ram SMOtf warn wNKmi JlwHEGffi 1 Sffi I 81 w »v ■ BB ■ fl ■MB HHi BBS K RRfin (lass "?/ V A L Book \ . GopyrigM . COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. CHOICE READINGS Standard and Popular Authors, EMBRACING A COMPLETE CLASSIFICATION OF SELECTIONS, A COMPREHENSIVE DIAGRAM OF THE PRINCIPLES OF VOCAL EXPRESSION, AND INDICES TO THE CHOICEST READINGS SHAKESPEARE, THE BIBLE, AND HYMN-BOOK. COMPILED AND ARRANGED BY R. I. FULTON and T. C. TRUEBLOOD, Associate Founders and Directors of the University School of Oratory, Kansas City, Mo. - ,^oc in °'^rl BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY GINN, HEATH, & CO. 1884. < V ^ * Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, by R. I. FULTON and T. C. TRUEBLOOD, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. J. S. Cushing & Co., Printers, 115 High Street, Boston. TO ®ux iptftfejers AND OUR PUPILS This Volume is Affectionately Inscribed THE COMPILERS. PEEFACE. T~N publishing this volume we make no apology for -*- its appearance among so many similar books now in the market. We believe there is a demand for it in the place it attempts to supply. Some features are novel. Many selections are new; others are old and standard. We invite a careful examination of the class of pieces employed, their arrangement under the four- teen divisions, the Diagram of the Elements of Vocal Expression, and the Indices to Readings from Shake- speare, the Bible, and Hymn-book. The pieces have been selected with regard to their literary merit and their adaptation to elocutionary pur- poses. The book contains only those selections which, if correctly delivered, will prove entertaining and in- structive as public and private readings. The fourteen classes or divisions are comprehensive, covering the entire range of thought, and at once indicate the character of the selections placed under them. To be sure, many shades of sentiment often occur in one piece ; but it is believed that each selection, as a wJwle, is correctly classified, so that the classification will be a safe guide to the pupil. The Diagrams of the Princi- ples, which are based upon the philosophy of Dr. James Rush, will prove valuable to any student of the art of expression, but they are intended more particularly to assist our own pupils in the interpretation and correct reading of the contents of this volume, and also to accompany '•'■Fulton and TruzbloooVs New Chart of the Principles of Expression." The Indices are a feature VI PREFACE. which has not, we believe, been presented in any other book of readings. By them we are enabled to use a wide field of matter without reprinting so much that is already published in a cheap form and is universally accessible. In short, the book is intended for use in our growing profession, in social and reading circles, and in schools and colleges ; and we leave it upon its own merits to find its proper place in public favour. In compiling we have drawn from a number of sources, all of which have, in some form, been duly recognized. We here acknowledge our indebtedness for the valuable criticisms and suggestions of the Rev. Henry N. Hudson, the well-known Shakespearian, who has revised and ap- proved the selections, and has himself furnished some of them, and has also superintended and corrected the printing throughout ; which of itself should be endorse- ment enough to satisfy the most critical. We also wish to acknowledge the courtesy extended to us by the following well-known publishing firms in allowing us the use of selections of which they hold the copyright : — D. Appleton & Co., New York ; Clark & Maynard, New York , S. C. Griggs & Co., Chicago ; Harper Brothers, New York , Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., Boston ; J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia ; Robert Clark & Co., Cincinnati. F. AND T. Kansas City, Mo., July 24, 1884. ANALYSIS OF THE CONTENTS. PAGES. I. Narrative, Descriptive, Didactic 1-94 II. Love, Beauty, Tranquillity 05-124 III. Grave, Solemn, Serious, Pathetic 125-189 IV. Reverence, Devotion, Adoration 190-207 V. Grand, Bold, Sublime 208-225 VI. Patriotic, Senatorial, Oratorical 226-307 VII. Invective, Vehement, Indignant 308-327 VIII. Lively, Joyous, Gay 328-346 IX. Humorous, Comic 347-413 X. Dialectic : Cockney 414-419 French 420-427 German 427-430 Irish 430-444 Italian 444-449 Negro 449-458 Scotch 459-465 Spanish 465-470 XL Imitative Metrical 471-4S7 XII. Por Young Polks 490-528 XIII. Dramatic, not in the Drama 529-585 XIV. Scenes from Popular Dramas : The Hunchback 586-602 Ingomar 603-619 Leah the Porsaken 619-623 Mary Stuart 623-629 Richelieu 630-633 School for Scandal 634-641 Virginius 641-657 Ion 657-670 The King and the Man 670-680 Index to Readings from Shakespeare 681 The Bible 694 The Hymn-Book 698 COSTTEOTS, Diagram of the Elements or Vocae Expression xvii I. NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, DIDACTIC. PAGE. Adam's Account of His Creation Milton. 2 Advice to Young Lawyers Story. 4 Alpine Minstrelsy Schiller. 39 Bee-Hunt in the Ear West Irving. 12 Blind Eiddler, The Wordsworth. 26 Blind Highland Boy, The : Wordsworth. 69 Christmas Eve in the Olden Time Scott. 29 Child's Dream of a Star, A Dickens. 5 Conscience, A Good Anon. 15 Crusoe's Fight with Wolves . . . . -^ Defoe. 83 Destruction of Pompeii , Lytton. 9 Edwin and Angelina Goldsmith. 34 Elegy in a Country Churchyard Gray. 16 jEve, The Creation of Milton. 3 \J Eirst Settler's Story, The Carleton. 20 Friday's Erolic with a Bear Defoe. 79 Happiness of Animals Coivper. 93 History Fronde. 27 ■ /Jennie M'Neal, The Bide of Carleton. 44 Knowledge and Wisdom Cowper. 1 Lady Clara Vere de Vere Tennyson. 88 Legend of Bregenz, A Procter. 40 Maud Muller Whittier. 47 Mona's Waters Anon. 51 Morning Webster. 77 No Sects in Heaven CI eav eland. 31 Ode to the Passions Collins. 55 Order for a Picture, An Gary. 58 Our Travelled Parson Carleton. 90 X CONTENTS. PAGE. Painter of Seville, The Wilson. 61 Potency of English Words Mcintosh. 66 Scott, Sir Walter, and His Dogs Irving. 75 II. LOVE, BEAUTY, TRANQUILLITY. Astrological Tower, The Schiller. 113 Bridge, The Longfellow. 107 Children, The Dickens. 109 Genevieve Coleridge. 95 Graham, Mr., and Lady Clementina MacDonald. 99 Immortality of Love Southey. Ill Lost Chord, A Procter. 114 Memory Garfield. 115 Memory Wordsworth. 123 Over the River Priest. 117 Pictures of Memory Cary. 119 Sandalphon Longfellow. 120 Seen, Loved, Wedded Wordsworth. 98 Tears, Idle Tears Tennyson. 117 Tranquillity, Ode to Coleridge. 122 III. GRAVE, SOLEMN, SERIOUS, PATHETIC. Angels of Buena Vista, The Whittier. 125 Blacksmith's Story, The Olive. 136 Christmas Day Richards. 134 Curfew Must Not Ring To-Night Thorpe. 143 Death of Mr. Bertram, The Scott. 146 Forty Years Ago Anon. 159 Good Son, The Dana. 171 Hermit, The Beattie. 131 How He Saved St. Michael's Anon. 139 Isle of Long Ago, The Taylor. 156 Ladder of St. Augustine, The Longfellow. 132 Leonard and Margaret Southey. 165 Lucy Bertram and Domine Sampson Scott. 150 Lucy Gray Wordsworth. 183 Michael and His Son Wordsworth. 162 CONTENTS. XI PAGE. Nearer Home Canj. 161 Ocean Burial, The Saunders. 169 Our Folks Lynn. 185 Our Willie Anon. 158 Pauper's Death-Bed, The Southey. 157 Poor Little Joe Arkwright. 187 Rivermouth Bocks Whiitier. 177 Song of the Mystic Ryan. 181 Stability of Virtue, The Marshall. 168 Thanatopsis Bryant. 128 Widow and Her Son, The Irving. 173 TTinif reda Anon. 135 IV. REVERENCE, DEVOTION, ADORATION. Break, Break, Break Tennyson. 198 Cato's Soliloquy Addison. 190 Closing Year, The Prentice. 193 Devotional Incitements Wordsworth. 195 God Dershavin. 199 God's First Temples Bryant. 202 Hymn, A Coleridge. 192 Inspiration of the Bible Winthrop. 197 Primrose of the Rock, The Wordsworth. 206 Supreme Being, To the Michael Angelo. 191 V. GRAND, BOLD, SUBLIME. Apollo, Ode to Keats. 220 Apostrophe to the Ocean Byron. 208 God in Nature Wordsworth. 224 Hymn to Mont Blanc Coleridge. 212 Hymn to the Night Longfellow. 210 Launching of the Ship , Longfellow. 218 Marco Bozzaris Halleck. 214 St. Peter's Church at Rome Byron. 222 Vision of Mist-Splendours, A Wordsworth. 210 Xll CONTENTS. * VI. PATRIOTIC, SENATORIAL, ORATORICAL. The Seven Great Orators of the World. page. Fortune of iEsehines Demosthenes. 226 Panegyric on Julius Caesar Cicero. 230 Divine Providence in Nature Chrysostom. 233 Eulogium on St. Paul Bossuet. 236 Against the Stamp-Act Chatham. 238 Impeachment of Hastings Finished Burke. 242 Supposed Speech of John Adams Webster. 245 Ambition of a Statesman Clay. 298 Appeal in Behalf of Ireland Prentiss. 296 Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson. 307 Composed at Cora Linn Wordsworth. 249 Eulogy on Lafayette Everett. 283 Flag, The American Drake. 270 Horatius at the Bridge Macaulay. 256 Independence Bell Anon. 267 Liberty and Union Webster. 266 Lochiel's Warning Campbell. 288 Massachusetts and South Carolina Webster. 304 " Matches and Overmatches " Webster. 280 Our Duties to the Republic Story. 264 Patriotism Scott. 251 Paul Revere's Ride Longfellow. 252 Pitt's Reply to Walpole 262 Reply to Mr. Corry Grattan. 274 Reputation, Value of Charles Phillips. 300 Rienzi's Address to the Romans Mitford. 286 Rising of 1776, The Read. 272 Speech in the Virginia Convention Henry. 290 Speech of Vindication Emmett. 293 Toussaint L'Overture Wendell Phillips. 302 Walpole's Attack on Pitt 260 Wisdom Dearly Purchased Burke. 277 VII. INVECTIVE, VEHEMENT, INDIGNANT. Arraignment of Ministers -. Burke. 318 Catiline's Defiance Croly. 308 CONTENTS. xin Fraudulent Party Outcries Webster. 324 Horrors of Savage Warfare Chatham. 315 Indignation of a Spaniard Wordsworth. 327 Marmion and Douglas Scott. 312 Revolutionary Desperadoes Mackintosh. 321 Seminole's Reply, The Patten. 314 Spartacus to the Gladiators Anon. 310 Yin. LIVELY, JOYOUS, GAY. Boys, The Holmes. 339 Daffodils, The , Wordsworth. 330 Expostulation and Reply Wordsworth. 341 Fish- Women at Calais Wordsworth. 346 I'm With You Once Again Jloms. 334 1/ Allegro Milton. 328 Last Leaf, The Holmes. 335 Morning Ride, A Anon. 333 New Year, The Tennyson. 345 Pleasure-Boat, The Dana. 343 Psalm of Life, A Longfellow. 338 Song of the Brook Tennyson. 336 Young Lochinvar Scott. 331 IX. HUMOROUS, COMIC. Aunt Tabitha Holmes. 347 Awfully Lovely Philosophy Anon. 348 Bald-Headed Man, The , Anon. 350 Betsey and I Are Out Carleton. 409 Brakeman at Church, The Burdette. 353 Champion Snorer, The Anon. 357 Courtship under Difficulties Anon. 359 Darius Green and His Flying-Machine Trowbridge. 364 Death of a Mad Dog Goldsmith. 408 How Betsy and I Made Up Carleton. 411 How " Ruby " Played Brownin. 371 How the Old Horse Won the Bet Holmes. 389 Our Guides Twain. 375 XIV CONTENTS. PAGE. Pickwick's Proposal, Mr Dickens. 379 Pyramus and Thisbe Saxe. 386 Reflections in the Pillory Lamb. 404 Sam Weller's Valentine Dickens. 382 Tom's Little Star Foster. 395 Too Late for the Train Anon. 400 X. DIALECTIC. Cockney. Lord Dundreary Proposing Skill. 414 The Swell Kyle. 417 French. Frenchman and Flea-Powder Anon. 420 A Frenchman on Macbeth Anon. 421 Monsieur Tonson Anon. 422 German. Leedle Yawcob Strauss Adams. 427 " Sockery " Setting a Hen Anon. 429 Irish. Connor Anon. 430 Miss Malony on the Chinese Dodge. 437 Jimmy Butler and the Owl Anon. 440 Italian. A Senator Entangled De Mille. 444 Negro. Christmas-Night in the Quarters Russell. 449 The First Banjo Russell. 453 Uncle Dan'l's Apparition Clemens and Warner. 455 Scotch. Charlie Machree Hoppin. 459 Cuddle Doon Anderson. 400 John Anderson, My Jo Burns. 461 Jeanie Morrison Motherwell. 462 Spanish. Magdalena ; or, the Spanish Duel Anon. 465 CONTENTS. XV XI. IMITATIVE METRICAL. PAGE. Bells, The Poe. 471 Bugle Song Tennyson. 473 Charcoal Man, The Trowbridge. 474 Creeds of the Bells Bungay. 476 Drifting Read. 487 Evening at the Farm Trowbridge. 478 Last Hymn, The Farmingham. 480 Little Telltale, The Anon. 481 Robert of Lincoln Bryant. 483 "Rock of Ages " Rice. 485 XII. FOR YOUNG FOLKS. Annie and Willie's Prayer Snow. 490 Better in the Morning Coan. 521 Butterfly's Ball, The ; Roscoe. 515 Dead Doll, The * Vandergrift. 493 Evening with Helen's Babies Habberton. 495 In School Days Whittier. 509 Katie Lee and Willie Grey Hunt. 497 Keeping His Word Anon. 499 Leap for Life, A Cotton. 501 Little Rocket's Christmas Brown. 502 Love and Prayer Coleridge. 528 Margaret Gray Lamb. 518 No Flowers on Papa's Grave C. E. L. Holmes. 514 Papa's Letter Anon. 507 Rats - Loudon. 527 Smack in School, The Palmer. 517 Somebody's Mother Anon. 511 Tame Hares Cowper. 523 To Whom shall We give Thanks % Anon. 512 XIII. DRAMATIC, NOT IN THE DRAMA. Beautiful Snow, The Pi< Watson. 529 Bernardo del Carpio t Hemans. 531 Claudius and Cynthia • . . Thompson. 577 Count Candaspina's Standard .... Boker. 533 XVI CONTENTS. PAGE. Famine, The Longfellow. 536 Gambler's Wife, The Coutes. 543 yGone with a Handsomer Man Carleton. 569 John Maynard, The Hero-Pilot Gouyh. 545 Johnny Bartholomew English. 584 Lady Clare Tennyson. 546 Maelaine's Child Mackay. 549 Mother and Poet Mrs. Browning. 552 Parrhasius the Captive Willis. 555 Polish Boy, The Stephens. 557 Scotland's Maiden Martyr Anon. 582 Searching for the Slain Anon. 575 Shelly, Kate Hall. 541 Vagabonds, The Trowbridge. 572 Virginia : a Lay of Ancient Rome Macaulay. 561 Wreck of the Hesperus, The Longfellow. 566 Wounded .Miller. 564 XIV. SCENES FROM POPULAR DRAMAS. The Hunchback, Act I. Scene II Knowles. 586 ActL Scene III '. " 590 Act IV. Scene II " 592 Act V. Scene I " 599 Ingomar, Act I. Scene I Halm. 603 Act II. Scene I " 610 Act IV. Scene I " 615 Leah, the Forsaken, Act IV. Scene II Daly. 619 Mary Stuart, Act III. Scene IV Schiller. 623 Richelieu, Act IV. Scene I Lytton. 630 The School for Scandal, Act II. Scene I Sheridan. 634 Act III. Scene I " 637 Virginius, Act I. Scene II Knowles. 641 Act II. Scene II " 648 Act IV. Scene II " 650 Ion ; a Tragedy, Act I. Scene I Talfourd. 657 Act I. Scene II " 665 The King and the Man Schdler. 670 Index to Scenes from Shakespeare 681 Index to Readings from the Bible 694 Index to Hymns 698 DIAGRAM OF THE ELEMENTS OP VOOAL EXPKESSIOtf. [Note. — The object of this Diagram is to present at a glance all the Principles of vocal expression, and to show in a brief and convenient form the kinds of thought they express. There is no attempt here to give all the sentiments expressed by each Element, but only such repre- sentative words are used as will direct the thoughts of the pupil into the right channel. The different shades and changes of sentiment, as they occur in a selection, will at once be understood by the context ; and, by reference to this Diagram, the student can easily determine the Elements required for a correct and natural expression.] LONG i MODERATE .. SHORT b. PAUSES INTERSYLLABIC PROSODIAL . . . RHETORICAL . . GRAMMATICAL t EMOTIONAL . f VERY RAPID RAPID c. MOVEMENT <| MODERATE . SLOW I VERY SLOW (Pathos. Sorrow. Solemnity. Sub- limity. Awe. Reverence. Adora- tion. Apostrophe. Commanding. Calling. (Narrative, didactic, bold, and lofty < thought. Secrecy. Alarm. Cour- t age. Grandeur. Joy. Mirth. Laughter. Exciting appeal. Impatience. Detestation. Fright. Anger. Contempt. (Used between syllables of very < emphatic words for articulative [ enforcement. {Used to mark the prosody of verse only when the emphasis and measure of speech coincide. (Used in phrasing spoken discourse i to make the sense apparent to t the ear. Used to show the grammatical con- struction of written discourse, and represented to the eye by the l^ punctuation marks, f Used before and after a word, or ^ group of words, expressing very I. strong emotion. ( Ecstatic joy. Laughter. Fright. < Lyric description. Wrath. Anxi- [ ety. Excitement. ( Gladness. Exciting appeal. Mirth. < Animated description. Anger. [ Defiance. Alarm. ["Ordinary conversation. Didactic < and oratorical thought. Grandeur. (, Seriousness. Secrecy. Hate. ['Gravity. Solemn narration. Pathos. ■{ Reverence. Awe. Sublimity, t Command. (Melancholy. Gloom. Despair. <( Adoration. Profound repose, t Deepest awe and sublimity. DIAGRAM OF THE f PURE TONE a. \ OROTUND > Elevating and { ORAL, .... f ASPIRATE b. < GUTTURAL J> Secret and Malignant Thought. ; [ PECTORAL, J NASAL, Burlesque and Mimic Thought. FALSETTO ["Pure Tone , Orotund . , { EFFUSIVE . { Oral Aspirate . . [Pectoral. , C Pure Tone . | Orotund . , FORM . .\ EXPULSIVE Rising j Falling ) ' Intervals , { Semitone Second . . < Third . . . I Fifth . . . Octave . . [Semitone Second . . -> Third . . . | Fifth . . . L Octave . . f Single . . Double . . Continued Kinds Equal . . . Unequal . Direct . . Inverted r CURRENT c. MELODY monotone Rising Ditone . . , j Falling Ditone . 1 Rising Tritone . I Falling Tritone I t Alternation . ( Distress. Crying. Pity. Love. } Plaintiveness. Extreme pathos. j Reverence. Sadness. Awe. Or- ( dinary conversation. \ Animated narration. Wit. Play- l fulness. Earnest appeal. \ Joy. Delight. Anger. Hate. ) Alarm. Defiance. i Extreme surprise. Intense fear. \ Impassioned exclamation. . f Associated in the same styles of thought with the eorre- I 1 sponding degrees of the j ] rising and falling inflec- tion, to give character to J I. expression. fUsed in lengthening the I quantity of words without j overstepping the interval [ the passion requires. { Emphatic distinction. Gallantry. ( Love. Solemnity. Reverence. | Irony. Derision. Sarcasm. Rail- ) lery. Mockery. Contempt. Admiration. Joy. Positiveness. Decisiveness. Fearlessness. Determination. Indefiniteness. Antithesis. Inter- rogation. Surprise. Wavering. Cowardice. f L T sed, for the most part, in con- junction with concretes of the •{ same intervals, through the j different degrees of pitch, for L variety in expression. ("Used in connection with the differ- J ent degrees for giving variety to ] the succession of speech-notes, as (. they occur in all styles of thought. f Triad I CADENCE Duad Monad Used when the last three syllables Rising . . . { of the sentence are about equally emphatic. \ Used when the antepenultimate syl- \ lable of the sentence is accented. \ Used when the penultimate syllable / of the sentence is accented. ( Used when the ultimate syllable Second . . . < of the sentence is moderately ( ' accented. Used when the ultimate syllable of the closing word is heavily accented, or when the sentence ends in a very emphatic monosyllable. Falling First . . Choice Readings, i. NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, DIDACTIC. KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM. William Cowper. Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men, Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which wisdom builds, Till smooth'd and squared and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learn 'd so much ; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Books are not seldom talismans and spells, By which the magic art of shrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. Some to the fascination of a name Surrender judgment hoodwink'd. Some the stj'le Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds Of error leads them, b}* a tune entranced ; While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear The insupportable fatigue of thought, And swallowing therefore, without pause or choice, The total grist unsifted, husks and all. But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course CHOICE READINGS. Defies the check of Winter, haunts of deer, And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs, And lanes in which the primrose ere her time Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and Truth, Not shy as in the world, and to be won By slow solicitation, seize at once The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. »o^oc ADAM'S ACCOUNT OF HIS OEEATIOK John Milton. For man to tell how human life began, Is hard ; for who himself beginning knew ? Desire with thee still longer to converse Induced me. As new-waked from soundest sleep, Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid, In balmy sweat ; which with his beams the Sun Soon dried, and on the reeking moisture fed. Straight towards heaven my wondering eyes I turn'd, And gazed awhile the ample sky ; till, raised By quick instinctive motion, up I sprung, As thitherward endeavouring, and upright Stood on my feet. About me round I saw Hill, dale, and shad}^ woods, and sunny plains, And liquid lapse of murmuring streams ; by these, Creatures that lived and moved, and walk'd or flew ; Birds on the branches warbling ; all things smiled ; With fragrance and with joy my heart o'erflow'd. Myself I then perused, and limb by limb Survey'cl ; and sometimes went, and sometimes ran With supple joints, as lively vigour led : But who I was, or where, or from what cause, Knew not. To speak I tried, and forthwith spake ; My tongue obey'd, and readily could name ADAM DESCRIBING THE CREATION OF EVE. 6 Whate'er I saw. " Thou Sun," said I, " fair light, And thou, enlighten' cl Earth, so fresh and gay ; Ye hills and dales ; ye rivers, woods, and plains ; And ye that live and move, fair creatures ! tell, Tell, if }'e saw, how came I thus? how here?" ADAM DESCKIBITO THE CEEATIOtf OF EYE. John Milton. Mine eyes he closed, but open left the cell Of fancy, nry internal sight, by which Abstract, as in a trance, methought I saw, Though sleeping, where I lay, and saw the shape Still glorious before whom awake I stood ; Who, stooping, open'd my left side, and took From thence a rib, with cordial spirits warm, And life-blood streaming fresh ; wide was the wound, But suddenly with flesh filPd up and heal'd : The rib he form'd and fashion'd with his hands ; Under his forming hands a creature grew, Man-like, but different sex, so lovely fair, That what seem'cl fair in all the world seem'd now Mean, or in her summ'd up, in her contain'd, And in her looks ; which from that time infused Sweetness into my heart unfelt before, And into all things, from her air, inspired The spirit of love and amorous delight. She disappear'd, and left me dark ; I waked To find her, or for ever to deplore Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure ; When out of hope, behold her, not far off, Such as I saw her in my dream, adorn'd With all that Earth or Heaven could bestow To make her amiable. On she came, Led by her heavenly Maker, though unseen, CHOICE READINGS. And guided by his voice ; nor uninform'd Of nuptial sanctity and marriage rites : Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye, In every gesture dignity and love. I, overjoy'd, could not forbear aloud: " This turn hath made amends ; Thou hast fulfiU'd Thy words, Creator bounteous and benign, Giver of all things fair ! but fairest this Of all Thy gifts ; nor enviest. I now see Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, myself Before me : Woman is her name, of man Extracted : for this cause he shall forego Father and mother, and to his wife adhere ; And they shall be one flesh, one heart, one soul." >j«* ADVICE TO YOUNG LAWYEES. Judge Story. Whene'er } t ou speak, remember every cause Stands not on eloquence, but stands on laws ; Pregnant in matter, in expression brief, Let every sentence stand with bold relief ; On trifling points nor time nor talents waste, A sad offense to learning and to taste ; Nor deal with pompous phrase, nor e'er suppose Poetic flights belong to reasoning prose. Loose declamation may deceive the crowd, And seem more striking as it grows more loud ; But sober sense rejects it with disdain, As nought but empt}^ noise, and weak as vain. The froth of words, the schoolboy's vain parade Of books and cases, — all his stock in trade, — The pert conceits, the cunning tricks and play Of low attorne}'s, strung in long array, A CHILD S DREAM OF A STAR. 5 Th' unseemly jest, the petulant reply, That chatters on, and cares not how or why, Strictly avoid ; — unworthy themes to scan, They sink the speaker and disgrace the man ; Like the false lights by flying shadows cast, Scarce seen when present, and forgot when past. Begin with dignity ; expound with grace Each ground of reasoning in its time and place ; Let order reign throughout ; each topic touch, Nor urge its power too little nor too much ; Give each strong thought its most attractive view, In diction clear and yet severely true ; And, as the arguments in splendour grow, Let each reflect its light on all below : When to the close arrived, make no dela}'s By petty flourishes or verbal plays, But sum the whole in one deep, solemn strain, Like a strong current hastening to the main. A CHILD'S DEEAM Or A STAE. Charles Dickens. There was once a child, and lie strolled about a good deal, and thought of a number of things. He had a sister who was a child too, and his constant compaiMon. They wondered at the beauty of flowers; they won- dered at the height and blueness of the sky ; they won- dered at the depth of the water ; they wondered at the goodness and power of God, who made them lovely. They used to say to one another sometimes : Suppos- ing all the children upon Earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky be sorry? They believed they would be sorry. For, said they, the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful 6 CHOICE READINGS. streams that gambol clown the hillsides are the children of the water, and the smallest bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night must surely be the children of the stars ; and they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the children of men, no more. There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they watched for it, standing hand-in-hand at a window. Whoever saw it first, cried out, "I see the star." And after that, they cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be sach friends with it that, before laying down in their bed, they always looked out once again to bid it good night ; and when they were turning around to sleep, they used to say, " God bless the star ! " But while she was still very young, O, very young, the sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand in the window at night, and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and, when he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale face on the bed, "I see the star! " and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say, " G#d bless my brother and the star ! " And so the time came, all too soon, when the child looked out all alone, and when there was no face on the bed, and when there was a grave among the graves, not there before, and when the star made long rays down toward him as he saw it through his tears. Now these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining way from Earth to Heaven, that when the child went to his solitary bed, he dreamed about the star ; and dreamed that, laying where he was, A CHILD S DREAM OF A STAR. / he saw a train of people taken np that sparkling* road by angels ; and the star, opening, showing him a great world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive them. All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the people who were carried up into the star ; and some came out from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed was glorified and ra- diant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host. His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the leader among those who had brought the people thither, " Is my brother come ? " And he said, " No ! " She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, and cried, " O, sister, I am here ! Take me ! " And then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, — and it was night ; and the star was shining into the room, making long rays down towards him as he saw it through his tears. From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as the home he was to go to when his time should come ; and he thought that he did not belong to the Earth alone, but to the star too, because of his sister's angel gone before. There was a baby born to be a brother to the child, and, while he was so little that he never yet had spoken o CHOICE READINGS. a word, he stretched out his tiny form on his bed, and died. Again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the company of angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels, with their beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces. Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ? " And he said, " Not that one, but another ! " As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried, " O, my sister, I am here ! Take me ! " And she turned and smiled upon him, — and the star was shining. He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old servant came to him and said, " Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son." Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said his sister's angel to the leader, "Is my brother come?" And he said, " Thy mother ! " A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother Avas re-united to her two children. And he stretched out his arms and cried, u O, mother, sister, and brother, I am here ! Take me ! " And they answered him, u Not yet! " — and the star was shining. He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again. Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ?" And he said, " Nay, but his maiden daughter ! " And the man who had been the child saw his daughter, DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII. 9 newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said, " My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck, and at her feet is the baby of old time, and I can bear the part- ing from her, God be praised ! " — And the star was shining. Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as he cried so long ago, " I see the star ! "" They whispered one another, "He is dying." And he said, "I am. My age is falling from me like a gar- ment, and I move towards the star as a child. And, O my Father, now I thank Thee that it has so often opened to receive those dear ones who await me ! " And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave. DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII. Lord Edward Bulwer-Lytton. The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day, had now settled into a solid and impene- trable mass. It resembled less even the thickest gloom of a night in the open air than the close and blind dark- ness of some narrow room. But, in proportion as the blackness gathered, did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible beaut}' confined to the usual hues of fire; no rainbow ever rivalled their varying and prodigal dyes. Xow brightly blue as the most azure depth of a southern sky, — now of a livid and snake-like green, darting rest- 10 CHOICE READINGS. lessly to and fro as the folds of an enormous serpent, — now of a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns of smoke, far and wide, and light- ing up the whole city from arch to arch, — then sud- denly dying into a sickly paleness, like the ghost of their own life ! In the pauses of the showers you heard the rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea ; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing mur- mur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain. Sometimes the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass, and, by the lightning, to assume quaint and vast mimicries of human or of mon- ster shapes, striding across the gloom, hurtling one upon the other, and vanishing swiftty into the turbulent abyss of shade ; so that, to the eyes and fancies of the affrighted wanderers, the unsubstantial vapours were as the bodily forms of gigantic foes, — the agents of terror and death. The ashes in many places were already knee-deep ; and the boiling showers which came from the steaming breath of the volcano forced their Avay into the houses, bearing with them a strong and suffocating vapour. In some places immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house roofs, bore down along the streets masses of con- fused ruin, which yet more and more, with every hour, obstructed the way ; and, as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was more sensibly felt ; the footing seemed to slide and creep, nor could chariot or litter be kept steady, even on the most level ground. Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plain DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII. 11 beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved ; for several houses, and even vineyards, had been set on flames; and at various intervals the fires rose sullenly and fiercely against . the solid gloom. To add to this partial relief of the darkness, the citizens had, here and there, in the more public places, such as the porticos of temples and the entrances to the forum, endeavoured to place rows of torches ; but these rarely continued loug; the showers and the winds extinguished them, and the sudden darkness into which their fitful light was converted had something in it doubly terrible and doubly impressive on the impotence of human hopes, the lesson of despair. Frequently, by the momentary light of these torches, parties of fugitives encountered each other, some hur-. rying towards the sea, others flying from the sea back to the land ; for the ocean had retreated rapidly from the shore ; an utter darkness lay over it, and, upon its groaning and tossing waves, the storm of cinders and rocks fell without the protection which the streets and roofs afforded to the land. Wild, haggard, ghastly with supernatural fears, these groups encountered each other, but without the leisure to speak, to consult, to advise ; for the showers fell now frequently, though not contin- uously, extinguishing the lights, which showed to each band the death-like faces of the other, and hurrying all to seek refuge beneath the nearest shelter. The whole elements of civilization were broken up. Ever and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw the thief hastening by the most solemn authorities of the law, laden with, and fearfully chuckling over the produce of his sudden gains. If, in the darkness, wife was sepa- rated from husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and confusedly 12 CHOICE READINGS. on. Nothing in all the various and complicated ma- chinery of social life was left save the primal law of self-preservation. A BEE-HUNT IE THE FAK WEST. Washington Irving. We had not been long in the camp when a party set out in quest of a bee-tree, and, being curious to witness the sport, I gladly accepted an invitation to accompany them. The party was headed by a veteran bee-hunter, a tall, lank fellow in home-spun garb that hung loosely about his limbs, and a straw hat shaped not unlike a bee-hive ; a comrade, equally uncouth in garb, and with- out a hat, straddled along at his heels, with a long rifle on his shoulder. To these succeeded half a dozen others, some with axes and some with rifles, for no one stirs far from the camp without his firearm, so as to be ready either for wild deer or wild Indian. After proceeding some distance we came to an open glade on the skirts of the forest. Here our leader halted, and then advanced quietly to a low bush, on the top of which I perceived a piece of honey-comb. This I found was the bait or lure for the wild bees. Several were humming about it, and diving into its cells. When they had laden themselves with honey they would rise into the air, and dart off in a straight line almost with the velocity of a bullet. The hunters watched attentively the course they took, and then set off in the same direction, stumbling along over twisted roots and fallen trees, with their eyes turned up to the sky. In this way they traced the honey-laden bees to their hive, in the hollow trunk of a blasted oak, where, A BEE-HUNT IN THE EAR WEST. 13 after buzzing about for a moment, they entered a hole about sixty feet from the ground. Two of the bee-hunters now plied their axes vigor- ously at the foot of the tree, to level it with the ground. The mere spectators and amateurs, in the meantime, drew off to a cautious distance, to be out of the way of the falling of the tree and the vengeance of its inmates. The jarring blows of the axe seemed to have no effect in alarming or disturbing this most industrious commu- nity. They continued to ply at their usual occupations, some arriving full-freighted into port, others sallying forth on new expeditions, like so many merchantmen in a money-making metropolis, little suspicious of impend- ing bankruptcy and downfall. Even a loud crack which announced the disrupture of the trunk failed to divert their attention from the intense pursuit of gain ; at length down came the tree with a tremendous crash, bursting open from end to end, and displaying all the hoarded treasures of the commonwealth. One of the hunters immediate^ ran up with a wisp of lighted hay as a defense against the bees. The latter, however, made no attack and sought no revenge ; they seemed stupefied b} r the catastrophe and unsuspicious of its cause, and remained crawling and buzzing about the ruins without offering us any molestations.. Every one of the party now fell to, with spoon and hunting- knife, to scoop out the flakes of honey-comb with which the hollow trunk was stored. Some of them were of old date and a deep brown color ; others were beauti- fully white, and the honey in their cells was almost limpid. Such of the combs as were entire were placed in camp-kettles, to be conveyed to the encampment; those which had been shivered in the fall were devoured upon the spot. Every stark bee-hunter was to be seen 14 CHOICE READINGS. with a rich morsel in his hand, dripping about his ringers, and disappearing as rapidly as a cream tart be- fore the holiday appetite of a school-boy. Nor was it the bee-hunters alone that profited by the downfall of this industrious community ; as if the bees would carry through the similitude of their habits with those of laborious and gainful man. I beheld num- bers from rival hives arriving on eager wing, to enrich themselves with the ruins of their neighbours. These busied themselves as eagerly and cheerfully as so many wreckers on an Indiaman that has been driven on shore ; plunging into the cells of the broken honey-combs, banqueting greedily on the spoil, and then winging their way full-freighted to their homes. As to the poor proprietors of the ruin, they seemed to have no heart to do any thing, not even to taste the nectar that flowed around them ; but crawled backwards and forwards, in vacant desolation, as I have seen a poor fellow with his hands in his pockets, whistling vacantly and despond- ingly about the ruins of his house that had been burnt. It is difficult to describe the bewilderment and confu- sion of the bees of the bankrupt hive who had been absent at the time of the catastrophe, and who arrived from time to time with full cargoes from abroad. At first they wheeled about in the air, in the place where the fallen tree had once reared its head, astonished at finding it all a vacuum. At length, as if comprehend- ing their disaster, they settled down in clusters on a dry branch of a neighbouring tree, whence they seemed to contemplate the prostrate ruin, and to buzz forth dole- ful lamentations over the downfall of their republic. A GOOD CONSCIENCE. 15 A GOOD CONSCIENCE. Anonymous. My mind to me a kingdom is ; Such perfect jo} T therein I find As far exceeds all earthly bliss, That God or Nature hath assign'd : Though much I want, that most would have. Yet still my mind forbids to crave. Content I live, this is my stay ; I seek no more than may suffice : I press to bear no haughty sway ; Look, what I lack, nry mind supplies. Lo ! thus I triumph like a king, Content with what my mind doth bring. I see how plenty surfeits oft, And hasty climbers soonest fall ; I see that such as sit aloft Mishap cloth threaten most of all : These get with toil, and keep with fear ; Such cares my mind could never bear. Some have too much, yet still they crave ; I little have, yet seek no more : They are but poor, though much they have ; And I am rich with little store : The}' poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; The} T lack, I lend ; the} T pine, I live. I laugh not at another's loss, I grudge not at another's gain ; No worldly wave my mind can toss, I brook what is another's bane : I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend : I loathe not life, nor dread my end. 16 CHOICE READINGS. I wish but what I have at will ; I wander not to seek for more ; I like the plain, I climb no hill : In greater storms I sit on shore, And laugh at them that toil in vain To get what must be lost again. I kiss not where I wish to kill ; I feign not love where most I hate ; I break no sleep to win my will ; I wait not at the mighty's gate ; I scorn no poor, I fear no rich ; I feel no want, nor have too much. My wealth is health and perfect ease ; My conscience clear my chief defence I never seek by bribes to please, Nor by desert to give offence. Thus do I live, thus will I die ; Would all did live so well as I ! »O^C« ELEGY WEITTEtf W A COTOTEY CHUEGHYAED. Thomas Gray. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; Save that, from yonder iyy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the Moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign, ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 17 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw -built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour : — The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust. Or Flatfeiy soothe the dull, cold ear of Death? 18 CHOICE READINGS. Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'cl their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unf athom'd caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village- Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn 'd to stray ; Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 19 Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their names, their 3-ears, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the fustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a pre}', Their pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing e}"e requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If, 'chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — Haply some hoaiy-headed swain may say, " Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the Sun upon the upland lawn. There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his waj'ward fancies, he would rove, Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 20 CHOICE READINGS. One morn I miss'd him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree : Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchwaj'-path we saw him borne. Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are showers of violets found ; The redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground. THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head, upon the lap of Earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; Heaven did a recompense as largely send : He gave to misery, all he had, a tear, — He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. THE FIEST SETTLER'S STORY. Will Cakleton. Well, when I first infested this retreat, Things to my view look'd frightful incomplete ; But I had come with heart-thrift in my song, And brought my wife and plunder right along ; THE FIRST SETTLER'S STORY. 