hand, As if turned to stone the motley group, By some enchanter's wand. The stars above, and the flames below, Were gleaming athwart the sky ; While the angel of death with sable wing Was hovering strangely nigh. With bated breath and eyes aflame, And my heart just standing still, I saw him grasp the trembling child And leave the smoking sill. Then all was blank, the wild, weird scene All faded like a dream, While over the threshold came and went The crowd in a steady stream. You know the rest, how John came back With only a blistered hand, And I to-day am the happiest wife In all this blessed land. The child ? ah, yes ! 'tis a beauty ! A poor widow's only son ; Ah ! how little we know what love is worth Till death comes near to one. DEOWNED IN QUICKSAND. ANONYMOUS. It sometimes happens, on certain coasts of Brittany or Scot- land, that a man, traveller or fisherman, walking on the beach at low tide, far from the bank, notices that for several minutes he has been walking with difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is like pitch ; his soles stick to it ; it is sand no longer ; it is glue. The beach is perfectly dry ; but at every step he takes, as pkescott's paragon reciter. 47 soon as lie lifts his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change ; the immense strand is smooth and tranquil ; all the sand has the same ap- pearance ; the joyous little crowd of sand-flies continues to leap tumultuously over the wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines towards the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland. He is not anxious. Amxious about what ? Only he feels, somehow, as if the weight of his feet increased with every step which he takes. Suddenly he sinks in ; he sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not in the right road ; he stops to take his bearings. His feet have disappeared ; the sand covers them. He turns back ; he sinks in deeper. Then he recognizes, with unspeakable terror, that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has beneath him the fearful medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws off his load, if he has one ; he lightens himself like a ship in distress. It is already too late ; the sand is above his knees. He calls ; he waves his hat ; the sand gains on him more ; and if the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if the sand-bank is of too ill-repute, if there is no hero in sight, it is all over : he is condemned to enlizement. He is condemned to that appalling interment, long, infallible, implacable, impos- sible to slacken or to hasten, which endures for hours: which will not end ; which seizes you erect, free, and in full health ; which at every effort, at every shout, drags you a little deeper ; which sinks the man slowly into the earth, while it leaves him all the time to look at the horizon, the trees, the green fields, the smoke of the villages in the plain, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sun- shine, the sky. Enlizement is the grave become a tide, and rising from the depths of the earth towards a living man. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep ; every movement he makes inters him ; he straightens up ; he sinks in ; he feels that he is being swallowed up ; he howls, implores, cries to the clouds, wrings his hands, despairs. Behold him, waist-deep in the sand ; the 'sand reaches his 48 pkescott's pakagon reciter. breast ; lie is now only a bust. He raises bis arms, utters fu- rious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, sobs frenziedly ; the sand rises. The sand reaches his shoulders ; the sand reaches his neck ; the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries ; the sand fills it ; silence. The eyes still gaze ; the sand shuts them : night. Then the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand, a hand protrudes, moves, shakes, and disappears. Sinister effacement of a man. It is shipwreck elsewhere than in the water. It is the earth drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes a trap. WHY HE WOULDN'T SELL THE PAEM, A. ALPHONSE DAYTON. Here, John ! you drive the cows up, while yer mar brings out the pails ; But don't ye let me ketch yer hangin' onter them cows' tails, An' chasin' them acrost that lot at sich a tarin' rate ; An', John, when you cum out, be sure and shet the pastur' gate. It's strange that boy will never larn to notice what I say ; I'm 'fraid he'll get to rulin' me, if things goes on this way ; But boys is boys, an' will be boys, till ther grown up to men, An' John's 'bout as good a lad as the average of 'em. I'll tell ye, stranger, how it is : I feel a heap o' pride In thet boy — he's our only one sence little Neddy died ; Don't mind me, sir, I'm growin' old, my eye-sight's gittin' dim ; But't seems sumhow a kind o' mist cums long o' thoughts of him. Jes' set down on the door step, Squar, an' make yerself to hum ; While Johnny's bringin' up the cows, I'll tell ye how it cum prescott's PARAGON EECITEE. 4:9 Tliet all our boys has left us, 'ceptin' Johnny there, And 1 reckon, stranger, countin' all, we've had about our share. Thar was our first boy, Benjamin, the oldest of them all, He was the smartest little chap, so chipper, pert, an' small, He cum to us one sun-bright morn, as merry as a lark, It would ha' done your soul good, Squar, to seen the little spark. An' thar was Tom, " & han'sum boy," his mother alius said, He took to books, and lamed so spry, we put the sprig ahead — His skoolin' cleaned the little pile we'd laid by in the chest, But I's bound to give the boy a chance to do his " level best." Our third one's name was Samuel ; he grow'd up here to hum, An' worked with me upon the farm till he was twenty-one ; Fur Benjamin had l'arned a trade — he didn't take to work ; Tom, mixin' up in politics, got lected County Clerk. We ken all remember, stranger, the year of sixty-one, When the spark thet teched the powder off in that Confed'ret gun Flashed like a streak o' lightnin' up acrost from East to West, An' left a spot thet burned like fire in every patriot's breast. An' I tell ye what it was, Squar, my boys cum up to the scratch, They all had a share o' the old man's grit, with enough of their own to match — They show'd ther colors, an' set ther flint, ther names went down on the roll, An' Benjamin, Thomas, an' Sam was pledged to preserve the old flag whole. They all cum hum together at the last, rigged up in soldier's clothes ; It made my old heart thump with pride, an' ther mother's spirits rose, 50 prescott's paragon reciter. Fur she'd been " down in the mouth " sum what, sence she'd heard what the boys had done, Fur it took all three, an' it's hard enough fur a mother to give up one. But ther warn't a drop of coward's blood in her veins, I ken tell you first, Fur she'd send the boys, an' the old man too, if worst had cum to worst ; I shall never forgit the last night, when we all kneeled down to pray, How she give 'em, one by one, to God, in the hush of the twi- light gray. An' then, when morning broke so clear — not a cloud was in the sky — The boys cum in with sober looks to bid us their last good-bye ; I didn't 'spect she would stand it all with her face so firm and calm, But she didn't break nor give in a peg till she cum to kissin' Sam. An' then it all cum out at onst, like a storm from a thunder- cloud — She jest sot down on the kitchen-floor, broke out with a sob so loud Thet Sam give up, an' the boys cum back, and they all got down by her there, An' I'm thinkin 1 'twould make an angel cry to hev seen thet par-tin', Squar ! I think she had a forewarnin', fur when they brought back poor Sam, She sot down by his coffin there, with her face so white an' calm, An' the neighbors thet cum a pourin' in to see our soldier dead, Went out with a hush on their tremblin' lips, an' the words in ther hearts unsaid. prescott's paragon reciter. 51 Stranger, perhaps you heerd of Sam, how he broke thro' thet Secesh line, An' planted the old flag high an' dry, where its dear old stars could shine ; An' after our soldiers won the day, an' a-gatherin' up the dead, They found our boy with his brave heart still, and the flag above his head. An' Tom was shot at Gettysburg, in the hottest of the fray — They said thet he led his gallant boys like a hero thro' thet day ; But they brought him back with his clear voice hushed in the silent sleep of death, An' another grave grew grassy green 'neath the kiss of the summer's breath. An' Benjamin, he cum hum at last, but it made my old eyes ache To see him lay with thet patient look, when it seemed thet his heart would break With his pain an' wounds ; but he lingered on till the flowers died away, An' then we laid him down to rest, in the calm of the autumn day. Will I sell the old farm, stranger, the house where my boys were born ? Jes' look down thro' the orchard, Squar, beyond that field o' corn — Ken ye see them four white marble stuns gleam out thro' the orchard glade ? Wal, all thet is left of our boys on arth rests under them old trees' shade. But there cums John with the cows, ye see, an' it's 'bout my milkin'-time ; If ye happen along this way agin, jes' stop in at eny time. Oh, ye axed if I'd eny notion the old farm would ever be sold : Wal ! may be, Squar, but I'll tell ye plain, 'twill be when the old man's cold. 52 pbescott's paragon eecitee. A PSALM OF THE UNION. ANONYMOUS. God of the Free ! upon thy breath Our flag is for the Right unrolled ; Still broad and brave as when its stars First crowned the hallowed time of old : For Honor still its folds shall fly, For Duty still their glories burn, Where Truth, Religion, Freedom guard The patriot's sword and martyr's urn. Then shout, beside thine oak, O North ! O South ! wave answer with thy palm And in our Union's heritage Together lift the Nation's psalm ! How glorious is our mission here ! Heirs of a virgin world are we ; The chartered lords whose lightnings tame The rocky mount and roaring sea : We march, and Nature's giants own The fetters of our mighty cars ; We look, and lo ! a continent Is crouched beneath the Stripes and Stars ; Then shout beside thine oak, O North ! O South ! wave answer with thy palm ; And in our Union's heritage Together lift the Nation's psalm ! No tyrant's impious step is ours ; No lust of power on nations rolled : Our Flag — for friends a starry sky, For foes a tempest every fold ! Oh ! thus we'll keep our nation's life, Nor fear the bolt by despots hurled ; The blood of all the world is here, And they who strike us, strike the world. prescott's paragon reciter. 53 Then shout beside thine oak, North ! O South ! wave answer with thy palm ; And in our Union's heritage Together lift the Nation's psalm ! God of the Free ! our Nation bless In its strong manhood as its birth ; And make its life a Star of Hope For all the struggling of the Earth : Thou gav'st the glorious Past to us ; Oh ! let our Present burn as bright, And o'er the mighty Future cast Truth's, Honor's, Freedom's holy light ! Then shout beside thine oak, O North ! O South ! wave answer with thy palm ; And in our Union's heritage Together lift the Nation's psalm ! THE IHDIAHS. JOSEPH STORY. There is, in the fate of these unfortunate Indians, much to awken our sympathies, and much to disturb the sobriety of our judgment ; much which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities ; much in their characters, which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. What can be more melan- choly than their history ? By a law of their nature, they seem destined to a slow, but sure extinction. Everywhere, at the approach of the white man, they fade away. We hear the rustling of their footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone for ever. They pass mournfully by us, and they return no more. Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams and the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rang through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests ; and the hunter's trace and dark encampment star- 54 pkescott's paeagon kecitee. tied the wild beasts in tlieir lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young listened to the songs of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down ; but they wept not. They should soon be at rest in fairer regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home prepared for the brave, be- yond the western skies. Braver men never lived ; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. If they had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. They were true to their country, tlieir friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Tlieir love, like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave. THE AUCTION EXTEAOEDINAKY. ANONYMOUS. I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers, And as fast as I dreamed, it was coined into numbers. My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre, I am sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter. It seemed that a law had been recently made, That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid ; And, in order to make them all willing to marry, The tax was as large as a man could well carry. The bachelors grumbled, and said 'twas no use, 'Twas cruel injustice and horrid abuse ; — And declared that, to save their own hearts' blood from spill- ing, Of such a vile tax they would ne'er pay a shilling. But the rulers determined their scheme to pursue, So they set all the bachelors up at vendue. prescott's paragon reciter. 55 A crier was sent through the town to and fro, To rattle his bell and his trumpet to blow, And to bawl out to all he might meet on his way, " Ho ! forty old bachelors sold here to-day 1 " And presently all the old maids of the town, Each one in her very best bonnet and gown, From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale, Of every description, all nocked to the sale. The auctioneer, then, in his labor began ; And called out aloud, as he held up a man, — " How much for a bachelor ? Who wants to buy 1 " In a twinkling, each maiden responded, " I — I ! " In short, at a hugely extravagant price, The bachelors all were sold off in a trice ; And forty old maidens, — some younger, some older, — Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder ! THE POOE MAN AND THE FIEND. ANONYMOUS. A Fiend once met a humble man At night, in the cold, dark street And led him into a palace fair, Where music circled sweet ; And light and warmth cheered the wanderer's heart, From frost and darkness screened, Till his brain grew mad beneath the joy, And he worshipped before the Fiend. Ah ! well if he ne'er had knelt to that Fiend, For a task-master grim was he ; And he said, " One half of thy life on earth I enjoin thee to yield to me ; And when, from rising till set of sun, Thou hast toiled in the heat or snow, Let thy gains on mine altar an offering be ; " And the poor man ne'er said, "No!" 56 peescott's paragon reciter. The poor man had health, more dear than gold ; Stout bone and muscle strong, That neither faint nor weary grew, To toil the June day long ; And the Fiend, his god, cried hoarse and loud, " Thy strength thou must forego, Or thou no worshipper art of mine ; " And the poor man ne'er said, " No ! " Three children blessed the poor man's home — Stray angels dropped on earth — The Fiend beheld their sweet blue eyes, And he laughed in fearful mirth : " Bring forth thy little ones/' quoth he • * ' My godhead wills it so ! I want an evening sacrifice ; " And the poor man ne'er said, " No ! " A young wife sat by the poor man's fire, Who, since she blushed a bride, Had gilded his sorrow, and brightened his joys^ His guardian, friend, and guide. Foul fall the Fiend ! he gave command, " Come, mix the cup of woe, Bid thy young wife drain it to the dregs ; " And the poor man ne'er said, "No !" Oh ! misery now for this poor man ! Oh ! deepest of misery ! Next the Fiend his godlike Reason took, And amongst the beasts fed he ; And when the sentinel Mind was gone, He pilfered his Soul also ; And — marvel of marvels ! — he murmured not : The poor man ne'er said, " No ! " prescott's paragon reciter. 57 Now, men and matrons in your prime, Children, and grandsires old, Come listen, with soul as well as ear, This saying whilst I unfold ; O, listen ! till your brain whirls round, And your heart is sick to think, In a Christian land all this befell ; And the name of the Fiend was — Drink ! THE AMERICAN SAILOE. COMMODORE STOCKTON. What is the American sailor, that he is to be treated worse than a dog ? He has been my companion for more than a quar- ter of a century, in calms and storms, privations, sufferings, and hunger, in peace and in war. I have lived with him, side by side, by sea and land. I have seen him on the Western Ocean, when there was no night to vail his deeds. I have seen him on the coast of Africa, surrounded by pestilential disease. I have seen him among the West India Islands, in chase of pirates. I have encamped with him on the California mountains. I have seen him march through the enemy's country, over mountains and through rivers, with no shoes on but those of canvas, made by his own hands, and with no provisions but what he took from the enemy. And, finally, I have lain beside him on the cold ground, when ice has formed on his beard. His heart has beat close to mine. I ought to know him. I do know him ; and, this day, before the assembled Senate of the republic, I stand up to speak in his behalf. I hope he will find an abler advocate. I am sure he will find such on this floor. But, nevertheless, hear me. American sailors, as a class, have loved their country as well as any other equal number of citizens, and have done more for her in peace and in war. And what has his country done for him ] You have neglected to give him even your thanks, and more, to cap the climax of his country's ingratitude, these memorialists would have him scourged. They would scourge 58 prescott's paragon reciter. him for drunkenness, when they put their bottle to bis mouth. They would scourge him for inattention to his duty, when injus- tice and wrong have made him, for an instant, discontented and sullen. Shame ! shame ! The American sailor, by his superior qualities as a man, has enabled you to rival in commerce the boasted mistress of the ocean. Where is the coast or harbor, in the wide world, ac- cessible to human enterprise, to which he has not carried your flag ? His berth is no sinecure, his service is no easy service. He is necessarily an isolated being. He knows no comforts of home, and wife, and children. He reaps no reward for the increase of treasure he brings to you. When on shore, he is among strangers, and friendless. When worn out, he is scarcely provided for ; making men rich, he lives and dies poor. Carry- ing the gifts of civilization and the blessing of the gospel through the world, he is treated as an outcast from the mercies of both. But look to your history, which the world knows by heart, and you will find, in its brightest page, the glorious achieve- ments of the American sailor. Whatever his country has done to disgrace him, and break his spirit, he has never disgraced Tier. He has always been ready to serve her, always has served her faithfully. He has often been weighed in the balance, and never found wanting. "THE SAXON GEIT." REV. ROBERT COLLYER'S STIRRING REPLY TO A TOAST. "The Saxon Grit— Which, in New England as in Old England, has made a race of men to be honored, feared and respected. It is as positive as the earth is firm. 1 ' Worn with the battle, by Stamford town, Fighting the Norman, by Hastings Bay Harold, the Saxon's, sun went down, While the acorns were falling, one autumn day. Then the Norman said : "lam lord of the land ; By tenor of conquest here I sit ; I will rule you now with the iron hand ; " But he had not thought of the Saxon grit. prescott's paragon reciter. 59 He took the land, and he took the men, And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne, Made the freeman serfs by the stroke of the pen, Ate up the corn, and drank the wine, And said to the maiden, pure and fair, " You shall be my leman, as is most fit, Your Saxon churl may rot in his lair ; " But he had not measured the Saxon grit. To the merry green wood went bold Robin Hood, With his strong-hearted yeomanry ripe for the fray, Driving the arrow into the marrow Of all the proud Normans who came in his way Scorning the fetter, fearless and free, Winning by valor, or foiling by wit, Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he, This merry old rogue, with the Saxon grit. And Kett, the tanner, whipt out his knife, And Watt, the smith, his hammer brought down, For Ruth, the maid he loved better than life, And by breaking a head, made a hole in the crown. From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar, " Our life shall not be by the king's permit ; We will fight for the right, we want no more/' Then the Norman found the Saxon grit. For slow and sure as the oaks had grown From the acorns falling that autumn day, So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town To a nobler stature grew alway. Winning by inches, holding by clinches, Standing by law and the human right, Many times failing, never once quailing, So the new day came out of the night. 60 pkescott's paeagon eecjter. Then rising afar in the Western sea, A new world stood in the morn of the day, Ready to welcome the brave and the free, Who could wrench out the heart and march away From the narrow, contracted, dear old land, Where the poor are held by a cruel bit, To ampler spaces for heart and hand — And here was a chance for the Saxon grit. Steadily steering, eagerly peering, Trusting in God, your fathers came, Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers, Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame. Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ, They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, And made a new Moses of Saxon grit. They whittled and waded through forest and fen, Fearless as ever of what might befall ; Pouring out life for the nurture of men ; In faith that by manhood the world wins all. Inventing baked beans and no end of machines ; Great with the rifle and great with the axe — Sending their notions over the oceans, To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs. Swift to take chances that end in the dollar, Yet open of hand when the dollar is made, Maintaining the nieetin', exalting the scholar, But a little too anxious about a good trade ; This is young Jonathan, son of old John, Positive, peaceable, firm in the right, Saxon men all of us, may we be one, Steady for freedom, and strong in her might. pkescott's paragon reciter* 61 Then slow and sure, as the oaks have grown From the acorns that fell on that old dim day, So this new manhood, in city and town, To a nobler stature will grow alway ; Winning by inches, holding by clinches, Slow to contention, slower to quit ; Xow and then failing, but never once quailing — Let us thank God for the Saxon grit. EXPEEIENOE WITH EUROPEAN GUIDES. MAKK TWATN. European guides know about enough English to tangle everything up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart, — the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would,— and if you inter- rupt and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration. It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what prompts children to say "smart'' things and do absurd ones, and in other ways l * show off ts when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news. Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is, every day. to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect ecstasies of admiration ! He gets so that he could not by any possibility live in a soberer atmosphere. After we discovered this, we never went into ecstasies any more,— we never admired anything, — we never showed any but impassable faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it ever since. We have made some of those people savage at times, but we have never lost our serenity. 62 prescott's paragon reciter. The doctor asks the questions generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes natural to him. The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation, — full of impatience. He said : " Come wis me, genteelmen! — come ! I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo ! — write it himself ! — write it wis his own hand ! — come ! " He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with his fin- ger :— " What I tell you, genteelmen ! Is it not so? See ! hand- writing Christopher Colombo ! — write it himself ! " We looked indifferent, — unconcerned. The doctor examined the document very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of interest, — "Ah, — Ferguson, — what — what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this ? " " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo !" Another deliberate examination. " Ah, — did he write it himself, or, — or how ? " "He write it himself !— Christopher Colombo! he's own handwriting, write by himself ! " Then the doctor laid down the document and said, — "Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that." " But zis is ze great Christo " " I don't care who it is ! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got pkescott's paragon reciter. 63 any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out ! — and if you haven't, drive on ? " We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said, — " Ah, genteelmen, you come with wis us ! I show you beau- tiful, oh, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo ! — splendid, grand, magnificent ! " He brought us before the beautiful bust, — for it was beauti- ful, — and sprang back and struck an attitude : — " Ah, — look, genteelmen ! — beautiful, grand, — bust Christo- pher Colombo ! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal ! n The doctor put up his eye-glass, — procured for such occa- sions : — "Ah, — what did you say this gentleman's name was ? " " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo !" " Christopher Colombo, — the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he do ? " "Discover America ! — discover America — oh, ze diable ! " " Discover America ? No, — that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. Christopher Colombo, — pleasant name, — is — is he dead? " " Oh, corpo di Baccho ! — three hundred years ! " "What did he die of ?" " I do not know. I cannot tell." " Small-pox, think ? " " I do not know, genteelmen, — I do not know what he die of." " Measles, likely ? " " Maybe, — maybe. I do not know, — I think he die of some- thing." "Parents living?" " Im-posseeble ! " " Ah, — which is the bust and which is the pedestal? " " Santa Maria ! — zis ze bust ! — zis ze pedestal ! " " Ah, I see, I see, — happy combination, — very happy combi- nation, indeed. Is — is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust ? " 64 pbescott's paragon reciter. That joke was lost on the foreigner, — guides cannot master the subtleties of the American joke. We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. Yester- day we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful world of curiosities. We came very near express- ing interest sometimes, even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else ever did in the Vatican museum. The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure ; we never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder till the last, — a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure this time that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him : — " See, genteelmen ! — Mummy ! — Mummy !" The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever. "Ah, — Ferguson, — what did I understand you to say the gentleman's name was ? " " Name ? — he got no name ! — Mummy ! — 'Gfyptian mummy ! '' u Yes, yes Born here ? " "No. '%tomummy." " Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume ? " " No ! Not Frenchman, not Roman ! Born in Egypta ! " " Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely. Mummy, — mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed ! Is — ah ! — is he dead ? " " Oh, sacre bleu ! been dead three thousan' years ! " The doctor turned on him savagely : — " Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this ? Playing us for Chinamen, because we are strangers and trying to learn ! Trying to impose your vile second-hand carcasses on us ! Thunder and lightning ! I've a notion to — to — if you've got a nice, fres/i corpse fetch him out ! — or we'll brain you ! " However, he has paid us back partly, and without knowing it. He came to the hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavored, as well as he could, to describe us, so that prescott's paragon reciter. 65 the landlord would know which person he meant. He finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The observa- tion was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for a guide to say. Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long- suffering subject we have had yet. We shall be sorry to part with him. We have enjoyed his society very much. We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are harassed with doubts. NIAGAKA PALLS. KOSSUTH. Niagara Falls ! — that sublime wonder of nature, to describe which human tongue will never find a word, to comprehend the grandeur of which man must not look at it with the natural eye, but with the immortal soul ; and listen to its roaring, not with the ear, but with the heart. When we thus see it with the soul, and hear it with the heart, then we understand it, that it is a mirror in which the Creator glasses His own ma- jesty, that it is the revelation of that great mystery that in the boundless eternity of time and space is still going on, that it is a great monitor to the moral world, advising man that there is no difficulty over which an iron will cannot prevail. Such a mirror, such a revelation, and such a monitor, was Niagara to me. Every element of physical nature and every element of spiritual life has its destiny, and destiny must be accomplished. The mighty waters of the always increasing Erie lake must have and must make an outlet. Those waters must flow, and mankind must be free. Both are a destiny. A whim of na- ture barred the way to those waters by a mighty range of rocks, as crime and ambition barred the way to mankind's lib- erty by a rocky range of despotism ; but the falling waters broke the barrier of rocks — progressing liberty will break the barrier of despotism. It is destiny. When I saw the waters take that sublime leap over the rocks, and below the boiling foam of overcome toils, crowned with the rainbow of victory, 66 pkescott's paeagon eeciteb. and then, after victory, flowing on in calm peace — when I saw the struggle, the victory, the rainbow, and the peace, a mys- terious voice in the recess of my heart told me. there is the mirror of my country's cause. And the rainbow in the foaming deep spoke to me as the rainbow on the sky once to iNoah spoke, and an inexpressible joy thrilled through my heart, and I adored the Almighty with the awe of silence, that eloquence of a deep, feeling heart. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. The recollections of that sublime scenery carried my thoughts away, and I had no time to blot them out. THE NOBLEST MEN ANONYMOUS. The noblest men that live on earth. Are men whose hands are brown with toil ; Who, backed by no ancestral graves, Hew down the woods, and till the soil ; And win thereby a prouder name Than follows king's or warrior's fame. The working men, whate'er their task, Who carve the stone or bear the hod, They wear upon their honest brows The royal stamp and seal of God ; And worthier are their drops of sweat Than diamonds in a coronet. God bless the noble working men, Who rear the cities of the plain ; Who dig the mines, who build the ships, And drive the commerce of the main I God bless them ! for their toiling hands Have wrought the glory of all lands. pbescott's paeagon ebciteh. 67 THE SIPTDTG OF PETEE. H. W. LONGFELLOW. " Behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat. 1 ' -St. Luke xxii. 31. In St. Luke's Gospel we are told How Peter in the days of old Was sifted ; And now, though ages intervene, Sin is the same, while time and scene Are shifted. Satan desires us, great and small, As wheat, to sift us, and we all Are tempted ; Not one, however rich or great, Is by his station or estate Exempted. No house so safely guarded is But he, by some device of his, Can enter ; No heart hath armor so complete But he can pierce with arrows fleet Its centre. For all at last the cock will crow Who hear the warning voice, but go Unheeding, Till thrice and more they have denied The Man of Sorrows, crucified And bleeding. One look of that pale suffering face Will make us feel the deep disgrace Of weakness ; We shall be sifted till the strength Of self-conceit be changed at' length To meekness. 68 pbescott's pakagon eecitek. Wounds of the soul, though healed, will ache, The reddening scars remain, and make Confession ; Lost innocence returns no more ; We are not what we were before Transgression. But noble souls, through dust and heat. Rise from disaster and defeat The stronger, And conscious still of the divine Within them, lie on earth supine No longer. THE MODEEH BELLE. STARK. She sits in a fashionable parlor, and rocks in her easy chair She is clad in silks and satins, and jewels are in her hair ; She winks, and giggles, and simpers, and simpers, and giggles, and winks ; And though she talks but little, 'tis a good deal more than she thinks. She lies a-bed in the morning, till nearly the hour of noon, Then comes down snapping and snarling, because she was called so soon ! Her hair is still in papers, her cheeks still fresh with paint, Remains of her last night's blushes, before she intended to faint. She doats upon men unshaven, and men with " flowing hair ; " She's eloquent over mustaches — they give such a foreign air ; She talks of Italian music, and falls in love with the moon ; And if a mouse were to meet her, she would sink away in a swoon. prescott's paragon reciter. 69 Her feet, O, they are so little, her hands, 0, they are so white, Her jewels are so very heavy, and her head is so very light ; Her color is made of cosmetics (though this she never will own), Her body's made mostly of cotton, her heart is made wholly of stone. She falls in love with a fellow, who swells with a foreign air ; He marries her for her money, she marries him for his — hair ! One of the very best matches — both are well mated in life ; She's got a fool for a husband, he's got a fool for a wife ! CITIES. ANONYMOUS. This earth's earliest city was built by a murderer ; its foun- dations, 1 may say, were laid in blood. Enoch was its name, Cain was its founder . Those who, living far from the din and bustle of cities, read with a wonder that grows into horror the dark record of their courts and crimes ; those who see in the blasting effect of their murky air no flower, and shrub, and tree, only an emblem of their withering influence on the fairest human virtues, they may fancy that the curse of the first murderer and their first founder hangs over earth's cities, dark, heavy, as their clouds of smoke. We can excuse them for thinking so. Great cities some have found to be great curses. Many a foot, that once lightly pressed the heather or brushed the dewy grass, has wearily trodden in darkness, and guilt, and sin, these city pave- ments. Happy had it been for many that they had never exchanged the starry skies for the lamps of the town, nor had ever left their lonely glens or quiet hamlets for the throng and roar of our streets. Well for them that they had heard no rush but the river's, whose winter flood it had been safer to breast, no roar but the ocean's, whose stormiest waves it had been safer to 70 prescott's paragon reciter. ride, than to encounter the flood of city temptation which ha s wrecked their virtue and swept them into ruin. Yet I bless God for cities. The world had not been what it is without them. They have been as lamps of light along the pathway of humanity aud religion. Within them, Science has given birth to her noblest discoveries ; behind their walls, Freedom has fought her noblest battles. They have stood on the surface of the earth, like great breakwaters rolling back or turning aside the swelling tide of oppression. Cities, indeed, have been the cradles of human liberty, the radiating active centres of reformations. Amid their crowding and confinement, the human mind finds its fullest, freest expansion. Unlike the dwarfed and dusty plants which stand around our suburban villas, languishing like exiles for the purer air and freer sunshine that kiss their fellows far away in flowery field and green woodland, on sunny banks and breezy hills, man reaches his highest condition amid the social influences of the crowded city. The mental powers acquire their full robustness where the cheek loses its ruddy hue, and the limbs their elastic step, and pale thought sits on manly brows ; and the watchman, as he walks his rounds, sees the student's lamp burning far into the silent night. As aerolites are supposed to catch fire by the rapidity of their motion, as they rush through the higher regions of our atmos- phere, so the mind of men fires, burns, shines, acquires its most dazzling brilliancy by the very rapidity of action into which it is thrown amid the bustle and excitement of city life. CHEISTIAUITY ESSENTIAL TO LIBEETY. KOSSUTH. All my woes and all the woes of my family, are concentrated in the unwarrantable oppression of my fatherland. Can you blame me that the filial and fraternal devotion of my heart, in taking with gratitude the balm of consolation which your charity pours into the bleeding wounds of my family, looks pkescott's pakagon recites. 71 around to heal those wounds, the torturing pains of which you ease, but which cannot be cured but by justice and charity done to my fatherland ? Shall I be satisfied with leaving to my homeless brother and sister the means of gaining their bread by honest labor, their daily bread salted with the bitter tears of exile ; and not care to leave them the hope that their misfortune will have an end ; that they will see again their beloved home ; that they will see it independent and free, and live where their fathers lived, and sleep the tranquil sleep of death, in that soil with which the ashes of their fathers mingle ? Shall I not care to console my aged mother with the hope, that when hereafter her soul, crowned with the garland of martyrdom, looks down from the home of the blessed, the united joy of the heavens shall thrill through her immortal spirit, seeing her dear, dear Hungary free ? Tour views are divided on the subject, it may be; but can your views be divided upon the subject that it is the command of God to love your neighbors as you love yourselves ? That it is the duty of the Christian religion, that it is the fundamental principle of the Christians, to do unto others as you desire others to do unto you ? And if there is, if there can be. no difference of opinion in regard to the principle ; if no one in this vast assembly — whatever be the platform of his party — ever would disclaim this principle, will any one blame me that in the name of Christ I am bold to claim the application of that principle 1 And shall I not speak of my country's wrongs ? Oh ! my country — thou heart of my heart, thou life of my life — to thee are bent the thoughts of my mind, and they will remain bent to thee, though all the world may frown. To thee are pledged all the affections of my heart, and they will be pledged to thee as long as one drop of blood throbs within this heart. Thine are the cares of my working hours ; thine are the dreams of my restless sleep. Shall I forget thee, but for a moment ? Never ! Never ! Thou art fallen, my country, because Christianity has yet to come : but it is not yet come — nowhere ! Nowhere on earth ! And with the sharp eye of misfortune piercing the dark veil of the future, and with the tongue of Cassandra relating what I see, I cry it out to high Heaven, and shout it out to the 72 peesoott's paeagon keciter. earth, — " Nations, proud of your momentary power ; proud of your freedom ; proud of your prosperity ! your power is vain ; your freedom is vain, your industry, your wealth, your prosperity are vain ; all this will not save you from sharing the mournful fate of those old nations not less powerful than you, not less free, not less prosperous than you, — and still fallen, as you, yourself shall fall, — all vanished as you shall vanish, like a bubble thrown up from the deep ! There is only the law of Christ, there are only the duties of Christianity which can secure your future, by securing at the same time humanity. THE AMEKIOAN EAQLE. ANONYMOUS Bird of the cliff ! thou art soaring on high ; Thou hast swept the dense cloud from thy path in the sky ; Thou hast breasted the storm in thy heavenward flight, And fix'd thy bright eye on the fountain of light ; Thou hast braved the keen flash of the lightning in sport, And poised thy strong wing where the thunders resort ; Thou hast follow'd the stars in their pathways above, And chased the wild meteors wherever they rove. Bird of the forest ! thou lov'st the deep shade, Where the oak spreads its boughs in the mountain and glade Where the thick-cluster' d ivy encircles the pine. And the proud elm is wreathed by the close-clinging vine ; Thou hast tasted the dew of the untrodden plain, And follow'd the streams as they roll to the main ; Thou hast dipp'd thy swift wing in the feathery spray, Where the earth-quaking cataract roars on its way. Bird of the sky ! thou hast sail'd on the cloud, Where the battle raged fierce, and the cannon roared loud ; Thou hast stoop'd to the earth when the foeman was slain. And waved thy wide wing o'er the blood -sprinkled plain ; prescott's paragon reciter. 73 Thou hast soared where the banner of freedom is borne ; Thou hast gazed at the far dreaded lion in scorn, Thy beak has been wet in the blood of our foes, When the home of the brave has been left to repose. Bird of the clime in which liberty dwells, Nurse the free soul in thy cliff-shelter' d dells ! Hover above the strong heart in its pride, Whisper of those who for freedom have died ! Bear up the free-nurtured spirit of man, Till it soar, like thine own, through its earth -bounded span ; Waft it above, o'er the mountain and wave — Spread thy free wing o'er the patriot's grave ! THE POWER OF HABIT. ANONYMOUS. I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gentleman, " What river is that, sir ? " " That," he said, "is the Niagara Eiver." "Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I, "bright, and fair, and glassy. How far off are the rapids ? " " Only a mile or two," was the reply. " Is it possible that only a mile from us we shall find the water in the turbulence which it must show near to the Falls 1 " " You will find it so, sir." And so I found it ; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never forget. Now launch your bark on that Niagara River ; it is bright, smooth, beautiful, and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow ; the silver wake you leave behind adds to your enjoyment. Down the stream you glide, oars, sails, and helm in proper trim ; and you set out on your pleasure excursion. Suddenly some one cries out from the bank, ' ' Young men, ahoy i " "What is it?" " The rapids are below you." "Ha, ha 1 We have heard of the rapids ; but we are not such t 1 PKESCOTT S PAKAGON BECITER. fools as to get there. If we go too fast, then we shall up with the helm, and steer to the shore ; we will set the mast in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed to the land. Then on, boys ; don't be alarmed ; there is no danger." " Young men, ahoy, there ! " " What is it?" " The rapids are below you ! " "Ha, ha ! We will laugh and quaff ; all things delight us. What care we for the future? No man ever saw it. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy life while we may ; will catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment ; time enough to steer out of danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current." " Young men, ahoy ! " "What is it?" " Beware ! beware ! The rapids are below you." Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast you pass that point ! Up with the helm ! Now turn. Pull hard ! quick ! quick ! quick ! pull for your lives ; pull till the blood starts from your nostrils, and the veins stand like whip- cords upon your brow. Set the mast in the socket ! hoist the sail ! Ah ! ah ! it is too late ! Shrieking, cursing, howling, blaspheming, over they go. Thousands go over the rapids every year, through the power of habit, crying all the while, " When I find out that it is in- juring me, I will give it up." We see sometimes, on our city streets, placards posted, " Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! " And I stop sometimes to think of the cherished treasure that is gone, the heartache at its loss, the longing for its return. On those same streets we hear some- times, in the calm of the evening's twilight, the ringing of the crier's bell, and his shrill voice, shouting, "Child lost! Child lost ! " Yes ! a child lost, away from the comfort and bright- ness of home, gone from the father's smife and the mother's fond embrace, strayed out into the night, alone, and its dreary, coming blackness. But the lost treasure is merely material ; and the child' is still in the pathway of loving humanity, still within the enfolding arms of an all-loving God. peesoott's paragon reciter. 75 But the drunkards ! Lost ! lost ! lost ! fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, lost to friends, to families, to loved ones, to society ; lost to the world, to the church ; and lost,, forever lost, from the circle of the redeemed that shall gather round (rod's throne — over the rapids, and lost. TO "WHOM WE SHALL QIVE THANKS. ANOSYilOUS. A little boy had sought the pump, From whence the sparkling water burst, And drank with eager joy the draught That kindly quenched his raging thirst ; Then gracefully he touched his cap, — " I thank you, Mr. Pump," he said, " For this nice drink you've given me ! " (This little boy had been well-bred.) Then said the Pump : " My little man, You're welcome to what I have done ; But I am not the one to thank, — I only help the water run." "Oh, then," the little fellow said (Polite he always meant to be), " Cold Water, please accept my thanks ; You have been very kind to me." " Ah ! " said Cold Water, " don't thank me ; Far up the hill- side lives the Spring That sends me forth, with generous hand, To gladden every living thing." " I'll thank the Spring, then," said the boy, And gracefully he bowed his head. " Oh, don't thank me, my little man," The Spring- with silvery accents said. 76 prescott's paragon reciter. " Oh, don't thank me, — for what am I, Without the Dews and Summer Rain ? Without their aid I ne'er could quench Your thirst, my little boy, again." " Oh, well, then," said the little boy, "I'll gladly thank the Rain and Dew." " Pray, don't thank us, — without the Sun We could not fill one cup for you." " Then, Mr. Sun, ten thousand thanks For all that you have done for me ; " " Stop S " said the Sun, with blushing face ; " My little fellow, don't thank me ; 'Twas from the Ocean's mighty stores I drew the draught I gave to thee." " Ocean, thanks ! " then said the boy. It echoed back, " Not unto me, — "Not unto me, but unto Him Who formed the depths in which I lie ; Go, give thy thanks, my little boy, To Him who will thy wants supply." The boy took off his cap, and said, In tones so gentle and subdued : " God, I thank thee for this gift ; Thou art the Giver of all good. " THE DOME OF THE REPUBLIC, ANONYMOUS. It is recorded, in the annals of the most democratic republic of medieval Italy, that, in her pride of institutions and arts, she decreed the building of a cathedral dome far greater and more beautiful than any the world had ever seen. The architect, Arnclfo, having laid the foundations, died ; prescott's paragon reciter. 77 and no one was deemed worthy to finish his work. For a cen- tury the republic sought far and near, but an architect able thus to give glory to Florence and Italy could not be found. Meanwhile absurd projects were multiplied. Some proposed a dome supported by a central pillar ; but it was voted that a dome which must forever be artificially supported, is but a poor, sickly no-dome. Others proposed a dome of pumice- stone ; but it was voted, that when a great republic rears a mighty monument for the ages, it must not be of pumice-stone. Others still proposed to heap up a mountain of earth to, scatter coins therein, to round off its summit, to build the dome upon this as a support, and then to admit swarm _> of beggars, who should carry away the mountain of earth to sift it for its money. This was voted impracticable. At last a plain workman, strong only in sturdy sense and a knowledge of his art, proposed to rear the great fabric of mar- ble, and by appliances simple and natural. He was set at the work. Then began the rage of rival architects. They derided his plans, seduced his workmen, stole his tools, undermined the confidence of the people. But still that plain, strong man wrought on, ever steadily, ever earnestly. Day by day the glorious creation rose ; day by day some stone was added to give it height or mass ; day by day some shrewd plan was struck to give it strength or symmetry, until it tow- ered complete, a wondrous monument to Brunelleschi, to Florence, and to Italy. So in this glorious fabric of a restored Union. The work is mighty ; the chief architect is but a plain man. The envious cavil, and the malignant howl. But, day by day, the struc- ture rises ; its foundations great truths, far more lasting than mere granite ; its pillars great rights, far more beauti- ful than mere porphyry ; its roof great hopes, swelling higher than any dome of bronze and gold. And from its sum- mit shall come light, beaming brighter, flashing farther, than any ever flung into serf's eyes from crown diamonds ; for it shall reflect that light of liberty and justice which cometh from the very throne of the Almighty. 78 pkescott's paeagon eecitee. THE ISLE OP LONG AGO. B- F. TAYLOB. Oil, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, As it blends with the Ocean of Years. How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, And the summers, like buds between ; And the year in the sheaf — so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, As it glides in the shadow and sheen. There's a magical Isle up the river of Time, Where the softest of airs are playing ; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are staying. And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there ; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow- There are heaps of dust — bat we loved them so ! — ■ There are trinkets and tresses of hair ; There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer, There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings ; There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments that she used to wear. There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air ; And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair. pkescott's paeagon reciter. 79 Oh, remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle, All the day of our life till night — When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, May that " Greenwood " of Soul be in sight ! STIOE TOQETHEK. ANONYMOUS. When midst the wreck of fire and smoke, When cannons rend the skies asunder, And fierce dragoons with quickening stroke Upon the reeling regiments thunder, The ranks close up to sharp command, Till helmet's feather touches feather ; Compact the furious shock they stand, And conquer ; for they stick together ! When now, 'mid clouds of woe and want, Our comrades' wails rise fast and faster, And charging madly on our front Come the black legions of disaster, Shall we present a wavering band And fly like leaves before wild weather ? No ! side by side and hand in hand, We'll stand our ground and stick together ! God gave us hands — one left, one right ; The first to help ourselves, the other To stretch abroad in kindly might, To help along our faithful brother. Then if you see a brother fall, And bow his head before the weather, If you be not a dastard all, You'll help him up and stick together ! 80 peescott's paragon reciter. MINE S0HILDH00D. AUTHOR OF "LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS." Der scliiltren dhey vas poot in ped, All tucked oup for der nighdt : I dakes mine pipe der mandel off, Und pv der fireside priglit, I dinks aboudt vehn I vas young — Off moder, who vas tead, Und how at nighdt— like I do Hans — She tucked rne oup in ped. I mindt me off mine fader, too, Und how he yoost to say, "Poor poy, you haf a hardt oldt row To hoe, und leetle "May." I find me oudt dot it vas drue Vot mine olt fader said, Vhile smoothing down mine flaxen hair Und tucking me in ped. Der oldt folks ! Id vas like a dhream To spheak off dhem like dot, Gretchen und I vas " oldt folks " now Und haf two scliiltren got. Ve lof es dhem more as nefer vas, Each leedle curly head, Und ef ry nighdt ve dakes dhem oup Und tucks dhem in dheir ped. Bout dhen, somedimes, ven I feel plue, Und all dings lonesome seem, I vish I vas dot poy again, Und dis vas all a dhream. I vant to kiss mine moder vonce, Und vhen mine brayer vas said, To haf mine fader dake me oup Und tuck me in mine ped. pbescott's paragon reciter. 81 DEFEIOE OF A CLIENT, S. S. PKENTISS. It is said that my client had no right to interfere in defence of his brother ; so says the commonwealth's attorney. Go, gentlemen, and ask your mothers and sisters whether that be law. I refer you to no musty tomes, but to the living volumes of nature. What ! a man not permitted to defend his brother against conspirators ? against assassins, who are crushing out the very life of their bruised and powerless victim ? Why, he who would shape his conduct by such a principle does not de- serve to have a brother or a friend. To fight for self is but the result of an honest instinct, which we have in common with the brutes. To defend those who are dear to us, is the highest exercise of the principle of self- defence. It nourishes all the noblest social qualities, and con- stitutes the germ of patriotism itself. Why is the step of the Kentuckian free as that of the bound- ing deer ; firm, manly, and confident as that of the Macgregor when his foot was on the heather of his native hills, and his eye on the peak of Ben Lomond ? It is because he feels indepen- dent and proud ; independent in the knowledge of his rights, proud in the generous consciousness of ability and courage to defend them, not only in his own person, but in the persons of those who are dear to him. It was not the blood that would desert a brother or a friend, which swelled the hearts of your fathers in the " olden time," when, in defence of those they loved, they sought the red savage through all the fastnesses of his native forest. It was not such blood that was poured out, free as a gushing torrent, upon the dark banks of the melancholy Raisin, when all Kentucky armed her warrior sires. They were as bold and true as ever fought beneath a plume. The Roncesvalles pass, when fell before the opposing lance the harnessed chivalry of Spain, looked not up- on a braver or a better band Kentucky has no law which precludes a man from defending himself, his brother, or his friend. Better for my client had he never been born, than that he should have failed in his duty on this occasion. 82 frescott's pabagon reciter. THE CAUSE OP HOTGAKY. KOSSUTH. To prove that Washington never attached to his doctrine of neutrality more than the sense of temporary policy, I refer to one of his letters; written to Lafayette, wherein he says. " Let us only have twenty years of peace, and our country will come to such a degree of power and wealth that we shall be able, in a just cause, to defy whatever power on earth." "Ina Just Cause ! " Now, in the name of eternal truth, and by all that is sacred and dear to man, since the history of man- kind is recorded, there has been no cause more j ust than the cause of Hungary ! Never was there a people, without the slightest reason, more sacrilegiously, more treacherously, and by fouler means, attacked than Hungary ! Never have crime, cursed ambition, despotism, and violence, in a more wicked manner, united to crush down freedom, and the very life, than against Hungary ! Never was a country more mortally out- raged than Hungary. All your sufferings, all your complaints, which, with so much right, drove your forefathers to take up arms, are but slight grievances, compared with those immense, deep wounds, out of which the heart of Hungary bleeds ! If the cause of my people is not sufficiently just to insure the pro- tection of God, and the support of good- willing men, then there is no just cause, and no justice on earth ; then the blood of no new Abel will move towards Heaven ; the genius of charity, Christian love, and justice will mournfully fry the earth ; a heavy curse will upon mortality fall, oppressed men despair, and only the Cains of humanity walk proudly, with impious brow, above the ruins of Liberty on Earth ! You have attained that degree of strength and consistency when your less fortunate brethren of mankind may well claim your brotherly, protecting hand. And here I stand before you, to plead the cause of these, your less fortunate brethren — the cause of humanity. I may succeed, or I may fail. But I will go on, pleading with that faith of martyrs by which mountains were moved ; and I may displease you, perhaps ; still I will say, with Luther, i: May God help me — 1 can do no otherwise! " prescott's paragon reciter. 83 Woe, a thousandfold woe, to humanity, should there be no- body on earth to maintain the laws of humanity ! Woe to humanity, if every despot of the world may dare to trample down the laws of humanity, and no nation arise to make re- spected these laws. THE EMPTY NEST, LIZZIE YOEK CASE, My mate and I had a cosy nest, It was hidden away in a mountain breast, In the heart of nature wild and free ; And two birdlings fair in the nest had we, But the war- wind blew, and we lacked the food That was wont to supply our little brood ; So my mate took his flight far over the sea In search after food for them and for me, But ere he came back the birdlings had flown And I was left in the nest alone ; They had flown away behind the sea, And, alas ! they can never come back to me. They had flown further oft than the farthest star. Their wings were o'er tender to fly so far — But the angels bore them up in their flight, And oh ! their young pinions so pure and bright, Soared away and away to a heavenly height, I watched them till my eyes grew dim, No longer birds but seraphim, And sang in heaven their holy hymn ; They made their nests away in the skies £ And now they are birds of paradise. Alas ! my wings were so heavy with sin, I watched but I could not follow them in. And oft 'times we weep, my mate and I, For these dear young birdlings away in the sky. And still he goes far over the sea, But now he only brings food for ma. 84 pkescott's paragon reciter. I carry my grief like a wound in my breast And hover around the empty nest ; Or sitting in that nest alone I sing of naught but my birdlings flown. You chide me because my songs are sad, And ask for numbers blithesome and glad. Oh ! ask not for songs that are happy and gay When my loving mate is so far away ; Ask not for songs that are joyous and free When my birdlings can never come back to me ; If I sing to you it must either be A song of the grave, or a song of the sea. AGEIOULTUEE. D. S. DICKINSON. We have the high authority of history, sacred and profane, for declaring that agriculture is a dignified and time -honored calling, — ordained and favored of Heaven, and sanctioned by experience ; and we are invited to its pursuit by the rewards of the past and the present, and the rich promises of the future. While the fierce spirit of war, with its embattled legions, has, in its proud triumphs, " whelmed nations in blood, and wrapped cities in fire/' and filled the land with lamentation and mourn- ing, it has not brought peace or happiness to a single hearth, dried the tears of the widows or hushed the cries of the orphans it has made, bound up or soothed one crushed or broken spirit, nor heightened the joys of domestic or social life in a single bosom. But how many dark recesses of the earth has agricul- ture illumined with its blessings ! How many firesides has it lighted up with radiant gladness ! How many hearts has it made buoyant with domestic hope ! How often, like the good Samaritan, has it alleviated want and misery, while the priest and Levite of power have passed by on the other side ! How many family altars, and gathering places of affection, has it erec- ted ! How many desolate homes has it cheered by its conso- prescott's paragon reciter. 85 lations? How have its peaceful and gentle influences filled the land with plenteousness and riches, and made it vocal with praise and thanksgiving ! It has pleased the "benevolent Author of our existence to set in boundless profusion before us the necessary elements for a high state of cultivation and enjoyment. Blessings cluster around us like fruits of the land of promise, and science unfolds her treas- ures and invites us to partake, literally without money and with- out price. The propensities of our nature, as well as the phi- losophy of our being, serve to remind us that man was formed for care and labor, the acquisition and enjoyment of property, for society and government, to wrestle with the elements around him ; and that, by an active exercise of his powers and faculties alone, can he answer the ends of his creation, or exhibit his exalted attributes. His daily wants, in all conditions of life, prompt him to exertion ; and the spirit of acquisition, so deeply implanted in the human breast, — that " ruling passion strong in death/' so universally diffused through the whole family of man, — is the parent of that laudable enterprise which has caused the wilderness to bud and blossom like the rose, planted domes, tic enjoyments in the lair of the beast of prey, and transformed the earth from an uncultivated wild into one vast store-house of subsistence and enjoyment. What can be more acceptable to the patriot or the philanthropist, than to behold the great mass of mankind raised above the degrading influences of tyranny and indolence, to the rational enjoyment of the bounties of their Creator. To see, in the productions of man's magic powers, the cultivated country, the fragrant meadow, the wav- ing harvest, the smiling garden, and the tasteful dwelling, and himself, chastened by the precepts of religion, and elevated by the refinements of science, partaking of the fruits of hi3 own industry, with proud consciousness that he eats not the bread of idleness or fraud ; that his gains are not wet with the tears of misfortune, nor wrung from his fellow by the devices of avarice or extortion ; his joys heightened, his sorrows alleviated and his heart rectified, by the cheering voice and heaven-born influences of woman. Well may he sit down under his own vine and fig- tree without fear of molestation, and his nightly 86 prescott's paragon reciter. repose be more quiet than that of the stately monarch of the east upon his down of cygnets, or the voluptuous Sybarite upon his bed of roses. NEW YEAE'S EVE. ANONYMOUS. Little Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down the street; The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is on her feet. The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp, By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the nicker of the lamp. The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north, But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth. Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright, And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night. With the little box of matches she could not sell all day, And the thin, tattered mantle the wind blows every way, She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom — There are parents sitting snugly by the firelight in the room ; And children with grave faces are whispering one another Of presents for the new year, for father or for mother. But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak, No breath of little whisperers comes warmly to her cheek. No little arms are around her : ah me ! that there should be, With so much happiness on earth, so much of misery ! Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings round, As laden boughs in Autumn fling their ripe fruits to the ground. And the best love man can offer to the God of love, be sure, Is kindness to his little ones, and bounty to his poor. Little Gretchen, little Gretchen goes coldly on her way ; There's no one looketh out at her, there's no one bids her Stay. prescott's paragon reciter. 87 Her home is cold and desolate ; no smile, no wood, no fire, But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire. So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet, And she curleth up beneath her for warmth her little feet ; And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up on high. She hears the clock strike slowly, up in a high church tower, With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight hour. And she remembered her of tales her mother used to tell, And of the cradle-songs she sang, when Summer's twilight fell ; Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child, Who was cradled in a manger, when Winter was most wild ; Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and lone ; And she thought the song had told he was ever with his own ; And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his. — ' ' How good of him to look on me in such a place as this ! " Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel it now, For the pressure on her heart, and the weight upon her brow ; But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and bare. That she might look around her, and see if He were there. The single match has kindled, and by the light it threw It seemed to little Gretchen the wall was rent in two ; And she could see folks seated at a table richly spread, With heaps of goodly viands, red wine and pleasant bread. She could smell the fragrant savor, she could hear what they did say, Then all was darkness once again, the match had burned away. She struck another hastily, and now she seemed to see Within the same warm chamber a glorious Christmas tree. The branches were all laden with things that children prize, Bright gifts for boy and maiden — she saw them with her eyes. And she almost seemed to touch them, and to join the welcome shout, When darkness fell around her, for the little match was out. 88 pkescott's pabagon eecitek. Another, yet another, she has tried — they will not light ; Till all her little store she took, and struck with all her might, And the whole miserable place was lighted with the glare, And she dreamed there stood a little child before her in the air. There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spear- wound in his side, And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands spread wide. And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that he had known Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow- — ay, equal to her own. And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree, Then up to the cold sky, and said, ' ' Will Gretchen come with me?" The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim, And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's hymn : And she folded both her thin white hands, and turned from that bright board, And from the golden gifts, and said, " With thee, with thee, Lord ! " The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies. In her scant and tattered garments, with her back against the wall, She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, " It was a bitter, bitter night ! the child is frozen dead." The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from sin ; Men said, " It was a bitter night ; would no one let her in ? ; * And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could not see How much of happiness there was after that misery. pkkscott'h paragon eegiter. 89 NOBODY'S CHILD. PHILA H. CASE. Alone in the dreary, pitiless street, With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet, All day I have wandered to and fro, Hungry and shivering, and no where to go ; The night's coming on in darkness and dread, And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head. Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so wild ? Is it because I am nobody's child ? Just over the way there's a flood of light, And warmth and beauty, and all things bright ; Beautiful children, in robes so fair, Are caroling songs in their rapture there, I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, Would pity a poor little beggar like me, Wandering alone in the merciless street, Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat ? Oh ! what shall I do when the night comes down, In its terrible blackness all over the town ? Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die, When the beautiful children their prayers have said, And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed ? For no dear mother on me ever smiled, — Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child ? No father, no mother, no sister, not one In all the world loves me, e'en the little dogs run When I wander too near them ; 'tis wondrous to see, How everything shrinks from a beggar like me ! Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but sometimes, when I lie Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, Watching for hours, some large, bright star, I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, 90 pkescott's paragon reciter. And a host of white-robed, nameless things, Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings ; A hand that is strangely soft and fair Caresses gently my tangled hair, And a voice like the carol of some wild bird — - The sweetest voice that was ever heard — Calls me many a dear, pet name, Till my heart and spirit are all aflame. They tell me of such unbounded love, And bid me come up to their home above ; And then with such pitiful, sad surprise, They look at me with their sweet, tender eyes, And it seems to me, out of the dreary night, I am going up to that world of light ; And away from the hunger and storm so wild, I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. THE PIEEliAFS WEDDING. W. A. EATON. " What are we looking at, mister ? Well, d'yer see that kerridge and pair ? It's a wedding — that's what it is, sir ; And ar'n't they a beautiful pair ? " They don't want no marrow-bone music, There's the fireman's band come to play ; It's a red shirt that's going to git married, And you don't see such sights every day ! " They're in the church now, and we're waiting To give 'em a cheer as they come ; And the grumbler that's not celebrating, Deserves all his life to go dumb, prescott's paragon reciter, 91 " They won't be out for a minute, So if you've got time and will stay, 111 tell vou right from the beginning About this 'ere wedding to-day, " One night I was fast getting drowsy, And thinkin' ov going to bed, When I heerd such a clattering and ''• rouse ye ! " 1 That sounds like an engine ! ' I said. " So I jumped up and opened the window ; * It's a fire, sure enough, wife ! ' says I ; For the people were running and shouting, And the red glaring lit up the sky. "I kicked off my old carpet slippers, And on with my boots in a jiff ; I hung up my pipe in the corner And lost me the last pungent whiff. " The wife, she just grumbled a good 'un, But I didn't take notice of that, For I on with my coat in a second And sprang down the stairs like a cat ! " I followed the crowd, and it brought me In front of the house in a blaze ; At first I could see nothing clearly, For the smoke made it all of a haze. " The firemen were running their fastest, Unwinding great lengths of their hose ; The ' police ' were a-pushing the people, And treading on every one's toes. " I got jammed with some more in a corner, Where I couldn't move, try as I might ; But little I cared for the squeezing So long as I had a good sight. 92 peescott's paragon reciter. " Lordee ! it was grand ! but 'twas awful ! The flames leaped up higher and higher ; The wind seemed to get underneath them, Till they roared like a big blacksmith's fire ! " I was just looking round at the people, With their faces lit up by the glare, When I heerd some one shriek, hoarse with terror, ' Oh, look ! there's a young gal up there ! ' " I shall never forget the excitement, My heart beat as loud as a clock ; I looked at the crowd, still a-standing, As if turned to stone by the shock. " And there was the pooty face shining, With its blank look of haggard despair — Her hands tightly clasped on her bosom, And her white lips a-moving in prayer. " The staircase was burnt to a cinder, There wasn't a fire-escape near • But a ladder was brought from a builder's, And the mob give a half- frightened cheer. " The ladder was put to the window, While the flames were still raging below ; We looked, with hearts in our throttle, To see who would offer to go 1 " When up stood a sturdy young fireman ! As a sailor would climb up a mast, We see him go in at the window, And we cheered as though danger were past " We saw nothing more for a moment, But the sparks flying round us like rain ; And then as we breathlessly waited, He come to the window again, prescott's paragon reciter. 93 And on his broad shoulders were lying The face of that poor, fainting thing, And we gave him a tiger as never Was give to your prince or your king. " He got on the top of the ladder — I can see him there now, noble lad ! And the names underneath seemed to know it, For they leaped at that ladder like mad . " So just as he got to the middle, Good Grod ! it began to give way, For the flames had got hold of it spiteful ! You could see the poles tremble and sway. " He came but a step or two lower, Then leaped, with his prize, to the ground ; And there, you would hardly believe it, He landed the girl safe and sound. " I took off my old hat and waved it ; I couldn't join in with the cheer, For the smoke had got into my peepers, And I felt such a choking just here. " And now, sir, they're going to get married, I bet you, she'll make a good wife ; And who has the most right to have her ? Why, the fellow that saved her young life ! " A beauty ! ah, sir, I believe you ! Stand back, lads ! stand back ! here they are ! We'll give them the cheer that we promised, Now, lads, with a hi, hi, tigar-r-r ! " 94 prescott's paragon reciter. DESPAIR. DOW, JR. Tlie whitest foam dances upon the darkest billow, and the stars shine the brightest when surrounded by the blackest of thunder-clouds ; so hope mirrors its most brilliant rays in the dark wave of despair, and happiness is never so complete as when visited occasionally by the ministers of misery. These ups and downs in the pathway of man's existence are all for the best, and yet he allows them to vex and torment his peace till he bursts the boiler of his rage, and scalds his own toes. I have no doubt but the common run of people would like to have a railroad built from here to the grave, and go through by steam ; but if they all worked as easy in life's galling collar as I do, they would have things just as they are ; some ups and some downs — some sweet and some bitter — some sunshine and some storm ; because they constitute a variety. I wouldn't give a shinplaster penny to have the road of existence perfectly level ; for I should soon become tired of a dull sameness of prospect, and make myself miserable in the idea that I must experience no material change, either for better or for worse. Plum-pudding is most excellent staff to wind off a dinner with ; but all plum-pudding would be worse than none at all. So you see, my friends, the trouble and trials of life are absolutely necessary to enable us to judge rightly of genuine happiness, whenever it happens to enliven the saturnine region of the heart with its presence. If we were never to have our jackets and shirts wet with the cold rain of misfortune, we should never know how good it feels to stand out and dry in the warm rays of comfort. You needn't hesitate ever to travel through swamps of trouble, for fear of sinking over head in the mud of despondency ; for des- pair is never quite despair. No, my friends, it never comes quite up to the mark in the most desperate cases. I know the prospects of man are sometimes most tormentingly conglomer- ous ; but the clouds eventually clear away, and his sky again becomes clear and quiescent as a basin of potato starch. His sun of ambition may be darkened — his moon of memory turned pbescott's paeagon eeciter. 95 to blood — and the star of his peace blotted from the firmament of his, I don't know what ; but he is not entirely a gone goose even in this situation. Those semi-celestial angels of light and loveliness, Hcpe and Fancy, will twine the sweetest of roses round his care- wrinkled brow ; and while one whispers in his ear, " Don't give up the ship," the other dresses up for him a bower of future happiness, and festoons it with the choicest of elysian flowers. The very darkest cell of despair always has a gimlet-hole to let the glory of hope shine in, and dry up the tears of the poor prisoner of woe. THE HEEOISM OF THE PILGEIMS, R. CHOATE. If one were called on to select the most glittering of the in- stances of military heroism to which the admiration of the world has been most constantly attracted, he would make choice, I im- agine, of the instance of that desperate valor, in which, in obe- dience to the laws, Leonidas and his three hundred Spartans cast themselves headlong, at the passes of Greece, on the myriads of their Persian invaders. From the simple page of Herodotus, longer than from the Amphyctionic monument, or the games of the commemoration, that act speaks still to the tears and praise of all the world. Judge if, that night, as they watched the dawn of the last morning their eyes could ever see ; as they heard with every passing hour the stilly hum of the invading host, his dusky lines stretched out without end, and now almost encircling them around ; as they remembered their unprofaned home, city of heroes and of the mother of heroes — judge if, watching there, in the gateway of Greece, this sentiment did not grow to the nature of madness, if it did not run in torrents of literal fire to and from the laboring heart ; and when morning came and passed, and they had dressed their long locks for battle, and when, at a little after noon, the countless invading throng was 96 feescott's paeagon eecitee. seen at last to move, was it not with a rapture, as if all the joy, all the sensation of life, was in that one moment, that they cast themselves, with the fierce gladness of mountain torrents, headlong upon that brief revelry of glory ? I acknowledge the splendor of that transaction in all its as- pects. I admit its morality, too, and its useful influence on every Grecian heart in that greatest crisis of Greece. And yet, do you not think that whoso could, by adequate de- scription, bring before you that winter of the Pilgrims, — its brief sunshine ; the nights of storm, slow waning ; the damp and icy breath, felt to the pillow of the dying ; its destitutions its contrasts with all their former experience in life, its utter in- sulation and loneliness, its death beds and burials, its memories, its apprehensions, its hopes ; the consultations of the prudent ; the prayers of the pious ; the occasional cheerful hymn, in which the strong heart threw off its burden, and, asserting its un van- quished nature, went up, like a bird of dawn, to the skies ; — do ye not think that whoso could describe them calmly waiting in that defile, lovelier and darker than Thermopylae, for a morning that might never dawn, or might show them, when it did, a mightier arm than the Persian raised as in act to strike, would he not sketch a scene of more difficult and rarer heroism ? A scene, as Wordsworth has said, "melancholy, yea, dismal, yet consolatory and full of joy ; " a scene even better fitted to succor to exalt, to lead the forlorn hopes of all great causes, till time shall be no more ! I have said that I deemed it a great thing for a nation, in all the periods of its fortunes, to be able to look back to a race of founders, and a principle of institution, in which it might ration- ally admire the realized idea of true heroism. That felicity, that pride, that help, is ours. Our past, with its great eras, that of settlement, and that of independence, should announce, should compel, should spontaneously evolve as from a germ, a wise, moral, and glowing future. Those heroic men and women should not look down on a dwindled posterity. That broad foundation, sunk below frost or earthquake, should bear up something more permanent than an encampment of tents, pitched at random, and struck when the trumpet of march peescott's pabagon reciter. 97 sounds at next daybreak. It should bear up, as by a natural growth, a structure in which generations may come, one after another, to the great gift of the social life. THE GREEK AND TUBKMAN. CEOLT. The Turkman lay beside the river ; The wind played loose through bow and quiver The charger on the bank fed free ; The shield hung glittering from the tree ; The trumpet, shawm, and atabal Lay screened from dew by cloak and pall ; For long and weary was the way The hordes had marched that burning day. Above them, on the sky of June, Broad as a buckler glowed the moon, Flooding with glory vale and hill. In silver sprang the mountain rill ; The weeping shrub in silver bent ; A pile of silver stood the tent ; All soundless, sweet tranquillity ; All beauty — hill, brook, tent, and tree. There came a sound — 'twas like the gush When night- winds shake the rose's bush ; There came a sound — 'twas like the tread Of wolves along the valley's bed ; There came a sound — 'twas like the flow Of rivers swoln with melting snow ; There came a sound — 'twas like the roar Of ocean on its winter shore. 98 prescott's paragon reciter. " Death to the Turk ! " uprose the yell ; On rolled the charge — a thunder peal. The Tartar arrows fell like rain, They clanked on helm and mail and chain : In blood, in hate, in death were twined Savage and Greek — mad — bleeding — blind ; And still on flank and front and rear Raged, Con stan tine, thy thirsting spear ! Brassy and pale — a type of doom — Labored the moon through deepening gloom. Down plunged her orb — 'twas pitchy night ! Now, Turkman, turn thy reins for flight ! On rushed their thousands in the dark ! But in their camp a ruddy spark Like an uncertain meteor reeled — Thy hand, brave king, that fire-brand wheeled ! Wild burst the burning element O'er man and courser, flood and tent ! And through the blaze the Greeks outsprang Like tigers — bloody, foot and fang ! With dagger-stab and falchion sweep Delving the stunned and staggering heap, Till lay the slave by chief and khan, And all was gone that once was man. There's wailing on the Euxine shore — Her chivalry shall ride no more ! There's wailing on thy hills, Altai, For chiefs the Grecian vultures prey ! But, Bosphorus, thy silver wave Hears shouts for the returning brave ; For, kingliest of a kingly line, Lo ! there comes glorious Constantine ! peescott'h paragon beciteb. 99 AMEEIOA. PHILLIPS. Search creation round, where can you find a country that presents so sublime a view, so interesting an anticipation ? What noble institutions ! What a comprehensive policy. What a wise equalization of every political advantage ! The oppressed of all countries, the martyrs of every creed, the inno- cent victim of despotic arrogance or superstitions phrenzy, may there find refuge ; his industry encouraged, his piety respected, his ambition animated ; with no restraint but those laws which are the same to all, and no distinction but that which his merit may originate. Who can deny that the existence of such a country presents a subject for human congratulation ! Who can deny that its gigantic advancement offers a field for the most rational conjecture 1 At the end of the very next century, if she proceeds as she seems to promise, what a wondrous spectacle may she not exhibit ! Who shall say for what purpose mysteri- ous Providence may not have designed her ! Who shall say that when in its follies or its crimes the old world may have buried all the pride of its power, and all the pomp of its civilization, human nature may not find its destined renovation in the new ! when its temples and its trophies shall havemoldered into dust,— when the glories of its name shall be but the legend of tradition, and the light of its achievements live only in song ; philosophy will revive again in the sky of her Franklin, and glory rekindle at the urn of her Washington. Is this the vision of romantic fancy ? Is it even improbable ? Is it half so improbable as the events, which, for the last twenty years, have rolled like succes- sive tides over the surface of the European world, each erasing the impressions that preceded it ? Many, I know there are, who will consider this supposition as wild and whimsical ; but they have dwelt with little reflection upon the records of the past. They have but ill observed the never-ceasing progression of national raise and national ruin. They form their judgment on the deceitful stability of the present hour, never considering the innumerable monarchies and republics, in former days, appar- 100 prescott's paragon reciter. ently as permanent, their very existence become now the subject of speculation — I had almost said of skepticism. I appeal to history ! Tell me, thou reverend chronicler of the grave, can all the illusions of ambition realized, can all the wealth of an universal commerce, can all the achievements of successful hero- ism, or all the establishments of this world's wisdom, secure to empire the permanency of its possessions ? Alas, Troy thought so once ; yet the land of Priam lives only in song ! Thebes thought so once ; yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and her very tombs are but as the dust they were vainly intended to commemorate ! So thought Palmyra — where is she ! So thought Persepolis, and now — " Yon waste, where roaming lions howl, Yon aisle, where moans the grey-eyed owl, Shows the proud Persian's great abode, Where sceptred once, an earthly god, His power-clad arm controlled each happier clime, Where sports the warbling muse, and fancy soars sublime." So thought the countries of Demosthenes and the Spartan ; yet Leonidas is trampled by the timid slave, and Athens insulted by the servile, mindless and enervate Ottoman ! In his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined immortality, and all its vanities, from the palace to the tomb, have, with their ruins, erased the very impression of his footsteps ! The days of their glory are as if they had never been ; and the island that was then a speck, rude and neglected in the barren ocean, now rivals the ubiquity of their commerce, the glory of their arms, the fame of their philosophy, the eloquence of their senate, and the inspiration of their bards ! Who shall say, then, contem- plating the past, that England, proud and potent as she appears, may not one day be what Athens is. and the young American yet soar to be what Athens was ! Who shall say, when the Eu- ropean column shall have moldered, and the night of barbarism obscured its very ruins, that that mighty continent may not emerge from the horizon, to rule, for its time, sovereign of the ascendant. Such, sir, is the natural progress of human operations, and such the unsubstantial mockery of human pride. pbescott's paragon reciter. 