21 I hadn't a round-trip ticket to go back. And if I had there was no railroad track : And drivin' East was what I couldn't endure : I hadn't started on a circular tour. My girl- wife was as brave as she was good, And help'd me every blessed wsly she could ; She seem'd to take to every rough old tree, As sing'lar as when first she took to me. She kep' our little log-house neat as wax, And once I caught her fooling with my axe. She hadn't the muscle (though she had the heart) In out-door work to take an active part ; She was delicious, both to hear and see, — That pretty wife-girl that kep' house for me. Well, neighbourhoods meant counties in those days ; The roads didn't have accommodating ways : And ma3"be weeks would pass before she'd see — And much less talk with — any one but me. The Indians sometimes show'd their sun-baked faces, But they didn't teem with conversational graces ; Some ideas from the birds and trees she stole, But 'twasn't like talking with a human soul ; And finally I thought that I could trace A half heart-hunger peering from her face. One night, when I came home unusual late. Too hungry and too tired to feel first-rate, Her supper struck me wrong, (though I'll allow She hadn't much to strike with, anyhow) ; And. when I went to milk the cows, and found They'd wander'd from their usual feeding ground. And maybe'd left a few long miles behind 'em. Which I must copy, if I meant to find 'em, Flash-quick the stay-chains of my temper broke, And in a trice these hot words I had spoke : 22 CHOICE READINGS. " You ought to've kept the animals in view, And drove 'em in ; you'd nothing else to do. The heft of all our life on me must fall ; You just lie round, and let me do it all." That speech, — it hadn't been gone a half a minute Before I saw the cold black poison in it ; And I'd have given all I had, and more, To've only safely got it back in-door. I'm now what most folks "■ well-to-do" would call : I feel to-day as if I'd give it all, Provided I through fifty years might reach And kill and bury that half-minute speech. She handed back no words, as I could hear ; She didn't frown ; she didn't shed a tear ; Half proud, half crush'd, she stood and look'd me o'er, Like some one she had never seen before ! But such a sudden anguish-lit surprise I never view'd before in human eyes. (I've seen it oft enough since in a dream ; It sometimes wakes me like a midnight scream.) Next morning, when, stone-faced but heavy-hearted. With dinner-pail and sharpen'd axe 1 started Away for my day's work, she watch'd the door, And follow'd me half wa}~ to it or more ; And I was just a-turning round at this, And asking for my usual good-by kiss ; But on her lip I saw a proudish curve, And in her eye a shadow of reserve ; And she had shown — perhaps half unawares — Some little independent breakfast airs ; And so the usual parting didn't occur, Although her eyes invited me to her ; Or rather half invited me, for she Didn't advertise to furnish kisses free : THE FIRST SETTLER'S STORY. 23 You always had — that is. I had — to pay Full market price, and go more'n half the way. So, with a short " Good-bye," I shut the door, And left her as I never had before. But, when at noon my lunch I came to eat, Put up by her so delicately neat, — Choicer, somewhat, than yesterday's had been, And some fresh, sweet-eyed pansies she'd put in. — '* Tender and pleasant thoughts," I knew they meant. — It seem'd as if her kiss with me she'd sent ; Then I became once more her humble lover, And said, " To-night I'll ask forgiveness of her." I went home over-early on that eve, Having contrived to make myself believe, By various signs I kind o' knew and guess'd. A thunder-storm was coming from the west. ('Tis strange, when one sly reason fills the heart. How many honest ones will take its part : A dozen first-class reasons said 'twas right That I should strike home early on that night.) Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung, With tender heart-words trembling on my tongue ; But all within look'd desolate and bare : My house had lost its soul, — she was not there ! A pencil'd note was on the table spread. And these are something like the words it said : " The cows have stray' d away again, I fear ; I watch'd them pretty close ; don't scold me, dear. And where they are I think I nearly know ; I heard the bell not very long ago. I've hunted for them all the afternoon : I'll try once more. — I think Til find them soon. Dear, if a burden I have been to you. And haven't help'd you as I ought to do. Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead ; I've tried to do my best. — I have, indeed. 24 CHOICE READINGS. Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack, And have kind words for me when I get back." Scarce did I give this letter sight and tongue, — Some swift-blown rain-drops to the window clung, And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded : My thunder-storm had come, now 'twasn't needed. I rush'd out-door. The air was stain'd with black : Night had come early, on the storm-cloud's back : And every thing kept dimming to the sight, Save when the clouds threw their electric light ; When, for a flash, so clean-cut was the view, I'd think I saw her, — knowing 'twas not true. Through my small clearing dash'cl wide sheets of spray, As if the ocean waves had lost their way ; Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made, In the bold clamour of its cannonade. And she, while I was shelter'd, dry, and warm, Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm ! She who, when storm-frights found her at her best, Had always hid her white face on m}- breast ! My clog, who'd skirmish'cl round me all the day, Now crouch'd and whimpering, in a corner la}' ; I dragg'd him by the collar to the wall, I press'd his quivering muzzle to a shawl, — u Track her, old boy ! " I shouted ; and he whined, Match'd eyes with me, as if to read my mind, Then with a yell went tearing through the wood. I follow' d him, as faithful as I could. No pleasure-trip was that, through flood and flame ; We raced with death ; we hunted noble game. All night we dragg'd the woods without avail ; The ground gotdrench'd, — we could not keep the trail. Three times again my cabin home I found, Half hoping she might be there, safe and sound ; But each time 'twas an unavailing care : My house had lost its soul ; she was not there ! THE FIRST SETTLER'S STORY. 25 AVhen, climbing the wet trees, next morning-sun Laugh/ d at the rain that the night had done, Bleeding and drench'd, by toil and sorrow bent, Back to what used to be my home I went. But, as I near'd our little clearing-ground, — Listen ! — I heard the cow-bell's tinkling sound. The cabin door was just a bit ajar ; It gleam' d upon my glad eyes like a star. " Brave heart," I said, " for such a fragile form ! She made them guide her homeward through the storm ! " Such pangs of joy I never felt before. 44 You've come ! " I shouted, and rush'd through the door. Yes, she had come, — and gone again. She lay With all her young life crush'd and wrench'd away, — La} 7 , the heart-ruins of our home among, Not far from where I kill'd her with my tongue. The rain-drops glitter'd 'mid her hair's, long strands, The forest thorns had torn her feet and hands, And 'midst the tears — brave tears — that one could trace Upon the pale but sweetly resolute face, I once again the mournful words could read, " I've tried to do my best, — I have, indeed." And how I'm mostly done ; my story's o'er ; Part of it never breathed the air before. 'Tisn't over-usual, it must be allow'd, To volunteer heart-story to a crowd. And scatter 'mongst them confidential tears, But 3 T ou'll protect an old man with his } T ears ; And wheresoe'er this story's voice can reach, This is the sermon I would have it preach : Boys flying kites haul in their white-wing' d birds : You can't do that wa} T when } 7 ou're flying words. " Careful with fire," is good advice we know : " Careful with words," is ten times doubly so. 26 CHOICE READINGS. Thoughts unexpress'cl may sometimes fall back dead, But God himself can't kill them when they're said ! You have my life-grief : do not think a minute 'Twas told to take up time. There's business in it. It sheds advice : whoe'er will take and live it, Is welcome to the pain it costs to give it. THE BLIND HDDLEB. William Wordsworth. An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! Yes, Faith may grow bold, And take to herself all the wonders of old ; — Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same, In the street that from Oxford hath borrow'd its name. His station is there ; and he works on the crowd, He sways them with harmony merry and loud ; He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim, — Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him ? What an eager assembly ! what an empire is this ! The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss ; The mourner is cheer'd, and the anxious have rest ; And the guilt-burthen'd soul is no longer opprest. As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night, So he, where he stands, is a centre of light ; It gleams on the face, there, of dusk3 T -brow'd Jack, And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back. That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste, — What matter ! he's caught, and his time runs to waste ; The Newsman is stopp'd, though he stops on the fret ; And the half-breathless Lamplighter, he's in the net ! The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore; The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ; — THE BLIND FIDDLER. 27 If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease ; She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees ! He stands, back'd by the wall ; — he abates not his din ; His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in, From the old and the young, from the poorest ; and there ! The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. O, blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band ; I am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the while If the}' speak, 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile. That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height, Not an inch of his body is free from delight ; Can he keep himself still, if he would? O, not he ! The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch ; like a tower That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour ! — That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound, While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound. Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like a stream ; Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream : They are deaf to your murmurs, — they care not for 3*011, Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue ! oo^Ho* HISTOEY. James Anthony Froude. At the dawn of civilization, when men began to ob- serve and think, they found themselves in possession of various faculties, — first their five senses, and then im- agination, fancy, reason, and memory. They did not distinguish one from the other. They did not know why one idea of which they were conscious should be more true than another. They looked round them in continual surprise, conjecturing fantastic explanations 28 CHOICE HEADINGS. of all they saw and heard. Their traditions and their theories blended one into another, and their cosmogonies, their philosophies, and their histories are all alike imag- inative and poetical. It was never perhaps seriously believed as a scientific reality that the Sun was the chariot of Apollo, or that Saturn had devoured his chil- dren, or that Siegfred had been bathed in the dragon's blood, or that earthquakes and volcanoes were caused by buried giants, who were snorting and tossing in their sleep ; but also it was not disbelieved. The original historian and the original man of science was alike the poet. Before the art of writing was in- vented, exact knowledge was impossible. The poet's business was to throw into beautiful shapes the current opinions, traditions, and beliefs ; and the gifts required of him were simply memory, imagination, and music. Each celebrated minstrel sang his stories in his own way, adding to them, shaping them, colouring them, as suited his peculiar genius. The Iliad of Homer, the most splendid composition of this kind which exists in the world, is simply a collection of ballads. The tale of Troy was the heroic story of Greece, which every tribe modified or re-arranged. The chronicler is not a poet like his predecessor. He does not shape out consistent pictures with a beginning, a middle, and an end. He is a narrator of events and he connects them on a chronological string. He professes to be relating facts. He is not idealizing; he is not singing the praises of heroes ; he means to be true in the literal and commonplace sense of that ambiguous word. Neither history nor any other knowledge can be ob- tained except by scientific methods. A constructive philosophy of it, however, is as yet impossible, and for the present, and for a long time to come, we shall be CHRISTMAS EVE IN THE OLDEN TIME. 29 confined to analysis. First one cause and then another has interfered from the beginning of time with a correct and authentic chronicling of events and actions. Super- stition, hero-worship, ignorance of the laws of probabil- ity, religious, political, or speculative prejudice, — one or other of these has tended from the beginning to give us distorted pictures. The most perfect English history which exists is to be found, in my opinion, in the historical plays of Shake- speare. In these plays, rich as they are in fancy and imagination, the main bearings of the national story are scrupulously adhered to, and, whenever attainable, with verbal correctness. Shakespeare's object was to exhibit as faithfully as he possibly could the exact character of the great actors in the national drama, the circumstances which attended them, and the motives, internal and external, by which they were influenced. Shakespeare's attitude towards human life will become a^ain attaina- ble to us only when intelligent people can return to an agreement on first principles ; when the common sense of the wisest and best among us has superseded the theorizing of parties and factions ; when the few but all- important truths of our moral condition, which can be certainly known, have become the exclusive rule of our judgments and actions. OHEISTMAS EVE W THE OLDEN TIME. Sir Walter Scott. Heap on more wood ! — The wind is chill ; But, let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our merry Christmas still : Each age has deem'd the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer. 30 CHOICE READINGS. And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had roll'd, And brought blithe Christmas back again, With all his hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honour to the holy night : On Christina's eve the bells were rung ; On Christmas eve the Mass was sung ; The 011I3' night, in all the year, Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen ; The hall was dress'd with holly green ; Forth to the wood did merry men go, To gather in the mistletoe. Then open'd wide the Baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And Ceremony doff' d her pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose ; The lord, undelegating, share The regular game of " Past and Pair." All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight And general voice, the happy night, That to the cottage, as the Crown, Brought tidings of salvation down. The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide ; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No marks to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn, By old blue-coated serving-man ; Then the grim boar's-head frown' d on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. HO SECTS IX HEAVEN. 31 Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell II . when, and where the monster fell ; "What dogs before his death he tore. And all the baiting of the boar. The vassal round, in good brown bowls Garnish' d with ribbons, blithely trowls. There the huge surloin reek'd ; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie ; Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce. At such high tide, her savoury goose. Then came the merry masquers in. And carols roar'd with blithesome din ; If unmelodious was the song. It was a hearty note, and strong. Who lists may in their murmuring see Traces of ancient mystery : White shirts supplied the masquerade. And smutted cheeks the visors made ; But. 0. what masquers, richly dight. Can boast of bosoms half so light ! England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale, "Twas Christmas told the merriest tale : A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year. -oo^o* m SECTS IN HEAVEN. Mrs. E. H. J. Cleveland. Talking of sects till late one eve. Of the various doctrines the saints believe, That night I stood, in a troubled dream. Bv the side of a darklv flowino- stream. 32 CHOICE READINGS. And a Churchman down to the river came ; When I heard a strange voice call his name, " Good father, stop ; when you cross this tide, You must leave your robes on the other side." But the aged father did not mind ; And his long gown floated out behind, As down to the stream his way he took, His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book : " I'm bound for Heaven ; and, when I'm there, Shall want my Book of Common Prayer ; And, though I put on a starry crown, I should feel quite lost without my gown." Then he fix'd his eyes on the shining track, But his gown was heavy and held him back, And the poor old father tried in vain A single step in the flood to gain. I saw him again on the other side, But his silk gown floated on the tide ; And no one ask'd, in that blissful spot, Whether he belong'd to "the Church " or not. Then down to the river a Quaker stray'd ; His dress of a sober hue was made : " My coat and hat must all be gray, — I cannot go any other way." Then he button'd his coat straight up to his chin, And staidly, solemnly, waded in, And his broad-brim m'd hat he puil'd down tight, Over his forehead so cold and white. But a strong wind carried away his hat ; A moment he silently sigh'd over that ; And then, as he gazed on the further shore, His coat slipp'd off, and was seen no more ; As he enter'd Heaven, his suit of gray Went quietly, sailing, away, away ; And non^of the angels questional him About the width of his beaver's brim. Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms Tied nicely up in his aged arms, And hymns as many, — a very wise thing, — That the people in Heaven, " all round," might sing. H€ SECTS EN HEAVEN. But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, When he saw that the river ran broad and high, And look'd rather surprised, as one by one The psalms and hymns in the wave went down. And after him. with his MSS., Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness : But he cried. " Dear me ! what shall I do ? The water has soak"d them through and through. And there on the river, far and wide. Away they went down the swollen tide : And the saint, astonish'd, pass'd through alone. Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. Then, gravely walking, two saints by name Down to the river together came : But. as they stopp'd at the river's brink, I saw one saint froni the other shrink. ■ Sprinkled or plunged? may I ask you. friend. How you attahrd to life's great end ? " M Thus, with a few drops on my brow." " But / have been dipp'd. as you'll see me now; And I really think it will hardly do. As I'm • close communion.' to cross with you : You're bound. I know, to the realms of bliss. But you must go that way. and I'll go this." Then straightway plunging with all his might. Away to the left. — his friend to the right. — Apart they went from this world of sin. But at last together they enter'd in. And now. when the river was rolling on. A Presbyterian Church went down : Of women there seem'd an innumerable throng, But the men I could count as they pass'd along. And concerning the road they could never agree, The old or the ne >c way. which it could be, f Xor ever a moment paused to think That both would lead to the river's brink. And a sound of murmuring, long and loud, Came ever up from the moving ere <; You're in the old way. and I'm in the new ; That is the false, and this is the true " : Or, •• I'm in the old way. and you're in the new: That is the false, and this is the fern 34 CHOICE READINGS. But the brethren only seem'd to speak : Modest the sisters walk'd and meek, And, if one of them ever chanced to say What troubles she met with on the way, How she long'd to pass to the other side, Nor fear'd to cross over the swelling tide, A voice arose from the brethren then : " Let no one speak but the ' holy men ' ; For have ye not heard the words of Paul, ' O, let the women keep silence all ' ? " I watch'd them long in my curious dream, Till they stood by the borders of the stream Then, just as I thought, the two ways met ; But all the brethren were talking yet, And would talk on till the heaving tide Carried them over side by side, — Side by side, for the way was one : The toilsome journey of life was done ; And all who in Christ the Saviour died Came out alike on the other side. No forms or crosses or books had they ; No gowns of silk or suits of gray ; No creeds to guide them, or MSS. ; For all had put on Christ's righteousness. EDWIN AND ANGELINA. Oliver Goldsmith. " Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray : For here forlorn and lost I tread, • With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go." " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. Here to the houseless child of want 1 _ loor is open still : And. though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will- Then turn to-night, and freely share Whatever my cell besr My shy conch and frugal : . e . If j blessing and repose. Xo flocks that range the valley free T : slaughter I condemn ; Taught by that Power that pities me. I learn to pity them : But from the mountain "s grassy side _ _ rittless feast I bring : ip with herbs and fruits supplied. And water from the spring. Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; All earth-born cares are wrong : Man wants bnt little here below. Not wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell : The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilde: less : - :ure The lonely mansion b A i rage to the neighbouring poor, And strangers led st N -rores beneath its humble thatch Beq aired a master's care : The wicket, opening with a latch. Received the harmless pair. 36 CHOICE READINGS. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, And cheer' d his pensive guest ; And spread his vegetable store, And gaily press'd and smiled ; And, skilPd in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguiled. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries ; The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart, To soothe the stranger's woe ; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care opprest : " And whence, unhappy youth,'* he cried, ' ' The sorrows of thy breast ? From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove ? Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love ? Alas ! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep? EDWIN AND ANGELINA. 37 And love is still an empty sound, The modern fair-one's jest ; On Earth unseen, or only found To- warm the turtle's nest. For shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex," he said : But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd. Surprised he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view ; Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms. "And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried; " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where Heaven and you reside. But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray ; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, — He had but only me. To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came; Who praised me for imputed charms, And felt or feign' d a flame. 38 CHOICE READINGS. Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. In humblest, simplest habit clad, ■ No wealth nor power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. And when, beside me in the dale, He caroll'd lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale, And music to the grove. The blossom opening to the day, The dews of Heaven refined, Could nought of purity displa}^ To emulate his mind. The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, but, woe to me ! Their constancy was mine. For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ; And, while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain ; Till, quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret where he died. But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pa}' : I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. ALPINE MINSTRELSY. 39 And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die ; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." " Forbid it, Heaven ! " the Hermit cried, And clasp' d her to his breast : The wondering fair-one turn'd to chide, — 'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. " Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restored to love and thee. Thus let me hold thee to nry heart, And every care resign." " And shall we never, never part, My life, — my all that's mine ? " " No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true ; The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too." ^Oj«ut where was he who used to play, On sunny days, by Mona's fountain? His cold corpse floated to the shore, Where knelt his lone and shrieking mother; And bitterly she wept for him, The widow's son, who had no brother! She raised his arm, — the hand was closed ; With pain his stiffen'd fingers parted, And on the sand three letters dropp'd ! — His hist dim thought, — the faithful-hearted., Glenvarloch gazed, and on his brow Remorse with pain and grief seem'd blending ; A purse of gold he flung beside That mother o'er her dead child bending. 54 CHOICE READINGS. O, wildly laugh'd that woman then : " Glenvarloch ! would ye dare to measure The holy life that God has given Against a heap of golden treasure ? Ye spurn'd my prayer, for we were poor ; But know, proud man, that God hath power To smite the king on Scotland's throne, The chieftain in his fortress-tower. Frown on ! frown on ! I fear ye not ; We've done the last of chieftain's bidding; And cold he lies, for whose young sake I used to bear your wrathful chiding. Will gold bring back his cheerful voice, That used to win nry heart from sorrow? Will silver warm the frozen blood, Or make my heart less lone to-morrow ? Go back and seek } T our mountain home, And when ye kiss your fair-hair'd daughter, Remember him who died to-night Beneath the waves of Mona's water." Old years roll'd on, and new ones came, — Foes dare not brave Glenvarloch' s tower ; But nought could bar the sickness out That stole within fair Annie's bovver. The o'erblown floweret in the sun Sinks languid down, and withers daily, And so she sank, — her voice grew faint, Her laugh no longer sounded gayly. Her step fell on the old oak floor As noiseless as the snow-shower's drifting ; And from her sweet and serious eyes They seldom saw the dark lid lifting. u Bring aid ! Bring aid ! " the father cries ; " Bring aid ! " each vassal's voice is crying ; AN ODE TO THE PASSIONS. 55 " The fair-hair'd beauty of the isles, Her pulse is faint, her life is flying ! " He call'd in vain ; her dim eyes turn'd And met his own with parting sorrow ; For well she knew, that fading girl, That he must weep and wail the morrow. Her faint breath ceased ; the father bent And gazed upon his fair-hair'd daughter. What thought he on? The widow's son, And the stormy night by Mona's water. AS ODE TO THE PASSIONS. William Collins. When Music, heavenly maid, was young, Ere yet in earl}- Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell ; Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting, By turns the}- felt the glowing mind, Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined ; Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round, They seized her instruments of sound ; And, as they oft had heard, apart, Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each — for madness ruled the hour — Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear, his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid; And back recoiPd — - he knew not why — - E'en at the sound himself had made ! 56 CHOICE READINGS. Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret stings ; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woeful measure, wan Despair — Low sullen sounds — his grief beguiled ; A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild ! But thou, Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all the song ; And, where her sweetest themes she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair : And longer had she sung, — but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose ; He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat ; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild nnalter'd mien, While each strain'dball of sight seem'd bursting from his head ! Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state ; Of differing themes, the veering song was mix'd ; And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate ! AN ODE TO THE PASSIONS. 57 With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired ; And from her wild sequester' d seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound : Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay. Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone ! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins ^emm'd with morning- dew, Blew an inspiring air. that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. The oak-crown'd sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd ; But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids. Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing ; While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round; 58 CHOICE READINGS. Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play, — As if he would the charming air repay, — Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. Atf OKDER POK A PICTURE. Alice Cary. O good painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that you never saw ? Ay ? Well, here is an order for you. Woods and cornfields, a little brown, — The picture must not be over-bright, Yet all in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud, when the summer Sun is down. Alway and alway, night and morn, Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere, And not in the full, thick, leaf} T bloom, When the wind can hardly find breathing-room Under their tassels, — cattle near, Biting shorter the short green grass, And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, With bluebirds twittering all around, — (Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound !) These, and the house where I was born, Low and little, and black and old, With children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide, — Heads and shoulders clear outside, And fair young faces all ablush : Perhaps 3'ou ma} r have seen, some day, Roses crowding the self-same way, Out of a wilding, wayside bush. AX ORDER FOR A PICTURE. 59 Listen closer : When yon have clone With wcods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lad} 7 , the lovliest ever the Sun Look'd down upon, you must paint for me ; O, if I only could make }~ou see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul, and the angel's face, That are beaming on me all the while, I need not speak these foolish words : Yet one word tells you all I would say, — ■ She is my mother : 3011 will agree That all the rest may be thrown away. Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir ; one like me, The other with a clearer brow, And the light of his adventurous e3 T es Flashing with boldest enterprise : At ten years old he went to sea, — God knoweth if he be living now ; He sail'd in the good ship Commodore ; Nobody ever cross'd her track To bring us news, and she never came back. Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more Since that old ship went out of the ba}~ With my great-hearted brother on her deck : I watch'd him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way. Bright his hair was, a golden brown, The time we stood at our mother's knee : That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried sunshine into the sea ! Out in the fields one summer night We were together, half afraid Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so still and far, — 60 CHOICE READINGS. Loitering till after the low little light Of the candle shone through the open door ; And over the haystack's pointed top, All of a tremble, and read}' to drop, The first half-hour, the great yellow star, That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, Had often and often watch'd to see, Propp'd and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree, Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew, — Dead at the top, — just one branch full Of leaves, notch' d round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderly shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day. Afraid to go home, sir ; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shell'd eggs ; The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, Not so big as a straw of wheat : The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still. At last we stood at our mother's knee. Do you think, sir, if you try, You can paint the look of a lie ? If you can, pray have the grace To put it solely in the face Of the urchin that is likest me : I think 'twas solelv mine, indeed : But that's no matter, — paint it so ; The eyes of our mother, (take good heed,) Looking not on the nestful of eoo-s, Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, But straight through our faces down to our lies, And, O, with such injured, reproachful surprise ! I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though A sharp blade struck through it. THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE. 61 You, sir, know That you on the canvas are to repeat Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree, — The mother, — the lads, with their bird, at her knee : But, O, that look of reproachful woe ! High as the heavens your name I'll shout, If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. THE PAINTER OP SEVILLE. Susan Wilson. Sebastian Gomez, better known by tbe name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found paint- ing, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1030. 'Twas morning in Seville ; and brightly beam'cl The earlj- sunlight in one chamber there ; Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleam'd, Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where Murillo, the famed painter, came to share With young aspirants his long-cherish'd art, To prove how vain must be the teacher's care, Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart, The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart. The pupils came ; and, glancing round, Mendez upon his canvas found, Not his own work of 3-esterday, But, glowing in the morning ray, A sketch so rich, so pure, so bright, It almost seem'd that there were given, To glow before his dazzled sight, Tints and expression warm from Heaven. 62 CHOICE READINGS. 'Twas midnight in Seville; and faintly shone, From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray Within Murillo's study ; all were gone Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, Pass'd cheerfully the morning hours away. 'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save That, to sad thoughts and torturing fear a pre}^ One bright-eyed boy was there, — Murillo's little slave. Almost a child, that bo} T had seen Not thrice five Summers yet, m But genius mark'd the lofty brow, O'er which his locks of jet Profusely curl'd ; his cheek's dark hue Proclaim'd the warm blood flowing through Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide, To Africa and Spain allied. " Alas ! what fate is mine ! " he said. " The lash, if I refuse to tell Who sketch' d those figures ; if I do, Perhaps e'en more, — the dungeon-cell ! " He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid ; It came, — for, soon in slumber laid, He slept, until the dawning day Shed on his humble couch its ray. " I'll sleep no more ! " he cried ; " and now Three hours of freedom I may gain, Before my master comes ; for then I shall be but a slave again. Three blessed hours of freedom ! how Shall I employ them ? — ah ! e'en now The figure on that canvas traced Must be — yes, it must be effaced." He seized a brush ; the morning light Gave to the head a soften'd glow : Gazing enraptured on the sight, THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE. 63 He cried, " Shall I efface it? — No ! That breathing lip ! that beaming e}'e ! Efface them? — I would rather die ! " The terror of the humble slave Gave place to the o'erpowering flow Of the high feelings Nature gave, — Which only gifted spirits know. 'Twas but a sketch, — the Virgin's head ; Yet was unearthly beauty shed Upon the mildly beaming face : The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, Had separate, yet blended grace, — A poet's brightest dream was there ! Mnrillo enter'd, and, amazed, On the nvysterious painting gazed : " AVhose work is this? — speak, tell me ! — he Who to his aid such power can call," Exclaim' d the teacher eagerly, ' t Will yet be master of us all : Would I had clone it ! — Ferdinand ! Isturitz ! Mendez ! — say, whose hand Among ye all ? " — With half -breached sigh, Each pupil answer'd, " 'Twas not I ! " " How came it, then? " impatiently Murillo cried: " but we shall see, Ere long, into this mystery. — Sebastian ! " At the summons came A bright-e} T ed slave, Who trembled at the stern rebuke His master gave. For, order d in that room to sleep. And faithful guard o'er all to keep, Murillo bade him now declare What rash intruder had been tliero ; G4 CHOICE READINGS. And threaten'd — if he did not tell The truth at once — the dungeon-cell. " Thou auswer'st not," Murillo said ; (The boy had stood in speechless fear.) " Speak on ! " — At last he raised his head And murmur'd, " No one has been here." t; Tis false ! " Sebastian bent his knee, And clasp'd his hands imploringly, And said, " I swear it, none but me ! " u List ! " said his master : "I would know Who enters here ; there have been found, Before, rough sketches strewn around, B}' whose bold hand, 'tis } T ours to show : See that to-night strict watch you keep, Nor dare to close } r our eyes in sleep. If on to-morrow morn 3-011 fail To answer what I ask, The lash shall force you ; do you hear ? Hence ! to } T our daily task." He touch'd the brow — the lip ; it seem'd His pencil had some magic power : The eye with deeper feeling beam'd ; Sebastian then forgot the hour ! Forgot his master, and the threat Of punishment still hanging o'er him ; For, with each touch, new beauties met And mingled in the face before him. At length 'twas finish'd : rapturously He gazed, — could aught more beauteous be? Awhile absorb'd, entranced he stood, Then started ; horror chill' d his blood ! His master and the pupils all Were there e'en at his side ! The terror-stricken slave was mute, — Mercv would be deniedr-^ THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE. 65 E'en could he ask it ; so he deera'd, And the poor hoy half lifeless seem'd. Speechless, bewilder'd, for a space They gazed upon that perfect face, Each with an artist's joy ; At length Murillo silence broke, And with affected sternness spoke, — " Who is your master, boy? " "You, Senior," said the trembling slave. "Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, Before that Virgin's head you drew ? " Again he answer'd, " Only you." " I gave 3'ou none," Murillo cried ! " But I have heard," the boy replied, " What you to others said." " And more than heard," (in kinder tone, The painter said ;) " 'tis plainly shown That you have profited." " What " (to his pupils) " is his meed? Reward or punishment?" " Reward, reward ! " they warmly cried. (Sebastian's ear was bent To catch the sounds he scarce believed, But with imploring look received.) " What shall it be? " They spoke of gold And of a splendid dress ; But still unmoved Sebastian stood, Silent and motionless. " Speak ! " said Murillo, kindly ; " choose Your own reward : what shall it be? Name what you wish, I'll not refuse ; Then speak at once and fearlessly." " O, if I dared ! " — Sebastian knelt, And feelings he could not control, (But fear'd to utter even then,) With strong emotion shook his soul. QQ CHOICE READINGS. " Courage ! " his master said, and each Essay'd, in kind, half-whisper'd speech, To soothe his overpowering dread. He scarcely heard, till some one said, " Sebastian, — ask, — you have your choice, Ask for your freedom ! " — At the word, The suppliant strove to raise his voice : At first but stilled sobs were heard, And then his prayer, breathed fervently, " O master, make my father free ! " " Him and thyself, my noble boy ! " Warmly the painter cried : Raising Sebastian from his feet, He press'd him to his side. " Thy talents rare, and filial love, E'en more have fairly won ; Still be thou mine by other bonds, — My pupil and my son." Murillo knew, e'en when the words Of generous feeling pass'cl his lips, Sebastian's talents soon must lead To fame, that would his own eclipse ; And, constant to his purpose still, He joy'cl to see his pupil gain, Beneath his care, such matchless skill As made his name the pride of Spain. >XKc POTENCY OF ENGLISH WOEDS. John S. McIntosh. Seek out "acceptable words"; and as ye seek them turn to our English stores. Seeking to be rich in speech, you will find that in the broad ocean of our English literature there are pearls of great price, our POTENCY OF ENGLISH WORDS. 67 potent English words; words that are wizards more mighty than the old Scotch magician ; words that are pictures bright and moving with all the colouring and circumstances of life ; words that go down the century like battle cries ; words that sob like litanies, sing like larks, sigh like zephyrs, shout like seas. Seek amid our exhaustless stores and you will find words that flash like the stars of the frosty sky, or are melting and ten- der like Love's tear-filled eyes; words that are fresh and crisp like the mountain breeze in Autumn, or are mellow and rich as an old painting ; words that are sharp, unbending, and precise like Alpine needle-points, or are heavy and rugged like great nuggets of gold ; words that are glittering and gay like imperial gems, or are chaste and refined like the face of a Muse. Search and ye shall find words that crush like the battle-axe of Richard, or cut like the scimetar of Saladin ; words that sting like a serpent's fangs, or soothe like a mother's kiss ; words that can unveil the nether depths of Hell, or paint out the heavenly heights of purity and peace ; words that can recall a Judas; words that reveal the Christ. Here, then, you have to stir, enrich, control, and culti- vate your plastic minds, a literature that embodies, in the most perfect forms of Elizabethan words, the peer- less gentleness of a Sidney, the unquailing bravery of a Glanville, the quiet majesty of a Cecil, the dashing hardihood of a Raleigh, and the sublime dignity of a Howard. What a rich field of supply is here ! Here is a literature that is marked by terseness and clearness, by soberness and majesty, by sweetness and fullness of expression never surpassed, rarely equalled. Here you have for your guidance and enrichment as speakers a field of literature marked in one department by the 68 CHOICE READINGS. pureness, thoroughness, and calmness of the sage who loves rich, deep, but strongly ruled speech, and shuns with holy scorn all strain after the startling or striking; a literature marked in another department by the white glow of fiery zeal, the rapid rush of the dauntless will, and by the passionate, piercing cry of the deeply stirred but despairing seer ; a literature marked in another de- partment by short, sharp sentences, by pointed anti- theses, striking outbursts, flashing images. This is the literature that presents to you the gathered wealth of the English tongue ; and yet this vast and noble library into which I would introduce you, far from exhausting, only half reveals the marvellous riches of that language whose inexhaustible stores and manifold resources scarcely one amid a thousand speakers ever more than touches. Before us stands a grand instrument of count- less strings, of myriad notes and keys, and we are con- tent with some few hundreds, and these not the purest, richest, deepest, sweetest. If you would be strong of speech, master more of these notes ; let your vocabulary be rich, varied, pure, and proportionate will be your power and attractiveness as speakers. I would have you deeply impressed by the force, fullness, and flexi- bility of our noble tongue, where, if anywhere, the gigantic strength of thought and truth is wedded to the seraphic beauty of perfect utterance. I would have you fling yourselves unhesitatingly out into this great fresh sea, like bold swimmers into the rolling waves of ocean. It will make you healthy, vigorous, supple, and equal to a hundred calls of duty. I would have you cherish sacredly this goodly heritage, won by centuries of Eng- lish thought and countless lives of English toil. I would have you jealous, like the apostle over the Church, over these pure wells of English uncle filed : de- THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 69 grade not our sacred tongue by slang ; defile not its crystal streams with the foul waters of careless speech ; honour its stern old parentage, obey its simple yet se- vere grammar, watch its perfect rhythm, and never mix its blue blood, the gift of noblest sires, with the base puddle of any mongrel race ; never speak half the lan- guage of Ashdod and half of Canaan, but be ye of a pure English lip. THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. William Wordsworth. PART I. A highland boy ! — why call him so ? Because, my children, ye must know That, under hills which rise like towers, Far higher than these hills of ours, He from his birth had lived. He ne'er had seen one earthly sight, — The Slid, the day, the stars, the night; Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, Or woman, man, or child. And yet he neither droop* d nor pined, Nor had a melancholy mind ; For God took pity on the bo}*, And was his friend, and gave him joy Of which we nothing know. His mother, too, no doubt, above Her other children him did love : For, was she here, or was she there, She thought of him with constant care, And more than mother's love. 70 CHOICE READINGS. And proud she was of heart, when, clad In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, And bonnet with a feather ga} T , To kirk he on the Sabbath day Went hand in hand with her. A dog, too, had he ; not for need, But one to play with and to feed ; Which would have led him, if bereft Of compan}' or friends, and left Without a better guide. And then the bagpipes he could blow, And thus from house to house would go ; And all were pleased to hear and see, For none made sweeter melody Than did the poor blind boy. Yet he had many a restless dream ; Both when he heard the eagles scream, And when he heard the torrents roar, Aud heard the water beat the shore Near which their cottage stood. Beside a lake this cottage stood, Not small like ours, a peaceful flood ; But one of mighty size, and strange ; That, rough or smooth, is full of change, And stirring in its bed. For to this lake, by night and day, The great sea-water finds its way Through long, long windings of the hills, And drinks up all the pretty rills, And rivers large and strong : Then hurries back the way it came, — • Returns, on errand still the same : This did it when the Earth was new ; And this for evermore will do As long as Earth shall hist. THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. And, with the coming of the tide. Come boats and ships that safely ride Between the woods and lofty rocks ; And to the shepherds with their flocks Bring tales of other lands. And of those tales, whate'er they were, The blind boy always had his share ; Whether of mighty towers, or vales With warmer suns and softer gales, Or wonders of the Deep. Yet more it pleased him, more it stirr'd, When from the water-side he heard The shouting, and the jolly cheers ; The bustle of the mariners In stillness or in storm. But what do his desires avail? For lie must never handle sail ; Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat, Upon the rocking waves. Thus lived he by Lock-Leven's side Still sounding with the sounding tide, And heard the billows leap and dance. Without a shadow of mischance, Till he was ten years old. PART II. THE BLIND BOY'S SAIL ON THE LAKE. And then, one day, (now mark me well, Ye soon shall know how this befell,) He, in a vessel of his own, On the swift flood is hurrying down, Down to the mighty Sea. 72 CHOICE READINGS. But, say, what bears him? — Ye have seen The Indian's bow, his arrows keen, Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright ; Gifts which, for wonder or delight, Are brought in ships from far. Such gifts had those seafaring men Spread round that haven in the glen ; Each hut, perchance, might have its own ; And to the boy the} 7 all were known, — He knew and prized them all. The rarest was a turtle-shell Which he, poor child, had studied well. He'd heard how, in a shell like this, An English boy, O thought of bliss ! Had stoutly launch'd from shore. Our Highland boy oft visited The house that held this prize ; and, led By choice or chance, did thither come One day when no one was at home, And found the door unbarr'd. While there he sate, alone and blind, That story flash'cl upon his mind : A bold thought roused him ; and he took The shell from out its secret nook, And bore it on his head. He launch'd his vessel ; and in pride Of spirit, from Lock-Leven's side, Stepp'd into it ; his thoughts all free As the light breezes that with glee Sang through th' adventurer's hair. Awhile he stood upon his feet ; He felt the motion, — took his seat ; THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 78 Still better pleased, as more and more The tide retreated from the shore, And suck'd, and suck'cl him in. And there he is in face of Heaven. How rapidly the child is driven ! The fourth part of a mile, I ween, He thus had gone, ere he was seen By airy human eye. But, when he first was seen, O me, What shrieking and what misery ! For man}' saw : among the rest His mother, she who loved him best, She saw her poor blind boy. But, for the child, the sightless boy, It is the triumph of his J03- ! The bravest traveller in balloon, Mounting as if to reach the Moon, Was never half so blest. And let him, let him go his way, Alone, and innocent and gay ! For, if good Angels love to wait On the forlorn unfortunate, This child will take no harm. But quickly with a silent crew A boat is ready to pursue ; And from the shore their course they take, And swiftly down the running lake They follow the blind boy. With sound, the least that can be made, They follow, more and more afraid, More cautious as they draw more near ; But in his darkness he can hear, And guesses their intent. 74 CHOICE READINGS. " Lei-gha, lei-gha!" he then cried out, " Lei-gha, lei-gha!" with eager shout : Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, And what he meant was, " Keep away, And leave me to myself ! " Alas ! and when he felt their hands, — You've often heard of magic wands, That with a motion overthrow A palace of the proudest show, Or melt it into air : So all his dreams, — that inward light With which his soul had shone so bright, All vanish'd : 'twas a heartfelt cross To him, a heavy, bitter loss, As ever he had known. But, hark ! a gratulating voice, With which the very hills rejoice : 'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly Have watch'cl th' event, and now can see That he is safe at last. And in the general joy of heart The blind boy's little dog took part : He leapt about, and oft did kiss His master's hands in sign of bliss, With sound like lamentation. But, most of all, his mother dear, She who had fainted with her fear, Rejoiced when, waking, she espies The child ; when she can trust her eyes, And touches the blind boy, She led him home, and wept amain When he was in the house again : Tears flow'd in torrents from her eyes ; She kiss'd him, — how could she chastise ? She was too happy far. SIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS DOGS. 75 SIE WALTER SOOTT AND HIS DOGS. Washington Irving. As we sallied forth, every dog in the establishment turned out to attend us. There was the old staghound, Maida, a noble animal ; and Hamlet, the black grey- hound, a wild, thoughtless youngster, not yet arrived at the years of discretion ; and Finette, a beautiful setter, with soft, silken hair, long pendent ears, and a mild eye, the parlour favourite. When in front of the house, we were joined by a superannuated grey- hound, who came from the kitchen wagging his tail, and was cheered by Scott as an old friend and comrade. In our walks, he would frequently pause in conversa- tion, to notice his dogs, and speak to them as if rational companions: and, indeed, there appears to be a vast deal of rationality in these faithful attendants on man, derived from their close intimacy with him. Maida deported himself with a gravity becoming his age and size, and seemed to consider himself called upon to preserve a great degree of dignity and decorum in our societv. As he jogged along a little distance ahead of us, the young dogs would gambol about him, leap on his neck, worry at his ears, and endeavour to tease him into a gambol. The old dog would keep on for a long time with imperturbable solemnity, now and then seeming to rebuke the wantonness of his young companions. At length he would make a sud- den turn, seize one of them, and tumble him in the dust; then, giving a glance at us, as much as to say, " You see, gentlemen, I can't help giving way to this nonsense," he would resume his gravity, and jog on as before. 76 CHOICE READINGS. Scott amused himself with these peculiarities. " I make no doubt," said he, " when Maida is alone with these young dogs he throws gravity aside, and plays the boj' as much as any of them ; but he is ashamed to do so in our company, and seems to say, ' Have done with your nonsense, youngsters : what will the laird and that other gentleman think of me if I give way to such foolery?'" Scott amused himself with the peculiarities of another of his dogs, a little shamefaced terrier, with large glassy eyes, one of the most sensitive little bodies to insult and indignity in the world. If ever he whipt him, he said, the little fellow would sneak off and hide himself from the light of day in a lumber-garret, from whence there was no drawing him forth but by the sound of the chopping-knife, as if chopping up his victuals, when he would steal forth Avith humiliated and downcast look, but would skulk away again if any one regarded him. While we were discussing the humours and pecu- liarities of our canine companions, some object provoked their spleen, and produced a sharp and petulant barking from the smaller fry ; but it was some time before Maida Avas sufficiently roused to ramp forward two or three bounds, and join the chorus with a deep-mouthed bow wmv. It was but a transient outbreak, and he re- turned instantly, wagging his tail, and looking up dubiously in his master's face, uncertain whether he would receive censure or applause. " Ay, ay, old boy ! " cried Scott, " you have done wonders ; you have shaken Eildon hills with your roaring: }^ou may now lay by your artillery for the rest of the day." — " Maida," con- tinued he, " is like the great gun at Constantinople : it takes so long* to get it ready, that the smaller guns can fire off a dozen times first ; but when it does go off it plays the very devil." MORNING. / / These simple anecdotes may serve to show the de- lightful play of Scott's humours and feelings in private life. His domestic animals were his friends. Every- thing about him seemed to rejoice in the light of his countenance. MOBKIffG. Daxiel Webster. Richmond, April 29, 5 a.m., 1847. \Vhether it he a favour or an annoyance, you owe this letter to my habit of early rising. From the hour marked at the top of the page, you will naturally con- clude that ni} k companions are not now engaging my attention, as we have not calculated on being early travellers to-day. This city has " a pleasant seat." It is high ; the James river runs below it : and when I went out an hour ago nothing was heard but the roar of the falls. The air is tranquil, and its temperature mild. It is morning : and a morning sweet and fresh and O - o delightful. Everybody knows the morning in its meta- phorical sense, applied to so many objects, and on so man}' occasions. The health, strength, and beauty of early years lead us to call that period ;; the morning of life.'' Of a lovelv young woman we say, she is "bright as the morning " : and no one doubts why Lucifer is called '-son of the morning." But the morning itself, few people, inhabitants of cities, know anything about. Among all our good peo- ple of Boston, not one in a thousand sees the Sun rise once a-year. They know nothing of the morning. Their idea of it is, that it is that part of the day which comes along after a cnp of coffee and a beefsteak, or a CHOICE READINGS. piece of toast. With them, morning is not a new issuing of light; a new bur sting-forth of the Sun; a new waking-up of all that has life, from a sort of temporary death, to behold again the works of God, the heavens and the earth : it is only a part of the domestic day, be- longing to breakfast, to reading the newspapers, answer- ing notes, sending the children to school, and giving orders for dinner. The first faint streaks of light pur- pling the East, which the lark springs up to greet, and the deeper and deeper colouring into orange and red, till at length "the glorious Sun is seen, regent of the day," — this they never enjoy, for this they never see. Beautiful descriptions of the morning abound in all languages ; but they are the strongest perhaps in those of the East, where the Sun is so often an object of wor- ship. King David speaks of taking to himself "the Avings of the morning." This is highly poetical and beautiful. The "wings of the morning" are the beams of the rising Sun. Rays of light are wings. It is thus said that the Sun of Righteousness shall arise "with heal- ing in his wings"; — a rising Sun, which shall scatter light and health and joy throughout the Universe. Milton has fine descriptions of morning, but not so many as Shakespeare, from whose writings pages of the most beautiful images, all founded on the glory of the morning, might be gathered. I never thought that Adam had much advantage of us, from having seen the world while it was new. The manifestations of the power of God, like His mercies, are "new every morning," and "fresh every evening." We see as fine risings of the Sun as ever Adam saw ; and its risings are as much a miracle now as they were in his day, and, I think; a good deal more, because it is now a part of the miracle that for thousands and thousands of FRIDAY S FROLIC WITH A BEAR. 79 years he lias come at his appointed time, without the variation of a millionth part of a second. Adam could not tell how this might be ! I know the morning ; I am acquainted with it, and I love it, fresh and sweet as it is, a daily new creation, breaking forth, and calling all that have life and breath and being to new adoration, new enjoyments, and new gratitude. OO^OO — FRIDAY'S PEOLIO WITH A BEAK. Daniel Defoe. As the bear is a heavy, clumsy creature, and does not gallop as the wolf does, who is swift and light, so he has two particular qualities, which generally are the rule of his actions : first, as to men, who are not his proper prey, if you do not meddle with him, he will not meddle with you : but then you must take care to be very civil to him and give him the road, for he is a very nice gen- tleman; he will not go a step out of his way for a prince : nay, if you are really afraid, your best way is to look another way, and keep going on ; for sometimes, if you stop and stand still, and look steadfastly at him, he takes it for an affront ; but, if you throw or toss anv- thing at him, and it hits him, though it were but a bit of stick as big as your ringer, he thinks himself abused, and sets all other business aside to pursue his revenge, and will have satisfaction in point of honour. This is his first quality : the next is, if he be once affronted, he will never leave you night nor day, till he has his re- venge, bnt follows, at a good round rate, till he over- takes you. My man Friday had delivered our guide, and, when SO CHOICE READINGS. we came up to him, on a sudden, we espied the bear come out of the wood, and a vast, monstrous one it was, the biggest by far that ever I saw. We were all a little surprised when we saw him ; but, when Friday saw him, it was eas}^ to see joy and courage in the fellow's coun- tenance : 0,0,0 ! says Friday, three times, pointing to him ; O master ! you give me te leave, me shakee te hand with him ; me makee you good laugh. I was surprised to see the fellow so well pleased: You fool, says I, he will eat you up. — Eatee me up ! eatee me up ! says Friday, twice over again ; me eatee him up ; me makee you good laugh : you all stay here, me show you good laugh. So down he sits, and gets off his boots in a moment, and puts on a pair of pumps, gives my other servant his horse, and with his gun away he flew, swift like the wind. The bear was walking slowly on, and offered to med- dle with nobody, till Friday coming pretty near, calls to him, as if the bear could understand him, Hark ye, hark ye, says Friday, me speakee with you. We followed at a distance ; for now Ave were entered a great forest, where the country was plain and pretty open, though it had many trees in it scattered here and there. Friday, who had, as we say, the heels of the bear, came up with him quickly, and takes up a great stone and throws it at him, and hit him just on the head, but did him no more harm than if he had thrown it against a wall ; but it ansAvered Friday's end, for the rogue Avas so void of fear that he did it purely to make the bear folloAV him, and show us some laugh as he called it. As soon as the bear felt the bloAv, and saAV him, he turns about, and conies after him, taking long strides, and shuffling on at a strange rate, such as would have put a horse to a middling gallop; away runs Friday, Friday's frolic with a bear. . 81 and takes his course as if he run towards us for help ; so we all resolved to fire at once upon the bear, and de- liver my man ; though I was angry at him heartily for bringing the bear back upon us, when he was going about his own business another way ; and especially I was angry that he had turned the bear upon us, and then run away ; and I called out, You dog, is this your making us laugh? Come away, and take your horse, that we may shoot the creature. He heard me, and cried out, No shoot, no shoot ; stand still, and you get much laugh ; and as the nimble creature ran two feet for the bear's one, he turned on a sudden, on one side of us, and, seeing a great oak tree fit for his purpose, he beckoned to us to follow ; and doubling his pace, he gets nimbly up the tree, laying his gun down upon the ground, at about five or six yards from the bottom of the tree. The bear soon came to the tree, and we followed at a distance : the first thing- he did, he stopped at the gun, smelt to it, but let it lie, and up he scrambles into the tree, climbing like a cat, though so monstrous heavy. I was amazed at the folly, as I thought it, of my man, and could not for my life see any thing to laugh at yet, till, seeing the bear get up the tree, we all rode near to him. When we came to the tree, there was Friday got out to the small end of a large branch, and the bear got about half way to him. As soon as the bear got out to that part where the limb of the tree was weaker, — Ha ! says he to us, now you see me teachee the bear dance : so he falls a-jumping and shaking the bough, at which the bear began to totter, but stood still, and began to look behind him, to see how he should get back; then, indeed, we did laugh heartily. But Friday had not done with him by a great deal ; when, seeing him 82 . CHOICE READINGS. stand still, lie calls out to him again, as if he had sup- posed the bear could speak English, What, you come no further ? pray you come further : so he left jumping and shaking the tree ; and the bear, just as if he understood what he said, did come a little further ; then he fell a- jumping again, and the bear stopped again. We thought now was a good time to knock him on the head, and called to Friday to stand still, and we would shoot the bear : but he cried out earnestly, O pray ! O pray ! no shoot, me shoot by-and-then ; he would have said by-and-by. However, Friday danced so much, and the bear stood so ticklish, that we had laughing enough, but still could not imagine what the fellow would do : for first we thought he depended upon shaking the bear off; and we found the bear was too cunning for that too ; for he would not go out far enough to be thrown down, but clings fast with his great broad claws and feet, so that we could not im- agine what would be the end of it, and what the jest would be at last. But Friday puts us out of doubt quickly : for, seeing the bear cling fast to the bough, and that he would not come any further, Well, well, says Friday, you no come further, me go ; you no come to me, me come to you : and, upon this, he goes out to the smaller end of the bough, where it would bend with his weight, and gently lets himself down by it, till he came near enough to jump down on his feet, and away he runs to his gun, takes it up, and stands still. Well, said I to him, Fri- day, what will you do now ? Why don't you shoot him ? — No shoot, says Friday, no yet ; me no shoot now, me no kill ; me stay, give you one more laugh ; and, indeed, so he did: for when the bear saw his enemy gone, he comes back from the bough where he stood, but did it Crusoe's fight with wolves. 83 mighty cautiously, looking behind him every step, and coming backward till he got into the body of the tree ; then, with the same hinder-end foremost, he came down the tree, grasping it with his claws, and moving one foot at a time, very leisurely. At this juncture, and just be- fore he could set his hind-foot on the ground, Friday stepped up close to him, clapped the muzzle of his piece, into his ear, and shot him dead. Then the rogue turned about, to see if we did not laugh ; and when he saw we were pleased, by our looks, he falls a laughing himself very loud. So we kill bear in my countiy, says Friday. So you kill them ? says I : why, you have no guns. — No, says he, no gun, but shoot great much long arrow. CEUSOE'S HQHT WITH WOLVES. Daniel Defoe. The ground was still covered with snow, though not so deep and dangerous as on the mountains ; and the ravenous creatures were come down into the forest and plain countr} r to seek for food, and had done a great deal of mischief in the villages, where they killed a great many sheep and horses, and some people too. We had one dangerous place to pass, of which our guide told us, if there were more wolves in the country we should find them there ; and this was a small plain, sur- rounded with woods on every side, and a long narrow defile, or lane, which we were to pass to get through the wood, and then we should come to the village where we were to lodge. It was within half an hour of sunset when we entered the first wood, and a little after sunset when we came into the plain. We met with nothing in the first wood, except that, 84 CHOICE READINGS. in a little plain within the wood, which was not above two furlongs over, we saw five great wolves cross the road, full speed one after another, as if they had been in chase of some prey, and had it in view ; they took no notice of us, and were gone out of sight in a few mo- ments. Upon this our guide, who, by the way, was but a faint-hearted fellow, bid us keep in a ready posture, for he believed there were more wolves a-coming. We kept our arms ready, and our eyes about us ; but we saw no more wolves till we came through that wood, which was near half a league, and entered the plain. As soon as we came into the plain, we had occasion enough to look about us : the first object we met with was a dead horse, that is to say, a poor horse which the wolves had killed, and at least a dozen of them at work, we could not say eating of him, but picking of his bones rather; for they had eaten up all the flesh before. We did not think fit to disturb them at their feast ; neither did they take much notice of us. Friday would have let fly at them, but I would not suffer him by any means ; for I found we were like to have more business upon our hands than we were aware of. We were not gone half over the plain, when we be- gan to hear the wolves howl in the wood on our left in a frightful manner, and presently after we saw about a hundred coming on directly towards us, all in a body, and most of them in a line, as regularly as an army drawn up by an experienced officer. I scarce knew in what manner to receive them, but found to draw our- selves in a close line was the only way : so we formed in a moment : but, that we might not have too much interval, I ordered that only every other man should fire, and that the others who had not fired should stand ready to give them a second volley immediately, if they ckusoe's fight with wolves. 85 continued to advance upon us ; and then that those who had fired at first should not pretend to load their fusees again, but stand ready every one with a pistol, for we were all armed with a fusee and a pair of pistols each man : so we were, by this method, able to fire six volleys, half of us at a time. However, at present we had no necessity : for, upon the first volley, the enemy made a full stop, being terri- fied as well with the noise as with the fire ; four of them, being shot in the head, dropped ; several others were wounded, and went bleeding off, as we could see by the snow. I found they stopped, but did not im- mediately retreat ; whereupon, remembering that the fiercest creatures were terrified at the voice of a man, I caused all the company to halloo as loud as we could; and, upon our shout, they began to retire, and turn about. I then ordered a second volley to be fired in their rear, which put them to the gallop, and away they went to the woods. This gave us leisure to charge our pieces again; and we had but little more than loaded our fusees, and put ourselves in readiness, when we heard a terrible noise in the same wood, on our left, only that it was further onward, the same way we were to go. The night was coming on, and the light began to be dusky, which made it worse on our side ; but, the noise increasing, we could easily perceive that it was the howling and yelling of those hellish creatures ; and on a sudden we perceived two or three troops of wolves, one on our left, one behind us, and one in our front, so that we seemed to be surrounded with them : however, as they did not fall upon us, we kept our way forward, as fast as we could make our horses go, which, the way being very rough, was only a good hard trot. In this 86 CHOICE READINGS. manner we came in view of the entrance of the wood, through which we were to pass, at the further side of the plain ; but we were greatly surprised, when, coming nearer the lane or pass, we saw a confused number of wolves standing just at the entrance. This filled us with horror, and we knew not what course to take ; but the creatures resolved us soon, for they gathered about us presently, in hopes of prey ; and I verily believe there were three hundred of them. It happened very much to our advantage, that at the en- trance into the wood, there lay some large timber trees, which had been cut down the Slimmer before, and I sup- pose lay there for carriage. I drew my little troop in among those trees, and, placing ourselves in a line be- hind one long tree, I advised them all to alight, and, keeping that tree before us for a breastwork, to stand in a triangle or three fronts enclosing our horses in the centre. We did so, and it was well we did ; for never was a more furious charge than the creatures made upon us in this place. They came on with a growling kind of noise, and mounted the piece of timber, which was our breastwork, as if they were only rushing upon their prey ; and this fury of theirs, it seems, was princi- pally occasioned by their seeing our horses behind us. I ordered our men to fire as before, every other man ; and they took their aim so sure, that they killed several of the wolves at the first volley ; but there was a neces- sity to keep a continual firing, for they came on like devils, those behind pushing on those before. When we had fired a second volley of our fusees, we thought they stopped a little, and I hoped they would go off; but it was but a moment, for others came for- ward again: so we fired two volleys of our pistols ; and I believe in these four firings we killed seventeen or Crusoe's fight with wolves. 87 eighteen of them, and lamed twice as many, yet they came on again. I was loth to spend our shot too hastily ; so I called my servant, and, giving him a horn of powder, I bade him lay a train all along the piece of timber, and let it be a large train. He did so ; and had but just time to get away, when the wolves came up to it, and some got upon it, when I, snapping an uncharged pistol close to the powder, set it on fire : those that were upon the timber were scorched with it; and six or seven of them fell or rather jumped in among us, with the force and fright of the fire : we dispatched these in an instant, and the rest were so frightened with the light, which the night, for it was now very near dark, made more terrible, that they drew back a little ; upon which I ordered our last pistols to be fired off in one volley, and after that we gave a shout: upon this the wolves turned tail, and we sallied immediately upon near twenty lame ones, that we found struggling on the ground, and fell a cutting them with our swords, which answered our expectation ; for the crying and howling they made was better understood by their fellows ; so that they all fled and left us. We had, first and last, killed about threescore of them ; and, had it been daylight, we had killed many more. The field of battle being thus cleared, we made forward again, for we had still near a league to go. We heard the ravenous creatures howl and yell in the woods as we went, seA^eral times, and sometimes we fancied we saw some of them, but, the snow dazzling our eyes, we were not certain: in about an hour more we came to the town where we were to lodge, which Ave found in a terrible fright, and all in arms ; for, the night before, the wolves and some bears had broke into the village, and put them in such terror, that they were 88 CHOICE READINGS. obliged to keep guard night and day, but especially in the night, to preserve their cattle, and, indeed, their people. LADY CLAEA YEEE DE VEEE. Alfred Tennyson. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown : You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town., At me you smiled, but unbeguilecl I saw the snare, and I retired : The daughter of a hundred Earls, Y r ou are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name ; Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came : Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lad} 7 Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find ; For, were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is mv reply : The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head : Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 81) O, your sweet eyes, your low replies ! A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you : Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear ; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the cast of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door ; You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth ; And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me 'Tis only noble to be good : Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : You pine among your halls and towers ; The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, 90 CHOICE READINGS. You know so ill to deal with time. You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor an}' poor about your lands ? O ! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew ; Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. OTJK TEA YELLED PAKSOtf. Will Carleton. For twenty years and over our good parson had been toiling To chip the bad meat from our hearts, and keep the good from spoiling ; But finally he wilted down, and went to looking sickly, And the doctor said that something must be put up for him quickly. So we kind of clubb'd together, each according to his notion, And bought a circular ticket in the lands across the ocean ; Wrapp'd some pocket money in it, — what we thought would easy do him, — And appointed me committee-man to go and take it to him. I found him in his study, looking rather worse than ever, And told him 'twas decided that his flock and he should sever: Then his eyes grew wide with wonder, and it seem'd almost to blind 'em ; And some tears look'd out o' window, with some others close behind 'em. Then I handed him the ticket, with a little bow of deference ; And he studied quite a little ere he got his proper reference ; And then the tears that waited, great unmanageable creatures, Let themselves quite out o' window, and came trickling down his • features. I wish you could ha' seen him, coming back all fresh and glowing, His clothes so worn and seed}^, and his face so fat and knowing ; I wish you could have heard him when he pray'd for us who sent him, And paid us back twice over all the money we had lent him. oub travell::;) pakson. 91 Twas a feast to all believers, 'twas a blight on contradiction. To hear one just from Calvary talk about the crucifixion ; 'Twas a damper on those fellows who pretended they could doubt it. To have a man. who'd been there, stand and tell them all about it. Paul, maybe, beat our pastor in the Bible knots unravelling, And establishing new churches : but he couldn't touch him trav- elling : Xor in his journeys pick up half the general information : But then he hadn't the railroads and the steamboat navigation. And every foot of Scripture whose location used to stump us Was now regularly laid out. with the different points of compass. When he undertook a picture, he quite natural would draw it : He would paint it out so honest that it seem'd as if you saw it. An' the way he chisell'd Europe, — - O, the way he scamper'd through it ! Xot a mountain dodged his climbing, not a city but he knew it : There wasn't any subject to explain in all creation. But he could go to Europe and bring back an illustration. So we crowded out to hear him. much instructed and delighted : 'Twas a picture-show, a lecture, and a sermon, all united : And my wife would wipe her glasses, and serenely pet her Test'- ment. And whisper. " That ere ticket was a very good investment." Now, after six months' travel we were most of us all ready To settle down a little, so's to live more staid and steady ; To develop home resources, with no foreign cares to fret us, Using home-made faith more frequent : but the parson wouldn't let us. To view the self-same scenery time and time again he'd call us : Over rivers, plains, and mountains he would any minute haul us : He slighted our home sorrows, and our spirits' aches and ailings, To get the cargoes ready for Ms reg'lar Sunday sailings. He would take us off a-touring in all spiritual weather. Till Ave at last got homesick-like, and seasick altogether : And -I wish to all that's peaceful," said one free-expression 'd brother. • ; That the Lord had made one cont'nent, and then never made another ! " Sometimes, indeed, he'd take us into sweet, familiar places, And pull along quite steady in the good old gospel traces : But soon my wife wotdd shudder, just as if a chill had got her. Whispering, " 0. my goodness gracious ! he's a-takin' to the v:at ;■ i 92 CHOICE READINGS. And it wasn't the same old comfort when he calPd around to see us ; On a branch of foreign travel he was sure at last to tree us : All unconscious of his error, he would sweetly patronize us, And with oft-repeated stories still endeavour to surprise us. And the sinners got to laughing ; and that fm'lly gall'd and stung us To ask him, " Would he kindly once more settle down among us ? Didn't he think that more home-produce would improve our souls' digestions? " They appointed me committee-man to go and ask the questions. I found him in his garden, trim an' buoyant as a feather ; He press'd my hand, exclaiming, "This is quite Italian weather; How it 'minds me of the evenings when, your distant hearts caressing, Upon my benefactors I invoked the heaven ly blessing ! " I went and told the brothers, " No, I cannot bear to grieve him ; He's so happy in his exile, it's the proper place to leave him. I took that journey to him, and right bitterly I rue it ; But I cannot take it from him : if you want to, go and do it." Now a new restraint entirely seem'd next Sunday to infold him, And he look'd so hurt and humbled that I knew some one had told him. Subdued-like was his manner, and some tones were hardly vocal ; But every word he utter'd was pre-eminently local. The sermon sounded awkward, and we awkward felt who heard it : 'Twas a grief to see him hedge it, 'twas a pain to hear him word it : " When I was in — " was, maybe, half a dozen times repeated, But that sentence seem'd to scare him, and was always uncom- pleted. As weeks went on, his old smile would occasionally brighten, But the voice was growing feeble, and the face began to whiten : He would look off to the eastward with a listful, weary sighing ; And 'twas whisper'd that our pastor in a foreign land was dying. The coffin lay 'mid garlands smiling sad as if they knew us ; The patient face within it preach'd a final sermon to us : Our parson had gone touring on a trip he'd long been earning, In that wonder-land whence tickets are not issued for returning. O tender, good-soul'cl shepherd! your sweet smiling lips, half- parted, Told of scenery that burst on you just the minute that you started ! Could you preach once more among us, you might wander without fearing ; You could give us tales of glory we would never tire of hearing. HAPPINESS OF ANIMALS. 93 HAPPINESS OF ANIMALS. William Cowper. Here unmolested, through whatever sign The Sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist, Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me, Nor stranger intermeddling with my 303*. Even in the Spring and playtime of the year, That calls th' unwonted villager abroad With all her little ones, a sportive train, To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, These shades are all my own. The timorous hare, Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, Scarce shuns me ; and the stockdove unalarm'd Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends His long love-ditty for my near approach. Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm That age or injury has hollo w'd deep. Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves He has outslept the Winter, ventures forth, To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun, The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play. He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, Ascends the neighbouring beech ; there whisks his brush, And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud, With all the prettiuess of feign'd alarm, And anger insignificantly fierce. The heart is hard in nature, and unfit For human fellowship, as being void Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike To love and friendship both, that is not pleased With sight of animals enjoying life. Xor feels their happiness augment his own. The bounding fawn that darts across the glade When none pursues, through mere delight of heart 94 CHOICE READINGS. And spirits buoyant with excess of glee ; The horse, as wanton and almost as fleet, That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, Then stops and snorts, and, throwing high his heel Starts to the voluntary race again ; The very kine that gambol at high noon, The total herd receiving first, from one That leads the dance, a summons to be gay. Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent To give such act and utterance as they may To ecstas\' too big to be suppress'd ; — These, and a thousand images of bliss, With which kind Nature graces every scene Where cruel man defeats not her design, Impart to the benevolent, who wish All that are capable of pleasure pleased, A far superior happiness to theirs, — The comfort of a reasonable joy. GENEVIEVE. 95 II. LOVE, BEAUTY, TRANQUILLITY. GENEVIEVE. S. T. Coleridge. Maid of 1113^ Love, sweet Genevieve ! In Beauty's light yon glide along ; Your eye is like the star of eve, And sweet your Voice as Seraph's song. Yet not 3'our heavenly Beaut} T gives This heart with passion soft to glow : Within your soul a Voice there lives ! It bids you hear the tale of Woe. When sinking low the Sufferer wan Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save, Fair, as the bosom of the Swan That rises graceful o'er the wave, I've seen your breast with pity heave, And therefore love I 3-ou, sweet Genevieve ! All flioughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruin'd tower. 96 CHOICE READINGS. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! She lean'd against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listen'd to my la}', Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story, — An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild arid hoary. She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he woo'd The Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined ; and, ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love Interpreted my own. She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face ! GENEVIEVE. 97 But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross' d the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, — There came and look'd him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight ; And that, unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land ; — And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees ; And how she tended hira in vain, — And ever strove to expiate That scorn that crazed his brain ; — And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away, When on the 3-ellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay ; — His dying words, — but when I reach'd That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturb' d her soul with pit} T ! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve ; 98 CHOICE READINGS. And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, And undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish'd long ! She wept with pit}' and delight, She blush'd with love and virgin-shame ; And, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved, — she stepp'd aside, As conscious of my look she stepp'd, — - Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She (led to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace ; And, bending back her head, look'd up, And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin-pride ; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride. >>®4 c SEEN, LOVED, WEDDED. William Wordsworth. She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight ; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament : MR. GRAHAM AND LADY CLEMENTINA. 