101 VISIT OF LA FAYETTE TO AMEEIOA. S. S. PRENTISS. In 1824, on Sunday, a single ship furled her snowy sails in the harbor of New York ; and scarcely had her prow touched the shore, when a murmur was heard among the multitude, which gradually deepened into a mighty shout, and that shout was a shout of joy. And again and again were the heavens rent with the aspiring sound. Nor did it cease, for the loud strain was carried from city to city and from state to state till not a tongue was silent throughout this wide Republic, from the lisping infant to the tremulous old man. All were united in one wild shout of grat illation. The voice of more than ten millions of freemen gushed up towards the sky, and broke the stillness of its silent depths. And but one note, and but one tone went to form this acclamation. And up in those pure re- gions, clearly and sweetly did it sound, " Honor to La Fayette ! " " Welcome to the Nation's Guest !" And it was La Fayette, the war-worn veteran, whose arrival on our shores had caused this widespread joy. He came among us to behold the inde- pendence and the freedom which his young arm had well as- sisted in achieving ; and never before did eye behold or heart of man conceive such homage paid to virtue. His whole stay among us was a continued triumph. Every day's march was an ovation. The United States became for months one great festive hall. People forgot the usual occupations of life, and crowded to behold the benefactor of mankind. The old iron- hearted, gray-haired veterans of the Revolution, thronged around him to touch his hand, to behold his face, and to call down Heaven's benison upon their old companion in arms. Lisping infancy and garrulous old age, beauty, talent, wealth and power — all, for a while, forsook their usual pursuits, and united to pay a willing tribute of gratitude and welcome to the Nation's Guest. The name of La Fayette was upon every lip, and wherever was his name, there too was an invocation for blessing on his head. What were the triumphs of the classic ages, compared with this unbought love and homage of a mighty people ? Take them in Rome's best days, when the in- 102 PBESCOTT'S PAKAG02S KEOITER. vincible generals of the eternal city returned from their foreign conquests, with, captive kings bound to their chariot wheels, and the spoils of nations in their train, followed by the stern and bearded warriors, and surrounded by the interminable multitudes of the seven -hilled city, shouting a fierce welcome home — what was such a triumph compared with that of La Fayette ? Not a single city, but a whole nation rising as one man, and greeting him with an affectionate embrace ! One single day of such spontaneous homage, were worth whole years of courtly adulation ; one hour might well reward a man for a whole life of danger and of toil. Then, too, the joy with which he must have viewed the prosperity of the people for whom he had so deeply struggled? To behold the nation which he had left a little child, now grown up in the full pro- portions of lusty manhood ! To see the tender sapling which he had left with hardly shade enough to cover its own roots, now waxing into the sturdy and unwedgeable oak, beneath whose grateful umbrage the oppressed of all nations find shel- ter and protection. That oak still grows on in its majestic strength, and wider and wider still extends its mighty branches. But the hand that watered and nourished it while yet a tender plant is now cold ; and the heart that watched with strong affection its early growth has ceased to beat, THE WOLVES. TROWBRIDGE. Ye who listen to stories told, When hearths are cheery and nights are cold, Of the lone wood-side, and the hungry pack That howls on the fainting traveller's track, — Flame -red eye balls that way lay, By the wint'ry moon, the belated sleigh, — The lost child sought in the dismal wood, The little shoes and the stains of blood On the trampled snow, — ye that hear, With thrills of pity, or chills of fear, prescott's paragon reciter. 103 Wishing some angel had been sent To shield the hapless and innocent, — Know ye the fiend that is crueller far Than the gaunt gray herds of the forest are ? Swiftly vanish the wild fleet tracks Before the rifle and woodman's axe : But hark to the coming of unseen feet, Pattering by night through the city street ! Each wolf that dies in the woodland brown Lives a spectre, and haunts the town. By square and market they slink and prowl, In lane and alley they leap and howl. All night they snuff and snarl, before The poor patched window and broken door. They paw the clapboards and claw the latch, At every crevice they whine and scratch. Their tongues are subtle and long and thin, And they lap the living blood within. Icy keen are the teeth that tear, Red as ruin the eyes that glare. Children crouched in corners cold Shiver in tattered garments old, And start from sleep with bitter pangs At the touch of the phantom's viewless fangs. Weary the mother and worn with strife, Still she watches and fights for life. But her hand is feeble, and weapon small : One little needle against them all ! In evil hour the daughter fled From her poor shelter and wretched bed. Through the city's pitiless solitude To the door of sin the wolves pursued. Fierce the father and grim with want, His heart is gnawed by the spectres gaunt. Frenzied stealing forth by night, With whetted knife to the desperate fight, He thought to smite the spectres dead, But he smites his brother man instead. 104: prescott's paragon reciter. O you that listen to stories told, When hearths are cheery and nights are cold, Weep no more at the tales you hear, The danger is close, and the wolves are near. Shudder not at the murderer's name, Marvel not at the maiden's shame. Pass not by with averted eye The door where the stricken children cry. But when the beat of the phantom feet Sounds by night through the stormy street, Follow thou where the spectres glide ; Stand like Hope by the mother's side ; And be thyself the angel sent To shield the hapless and innocent. He giveth little who gives but tears, He giveth his best who aids and cheers. He does well in the forest wild Who slays the monster and saves the child ; But he does better, and merits more, Who drives the wolf from the poor man's door. DA CAPO. D. L. PAINE She sat at the old piano Her fingers, thin and pale, Ran over the yellow key-board The chords of the minor scale. Her hands were withered and shrunken, Her form with age was bent ; They seemed twin spirits in look and tone — Herself and the instrument For the instrument quaint and olden, With its single tremulant strings, Was little more than a spirit, And its tone seemed a whirr of wings : prescott's paragon reciter. 10g And she — the keen chisel of sorrow And the cruel burin of care, Had cut in her dear old features Peep furrows here and there, Till all that was gross and earthy Had been chipped and smoothed away, And disclosed the patient angel Behind its thin mask of clay. She paused ; and with upturned features And reminiscent eyes Was translated in one brief moment Back to young life's paradise. And the lovely spirit of childhood, So trusting, and pure, and sweet, Came back and glorified her From beaming forehead to feet. Then she swept the keys, and the music Of vanished years leapt out ; Each note was a patter of merry feet And a gleeful childish shout. And fingers dimpled and rosy Tripped o'er the enchanted keys, And the music was fresh as young laughter Or the warble of birds in the trees. No strain from the old tone-masters No burst of harmony grand, Sprang from the old piano At the touch of that magic hand. But the simple airs of her girlhood Rippled in melody sw r eet, As in days when her sky was all sunshine, And the hours were as happy as fleet ; 10G prescott's paragon reciter. And sparkled the light that vanished From eyes long dried of tears, And twinkled feet to her music That have mouldered in dust for years. And as we watched and listened, She seemed to our moistened eyes Already beyond the portals That open toward the skies. Nor seemed it longer a marvel That when, in the morning gray, The disciples came to the tomb of the Lord To bear the body away, They found but his cast off garment, With its odor of aloes and myrrh, And the stone rolled away from the open door Of an empty sepulchre. MAOLAINE'S CHILD. ANONYMOUS. "Maclaine ! youVe scourged me like a hound ;- You should have struck me to the ground ; You should have played a chieftain's part ; You should have stabbed me to the heart. 1 ' You should have crushed me into death ; — But here I swear with living breath, That for this wrong which you have done, I'll wreak my vengeance on your son, — " On him, and you, and all your race 1 " — He said, and bounding from his place, He seized the child with sudden hold — A smiling infant, three years old — prescott's paragon reciter. 107 And, starting like a hunted stag, He scaled the rock, he clomb the crag, And reached, o'er many a wide abyss, The beetling seaward precipice. And, leaning o'er its topmost ledge, He held the infant o'er the edge : — " In vain thy wrath, thy sorrow vain ; No hand shall save it, proud Maclaine ! " With flashing eye and burning brow, The mother followed, heedless how, O'er crags with mosses overgrown, And stair-like juts of slippery stone. But midway up the rugged steep, She found a chasm she could not leap, And, kneeling on its brink, she raised Her supplicating hands, and gazed. " 0, spare my child, my joy, my pride ! 0, give me back my child ! " she cried : " My child ! my child ! " with sobs and tears, She shrieked upon his callous ears. " Come, Evan," said the trembling chief, — His bosom wrung with pride and grief, — " Restore the boy, give back my son, And I'll forgive the wrong you've done." " I scorn forgiveness, haughty man ! You've injured me before the clan ; And naught but blood shall wipe away The shame I have endured to-day." And, as he spoke, he raised the child, To dash it 'mid the breakers wild, But, at the mother's piercing cry, • Drew back a step, and made reply : — 108 prescott's paragon reciter. ' ' Fair lady, if your lord will strip, And let a clansman wield the whip, Till skin shall flay, and blood shall run, I'll give you back your little son." The lady's cheek grew pale with ire, The chieftain's eyes flashed sudden fire ; He drew a pistol from his breast, Took aim, — then dropped it, sore distressed. " I might have slain my babe instead. Come, Evan, come," the father said, And through his heart a tremor ran ; " We'll fight our quarrel man to man." " Wrong unavenged I've never borne," Said Evan, speaking loud in scorn ; " You've heard my answer, proud Maclaine ; I will not fight you,— think again." The lady stood in mute despair, With freezing blood and stiffening hair ; She moved no limb, she spoke no word ; — She could but look upon her lord. He saw the quivering of her eye, Pale lips and speechless agony, — And, doing battle with his pride, " Give back the boy, — I yield," he cried. A storm of passions shook his mind — Anger, and shame, and love combined ; But love prevailed, and bending low, He bared his shoulders to the blow. " I smite you," said the clansman true ; " Forgive me, chief, the deed I do ! For by yon Heaven that hears me speak, My dirk in Evan's heart shall reek I M prescott's paragon reciter. 109 But Evan's face beamed liate and joy ; Close to Lis breast he bugged tbe boy : "Revenge is just, revenge is sweet, And mine, Loclibuy, shall be complete." Ere hand could stir, with sudden shock, He threw the infant o'er the rock, — Then followed with a desperate leap, Down fifty fathoms to the deep. They found their bodies in the tide ; And never till the day she died Was that sad mother known to smile— The Niobe of Mulla's isle. They dragged false Evan from the sea, And hanged him on a gallows tree ; And ravens fattened on his brain, To sate the vengeance of Maclaine. KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GKAT. ANONYMOUS. Two brown heads with tossing curls, Red lips shutting over pearls, Bare feet, white and wet with dew, Two eyes black and two eyes blue — Little boy and girl were they, Katie Lee and Willie Gray. They were standing where a brook, Bending like a shepherd's crook, Flashed its silver, and thick ranks Of willow fringed its mossy banks — Half in thought and half in play, Katie Lee and Willie Gray. 110 peescott's pakagon reciter. They had cheeks like cherry red, He was taller, 'most a head : She with arms like wreaths of snow Swung a basket to and fro, As they loitered, half in play, Katie Lee and Willie Gray. " Pretty Katie," Willie said, And there came a dash of red Through the brownness of the cheek, " Boys are strong and girls are weak, And I'll carry, so I will, Katie's basket up the hill." Katie answered with a laugh, " You shall only carry half ; " Then said, tossing back her curls, *' Boys are weak as well as girls " Do you think that Katie guessed Half the wisdom she expressed ? Men are only boys grown tall ; Hearts don't change much, after all ; And when, long years from that day, Katie Lee and Willie Gray Stood again beside the brook Bending like a shepherd's crook — ■ Is it strange that Willie said, While again a dash of red Crowned the brownness of his cheek, I am strong and you are weak ; Life is but a slippery steep, Hung with shadows cold and deep. " Will you trust me, Katie dear ? Walk beside me without fear ? prescott's paragon reciter. Ill May I carry, if I will, All your burdens up the hill ? " And she answered, with a laugh, c ' No, but you may carry half. " Close beside the little brook Bending like a shepherd's crook, Working with its silver hands Late and early at the sands, Stands a cottage, where, to-day, Katie lives with Willie Gray. In the porch she sits, and lo ! Swinging a basket to and fro, Vastly different from the one That she swung in years agone ; This is long, and deep, and wide, And has rockers at the side. A LOST DAT. ANONYMOUS. Lost ! lost ! lost ! A gem of countless price, Cut from the living rock, And graved in Paradise ; Set round with three times eight Large diamonds clear and bright, And each with sixty smaller ones, All changeful as the light. Lost — where the thoughtless throng In fashion's mazes wind, Where trilleth folly's song, Leaving a sting behind. 112 prescott's pabagon eecitee. Yet to my hand 'twas given A golden harp to buy, Such as the white-robed choir attune To deathless minstrelsy. Lost ! lost ! lost ! I feel all search in vain ; That gem of countless cost Can ne'er be mine again ; I offer no reward, For till these heart-strings sever, I know that heaven-entrusted gift Is reft away for ever. POLLY'S AKEIVAL. ANONYMOUS. The train was just in when Tom reached the station, panting like a race-horse, and as red as a lobster with the wind and the run. " Suppose she'll wear a top-knot and a thingumbob, like every one else ; and however shall I know her ? Too bad of Fan to make me come alone ! " thought Tom, as he stood watch- ing the crowd stream through the depot, and feeling rather daunted at the array of young ladies who passed. As none of them seemed looking for any one, he did not accost them, but eyed each new batch with the air of a martyr. " That's her," he said to himself, as he presently caught sight of a girl in gorgeous array, standing with hands folded, and a very small hat perched on the top of a very large " chig-non, as Tom pronounced it. " T suppose I've got to speak to her, so here goes ; " and, nerving himself to the task, Tom slowly approached the damsel, who looked as if the wind had blown her clothes into rags, such a napping of sashes, scallops, ruffles, curls, and feathers was there. " I say, if you please, is your name Polly Milton ? " meekly presoott's pakagon reciter. 113 asked Tom, pausing before the breezy stranger. " No, it isn't," answered the young lady, with a cool stare that utterly quenched him. " Where in thunder is she?" growled Tom, walking off in high dudgeon. The quick tap of feet behind him made him turn in time to see a fresh-faced little girl running down the long station, and looking as if she rather liked it. As she smiled, and waved her bag at him, he stopped and waited for her, saying to himself, " Hullo ! I wonder if that's Polly? " Up came the little girl, with her hand out, and a half -shy, half -merry look in her blue eyes, as she said inquiringly : " This is Tom, isn't it ? " "Yes. How did you know?" and Tom got over the ordeal of hand-shaking without thinking of it, he was so surprised. " Oh, Fan told me you'd got curly hair, and a funny nose, and kept whistling, and wore a gray cap, pulled over your eyes ; so I knew you directly." And Polly nodded at him in the most friendly manner, having politely refrained from call- ing the hair "red," the nose "a pug," and the cap "old" — all of which facts Fanny had carefully impressed upon her memory. As the carriage drove off, Polly gave a little bounce on the springy seat, and laughed like a delighted child. " I do like to ride in these nice hacks, and see all the fine things, and have a good time, don't you ? " she said, composing herself the next minute, as if it suddenly occurred to her that she was going a- visiting. "Not much," said Tom, not minding what he said, for the fact that he was shut up with the strange girl suddenly oppressed his soul. " How's Fan? Why didn't she come; too?" asked Polly, trying to look demure, while her eyes danced in spite of her. " Afraid of spoiling her crinkles ; " and Tom smiled, for this base betrayal of confidence made him feel his own meanness again. "You and I don't mind dampness. I'm much obliged to you for coming to take care of me. " It was kind of Polly to say that, and Tom felt it ; for his red 114: prescott's paragon reciter. crop was a tender point, and to be associated with Polly's pretty brown curls seemed to lessen its coppery glow. Then he hadn't done anything for her but carry the bag a few steps ; yet, she thanked him. He felt grateful, and in a burst of confidence, offered a handful of peanuts, for his pockets were always supplied with this agreeable delicacy, and he might be traced anywhere by the trail of shells he left behind him. As soon as he had done it, he remembered that Fanny con- sidered them vulgar, and felt that he had disgraced his family So he stuck his head out of the window, and kept it there so long, that Polly asked if anything was the matter. ''He's pretty drunk ; but I guess he can hold his horses," replied this evil-minded boy, with an air of calm resignation. " Is the man tipsy ? Oh, dear ! let's get out ! Are the horses bad ? It's very steep here ; do you think it's safe ! " cried poor Polly, making a cocked hat of her little beaver, by thrusting it out of the half -open window on her side. " There's plenty of folks to pick us up if anything happens ; but perhaps it would be safer if I got out and sat with the man ; " and Tom quite beamed with the brilliancy of this sud- den mode of relief. " Oh, do, if you ain't afraid ! Mother would be so anxious if anything should happen to me, so far away ! " cried Polly, much distressed. " Don't you be worried. I'll manage the old chap, and the horses too ;" and opening the door, Tom vanished aloft, leav- ing poor victimized Polly to quake inside, while he placidly revelled in freedom and peanuts outside with the staid old driver. Fanny came flying down to meet her "darling Polly, " as Tom presented her, with the graceful remark, ' ' I've got her ! " and the air of a dauntless hunter, producing the trophies of his skill. Polly was instantly whisked up stairs ; and, having danced a double- shuffle on the door-mat, Tom retired to the dining-room to restore exhausted nature with half a dozen cookies. " Ain't you tired to death ? Don't you want to lie down ? " pkescott's paragon reciter. 115 said Fanny, sitting on the side of the bed in Polly's room, and chattering hard, while she examined everything her friend had on. " Not a bit. I had a nice time coming, and no trouble except the tipsy coachman ; but Tom got out and kept him in order, so I wasn't much frightened," answered innocent Polly, taking off her rough-and-ready coat, and her plain hat without a bit of a feather. " Fiddlesticks ! he wasn't tipsy ; and Tom only did it to get out of the way. He can't bear girls,*' said Fanny, with a superior air. "Can't he? Why, I thought he was very pleasant and kind ! " and Polly opened her eyes with a surprised expression. " He's an awful boy, my dear ; and if you have anything to do with him, he'll torment you to death. Boys are all horrid ; but he's the horridest one I ever saw." THE FISEMAFS STOEY, ANONYMOUS. "' A frightful face ?' Wal, yes, yer correct ; That man on the enjine thar Don't pack the han'somest countenance — Every inch of it sportin' a scar ; But I tell you, pard, thar ain't money enough Piled up in the National Banks To buy that face, nor a single scar — (No, I never indulges. Thanks.) "Yes, Jim is an old-time engineer, An' a better one never war knowed ! Bin a runnin' yar since the fust machine War put on the Qnincy Road ; An' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plug From Maine to the jumpin' oil place That knows more about the big iron hoss Than him with the battered-up face 116 pkescott's paeagon eecitee. " ' Got hurt in a smash-up V No 'twar done In sort o' legitimate way ; He got it a trying to save a gal Up yar on the road last May. I heven't much time for to spin you the yarn, For we pull out at two-twenty-five — Just wait till I climb up an' toss in some coal, So's to keep old ' 90 ' alive. "Jim war pullin* the Burlin'ton passenger then, Left Quincy a half an hour late, An' war skimmin' along purty lively, so's not To lay out No. 21 freight. The ' 90 ' war more than hoopin' 'em up An' a quiverin' in every nerve ! When all to once Jim yelled ' Merciful God ! ' As she shoved her sharp nose 'round a curve. " I jumped to his side o' the cab, an' ahead 'Bout two hundred paces or so Stood a gal on the track, her hands raised aloft, An' her face jist as white as the snow ; It seems she war so paralyzed with the fright That she couldn't move for'ard or back, An' when Jim pulled the whistle she fainted an' fell Right down in a heap on the track ! " I'll never forgit till the day o* my death The look that cum over Jim's face ; He tnrow'd the old lever cla'r back like a shot So's to slacken the ' 90's ' wild pace, Then let on the air brakes as quick as a flash, An' out through the window he fled, An' skinned 'long the runnin' board cla'r in front, An' lay on the pilot ahead. peescott's paragon reciter. 117 " Then just as we reached whar the poor creetur lay, He grabbed a tight hold of her arm, An' raised her right up so's to throw her one side Out o' reach of danger an' harm. But somehow he slipped an' fell with his head On the rail as he throw'd the young lass, An' the pilot in strikin' him, ground up his face In a frightful and horrible mass ! " As soon as we stopped I backed up the train To that spot where the poor fellow lay, An' there sot the gal with his head in her lap An' wipin' the warm blood away. The tears rolled in torrents right down from her eyes, While she sobbed like her heart war all broke — I tell you, my friend, such a sight as that ar* Would move the tough heart of an oak ! " We put Jim aboard an' run back to town, W^har for week arter week the boy lay A hovern right in the shadder o' death, An' that gal by his bed every day. But nursin' an' doctorin' brought him around — Kinder snatched him right outer the grave — His face ain't so han'some as 'twar, but his heart Kemains just as noble an' brave. " Of course thar's a sequel — as story books say — He fell dead in love, did this Jim ; But he hadn't the heart to ax her to have Sich a batter'd-up rooster as him. She know'd how he felt, and last New Year's day War the fust o' leap year as you know, So she jist cornered Jim an' proposed on the spot, An' you bet he didn't say no. 118 PBESCOTT'S PAKAGON BEC1TEB. " He's building a house up thar on the hill, An' has laid up a snug pile o' cash, The weddin's to be on the first o' next May — Jist a year from the day o' the mash — The gal says he risked his dear life to save hers, An' she'll just turn the tables about, An' give him the life that he saved — thar's the bell. Good day, sir, we're goin' to pull out." IKE'S COMPOSITION OH THE HOESE. B. P. SHILLABEB. The horse is a quadruped with four legs — two behind, and two ' before. He has a tail that grows on to the hind part of his body, that nature has furnished him, with which to drive the flies away. His head is situated on the other end, opposite his tail, and is used principally to fasten a bridle to, to drive him by, and to put into a basket to eat oats with. Horses are very use- ful animals, and people couldn't get along very well without them — especially truckmen and onimbus- drivers, who don't seem to be half grateful enough because they've got 'em. They are very convenient animals in the country in vacation time, and go very fast over the country roads when boys stick pins into 'em, a species of cruelty that I wouldn't encourage. Horses are gen- erally covered with red hair, though some are white, and others are gray and black. Nobody ever saw a blue horse, which is considered very strange by eminent naturalists. The horse is quite an intelligent animal, and can sleep standing up, which is a very convenient gift, especially where there is a crowd and it is difficult to get a chance to lay down. There is a great variety of horses — fast horses and slow horses, clothes'-horses, horse- mackerel, saw-horses, horse-flies, horse-chestnuts, and horse- radish. The clothes' -horse is a very quiet animal to have round a house, and is never known to kick, though very apt to raise a row when it gets capsized. The same may be said of the saw-horse, which will stand without tieing. Horseflies is prescott's paragon reciter. 119 a very vicious beast, and very annoying in the summer, when a fellow is in swimming. Horse-mackerel I don't know anything about, only that they swim in the water, and are a species of fish. Horse-chestnuts is prime to pelt Mickeys with, and horse-radish is a mighty smart horse, but bad to have standing round where there's small children. The horse is found in all countries, principally in livery- stables, where they may be hired to run by the mile, considered by them as can get money a great luxury, especially in the sleighing season. In South America they grow wild, and the Indians catch them with nooses, that they throw over the horses' heads, which must be thought, by the horses, a great noosance. THE BACKWOODSMEN. A. BURLINQAME. The great spirit of the backwoods has been felt in our coun- try's destiny. We have heard its manly eloquence in Congress, where it has sometimes seized with rude hand the sceptre of power. Give it a more cultivated intelligence, impress it with a higher morality, and it will breathe its thoughts round the world in language worthy of Milton, Chatham and Shake- speare. I have spoken warmly of the backwoodsmen, for I could do no otherwise. Their strong arms shielded my boyhood, and my memory is full of their wild border tales. The bold lines of their character are fast fading out. They themselves are falling like autumn leaves. In a few more years ' ' the places which now know them shall know them no more forever." Already the sound of the settler's axe and the hunter's rifle grows fainter in the forest. The " voyageur's " songs have died away from our western waters. Gone, too, are the " rangers of the woods," with their bright eyes and irrepressible spirits ; and the poor In- dians, those down-trodden children of nature, are pressing with their flying feet the leaves of a still more distant wilderness. 