99 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and wa}~lay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly plann'cl To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light. ME. GEAHAM AND LADY CLEMENTINA. George MacDonald. Him only in all London must she see to bid good-bye. As usual now, she was shown into his room, — his only one. As usual also, she found him poring over his Greek Testament. The gracious, graceful woman 100 CHOICE READINGS. looked lovelily strange in that mean chamber, like an opal in a brass ring. There was no such contrast be- tween the room and its occupant. His bodily presence was too weak to "stick fiery off" from its surround- ings ; and, to the eye that saw through the bodily pres- ence to the inherent grandeur, that grandeur suggested no discrepancy, being of the kind that lifts everything to its own level, casts the mantle of its own radiance over its surroundings. Still, to the eye of love and rev- erence, it was not pleasant to see him in such entourage, and, now that Clementina was going to leave him, the ministering spirit that dwelt in the woman was troubled. "Ah ! " he said, and rose as she entered, " this is then the angel of my deliverance ! " But with such a smile he did not look as if he had much to be delivered from. " You see," he went on, " old man as I am, and peace- ful, the Summer will lay hold upon me. She stretches out a long arm into this desert of houses and stones, and sets me longing after the green fields and the living air — it seems dead here — and the face of God, as much as one may behold of the Infinite through the revealing veil of earth and sky and sea. I was even getting a little tired of that glorious God-and-man lover, Saul of Tarsus : no, not of him, never of him, only of his shadow in his words. Yet perhaps — yes, I think so — it is God alone of whom a man can never get tired. Well, no matter : tired I Avas, when, lo ! here comes my pupil, with more of God in her face than all the worlds and their skies He ever made." "I would my heart were as full of Him too, then, sir," answered Clementina. " But, if I am anything of a comfort to you, I am more than glad ; therefore the more sorry to tell you that I am going to leave you, though for a little while only, I trust." MR. GRAHAM AND LADY CLEMENTINA. 101 " You do not take rue by surprise, my lady. I have of course been looking forward for some time to my loss and your gain. The world is full of little deaths, — deaths of all sorts and sizes, rather let me say. For this one I was prepared. The good summer-land calls you to its bosom, and you must go." " Come with me," cried Clementina, her eyes eager with the light of a sudden thought, while her heart re- proached her grievously that only now first had it come to her. " A man must not leave the most irksome work for the most peaceful pleasure," answered the schoolmaster. " I am able to live — yes, and do my work — without you, my lady," he added with a smile, " though I shall miss you sorely." " But you do not know where I want you to come," she said. " What difference can that make, my lady, except in- deed in the amount of pleasure to be refused, seeing this is not a matter of choice ? I must be with the chil- dren whom I have engaged to teach, and whose parents pay me for my labour ; not with those who, besides, can do well without me." " I cannot, sir, — not for long at least." " What ! not with Malcolm to supply my place ? " Clementina blushed, but only like a white rose. She did not turn her head aside : she did not lower their lids to veil the light she felt mount into her eyes : she looked him gently in the face as before, and her aspect of entreaty did not change. "Ah! do not be unkind, master," she said. " Unkind ! " he repeated. " You know I am not. I have more kindness in my heart than my lips can tell. You do not know, you could not yet imagine, the half of what I hope of and for and from you." 102 CHOICE READINGS. " I am going to see Malcolm," she said with a little sigh. "That is, I am going to visit Lady Lossie at her place in Scotland, — your own old home, where so many must love you. Cant you come ? I shall be travelling alone, quite alone, except my servants." A shadow came over the schoolmaster's face : " You do not think, my lady, or you would not press me. It pains me that you do not see at once it would be dis- honest to go without timely notice to my pupils, and to the public too. But, beyond that, I go not where I wish, but where I seem to be called or sent. I never even wish much, except when I pray to Him in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. After what He wants to give me I am wishing all day long. I used to build many castles, not without a beauty of their own, — that was when I had less under- standing, — now I leave them to God to build for me : He does it better, and the}^ last longer. See now, this very hour, when I needed help, could I have contrived a more lovely annihilation of the monotony that threat- ened to invade my weary spirit than this inroad of light in the person of my Lady Clementina? Nor will He allow me to get overwearied with vain efforts. I do not think He will keep me here long, for I cannot do much for these children. They are but some of His many pagans, — not yet quite ready to receive Chris- tianity, I think, — not like children with some of the old seeds of the truth buried in them, that want to be turned up nearer to the light. True, I might be hap- pier where I could hear the larks; but I do not know that anywhere I have been more peaceful than in this little room, in which I see you so often cast round your eyes curiously, perhaps pitifully, my lady." " It is not at all a fit place for you" said Clementina, with a touch of indignation. MR. GRAHAM AND LADY CLEMENTINA. 103 " Softly, my lady, lest, without knowing it, your love should make you sin. Who set thee, I pray, for a guardian angel over my welfare ? I could scarce have a lovlier, true ; but where is thy brevet ? No, my lady : it is a greater than thou that sets me the bounds of my habitation. Perhaps He may give me a palace one day. If I might choose, it would be things that belong to a cottage, — the whiteness and the greenness and the sweet odours of cleanliness. But the Father has decreed for His children that they shall know the thing that is neither their ideal nor His. But perhaps, my lady, you would not pity my present condition so much, if you had seen the cottage in which I was born, and where my father and mother loved each other, and died hap- pier than on their wedding-day. When do you go?" "To-morrow morning, as I purpose." " Then God be with thee ! He is with thee, only my prayer is that thou mayst know it." " Tell me one thing before I go," said Clementina : " are we not commanded to bear each other's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ ? I read it to-day." " Then why ask me ? " " For another question : does not that involve the command to those who have burdens, that they should allow others to bear them?" " Surely, my lady. But I have no burden to let you bear." "Why should I have everything and you nothing? Answer me that." " My lady, I have millions more than }^ou, for I have been gathering the crumbs under my Master's table for thirty years." " You are a king," answered Clementina. "But a king needs a handmaiden somewhere in his house : that 104 CHOICE READINGS. let me be in yours. No, I will be proud, and assert my rights : I am your daughter. If not, why am I here ? You cannot cast me off if you would. Why should you be poor when I am rich? You are poor; you cannot deny it," she concluded with a serious playfulness. "I will not deny my privileges," said the school- master, with a smile such as might have acknowledged the possession of some exquisite and envied rarity. " I believe," insisted Clementina, " you are just as poor as the apostle Paul when he sat down to make a tent, or as our Lord himself after He gave up carpen- tering." " You are wrong there, my lady. I am not so poor as they must often have been." " But I don't know how long I may be away, and you may fall ill, or — or — see some — some book you want very much, or — " " I never do," said the schoolmaster. " What ! never see a book you want to have ? " "No, not now. I have my Greek Testament, my Plato, and my Shakespeare, and one or two little books besides whose wisdom I have not yet quite exhausted." " I can't bear it ! " cried Clementina, almost on the point of weeping. " Let me be your servant." As she spoke she rose, and, walking softly to him where he sat, kneeled at his knees and held out suppliantly a little bag of white silk tied with crimson. " Take it, — father," she said, hesitating; "take your daughter's offering, — a poor thing to show her love, but some- thing to ease her heart." He took it, and weighed it up and down in his hand with an amused smile, bent his eyes full on her tears. It was heavy. He emptied it on the seat of a chair. " 1 never saw so much gold in my life, if it were all taken MR. GRAHAM AND LADY CLEMENTINA. 105 together," lie said. " But I don't want it, my dear. It would trouble me." As he spoke he began to put it in the bag again. " You will want it for your journey," he said. "I have plenty in my reticule," she answered. " That is a mere nothing to what I could have for writing a cheque. Tell me true : how much money have you? " She said this with such an earnest look of simple love, that the schoolmaster made haste to rise, that he might conceal his growing emotion. "Rise, my dear lady," he said as he rose himself, " and I will show you." He gave her his hand, and she obeyed, but troubled and disappointed, and so stood looking after him while he went to a drawer. Thence, searching in a corner of it, he brought a half-sovereign, a few shillings, and some coppers, and held them out to her on his hand with the smile of one wdio has proved his point. " There ! " he said, " do you think Saint Paul would have stopped preaching to make a tent so long as he had as much as that in his pocket ? " Clementina had been struggling with herself : now she burst into tears. " Why, what a misspending of precious sorrow ! " ex- claimed the schoolmaster. "Do you think because a man has not a gold-mine he must die of hunger?" As he spoke he took her handkerchief from her hand, and dried her tears with it. But he had enough to do to keep back his own. " Because I won't take a bag full of gold from you when I don't want it," he went on, " do you think I should let myself starve without com- ing to you? I promise you I will let you know — -come to you if I can — the moment I get too hungry to do my work well, and have no money left. Should I think it a disgrace to take money from you ? That would 106 CHOICE READINGS. show a poverty of spirit such as I hope never to fall into. My sole reason for refusing now is that I do not need it." But for all his loving words and assurances Clemen- tina could not stay her tears. " See, then, for your tears are hard to bear, my daugh- ter," he said, " I will take one of these golden ministers ; and, if it has flown from me ere you come, I will ask you for another. It may be God's will that you should feed me for a time." A moment of silence followed, broken only by Clem- entina's failures in quieting herself. "To me," he resumed, "the sweetest fountain of money is the hand of love, but a man has no right to take it from that fountain except he is in want of it. I am not." He opened again the bag, and slowly, reverentially indeed, drew from it one of the new sovereigns, put it in his pocket, and laid the bag on the table. " But your clothes are shabby, sir," said Clementina, looking at him with a sad little shake of the head. " Are they ? " he returned, and looked down at his lower garments, reddening and anxious. "If you tell me, my lady, if you honestly tell me, that my garments " — and he looked at the sleeve of his coat — "are un- sightly, I will take of your money to buy me a new suit." Over his coat-sleeve he regarded her, ques- tioning. " Everything about you is beautiful," she burst out. " You want nothing but a body that lets the light through." She took the hand still raised in his survey of his sleeve, pressed it to her lips, and walked slowly from the room. He took the bag of gold from the table, and followed THE BRIDGE. 107 her down the stair. Her chariot was waiting for her at the door. He handed her in, and laid the bag on the little seat in front. THE BEIDGE. H. W. Longfellow. I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the Moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church- tower. I saw her bright reflection In the waters under rne, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And, far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace G-leam'd redder than the Moon. Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seem'd to lift and bear them awa}- ; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Eose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The sea- weed floated wide. And, like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That fill'd my eyes with tears. 108 CHOICE READINGS. How often, O, how often, In the days that had gone b^y, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky r ! How often, O, how often, I had wish'd that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide ! For nry heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seem'd greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea ; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet, whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odour of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care-encumber'd men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have cross'd the bridge since then. I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow ! And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes : THE CHILDREN. 109 The Moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear. As the symbol of love in Heaven, And its wavering image here. THE CHILDKEN. Charles Dickens. "When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissal. And the little ones gather around me, To bid me ki good night " and be kiss'd ; 0. the little white arms that encircle My neck in a tender embrace ; O. the smiles that are halos of Heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face. And when they are gone I sit dreaming Of m}- childhood too lovely to last ; Of love that my heart will remember, While it wakes to the pulse of the past, — Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin ; When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within. O. my heart grows as weak as a woman's, And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony "Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of fate blowing wild : O, there's nothing on Earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child. They are idols of hearts and of households ; They are angels of God in disguise ; 110 CHOICE READINGS. His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses ; His glory still gleams in their eyes. O, those truants from home and from Heaven, The} 7 have made me more manly and mild, And I know now how Jesus could liken The Kingdom of God to a child. I ask not a life for the dear ones All radiant, as others have done ; But that life lmiy have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the Sun ; I would pra}' God to guard them from evil, But m}? prayer would bound back to myself ; O, a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself. The twig is so easily bended, I have banish' d the rule and the rod ; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the wisdom of God. My heart is a dungeon of darkness, Where I shut them from breaking a rule ; M} T frown is sufficient correction ; My love is the law of the school. I shall leave the old house in the Autumn, To traverse its threshold no more ; Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones That muster' d each morn at the door ! I shall miss the " good-nights" and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee. The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning to me. I shall miss them at morn and at eve, Their song in the school and the street ; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tramp of their delicate feet. IMMORTALITY OF LOVE. Ill When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And Death says, " the school is dismiss'd ! " Ma}- the little ones gather around me, To bid me " good night " and be kiss'd. [It is stated that the above Poem was found in the desk of Charles Dickens after his death.] IMMOETALITY OF LOVE. Robert Southey. Three happy beings are there here, The Sire, the Maid, the Glendoveer : A fourth approaches ; — Who is this That enters in the Bower of Bliss? No form so fair might painter find Amono- the dauo-hters of mankind ; For death her beauties hath refined, And unto her a form hath given Framed of the elements of Heaven, — Pure dwelling-place for perfect mind. She stood and gazed on Sire and Child ; Her tongue not yet had power to speak, The tears were streaming down her cheek And when those tears her sight beguiled, And still her faltering accents fail'd, The Spirit, mute and motionless, Spread out her arms for the caress, Made still and silent with excess Of love and painful happiness. The Maid that lovely form surve3 T 'd ; Wistful she gazed, and knew her not, But Nature to her heart convey'd A sudden thrill, a startling thought, A feeling many a 3 r ear forgot. Now like a dream anew recurring, 112 CHOICE READINGS. As if again in every vein Her mother's milk were stirring. With straining neck and earnest eye She stretch'd her hands imploringly, As if she fain would have her nigh, Yet fear'd to meet the wish'd embrace, At once with love and awe opprest. Not so Ladurlad : he could trace, Though brighten' d with angelic grace, His own Yedillian's earthly face : He ran and held her to his breast. O joy above all joys of Heaven, By death alone to others given, This moment hath to him restored The early-lost, the long-deplored ! They sin who tell us Love can die : With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity : In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell, Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell ; Earthly these passions of the Earth, They perish where they have their birth ; But Love is indestructible. Its holy flame forever burnetii, From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth : Too oft on Earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times opprest, It here is tried and purified. Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest : It soweth here with toil and care, But th' harvest time of Love is there. THE ASTROLOGICAL TOWER . Ill THE ASTROLOGICAL IO^TEE. Schiller : Translated by Coleridge. It was a strange Sensation that came o'er me. when at first From the broad sunshine I stepp'd in : and now The narrowing line of daylight, that ran after The closing door, was gone : and all about me Twas pale and dusky night, with many shadows Fantastically cast. Here six or seven Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me In a half-circle. Each one in his hand A sceptre bore, and on his head a star: Aud in the tower no other light was there But from these stars : all seem'd to come from them. •• These are the planets/' said that low old man : •• They govern worldly fates, and for that cause Are imaged here as king-. He farthest from you. Spiteful and cold, an old man melancholy. "With bent and yellow forehead, he is Saturn. He opposite, the king with the red light. An ann'd man for the battle, that is Mars : And both these bring but little luck to man." But at his side a lovely lady stood : The star upon her head was soft and bright. And that was Venus, the bright star of joy. On the left hand, lo ! Mercury, with win_- : in the middle glitter' d silver bright A cheerful man. and with a monarch's mien : And this was Jupiter, my father's star : And at his side I saw the Sun and Moon. O. never rudely will I blame his faith In the might t : stars and angel? ! "Tis not merely The human being's Pride that peoples space "With life and mystical predominance : Since likewise for the stricken heart of Love 114 CHOICE READINGS. This visible Nature, and this common world, Is all too narrow ; yea^ a deeper import Lurks in the legend told my infant years Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn. For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth-place ; Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans And spirits ; and delightedly believes Divinities, being himself divine. Th' intelligible forms of ancient poets, The fair humanities of old religion, The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and watery depths, — all these have vanish'd ; The}' live no longer in the faith of reason ! But still the heart doth need a language, still Doth the old instinct bring back the old names ; And to 3011 starry world they now are gone, Spirits or gods, that used to share this Earth With man as with their friend ; and to the lover Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky Shoot influence down : and even at this day 'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great, And Venus who brings everything that's fair. A LOST OHOED. Adelaide Anne Proctor. Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wander' d idly Over the noisy keys. I do not know what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming then, Biit I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a o T eat Amen. MEMORY. 115 It flooded the crimson twilight, Like the close of an angel's psalm, And it lay on m} r fever' d spirit, With a touch of infinite calm. It quieted pain and sorrow, Like love overcoming strife ; It seem'd the harmonious echo From our discordant life. It link'd all perplex'd meanings Into one perfect peace, And trembled away into silence, As if it were loth to cease. I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost chord divine, That came from the soul of the organ, And enter'd into mine. It may be that Death's bright angel Will speak in that chord again ; It may be that only in Heaven I shall hear that grand Amen. *XXc ODE TO TEANQUILLITY. S, T. Coleridge. Tranquillity ! thou better name Than all the family of Fame ! Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age To low intrigue or factious rage ; For, O dear child of thoughtful Truth ! To thee I gave my early youth, And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar. AVho late and lingering seeks thy shrine, On him but seldom, Power divine, Thy spirit rests ! Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope And dire remembrance interlope, To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through th' accustom'd mead ; And in the sultry Summer's heat Will build me up a mossy seat ; And, when the gusty Autumn crowds And breaks the busy moonlit clouds, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon. MEMORY. 123 The feeling heart, the searching soul, To thee I dedicate the whole ! And, while within myself I trace The greatness of some future race, Aloof with hermit-e}-e I scan The present works of present man, — A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! MEMOET. William Wordsworth. A pen — to register ; a key — That winds through secret wards ; Are well assign'd to Memory By allegoric Bards. As aptly, also, might be given A Pencil to her hand ; That, softening objects, sometimes even Outstrips the heart's demand ; That smoothes foregone distress, the lines Of lingering care subdues, Long-vanish'd happiness refines, And clothes in brighter hues ; Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works Those Spectres to dilate That startle Conscience, as she lurks Within her lonely seat. O, that our lives, which flee so fast, In purity were such, That not an image of the past Should fear that pencil's touch ! 124 CHOICE READINGS. Retirement then might hourly look Upon a soothing scene, Age steal to his allotted nook Contented and serene ; With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, In frosty moonlight glistening ; Or mountain rivers, where they creep Along a channel smooth and deep, To their own far-off murmurs listening. Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou In heathen schools of philosophic lore ; Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow ; And what of hope Elysium could allow Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore Peace to the mourner. But, when He who wore The crown of thorns around His bleeding brow Warm'd our sad being with celestial light, Then Arts which still had drawn a softening grace From shadowy fouutains of the Infinite Communed with that Idea face to face ; And move around it now, as planets run Each in its orbit round the central Sun. THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 125 III. GRAVE, SOLEMN, SERIOUS, PATHETIC. THE ANGELS OP BUEtfA VISTA. John G. Whittier. Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing ? who is winning ? are they far or come they near ? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. ' ' Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls ; Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have mercy on their souls ! " Who is losing? who is winning? " Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain." Holy Mother, keep our brothers ! Look, Ximena, look once more : " Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course." Look forth once more. Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has roll'd awa} T ; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. 126 CHOICE READINGS. Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of Minon wheels ; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels. " Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now ad- vance ! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance ! Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and foot together fall ; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball." Nearer came the storm, and nearer, rolling fast and fright- ful on. Speak, Ximena, speak, and tell us who has lost and who has won? " Alas ! alas ! I know not ; friend and foe together fall ; O'er the dying rush the living : pray, my sisters, for them all!" " Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting : Blessed Mother, save my brain ! I can see the wounded crawling slowl}' out from heaps of slain ; Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they fall, and strive to rise : Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes ! "O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee ; Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see? O nry husband, brave and gentle ! O my Bernal, look once more On the blessed cross before thee ! Mercy ! mercy ! all is o'er." THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 127 Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest ; Let his hands be meekly folded, la} 7 the cross upon his breast ; Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said : To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and 3'oung, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away ; But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt. With a stifled cry of horror straight she turn'd away her head ; With a sad and bitter feeling look'd she back upon her dead ; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain, And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. Whisper'd low the dying soldier, press'd her hand, and faintly smiled : Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart sup- plied ; With her kiss upon his forehead, wt Mother ! " murmur' d he, and died. " A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North! " Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead, And turn'd to soothe the living still, and bind the wounds which bled. 128 CHOICE READINGS. Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind; Ah ! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the dust the wounded strive ; Hide your faces, holy angels ! 0, thou Christ of God, for- give ! " Sink, O Night, among tlry mountains ! let the cool, gray shadows fall ; Dying brothers, fighting demons, — drop thy curtain over all! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle roll'd, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food ; Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care the}' hung, And the dying foeman bless 'd them in a strange and North- ern tongue. Not wholly lost, O Father ! is this evil world of ours ; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers ; From its smoking hell of battle Love and Pity send their prayer, And still Thy white-wing'd angels hover dimly in our air. THANATOPSIS. W. C. Bryant. To him who in the love of Nature holds (Communion with her visible forms, she speaks THANATOPSIS. 129 A various language. For his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And gentle sympatlry, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to s*hudder, and grow sick at heart, Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding Sun shall see no more In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in th' embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to th' insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon, The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone ; nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world ; with kings, The powerful of the Earth, — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, — All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the Sun ; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 130 CHOICE READINGS. The venerable woods ; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green ; and, pour'd round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden Sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce ; Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings, — yet the dead are there ; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep, — the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou shalt fall Unnoticed by the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favourite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide awa} T , the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off, Shall, one b}^ one, be gather'd to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live that when thy summons comes to join Th' innumerable caravan, that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take THE HERMIT. 131 His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not. like the quarry-slave at night Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustain'd and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. ;XKc TEE HEEMIT. James Beattie. At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove ; 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began : No more with himself or with Nature at war. He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. " Ah ! why, all abandon'd to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. But. if pity inspire thee, renew the sad la}', Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn O, soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away : Full quickly they pass, — but they never return. Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The Moon, half extinguish'd, her crescent displays ; But lately I mark'd when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendour again. But mau's faded glory what change shall renew ? Ah, fool ! to exult in a sjlorv so vain ! 132 CHOICE READINGS. 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew : Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn ; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save. But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn? O, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave? 'Twas thus, by the glare of false Science betray' d, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind ; My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. ' O, pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, ' TI13' creature, who fain would not wander from Thee : Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride : From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free.' And darkness and doubt are now flying away; No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn : So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See Truth, Love, and Merc}' in triumph descending, And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." THE LADDEK 0E SAINT AUGUSTINE. H. W. Longfellow. Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame. All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend. THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. 133 The low desire, the base design, That makes another's virtues less ; The revel of the ruddy wine, And all occasions of excess ; The longing for ignoble things ; The strife for triumph more than truth ; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; All thoughts of ill ; all evil deeds, That have their root in thoughts of ill ; Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will ; — All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain. We have not wings, we cannot soar ; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are cross' d by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise. The heights of great men reach'd and kept Were not attain'd by sudden flight ; But the} 7 , while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night. 134 CHOICE READINGS. Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern — unseen before — A path to higher destinies. Nor deem th' irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain. CHKISTMAS-DAY. Samuel Richards. Though rude winds usher thee, sweet day, Though clouds thy face deform, Though Nature's grace is swept away Before thy sleety storm ; Even in tlry sombrest wintry vest, Of blessed days thou art most blest. Nor frigid air nor gloomy morn Shall check our jubilee : Bright is the da}^ when Christ was born, No sun need shine but He : Let roughest storms their coldest blow, With love of Him our hearts shall glow. Inspired with high and holy thought, Fanc} T is on the wing : It seems as to mine ear it brought Those voices carolling, — Voices through Heaven and Earth that ran,- " Glory to God, good-will to man ! " I see the Shepherds gazing wild At those fair Spirits of light ; I see them bending o'er the Child With that untold delio-ht WINIFRED A, 135 Which marks the face of those who view Things but too happy to be true. Oft as this joyous morn doth come To speak our Saviour's love, O, ma}' it bear our spirits home Where He now reigns above ! That da}' which brought Him from the skies So man restores to Paradise. Then let winds usher thee, sweet day, Let clouds thy face deform : Though Nature's grace is swept away Before thy sleety storm, Even in thy sombrest wintry vest, Of blessed days thou art most blest. wTNIFKEDA. Away ! let nought to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care ; Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. What though no grants of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood ; We'll shine in more substantial honours, And to be noble we'll be good. Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke ; And all the great ones they shall wonder How they respect such little folk. What though from fortune's lavish bounty No might} 7 treasures we possess ; We'll find within our pittance plenty, And be content without excess. 13G CHOICE READINGS. And still shall each returning season Sufficient for our wishes give ; For we will live a life of reason, And that's the only life to live. Through youth and age in love excelling, We'll hand in hand together tread ; Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. How I should love the pretty creatures, While round my knees they fondly clung ! To see them look their mother's features, To hear them lisp their mother's tongue. And when with envy time transported Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go wooing in my boys. THE BLACKSMITH'S STORY. Frank Olive. Well, No ! My wife ain't dead, sir, but I've lost her all the same ; She left me voluntarily, and neither was to blame. It's rather a queer story, and I think you will agree — When you hear the circumstances — 'twas rather rough on me. She was a soldier's widow. He was kill'd at Malvern Hill ; And when I married her she seem'd to sorrow for him still ; But I brought her here to Kansas, and I never want to see A better wife than Mary was for five bright years to me. The change of scene brought cheerfulness, and soon a rosy glow Qf happiness warm'd Mary's cheeks and melted all their snow, THE BLACKSMITH'S STORY. 137 I think she loved me some, — I'm bound to think that of her, sir ; And as for me, — I can't begin to tell how I loved her ! Three years ago the baby came our humble home to bless ; And then I reckon I was nigh to perfect happiness ; 'Twas hers, — 'twas mine ; but I've no language to explain to you, How that little girl's weak fingers our hearts together drew ! Once we watch'd it through a fever, and with each gasping breath, Dumb with an awful, wordless woe, we waited for its death ; And, though I'm not a pious man, our souls together there, For Heaven to spare our darling, went up in voiceless pra}"er. And, when the doctor said 'twould live, our joy what words could tell? Clasp' d in each other's arms, our grateful tears together fell. Sometimes, you see, the shadow fell across our little nest, But it only made the sunshine seem a doubly welcome guest. Work came to me a pleiny, and I kept the anvil ringing ; Early and late 3 T ou'd find me there a-hammering and sing- ing ; Love nerved my arm to labour, and moved my tongue to song, And, though my singing wasn't sweet, it was tremendous strong ! One day a one-arm'd stranger stopp'd to have me nail a shoe, And, while I was at work, we pass'd a compliment or two ; I ask'd him how he lost his arm. He said 'twas shot away At Malvern Hill. " Malvern Hill ! Did you know Robert May?" 138 CHOICE READINGS. "That's me," said lie. "You, you!" I gasp'd, choking with horrid doubt ; "If you're the man, just follow me ; we'll try this mystery out!" With dizzy steps, I led him in to Mary. God ! 'Twas true ! Then the bitterest pangs of misery, unspeakable, I knew. Frozen with deadly horror, she stared with eyes of stone, And from her quivering lips there broke one wild, despair- ing moan. 'Twas he ! the husband of her youth, now risen from the dead, But all too late ; and, with bitter cry, her senses fled. What could be done ? He was reported dead. On his re- turn He strove in vain some tidings of his absent wife to learn. 'Twas well that he was innocent ! Else I'd have kill'd him, too, So dead he never would have riz till Gabriel's trumpet blew ! It was agreed that Mary then between us should decide, And each by her decision would sacredly abide. No sinner, at the judgment-seat, waiting eternal doom, Could suffer what I did, while waiting sentence in that room. Rigid and breathless, there we stood, with nerves as tense as steel, While Mary's e} r es sought each white face, in piteous appeal. God ! could not woman's duty be less hardly reconciled Between her lawful husband and the father of her child ? Ah, how nry heart was chill'd to ice, when she knelt down and said, — "Forgive me, John ! He is my husband ! Here! Alive! not dead ! I raised her tenderly, and tried to tell her she was right, But somehow, in my aching breast, the prison'd words stuck tight ! 139 "But, John, I can't leave baby." — "What! wife and child ! " cried I ; "Must I yield all! Ah, cruel fate! Better that I should die. Think of the long, sad, lonely hours, waiting in gloom for me, — No wife to cheer me with her love, — no babe to climb my knee ! And yet — you are her mother, and the sacred mother-love Is still the purest, tenderest tie that Heaven ever wove. Take her; but promise, Mary, — for that will bring no shame, — My little girl shall bear, and learn to lisp, her father's name ! " It ma}~ be, in the life to come, I'll meet my child and wife ; But yonder, by my cottage gate, we parted for this life ; One long hand-clasp from Mary, and my dream of love was done ! One long embrace from baby, and nry happiness was gone ! HOW HE SAVED ST. MICHAEL'S. It was long ago it happen' d, ere ever the signal gun That blazed above Fort Sumpter had waken'd the North as one ; Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire Had mark'd where the unchain'd millions march' d on to their heart's desire. On the roofs and the glittering turrets, that night, as the Sun went down, The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a Jewell' d crown ; And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes, They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael's rise 140 CHOICE READINGS. High over the lesser steeples, tipp'd with a golden ball, That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall, — First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbour- round, And last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound. The gentry gathering shadows shut out the waning light ; The children pray'd at their bedsides, as you will pray to- night ; The noise of buyer and seller from the bus} r mart was gone ; And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumber'd on. But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street ; For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet; Men stared in each other's faces through mingled fire and smoke, While the frantic bells went clashing, clamorous stroke on stroke. B3 the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother fled, With the babe she press' d to her bosom shrieking in name- less dread, While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and capstone high, And planted their flaring banners against an inky sky. For the death that raged behind them, and the crash of ruin loud, To the great square of the chy were driven the surging crowd ; Where yet, firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood, With its heavenward-pointing finger the Church of St. Mich- ael stood. HOW HE ;AVED ST. MICHAEL*?. 141 But e'en as they gazed upon it there re se a sadden wail. — A cry of horror, blended with the roaring of the gale. On whose - aing wings up-driven, a single flaming brand Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand. "Will it fade?'" The whisper trembled from a thousand whitening lif - : Far out on the lurid harbour, they wateh'd it from the ships. — A baleful gleam that brighter and ever brighter shone. Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-wisp to a stead; beacon grown. " Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand. For the love of the perilTd city, plucks down yon burning bran 1 ! So cried the mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard : But they look'd each one at his fellow : and no man sj word. Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturn'd to the sky. Clings to a column, and measures the dizzy spire with his Will he dare it. the hero undaunted, that terrible sickening height ? Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight? Bnt, see ! he has stepp'd on the railing: he climbs with his feet and his hands ; And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath him. he stan Is Xow once, and once only, they cheer him. — a singir fcem- pestDons breath. — And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the still- ness :: death. 142 CHOICE HEADINGS. Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire, Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire. , He stops ! Will he fall ? Lo ! for answer, a gleam like a meteor's track, And, hmTd on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shatter'd and black. Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air : At the church-door mayor and council wait with their feet on the stair ; And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand, — The unknown saviour, whose daring could compass a deed so grand. But why does a sudden tremor seize on them while the} r gaze? And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and amaze ? He stood in the gate of the temple he had perilPd his life to save ; And the face of the hero, nry children, was the sable face of a slave. With folded arms he was speaking, in tones that were clear, not loud, And his ej^es, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of the crowd : "You may keep your gold; I scorn it! — but answer me, 3 T e who can, If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a man?" He stepp'd but a short space backward ; and from all the women and men CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 143 There were only sobs for answer; and the mayor ealFd for a pen, And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran : And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from its door, a man. — »o^o* OUErEW MUST NOT KING TO-NIGHT. Rose A. Hartwick Thorpe. England's Sun Avas slowly setting o'er the hills so far away. Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day : And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and maiden fair. He with step so slow and weaken'd, she with sonny, floating- hair ; He with sad bow'd head, and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and white. Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night." "Sexton." — Bessie's white lips falter'd. pointing to the prison old. With its walls so dark and gloonrv, walls so dark and damp and cold, — " I've a lover in that prison, doom'd this very night to die At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset"; and her face grew strangely white, As she spoke in husk}- whispers, " Curfew must not ring to- night." "Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton, — every word pierced her young heart Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poison' d dart, — "Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadow' d tower ; 144 CHOICE READINGS. Eveiy evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour ; I have clone my duty ever, tried to do it just and right ; Now I'm old, I will not miss it ; girl, the Curfew rings to- night ! " AVild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, And within her heart's deep centre Bessie made a solemn vow : She had listen'd while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, " At the ringing of the Curfew Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright, — One low murmur, scarcely spoken, " Curfew must not ring- to-night ! " She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door, Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft be- fore ; Not one moment paused the maiden, but, with cheek and brow aglow, Stagger'd up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro: Then she climb'd the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light, Upward still, her pale lips saying, " Curfew shall not ring to- night." She has reach' d the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell, And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to Hell; See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of Cur- few now ; And the sight has chill'd her bosom, stopp'd her breath and paled her brow. CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 145 Shall she let it ring? No, never! her eyes flash with sud- den light, As she springs and grasps it firmly, " Curfew shall not ring to-night ! " Out she swung, far out ; the city seem'd a tiny speck below ; There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro ; And the half -deaf Sexton ringing, (years he had not heard the bell,) And he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's fune- ral knell : Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white, Still'd her frighten* d heart's wild beating, " Curfew shall not ring to-night." It was o'er ; the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepp'd once more Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years be- fore Human foot had not been planted ; and what she this night had done Should be told in long years after : as the rays of setting Sun Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires, with heads of white, Tell their children why the Curfew did not ring that one sad night. O'er the distant hills came Cromwell ; Bessie saw him, and her brow, Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden beauty now : At his feet she told her stoiy, show'd her hands all bruised and torn ; And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad and worn, 146 CHOICE READINGS. Touch'd his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light : " Go, your lover lives!" cried Cromwell; "Curfew shall not ring to-night." Wide the} T flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die, All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the darkening English sky, Bessie came with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet ; Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet. In his brave, strong arms he clasp 'd her, kiss'd the face up- turn'd and white, Whisper'd, "Darling, you have saved me ; Curfew must not ring to-night." THE DEATH OP MR. BERTRAM. Sir Walter Scott. Me. Bertram, paralytic, and almost incapable of moving, occupied his easy chair, attired in his night- cap and a loose camlet coat, his feet wrapped in blan- kets. Behind him, with his hands crossed on the cane upon which he rested, stood Dominie Sampson, whom Mannering recognized at once. Time had made no change upon him, unless that his black coat seemed more brown, and his gaunt cheeks more lank, than when Mannering last saw him. On one side of the old man was a sylph-like form, — a young woman of about seventeen, whom Colonel Mannering accounted to be his daughter. She was looking, from time to time, anxiously towards the avenue, as if expecting a post-chaise ; and between whiles busied herself in adjusting the blankets, so as to protect her father from the cold, and in answering THE DEATH OF MR. BERTRAM. 147 inquiries, which he seemed to make with a captious and querulous manner. She did not trust herself to look towards the Place, although the hum of the assem- bled crowd must have drawn her attention in that direction. The fourth person of the group was a hand- some and genteel young man, who seemed to share Miss Bertram's anxiety, and her solicitude to soothe and accommodate her parent. This young gentleman was the first who observed Colonel Mannering, and immediately stepped forward to meet him, as if politely to prevent his drawing nearer to the distressed group. Mannering instantly paused and explained. " He was," he said, " a stranger, to whom Mr. Bertram had formerly shown kindness and hospitality : he would not have intruded himself upon him at a period of distress, did it not seem to be in some degree a moment also of desertion ; he wished merely to offer such services as might be in his power to Mr. Bertram and the young lady/' He then paused at a little distance from the chair. His old acquaintance gazed at him with lack-lustre eye, that intimated no tokens of recognition ; the Dominie seemed too deeply sunk in distress even to observe his presence. The young man spoke aside with Miss Ber- tram, who advanced timidly, and thanked Colonel Man- nering for his goodness; "but/' she said, the tears gushing fast into her eyes, " her father, she feared, was not so much himself as to be able to remember him." She then retreated towards the chair, accompanied by the Colonel. " Father," she said, " this is Mr. Manner- ing, an old friend, come to inquire after you." " He's very heartily welcome," said the old man, raising himself in his chair, and attempting a gesture of 148 CHOICE HEADINGS. courtesy, while a gleam of hospitable satisfaction seemed to pass over his faded features. " But, Lucy, my dear, let us go down to the house ; you should not keep the gentleman here in the cold. — Dominie, take the key of the wine-cooler. Mr. — the gentleman will surely take something after his ride." Mannering was unspeakably affected by the contrast which his recollection made between this reception and that with Avhich he had been greeted by the same indi- vidual when they last met. He could not restrain his tears, and his evident emotion at once attained him the confidence of the friendless young lady. " Alas ! " she said, " this is distressing even to a stranger ; but it may be better for my poor father to be in this way, than if he knew and could feel all." The sound of voices was now heard from the ruins. " Good God ! " said Miss Bertram hastily to Sampson, " 'tis that wretch Glossin's voice ! if my father sees him, it will kill him outright ! " Sampson wheeled perpendicularly round, and moved with long strides to confront the attorney, as he issued from beneath the portal arch of the ruin. "Avoid ye ! " he said, " avoid ye ! Wouldst thou kill and take pos- session " Come, come, Master Dominie Sampson," answered Glossin, insolently, " if ye cannot preach in the pulpit, we'll have no preaching here. We'll go by the law, my good friend ; we leave the Gospel to you." The very mention of this man's name had been of late a subject of the most violent irritation to the un- fortunate patient. The sound of his voice now pro- duced an instantaneous effect. Mr. Bertram started up without assistance, and turned round towards him ; the ehastliness of his features forming a strange contrast THE DEATH OF MR. BERTRAM. 149 with the violence of his exclamations. " Out of my sight, ye viper ! ye frozen viper, that I warmed till ye stung me ! Art thou not afraid that the walls of my father's dwelling should fall and crush thee, limb and bone? Are ye not afraid the very lintels of the door of Elian go wan-castle should break open and swallow you up ? Were ye not friendless, — houseless, — penniless, when I took ye by the hand? and are ye not expelling me — me, and that innocent girl, — friendless, house- less, and penniless, from the house that has sheltered us and ours for a thousand years ? " Had Glossin been alone, he would probably have slunk off; but the consciouness that a stranger was present determined him to resort to impudence. The task, however, was almost too hard, even for his ef- frontery. Sir, — sir, — Mr. Bertram, — sir, you should not blame me, but your own imprudence, sir, — " The indignation of Mannering was mounting very high. "Sir," he said to Glossin, "without entering into the merits of this controversy, I must inform you that you have chosen a very improper place, time, and presence for it. And you will oblige me by withdraw- ing without more words.'' Glossin, being a tall, strong, muscular man, was not unwilling rather to turn upon a stranger, whom he hoped to bully, than maintain his wretched cause against his injured patron. " I do not know who you are, sir," he said, "and I shall permit no man to use such freedom with me." Mannering was naturally hot-tempered; his eyes Hashed a dark light ; he compressed his nether lip so closely that the blood sprung; and, approaching Glossin, " Look you, sir," he said, " that you do not know me, is of little consequence: I know you; and, if 150 CHOICE READINGS. you do not instantly descend that bank, without utter- ing a single syllable, by the Heaven that is above us, you shall make but one step from the top to the bottom ! " The commanding tone of rightful anger silenced at once the ferocity of the bully. He hesitated, turned on his heel, and, muttering something between his teeth about his unwillingness to alarm the lady, relieved them of his hateful company. Mrs. Mac-Candlish's postillion, who had come up in time to hear what passed, said aloud, " If he had stuck by the way, I would have lent him a heezie, the dirty scoundrel, as willingly as ever I pitched a boddle." He then stepped forward to announce that his horses were in readiness for the invalid and his daughter. But they were no longer necessary. The debilitated frame of Mr. Bertram was exhausted by this last effort of in- dignant anger, and, wjien he sunk again upon his chair, he expired almost without a struggle or groan. So lit- tle alteration did the extinction of the vital spark make upon his external appearance, that the screams of his daughter, when she saw his eyes fix and felt his pulse stop, first announced his death to the spectators. LUOY BEETEAM AJH) DOMINIE SAMPSON. Sir Walter Scott. The funeral of the late Mr. Bertram was performed with decent privacy, and the unfortunate young lady was now to consider herself as but the temporary tenant of the house in which she had been born, and where her patience and soothing attentions had so long " rocked the cradle of declining age." Her communication with Mr. Mac-Morlan encouraged her to hope that she LUCY BERTRAM AND DOMINIE SAMPSON. 151 would not be suddenly or unkindly deprived of this asylum ; but fortune had ordered otherwise. For two days before the appointed day for the sale of the land and estate of Ellangowan, Mac-Morlan daily expected the appearance of Colonel Mannering, or at least a letter containing powers to act for him. But none such arrived. " Could I have foreseen this," he said, "I would have travelled Scotland over, but I would have found some one to bid against Glossin." Alas ! such reflections were too late. The appointed hour arrived. Mac-Morlan spent as much time in pre- liminaries as decency would permit, and read over the articles of sale as slowly as if he had been reading his own death-warrant. He turned his eye every time the door of the room opened, with hopes which grew fainter and fainter. He listened to every noise in the street of the village, and endeavoured to distinguish in it the sound of hoofs or wheels. It was all in vain. After a solemn pause, Mr. Glossin offered the upset price for the lands and barony of Ellangowan. No reply was made, and no competitor appeared : so, after a lapse of the usual interval by the running of a sand-glass, upon the intended purchaser entering the proper sureties, Mr. Mac-Morlan was obliged, in technical terms, to "find and declare the sale lawfully completed, and to prefer the said Gilbert Glossin as the purchaser of the said lands and estates." An express arrived about six o'clock at night, " very particularly drunk," the maid servant said, with a packet from Colonel Mannering, dated four days back, at a town about a hundred miles distance, containing full powers to Mr. Mac-Morlan, or any one whom he might employ, to make the intended purchase, and stat- ing that some family business of consequence called the 152 CHOICE READINGS. Colonel himself to Westmoreland, where a letter would find him. Mac-Morlan, in the transports of his wrath, flung the power of attorney at the head of the innocent maid- servant, and was only forcibly withheld from horse- whipping the rascally messenger, by whose sloth and drunkenness' the disappointment had taken place. Miss Bertram no sooner heard this painful and of late unexpected intelligence, than she proceeded in the preparations she had already made for leaving the man- sion-house immediately. Mr. Mac-Morlan assisted her in these arrangements, and pressed upon her so kindly the hospitality of his roof, until she should be enabled to adopt some settled plan of life, that she felt there would be unkindness in refusing an invitation urged with such earnestness. A home, therefore, and a hos- pitable reception were secured to her, and she went on, with better heart, to pay the wages and receive the adieus of the few domestics of her father's family. Where there are estimable qualities on either side, this task is always affecting ; the present circumstances rendered it doubly so. All received their due, and even a trifle more ; and, with thanks and good wishes, to which some added tears, took farewell of their young mistress. There remained in the parlour only Mr. Mac-Morlan, who came to attend his guest to his house, Dominie Sampson, and Miss Bertram. " And now," said the poor girl, " I must bid farewell to one of my oldest and kindest friends. — God bless you, Mr. Sampson ! and requite to you all the kindness of your instructions to your poor pupil, and your friendship to him that is gone ! I hope I shall often see you." She slid into his hand a paper containing some gold pieces, and rose, as if to leave the room. LUCY BERTRAM AND DOMINIE SAMPSON. 153 Dominie Sampson also rose ; but it was to stand aghast with utter astonishment. The idea of parting from Miss Lucy, go where she might, had never once occurred to the simplicity of his understanding. He laid the money on the table. " It is certainly inade- quate," said Mac-Morlan, mistaking his meaning; "but the circumstances " — Mr. Sampson waved his hand impatiently, — " It is not the lucre, it is not the lucre ; but that I, that have ate of her father's loaf, and drunk of his cup, for twenty years and more, — to think that I am going to leave her, — and to leave her in distress and dolour ! — No, Miss Lucy, you need never think of it ; while I live, I will not separate from you. I'll be no burden ; I have thought how to prevent that. But, as Ruth said unto Naomi, ' Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to depart from thee ; for wither thou goest I will go, and where thou dwellest I will dwell : thy people shall be my peo- ple, and thy God shall be my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death do part thee and me ! ' " During this speech, the longest ever Dominie Samp- son was known to utter, the affectionate creature's eyes streamed with tears ; and neither Lucy nor Mac-Morlan could refrain from sympathizing with this unexpected burst of feeling and attachment. " Mr. Sampson," said Mac-Morlan, after having had resource to his snuff-box and handkerchief alternately, "my house is large enough, and if you will accept of a bed there, while Miss Bertram honours us with her residence, I shall think myself very happy, and my roof much favoured by receiving a man of your worth and fidelity." And then, with a delicacy which was meant to remove any 154 CHOICE READINGS. objection on Miss Bertram's part, he added, " My busi- ness requires frequently a better accountant than any of my present clerks, and I should be glad to have recourse to your assistance in that way now and then." "Of a surety, of a surety," said Sampson eagerly; " I understand book-keeping by double entry and the Italian method." Our postillion had thrust himself into the room to announce his chaise and horses : he tarried, unobserved, during this extraordinary scene, and assured Mrs. Mac- Candlish it was the most moving thing he ever saw; " the death of the gray mare, puir Lizzie, was nae thing till't." The visitors were hospitably welcomed by Mrs. Mac- Morlan, to whom, as well as to others, her husband inti- mated that he had engaged Dominie Sampson's assist- ance to disentangle some perplexed accounts ; during which occupation he would, for convenience-sake, reside with the family. Dominie Sampson achieved with great zeal such tasks as Mr. Mac-Morlan chose to intrust him with; but it was speedily observed that at a certain hour after break- fast he regularly disappeared, and returned again about dinner-time. The evening he occupied in the labour of the office. On Saturday, he appeared before Mr. Mac- Morlan with a look of great triumph, and laid on the table two pieces of gold. " What is this for, Dominie ? " said Mr. Mac-Morlan. " First, to indemnify you of your charges in my be- half, worthy sir ; and the balance for the use of Miss Lucy Bertram." "But, Mr. Sampson, your labour in the office much more than recompenses me ; I am your debtor, my good friend." LUCY BERTRAM AND DOMINIE SAMPSON. 155 " Then be it all," said the Dominie, waving his hand, "for Miss Lucy Bertram's behoof." " Well, but, Dominie, this money " — " It is honestly come by, Mr. Mac-Morlan ; it is the bountiful reward of a young gentleman to whom I am teaching the tongues ; reading with him three hours daily." A few more questions extracted from the Dominie, that this liberal pupil was young Hazlewood, and that he met his preceptor daily at the house of Mrs. Mac- Candlish, whose proclamation of Sampson's disinterested attachment to the young lady had procured him this indefatigable and bounteous scholar. Mac-Morlan was much struck with what he heard. Little art was necessary to sift the Dominie, for the honest man's head never admitted any but the most direct and simple ideas. "Dees Miss Bertram know how your time is engaged, my good friend ? " " Surely not as yet ; Mr. Charles recommended it should be concealed from her, lest she should scruple to accept of the small assistance arising from it ; but," he added, " it would not be possible to conceal it long, since Mr. Charles proposed taking lessons occasionally at this house." " O, he does ! " said Mac-M orlan : " yes, yes, I can understand that better. And pray, Mr. Sampson, are these three hours entirely spent in construing and trans- lating?" " Doubtless, no ; we have also colloquial intercourse to sweeten study." The querist proceeded to elicit from him what their discourse chiefly turned upon. " Upon our past meetings at Ellangowan ; and, truly, I think, very often we discourse concerning Miss Lucy ; 156 CHOICE READINGS. for Mr. Charles Hazlewood, in that particular, resembleth me, Mr. Mac-Morlan. When I begin to speak of her I never know when to stop ; and, as I say, (jocularly,) she cheats us out of half our lessons." THE ISLE OF LONG AGO. Benj. F. Taylor. O a wonderful stream is the river 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 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 straying. 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, — but 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. THE PAUPER S DEATH-BED. 157 O, remember'cl for aye be the blessed Isle, All the day of our life until 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 ! 00>*j00 THE PAUPEK'S DEATH-BEAD. C. B. SOUTHEY. Tread softly ; bow the head, In reverent silence bow ; No passing-bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger, however great, AVith lowly reverence bow : There's one in that poor shed, One by that paltry bed, Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo ! Death does keep his state : Enter, ■ — no crowds attend ; Enter, — no guards defend This palace-gate. That pavement, damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread ; One silent woman stands, Lifting with meagre hands A dying head. No mingling voices sound, — An infant wail alone ; A sob suppress'd, — again That short, deep gasp, and then The parting groan. O change ! O wondrous change ! Burst are the prison-bars ; This moment there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars ! 158 CHOICE READINGS. change, stupendous change ! There lies the soulless clod ! The Sun eternal breaks, — The new immortal wakes, — Wakes with his God ! OUR WILLIE. Lie lightly on our Willie, earth ! Press gently on his side : Eight years he grew beside our hearth, Then laid him down and died. And let his sleep be peaceful there, Whose life was wroug'd with pain, For sweet his spirit was and fair, His talk like gentle rain. And he was brave of soul and true, His thoughts they knew no guile ; Nor ever fell more soft the dew Than did his loving smile. Patient he was, from murmur free, Though hard his childish lot ; 'Twould grieve } 7 ou much his pangs to see, And yet he murmur'd not. For on his trusting spirit fell The peace that passes thinking ; He knew the love of Christ to tell, The love that worketh all things well, And holds the meek from sinking. " Thy rod and staff my comfort are," Thus sang our precious boy : — u Christ leads me forth with tender care, To freshest streams He guides my feet, At His own table bids me eat, — Christ lights my path with joy. FORTY YEARS AGO. 159 ' ; What though the vale be dark and drear," So ran our Willie's song, — ' b I'll pass it still, and feel no fear, For Christ will make me strong." We miss him here, we miss him there ; Nought breaks his deep reposing : His voice no more in song or pra3 7 er, No more his talk by day we share, Nor kiss when day is closing. We call, — he answers not the while ; His thoughts we cannot measure ; " This home is best," he seems to smile, Our lost yet living treasure. &K* FORTY YEARS AGO. I've wander'd to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the school- house play-ground, That shelter' d 3-011 and me ; But none were left to greet me, Tom, And few were left to know, Who play'd with us upon that green Just forty years ago. The grass was just as green, Tom, Barefooted boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, With spirits just as gay : But the master sleeps upon the hill, Which, coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding-place Some forty years ago. 160 CHOICE READINGS. The old school-house is alter' d some, The benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same Our jack-knives had defaced ; But the same old bricks are in the wall, And the bell swings to and fro, It's music just the same, dear Tom, 'Twas fort}^ years ago. The boys were playing some old game Beneath that same old tree ; I do forget the name just now, — You've play'd the same with me On that same spot ; 'twas play'd with knives, By throwing so and so ; The loser had a task to do There forty years ago. The river's running just as still; The willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom ; The stream appears less wide ; But the grape-vine swing is miss'd now, Where once we play'd the beau, And swung our sweethearts — pretty girls — Just forty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, Close by the spreading beech, Is very low ; 'twas once so high That we could scarcely reach ; And kneeling down to take a drink, Dear Tom, I started so, To think how very much I've changed Since forty years ago. Near by that spring, upon an elm, You know, I cut your name ; NEARER HOME. 161 Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, And you did mine the same. Some heartless wretch has peel'd the bark ; 'Twas dying sure, but slow, Just as she died whose name you cut There forty years ago. My lids have long been dry, Tom, But tears came in my eyes ; I thought of her I loved so well, Those early broken ties. I visited the old church-yard, And took some flowers to strow Upon the graves of those we loved Just fort}' years ago. Some are in the church-yard laid, Some sleep beneath the sea ; But none are left of our old class Excepting you and me. And when our time shall come, Tom, And we are call'd to go, I hope we'll meet with those we loved Some fort}' years ago. NEAEEE HOME. Phcebe Cary. One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er : I'm nearer my home to-day Than I ever have been before ; Nearer my Father's house, Where the many mansions be ; 162 CHOICE READINGS. Nearer the great white throne ; Nearer the crystal sea ; Nearer the bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown ! But the waves of that silent sea Roll dark before my sight, That brightly the other side Break on a shore of light. O, if my mortal feet Have almost gain'd the brink ; If it be I am nearer home Even to-day than I think ; Father, perfect my trust ; Let my spirit feel in death, That her feet are firmly set On the Rock of a living faith ! MICHAEL AND HIS SON. William Wordsworth. Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had design'd To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gather'd up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd ; And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd, And thus the old man spake to him : " My son, To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart MICHAEL AND HIS SOX. 163 I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth. And all thy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories : "twill do thee good When thou art from me. even if I should touch On things thou canst not know of. — After thou Fust earnest into the world. — as oft befalls To new-;. orn infants. — thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from thy father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd ;e to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! The chain of being is complete in me, In me is matter's last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit, — ■ Deity ! I can command the lightning, and am dust ! A monarch and a slave, a worm, a god ! Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously Constructed and conceived ? unknown ! this clod Lives surely through some higher energy ; For from itself alone it could not be ! Creator, yes : Thy wisdom and thy word Created me ; Thou source of life and good : Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord, Thy light. Thy love, in their bright plenitude Fill'd me with an immortal soul, to spring 202 CHOICE READINGS. Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, Even to its source — to Thee — its Author there. O thoughts ineffable ! O visions blest ! Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, Yet shall Thy shadow' d image fill our breast, And waft its homage to Thy Deity. God ! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar, Thus seek Tlry presence, — Being wise and good ! 'Midst Thy vast works admire, obe}-, adore; And when the tongue is eloquent no more The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES. W. C. Bryant. The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learn' d To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems, in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offer' d to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences That, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath, that sway'd at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bow'd His spirit with the thought of boundless Power And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore god's first temples. 203 Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of the ancient wood, Offer one hymn ; thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in His ear. Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns : Thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose All these fair ranks of trees. They in Thy sun Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy breeze, And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood, As now they stand, massy and tall and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. Here are seen No traces of man's pomp or pride ; no silks Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes Encounter ; no fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of Thy fair works. But Thou art here ; Thou filFst The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summits of these trees In music ; Thou art in the cooler breath, That, from the inmost darkness of the place, Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with Thee. Here is continual worship ; Nature here, In the tranquillity that Thou dost love, Enjo} T s Thy presence. Noiselessly around, From perch to perch the solitary bird Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the orood it does. 206 CHOICE READINGS. THE PEIMEOSE OF THE BOOK. William Wordsworth. A Rock there is whose homely front The passing traveller slights ; Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps, Like stars, at various heights ; And one coy Primrose to that Rock The vernal breeze invites. What hideous warfare hath been raged, What kingdoms overthrown, Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft And mark'd it for my own ; A lasting link in Nature's chain From highest Heaven let down ! The flowers, still faithful to the stems, Their fellowship renew ; The stems are faithful to the root, That worketh out of view ; And to the rock the root adheres, In every fibre true. Close clings to earth the living rock, Though threatening still to fall ; The Earth is constant in her sphere ; And God upholds them all : So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads Her annual funeral. Here closed the meditative strain ; But air breathed soft that day, The hoary mountain-heights were cheer'd, The sunny vale look'd gay ; And to the Primrose of the Rock I gave this after-lay. THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. '_' 7 I sang, — Let myriads of bright flowers, Like thee, in field and grove Revive unenvied ; — mightier far Than tremblings, that reprove Our vernal tendencies to hope. Is God's redeeming Love : — That love which changed — for wan disease, For s : : : : w that had bent O'er hopeless dust, for wither d age — Their moral element. And turn'd the thistles of a curse To types beneficent. Sin-blighted though we are. we too, The reasoning Sons of Men. From one oblivions winter ealTd Shall rise, and breathe again ; And in eternal summer lose Our threescore year? and ten. To humbleness : heart descends Thi- prescience from on high. The faith that elevates the just. Before and when they And makes each soul a separate heaven. A court for Deitv. 208 CHOICE READINGS. V. GRAND, BOLD, SUBLIME. AP0STK0PHE TO THE OCEAN. Lord Byron. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar : I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel tylhat I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin, — his control Stops with the shore : upon the watery plain, The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncofhn'd, and unknow The armaments, which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals ; The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 209 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike th' Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee : Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, — what are they? Th}' waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou ; Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play, Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow ; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where th' Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests • in all time, Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime, — The image of Eternit}', — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obe}'S thee : thou go'st forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers, — they to me Were a delight ; and, if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear ; For I was, as it were, a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid nry hand upon thy mane, — as I do here. 210 CHOICE READINGS. HYMN TO THE NIGHT. H. W. Longfellow. I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls ! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls ! I felt her presence, b}' its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above ; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose ; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear What man lias borne before ! Thou lay'st thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-pray'd for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night ! A VISION OP MIST-SPLENDOURS. William Wordsworth. A single step, that freed me from the skirts Of the blind vapour, open'd to my view A VISION OF MIST-SPLENDOURS. 211 Glory beyond all glory ever seen By waking sense or b}' the dreaming soul ! Th' appearance, instantaneously disclosed, Was of a mighty city, — boldly say A wilderness of building, sinking far And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth, Far sinking into splendour, — without end ! Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold, With alabaster domes, and silver spires, And blazing terrace upon terrace, high Uplifted ; here, serene pavilions bright, In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars, — illumination of all gems ! By earthly nature had th' effect been wrought Upon the dark materials of the storm Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto The vapours had receded, taking there Their station under a cerulean sky. O, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf, Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, Molten together, and composing thus, Each lost in each, that marvellous array Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge Fantastic pomp of structure without name, In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapp'd. Right in the midst, where interspace appear'd Of open court, an object like a throne Under a shining canopy of state Stood fix'd ; and fix'd resemblances were seen To implements of ordinary use, But vast in size, in substance glorified ; Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld In vision, — forms uncouth of mightiest power 212 CHOICE READINGS. For admiration and mysterious awe. This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man, Lay low beneath nry feet ; 'twas visible, — I saw not, but I felt that it was there. That which I saw was the reveal'd abode Of Spirits in beatitude. HYMN TO MONT BLANC. S. T. Coleridge. Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course ? — so long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form, Risest from forth th} T silent sea of pines, How silently ! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge ! But, when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity. dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 1 worshipp'd the Invisible alone. Yet. like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with 1113' thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy ; Till the dilating Soul — enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty Vision passing — there, As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven ! Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise Thou owest ; not alone these swelling tears, HYMN TO MONT BLANC. 213 Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy. Awake, Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn ! Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale ! O, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when the}* climb the sky or when the}* sink ; Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald ; wake, O, wake, and utter praise ! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? "Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! Who call'd you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shatter'd and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? And who commanded, (and the silence came,) Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge ! Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full Moon ? Who bade the Sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? — God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! 214 CHOICE READINGS. Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! And they too have a voice, yon piles. of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost ; Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ; Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm ; Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ; Ye signs and wonders of the element, — Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Thou too, hoar Mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast, — Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou That, as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, To rise before me, — rise, O, ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent Sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising Sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. MAEOO BOZZAKIS. Fitz Greene Halleck. At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power ; In dreams, through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror ; VAR fO BOZZAJ5I5. 215 In dreams, his song of triumph heard : Then wore his monarch's signet ric g ; Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king : As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing. A - E len'fi garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shao.r-. Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. True as the steel of their tried blaiir-. Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood. On old Plataea's day : And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquer d there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare. A? pack, as far, as :hey. An hour passM on : the Turk awoke : That bright dream was his last. He woke to hear his sentries shriek. ms they come ! the Greek ! the Greek He woke, to die 'midst flame and smoke. And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud. And heard, with voice as trumpet loud. Bozzaris cheer his band : ^rrike ! — till the last arm'd foe expir— Strike ! — for your altars and your fires Strike ! — for the green graves : youi sires ; God. and your native Ian I They fought like brave men, long and well ; They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; They conquered : — but Bozzaris fell. Bleeding at every vein. 216 CHOICE READINGS. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their loud hurrah, And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close, Calmly as to a night's repose, — Like flowers at set of Sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath ; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke ; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; Come when the heart beats high and warm With banquet song and dance and wine ; And thou art terrible : — the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear, Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come when his task of fame is wrought ; Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought ; Come in her crowning hour, — and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light, To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prison 5 d men ; Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land ; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh MARCO BOZZARIS. 217 To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind, from woods of palm, And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytien seas. Bozzaris ! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee : there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb ; But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone ; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; For thee she rings the birthday bells ; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; For thine her evening prayer is said, At palace couch and cottage bed : Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears : And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joj^s, — And even she who gave thee birth Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, -Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, One of the few, th' immortal names That were not born to die. 218 CHOICE READINGS. THE LAUNCHING OP THE SHIP. H. W. Longfellow. "Build me straight, worthy Master! Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! ' ' The merchant's word, Delighted, the Master heard ; For his heart was in his work, and the heart Griveth grace unto every art : And, with a voice that was full of glee, He answer'd, tk Ere long we will launch A vessel as goodly and strong and staunch As ever weather'd a wintry sea ! " All is finish'd ! and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength : To-day the vessel shall be launch'd ! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanch'd; And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendours dight, The great Sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old, Centuries old, Strong as youth, as uncontroU'd, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest ; And far and wide, With ceaseless flow, His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast : He waits impatient for his bride. THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 219 There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Deck'd with flags and streamers gay, In honour of her marriage-day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The bride of the gray old sea. Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand ; And at the word Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs : And see ! she stirs ! She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her feet the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms ! And, lo ! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolong'd aud loud, That to the ocean seem'd to say, ct Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray ; Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms! " How beautiful she is ! how fair She lies within those arms that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care ! Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! 220 CHOICE READINGS. The moisten'd eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear. Thou, too, sail on, Ship of State ! Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! Humanity, with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast and sail and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge, and what a heat, Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! Fear not each sudden sound and shock ; 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock ; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale i In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee ; Our hearts, our hopes, our pra}*ers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! :£@4< ODE TO APOLLO. John Keats. In thy western halls of gold When thou sittest in thy state, Bards, that erst sublimely told Heroic deeds, and sang of fate, With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires. ODE TO APOLLO 221 Here Homer with his nervous arms Strikes the twanging harp of war ; And even the western splendour warms, While the trumpets sound afar : But, what creates the most intense surprise, His soul looks out through renovated eyes. Then, through thy temple wide, melodious swells The sweet majestic tones of Maro's lyre : The soul delighted on each accent dwells, — Enraptured dwells, — not daring to respire, The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre. 'Tis awful silence then again ; Expectant stand the spheres ; Breathless the laurell'd peers, Nor move, till ends the loft}' strain, — Nor move, till Milton's tuneful thunders cease, And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace. Thou biddest Shakespeare wave his hand, And quickly forward spring The Passions, — a terrific band, — And each vibrates the string That with its tyrant temper best accords, While from their Master's lips pour forth th' inspiring words. A silver trumpet Spenser blows, And. as its martial notes to silence flee, From a virgin chorus flows A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. 'Tis still ! Wild warblings from th' JEolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire. Next Tasso's ardent numbers Float along the pleased air, Calling youth from idle slumbers, Rousing them from Pleasure's lair : 222 CHOICE READINGS. Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move, And melt the heart to pity and to love. But, when Thou joinest with the Nine, And all the powers of song combine, We listen here on Earth : The dying tones that fill the air, And charm the ear of evening fair, From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth. *o>«K ST. PETEE'S OHUKOH AT EOME. Lord Byron. But lo ! the dome, — the vast and wondrous dome, To which Diana's marvel was a cell, — Christ's mighty shrine above His martyr's tomb ! I have beheld th' Ephesian miracle, — Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell Th' hyaena and the jackal in their shade : I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd Its sanctuary the while th' usurping Moslem pray'd : But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone, — with nothing like to thee, — Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. Since Zion's desolation, when that He Forsook His former city, what could be, Of earthly structures in His honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; And why? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal, and can only find st. peter's church at rome. 223 A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, See th}' God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by His brow. Thou movest, but increasing with th' advance, Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonize, All musical in its immensities ; Rich marbles, richer paintings, shrines where flame The lamps of gold, the haughty dome which vies In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame Sits on the firm-set ground, and this the cloud must claim. Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break. To separate contemplation, the great whole ; And as the ocean many ba}~s will make, That ask the eye, so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control Thy thoughts, until thy mind hath got by heart Its eloquent proportions, and unroll In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, — Not by its fault, but thine. Our outward sense Is but of gradual grasp ; and as it is That what we have of feeling most intense Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, Defies at first our nature's littleness, Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 224 CHOICE HEADINGS. GOD IN tfATUKE. William Wordsworth. And what are things eternal ? — Powers depart, Possessions vanish, and opinions change, And passions hold a fluctuating seat : But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken, And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, Duty exists; — immutably survive, For our support, the measures and the forms Which an abstract intelligence supplies ; Whose kingdom is where time and space are not. Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart Do, with united urgency, require, What more that may not perish? — Thou, dread source, Prime, self-existing cause and end of all That in the scale of being fill their place, Above our human region, or below, Set and sustain'd ; Thou, who didst wrap the cloud Of infancy around us, that Thyself, Therein, with our simplicity awhile Mightst hold, on Earth, communion undisturb'd ; Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, And touch as gentle as the morning light, Restorest us, daily, to the powers of sense And reason's steadfast rule, — Thou, Thou alone Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits Which Thou includest, as the sea her waves : For adoration Thou endurest ; endure For consciousness the motions of Tlry will ; For apprehension those transcendent truths Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws (Submission constituting strength and power) Even to Thy Being's infinite majesty ! This Universe shall pass away, — a work GOD IN NATURE. 225 Glorious, because the shadow of Thy might, A step, or link, for intercourse with Thee. Ah ! if the time must come in which my feet No more shall stray where meditation leads, By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, Loved haunts like these ; the uniinprison'd Mind May yet have scope to range among her own, Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. If the dear faculty of sight should fail, Still it may be allow'd me to remember What visionary powers of eye and soul In youth were mine ; when, station *d on the top Of some huge hill, expectant, I beheld The Sun rise up, from distant climes return'd Darkness to chase, and sleep ; and bring the day, His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the deep Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds Attended : then my spirit was entranced With joy exalted to beatitude ; The measure of my soul was fill'd with bliss, And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 226 CHOICE READINGS. VI. PATRIOTIC, SENATORIAL, ORATORICAL. THE SEVEN GEEAT OEATOES 0E THE WOELD.* Fortune of ^Eschines. Demosthenes. For mj part, I regard any one, who reproaches his fellow-man with fortune, as devoid of sense. He that is best satisfied with his condition, he that deems his fortune excellent, cannot be sure that it will remain so until the evening : how then can it be right to bring it forward, or upbraid another man with it? As iEs- chines, however, has on this subject (besides many others) expressed himself with insolence, look, men of *We here give a representative selection from eacli of these orators. The following extract from the Rev. Henry N. Hudson's Discourse delivered in Boston on the hundredth anniversary of the birth of Daniel Webster will explain why we do so: "Sage and venerable Harvard, on mature consideration no doubt, has spoken Webster for one of the seven great orators of the world. At the theatre end of her Memorial Hall, which has the form of a semicircular polygon, in as many gablets or niches rising above the cornice, the seven heads, of gigantic size, stand forth to public view. First, of course, is Demosthenes the Greek; second, also of course, Cicero the Roman; third, Saint John Chrysostom, an Asiatic Greek, born about the middle of the fourth century; fourth, Jaques Benigne Bos- suet, the great French divine and author, contemporary with Louis the Fourteenth; fifth, William Pitt the elder, Earl of Chatham, an English- man; sixth, Edmund Burke, an Irishman, probably the greatest genius of them all, though not the greatest orator ; seventh, Daniel Webster. How authentic the likenesses may be, I cannot say, except in the case of Webster : here the likeness is true ; and, to my sense, Webster's head is the finest of the seven, unless that of Bossuet may be set down as its peer." THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. DEMOSTHENES. 227 Athens, and observe how much more truth and human- ity there shall be in my discourse upon fortune than in his. If you are determined, iEschines, to scrutinize my fortune, compare it with your own ; and, if you find mine better than yours, cease to revile it. Look, then, from the very beginning. And I pray and entreat that I may not be condemned for bad taste. I don't think any person wise who insults poverty, or who prides him- self on having been bred in affluence : but by the slan- der and malice of this cruel man I am forced into such a discussion : which I will conduct with all the modera- tion that circumstances allow. I had the advantage, JEschines, in "my boyhood of going to proper schools, and having such allowance as a boy should have who is to do nothing mean from indi- gence. Arrived at man's estate, I lived suitably to my breeding; was choir-master, ship-commander, rate- payer ; backward in no acts of liberality public or private, but making myself useful to the commonwealth and to my friends. When I entered upon State affairs, I chose such a line of politics, that both by my country and many people of Greece I have been crowned many times , and not even you my enemies venture to say that the line I chose was not honourable. Such, then, has been the fortune of my life : T could enlarge upon it, but I forbear, lest what I pride myself in should give offence. But you, the man of dignity, who spit upon others, look what sort of fortune is yours compared with mine. As a boy you were reared in abject poverty, waiting with your father on the school, grinding the ink, spong- ing the benches, sweeping the room, doing the duty of a menial rather than a freeman's son. After you were 228 CHOICE READINGS. grown up, you attended your mother's initiations, read- ing her books and helping in all the ceremonies: at night wrapping the noviciates in fawn-skin, swilling, pu- rifying, and scouring them with clay and bran, raising them after the lustration, and bidding them say, " Bad I have scaped, and better I have found " ; priding your- self that no one ever howled so lustily, — and I believe him ! for don't suppose that he who speaks so loud is not a splendid howler ! In the daytime you led your noble orgiasts, crowned with fennel and poplar, through the highways, squeezing the big-cheeked serpents, and lifting them over your head, and shouting and capering, saluted by the beldames as Leader, Conductor, Chest- bearer, Fan-bearer, and the like ; getting as your reward tarts and biscuits and rolls ; for which any man might Avell bless himself and his fortune ! When you were enrolled among your fellow-towns- men, — by what means I stop not to inquire, — you immediately selected the most honourable of employ- ments, that of clerk and assistant to our petty magis- trates. From this you were removed after a while, having done yourself all that you charge others with ; and then, sure enough, you disgraced not your antece- dents by your subsequent life, but, hiring yourself to those ranting players, as they were called, Simylus and Socrates, you acted third parts, collecting figs and grapes and olives like a fruiterer, and getting more from them than from the playing, in which the lives of your whole company were at stake : for there was an impla- cable and incessant war between them and the audience, from whom you received so many wounds, that no won- der you taunt as cowards people inexperienced in such encounters. But, passing over what may be imputed to poverty, THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. DEMOSTHENES. 229 I will come to the direct charges against your character. You espoused such a line of politics, (when at last you thought of taking to them,) that, if your country pros- pered, you lived the life of a hare, fearing and tremb- ling, and ever expecting to be scourged for the crimes of which your conscience accused you ; though all have seen how bold you were during the misfortunes of the rest. A man who took courage at the death of a thou- sand citizens, — what does he deserve at the hands of the living? A great deal more that I could say about him I shall omit : for it is not all I can tell of his turpitude and infamy which I ought to let slip from my tongue, but only what is not disgraceful to myself to mention. Contrast now the circumstances of your life and mine, gently and with temper, JEschines, and then ask these people whose fortune they would each of them prefer. You taught reading, I went to school ; you performed initiations, I received them ; you danced in the chorus, I furnished it ; you were assembly-clerk, I was a speaker ; you acted third parts, I heard you ; you broke down, and I hissed ; you have worked as a states- man for the enemy, I for my country. I pass by the rest; but this very day I am on my probation for a crown, and am acknowledged to be innocent of all offence ; whilst you are already judged to be a petti- fogger, and the question is, whether you shall continue that trade or at once be silenced by not getting a fifth part of the votes. A happy fortune, do you see, you have enjoyed, that you should denounce mine as miser- able ! 230 choice readings. Panegyric on Julius Caesar. Marcus Tullius Cicero. This day, Conscript Fathers, has brought with it an end to the long silence in which I have of late indulged; not out of any fear, but partly from sorrow, partly from modesty ; and at the same time it has revived in me my ancient habit of saying what my wishes and opin- ions are. For I cannot by any means pass over in silence such great humanity, such unprecedented and unheard-of clemency, such moderation in the exercise of supreme and universal power, such incredible and almost godlike wisdom. For, now that Marcus Mar- cellus, Conscript Fathers, has been restored to you and the Republic, I think that not only his voice and authority are preserved and restored to you and to the Republic, but my own also. For I was concerned, Conscript Fathers, and most exceedingly grieved, when I saw such a man as he is, who had espoused the same cause which I had, not enjoying the same good fortune as myself; nor could I persuade myself to think it right or fair that I should be going on in my usual routine, while that rival and imitator of my zeal, and labours, who had been a com- panion and comrade of mine throughout, was separated from me. You, therefore, Caius Caesar, have reopened to me my former habits of life, which were closed up, and have raised, as it were, a standard to all these men, as a sort of token to lead them to entertain hopes of the general welfare of the Republic. For it was seen by me before in many instances, and especially in my own, and now it is clearly understood by everybody, since you have granted Marcus Marcellus to the Senate and people of Rome, in spite of your recollection of all THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. CICERO. 231 the injuries you have received at his hands, that you prefer the authority of this order and the dignity of the Republic to the indulgence of your own resentment or suspicions. No one is blest with such a stream of genius, no one is endowed with such vigour and richness of eloquence, either as a speaker or a writer, as to be able, I will not say to extol, but even plainly to relate, O Caesar, all your achievements. Nevertheless I assert, and with your leave I maintain, that in all of them you never gained greater and truer glory than you have acquired this day. I am accustomed often to keep this idea before my eyes, and to affirm it in conversation, that all the exploits of our own generals, all those of foreign nations and of the most powerful States, all the mighty deeds of the most illustrious monarchs, can be compared with yours neither in the magnitude of your wars, nor in the variety of countries which you have conquered, nor in the rapidity of your conquests, nor in the great difference of character with which your wars have been marked; and that those countries the most remote from each other could not be travelled over more rapidly by any one in a journey than they have been visited by your, I will not say journeys, but victories. And if I were not to admit that those actions are so great that scarcely any man's mind or comprehension is capable of doing justice to them, I should be very senseless. But there are other actions greater than those. For some people are in the habit of diaparaging military glory, and of denying the whole of it to the generals, and of giving the multitude a share of it also, so that it may not be the peculiar property of the com- manders. And no doubt, in the affairs of war, the valour of the troops, the advantages of situation, the 232 CHOICE READINGS. assistance of allies, fleets, and supplies, have great influ- ence ; and a most important share in all such trans- actions Fortune claims for herself, as of her right ; and whatever has been done successfully she considers almost entirely as her own work. But in this glory, Caius Caesar, which you have just earned you have no partners. The whole of this, how- ever great it may be, — and surely it is as great as pos- sible, — the whole of it, I say, is your own. The centu- rion can claim for himself no share of that praise, neither can the prefect, nor the battallion, nor the squadron. Nay, even that very mistress of all human affairs, For- tune herself, cannot thrust herself into any participation in that glory: she yields to you? she confesses that it is all your own, your peculiar private desert. For rash- ness is never united with wisdom, nor is chance ever admitted to regulate affairs conducted with prudence. You have subdued nations savage in their barbarism, countless in their numbers, boundless, if we regard the extent of country peopled by them, and rich in every kind of resource; but still you were only conquering things the nature and condition of which were such that they could be overcome by force. For there is no strength so great that it cannot be weakened and broken by arms and violence. But, to subdue one's inclinations, to master one's angry feelings, to be mod- erate in the hour of victory, not merely to raise from the ground a prostrate adversary, eminent for noble birth, for genius and for virtue, but even to increase his previous dignity, — these are actions of such a nature that I do not compare the author of them to the most illustrious man, but consider him equal to a god. Therefore, O Caesar, those military glories of yours will be celebrated not only in our own literature and Ian- THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. — ■ CHRYSOSTOM. 233 guage, but in those of almost all nations ; nor will any age ever be silent about your praises. But still, deeds of that sort, somehow or other, even when they are read, appear to be overwhelmed with the cries of the soldiers and the sound of the trumpets. But, when we hear or read of anything that has been done with clem- ency, with humanity, with justice, with moderation, and with wisdom, especially in a time of anger, Avhich is very adverse to prudence, and in the hour of victory, which is naturally insolent and haughty; with what ardour are we then inflamed, (even if the actions have not really been performed, but are only fabulous,) so as often to love those whom we have never seen ! But as for you, whom Ave behold present among us, whose mind and heart and countenance we at this moment see to be such, that you wish to preserve everything which the fortune of war has left to the Republic, O, with what praises must we extol you ! with what zeal must we follow you ! with what affection must we devote ourselves to you ! The very walls, I declare, the very walls of this Senate-house seem to me eager to return you thanks; because, in a short time, you will have restored their ancient authority to this venerable abode of themselves and of their ancestors. Divine Providence in Nature. Saint John Chrysostom. Dost thou not perceive how this body wastes away, withers, and perishes on the flight of the soul, and each of the elements thereof returns to its own proper abode ? This very same thing, indeed, would also happen to the world, if the Power which always governs it had left it devoid of its own providence. For, if a ship does not 234 CHOICE READINGS. hold on its way without a pilot, but soon founders, how could the world have subsisted so long a time with no one to govern its course ? And, that I may not enlarge, suppose the world to be a ship ; the earth to be placed below as the keel ; the skj to be the sail ; men to be the passengers ; the subjacent abj^ss, the sea. Hoav is it, then, that, during so long a time, no shipwreck has taken place? Now, let a ship go one day without a pilot and seamen, and thou wilt see it straightway over- whelmed ! But the world, though subsisting now five thousand years, and many more, hath suffered nothing of the kind. But why do I talk of a ship? Suppose one hath pitched a small hut in the vineyards ; and, when the fruit is gathered, leaves it vacant : it stands, however, scarce two or three days, but goes to pieces, and quickly falls down destroyed ! Could not a hut, forsooth, stand without superintendence ? How, then, could the work- manship of the world, so fair and marvellous? the laws of the night and day ? the interchanging dances of the seasons? the course of Nature chequered and varied as it is in every way throughout the earth, the sea, the sky? in plants, and in animals that fly, swim, walk, creep? and in the race of men, far more dignified than any of these; — how could all continue, yet unbroken, during so long a period, without some kind of prov- idence ? But, in addition to what has been said, follow me whilst I enumerate the meadows, the gardens, the flowery tribes ; all sorts of herbs, and their uses ; their odours, forms, disposition, yea, but their very names ; the trees which are fruitful, and the barren ; the nature of metals, — that of animals, — in the sea, or on the land ; of those that swim, and those that traverse the THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. CHRYSOSTOM. 235 air ; the mountains, the forests, the groves ; the meadow below, and the meadow above, — for there is a meadow on the earth, and a meadow too in the sky ; the various flowers of the stars : the rose below, and the rainbow above ! Would you have me point out also the meadow of the birds ? Consider the variegated body of the pea- cock, surpassing every dye, and the fowls of purple plumage. Contemplate with me the beauty of the sky : how it has been preserved so long without being dimmed ; and remains as bright and clear as if it had been fabricated to-day ; moreover, the power of the Earth, how it has not become effete by bringing forth during so long a time ! Contemplate with me the fountains : how they burst forth and fail not, since the time they were begotten, to flow forth continually throughout the day and night! Contemplate with me the sea, receiving so many rivers, }-et never exceeding its measure ! But how long might we continue to pursue things incomprehen- sible ! It is fit, indeed, that, over every one of these which have been spoken of, we should say, " O Lord, how hast Thou magnified Thy works ! in wisdom hast Thou made them all." But what is the sapient answer of the unbelievers, when we go over all these particulars with them, — the magnitude, the beauty of creation, the richness, the munificence everywhere displayed? This very thing, say they, is the worst fault, that God hath made the world so beautiful and so vast. For, if he had not made it beautiful and vast, we should not have made a god of it ; but now, being struck with its grandeur, and marvelling at its beauty, we have thought it to be a deity. But such an argument is good for nothing. For, that neither the magnitude nor beauty of the 236 CHOICE READINGS. world is the cause of this impiety, but their own absurdity, is what we are prepared to show, proved by the case of ourselves, who have never been so affected. Why, then, have ive not made a deit} T of it? Do we not see it with the same eyes as themselves ? Do we not enjoy the same advantage from the creation with themselves ? Do we not possess the same soul ? Have we not the same body ? Do we not tread the same earth ? How comes it that this beauty and magnitude have not persuaded us to think the same as they do? But this will be evident not from this proof only, but from another besides. For, as a proof that it is not for its beauty they have made a deity of it, but by reason of their own folly, why do they adore the ape, the croco- dile, the dog, and the vilest of animals ? Truly, "Ihey became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened. Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools." Eulogium upon St. Paul. Jaques Benigne Bossuet. Christians, do not expect that the apostle will flat- ter your ears by harmonious cadences, or charm them by gratifiying your vain curiosity ; listen to what he says of himself. We preach hidden wisdom, — Ave preach a crucified God. Do not let us seek to add vain orna- ments to that God who rejects the things of this world. If our lowliness is displeasing to the great, let them know that we covet their disdain, for Jesus Christ despises their ostentatious indolence, and desires only to be known to the humble. The discourses of St. Paul, far from flowing with that agreeable sweetness, that calm equality which we admire in other orators, THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. BOSSUET. 237 appear unequal and unfinished to those who do not stud}- them deeply ; and the delicate ones of this Earth whose ears, as they say, are so refined, are often offended by his irregular style. But do not let us blush for tins. The words of the apostle are simple, but his thoughts are divine. If he is ignorant of rhetoric and despises philosophy, Jesus Christ takes the place of all, and His name, which is ever in his mouth, and His mysteries, which he describes in such a tone of inspiration, render his simplicity all- powerful. This man, unacquainted with fine language, whose elocution was rude, and who spoke like a stranger, goes into polished Greece, the mother of philosophy and oratory; and notwithstanding the opposition of the people he there established more churches than Plato had acquired disciples, by an eloquence which was thought divine. He pushed his conquests still further : he brought the majesty of the Roman fasces to the feet of Jesus, in the person of a proconsul, and caused the judges, before whom he was cited, to tremble on their judgment-seats. Rome even listened to his voice ; and the day will yet arrive when this ancient mistress of the world will deem herself more honoured by an epistle of Paul, addressed to her citizens, than all the far- famed harrangues delivered in the forum by Cicero. And from whence, Christians, is this? It is that St. Paul had resources of persuasion that Greece could not teach, and Rome had not yet acquired, — an inspired power which delights in extolling what the great despise, and which is spread over and mingled with the august simplicity of his words. It is this which causes us to admire, in his epistles, a sentiment of superhuman virtue which prevails above 238 CHOICE READINGS. ordinary rules, or rather does not persuade so much as it captivates the understanding, — which does not flat- ter the ear, but goes direct to the heart ; just as we see a great river retain, when flowing through the plain, that violent and impetuous force which it had acquired in the mountains from whence it derived its source. Thus the holy virtue which is contained in the writings of St. Paul, even in the simplicity of his style, preserves all the vigour it brings from the Heavens whence it has descended. Against the Stamp Act. William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. Gentlemen, Sir, have been charged with giving birth to sedition in America. Several have spoken their senti- ments with freedom against this unhappy Act, and that freedom has become their crime. Sorry I am to hear the liberty of speech in this House imputed as a crime. But this imputation shall not discourage me. It is a liberty I mean to exercise. No gentleman ought to be afraid to exercise it. It is a liberty by which the gentleman who calumniates it might have profited. He ought to have profited. He ought to have desisted from his project. The gentleman tells us America is obstinate ; America is almost in open rebellion. I rejoice that America has resisted. Three millions of people so dead to all the feelings of liberty, as voluntaril} r to let' themselves be made slaves, would have been fit instruments to make slaves of all the rest. I come not here armed at all points with law cases and Acts of Parliament, with the statute-book doubled down in dogs' ears, to defend the cause of liberty. I would not debate a point of law with THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. CHATHAM. 239 the gentleman : I know his abilities. I have been obliged to his diligent researches. But, for the defence of liberty, upon a general principle, upon a constitutional principle, it is a ground on which I stand firm ; on which I dare meet any man. Since the accession of King William, many Ministers, some of great, others of moderate abilities, have taken the lead of Government. None of these thought or even dreamed of robbing the colonies of their constitu- tional rights. That was reserved to mark the era of the late administration : not that there were wanting some, when I had the honour to serve his Majesty, to propose to me to burn my fingers with an American Stamp Act. With the enemy at their back, with our bayonets at their breasts, in the depth of their distress perhaps the Americans would have submitted to the imposition ; but it would have been taking an ungenerous and un- just advantage. The gentleman boasts of his bounties to America ! Are not those bounties intended finally for the benefit of this kingdom ? If they are not, he has misapplied the national treasures. I am no courtier for America, — I stand up for this kingdom. I maintain that the Parlia- ment has a right to bind, to restrain America. Our legislative power over the colonies is sovereign and supreme. When two countries are connected, like Eng- land and her colonies, without being incorporated, the one must necessarily govern ; the greater must rule the less ; but so rule it as not to contradict the fundamental principles that are common to both. The gentleman asks, " When were the colonies eman- cipated ? " I desire to know when they were made slaves. But I will not dwell upon words. When I had the honour of serving his Majesty, I availed myself 240 CHOICE READINGS. of the means of information which I derived from my office : I speak, therefore, from knowledge. My materials were good ; I was at pains to collect, to digest, to con- sider them ; and I will be bold to affirm that the profits of Great Britain from the trade of the colonies, through all its branches, are two millions a-year. This is the fund that carried you triumphantly through the last war. The estates that were rented at two thousand pounds a-year, threescore years ago, are at three thou- sand pounds at present. These estates sold then for from fifteen to eighteen years' purchase ; the same may now be sold for thirty. You owe this to America. This is the price America pays for her protection. And shall a miserable financier come with a boast, that he can fetch a peppercorn into the Exchequer by the loss of millions to the nation ? I dare not say how much higher these profits may be aug- mented. Omitting the immense increase of people by natural population in the northern colonies, and the emi- gration from every part of Europe, I am convinced that the whole commercial system of America may be altered to advantage. You have prohibited where you ought to have encouraged ; and you have encouraged where you ought to have prohibited. Improper restraints have been laid on the continent in favour of the islands. You have but two nations to trade with in America. Would you had twenty ! A great deal has been said without doors of the power, of the strength, of America. It is a topic that ought to be cautiously meddled with. In a good cause, on a sound bottom, the force of this country can crush America to atoms. I know the valour of your troops; I know the skill of your officers. There is not a com- pany of foot that has served in America, out of which THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. CHATHAM. 241 you may not pick a man of sufficient knowledge and experience to make a governor of a colony there. But, on this ground, — on the Stamp Act, — when so many here will think it a crying injustice, I am one who will lift up my hands against it. In such a cause even j our success would be hazardous. America, if she fell, would fall like a strong man. She would embrace the pillars of the State, and pull down the Constitution along with her. Is this your boasted peace ? — to sheathe the sword, not in its scab- bard, but in the bowels of your countrymen ? Will you quarrel with yourselves now that the whole House of Bourbon is united against you ? — while France disturbs your fisheries in Newfoundland, and withholds from your subjects in Canada their property stipulated by treaty ? while the ransom for the Manillas is denied hy Spain, and its gallant conqueror basely traduced into a mean plunderer, — a gentleman whose noble and gen- erous spirit would do honour to the proudest grandee of the country? The Americans have not acted in all things with prudence and temper. The Americans have been wronged. They have been driven to madness by injus- tice. Will you punish them for the madness which you have occasioned? Rather let prudence and temper come first from this side. I will undertake for America that she will follow the example. — Upon the whole, I will beg leave to tell the House what is really my opinion. It is, that the Stamp Act be repealed, absolutely, totally, and immediately. 242 CHOICE READINGS. Impeachment or Hastings Finished. Edmund Burke. My Lords, I have done ; the part of the Commons is concluded. With a trembling solicitude we consign this product of our long, long labours to your charge. Take it! — take it! It is a sacred trust. Never before was a cause of such magnitude submitted to any human tribunal. My Lords, at this awful close, in the name of the Commons, and surrounded by them, I attest the retiring, I attest the advancing generations, between which, as a link in the great chain of eternal order, we stand. We call this nation, we call the world to witness, that the Commons have shrunk from no labour, that we have been guilty of no prevarication, that we have made no compromise with crime, that we have not feared any odium whatsoever, in the long warfare which we have carried on with the crimes, Avith the vices, with the exorbitant wealth, with the enormous and overpowering influence of Eastern corruption. This war we have waged for twenty-two years, and the conflict has been fought at your Lordships' bar for the last seven years. My Lords, twenty-two years is a great space in the scale of the life of man ; it is no inconsiderable space in the history of a great nation. A business which has so long occupied the councils and the tribunals of Great Britain cannot possibly be huddled over in the course of vulgar, trite, and transi- tory events. Nothing but some of those great revoli tions that break the traditionary chain of human mem- ory, and alter the very face of Nature itself, can pos- sibly obscure it. My Lords, we are all elevated to a THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. BURKE. 243 degree of importance by it ; the meanest of us will, by means of it, more or less become the concern of pos- terity, — if we are yet to hope for such a thing, in the present state of the world, as a recording, retrospective, civilized posterity : but this is in the hands of the great Disposer of events ; it is not ours to settle how it shall be. My Lords, your House yet stands, — it stands as a great edifice ; but let me say that it stands in the midst of ruins, — in the midst of the ruins that have been made by the greatest moral earthquake that ever con- vulsed and shattered this globe of ours. My Lords, it has pleased Providence to place us in such a state, that we appear every moment to be upon the verge of some great mutations. There is one thing, and one thing only, which defies all mutation, — that which existed before the world, and will survive the fabric of the world itself : I mean justice, — that justice which, emanating from the Divinity, has a place in the breast of every one of us, given us for our guide with regard to ourselves and with regard to others, and which will stand, after this globe is burned to ashes, our advocate or accuser before the great Judge. My Lords, the Commons will share in every fate with your Lordships ; there is nothing sinister which can happen to you, in which we shall not be involved. And if it should so happen that we shall be subjected to some of those frightful changes which we have seen ; if it should happen that your Lordships, stripped of all the decorous distinctions of human society, should, by hands at once base and cruel, be led to those scaffolds and machines of murder upon which great kings and glorious queens have shed their blood, amidst the pre- lates, amidst the nobles, amidst the magistrates who 244 CHOICE READINGS. supported their thrones, may you, in those moments, feel that consolation which I am persuaded they felt in the critical moments of their dreadful agony ! My Lords, there is a consolation, — and a great con- solation it is ! — which often happens to oppressed vir- tue and fallen dignity. It often happens that the very oppressors and perscutors themselves are forced to bear testimony in its favour. I do not like to go for in- stances a great way back into antiquity. I know very well that length of time operates so as to give an air of the fabulous to remote events, which lessens the interest and weakens the application of examples. I wish to come nearer the present time. Your Lordships know and have heard (for which of us has not known and heard?) of the Parliament of Paris. The Parliament of Paris had an origin very, very similar to that of the great Court before which I stand; the Parliament of Paris continued to have a great resemblance to it in its constitution, even to its fall. The Parliament of Paris, my Lords, was ; it is gone ! It has passed away; it has vanished like a dream ! It fell, pierced by the sword of the Comte de Mirabeau. And yet I will say that that man, at the time of his inflicting the death-wound of that Parliament, produced at once the shortest and the grandest funeral oration that ever was or could be made upon the departure of a great court of magistracy. Though he had himself smarted under its lash, as every one knows who knows his history, (and he was elevated to dread- ful notoriety in history,) yet, when he pronounced the death-sentence upon that Parliament, and inflicted the mortal wound, he declared that his motives for doing it were merely political, and that their hands were as pure as those of justice itself, which they administered. THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. WEBSTER. 245 A great and glorious exit, my Lords, of a great and glorious body ! And never was an eulogy pronounced upon a body more deserved. They were persons, in nobility of rank, in amplitude of fortune, in weight of authority, in depth of learning, inferior to few of those that hear me. My Lords, it was but the other day that they submitted their necks to the axe ; but their honour was unwounded. Their enemies, the persons who sen- tenced them to death, were lawyers full of subtlety, they were enemies full of malice ; yet, lawyers full of subtlety, and enemies full of malice, as they were, they did not dare to reproach them with having supported the wealthy, the great, and powerful, and of having oppressed the weak and feeble, in any of their judg- ments, or of having perverted justice, in any one instance whatever, through favour, through interest, or cabal. My Lords, if you must fall, may you so fall ! But, if you stand, — and stand I trust you will, together with the fortune of this ancient monarchy, together with the ancient laws and liberties of this great and illustrious kingdom, — may you stand as unimpeached in honour as in power ! May you stand, not as a substitute for virtue, but as an ornament of virtue, as a security for virtue ! May you stand long, and long stand the terror of tyrants ! May you stand the refuge of afflicted nations ! May you stand a sacred temple, for the per- petual residence of an inviolable justice ! Supposed Speech of John Adams. Daniel Webster. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true indeed that in the beginning Ave aimed not at independence. But 246 CHOICE READINGS. there's a Divinity which shapes our ends. The injus- tice of England has driven us to arms ; and, blinded to her own interest for our good, she has obstinately per- sisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why then should we defer the declaration ? Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his life and his own honour ? Are not you, Sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you not both already the pro- scribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance ? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws ? If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up, the war? Do we mean to submit to the measures of Parliament, Boston-Port Bill and all? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust? I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall submit. Do we mean to violate that most solemn obligation ever en- tered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sacred honour to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives ? I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or title of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved you, that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. WEBSTER. 247 raised, or to be raised, for defence of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And if the war must go on, why put off lon- ger the Declaration of Independence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that Eng- land herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence than consent, by repealing her Acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct toward us has been a course of injustice and oppression. Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things which now predestinates our independence than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebel- lious subjects. The former she would regard as the result of fortune ; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why then, why then, Sir, do we not as soon as possible change this from a civil to a national war? And, since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of vic- tory, if we gain the victory ? If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies ; the cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will cany themselves, gloriously through the struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these Colonies, and I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, and can- not be eradicated. Every Colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. 248 CHOICE READINGS. Sir, the Declaration will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities, held under a British King, set before them the glorious object of entire independ- ence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. Read this Declaration at the head of the army ; every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honour. Publish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls ; proclaim it there ; let them hear it who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon ; let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out in its support. Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see clearly, through this day's business. You and I indeed may rue it. We may not live to the time when this Declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die, colonists ; die, slaves ; die, it may be, igno- miniously and on the scaffold. Be it so ; be it so ! If it be the pleasure of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But, while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a free coun- try. But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick COMPOSED AT CORA.LIXX. 249 gloom of the present. I see the brightness of the future, as the Sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honour it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illumi- nations. On its annual return they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy. Sir. before God. I believe the hour is come. My judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am. and all that I hope, in this life. I am now ready here to stake upon it : and I leave off, as I began, that, live or die, survive or perish. I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment. Independence now, and INDEPENDENCE FOE EVEE. COMPOSED AT OOKA LLTO,* In Sight of Wallace's Tower. Lord of the vale '. astounding Flood, The dullest leaf in this thick wood Quakes, conscious of thy power ; The caves reply with hollow moan : And vibrates, to its central stone. Yon time-cemented Tower ! And yet how fair the rural scene ! For thou. O Clyde, hast ever been Beneficent as strong : Pleased in refreshing dews to steep The little trembling flowers that peep Thy shelving rocks among. * Linn is Scottish for waterfall or cascade. 250 CHOICE READINGS. Hence all who love their country, love To look on thee, — delight to rove Where they thy voice can hear ; And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, Lord of the vale ! to Heroes laid In dust, that voice is dear ! Along thy banks, at dead of night, Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight ; Or stands, in warlike vest, Aloft, beneath the Moon's pale beam, A Champion worthy of the stream, Yon gray tower's living crest ! But clouds and envious darkness hide A Form not doubtfully descried : Their transient mission o'er, O, say to what blind region flee These Shapes of awful phantasy ? To what untrodden shore ? Less than divine command they spurn ; But this we from the mountains learn, And this the valleys show, — That never will they deign to hold Communion where the heart is cold To human weal and woe. The man of abject soul in vain Shall walk the Marathonian plain ; Or thrid the shadowy gloom, That still invests the guardian Pass, Where stood, sublime, Leonidas Devoted to the tomb. Nor deem that it can aught avail For such to glide with oar or sail Beneath the piny wood, PATRIOTISM. 251 Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake, His vengeful shafts, — prepared to slake Their thirst in tyrant's blood. PATKIOTISM. Sir Walter Scott. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, mj- native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well : For him no minstrel raptures swell ; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all iu self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. O Caledonia ! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires ! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand ! Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. 252 CHOICE READINGS. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my wither'd cheek ; Still lay my head by Teviot stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The Bard may draw his parting groan. >J*£o~- PAUL EEVEEE'S KIBE H. W. Longfellow. Ltsten, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five : Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, — "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfiy-arch Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light, — One if by land, and two if by sea ; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm." Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar Silently row'd to the Charlestown shore, Just as the Moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war : A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the Moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. PAUL revere's ride. 253 Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around hirn he hears The muster of men at the barrack-door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climb'd to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade ; Up the light ladder, slender and tall, To the highest window in the wall, "Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the quiet town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchward, lay the dead In their night-encampment on the hill. Wrapp'd in silence so deep and still, That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, tw All is well ! " A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, the secret dread Of the lonel} 7 belfry and the dead ; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, — A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurr'd, with a heavy stride, 254 CHOICE READINGS. On the opposite shore walk'd Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamp'd the earth, And turn'd and tighten' d his saddle-girth ; But mostly he watch'd with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still. And, lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns ! A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet : That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night ; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. It was twelve by the village-clock, When he cross'd the bridge into Medford town, He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river- fog, That rises when the Sun goes down. It was one by the village-clock, When he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he pass'd, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, PAUL REVERE' S RIDE. 255 As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning-breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day w T ould be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. • You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled ; How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere ; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, — A cry of defiance, and not of fear, — A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore ! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, 9 In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed, And the midnight-message of Paul Revere. 256 CHOICE READINGS. HOEATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. Lord Macaulay. Now the Consul's brow was sad, And the Consul's speech was low, And darkly look'cl he at the wall, And darkly at the foe : 1 ' Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down ; And, if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town ? " Then outspake brave Horatius, The captain of the gate : " To ever} 7 man upon this Earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods ? Hew clown the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed } 7 e may ; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play, — In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopp'd by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me ? " Then outspake Spurius Lartius, — A Ramnian proud was he : " Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee/' And outspake strong Herminius, — Of Titian blood was he : " I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee," HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 257 " Horatius," quoth the Consul, " As thou say'st, so let it be." Aud straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. Now, while the Three were tightening Their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an axe ; And Fathers mix'd with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. Meanwhile the Tuscan arm} T , Right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Roll'd slowly towards the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless Three. But now no sound of laughter Was heard amongst the foes. A wild and wrathful clamour From all the vanguard rose. Six spears' lengths from the entrance Halted that mighty mass, And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow pass. But, hark ! the cry is Astur : And, lo ! the ranks divide ; And the great lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. 258 CHOICE READINGS. Quoth he, " The she- wolf s litter Stand savagely at bay ; But will ye dare to follow, If Astur clears the way ? " Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rush'd against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turn'd the blow ; The blow, though turn'd, came yet too nigh ; It miss'd his helm, but gash'd his thigh. The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow. He reel'd, and on Herminius He lean'd one breathing-space, Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur' s face. Through teeth and skull and helmet So fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a handbreadth out Behind the Tuscan's head. But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied, And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. " Come back, come back, Horatius ! " Loud cried the Fathers all ; " Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! Back, ere the ruin fall ! " Back darted Spurius Lartius ; Herminius darted back ; And, as the}' pass'd, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack ; HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 259 But, when they turn'd their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have cross' d once more. But, with a crash like thunder. Fell every loosen'd beam, And, like a dam, the might}' wreck Lay right athwart the stream ; And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops Was splash'cl the yellow foam. Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind, — Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. " Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face ; " Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, " Now yield thee to our grace ! " Round turn'd he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see ; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he ; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home ; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome : "O Tiber! Father Tiber ! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day ! " So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed The good sword by his side, 260 CHOICE READINGS. And, with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide. No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank, But friends and foes in dumb surprise, "With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank ; And, when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. But fiercely ran the current, SwolPn high by months of rain, And fast his blood was flowing ; And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armour, And spent with changing blows ; And oft the}" thought him sinking, But still again he rose. And now he feels the bottom ; — Now on dry earth he stands ; Now round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands. And, now with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River Gate, Borne by the joyous crowd. WALPOLE'S ATTACK Otf PITT. I WAS unwilling to interrupt the course of this debate while it was carried on, with calmness and decency, by men who do. not suffer the ardour of opposition to cloud walpole's attack ON PITT. 261 their reason or transport them to such expressions as the dignity of this assembly does not admit. I have hith- erto deferred answering the gentleman who declaimed against the bill with such fluency of rhetoric and such vehemence of gesture ; who charged the advocates for the expedients now proposed with having no regard to any interests but their own, and with making laws only to consume paper, and threatened them with the defec- tion of their adherents, and the loss of their influence, upon this new discovery of their folly and ignorance. Nor do I now answer him for any other purpose than to remind him how little the clamours of rage and the petulancy of invective contribute to the end for which this assembly is called together; how little the dis- covery of truth is promoted, and the security of the nation established by pompous diction and theatrical emotion. Formidable sounds and furious declama- tion, confident assertions and lofty periods, may affect the young and inexperienced ; and perhaps the gentle- man may have contracted his habits of oratory by con- versing more with those of his own age than with such as have more opportunities of acquiring knowledge, and more successful methods of communicating their senti- ments. If the heat of his temper would permit him to attend to those whose age and long acquaintance with business give them an indisputable right to deference and superiority, he would learn, in time, to reason rather than declaim, and to prefer justness of argument, and an accurate knowledge of facts, to sounding epi- thets and splendid superlatives, which may disturb the imagination for a moment, but leave no lasting impres- sion on the mind. He will learn that to accuse and prove are very different ; and that reproaches, unsup- ported by evidence, affect only the character of him that 262 CHOICE READINGS. utters them. Excursions of fancy and nights of oratory are, indeed, pardonable in young men, but in no other ; and it would surely contribute more, even to the pur- pose for which some gentlemen appear to speak, (that of depreciating the conduct of the administration,) to prove the inconveniences and injustice of this bill, than barely to assert them, with whatever magnificence of language or appearance of zeal, honesty, or compas- sion. PITT'S EEPLY TO WALPOLE. Sir, — The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honourable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny; but content myself with wishing that I may be one of those whose follies may cease with their youth, and not of that number who are ignorant in spite of experience. Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, I will not, sir, assume the province of determining; but surely age may become justly contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings have passed away without improvement, and vice ap- pears to prevail when the passions have subsided. The wretch who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and whose age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object either of abhorrence or contempt, and deserves not that his gray hairs should secure him from insult. Much more, Sir, is he to be abhorred who, as he has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, am 1 become more wicked with less temptation ; who prosti- tutes himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin of his coun- try. pitt's reply to walpole. 263 But youth, Sir, is not my only crime ; I have been accused of acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part may either imply some peculiarities of gesture, or a dis- simulation of my real sentiments, and an adoption of the opinions and language of another man. In the first sense, Sir, the charge is too trifling to be confuted, and deserves only to be mentioned, that it may be despised. I am at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language ; and, though perhaps I may have some ambition to please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself under any restraint, nor very solicit- ously copy his diction or his mien, however matured by age or modelled by experience. But if any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behaviour imply that I utter any sentiments but my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain ; nor shall any protection shelter him from the treatment he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple, trample upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity intrench themselves; nor shall anything but age restrain my resentment, — age, which always brings one privilege, that of being insolent and super- cilious, without punishment. But with regard, Sir, to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion that, if I had acted a borrowed part, I should have avoided their censure ; the heat that offended them is the ardour of conviction, and that zeal for the service of my country which neither hope nor fear shall influence me to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. I will exert my endeav- ours, at whatever hazard, to repel the aggressor, and drag the thief to justice, whoever may protect him in his villainy, and whoever may partake of his plunder. 264 CHOICE READINGS. OUR DUTIES TO THE REPUBLIC. Judge Story. The Old World has already revealed to us, in its unsealed books, the beginning and end of all its own •marvellous struggles in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece, " the land of scholars and the nurse of arms," where sister republics, in fair procession, chanted the praises of liberty and the gods, — where and what is she ? For two thousand years the oppressor has ground her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery. The fragments of her columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruins. She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were united at Thermopylae and Marathon ; and the tide of her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of her own people. The man of Macedonia did not the work of destruction. It was already done by her own corruptions, banishments, and dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the rising and setting Sun, — where and what is she? The eternal city yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in her decline, venerable in the majesty of re- ligion, and calm as in the composure of death. The malaria has but travelled in the paths worn by her destroyers. More than eighteen centuries have mourned over the loss of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals before CaBsar crossed the Rubicon ; and Bru- tus did not restore her health by the deep probings of the Senate-chamber. The Goths and Vandals and Huns, the swarms of the North, completed only what was already begun at home. Romans betrayed Rome. OUR DUTIES TO THE REPUBLIC. 265 The legions were bought and sold ; but the people offered the tribute money. We stand the latest, — and, if we fail, probably the last, — experiment of self-government by the people. We have begun it under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. We are in the vigour of. youth. Our growth has never been checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been en- feebled by the vices or luxuries of the old world. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning, — simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government and to self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us and any formidable foe. Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many products and many means of independence. The government is mild. The Press is free. Religion is free. Knowledge reaches or may reach every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented? What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary than for the people to preserve what they have them- selves created? Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France and the low lands., of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of Germany and the North ; and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days. Can it be that America, under such circumstances, can betray herself? Can it be that she is to be added to the cata- logue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is: "They were, but they are not"? Forbid it, my countrymen ! Forbid it, Heaven ! 266 CHOICE READINGS. LIBEETY AND UNION. Daniel Webster. I profess, Sir, iii my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honour of the whole country, and the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that Union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That Union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of dis- ordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, these great interests imme- diately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings ; and, although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread further and further, they have not outrun its protection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. I have not allowed myself, Sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of pre- serving liberty when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed my- self to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below ; nor could I regard hiimas a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union may be best preserved, but how tolera- ble might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. INDEPENDENCE BELL. 267 While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, grati- fying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that, in my day at least, that curtain may not rise ! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind ! When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the Sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishon- oured fragments of a once glorious Union ; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood ! Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honoured throughout the Earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star ob- scured ; bearing for its motto, no such miserable inter- rogatory as, "What is all this worth?" nor those other words of delusion and folly, " Liberty first, and Union afterwards " ; but everywhere, spread all over in char- acters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart, — Liberty and Union, now and for ever, one and inseparable ! >>*Xc INDEPENDENCE BELL. — J0T,Y 4, 1776. [When the Declaration of Independence was adopted hy Congress, the event was announced hy ringing the old State-House hell, which bore the inscription " Proclaim liberty throughout the land, to all the inhabitants thereof! " The old bellman stationed his little grandson at the door of the hall, to await the instructions of the door-keeper when to ring. At the word, the young patriot rushed out, and clapping his hands, shouted: — "Pang! King ! RING!"] 268 CHOICE READINGS. There was a tumult iu the city, In the quaint old Quaker town, And the streets were rife with people Pacing restless up and down, — People gathering at the corners, Where they whisper'd each to each, And the sweat stood on their temples With the earnestness of speech. As the bleak Atlantic currents Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, So they beat against the State-House, So they surged against the door ; And the mingling of their voices Made a harmony profound, Till the quiet street of Chestnut Was all turbulent with sound. " Will they do it? " " Dare they do it? " ' ' Who is speaking ? " " What's the news ? " ' ' What of Adams ? " " What of Sherman ? " " O, God grant they won't refuse ! " " Make some wa} r there ! " " Let me nearer ! " "lam stifling ! " " Stifle, then ! When a nation's life's at hazard, We've no time to think of men ! " So they surged against the State-House, While all solemnly insure Sat the Continental Congress, Truth and reason for their guide. O'er a simple scroll debating, Which, though simple it might be, Yet should shake the cliffs of England With the thunders of the free. Far aloft in that high steeple Sat the bellman, old and gray ; INDEPENDENCE BELL. 269 He was weary of the tyrant And his iron-scepter' cl sway, So he sat, with one hand ready On the clapper of the bell, When his eye could catch the signal, The long-expected news, to tell. See, see ! the dense crowd quivers Through all its lengthen'd line, As the boy beside the portal Hastens forth to give the sign ! With his little hands uplifted, Breezes dallying with his hair, Hark ! with deep, clear intonation, Breaks his young voice on the air : Hush'd the people's swelling murmur, Whilst the boy cries joyously ; " Ring ! " he shouts, " Ring ! grandpapa, Ring ! 0, ring for Liberty ! " Quickly, at the given signal, The old bellman lifts his hand, Forth he sends the good news, making Iron music through the land. How they shouted ! What rejoicing ! How the old bell shook the air, Till the clang of freedom ruffled The calmty-gliding Delaware ! How the bonfires and the torches Lighted up the night's repose, And from the flames, like fabled Phoenix, Our glorious liberty arose ! That old State-House bell is silent, Hush'd is now its clamorous tongue ; But the spirit it awaken'd Still is living, — ever young ; 270 CHOICE READINGS. And, when we greet the smiling sunlight On the fourth of each July, We will ne'er forget the bellman Who, betwixt the earth and sky, Rung out, loudly, u Independence" ; Which, please God, shall never die ! THE AMEKICAN FLAG. Joseph Rodman Drake. When Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurl' d her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there ! She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light ; Then, from his mansion in the Sun, She call'd her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land ! Majestic monarch of the cloud ! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — Child of the Sun ! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victoiy ! THE AMERICAN FLAG. 271 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high ! When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on, Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has climm'd the glistening bayonet, Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighten' d waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendours fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel-hands to valour given, Tlry stars have lit the welkin dome, And all tlry hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet, Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming- o'er ns ! 272 CHOICE READINGS. THE KISXtfG OF 1776. Thomas Buchanan Read. Out of the North the wild news came, Far flashing on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies At midnight through the startled skies. And there was tumult in the air, The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And through the wide land everywhere The answering tread of hurrying feet ; While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington ; And Concord roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swell 'd the discord of the hour. Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkley Manor stood ; There Sunday found the rural folk, And some esteem'd of gentle blood. In vain their feet with loitering tread Pass'd 'mid the graves where rank is nought ; All could not read the lesson taught In that republic of the dead. How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk, The vale with peace and sunshine full, Where all the happy people walk, Deck'd in their homespun flax and wool ; Where youth's ga}' hats with blossoms bloom ; And every maid, with simple art, Wears on her breast, like her own heart, A bud whose depths are all perfume ; While every garment's gentle stir Is breathing rose and lavender. THE RISING OF 1776. 273 The pastor came : his snowy locks Hallow'd his brow of thought and care ; And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks, He led into the house of prayer. Then soon he rose ; the prayer was strong ; The Psalm was warrior David's song ; The text, a few short words of might — " The Lord of hosts shall arm the right ! " He spoke of wrongs too long endured, Of sacred rights to be secured ; Then from his patriot tongue of flame The startling words for Freedom came. The stirring sentences he spake Compell'd the heart to glow or quake, And, rising on his theme's broad wing, And grasping in his nervous hand Th' imaginary battle-brand, In face of death he dared to fling- Defiance to a tyrant king. Even as he spoke, his frame, renew'd In eloquence of attitude, Rose, as it seem'cl, a shoulder higher ; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir ; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside, And, lo ! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise. ♦ A moment there was awful pause, When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease! God's temple is the house of peace ! " The other shouted, " Nay, not so, When God is with our righteous cause ; His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers 274 CHOICE READINGS. That frown upon the tyrant foe ; In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, There is a time to fight and praj r ! " And now before the open door — The warrior priest had order' d so — Th' enlisting trumpet's sudden roar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, Its long reverberating blow, So loud and clear, it seem'cl the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear. And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life ; While overhead, with wild increase, Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, The great bell swung as ne'er before : It seem'd as it would never cease ; And every word its ardour flung From off its jubilant iron tongue Was, "War! War! WAR!" " Who dares " — this was the patriot's cry, As striding from the desk he came — " Come out with me, in Freedom's name, For her to live, for her to die ? " A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices answer'd, " I ! " EEPLY TO ME. COKEY. H. Grattan. Has the gentleman done ? Has he completely done ? He was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of his speech. There was scarce a word he uttered that was not a violation of the privileges of the House. But REPLY TO MR. CORRY. 275 I did not call him to order, — why ? because the limited talents of some men render it impossible for them to be severe without being unparliamentary. But before I sit down I shall show him how to be severe and parliamentary at the same time. On any other occasion, I should think myself justifi- able in treating with silent contempt anything which might fall from that honourable member ; but there are times when the insignificance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of the accusation. I know the difficulty the honourable gentleman laboured under when he attacked me, conscious that, on a comparative view of our characters, public and private, there is nothing he could say which would injure me. The public would not believe the charge. I despise the falsehood. If such a charge were made by an honest man, I would answer it in the manner I shall do before I sit down. But I shall first reply to it when not made by an honest man. The right-honourable gentleman has called me "an unimpeached traitor." I ask why not "traitor," un- qualified b} r any epithet ? I will tell him : it was because he durst not. It was the act of a coward, who raises his arm to strike, but has not courage to give the blow. I will not call him villain, because it would be unparliamentary, and he is a Privy Counsellor. I will not call him fool, because he happens to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. But I say, he is one who has abused the privilege of parliament and the freedom of debate, by uttering language which, if spoken out of the House, I should answer only with a blow. I care not how high his situation, how low his character, how contemptible his speech ; whether a Privy Counsellor or a parasite, my answer would be a blow. 276 CHOICE READINGS. He has charged me with being connected with the rebels. The charge is utterly, totally, and meanly false. Does the honourable gentleman rely on the report of the House of Lords for the foundation of his assertion ? If he does, I can prove to the committee there was a physical impossibility of that report being true. But I scorn to answer any man for my conduct, whether he be a political coxcomb, or whether he brought himself into power by a false glare of courage or not. I have returned, — not, as the right-honourable mem- ber has said, to raise another storm, — I have returned to discharge an honourable debt of gratitude to my country, that conferred a great reward for past services, which, I am proud to say, was not greater than my desert. I have returned to protect that Constitution of which I was the parent and founder, from the assassi- nation of such men as the right-honourable gentleman and his unworthy associates. They are corrupt, they are seditious, and they, at this very moment, are in a conspiracy against their country. I have returned to refute a libel, as false as it is malicious, given to the public under the appellation of a report of the committee of the Lords. Here I stand, ready for impeachment or trial. I dare accusation. I defy the honourable gen- tleman ; I defy the Government; I defy their whole phalanx : let them come forth ! I tell the Ministers, I will neither give quarter nor take it. I am here to lay the shattered remains of my constitution on the floor of this house, in defence of the liberties of my country. WISDOM DEARLY PURCHASED. 277 WISDOM DEAKLY PUKCHASED. Edmund Burke. The British Parliament, in a former session, fright- ened into a limited concession by the menaces of Ireland, frightened out of it by the menaces of England, was now frightened back again, and made an universal surrender of all that had been thought the peculiar, reserved, un- communicable rights of England. Xo reserve, no excep- tion ; no debate, no discussion. A sudden light broke in upon us all. It broke in, not through well-contrived and well-disposed windows, but through flaws and breaches, — through the yawning chasms of our ruin. We were taught wisdom by humiliation. No town in England presumed to have a prejudice, or dared to mutter a petition. What was worse, the whole Parlia- ment of England, which retained authority for nothing but surrenders, was despoiled of every shadow of its superintendence. It was, without any qualification, denied in theory, as it had been trampled upon in prac- tice. What, Gentlemen ! was I not to foresee, or, foresee- ing, was I not to endeavour to save you from all these multiplied mischiefs and disgraces ? Would the little, silly, canvass prattle of obeying instructions, and having no opinions but yours, and such idle, senseless tales, which amuse the vacant ears of unthinking men, have saved you from " the pelting of that pitiless storm " to which the loose improvidence, the cowardly rashness, of those who dare not look danger in the face so as to provide against it in time, and therefore throw them- selves headlong into the midst of it, have exposed this degraded nation, beat down and prostrate on the earth, unsheltered, unarmed, unresisting ? Was I an Irishman 278 CHOICE READINGS. on that day that I boldly withstood our pride ? or on the day that I hung' down my head, and wept in shame and silence over the humiliation of Great Britain ? I became unpopular in England for the one, and in Ire- land for the other. What then ? What obligation lay on me to be popular? I was bound to serve both king- doms. To be pleased with my service was their affair, not mine. I was an Irishman in the Irish business, just as much as I was an American, when, on the same principles, I wished you to concede to America at a time when she prayed concession at our feet. Just as much was I an American, when I wished Parliament to offer terms in victory, and not to wait the ill-chosen hour of defeat, for making good by weakness and by supplication a claim of prerogative, preeminence, and authority. Instead of requiring it from me, as a point of duty, to kindle with your passions, had you all been as cool as I was, you would have been saved disgraces and distresses that are unutterable. Do you remember our commis- sion ? We sent out a solemn embassy across the Atlan- tic Ocean, to lay the crown, the peerage, the commons of Great Britain at the feet of the American Congress. That our disgrace might want no sort of brightening and burnishing, observe who they were that composed this famous embassy. My Lord Carlisle is among the first ranks of our nobility. He is the identical man who, but two years before, had been put forward, at the opening of a session, in the House of Lords, as the mover of an haughty and rigorous address against America. He was put in the front of the embassy of submission. Mr. Eden was taken from the office of Lord Suffolk, to whom he was then Under-Secretary of State, - — from the office of that Lord Suffolk who but a WISDOM DEARLY PURCHASED. 279 few weeks before, in his place in Parliament, did not deign to inquire where a congress of vagrants was to be found. They enter the capital of America only to abandon it ; and these assertors and representatives of the dig- nity of England, at the tail of a flying army, let fly their Parthian shafts of memorials and remonstrances at random behind them. Their promises and their offers, their flatteries and their menaces, were all despised ; and we were saved the disgrace of their for- mal reception only because the Congress scorned to receive them ; whilst the State-house of independent Philadelphia opened her doors to the public entry of the ambassador of France. From war and blood we went to submission, and from submission plunged back again to war and blood, to desolate and be desolated, without measure, hope, or end. I am a Royalist : I blushed for this degradation of the Crown. I am a Whig: I blushed for the dishonour of Parliament. I am a true Englishman: I felt to the quick for the dis- grace of England. I am a man : I felt for the melan- choly reverse of human affairs in the fall of the first power in the world. To read what was approaching in Ireland, in the black and bloody characters of the American war, was a painful, but it was a necessary part of my public duty. For, Gentlemen, it is not your fond desires or mine that can alter the nature of things ; by contending against which, what have we got, or ever shall get, but defeat and shame? I did not obey your instructions. No. I conformed to the instructions of truth and Na- ture, and maintained your interest, against your opin- ions, with a constancy that became me. A representa- tive worthy of you ought to be a person of stability. 280 CHOICE READINGS. I am to look, indeed, to your opinions, — but to such opinions as you and I must have five years hence. I was not to look to the flash of the day. I knew that you chose me, in my place, along with others, to be a pillar of the State, and not a weathercock on the top of the edifice, exalted for my levity and versatility, and of no use but to indicate the shiftings of every fash- ionable gale. Would to God the value of my senti- ments on Ireland and on America had been at this day a subject of doubt and discussion ! No matter what my sufferings had been, so that this kingdom had kept the authority I wished it to maintain, by a grave foresight, and by an equitable temperance in the use of its power. >o^c "MATCHES ATO OVERMATCHES." Daniel Webster. But the gentleman inquires why he was made the object of such a reply. Why was he singled out ? If an attack has been made on the East, he, he assures us, did not begin it : it was made by the gentleman from Missouri. Sir, I answered the gentleman's speech because I happened to hear it ; and because, also, I chose to give an answer to that speech which, if un- answered, I thought most likely to produce injurious impressions. I did not stop to inquire who was the original drawer of the bill. I found a responsible in- dorser before me, and it was my purpose to hold him liable, and to bring him to his just responsibility with- out delay. But, Sir, this interrogatory of the honoura- ble member was only introductory to another. He pro- ceeded to ask me whether I had turned upon him, in this debate, from the consciousness that I should find 4 * MATCHES AND OVERMATCHES." 281 an overmatch, if I ventured on a contest with his friend from Missouri. If, Sir, the honourable member, modestice gratia, had chosen thus to defer to his friend, and to pay him a com- pliment, without intentional disparagement to others, it would have been quite according to the friendly courtesies of debate, and not at all ungrateful to my oavu feelings. I am not one of those, Sir, who esteem any tribute of regard, whether light and occasional, or more serious and deliberate, which may be bestowed on others, as so much unjustly withholden from themselves. But the tone and manner of the gentleman's question forbid me thus to interpret it. I am not at liberty to consider it as nothing more than a civility to his friend. It had an air of taunt and disparagement, something of the loftiness of asserted superiority, which does not allow me to pass it over without notice. It was put as a question for me to answer, and so put as if it were difficult for me to answer, whether I deemed the mem- ber from Missouri an overmatch for myself in debate here. It seems to me, Sir, that this is extraordinary language, and an extraordinary tone, for the discussions of this body. Matches and overmatches ! Those terms are more applicable elsewhere than here, and fitter for other assemblies than this. Sir, the gentleman seems to for- get where and what we are. This is a Senate, a Senate of equals, of men of individual honour and personal character, and of absolute independence. "We know no masters, we acknowledge no dictators. This is a hall for mutual consultation and discussion ; not an arena for the exhibition of champions. I offer myself, Sir. as a match for no man : I throw the challenge of debate at no man's feet. But then, Sir, since the honourable 282 CHOICE READINGS. member has put the question in a manner that calls for an answer, I will give him an answer ; and I tell him that, holding myself to be the humblest of the members here, I yet know nothing in the arm of his friend from Missouri, either alone or when aided by the arm of his friend from South Carolina, that need deter even me from espousing whatever opinions I may choose to espouse, from debating whenever I may choose to debate, or from speaking whatever I may see fit to say, on the floor of the Senate. Sir, when uttered as matter of commendation or com- pliment, I should dissent from nothing which the hon- ourable member might say of his friend. Still less do I put forth any pretensions of my own. But, when put to me as matter of taunt, I throw it back, and say to the gentleman that he could possibly say nothing more likely than such a comparison to wound my pride of personal character. The anger of its tone rescued the remark from intentional irony, which otherwise, proba- bly, would have been its general acceptation. But, Sir, if it be imagined that by this mutual quotation and commendation ; if it be supposed that, by casting the characters of the drama, assigning to each his part, to one the attack, to another the cry of onset ; or if it be thought that, by a loud and empty vaunt of anticipated victory, any laurels are to be won here ; if it be imag- ined, especially, that any, or all these things will shake any purpose of mine, I can tell the honourable mem- ber, once for all, that he is greatly mistaken, and that he is dealing with one of whose temper and character he has yet much to learn. Sir, I shall not allow myself, on this occasion, I hope on no occasion, to be betrayed into any loss of temper : but, if provoked, as I trust I never shall be, into crimi- EULOGY ON LAFAYETTE. 