120 prescott's paragon reciter. The railroad track has obliterated the Indian trail, and the iron horse awakens new echoes in the forest. Upon the broad foun- dations laid by the hardy woodsmen in the midst of unutterable sorrows, and along the huge paths beaten by buff aloes' hoofs be- fore the courage of man struggled with the wilderness, there has sprung up a civilization, which, for energy and magnifi- cence, is without a parallel in the world's history. It outruns the imagination of the poet, who tells us — "A thousand years scarce serve to form a state." In our time, states are born of the wild wood in a day, with rights the Romans never knew, and clothed with more than the thunders of Olympian Jove. O ! little thought Boone and a few straggling hunters, as they passed through the gap of the Alle- ghanies, long ago, and hid themselves in the reeds fringing the great rivers of the West, that they were the van of a mighty empire. Little thought Dr. Cutler, when he went forth from Beverly, in Massachusetts, and first settled in Ohio, that the first spot where his feet should find rest would become the home of commerce, and the birth-place of ships swifter and grander than those which went forth annually from his early home to the land of the Orient. Little thought the brave men who filled the valleys of the Muskingum, the Maumee, the Wabash, and the Kaskaskias, that ere the grass would grow green upon their graves, mighty cities would spring up where the wolf howled ; that the Christian's shining cross would stand where the In- dian told his love and breathed his prayer to the offended Manito ; that the lakes, so calm, so still, more beautiful than the blue sea beyond the pillars of Hercules, would whiten with sails, and literally murmur with the rush of keels ; that the rivers upon which they gazed in silent wonder, whose sources were away in hills beyond the regions of their imagin- ations, would bear on their bosoms the rich argosies of ten mil- lions of people ; and that steamboats, not then born in the brain of their inventor, would go roaring down their waters with a thousand men on their decks. These things they have seen, — we have seen. They are more like magic, or the dream of some fairy tale, than like reality. Yet still the mighty stream of prescott's paragon reciter. 121 emigration pours westward. ■ ' At first a little rivulet, winding its way through some beautiful valley, now fed by a thousand springs welling up by the wayside, anon increased by other rills mingling with its smiling waters, it has flowed on, and rolled onward, widening and deepening its channel, until now it laves with its rising flood the base of the stony mountains." Ay, it has overleaped them, and this day pours its wild torrents of liv- ing, breathing humanity upon the far-ofl shores of the peaceful Pacific. The star of empire has passed the Atlantic slope, and now stands glittering above the summit of the Alleghanies. In a few more years it will have sped its way to the regions of the setting sun ; for true is it now, as in the days of Bishop Berke- ley, that M Westward the course of empire takes its way.*' THE IEISH PICKET. ORPHEUS C. KERR. I'm shtandin' in the mud, Biddy, Wid not a sintry near, An' silence spacheless as the grave Is all the sound I hear. Me gun is at a shouldher arms, I'm wetted to the bone, An' whin I'm afther shpakin' out, I find mesilf alone. This Southern climate's quare, Biddy, A quare and bastely thing, Wid winter absent all the year And summer in the spring. Ye mind the hot place down below, And may ye niver fear I'd dhraw comparisons — but then It's awful warrum here. 122 prescott's paragon reciter. Tlie only moon I see, Biddy, Is one small star astliore ! An' that's forninst the very cloud It was behind before. The watchlires glame along the hill, That's smilin' to the South ; An' whin the sintry passes them I see his oogly mouth. It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy, And drhamin' swate I'd be, If thim ould rebels over there Would only lave me free ; But when I lane against a shtump, An' shtrive to get repose, A musket ball, he's comin' shtrate To hit me spacious nose It's ye I'd like to see, Biddy, A shparkin' here wid me, And thin, avourneen, hear ye say, " Acushla, Pat, machree ! " " Och, Biddy, darlint," thin says I. Says you, " Get out of that." Says I, " Me arrum mates your waste. 1 Says you, "Be daycint, Pat." An' how's the pigs, and ducks, Biddy ? It's thim I think of, shure, That looked so innosint and shwate Upon the parlor flure ; I'm sure you're aisy with the pig, That's fat as he can be, An' fade him wid the best, because I'm tould he looks like me. prescott's paragon reciter. 123 When I come home agin, Biddy, A sargint tried and thrue, It's joost a daycint house I'll build, And rint it chape to you ; We'll have a parlor, bed-room, hall, A duck-pond nately done, With kitchen, pig-pen, pratey-patch, An' garret — all in one. But, murther ! there's a baste, Biddy, That's crapin' round a tree, An' well I know the crathur's there, To have a shot at me. Now, Misther Rebel, say yer prayers, And hould yer dirthy paw, Here goes ! — begorra, Biddy dear, I've broke his oogly jaw ! UNOLE PETE'S COUNSEL TO THE NEWLY MEREIED. EDMUND KIRKE. My chil'ren, lub one anoder ; b'ar wid one anoder ; be faith- ful ter one anoder. You hab started on a long journey ; many rough places am in de road ; many trubbles will spring up by de wayside ; but gwo on hand an' hand togedder ; lub one an- oder, an' no matter what come onter you, you will be happy — for lub will sweeten ebery sorrer, lighten ebery load, make de sun shine in eben de bery cloudiest wedder. I knows it will, my cliil'ren, 'case I'se been ober de groun'. Ole Aggy an' I hab trabbled de road. Hand in hand we hab gone ober de rocks ; fru de mud : in de hot burning sand ; been out togedder in de cole, an' de rain, an' de storm, fur nigh onter forty yar, bur we hab clung to one anoder ; an' fru ebery ting in de bery darkest days, de sun ob joy an' peace hab broke fru de clouds, an' sent him bressed rays inter our hearts. We started jess like two young saplin's you's seed a growin' side by side in de 124 pkescott's pabagon reciter. woods. At fust we seemed 'way part, fur de brambles, an' de tick bushes, an' de ugly forns — [dem war our bad ways] — war atween us, but lub, like de sun, shone down on us, an' we grow'd. We grow'd till our heads got above de bushes ; till dis little branch, an' dat little branch — dem war our holy feelin's — put out toward one anoder, an' we come closer an' closer togedder. An' dough we'm ole trees now, an' sometime de wind blow, an' de storm rage fru de tops, an' freaten ter tear off de limbs, an' ter pull up de bery roots, we'm growin' closer an' closer, an' nearer an' nearer togedder ebery day — an' soon de ole tops will meet ; soon de ole branches, all cohered ober wid de gray moss, will twine roun' one anoder ; soon de two ole trees will come togedder, an' grow inter one foreber — grow in- ter one up dar in de sky, whar de wind neber'll blow, whar de storm neber'll beat ; whar we shill blossom an' bar fruit to de glory ob de Lord, an' in His heabenly kingdom foreber ! Amen. TKUST. JOHN G WHITTIER. A picture memory brings to me ; I look across the years, and see Myself beside my mother's knee. I feel her gentle hand restrain My selfish moods, and know again A child's blind sense of wrong and pain. But wiser now, a man gray grown, My childhood's needs are better known, My mother's chastening love I own. Gray grown, but in our Father's sight A child still groping for the light To read His works and ways aright. pbescott's paragon reciter. 125 I bow myself beneath His band ; That pain itself for good was planned I trust, but cannot understand. I fondly dream it needs must be That as my mother dealt with me, So with His children dealeth He. I wait, and trust the end will prove That here and there, below, above, The chastening heals, the pain is love I THE KNIGHT'S TOAST. ANONYMOUS. The feast is o'er ! Now brimming wine In lordly cup is seen to shine Before each eager guest ; And silence fills the crowded hall, As deep as when the herald's call Thrills in the loyal breast. Then up arose the noble host, And smiling cried : * ' A toast ! a toast ! To all our ladies fair ! Here before all, I pledge the name Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame, The Ladye Gundamere ! " Then to his feet each gallant sprung, And joyous was the shout that rung, As Stanley gave the word ; And every cup was raised on high, Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry, Till Stanley's voice was heard. 126 pkescott's paragon reciter. "Enough, enough," he smiling said, And lowly bent his haughty head ; " That all may have their due, Now each in turn must play his part, And pledge the lady of his heart, Like gallant knight and true ! " Then one by one each guest sprang up, And drained in turn the brimming cup, And named the loved one's name ; And each, as hand on high he raised, His lady's grace or beauty praised, Her constancy and fame. 'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise ; On him are fixed those countless eyes ;- A gallant knight is he ; Envied by some, admired by all, Far famed in lady's bower and hall, — The flower of chivalry. St. Leon raised his kindliug eye, And lifts the sparkling cup on high : " I drink to one," he said, " Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart, Till memory be dead. ' To one, whose love for me shall last, When lighter passions long have past,- So holy 'tis and true ; To one, whose love hath longer dwelt, More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, Than any pledged by you." Each guest upstarted at the word, And laid a hand upon his sword, With fury flashing eye ; pkescott's paeagon keciter. 127 And Stanley said : " We crave the name, Proud knight, of this most peerless dame Whose love you count so high." St. Leon paused, as if he would Not breathe her name in careless mood, Thus lightly to another ; Then bent his noble head, as though To give that word the reverence due, And gently said : " My Mother ! '• THE LION'S EIDE. ANONYMOUS. The lion is the desert's king ; through his domain so wide, Right swiftly and right royally this night he means to ride. By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds drink, close crouches the grim chief ; The trembling sycamore above whispers with every leaf. At evening on the Table Mount, when ye can see no more The changeful play of signals gay ; when the gloom is speckled o'er With kraal fires ; when the Caffre wends home through the lone karroo ; When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by the stream the gnu; Then bend your gaze across the waste — what see ye? The giraffe, Majestic, stalks towards the lagoon, the turbid lymph to quaff ; With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he kneels him down to cool His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the foul and brackish pool, A rustling sound — a roar — a bound — the lion sits astride Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so ride ? 128 pkescott's pakagon eeciter. Had ever king such steed ? so rare caparisons of state To match, the dappled skin whereon that rider sits elate ? In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged with ravenous His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the steed. Upleaping with a hollow yell of anguish and surprise, Away, away, in wild dismay, the camelopard flies. His feet have wings ; see how he springs across the moonlit plain ; As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring eyeballs strain ; In thick black streams of purling blood, full fast his life is fleeting ; The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tumultuous beating. Like the cloud that through the wilderness the path of Israel traced, Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of the waste, From the sandy sea uprising, as the water-spout from ocean, A whirling crowd of dust keeps pace with the courser's fiery motion. Croaking companion of their flight, the vulture whirrs on high ; Below, the terror of the fold, the panther, fierce and sly, And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in the horrid race ; By the footprints wet with gore and sweat, their monarch's course they trace. They see him on his living throne, and quake with fear, the while With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's painted pile ; On ! on ! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life and strength remain ! The steed by such a rider backed may madly plunge in vain. prescott's paragon keciteb. 129 Reeling upon the desert's verge, lie falls and breathes his last ; The courser, stained with dust and foam, is the rider's fell repast. O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush is descried ; Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of beasts doth ride. THE SERGEANT'S STOEY. TOLD IN THE GRAVEYARD OF A FRONTIER MILITARY POST. WYOMING KIT. " I tell you, pard, in this Western wild, As a general thing the dirt's jist piled In a rather promiscuous sort of way On top of a soldier's mortal clay ; An' a person' d think by that marble shaft, An' the flowers a-wavin' above the 'graft,' That a Major- General holds that tomb — But the corpse down there wore a private's plume. ' ' I remember the day they swore Mead in ; He was pale complected, an' rather thin ; He'd bin what they call a trampin' beat, An' enlisted fur want o' sumthin' to eat ! It's always the case that a new recruit Is the butt o the tricks from the older fruit ; An' the way the boys tormented the cuss, Was real down wicked, an' scandalous ! " He took it all with a sickly smile, An' said if they'd wait till afterwhile, Till he got fed up in some sort o' trim, It mightn't be healthy to fool with him ! An' I knowed by the look o' the feller's eye — Fur all he was backward, an' rather shy — That behind his skeleton sort o' breast ; A heart like a lion's found a nest ! 130 peescott's paragon eeciter. " One night as the guard, at twelve o'clock, Relieved the sentinel over the stock, The corp'ral seen a kind of a glare From* toward the officers' quarters, there ! The alarm was raised, an' the big gun fired An' the soldiers, not more'n half attired, Come a-rushin' out on the barrack ground With a wild an' excited sort of a bound ! " The Colonel's headquarters was all afire ! An' the flames a-mountin' higher an' higher ! An' what with the yells o' men, an' shrieks O' the officers' wives, with their whitish cheeks, An' the roar o' the flames, an' dev'lish light, Illuminatin' the pitch-dark night ! 'Twar such a sight as I've often thought You could see below, when it's b'illin' hot ! " An' then, with a wild despairin' yell ! The Colonel shouted ; ' My God ! Where's Nell ! ' His wife responded : ' She's in her bed ! ' Then fell to the ground like a person dead ! Up through the roof the mad flames roared, An' the blindin' smoke in a dense mass poured Through every crevice an' crack, till the cloud Hung above like a death-black shroud ! (It might 'n be out o' place to state — As kinder accountin' fur this Mead's fate — That Nell war an angel, ten year old, With a heart as pure as the virgin gold ; An' she had a kind of an angel trick Of readin', an' sich like, to the sick ; An' many's the dainty her hands 'd bear To Mead, one time, in the hospital there !) prescott's paragon reciter. 131 " My God ! it was 'nough to raise the liair On the head of a marble statue ! There Stood a crowd of at least two hundred men, None darin' to enter that fiery pen — Men that war brave on an Injun trail, Whose courage was never known to fail — But to enter that buildin' was certain death ! So they stood there starin', an' held their breath. " Then all to once, with an eager cry, An' a bulldog look in his flashin' eye ! This Mead rushed up to the wailin' band, An' a paper thrust in the Colonel's hand. ' My mother's address,' he said, an' then He sort o' smiled on the crowd o' men, An' jist like a flash o' lightnin,' shot Through the door right into the seethin' pot ! With a yell of horror the crowd looked on, Fur they felt with him it was ' good-bye, John/ But a half a minute after the dash An up-stairs window burst with a crash ! An' there stood Mead, like a smilin' saint, The gal in his arms in a death-like faint. He yelled for a rope, an' let her down, To terra firmy — w'ich means the groun' i " Then he tied the rope to the winder sash Fur to foller down — but there came a crash, An' the blazin' roof, with a fearful din, Throwed the boy to the ground as it tumbled in ! We carried him 'way from the fearful heat, A hopin' the noble heart still beat ; But the old post-surgeon shook his head, An' said, with a sigh, that Mead was dead ! 132 pkescott's paragon reciter. " It wasn't long afore little Nell Got over the shock, an' as soon as well, She circulated among- the men, With a sheet o' paper, an' ink an' pen, An' axed each one fur to give his mite, In remembrance o' Mead's brave work that night ! An' as the result this monument stands, Among flowers planted by Nellie's hands ! " An' every evenin' she walks up here, The boys all say, fur to drop a tear ! An' I've seen her, too, on her knees right there,, With her face turned upwards as if in prayer ! You'll see that line up above's to tell As how the stone was ' Erected by Nell,* An' down at the botton, there, you'll see Some Bible quotin' : 'HE DIED FOR ME.'" THE LIFE CLOCK. ANONYMOUS, There is a little mystic clock, No human eye hath seen ; That beateth on, and beateth on. From morning until e'en. And when the soul is wrapped in sleep, And heareth not a sound, It ticks, and ticks, the live-long night, And never runneth down. Not set in gold, nor decked with gems, By pride and wealth possessed ; But rich or poor, or high or low, Each bears it in his breast. prescott's paragon reciter. 133 When life's deep stream, 'mid beds of flowers, All still and softly glides ; Like the wavelet's step, with a gentle beat, It warns of passing tides. When passion nerves the warrior's arm, For deeds of hate and wrong, Though heeded not the fearful sound, The knell is deep and strong. When eyes to eyes are gazing soft, And tender words are spoken, Then fast and wild it rattles on, As if with love 'twere broken. Such is the clock that measures life, Of flesh and spirit blended ; And thus 'twill run within the breast, Till this strange life is ended. DRIFTING-.* T. B. READ. My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; My winged boat — A bird afloat — Swims round the purple peaks remote. Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw Through deeps below A duplicated golden glow. 13 J: PIIESCOTT'S PA11AGON KECITEK. Far, vague, and dim The mountains swim, While on Vesuvius' misty brim With outstretched hands The gray smoke stands, Overlooking the volcanic lands. Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles ; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff ; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. Under the walls Where swells and falls The bay's deep breast at intervals, At peace I lie, Blown softly by A cloud upon this liquid sky. The day so mild Is Heaven's own child, With earth and ocean reconciled ; The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail ; prescott's paragon reciter. 135 A joy intense — The cooling sense — Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where summer sings and never dies ; O'erveiled with vines, She glows and shines Among her future oils and wines. Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gamboling with the gamboling kid ; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth bright sand beguiled ; With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships. Ton deep bark goes Where traffic blows From lands of sun to lands of snow ; This happier one Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun. O happy ship, To rise and dip With the blue crystal at your lip ! O happy crew, My heart with you Sails and sails, and sings anew ! 136 prescott's paragon reciter. No more, no more The worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar ; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. LADY OLAEE. TENNYSON. It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn ; Lovers long betroth'd were they ; They two will wed the morrow morn ; God's blessing on the day ! " He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, " Who was this that went from thee ? ' " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, " To-morrow he weds with me." " God be thank'd," said Alice the nurse, 11 That all comes round so just and fair ; Lord Ronald is heir of all your land*, And you are not the Lady Clare." prescott's paragon reciter. 137 " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? " Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild? " " As God's above," said Alice the nurse, " I speak the truth ; you are my child ! " " The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." " Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother," she said ; " if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due." II Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's When you are man and wife." "If I'm a beggar born," she said, " I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by." " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, But keep the secret all ye can." She said, " Not so ; but I will know If there be any faith in man." " Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nurse, " The man will cleave unto his right." " And he shall have it," the lady replied, " Tho' I should die to-night." " Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." * O, mother, mother, mother," she said, " So strange it seems to me. 138 prescott's paragon reciter. ' ' Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go." She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare ; She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had bought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow' d her all the way. Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : " O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth ? " " If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: " I am a beggar born," she said, " And not the Lady Clare." " Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, " For I am yours in word and in deed ; Play me no tricks." Said Lord Ronald, " Your riddle is hard to read." Oh and proudly stood she up ! Her heart within her did not fail ; She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale. He laughed a laugh of merry scorn ; He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood : " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the next in blood — prescott's paragon reciter. 139 " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare." WEEN THE MISTS HAVE OLEAEED AWAY, ANONYMOUS. When the mists have rolled in splendor From the beauty of the hills, And the sunshine warm and tender, Falls in splendor on the rills, We may read love's shining letter In the rainbow of the spray ; We shall know each other better, When the mists have cleared away. We shall know as we are known, Never more to walk alone, In the dawning of the morning, When the mists have cleared away. If we err in human blindness, And forget that we are dust, If we miss the law of kindness When we struggle to be just, Snowy wings of peace shall cover All the pain that shrouds our way, When the weary watch is over, And the mists have cleared away. We shall know as we are known, Never more to walk alone, In the dawning of the morning, When the mists have cleared away. When the mists have risen above us, As our father knows his own, Face to face with those that love us, We shall know as we are known. 140 pkescott's pakagon eeciter. Lo ! beyond the orient meadows Floats the golden fringe of day ; Heart to heart we bide the shadows, Till the mists have cleared away. We shall know as we are known, Never more to walk alone, When the day of light is dawning, And the mists have cleared away. THE MOTHEKLESS TUKKEYS. MARIAN DOUGLAS. The White Turkey was dead ! The White Turkey was dead ! How the news through the barn-yard went flying ! Of a mother bereft, four small turkeys were left, And their case for assistance was crying. E'en the Peacock respectfully folded his tail As a suitable symbol of sorrow, And his plainer wife said, " Now the old bird is dead, Who will tend her poor chicks on the morrow ? "And when evening around them comes dreary and chill Who above them will watchfully hover ? " " Two each night I will tuck 'neath my wings," said the Duck, " Though I've eight of my own I must cover." " I have so much to do ! For the bugs and the worms In the garden 'tis tiresome pickin' ; I have nothing to spare — for my own I must care," Said the Hen with one chicken. " How I wish," said the Goose, " I could be of some use, For my heart is with love over-brimming ; The next morning that's fine they shall go with my nine Little yellow-backed goslings out swimming ! " pkescott's pakagon eecitee. 141 " I will do wliat I can," the old Dorking put in, " And for help they may call upon me too, Though I have ten of my own that are only half grown, And a great deal of trouble to see too " But those poor little things, they are all heads and wings, And their bones through the feathers are stickin' ! " " Very hard it may be ; bat, oh, don't come to me ! " Said the Hen with one chicken, u Half my care, I suppose, there is nobody knows, I'm the most overburdened of mothers ! They must learn, little elves, how to scratch for themselves, And not seek to depend upon others." She went by with a cluck, and the Goose to the Duck Exclaimed in surprise, " Well I never ! " Said the Duck, " I declare, those who have the least care You will find are complaining forever ! And when all things appear to look threatening and drear, And when troubles your pathway are thick in, For aid in your woe, oh, beware how you go To a hen with one chicken ! " WHITE HANDS, WYN RIEL. " Such dear little hands," he whispered, Holding her hands in his own ; " Unfit as wind-swept rose leaves, To battle life's storms, alone." " Such white little hands/' he murmured, And kissed them, bending down ; " Hands which should sparkle with jewels, And never grow hard and brown. " 142 prescott's paragon reciter. No word of the fields awaiting Laborers, earnest and true, Of the master's work, that even A woman's hand might do. No word of the weary journey, Of the pitfalls, dark and wide, And thorns across the pathway, Her hands might put aside, So " time and the hour" went onward, With the change the seasons bring ; And the white hands glittered with jewels, But never wore a wedding ring. White hands ! like folded lilies ; Free from all toil and care — Then, kissed, caressed — and forsaken, And clasped in dumb despair. Through the cheerless hospital window, Over the blank, white walls, On a face its brightness warms not, The pitying sunlight falls. And over her heart — forever From pain and passion stilled — Those folded hands lay icy, With drooping lilies filled. IT'S ALL POE BEEAD AND BUTTER MRS. C. M. PEAT. What a flurrying world to live in ; O, such a hubbub, such a splutter. What is the matter with the folks ? Ans. — They're scrambling for their bread and butter. pkescott's paragon reciter. 143 At early morn the working class, Baskets in hand, all in a flutter, Rush to their various shops — what for ? Ans. — To toil all day for bread and butter. Next comes the clerks, so spruce and spry, They dash ahead and spring the gutter ; To stores and counting-rooms they haste — Ans. — To sell or write for bread and butter. Then comes the noble "boss " along, Che price of stocks he seems to utter : What is his long head planning for ? Ans. — He's calculating bread and butter. There run the children, what a swarm, Scampering along with fun and splutter ; With piles of books — what are they taught ? Ans. — To earn, we hope, their bread and butter. The teachers with authority, Just touch the bell ; whist, not a mutter ; Then comes the strain upon their nerves, Ans. — To teach dull pates, for bread and butter. The lawyers see, with bags so green, Green as their clients ; this don't utter ; But listen to their eloquence ! Ans. — While u pleading " for their bread and butter. Authors and editors, O my ! How hard they tug, with feverish flutter ! Is it for fame they're striving for ? Ans. — Xo ; simply for their bread and butter. The politicians spout and fume ; To gain one vote, see how they splutter ! What does their patriotism yield ? Ans. — A rich return of bread and butter. 14:4: prescott's paragon reciter. Here come news-urchins — what a set. They look as if just out the gutter ; And such a yelling noise they make ! Arts. — They're screeching for their bread and butter. The market people stand or sit, "While town-folks pass them in a nutter ; They take it coolly — while they sell Ans. — For bread, to us, their meat and butter. On promenades, see belles and beaux ;* Bright they sparkle, gay they nutter, It They spin street yarns, this does not pay S Ans. — They feast on papa's bread and butter. [The speaker here must face the audience. Ye laboring class, men, women too, Your toil and care ye may not utter j But this you have, good appetites Ans % — To relish most your bread and butter, THE SOLDIER'S KEPEIEVE. ROSE HART WICK THORPE, " My Fred ! I can't understand it " — And his voice quivered with pain, While the tears kept slowly dropping On his trembling hands like rain — " For Fred was so brave and loyal, So true ; but my eyes are dim, And I cannot read the letter The last I shall get from him. Please read it, sir, while I listen — In fancy I see him — dead ; My boy, shot down like a traitor, My noble, my brave boy Fred." PKESCOTT'S PARAGON RECtTER. 145 w Dear father " — so ran the letter — ' ' To-morrow when twilight creeps Along the hills to the churchyard, O'er the grave where mother sleeps, When the dusky shadows gather, They'll lay your boy in his grave, For nearly betraying the country He would give his life to save. And, father, I tell you truly, With almost my latest breath, That your boy is not a traitor, Though he dies a traitor's death. "You remembor Bennie Wilson? He's suffered a deal of pain. He was only that day ordered Back into the ranks again. I carried all of his luggage, With mine on the march that day ; I gave him my arm to lean on, Else he had dropped by the way. 'Twas Bennie's turn to be sentry, But I took his place, and I — Father, I dropped asleep, and now I must die as traitors die. " The Colonel is kind and thoughtful, He has done the best he can, And they will not bind or blind me — I shall meet death like a man. Kiss little Blossom ; but, father, Need you tell her how I fall 1 " A sob from the shadowed corner, Yes, Blossom had heard it all. As she kissed the precious letter She said with faltering breath, M Our Fred was never a traitor, Though he dies a traitor's death." 14:6 prescott's paragon reciter. And a little sun-brown maiden, In a shabby, time-worn dress, Took her seat half an hour later In the crowded night express. The conductor heard her story As he held her dimpled hand, And sighed for the sad hearts breaking All over the troubled land. He tenderly wiped the tear drops From the blue eyes brimming o'er, And guarded her footsteps safely Till she reached the White House door. The President sat at his writing ; But the eyes were kind and mild That turned with a look of wonder On the little shy- faced child. And he read Fred's farewell letter With a look of sad regret. " 'Tis a brave, young life," he murmured, " And his country needs him yet. From an honored place in battle He shall bid the world good-bye. If that young life is needed, He shall die as heroes die." THE INFLUENCE OF WOMAN. WEBSTER. It is by promulgation of sound morals in the community, and, more especially, by the training and instruction of the young, that woman performs her part toward the preservation of a free government. It is generally admitted, that public liberty rests on the virtue and intelligence of the community which enjoys it. How is that virtue to be inspired, and how is that intelligence to be communicated ? Bonaparte once asked Madame de Stael in what manner he could most promote the pkescott's paragon reciter. 147 happiness of France. Her reply is full of political wisdom. She said : " Instruct the mothers of the French people." Mothers are, indeed, the affectionate and effective teachers of the human race. The mother begins her process of train- ing with the infant in her arms. It is she who directs its first mental and spiritual pulsations. She conducts it along the impressible years of childhood and youth, and hopes to deliver it to the rough contests and tumultuous scenes of life, armed by those good principles which her child has received from maternal care and love. If we draw within the circle of our contemplation the mothers of a civilized nation, what do we see? We behold so many artificers working, not on frail and perishable matter, but on the immortal mind, moulding and fashioning beings who are to exist forever. We applaud the artist whose skill and genius present the mimic man upon the canvas. We admire and cele- brate the sculptor who works out that same image in enduring marble. But how insignificant are these achievements, in comparison with the great vocation of human mothers ! They work, not upon the canvas that shall fade, or the marble that shall crumble into dust, but upon mind, upon spirit, which is to last forever, and which is to bear for good or evil, through- out its duration, the impress of a mother's plastic hand. Knowledge does not comprise all which is contained in the larger term of education. The feelings are to be disciplined. The passions are to be restrained. True and worthy motives are to be inspired. A profound religious feeling is to be instilled, and pure morality inculcated, under all circumstances. All this is comprised in education. Mothers who are faithful to this great duty will tell their children, that neither in political nor in any other concerns of life, can man ever withdraw him- self from the perpetual obligations of conscience and of duty ; that in every act, whether public or private, he incurs a just responsibility; and that in no condition is he warranted in trifling with important rights and obligations. They will impress upon their children the truth, that the ex- ercise of the elective franchise is a social duty, of as solemn a nature as man can be called to perform ; that a man may not 148 prescott's paragon reciter. innocently trifle with his vote ; and that every man and every measure he supports, has an important bearing on the interests of others as well as on his own. It is in the inculcation of high and pure morals, such as these, that, in a free republic, woman performs her sacred duty, and fulfills her destiny. THE LOST LETTER BY MES. MAET MAINE. Softly I enter the wide open door, When a letter blew out over the floor ; And dear Aunt Alice, so faded and fair, Sat white as the dead in her easy chair. My mother was bathing her pallid brow : " Oh, Alice I dear Alice ! what grieves you now?" The pale lips moaned in a plaintive tone : " Had I only known ! had I only known." She pointed with fingers white and cold To the tossing letter so worn and old. " Fair Alice, my Alice/' the letter said, " Tell me, my darling, shall we be wed? " 'Twas hard to sail with love unspoken ; You've known it, dear, by many a token. Let silence speak if yon cannot be mine, But send a glad yes, if I am thine." From mother's lips came a piercing wail : ",'Twas Willie who went for the weekly mail," Willie, gay Willie, _ier pride and her joy, Willie, sweet Willie, her rollicking boy. The letter that came from Alice's lover, Laid twenty years in an atlas cover. No mortal may reckon the fearful cost, To that blooming girl, of the letter lost. peescott's pakagon keciteb. 149 No word went over to Robert Beauclare, No answering word from Alice, the fair. The letter for Alice so fraught with joy, Forgotten quite by the careless boy. For Afric's dark children a preacher plead, School books were needed down South, he said, The lips of gay Willie by death were pressed, And his school books laid in an old oak chest. Aunt Alice was poor but her heart was kind, The dear little chest came into her mind. With tear-stained eyes she had looked them o'er, The books that would enter the chest no more. The atlas must have a bright red cover, Out came the letter from Alice's lover. We all knew then why the bright belle of Clair Was our old maid, Aunt Alice the fair. FUSS AT FIKES. ANONYMOUS. It having been announced to me, my young friends, that you were about forming a fire-company, I have called you together to give you such directions as long experience in a first-quality engine company qualifies me to communicate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair of panthers. Run any way, except the right way, — for the farthest way round is the nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the top of a wood-pile, so much the better ; you can then get a good view of the neighborhood. If a light breaks on your view, " break " for it immediately ; but be sure you don't jump into a bow window. Keep yelling all the time ; and, if you can't make night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come across, and set them yelling, too ; it will help amazingly. 150 peescott's paragon reciter. A brace of cats dragged up stairs by the tail would be a " pow- erful auxiliary. " When you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the fences in the vicinity. If it be a chimney on fire, throw salt down it ; or if you can't do that, perhaps the best plan would be to jerk off the pump-handle and pound it down. Don't forget to yell all the while, as it will have a prodigious effect in frightening off the fire. The louder the better, of course ; and the more ladies in the vicinity, the greater neces- sity for "doing it brown." Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good earnest, and make any man " smoke " that interrupts you. If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot, cut them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. Don't forget to yell ! Should the stable be threatened, carry out the cow-chains. Never mind the horse, — he'll be alive and kicking ; and if his legs don't do their duty, let them pay for the roast. Ditto as to the hogs : — let them save their own bacon or smoke for it. When the roof begins to burn, get a crow bar and pry away the stone-steps ; or, if the steps be of wood, procure an axe and chop them up. Next, cut away the wash-boards in the basement story ; and if that don't stop the flames, let the chair-boards on the first floor share a simi- lar fate. Should the "devouring element " still pursue the " even tenor of its way," you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch out the pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time. If you find a baby abed, fling it into the second story window of the house across the way ; but let the kitten carefully down in a work-basket. Then draw out the bureau drawers, and empty their contents out of the back window ; telling some- body below to upset the slop-barrel and rain-water hogshead at the same time. Of course you will attend to the mirror. The further it can be thrown, the more pieces will be made. If anybody objects, smash it over his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop a pair of tongs down from the second story ; the fall might break its legs, and render the poor thing a cripple for life. Set it straddle of your shoulders, and carry it down carefully. Pile the bed clothes carefully on the floor, pkescott's paeagon reciter. 151 and throw the crockery out of the window. By the time you will have attended to all these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burnt down. In either case, your services will be no longer needed and, of course, you re- quire no further directions. THE BLIND BOY. ANONYMOUS. The day was bright and beautiful, The boys to play had gone, Save one who sat beside the door, Dejected and alone ; And as the tones of merry sport Came faintly to his ear, He sighed, and from his swelling lids He brushed the falling tear. His little heart was rent with pain — He could not join the play ; He could not run about the fields, Or by the brook-side stray ; The rolling hoop, the bounding ball, The kite borne by the wind — The acorn hunt was naught to him, For he, alas ! was blind. He could not see the setting sun, And watch the glowing skies — The beauty of the moon and stars Fell not upon his eyes. The rainbow, when it spanned the cloud, Was lost upon his sight ; And waving woods, and sparkling streams, For all to him was night. 152 prescott's pabagon eecitee. MATTIE STEPHENSOU. ANONYMOUS. As the processes which seem to threaten the dissolution of matter produce crystals, so the severest scourges which fall upon man develop the very highest types of humanity. Out of the masses of dead and dying, angels rise and hover above the gloom and anguish, and men view the beautiful image of the very perfection of their race. Mattie Stephenson was a young girl of Towanda, Illinois. She was obscure, and never had a thought of hurrying through life to a monument. She heard of the scourge of pestilence in Memphis ; and, self -forgetting, she resolved to hasten to the relief of suffering, and stand a faithful friend at the couch of death. She went, unheralded and unobserved, into the strick- en city, offered her services to the Howard Association, and was accepted. What she did will never all be known. In the death-chamber, often but two were present, — the young girl and the sufferer, — and their lips are sealed forever. It is simply known that Mattie Stephenson was good and brave, and freely offered up her own young life for her fellow-creatures. Hers was a holy mission ; and she performed her full work. Did her father or mother in Towanda weep for her ? Did a brother or sister tremble at the thought that their dear one was in the ranks where the shafts were flying thick and deadly ? She herself was stricken and fell. Her memory is dear to Memphis, and her shrine is sacred as that of a saint. Her life was crystallized in a few short days of duty ; and a monument by loving hands will rise above her ashes. To such a heart there are no strangers, for it was the friend of all. Before the body of the young girl had been laid away to rest in Elmwood, a wealthy merchant suggested a fitting monument to commemorate the most beautiful of lives aud highest of virtues. The Howard Association immediately re- solved, That in honor of her memory, in justice to themselves, and as an example to the race, a suitable monument be erected to mark the spot where she sleeps ; and that her epitaph shall tell the sublime and beautiful story of one who laid down her own life that others might live. peescott's pabagon ebcitee. 153 THE FIREMAN. R. T. CONRAD. The city slumbers. O'er its mighty walls Night's dusky mantle soft and silent falls ; Sleep o'er the world slow waves its wand of lead, And ready torpors wrap each sinking head. Stilled is the stir of labor and of life ; Hushed is the hum and tranquillized the strife ; Man is at rest, with all his hopes and fears ; The young forget their sports, the old their cares ; The grave are careless ; those who joy or weep All rest contented on the arm of sleep. Sweet is the pillowed rest of beauty now, And slumber smiles upon her tranquil brow ; Her bright dreams lead her to the moonlit tide, Her heart's own partner wandering by her side. 'Tis a summer's eve : the soft gales scarcely rouse The low- voiced ripple and the rustling boughs ; And faint and far some minstrel's melting tone Breathes to her heart a music like its own. When, hark ! horror ! what a crash is there ! What shriek is that which fills the midnight air ? 'Tis " fire ! fire ! '' She wakes to dream no more. The hot blast rushes through the blazing door. The dim smoke eddies round ; and hark ! that cry ! * ' Help ! help ! Will no one aid ? I die — I die ! " She seeks the casement ; shuddering at its height, She turns again ; the fierce flames mock her flight ; Along the crackling stairs they fiercely play, And roar, exulting, as they seize their prey. " Help ! help ! Will no one come ? " She says no more, But pale and breathless sinks upon the floor. Will no one save thee ? Yes, there yet is one Remains to save when hope itself is gone ; 154 peescott's paragon eecjtee. When all have fled, when all but he would fly, The fireman comes to rescue or to die. He mounts the stair — it wavers 'neath his tread ; He seeks the room — flames flashing round his head ; He bursts the door ; he lifts her prostrate frame, And turns again to brave the raging flame. The fire-blast smites him with its stifling breath, The falling timbers menace him with death, The sinking floors his hurried steps betray, And ruin crashes round his desperate way ; Hot smoke obscures, ten thousand cinders rise, Yet still he staggers forward with his prize. He leaps from burning stair to stair. On ! on ! Courage ! one effort more and all is won ! The stair is past, the blazing hall is braved. Still on ! yet on ! once more ! Thank heaven she's saved. THE SCOUTS IN CAMP. WYOMING KIT. " Pile on a few more pine knots, Tom ; it's snappin' cold to- night — The wind from Rocky Canon comes with keenest kind o' bite — Let's hev a rousin' old camp fire, an' then we'll have a chat ; Please hand my rifle over hyar — mus' keep my paw on that ! A feller doesn't allers know jist when he'll need his gun — Jist when the cussed Injun sneaks ar' huntin' arter fun. Light up yer pipe, old pardner ; thar's nuthin' like a smoke To fill the intermission thet's at ween each yarn or joke. " I don't know what's got inter me, fur on the trail to-day, My thoughts hev bin a-scoutin', 'round a camp thet's far away ! A camp thet's in * Grods country,' near thet bright Ohio stream, An' the mem'ries of the past kep' crowdin' on me like a dream ! I seed the old log farm house, whar' I spent my early days ; The school house with its noisy crew ; the boys in all their plays ; prescott's paragon reciter. 155 I could see the old red meet in'- house, whar' once I jined the church — Stood in with pious folks a while, then left 'em in, the lurch ! " God bless that old red nieetin'-kouse ! I tell ye, Tom, it makes My heart heat up with warmest love, an' every fiber quakes, When mem'ries shoot across my trail, of all the joys I seed, Afore I j'ined the gin'ral rush in the '49 stampede ! (Whoa, Chief! you cussed idiot ! Don't jump at every sound ! Best fill yerself with grass — whoa, boy ! jist quit thet snortin' 'round ! Git back thar' to yer grazin' — that war' a wolf you heard — Or else the hootin' of an owl, or flutterin 1 of a, bird !) " As I war sayin', Tom, I used ter listen to the talk, When the old gray-headed preacher told us how to toe the chalk. If ever thar' war' a righteous man I'll back old Parson Hurd Agin the flyest Gospel sharp thet ever slung the Word ! He wa'n't as eloquent as some, an' didn't wear sich clothes As them thet hung gold spectacles across a pious nose ; But when it came to Gospel talk thet overtook the heart, The old man bulged away ahead, an' played a leadin' part ! " When I growed to be eighteen, or so, I mind I used ter sit An' hear the parson drawin' consolation from the writ ; But some how or another, no matter how I tried, I couldn't keep these eyes o' mine from wanderin' to the side Whar all the country gals 'd sit, in the best o' Sunday clothes, A-wonderin' arter meetin's out, who'd ketch the smartest beaux ! This heart o' mine 'd beat tattoo when I'd get a lovin' look From a daisy with her face half hid behind her singin' book t *' An' when the benediction an' Doxology war' played We'd draw up in a line outside the door an' oh, how 'fraid I used ter feel, afore my turn, as each successive beau Marched out o' ranks up to his gal, an' crooked his arm, ye know ! 156 prescott's paragon reciter. But arter liookin' on myself, an' startin' down the lane Toward her daddy's farm, my courage all came back again, An' then we'd laugh, an' chat, an' sing, an' squeeze each other's hands, An' say a thousan' things that none but lovers understands ! " I had the sweetest little gal that ever slung a kiss, An' the days I spent a sparkin' war all gilt-edged with bliss ! I'd a married that thar' beauty, Tom, if that 'tarnal cry of gold Hadn't like an ocean billow over all the country rolled ! I caught the fever, like the rest, an' kissed the gal good bye, An' left her standin' in the lane with sad an' tearful eye ! I promised to go back, of course, at no great distant day, But when a man gits in these hills he's liable to stay. " I hunted gold industriously, but couldn't make a stake, An' then I emigrated hyar, endeavorin' ter make Enough to take me home, but failed — an' then fur Uncle Sam I started huntin' Injuns on the trail, an' hyar I am ! But some day, Tom, I may go back to take a peep around At the old familiar objects on my early stampin' ground — " ' Look up the gal ? ' not much, old pard ; I'll bet thet country school Is educatin' kids o' hers— whoa, Chief ! you 'tarnal fool ! " THE CHAKCOAL MAN. TROWBRIDGE. Though rudely blows the wintry blast, And sifting snows fall white and fast, Mark Haley drives along the street, Perched high upon his wagon seat ; His sombre face the storm defies, And thus from morn till eve, he cries, peescott's paeagon eecitee. 157 " Charco' ! charco' ! " While echo faint and far replies, " Hark, O ! hark, O ! " " Charco' ! " — " Hark, ! " — Such cheery sounds Attend him on his daily rounds. The dust begrimes his ancient hat ; His coat is darker far than that ; Tis odd to see his sooty form All speckled with the feathery storm : Yet in his honest bosom lies Nor spot nor speck, though still he cries, " Charco' ! charco' ! " While many a roguish lad replies, " Ark, ho ! ark, ho ! " " Charco' ! " — " Ark, ho ! " — Such various sounds Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. Thus all the cold and wintry day He labors much for little pay, Yet feels no less of happiness Than many a richer man, I guess, When through the shades of eve he spies The light of his own home, and cries, " Charco' ! charco' ! " And Martha from the door replies, ' ' Mark, ho ! Mark, ho !" " Charco' ! " " Mark, ho ! "—Such joy abounds When he has closed his daily rounds ! The hearth is warm, the fire is bright J And while his hand, washed clean and white^ Holds Martha's tender hand once more, His glowing face bends fondly o'er The crib wherein his darling lies, And in a coaxing tone he cries, 158 prescott's paragon reciter. " Charco ' ! charco' ! " And baby with a laugh replies, " Ah, go ! ah, go ! " " Charco' ! — " Ah, go ! " — While at the sounds The mother's heart with gladness bounds. Then honored be the Charcoal man, Though dusky as an African ! 'Tis not for you that chance to be A little better clad than he His honest manhood to despise — Although from morn till eve he cries, ' ' Charco' ! charco' ! " While mocking echo still replies, "Hark, O! hark, O !" " Charco' ! " — " Hark, ! " — Long may the sounds Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds ! THE BELIEF OP LUOKNOW. ROBERT LOWELL. Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort ! We knew that it was the last ; That the enemy's mines had crept surely in, And the end was coming fast. To yield to that foe meant worse than death, And the men and we all worked on ; It was one day more of smoke and roar, And then it would all be done. There was one of us, a corporal's wife, A fair young, gentle thing, Wasted with fever and with siege, And her mind was wandering. prescott's paragon reciter. 159 She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid, And I took her head on my knee ; " When my father comes home frea the pleugh " she said, " Oh, please then waken me ! " She slept like a child on her father's floor, In the flecking of woodbine shade, When the house-dog sprawls by the half -open door, And the mother's wheel is stayed. It was smoke and roar and powder stench, And hopeless waiting for death ; But the soldier's wife, like a full- tired child, Seemed scarce to draw her breath. I sank to sleep, and I had my dream Of an English village lane, And wall and garden, till a sudden scream Brought me back to the roar again. There Jessie Brown stood listening ; And then a broad gladness broke All over her face, and she took my hand And drew me near, and spoke : " The Highlanders ! Oh ! dinna ye hear The slogan far awa' ? The Macgregors ! Ah ! I ken it weel ; It is the grandest of them a\ " God bless the bonny Highlanders ! We're saved ! we're saved ! " she cried ; And fell on her knees, and thanks to God Poured forth like a full flood-tide. 100 pbhsoott's paragon beciter. Along tho battery line her cry Bad fallen among the men ; And they Started, for they were to die ; Was life so near them, then? They listened for life ; and the rattling fire Par off, and the far-off roar Wore all ; and the oolonel shook his head, And they turned to their guns once more. Then Jessie said, " The slogan's dune ; But ran ye n<> hear them noo ? The Campbells are coinin' ! It's nea a dream ; Our succors hae broken through ! " We heard the roar and rattle afar, But the pipers we could not hear ; So the men plied their work of hopeless war, And knew that the end was near. It was not long ore it must be heard, A shrilling, ceaseless sound ; , It was no noise o( the strife afar Or the sappers under ground. It was the pipe o( the Highlanders, And now they played " Auld Lang Syne:" It came to our men like the voice of God, And they shouted along the line. And they wept and shook each others hands, And the women sobbed in a crowd, Ami every one knelt down where we stood, And we all thanked God aloud. That happy day when we welcomed them in Our men put Jessie first ; And the genera] took her hand, and cheers From the men like a volley burst. pbescott's paragon reciter. 161 And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed, Marching round and round our line ; And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, As the pipers played " Auld Lang Syne." ADDEESS OP THE PRESIDENT OP THE LAZY CLUB. ANONYMOUS. Gentlemen of the Lazy Club : Accept my heart-felt thanks for the honor you have done me, in electing me President of your dignified body. I feel how unworthy of the honor I am, having sometimes approached a violation of the principles of the club ; but I must on this occasion vindicate my character from some of the charges preferred against it. Gentlemen, while my name was before you, during the canvass which has resulted in my election to this honorable office, it was stated that I had once run from a shower of rain. Gentlemen, most emphatically do I deny the truth of the accusation. I remember, gentlemen, the occasion to which my enemies have referred. A furious storm was coming up, roaring like a herd of mad bulls. Almost surprised by the sound, which seemed to be loud enough to herald the destruction of all nature, I slowly and deliberately turned my head to learn the cause of this unusual commotion. Having quietly satisfied my curiosity, I was slowly bringing my head round to its former position when, in performing this operation, I struck my foot against a stone, and involuntarily made a step a little more rapid than usual. This my enemies have magnified into a run ! Thus the diminutive mole-hill has shot up into the cloud-kissing mountain ! Gentlemen, on that same occasion a tree was falling towards me. Did I run then, or in any way display unbecoming activity ? I took one deliberate step forward, and the tree fell innoxious. I was in almost as dangerous a condition as that of Marmion when " The bars descending razed his plume." 162 peescott's paragon reciter. I wore no plume, it is true ; but I have reason to plume myself on my behavior. On another occasion, the house in which I found myself was rocking in an earthquake. While all ran in alarm, I sat unmoved, not even stretching out my hand to save the table that held my dinner. And is it to be supposed possible that such a man would run from a few particles of condensed vapor, or from a little air in motion ? Before closing, I must say a word or two in regard to the general principles of our order. To drive us from our state of repose, we are told that all nature is active, and that we should imitate nature. Look, gentlemen, at some of the most active objects in nature, and see what they do for us. The lightning is active, and in its activity blasts and destroys. The wind is active, and in its course scatters havoc and desola- tion. The mountain flood is full of energy, and devastated fields and plains mourn its progress. The volcano is active, and the effects of its activity are shown in buried cities and countries ruined. The world, gentlemen, has ever been opposed to our principles. Restless poets and pretended philosophers have urged us to " rise before or with the sun/' Now let me say, I for one am willing to follow the examples of the sun. Gentle- men, the sun never rises. Planets and comets, the small affairs that go whirling and whizzing around him — these, indeed, rise ; but the great sun rests forever in the quiet dignity of repose. The little orbs, which, like bustling mortals, go whirling about, making themselves dizzy with their own motion, can never induce the sun to join them in their mad capers. Heathen poets have told us wonderful stories about the sun's getting out of his warm bed early in the morning, and industriously driving a carriage all day ! Is any one in our day silly enough to believe these stories ! And yet the fictions of these benighted poets are employed to furnish examples for us to imitate 1 Gentlemen, I say no more. pbescott's pabagon eeciteb. 163 BICHELIETJ AND PRANCE. BULWER. My liege, your anger can recall your trust. Annul my office, spoi] me of my lands, ■Rifle my coffers ; but my name — my deeds — Are royal in a land beyond your sceptre. Pass sentence on me if you will ; from kings, Lo, I appeal to time ! Be just, my liege. I found your kingdom rent with heresies And bristling with rebellion ; lawless nobles And breadless serfs ; England fomenting discord ; Austria, her clutch on your dominion ; Spain Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind To armed thunderbolts. The arts lay dead ; Trade rotted in your marts ; your armies mutinous ; Your treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke Your trust ? So be it ! and I leave you sole, Supremest monarch of the mightiest realm From Ganges to the Icebergs. Look without — No foe not humbled. Look within — the arts Quit for our schools their old Hesperides, The golden Italy ; while throughout the veins Of your vast empire flows in strengthening tides Trade, the calm health of nations. Sire, I know That men have called me cruel. I am not ; I am just / I found France rent asunder ; The rich men despots, and the poor banditti ; Sloth in the mart and schism within the temple Brawls festering to rebellion, and weak laws Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths. I have re-created France ; and from the ashes Of the old feudal and decrepit carcass Civilization, on her luminous wings, Soars, phoenix-like, to Jove ! What was my art ? Genius, some day ; some, fortune ; witchcraft, some. Not so ; my art was justice ! 164 prescott's paragon reciter. THE GBAVE OF THE BELOVED. WASHINGTON IRVING. Sorrow for tlie dead is tlie only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal ; every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider our duty to keep open ; this affliction we cherish and brood over in soli- tude. Where is the mother that would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang ? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved and he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal, would ac- cept consolation that was to be bought by forgetf ulness ? No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attri- butes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its de- lights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud even over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would ex- change it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry ? No ; there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song ; there is a recollection of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! — the grave ! It buries every error ; covers every defect ; extinguishes every resent- ment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that ever he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him ! The grave of those we loved — what a place for meditation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of pkescott's paragon reciter. 165 virtue 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 tenderness of the parting scene ; the bed of death with all its stifled griefs ; its noiseless attendants ; its mute, watchful assi- duities ; the last testimonies of expiring love ; the feeble, fal- tering, thrilling (oh ! 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 strug- gling in death to give one more assurance of affection ! Aye, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that being who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition ! If thou art a child, and hast ever added 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 wronged in thought, word or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee ; if thou art a lover, aud hast ever given one uumerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back 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 una- vailing tear ; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 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 tributes of regret ; but take warn- ing by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 166 prescott's paragon reciter. HIGHEK VIEWS OF THE UNION. WENDELL PHILLIPS. I confess the pictures of the mere industrial value of the Union, make me profoundly sad. I look, as beneath the skillful pencil, trait after trait leaps to glowing life, and ask at last, Is this all ? Where are the nobler elements of national purpose and life ? Is this the whole fruit of ages of toil, sacri- fice and thought, those cunning fingers, the overflowing lap, labor vocal on every hillside, and commerce whitening every sea ? All the dower of one haughty, overbearing race, the zeal of the Puritan, the faith of the Quaker, a century of colonial health, and then this large civilization, does it result only in a workshop — fops melted in baths and perfumed, and men grimed with toil 1 Raze out, then, the Eagle from our banner, and paint instead Niagara used as a cotton-mill ! O no ! not such the picture my glad heart sees when I look forward. Once plant deep in the national heart the love of right, let there grow out of it the firm purpose of duty, and then from the higher plane of Christian manhood we can put aside on the right hand and the left these narrow, childish, and mercenary considerations. ' ' Leave to the soft Campanian His baths and his perfumes ; Leave to the sordid race of Tyre Their dyeing vats and looms ; Leave to the sons of Carthage The rudder and the oar ; Leave to the Greek his marble nymph And scrolls of wordy lore ; " but for usf the children of a purer civilization, the pioneers of a Christian future, it is for us to found a Capitol whose corner- stone is Justice, and whose top-stone is Liberty ; within the sacred precinct of whose Holy of Holies dwelleth One who is no respecter of persons, but hath made of one blood all nations of the earth to serve him. Crowding to the shelter of its stately arches, I see old and young, learned and ignorant, rich and poor, native and foreign, pkescott's pakagon keciter. 167 Pagan, Christian and Jew, black and white, in one glad, har- monious, triumphant procession ! M Blest and thrice blest the Roman Who sees Rome's brightest day ; Who sees that long victorious pomp Wind down the sacred way ; And through the bellowing Forum, And round the suppliant's Grove ; Up to the everlasting gates Of Capitolian Jove ! v THE SICK ENGLISHMAN IN GERMANY. ALTERED FROM THOMAS HOOD. Sick man reclining in a chair. Physician feels the pulse and examines the tongue of the patient. Paysician. It is a case for de wasser cure. He will soon be well mit de wasser. Attendant. And as to his eating, Doctor ? Phys. Nichts — nothing at all. Att. And what ought he to drink ? Phys. Cold wasser. Att. Would it be well to bathe his feet ? Phys. Yah— mit cold wasser. Att. And if he feels a little low ? Phys. Low ? Vat is dat ? Att. Out of spirits ; a little faint-like. Phys. Faint — ah! — So? You shall sprinkle at him mid some cold wasser. Att. And nothing else ? Phys. Yah — I shall write someting. ( Writes.) Dare you shall send dis paper to de apotheke in de Leer street, almost to de Rondel. He shall drink some flasks of Kissingen. Att. Kissengen 1 — what's that ? Is it some sort of wine ? 168 prescott's paragon reciter. Phys. Wine ! nein ! It is some sort of cold wasser. Att. Oh, from the baths ! Phys. Yah ! yah ! — it shall be goot to bath too — in cold wasser. (To the patient.) Sare, have you read my little boke? Patient. {Speaking in broken sentences, as if in pain.) What's it — about, Doctor ? Phys. De wholesome of de cold wasser. I have prove de cold wasser is good for every sickness in de world. Patient. What ! for — water in the head ? Phys. Yah — and for wasser in de chest. And for wasser in de — what you may call him ? de abdomen. It is good for everyting. De cold wasser shall sweep away all de Kranken, all de sick peoples from de face of de earth. Patient. (To himself.) Yes — so did — the Great Flood. (Aside to attendant.) Come here. I've heard before — of wet- nurses— but never of — a wet-doctor. It's the old story — of the prescription that was nothing — but aqua pumpy. I shall be drowned — before I am cured. Nothing but watering, watering, watering. Egad ! he takes me for a sick Hydrangea ! Physician. (Beckoning attendant into a corner, with a mysterious manner.) Hist ! Come here ! Attendant. Good heavens ! Is he in any danger ? Physician. He is quite so bad as one can wish. Hear to me — is he rich ? Have he mosh moneys ? Attendant. He is what is called an independent gentlemen. Phys. Dat is goot — bery goot. Now, hear to me. Whilst he is so bad, you shall rob him. Att. (With astonishment.) What? Phys. You— shall — rob him. You shall rob his chest. (Attendant looks astounded.) Phys. (After a pause.) Do you understand me ? Att. I am afraid I do. (Indignantly leaves the physician, who goes out with a show of surprise. To himself.) What a monster ! But I foretold it from the very first glimpse of him. There was villain stamped in his face. What horrid cunning eyes ! Now I think of it, he is the very picture — but here comes Thomas. (Enter servant, with a bottle.) Thomas, what is in that bottle ? pbescott's pabagon reciter. 169 Servant. It is some medicine which the doctor sent. Att. {Beads the label.) " Some water for to rob him with on the chest." It's really very provoking! So absurd! How uncommonly annoying ! But it's all his own fault for not speaking better English. What fools these foreigners are ! Why could he not have said rub? SALATHIEL TO TITUS. CROLT. Son of Vespasian, I am at this hour a poor man, as I may in the next be an exile or a slave ; I have ties to life as strong as ever were bound round the heart of man ; I stand here a suppliant for the life of one whose loss would embitter mine ! Yet, not for wealth unlimited, for the safety of my family, for the life of the noble victim that is now standing at the place of torture, dare I abandon, dare I think the impious thought of abandoning the cause of the City of Holiness. Titus ! in the name of that Being, to whom the wisdom of the earth is folly, I adjure you to beware. Jerusalem is sacred. Her crimes have often wrought her misery — often has she been trampled by the armies of the stranger. But she is still the City of the Omnipotent ; and never was blow inflicted on her by man, that was not terribly repaid. The Assyrian came, the mightiest power of the world : he plundered her temple, and led her people into captivity. How long was it before his empire was a dream, his dynasty extin- guished in blood, and an enemy on his throne ? — The Persian came : from her protector, he turned into her oppressor ; and his empire was swept away like the dust of the desert ! — The Syrian smote her ; the smiter died in agonies of remorse ; and where is his kingdom now? — The Egyptian smote her: and who now sits on the throne of the Ptolemies ? Pompey came : the invincible, the conqueror of a thousand cities, the light of Rome ; the lord of Asia, riding on the very wings of victory. But he profaned her temple ; and from that 170 peescott's paragon reciter, hour he went down — down, like a millstone plunged into the ocean ! Blind counsel, rash ambition, womanish fears, were upon the great statesman and warrior of Rome. Where does he sleep ? What sands were colored with his blood 1 The universal conqueror died a slave, by the hand of a slave ! Cras- sus came at the head of the legions ; he plundered the sacred vessels of the sanctuary. Vengeance followed him, and he was cursed by the curse of God. Where are the bones of the robber and his host ? Go, tear them from the jaws of the lion and the wolf of Parthia, — their fitting tomb ! You, too, son of Vespasian, may be commissioned for the punishment of a stiff-necked and rebellious people. You may scourge our naked vice by force of arms ; and then you may return to your own land exulting in the conquest of the fiercest enemy of Rome. But shall you escape the common fate of the instrument of evil ? Shall you see a peaceful old age ? Shall a son of yours ever sit upon the throne ? Shall not rather some monster of your blood efface the memory of your virtues, and make Rome, in bitterness of soul, curse the Flavian name ? OVEE THE EIVEE. NANCY A. W. PRIEST. Over the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who crossed to the other side ; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels that met him there — The gate of the city we could not see ; Over the river, over the river, My brother stands, waiting to welcome me. prescott's paragon reciter. 171 Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet ; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — Darling Minnie ! I see her yet ! She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; We watched it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the further side, Where all the ransomed and angels be ; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail ; And lo ! they have passed from our yearning hearts They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day ; We only know that their barks no more Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. And I sit and think when the sunset's gold Is flushing the river and hill, and shore, I shall one day stand by the waters cold And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit-land, I shall know the loved who have gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death shall carry me. 172 prescott's paragon reciter. GETTINQ UNDER WAY. MARK TWAIN. All day Sunday at anchor. The storm had gone down a great deal, but the sea had not. It was still piling its frothy hills in air outside, as we could plainly see with the glass. We must lie still until Monday, and we did. The next morning we weighed anchor and went to sea. It was a great happiness to get away after the dragging, dispiriting delay. I thought there never was such gladness in the air before, such bright- ness in the sun, such beauty in the sea. All my malicious instincts were dead within me ; and as America faded out of sight, I think a spirit of charity rose up in their place, that was boundless for the time, as the broad ocean that was heaving its billows about us. I wished to express my feelings ; I wished to lift up my voice and sing ; but I did not know any- thing to sing, and so I was obliged to give up the idea. It was no loss to the ship, though, perhaps. It was breezy and pleasant, but the sea was still very rough. One could not promenade without risking his neck j at one moment the bowsprit was taking a deadly aim at the sun in mid-heaven, at the next it was trying to harpoon a shark in the bottom of the ocean. What a weird sensation it is to feel the stern of the ship sinking swiftly from under you, and see the bow climbing high away among the clouds ! One's safest course, that day, was to clasp a railing and hang on ; walking was too precarious a pastime. Soon a remarkable fossil, shawled to the chin and bandaged like a mummy, appeared at the door of the after deck-house, and the next lurch of the ship shot him into my arms. I said : " Good morning, sir. It is a fine day." He put his hand on his stomach and said, " Oh my ! " and then staggered away and fell over the coop of a skylight. Presently another old gentleman was projected from the same door, with great violence I said : " Calm yourself, sir. There is no hurry. It is a fine day, sir." pkescott's tahagon kecitek. 173 He, also, put his hand on his stomach, and said, " Oh my ! " and reeled away. In a little while another veteran was discharged abruptly from the same door, clawing at the air for a saving support. I said : " Good morning, sir. It is a fine day for pleasuring. You were about to say — " " Oh my!" I thought so. I anticipated him anyhow. I staid there and was bombarded with old gentlemen for an hour perhaps ; and all I got out of any of them was " Oh my ! " I went away, then, in a thoughtful mood. I said this is a grand pleasure excursion. I like it. The passengers are not garrulous, but still they are sociable. I like these old people, but somehow they all seem to have the " Oh my \ '' rather bad, JOHN MAYNAED. ANONYMOUS. 'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse, One bright midsummer day, The gallant steamer Ocean Queen Swept proudly on her way. Bright faces clustered on the deck, Or leaning o'er the side, Watched carelessly the feathery foam, That flecked the rippling tide. Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, That smiling bends serene, Could dream that danger, awful, vast, Impended o'er the scene — Could dream that ere an hour had sped, That frame of sturdy oak Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, Blackened with fire and smoke ? 174 pkescott's pabagon eeciteb. A seainan sought the captain's side, A moment whispered low ; The captain's swarthy face grew pale, He hurried down below. Alas, too late ! Though quick and sharp And clear his orders came, No human efforts could avail To quench ths insidious tiaine. The bad news quickly reached the deck, It sped from lip to lip, And ghastly faces everywhere Looked from the doomed ship. ** Is there no hope — no chance of life ? " A hundred lips implore ; " But one," the captain made reply, " To run the ship on shore." A sailor, whose heroic soul That hour should yet reveal, — By name John Maynard, eastern born, — Stood calmly at the wheel. --'Head her south east !" the captain shouts, Above the smothered roar, " Head her south-east without delay ! Make for the nearest shore !" No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, Or clouds his dauntless eye, As in a sailor's measured tone His voice responds, 'Ay, Ay !" Three hundred souls, — the steamer's freight,- Crowd forward wild with fear, While at the stern the dreadful flames Above the deck appear. prescott's pakagon reciter. 175 Jolin Maynard watched the nearing flames, But still, with steady hand He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly He steered the ship to land. "John Maynard," with an anxious voice, The captain cries once more, " Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, And we will reach the shore." Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart Responded firmly, still Unawed, though face to face with death, ' ' With God's good help I will ! " The flames approach with giant strides, They scorch his hands and brow ; One arm disabled seeks his side, Ah, he is conquered now ! But no, his teeth are firmly set, He crushes down the pain, — His knee upon the stanchion pressed, He guides the ship again. One moment yet ! one moment yet ! Brave heart, thy task is o'er ! The pebbles grate beneath the keel, The steamer touches shore. Three hundred grateful voices rise, In praise to God, that He Hath saved them from the fearful fire, And from th' engulfing sea. But where is he, that helmsman bold ? The captain saw him reel — His nerveless hands released their task, He sank beside the wheel. The wave received his lifeless corpse, Blackened with smoke and fire. God rest him ! Hero never had A nobler funeral pyre ! 176 pbescott's paeagon eeciteb. STKAWBEEEIES. TROWBRIDGE. Little Pearl Honeydew, six years old, From her bright ear parted the curls of gold ; And laid her head on the strawberry-bed, To hear what the red- cheeked berries said. Their cheeks were blushing, their breath was sweet, She could almost hear their little hearts beat ; And the tiniest lisping, whispering sound That ever you heard ; came up from the ground. "Little friends," she said, " I wish I knew How it is you thrive on sun and dew ! " And this is the story the berries told To little Pearl Honeydew, six years old. ' ' You wish you knew ? and so do we ! But we can't tell you, unless it be That the same kind Power that cares for you, Takes care of poor little berries too. " Tucked up snugly, and nestled below Our coverlid of wind- woven snow, We peep and listen, all winter long, For the first spring day and the blue-bird's song. " When the swallows fly home to the old brown shed. And the robins build on the bough overhead, Then out from the mould, from the darkness and cold, Blossom, and runner, and leaf unfold. " Good children then, if they come near, And hearken a good long while, may hear A wonderful tramping of little feet, — So fast we grow in the summer heat. " Our clocks are the flowers ; and they count the hours Till we can mellow in sun and showers, peescott's pakagon recites. 177 With, warmth of the west-wind and heat of the south, A ripe red berry for a ripe red mouth. " Apple-blooms whiten, and peach-blooms fall, And roses are gay by the garden wall, Ere the daisy's dial gives the sign That we can invite little Pearl to dine. " The days are longest, the month is June, The year is nearing its golden noon, The weather is fine, and our feast is spread With a green cloth and berries red. " Just take us betwixt your finger and thumb — And quick, quick ! for, see ! there come Tom on all fours, and Martin the man, And Margaret, picking as fast as they can ! " O dear ! if you only knew how it shocks Nice berries like us to be sold by the box, And eaten by strangers, and paid for with pelf, You would surely take pity, and eat us yourself ! " And this is the story the small lips told To dear Pearl Honeydew, six years old, When she laid her head on the strawberry bed, To hear what the red-cheeked berries said. SPAETACUS TO THE EOMAN ENVOYS, EPES SARGENT. Envoys of Rome, the poor camp of Spartacus is too much honored by your presence. And does Rome stoop to parley with the escaped gladiator, with the rebel ruffian, for whom heretofore no slight has been too scornful ] Tou have come, with steel in your right hand, and with gold in your left. What heed we give the former, ask Cossinius ; ask Claudius ; ask Varinius ; 178 prescott's paragon reciter. ask the bones of your legions that fertilize the Lucanian plains. And for your gold — would ye know what to do with that, — go ask the laborer, the trodden poor, the helpless and the hopeless, on our route ; ask all whom Roman tyranny has crushed, or Eoman avarice plundered. Ye have seen me before ; but ye did not then shun my glance as now. Ye have seen me in the arena, when I was Rome's pet ruffian, daily smeared with blood of men or beasts. One day — shall I forget it ever ? — ye were pres- ent ; — I had fought long and well. Exhausted as I was, your munerator, your lord of the games, bethought him, it were an equal match to set against me a new man, younger and lighter than I, but fresh and valiant. With Thracian sword and buckler, forth he came, a beautiful defiance on his brow ! Bloody and brief the fight. " He has it ! " cried the people : lidbet ! habet ! " But still he lowered not his arm, until, at length, I held him, gashed and fainting, in my power. I looked around upon the Podium, where sat your senators and men of state, to catch the signal of release, of mercy. But not a thumb was reversed. To crown your sport, the vanquished man must die ! Obedient brute that I was, I was about to slay him, when a few hurried words — rather a welcome to death than a plea for life — told me he was a Thracian. I stood trans- fixed. The arena vanished. I was in Thrace, upon my native hills ! The sword dropped from my hands. I raised the dying youth tenderly in my arms. O, the magnanimity of Rome ! Your haughty leaders, enraged at being cheated of their death-show, hissed their disappointment, and shouted, " Kill ! " I heeded them as I would heed the howl of wolves. Kill Mm f — They might have better asked the mother to kill the babe, smiling in her face. Ah ! he was already wounded unto death ; and, amid the angry yells of the spectators, he died. That night I was scourged for disobedience. I shall not for- get it. Should memory fail, there are scars here to quicken it. Well ; do not grow impatient. Some hours after, finding myself, with seventy fellow-gladiators alone in the amphithea- tre, the laboring thought broke forth in words. I said,— I know not what. I only know that, when I ceased, my comrades looked each other in the face — and then burst forth the simul- peescott's paicagon reciter. 179 taneous cry — "Lead on ! Lead on, O Spartacus ! " Forth we rushed, — seized what rude weapons chance threw in our way, and to the mountains speeded. There, day by day, our little band increased. Disdainful Rome sent after us a handful of her troops, with a scourge for the slave Spartacus. Their weapons soon were ours. She sent an army ; and down from Old Vesu- vius we poured, and slew three thousand. Now it was Spartacus the dreadful rebel ! A larger army, headed by the Praetor, was sent, and routed ; then another still. And always I remembered that fierce cry, riving my heart, and calling me to " kill ! " In three pitched battles have I not obeyed it ? And now affrighted Rome sends her two consuls, and puts forth all her strength by land and sea, as if a Pyrrhus or a Hannibal were on her bor- ders ! Envoys of Rome ! To Lentulus and Gfellius bear this message : " Their graves are measured ! " Look on that narrow stream, a silver thread, high on the mountain's side ! Slenderly it winds, but soon is swelled by others meeting it, until a torrent, terrible and strong, it sweeps to the abyss, where all is ruin. So Spar- tacus comes on ! So swells his force, — small and despised at first, but now resistless ! On, on to Rome we come ! The gladiators come ! Let Opulence tremble in all his palaces ! Let Oppression shudder to think the oppressed may have their turn ! Let Cruelty turn pale at thought of redder hands than his ! ! we shall not forget Rome's many lessons. She shall not find her training was all wasted upon indocile pupils. Now, begone ? Prepare the Eternal City for our games ! WHESE. ROSE TERRY COOKE. Is the wind the soul of Nature ? Look how the wild leaves blow, Restless as human creatures They flutter to and fro. 180 prescott's paragon reciter. There is moaning in the pine-tree, And whispering in the oak, And a wailing at the window, As if a spirit spoke. Is the sun the soul of Nature ? Look how the buds awake And spread their tender petals When the day begins to break ; How brooks rejoice and glitter, The slow, broad rivers smile, The forest -tops light up and laugh For many a leafy mile. Is the sea the soul of Nature ? Hear its raves and sighs. Sometimes with breast of gleaming glass, Its mirrors Heaven's sweet eyes ; Sometimes with storms and thunder Its milk-white surf it pours In splendid crests of eager rage Along the shrinking shores. Ah ! cold and mighty mother, Where is the soul we seek ? Thou hast no weeping for our woe, No ear for song or shriek. Thy heart is seamless granite ; Thou canst not help or save. Thou givest to the baby flowers, And unto man — a grave, peescott's pakagon reciter. 181 WESTWAED HO ! W. K. COLE. Away to the West, where the primeval wood Yet throws its dark fringe on the Michigan flood ; Where, pale in their beauty, the forest flowers bloom, And the earth is yet mantled in forest-land gloom ; With the bounds of an empire, the dark virgin soil, Full of treasures, awaiteth the husbandman's toil. Away to the West, by the Huron's green shore, Where nature still reigneth supreme as of yore ; Where, murmuring soft in the flickering gleam Of its leaf- curtained hall, goes the canopied stream ; There stands a broad realm, where the toil of the poor May keep the grim demon of want from the door. Away in the West, 'neath the brightest of skies, And horizon bounded, the prairie land lies — The prairie land, over whose surface is rollgd A garment much fairer than diamonds and gold ; There the hard hand of labor but waveth its wand, And a harvest all golden springs up from the land. Away to the West ! ye who grovel and pine In the haunts of the many, in tunnel and mine ; Banish pick-axe and shovel ! then, ho ! for the plough ; For a tithe of the labor that dampens your brow Will place you in plenty — a tithe of your toil Make you chief of the manor, and lord of the soil. Ye famishing legions from Europe just fled, Ye exiles of hunger, ye seekers of bread, Away with the moment, and linger no more By the waves that have borne you across to our shore * For millions and millions as yet there is room, Where the prairie lands smile and the forest trees bloom. 182 pbescott's paeagon eecitee. THE OTHER SIDE. ANONYMOUS. " The words are good," I said, " I cannot doubt ; " I took my scissors then to cut them out ; But Mary seized my hand. " Take care," she cried, " There is a picture on the other side." • I fell to musing. We are too intent On gaining that to which our minds are bent ; We choose, then fling the fragments far and wide, But spoil the picture on the other side ! A prize is offered ; others seek it, too, But on we press with only self in view. We gain our point, and pause well satisfied, But ah ! the picture on the other side. On this, a sound of revelry we hear ; On that, a wail of mourning strikes the ear ; On this, a carriage stands with groom and bride, A hearse is waiting on the other side. We call it trash — we tread it roughly down, The thing which others might have deemed a crtjsvfc ( An infant's eyes, anointed, see the gold, Where we, world-blinded, only brass behold. We pluck a weed, and fling it to the breeze ; A flower of fairest hue another sees. We strike a chord with careless smile and jest, And break a heart-string in another's breast. Tread soft and softer still as on you go, With eyes washed clear in Love's anointing glow ; Life's page well finished, turn it, satisfied, And lo ! Heaven's picture on the other side. peescott's paragon eecitee. 183 THE DEATH OP HALE. ANONYMOUS. To drum-beat and heart-beat A soldier marches by, There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye ; Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die. By star-light and moon-light He seeks the Briton's camp, He hears the rustling flag, And the armed sentry's tramp ; And the star-light and moon -light His silent wandering's lamp. With slow tread, and still tread, He scans the tented line, And he counts the battery guns By the gaunt and shadowy pine ; And his slow tread, and still tread, Gives out no warning sign. A sharp clang, a steel clang, And terror in the sound, For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy hath found ; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound. With calm brow, steady brow, He listens to his doom, In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadow trace of gloom ; But with calm brow, steady brow, He robes him for the tomb. 184 pbescott's paragon reciter. In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod, And the brutal guards withhold E'en the solemn word of God ; In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod. 'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree, And he mourns that he can lose But one life for liberty ; In the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spirit wings are free. From fame-leaf, and angel -leaf, From monument and urn, The sad of Earth, the glad of Heaven His tragic fate shall learn ; And on fame-leaf, and angel-leaf, The name of Hale shall burn. THE PHILOSOPHY OF SPOBTS, ANONYMOUS. Bear lightly on their foreheads, Time ! Strew roses on their way ; The young in heart, however old, That prize the present day, And, wiser than the pompous proud, Are wise enough to play. I love to see a man forget His blood is growing cold, And leap, or swim, or gather flowers, Oblivious of his gold, And mix with children in their sport, Nor think that he is old. prescott's paragon reciter. 185 I love to see tlie man of care Take pleasure in a toy ; I love to see him row or ride, And tread the grass with joy, Or hunt the flying cricket-ball As lusty as a boy. All sports that spare the humblest pain, That neither maim nor kill — That lead us to the quiet field, Or to the wholesome hill, Are duties which the pure of heart Religiously fulfill. Though some may laugh that full-grown men May frolic in the wood, Like children let adrift from school, — Not mine that scornful mood ; — I honor human happiness, And deem it gratitude. And, though perchance the Cricketer, Or Chinaman that flies His Dragon-kite with boys and girls, May seem to some unwise, I see no folly in their play, But sense that underlies. The road of life is hard enough — Bestrewn with snag and thorne ; I would not mock the simplest joy That made it less forlorn ; But fill its evening path with flowers As fresh as those of morn. 'Tis something, when the moon has passed, To brave the touch of Time — And say, " Good friend, thou harm'st me not, My soul is in its prime ; Thou canst not chill my warmth of heart ; — I carol while I climb. " 186 prescott's pakagon kecitek. Give us but health, and peace of mind, Whate'er our clime or clan, We'll take delight in simple things, Nor deem that sports unman ; And let the proud, who fly no kites, Despise us if they can ! DISCOVERIES OP GALILEO- ANONYMOUS. There are occasions in life, in which a great mind lives years of rapt enjoyment in a moment. I can fancy the emotions of Galileo, when, first raising the newly-constructed telescope to the heavens, he saw fulfilled the grand prophecy of Copernicus, and beheld the planet Venus crescent like the moon. It was such another moment as that, when the immortal printers of Mentz and Strasburgh received the first copy of the Bible into their hands, the work of their divine art ; like that, when Columbus, through the gray dawn of the 12th of October, 1492, beheld the shores of San Salvador ; like that, when the law of gravitation first revealed itself to the intellect of New- ton ; like that, when Franklin saw, by the stiffening fibers of the hempen cord of his kite, that he held the lightning in his grasp ; like that, when Leverrier received back from Berlin the tidings that the predicted planet was found. Yes, noble Galileo, thou art right. " It does move." Bigots may make thee recant it, but it moms, nevertheless. Yes, the earth moves, and the planets move, and the mighty waters move, and the great sweeping tides of air move, and the empires of men move, and the world of thought moves, ever onward and upward, to higher facts and bolder theories. The Inquisi- tion may seal thy lips, but they can no more stop the progress of the great truth propounded by Copernicus, and demonstrated by thee, than they can stop the revolving earth. Close, now, venerable sage, that sightless, tearful eye ; it has prescott's paragon reciter. 187 seen what man never before saw ; it lias seen enough. Hang up that poor little spy-glass ; it has done its work. Not Her- schel nor Rosse have, comparatively, done more. Franciscans and Dominicans deride thy discoveries now, but the time will come when, from two hundred observatories in Europe and America, the glorious artillery of science shall nightly assault the skies ; but they shall gain no conquests in those glittering fields before which thine shall be forgotten. Rest in peace, great Columbus of the heavens ; — like him, scorned, persecuted, broken-hearted ! — in other ages, in distant hemispheres, when the votaries of science, with solemn acts of consecration, shall dedicate their stately edifices to the cause of knowledge and truth, thy name shall be mentioned with honor. THE EAINY DAT. LONGFELLOW. The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the mouldering wail, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be "dark and dreary. 188 pbescott's pakagon eeoitee. THE BOTTOM DRAWEE. ANONYMOUS. There are whips and tops and pieces of strings, There are shoes which no little feet wear, There are bits of ribbon and broken rings, And tresses of golden hair ; There are little dresses folded away Out of the light of the sunny day. There are dainty jackets that never are worn ; There are toys and models of ships ; There are books and pictures all faded and torn, And marked by the finger-tips Of dimpled hands that have fallen to dust, Yet I strive to think that the Lord is just. But a feeling of bitterness fills my soul Sometimes, when I try to pray, That the reaper has spared so many flowers, And taketh mine away. And I almost doubt that the Lord can know That a mother's heart can love them so. Then I think of the many weary ones Who are waiting and watching to-night, For the slow return of faltering feet That have strayed from the paths of right ; Who have darkened their lives by shame and sin, Whom the snares of the tempter have gathered in. They wander far in distant climes ; They perish by fire and flood ; And their hands are black with the direst crimes That kindled the wrath of God ; Yet a mother's song has soothed them to rest, She hath lulled them to slumber upon her breast. pkescott's paragon reciter. 189 And then I think of mj children three — My babies that never grow old — And know they are waiting and watching for me, In the city with streets of gold — Safe, safe from the cares of the weary years, From sorrow and sin and war, And I thank my God, with falling tears, For the things in the bottom drawer. TOCEOWNED KINGS. ANONYMOUS. O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! Made royal by the brain and heart ; Of all earth's wealth the noblest part, Yet reckoned nothing in the mart Where men know naught but sordid things — All hail to you, most kingly kings ! O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! Whose breath and words of living flame Have waked slaved nations from their shame, And bid them rise in manhood's name, Swift as the curved bow backward springs, To follow you, most kingly kings ! O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! Whose strong right arm hath oft been bared Where fires of righteous battle glared, And where all odds of wrong ye dared ! To think on you the heart upsprings, O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! Whose burning songs, like lava poured, Have smitten like a two-edged sword 190 prescott's paragon reciter. Sent fortli by heaven's avenging Lord To purge the earth, where serfdom clings To all but you, kingly kings ! O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! To whose ecstatic gaze alone The beautiful by Heaven is shown, And who have made it all your own ; Your lavish hand around us flings Earth's richest wreaths, noble kings ! O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! The heart leaps wildly at your thought, And the brain fires as if it caught Shreds of your mantle : ye have fought Not vainly, if your glory brings A lingering light to earth, O kings ! A PLEA POE TEE SAILOE. ANONYMOUS. Living here comfortably at home, do we ever think of the perils of the poor sailor ? Do we ever recall how much we owe him ? Live comfortably we cannot — live at all, perhaps, we cannot — without seamen will expose themselves for us, risk themselves for us and, alas ! often, very often, drown — drown in our service — drown and leave widows and orphans destitute. To beg with me, to plead with me for the destitute ones, there comes from many a place where seamen have died a call, a prayer, a beseeching voice ; a cry from the coast of Guinea, where there is fever evermore ; a cry from Arctic seas, where icebergs are death ; a cry from coral reefs, that ships are wrecked on horribly ; a cry from mid ocean, where many a sailor drops into a sudden grave ! They ask your help, your charity, for the widows and orphans of those who have gone down to the sea — have gone down to the sea in ships. peescott's paragon eeoiteb. 191 TAEE CAKE OP THE MINUTES- ANONYMOUS. Take care of the minutes, they are priceless, you know ; Will you value them less that so quickly they go ? " It is but a minute," the trifler will say ; But the minutes make hours, and hours make the day. The gold-dust of time are these minutes so small ; Will you lose even one ? why not treasure them all ? As each broken petal disfigures the flower, So each wasted minute despoils the full hour. Take care of the minutes ; they come and are gone ; Yet in each there is space for some good to be done. Our time is a talent we hold from above : May each hour leave us richer in wisdom and love ! GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MOENING. LORD HOUGHTON. A fair little girl sat under a tree, Sewing as long as her eyes could see ; Then smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, " Dear work, good night ! good-night ! " Then a number of rooks came over her head, Crying, ' ' Caw ! caw ! " on their way to bed ; She said, as she watched their curious flight, " Little black things, good-night ! good-night ! " The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, The sheep's " Baa ! baa ! " came over the road ; All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, " Good little girl, good-night ! good-night ! " She did not say to the sun " Good-night \" Though she saw him there, like a ball of light ; 192 prescott's paragon reciter. For she knew that he had God's time to keep All over the world, and never could sleep. The tall pink foxglove bowed his head ; The violets curtseyed and went to bed ; And good little Lucy tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. And while on her pillow she softly lay, She knew nothing more till again it was day, And a]l things said to the beautiful sun, " Good- morning ! good-morning ! our work is begun J ' NATIONAL GLOKY. HENRY CLAY. It has been asked, What have we gained by the war with Great Britain ? And something very much like a sneer escaped from the gentleman when I spoke of national glory. " What do I mean by national glory ? " 1 mean such glory as Hull, Jackson and Perry have acquired. And are gentlemen insensi- ble to their deeds— to the value of them in animating the country in the hour of peril hereafter? Did the battle of Thermopylae save Greece but once ? Gentlemen may boast of their insensibility to feelings inspir- ed by the contemplation of such events. But I would ask, Does the recollection of Bunker's Hill, Saratoga and Yorktown afford them no pleasure ? Every act of noble sacrifice to the country, every instance of patriotic devotion to her cause, has its beneficial influence. A nation's character is the sum of its splendid deeds ; they constitute one common patrimony, the nation's inheritance. They awe foreign powers, they arouse and animate our own people ; and the value of such national glory is beyond computation, for on a nation's glory may hang its liberty, its life. OET THE BEST ! CrET THE BEST ! There is just complaint among teachers and parents who take an interest in the culture of youth, because of the very few books that exist containing first class Dialogues for two or more speakers. Most of this class of books are mere repetitions of books printed scores of years ago ; while others omit all old ones, however good, and fill their places with weak, wishy-washy pieces merely because they are new. In this series the aim has been to select the Best, whether new or old— pieces as fresh as daisies and as bright as stars. DIALOGUES * LITTLE FOLKS. CONTAINING A VERY LARGE NUMBER OF INTERESTING AND SPIRITED DIALOGUES, ON YARIOUS SUBJECTS, FOR FROM TWO TO TWENTY CHILDREN. Some of these Dialogues are illustrations of the Sea- sons, Trades, Flowers, etc., and give an opportunity for a whole class to join in ; and all of them give ample chance for the display of different degrees of natural ability and acquired proficiency. They afford faultless Parlor Entertainments, delightful to tne young* and pleasing to their friends. This book contains 200 pages, bound in boards, with a brilliant, illuminated cover. Price , 50 Cents. A handsome and durable coition, bound in cloth, elegantly lettered in gilt. Price » T 5 Cents. Vl^T Copies of the above Book sent to any address in the world, postage paid, on receipt of price. Send Cash Orders to R. 11. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose st., N. Y. {Between Duane and Frankfort sis.) GET THE BEST ! GET THE BEST I MAGAULAFS DIALOGUES FOR YOXJDSra FEOFLE, On Various Subjects, and in Different Styles. Containing a, large number of the most excellent pieces, original and. selected. Especially suited for Schools, Academies, Sociable Gatherings, Holiday Meet- ings, Anniversaries, Commencements, Parlor Entertainments, etc., etc. NUMBER OF CHARACTERS. There are thirteen pieces in this book that require two characters ; seven that require three ; five that require four ; three that require five ; one that requires six ; three that require seven ; three that require nine ; one that requires ten ; one that requires eleven ; one that requires sixteen ; one that requires eighteen ; one that requires twenty-three ; one that requires twenty- six. In many of these Pieces whole classes of scholars, male and female, can be introduced with good effect, and the manner of producing these effects are fully explained in this book. This volume contains over 200 finely printed pages, in boards, with a handsome cover. Price SO Cents. A still more handsome edition, in cloth, gilt lettered. Price To Cents. Sent, postage paid, on receipt of price. Address CLINTON T. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose Street, New York. GET THE BEST ! GET THE BEST 1 «. — . » ■ » BIACAULAY'S ACTING DIALOGUES. Comprising a very large number of the Best €la§§ of Dialogues for two or more Persons. These Pieces have an extensive range in spirit, from lively and humor- ous, to serious and sentimental. Each Dialogue in this book will be found finely adapted for the higher class of Schools, Academies, Drawing Rooms, etc., etc. NUMBER OF CHARACTERS. There are twelve Pieces in this book that require two characters ; three that require three ; five that require four ; five that require six ; five that require seven ; one that requires eight ; two that require nine ; one that requires ten ; one that requires eleven ; one that requires fifteen ; one that requires sixteen ; one that requires eighteen. Excellent opportunities are afforded in most of these pieces to introduc e classes, or parts of classes to increase the effect in parts. This, of course, renders them particularly suitable for schools or family gatherings. This volume has more than 200 finely printed pages, in boards, with a handsome cover. Price 50 Cents. A remarkably handsome edition, in cloth, gilt lettered. Price 75 Cents. Sent, postage paid, on receipt of price. Address CLINTON T. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose Street, New York. PRESOOTT'S PLAIN DIALOGUES CONTAINING A Great Number of Superior Dialogues upon a Variety of Subjects; all of which are of present interest. Each of these Dialogues is marked by qualities which renders it most appropriate for use in Schools, Lyceums, Academies, and Colleges, as well as in Home Parties. Well and handsomely bound. This is a book of real sterling merit. Not a Dialogue is to be found in it, that is not marked by good sense, and occasion- ally much harmless humor. Such pieces as are enjoyed any- where : equally by Deacons and School Committees, and by the young folks at a gay party. Price 50 Cents. Sent postage paid on receipt of price. Address DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose Street, New York. DE WITT'S ELOCUTIONARY SERIES. PRICE 15 CENTS EACH. Young people who were desirous of acquiring a practical knowledge of the beautiful, as well as highly useful art of Beading and Speaking correctly and elegantly, have found great difficulty in procuring books that would teach them rather in the manner of a genial friend than an imperious master. Such books we here present to the public in"De WitVs Elocutionary Series.'' 1 Not only are the selections mg&? very carefully from the abundant harvest of dramatic literature, but the accompanying instructions are so plain, direct and forci- ble that the least intelligent can easily understand all the rules and precepts of the glorious art that has immortalized Roscius and Kean, Chatham and Henry. No. 1. THE ACADEMIC SPEAKER. Containing an nn- usual vaiiety of striking Dramatic Dialogues, aud other most effective scenes. Selected with gr^at care aud judgment from the noblest and -wittiest Dramas, Comedies, and Farces most popular upon the best htages. Interspersed with such able, plain and practical criticisms and remaiks upon Elocution and Bta e effects as to render this work the most valuable hand-book to the young orator that has ever been produced CONTENTS. — General Introductory Remarks ; On the quality of Selections; On True Eloquence ; On Awkward Delivery On Necessity of Attentive Study ; On Appropriate Gesture ; On the Appearance of Ladies upon th- Stage ; The Stage and the Curtain ; Remarks upon the subject of Scenery How to easily Construct a Stage ; Stage Arrangements and Properties ; Remarks upon Improvising Wardrobes, etc., etc. There are Twelve pieces in this book that require two Male Characters ; Six pieces that require six Male Characters ; Two pieces that require four M.Ue Characters. No. 2. THE DRAMATIC SPEAKER. Composed of many very carefully chosen Monologues, Dialogues and other effective SceneB, from the moat famous Tragedies, Comedies and Farces. Interspersed with numerous Directions and Instructions for their proper Delivery and Performance. CONTENTS.— There are three pieces in this book that require one Male Character ; One that re- quires three Male Characters ; Ten ihat require two Male Characters ; Nine that require one Male an t one Female Characters; Four that requires three Male Characters ; One that re- quires two Male and one Female Character ; One that requires two Female Characters ; One that requires one Male and two Female Characters. No. 3. THE HISTRIONIC SPEAKER. Being a c reful compilation of the most amusing Dramatic Scenes, light, gay, pointed, witty and spark- ling. Selected from the most elegantly written and most theatrically effective Comedies and Farces upon the English and American Stages. Properly arranged and adapted for Amateur and Parlor Representation. COJVTEr¥TS. — Three of the pieces in this book require two Female Characters ; One piece re- quires seven Female Characters ; Nineteen pieces that require one Male and one Female Characters ; One piece that requires one Male and two Female Characters ; One piece that requires two Male and one Female Characters. No. 4. THE THESPIAN SPEAKER. Being the best Scenes from the best Plays. Every extract is preceded by valuable and very plain observa- tions, teaching the young forensic student how to Speak and Act in the most highly approv- ed manner. CONTENTS.- Five of the pieces In this book require one Male and one Female Characters ; Three of the pieces require three Male Characters ; Three of the pieces require two Male and one Female Characters ; Seven of the pieces require two Male Characters ; One of the pieces re- quires owe Male and one Female Characters; Two of the pieces require two Male and two Female Characters ; One of the pieces requires four Male and four Female Characters ; Three of the pieces require three Male and one Female Characters. %* Single copies sent, on receipt of price, postage free. Address, Robert M. De Witt, Publisher, 33 Rose St., N. Y. (Bet. Duane and Frankfort Sts.) FREE! FREE!! FREE!!! y An immense Descriptive Catalogue of the Best Novels, the Best Song Books, the Best Music and the Best Plays, unequalled aud unattainable elsewhere, mailed free upon application to R. M. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose Street, New York. GET THE BEST ! GET T HE BEST! PRICE, TEN CENTS EACH! DE WITT'S "SCHOOL" SPEAKERS Neither talent, labor nor money have leen spared in producing this series of boohs for youths. The result is that they excel all others both in quality and quantity of superior reading, while none others approach them in neat printing and general appearance. Nothing would warrant such an outlay but the enormous number sold, the price being only Tetl Cetlts for each booh. No. 1. DE WITT'S " PRIMARY " SCHOOL SPEAKER. This book is made up entirely of short pieces. Each article is exactly fitted, both in ideas, sentiment and words, to interest, instruct and amnse the youngest reader and speaker. Every piece has been carefully garnered and winnowed from the best har- vests of the best writers for youthful minds. No, 2* DE WITT'S " PUBLIC " SCHOOL SPEAKER. This work will be found well calculated for a grade of speakers a little more advanced than the "Primary." Many of the articles have been purposely written for these pages by authors of approved ability ; others carefully culled from the books of leading writers in either hemisphere. Care has been taken that every doubtful phrase and sentiment, however brilliant, should be eliminated from every line of this series. No. 3. DE WITT'S " EXHIBITION " SCHOOL SPEAK- er. This work is for a grade of pupils still higher in intellect and learning than No. 2. The ideas and language are both more advanced, the selections being made with the intention of rendering the work just the thing to.place In the hands of pupils desiring to recite in halls of Academies and other places of education. It has been successfully aimed in this book to instil worthy sentiments while aiding,iu the cultivation of the forensic powers. No. 4. DE WITT'S " PATRIOTIC "SCHOOL SPEAK- er. The finest, most poetical, most ardent apostrophes to Home, Liberty, Union, In- dependence, will be found in this book. While specimens are given of the patriotic epics of other lands, our selections are mainly taken from the lyrics of our own great poets— poets who have poured out their burning phrases like molten lava streams, filling every American youth's heart with the idea "That the rude whirlwind and the torrent's roar But bind him to his ivxtivt hills the more." No. 5. DE WITT'S "DRAMATIC" SCHOOL SPEAK- er. This book furnishes a much needed collection of the most justly popular pieces In the language — pieces as remarkable for the pirity of the sentiment as the chaste eloquence of the phrases. They are all characterized by strength, eloquence, and, in many instances, by grandeur of expression. All of the articles are eminently fitted for oratorical practice and display in Private as well as Public Schools, Academies and other institutions of education. No. 6* DE WITT'S "COMIC" SCHOOL SPEAKER. This most amusing book includes in its pages a great number of the best humorous pieces in the language. They are of all shades of fun, from the most delicate play- fulness to the most broadly farcical, but all full of the very spirit of harmless jollity. While some of the pieces are those old standard recitations that never tire or stale by repetition , many others are full of the new and fresh , and original humor of the times, *** Single copies sent, on receipt of price, postage free. Address, Clinton T. De Witt, Publisher, 33 Rose St., N. Y. (Set. Duane and Frankfort Sts.) FREE! FREE!! FREE!!! iptive Catalogue of the best Novels, the best Song jailed and unattainable elsewhere, mailed free uj C. T. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose Street New York; 99* An Immense Descriptive Catalogue of the best Novels, the best Song Books, the best Music ttadftlM best Plays, unequalled and unattainable elsewhere, mailed free upon application to wwpeiw mau OET THE BEST ! I GET THE BEST ! ! ! DE WITT'S "SCHOOL" DIALOGUES. Price 10 Cents Each. No. 1. DE WITT'S « PRIMARY » SCHOOL DIALOGUES. A collection of pieces designed for the use of the smallest children. There are Eighty-six Dialogues in this book, many of them being purposely short in order to be suitable to the capacity of the Little Folks for whom they are especially designed. No. 2. DE WITT'S " PUBLIC » SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Containing a selection of the newest and choicest Dialogues for use in Public Schools, Home Tuition, etc. There are Forty Dialogues in this book, being somewhat more advanced in thought and language, to suit the more expanded minds of the learners. No. 3. DE WITT'S "EXHIBITION" SCHOOL DIA- LOGUES. A selection of Dialogues adapted for School Commence- ments, Parlor Entertainments, and other meetings of literary character. There are Nineteen Dialogues in this book— all of them calculated to display to advantage the different abilities and ac- quirements of the speakers. No. 4. DE WITT'S " PATRIOTIC » SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Containing a collection of the best Patriotic Dialogues for Schools, Academies and Social Gatherings. There are Nineteen Dialogues in this book. No. 5. DE WITT'S " DRAMATIC" SCHOOL DIALOGUES. A very extensive compilation, including many of the very best Dramatic Dialogues. There are Twentxj-jive Dialogues in this book, each one noted for some peculiar excellence of strength or beauty. No. 6. DE WITT'S "COMIC" SCHOOL DIALOGUES. A careful collection of Witty, Humorous and Burlesque Pieces for two or more characters. There are Thirteen remarkably entertaining Dialogues in this book, all strongly tinctured with different shades of mirthf ulness. DE WITT'S ELOCUTIONARY SERIES. Price 15 Cents Each. No. 1. THE ACADEMIC SPEAKER. Containing striking Dramatic Dialogues and other effective scenes : selected with care. No. 2. THE DRAMATIC SPEAKER. Composed of care- fully chosen Monologues, Dialogues, and other capital pieces. No. 3. THE HISTRIONIC SPEAKER. Being a compila- tion of amusing Dramatic Scenes : light, gay, sparkling. No. 4. THE THESPIAN SPEAKER. Being the best scenea /rom the best plays. ERRORS IN SPEAKING AND WRITING CORRECTED. With Familiar Synonyms and Words of Similar Sound Distin- guished. Price 10 Cents. *** Any books on this page sent on receipt of price, postage free. Address CLINTON T. DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose Street, New York. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS FBEE! nra Q Q 21 ^Q ggg g| An Immense Descripiiveruaiaiugue —OP— LETTER WRITERS, FACE PREPARATIONS, RECITERS, SPEAKERS, STORIES OF CITY LIFE, COOK BOOKS, BOOKS OF WILD ADVENTURE, DIALOGUES, HALF DIME MUSIC, SONG BOOKS, DE WITT'S ACTING PLAYS, SEA STORIES, DE WITT'S ETHIOPIAN PLAYS, MEDICAL WORKS, WIGS, MOUSTACHES, BEARDS, TABLEAU LIGHTS, DE WITT'S HAND BOOKS, READY RECKONERS, DE WITTS DIME ROMANCES, BOOKS ON MAGIC, DE WITT'S CHAMPION NOVELS. And a thousand other things that we have not space to insert here, but which will be found fully described in the Catalogue, and prices given. Mailed free upon application to Clinton T. JDe Witt, No 33 Rose Street, N. Y. THE BLACK ART; OR, MAGIC MADE EASY. Con- taining a complete description of all kinds of Sleight-of-Hand Tricks and Conjuring by Coins, together with Avonderful experiments in Magnetism, Chemistry, Electricity and Fireworks, adapted for amusement in the Home Circle. Price 1 Cen ts. CHESS PLAYER'S INSTRUCTOR; or, GUIDE TO Beginners. Containing all information necessary to a knowledge of the game; with diagrams of the movements of the pieces. ByC. H. Stanley, Chess Editor of Harpers Weekly. In boards, 50 cents ; cloth, gilt, 75 cents. CHAD WICK'S AMERICAN CRICKET MANUAL. Containing the Revised Laws of the Game, With an explanatory appendix to each rule. In boards, 50 cents ; cloth, gilt, 7 5 cents. ELEMENTS OP DRAUGHTS; or, BEGINNER'S SURE GUIDE. Containing a thorough exposition of every principle ; to- gether with Model Games Illustrative of the Openings. Illustrated with diagrams exhibiting critical positions. By 1. D. J. Sweet, Draught Editor of The New York Clipper. In boards, 50 cents ; cloth, giit, 75 cents. THE ART OP SWIMMING. Being a Practical Trea- tise upon this most useful Pastime, in which the Learner is surely taught how to Swim Backwards, Forwards, and Sideways, on and under water, as well as to Dive, Leap, and Float. By Charles Weightman, the Man- Fish. Price 30 Cents. DE WITT'S IRISH FORGET-ME-NOT SONGSTER. One Volume, Cloth, Gilt. 250 Songs. Price 60 Cents. DE WITT'S SENTIMENTAL PORGET-ME-NOT SONG- STER. One Volume, Cloth, Gilt. 350 Songs. Price 50 Cents. DE WITT'S COMIC FORGET-ME-NOT SONGSTER. One Volume, Cloth, Gilt. 350 genuine Comic Songs. Price 50 Cents. DE WITT'S SERIO-COMIC FORGET-ME-NOT SONG- STER. One Volume, Cloth, Gilt. 35 O Songs. Price 50 Cents. Any of the above books sent postage paid, on receipt of price. Address CLINTON T. DE WITT, Publisher, 3 ;* Rose Street, New York.