283 nation and recrimination, the honourable member may perhaps find that, in that contest, there will be blows to take as well as blows to give ; that others can state comparisons as significant, at least, as his own ; and that his impunity may possibly demand of him whatever powers of taunt and sarcasm he may possess. I commend him to a prudent husbandry of his resources. EULOGY ON LAFAYETTE. Edward Everett. There have been those who have denied to Lafayette the name of a great man. What is greatness? Does goodness belong to greatness, and make an essential part of it ? If it does, who, I would ask, of all the prominent names in history, has run through such a career with so little reproach, justly or unjustly be- stowed? Are military courage and conduct the meas- ure of greatness? Lafayette was intrusted by Wash- ington with all kinds of service, — the laborious and complicated, which required skill and patience ; the perilous, that demanded nerve , and we see him per- forming all with entire success and brilliant reputation. Is the readiness to meet vast responsibilities a proof of greatness ? The memoirs of Mr. Jefferson show us that there was a moment, in 1789, when Lafayette took upon himself, as the head of the militar}^ force, the entire responsibility of laying down the basis of the Revolu- tion. Is the cool and brave administration of gigantic power a mark of greatness ? In all the whirlwind of the Revolution, and when, as commander-in-chief of the National Guard, an organized force of three millions of men, who, for any popular purpose, needed but a word, 284 CHOICE HEADINGS. a look, to put them in motion, we behold him ever calm, collected, disinterested; as free from affectation as selfishness ; clothed not less with humility than with power. Is the voluntary return, in advancing years, to the direction of affairs, at a moment like that when, in 1815, the ponderous machinery of the French Empire was flying asunder, — stunning, rending, crushing thou- sands on every side, — a mark of greatness? Lastly, is it any proof of greatness, to be able, at the age of seventy-three, to take the lead in a successful and blood- less revolution; to change the dynasty; to organize, exercize, and abdicate a military command of three and a half millions of men ; to take up, to perform, and lay down the most, momentous, delicate, and perilous duties, without passion, without hurry, without selfishness? Is it great to disregard the bribes of title, office, money ; to live, to labour, and suffer for great public ends alone ; to adhere to principle under all circumstances ; to stand before Europe and America conspicuous, for sixty years, in the most responsible stations, the acknowledged ad- miration of all good men? But it is more than time, fellow-citizens, that I com- mit the memory of this great and good man to your unprompted contemplation. On his arrival among you, ten years ago, when your civil fathers, your military, your children, your whole population, poured itself out, in one throng, to salute him ; when your cannons pro- claimed his advent with joyous salvos, and your accla- mations were answered, from steeple to steeple, by festal bells, — with what delight did you not listen to his cordial and affectionate words, — "I beg of you all, beloved citizens of Boston, to accept the respectful and warm thanks of a heart which has for nearly half a cen- tury been devoted to youi» illustrious city ! " EULOGY ON LAFAYETTE. 285 That noble heart, — to which, if any object on Earth was dear, that object was the country of his early choice, of his adoption, and his more than regal triumph, — that noble heart will beat no more for your welfare. Cold and still, it is already mingling with the dust. While he lived, you thronged with delight to his pres- ence ; you gazed with admiration on his placid features and venerable form, not wholly unshaken by the rude storms of his career ; and now, that he has departed, you have assembled in this cradle of the liberties for which, with your fathers, he risked his life, to pay the last hon- ours to his memory. You have thrown open these con- secrated portals to admit the lengthened train, which has come to discharge the last public offices of respect to his name. You have hung these venerable arches, for the second time since their erection, with the sable badges of sorrow. You have thus associated the mem- ory of Lafayette in those distinguished honours, which but a few years since you paid to your Adams and Jeff- erson. There is not, throughout the world, a friend of liberty who has not dropped his head when he has heard that Lafayette is no more. Poland, Italy, Greece, Spain, Ireland, the South American republics, — every country where man is struggling to recover his birthright, — have lost a benefactor, a patron in Lafayette. And what was it, fellow-citizens, which gave to our Lafayette his spotless fame ? The love of liberty. What has con- secrated his memory in the hearts of good men ? The love of liberty. What nerved his youthful arm with strength, and inspired him, in the morning of his days, with sagacity and counsel? The living love of liberty. To what did he sacrifice power, and rank, and country, and freedom itself ? To the horror of licentiousness, — 286 CHOICE READINGS. — to the sanctity of plighted faith, — to the love of lib- erty protected by law. Thus the great principle of your Revolutionary fathers, and of your Pilgrim sires, wa^ the rule of his life, — the love of liberty protected by law. You have now assembled within these celebrated walls, to perform the last duties of respect and love, on the birthday of your benefactor. The spirit of the departed is in high communion with the spirit of the place, — the temple worthy of the new name which we now behold inscribed on its walls. Listen, Americans, to the lesson which seems borne to us on the very air we breathe, while we perform these dutiful rites ! Ye winds, that wafted the Pilgrims to the land of promise, fan, in their children's hearts, the love of freedom ! Blood, which our fathers shed, cry from the ground ! Echoing arches of this renowned hall, whisper back the voices of other days ! Glorious Washington, break the long silence of that votive canvas ! Speak, speak, mar- ble lips; teach us the love of liberty protected BY LAW. BIENZTS ADDKESS TO THE EOMANS. Miss M. R. Mitford. Friends, I come not here to talk. Ye know too well The story of our thraldom ; — we are slaves ! The bright Sun rises to his course, and lights A race of slaves ! He sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave ! — not such as, swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fame ; But base, ignoble slaves, — slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords, Rich in some dozen paltry villages, — Strong in some hundred spearmen, — only great RlENZl's ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. 287 In that strange spell, a name ! Each hour, dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cries out against them. But this very day, An honest man, my neighbour, — there he stands, — Was struck — struck like a dog, by one who wore The badge of Ursini ! because, forsooth, He toss'd not high his reacVy cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, At sight of that great ruffian ! Be we men, And surfer such dishonour? men, and wash not The stain away in blood ? Such shames are common. I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to you, — I had a brother once, — a gracious boy, Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, Of sweet and quiet joy ; there was the look Of Heaven upon his face, which limners give To the beloved disciple. How I loved That gracious boy ! Younger 03- fifteen years, Brother at once and son ! He left my side, A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour, The pretty, harmless boy was slain ! I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried For vengeance ! Eouse, ye Romans ! rouse, ye slaves ! Have ye brave sons? Look, in the next fierce brawl, To see them die ! Have 3'e daughters fair ? Look To see them live, torn from your arms, distain'd, Dishonour'd ! and, if ye dare call for justice, Be answer'd by the lash ! Yet this is Rome, That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne Of beauty ruled the world ! Yet we are Romans ! Why, in that elder clay, to be a Roman Was greater than a king ! — and once again, — Hear me, ye walls, that echo'd to the tread Of either Brutus ! — once again I swear, Th' eternal city shall be free ! her sons Shall walk with princes ! 288 CHOICE READINGS. LOOHIEL'S WAENING. Thomas Campbell. Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the doxy When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight. And the clans of Culloclen are scatter'd in fight : The}' rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But, hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, O Glenullm ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair ! Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! O, weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, — Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave ! Lochiel. Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! Or, if gor}' Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright ! Seer. Ha! laughest thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the North ? Lo ! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; But down let him stoop, from his havoc on high ! Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. Wiry flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven lochiel's warning. 289 From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood ! Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clan, Their swords are a thousand, — their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ! When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All pi aided and plumed in their tartan array, — Seer. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day ! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal. 'Tis the sunset of life gives me nrystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. 1 tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight ; Rise ! rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! — 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'cl on the moors, — Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; 290 CHOICE READINGS. The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; His death-bell is tolling : O mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims ! Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale, — Lochiel. Down, soothless in suiter ! I trust not the tale ! For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore, Like ocean -weeds heap'd on the surf -beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame ! 3«*K< SPEECH IE THE VIKGOTIA C0FVE1TTI0N, 1775. Patrick Henry. Mr. President, it is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men engaged in the great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who having eyes see not, and having ears hear not, the things which so nearly concern thel.; temporal salvation ? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth ; to know the worst, and to provide for it. SPEECH IN THE VIRGINIA CONVENTION. 291 I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British Ministry for the last ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House. Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be be- trayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love ? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation, the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purposes be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it ? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world to call for all this accumu- lation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us. They can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British Ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose them ? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable ; but it has been all 292 CHOICK READINGS. in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and supplication ? What terms shall we find that have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done everything that could have been done to avert the storm that is now coming on. We have petitioned, we have remon- strated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated our- selves before the throne, and have implored its interpo- sition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the Ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted, our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult, our sup- plications have been disregarded, and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot of the throne. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free , if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending ; if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, we must fight ! I repeat it, sir, we must fight ! An appeal to arms and to the God of hosts is all that is left us. They tell us, sir, that we are weak ; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year ? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house ? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction ? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound SPEECH OF VINDICATION. 293 us hand and foot ? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of Nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the des- tinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone : it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Be- sides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest: There is no retreat but in submission and slavery ! Our chains are forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston ! The war is inevitable, and let it come ! I repeat, sir, let it come ! It is vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, peace ! but there is no peace. The war is actually begun ! The next gale that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle?. What is it that gen- tlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death ! SPEECH OP VINDICATION. Robert Emmett. My Lords: What have I to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced on me, according to 294 CHOICE READINGS. law ? — I have nothing to say that can alter your pre- determination, nor that it will become me to say, with any view to the mitigation of that sentence which you are here to pronounce, and I must abide by. But I have that to say which interests me more than life, and which you have laboured to destroy. I have much to say, why my reputation should be rescued from the load of false accusation and calumny which has been heaped upon it. Were I only to suffer death, after being adjudged guilty by your tribunal, I should bow in silence, and meet the fate that awaits me without a murmur. The man dies, but his memory lives. That mine may not perish, — that it may live in the respect of my country- men, — I seize upon this opportunity to vindicate my- self from some of the charges alleged against me. I swear, by the throne of Heaven, before which I must shortly appear, — by the blood of the murdered patriots who have gone before me, — that my conduct has been, through all this peril, and all my purposes, governed only by the convictions which I have uttered, and no other view than that of the emancipation of my country from the superinhuman oppression under which she has so long, and too patiently, travailed ; and that I confidently and assuredly hope, wild and chimerical as it may appear, that there is still union and strength in Ireland to accomplish this noble en- terprise. Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonour ; let no man attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but that of my country's liberty and independence ; or that I could have become the pliant minion of power, in the oppres- sion or the miseries of my countrymen. I would not SPEECH OF VINDICATION. 295 have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same reason that I would resist the domestic tyrant ; in the dignity of freedom, I would have fought upon the threshold of my country, and her enemies should enter only by passing over my lifeless corpse. Am I, who lived but for my country, and who have subjected my- self to the vengeance of the jealous and wrathful oppressor, and to the bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights, — am I to be loaded with calumny, and not to be suffered to resent or repel it? No! — God forbid! If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life, — O ever dear and venerated shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny on the conduct of your suffering son ; and see if I have even for a moment deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was your care to instil into my youthful mind, and for an adherence to which I am now to offer up my life ! My Lords, you are all impatient for the sacrifice. The blood which you seek is not congealed by the arti- ficial terrors which surround your victim ; it circulates warmly and unruffled, through the channels which God created for noble purposes, but which you are bent to destroy, for purposes so grievous that they cry to Heaven ! Be yet patient ! I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my silent grave ; my lamp of life is nearly extinguished ; my race is run ; the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world, — it is the charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph ; for, as no one who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or 296 CHOICE READINGS. ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other men, can do justice to my character. When my country shall take her place among the nations of the Earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written ! I have done. >^< APPEAL IN BEHALF OF IEELAND. S. S. Prentiss. Fellow-citizens : It is no ordinary cause that has brought together this vast assemblage. We have met, not to prepare ourselves for political contests ; we have met, not to celebrate the achievements of those gallant men who have planted our victorious standards in the heart of an enemy's country ; we have assembled, not to respond to shouts of triumph from the West ; but to answer the cry of want and suffering which comes from the East. The Old World stretches out her arms to the New. The starving parent supplicates the young and vigorous child for bread. There lies upon the other side of the wide Atlantic a beautiful island, famous in story and in song. Its area is not so great as that of the State of Louisiana, while its population is almost half that of the Union. It has given to the world more than its share of genius and of greatness. It has been prolific in statesmen, warriors, and poets. Its brave and generous sons have fought successfully all battles but their own. In wit and hu- mour it has no equal; while its harp, like its history, moves to tears by its sweet but melancholy pathos. Into this fair region God has seen fit to send the most terrible of all those fearful ministers that fulfil His APPEAL IN BEHALF OF IRELAND. 297 inscrutable decrees. The earth has failed to give her increase. The common mother has forgotten her off- spring, and she no longer affords them their accustomed nourishment. Famine, gaunt and ghastly famine, has seized a nation with its strangling grasp. Unhappy Ireland, in the sad woes of the present, forgets, for a moment, the gloomy history of the past. O, it is terrible that, in this beautiful world which the good God has given us, and in which there is plenty for us all, men should die of starvation ! When a man dies of disease he alone endures the pain. Around his pillow are gathered sympathizing friends, who, if they cannot keep back the deadly messenger, cover his face and conceal the horrors of his visage as he delivers his stern mandate. In battle, in the fullness of his pride and strength, little recks the soldier whether the hissing bullet sings his sudden requiem, or the cords of life are severed by the sharp steel. But he who dies of hunger wrestles alone, day by day, with his grim and unrelenting enemy. He has no friends to cheer him in the terrible conflict; for, if he had friends, how could he die of hunger ? He has not the hot blood of the soldier to maintain him ; for his foe, vampire-like, has exhausted his veins. Famine comes not up, like a brave enemy, storming, by a sud- den onset, the fortress that resists. Famine besieges. He draws his lines round the doomed garrison. He cuts off all supplies. He never summons to surrender, for he gives no quarter. Alas, for poor human nature ! how can it sustain this fearful warfare? Day by day the blood recedes, the flesh deserts, the muscles relax, and the sinews grow powerless. At last the mind, which at first had bravely nerved itself against the contest, gives way under the 298 CHOICE READINGS. mysterious influences which govern its union with the body. Then the victim begins to doubt the existence of an overruling Providence. He hates his fellow-men, and glares upon them with the longing of a cannibal ; and, it may be, dies blaspheming. This is one of those cases in which we may without impiety assume, as it were, the function of Providence. Who knows but that one of the very objects of this calamity is to test the benevolence and worthiness of us upon whom unlimited abundance is showered? In the name, then, of common humanity, I invoke your aid in behalf of starving Ireland. Give generously and freely. Recollect that in so doing you are exercising one of the most God-like qualities of your nature, and at the same time enjoying one of the greatest luxuries of life. Go home and look at your family, smiling in rosy health, and then think of the pale, famine-pinched cheeks of the poor children of Ireland ; and I know you will give, according to your store, even as a bountiful Providence has given to you, — not grudgingly, but with an open hand. He who is able, and will not aid such a cause, is not a man, and has no right to wear the form. He should be sent back to Nature's mint, and re-issued as a counterfeit on humanity of Nature's baser metal. AMBITION OP A STATESMAN. Henry Clay. I have been accused of ambition in presenting this measure, — ambition, inordinate ambition. If I had thought of myself only I should have never brought it forward. I know well the perils to which I expose myself, — the risk of alienating faithful and valued AMBITION OF A STATESMAN. 299 friends, with but little prospect of making new ones, if any new ones could compensate for the loss of those we have long tried and loved ; and I know well the honest misconception both of friends and foes. Ambi- tion ! If I had listened to its soft and seducing whis- pers, if I had yielded myself to the dictates of a cold, calculating, and prudential policy, I would have stood still and unmoved. I might even have silently gazed on the raging storm, enjoyed its loudest thunders, and left those who are charged with the care of the vessel of State to conduct it as they could. I have been heretofore often unjustly accused of ambition. Low, grovelling souls, who are utterly inca- pable of elevating themselves to the higher and nobler duties of pure patriotism, — beings who, forever keep- ing their own selfish ends in view, decide all public measures by their presumed influence on their aggran- dizement, — jndge me by the venal rule which they pre- scribe to themselves. I have given to the winds those false accusations, as I consign that which now im- peaches my motives. I have no desire for office, not even the highest. The most exalted is but a prison, in which the incarcerated incumbent daily receives his cold, heartless visitants, marks his weary hours, and is cut off from the practical enjoyment of all the bless- ings of genuine freedom. I am no candidate for any office in the gift of the people of these States, united or separated, I never wish, never expect, to be. Pass this bill, tranquillize the country, restore confidence and affection in the Union, and I am willing to go home to Ashland and renounce public service forever. I should there find in its groves, under its shades, on its lawns, 'mid my flocks and herds, in the bosom of my family, sincerity 300 CHOICE READINGS. and truth, attachment and fidelity and gratitude, which I have not always found in the walks of public life. Yes, I have ambition ; but it is the ambition of being the humble instrument, in the hands of Providence, to reconcile a divided people ; once more to revive con- cord and harmony in a distracted land, — the pleasing ambition of contemplating the glorious spectacle of a free, united, prosperous, and fraternal people. VALUE OF EEPUTATIOff. Charles Phillips. Who shall estimate the cost of a priceless reputa- tion, that impress which gives this human dross its currency, without which we stand despised, debased, depreciated? Who shall repair it if injured? Who can redeem it if lost? O, well and truly does the great philosopher of poetry esteem the world's wealth as " trash " in the comparison ! Without it gold has no value ; birth, no distinction ; station, no dignity ; beauty, no charm; age, no reverence. Without it every treasure impoverishes, every grace deforms, every dignity degrades, and all the arts, the decora- tions, and accomplishments of life stand, like the bea- con-blaze upon a rock, warning the world that its approach is dangerous, that its contact is death. The wretch without it is under eternal quarantine ; no friend to greet, no home to harbour him. The voyage of his life becomes a joyless peril ; and in the midst of all ambition can achieve, or avarice amass, or rapacity plunder, he tosses on the surge, a buoyant pestilence. But let me not degrade into the selfishness of individual safety or individual exposure this universal principle ; it testifies a higher, a more ennobling origin. VALUE OF REPUTATION. 301 It is this which, consecrating the humble circle of the hearth, will at times extend itself to the circum- ference of the horizon, which nerves the arm of the patriot to save his country, which lights the lamp of the philosopher to amend man, which, if it does not inspire, will at least invigorate, the martyr to merit immortality, which, when one world's agony is passed, and the glory of another is dawning, will prompt the prophet, even in his chariot of fire, and in his vision of Heaven, to bequeath to mankind the mantle of his memory! O, divine, O, delightful legacy of a spot- less reputation ! Rich is the inheritance it leaves ; pious the example it testifies ; pure, precious, and im- perishable the example it inspires ! Can there be conceived a more atrocious injury than to filch from its possessor this inestimable jewel, to rob society of its charm and solitude of its solace ; not only to outlaw life, but to attaint death, converting the very grave, the refuge of the sufferer, into the gate of infamy and shame ? I can conceive few crimes beyond it. He who plunders my property takes from me that which can be repaired by time ; but what period can repair a ruined reputation? He who maims my person affects that which medicine may remedy ; but what herb has sovereignty over the wounds of slander? He who ridi- cules my poverty, or reproaches my profession, upbraids me with that which industry may retrieve and integrity may purify; but what riches shall redeem the bank- rupt fame ? What power shall blanch the sullied snow of character? There can be no injury more deadly. There can be no crime more cruel. It is without remedy. It is without antidote. It is without eva- sion. The reptile, calumny, is ever on the watch. From 302 CHOICE READINGS. the fascination of its eye no activity can escape ; from the venom of its fang no sanity can recover. It has no enjoyment but crime ; it has no prey but virtue ; it has no interval from the restlessness of its malice, save when, bloated with its victims, it grovels to disgorge them at the withered shrine where envy idolizes her own infirmities. TOUSSADTT L'OUVEETURE. Wendell Phillips. If I were to tell you the story of Napoleon, I should take it from the lips of Frenchmen, who find no lan- guage rich enough to paint the great captain of the nineteenth century. Were I to tell you the story of Washington, I should take it from your hearts, — you, who think no marble white enough on which to carve the name of the Father of his country. But I am to tell you the story of a negro, Toussaint L'Ouverture, who has left hardly one written line. I am to glean it from the reluctant testimony of his enemies, men who despised him because he was a negro and a slave, hated him because he had beaten them in battle. Cromwell manufactured his own army. Napoleon, at the age of twenty-seven, was placed at the head of the best troops Europe ever saw. Cromwell never saw an army till he was forty ; this man never saw a soldier till he was fifty. Cromwell manufactured his own army — out of what ? Englishmen, — the best blood in Europe. Out of the middle class of Englishmen, — the best blood of the island. And with it he conquered what? Englishmen, — their equals. This man manu- factured his army out of what ? Out of what you call the despicable race of negroes, debased, demoralized by toussaint l'ouvertuke. 303 two hundred years of slavery, one hundred thousand of them imported into the island within four years, unable to speak a dialect intelligible even to each other. Yet out of this mixed, and, as you say, despicable mass he forged a thunderbolt and hurled it at what ? At the proudest blood in Europe, the Spaniard, and sent him home conquered ; at the most warlike blood in Europe, the French, and put them under his feet ; at the pluck- iest blood in Europe, the English, and they skulked home to Jamaica. Now, if Cromwell was a general, at least this man was a soldier. Now, blue-eyed Saxon, proud of your race, go back with me to the commencement of the century, and select what statesman you please. Let him be either American or European ; let him have a brain the result of six generations of culture ; let him have the ripest training of university routine ; let him add to it the better education of practical life ; crown his temples with the silver locks of seventy years, and show me the man of Saxon lineage for whom his most sanguine ad- mirer will wreathe a laurel, rich as embittered foes have placed on the brow of this negro, - — rare military skill, profound knowledge of human nature, content to blot out all party distinctions, and trust a State to the blood of its sons, — anticipating Sir Robert Peel fifty years, and taking his station by the side of Roger Williams, before any Englishman or American had won the right ; and yet this is the record which the history of rival States makes up for this inspired black of St. Domingo. Some doubt the courage of the negro. Go to Hayti, and stand on those fifty thousand graves of the best soldiers France ever had, and ask them what they think of the negro's sword. I would call him Napoleon, but Napoleon made his 304 CHOICE READINGS. « way to empire over broken oaths and through a sea of blood. This man never broke his word. I would call him Cromwell, but Cromwell was only a soldier, and the State he founded went down with him into his grave. I would call him Washington, but the great Virginian held slaves. This man risked his empire rather than permit the slave-trade in the humblest village of his dominions. You think me a fanatic, for you read history, not with your eyes but with your prejudices. But fifty years hence, when Truth gets a hearing, the Muse of history will put Phocion for the Greek, Brutus for the Roman, Hampden for England, Fayette for France, choose Washington as the bright consummate flower of our earlier civilization, then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, will write in the clear blue, above them all, the name of the soldier, the statesman, the martyr, TOUSSAINT L'OlTVERTUEE. >:*£ MASSACHUSETTS AND SOUTH CAROLINA. Daniel Webster. I shall not acknowledge that the honourable mem- ber goes before me in regard for whatever of distin- guished talent, or distinguished character, South Caro- lina has produced. I claim part of the honour, I partake in the pride, of her great names. I claim them for countrymen, one and all; the Laurenses, the Rut- ledges, the Pinckneys, the Sumpters, the Marions, Americans all, whose fame is no more to be hemmed in by State lines, than their talents and patriotism were capable of being circumscribed within the same narrow limits. In their day and generation, they served and MASSACHUSETTS AND SOUTH CAROLINA. 305 honoured the country, and the whole country ; and their renown is of the treasures of the whole country. Him whose honoured name the gentleman himself bears, — does he esteem me less capable of gratitude for his patriotism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than if his eyes had first opened upon the light of Massachusetts, instead of South Carolina? Sir, does he suppose it in his power to exhibit a Carolina name so bright as to produce envy in my bosom ? No, Sir, increased gratification and delight, rather. I thank God that, if I am gifted with little of the spirit which is able to raise mortals to the skies, I have yet none, as I trust, of that other spirit which would drag Angels down. When I shall be found, Sir, in my place here in the Senate, or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit, because it happens to spring up beyond the little limits of my own State or neighbourhood; when I re- fuse, for any such cause, or for any cause, the homage due to American talent, to elevated patriotism, to sin- cere devotion to liberty and the country ; or, if I see an uncommon endowment of Heaven, if I see extraor- dinary capacity and virtue in any son of the South, and if, moved by local prejudice or gangrened by State jeal- ousy, I get up here to abate the tithe of a hair from his just character and just fame, may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth ! Sir, let me recur to pleasing recollections ; let me in- dulge in refreshing remembrance of the past ; let me remind you that, in early times, no States cherished greater harmony, both of principle and feeling, than Massachusetts and South Carolina. \Vould to God that harmony might again return ! Shoulder to shoulder they went through the Revolution : hand in hand they stood round the administration of Washington, and felt 306 CHOICE READINGS. his own great arm lean on them for support. Unkind feeling, if it exist, alienation and distrust, are the growth, unnatural to such soils, of false principles since sown. They are weeds, the seeds of which that same great arm never scattered. Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts ; she needs none. There she is : behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her history ; the world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is se- cure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill ; and there they will remain for ever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for Independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every State from New England to Georgia; and there they will lie for ever. And, Sir, where American Liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives, in the strength of its manhood and full of its original spirit. If discord and disunion shall wound it ; if party strife and blind ambi- tion shall hawk at and tear it ; if folly and madness, if uneasiness under salutary and necessary restraint, shall succeed in separating it from that Union by which alone its existence is made sure ; it will stand, in the end, by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked ; it will stretch forth its arm, with whatever of vigour it may still retain, over the friends who gather round it ; and it will fall at last, if fall it must, amidst the proud- est monuments of its own glory, and on the very spot of its origin. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 307 THE CHAKGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. Alfred Tennyson. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of death Rode the six hundred. Forward the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns, he said. Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred. Forward the Light Brigade ! Was there a man dismay'd? Not though the soldiers knew Some one had blunder 'd. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley 'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air, Sabering the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd : Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right through the line they broke ; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter 'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not, Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd ; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was lef b of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade ? O, the wild charge they made ! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made ! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble Six Hundred ! C hAxci ^UvJtc/fQ 308 CHOICE READINGS. VII. INVECTIVE, VEHEMENT, INDIGNANT. CATILINE'S DEFIANCE. George Croly. Conscript Fathers : I do not rise to waste the night in words ; Let that Plebeian talk, 'tis not my trade ; , But here I stand for right, — let him show proofs, — ■ For Roman right, though none, it seems, dare stand To take their share with me. A} T , cluster there ! Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves ! His charge is false ; — I dare him to his proofs. You have my answer. Let my actions speak ! But this I will avow, that I have scorn'd, And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong. Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword, Or la}s the bloody scourge upon my back, Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts The gates of honour on me, — turning out The Roman from his birthright ; and for what ? To fling your offices to every slave ! Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb, And, having wound their loathsome track to the top Of this huge, mouldering monument of Rome, Hang hissing at the nobler man below. \_To the Senate. Come, consecrated Lictors, from your thrones ; Fling down 3'our sceptres ; take the rod and axe, And make the murder as you make the law. MARMION AND DOUGLAS. 313 Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone From turret to foundation-stone ; The hand of Douglas is his own, And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp." Burn'd Marmion' s swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And, " This to me ! " he said ; "An 'twere not for tlvy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head ! And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, He who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her State, May well, proud Angus, be tlry mate : And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in tlry hold, tlry vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee, thou'rt defied ! And, if thou said'st I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! " On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age ; Fierce he broke forth, "And darest thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hopest thou hence unscathed to go? No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! Up drawbridge, grooms, — what, Warder, ho ! Let the portcullis fall." 314 CHOICE READINGS. Lord Marmion turn'd, — well was his need ! And dash'd the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung ; The ponderous gate behind him rung : To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume. The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise ; Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim ; And, when Lord Marmion reach'd his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers. THE SEMINOLE'S EEPLY. George W. Patten. Blaze, with your serried columns ! I will not bend the knee ! The shackles ne'er again shall bind The arm which now is free. I've mail'd it with the thunder, When the tempest mutter'd low ; And, where it falls, ye well may dread The lightning of its blow ! I've scared ye in the city, I've scalp'd ye on the plain ; Go, count your chosen, where they fell Beneath my leaden rain ! I scorn your proffer' d treaty ! The pale-face I defy ! Revenge is stamp'd upon my spear, And blood my battle cry ! HORRORS OF SAVAGE WARFARE. 315 Some strike for hope of booty, Some to defend their all ; I battle for the joy I have To see the white man fall : I love, among the wounded, To hear his dying moan, And catch, while chanting at his side, The music of his groan. Ye've track'd me o'er the stream ; And, struggling through the everglade, Your bristling bayonets gleam ; But I stand as should the warrior, With his rifle and his spear ; The scalp of vengeance still is red, And warns ye, — Come not here ! I loathe ye in my bosom, I scorn ye with mine eye, And I'll taunt ye with nry latest breath, And fight ye till I die ! I ne'er will ask ye quarter, And I ne'er will be your slave ; But I'll swim the sea of slaughter, Till I sink beneath its wave ! HOEEOES OF SAVAGE WAEPAEE. William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. I AM astonished, shocked, to hear such principles con- fessed, to hear them avowed in this House, or even in this country ! principles equally unconstitutional, in- human, and unchristian ! My Lords, I did not intend to trespass again upon your attention, but I cannot repress my indignation, — 316 CHOICE READINGS. I feel myself impelled by every duty. We are called upon as. members of this House, as men, as Christian men, to protest against such notions, standing near the throne, polluting the ear of Majesty. " That God and Nature put into our hands ! " * I know not what ideas that Lord may entertain of God and Nature ; but I know that such abominable principles are equally ab- horrent to x'eligion and humanity. What ! attribute the sacred sanction of God and Nature to the massacres of the Indian scalping-knife, — to the cannibal savage, torturing, murdering, roast- ing, and eating, — literally, my Lords, eating the man- gled victims of his barbarous battles ! Such horrible notions shock every precept of religion revealed or natural, and every generous feeling of humanity ; and, my Lords, they shock every sentiment of honour , they shock me as a lover of honourable war, and a detester of murderous barbarity. These abominable principles, and this more abomi- nable avowal of them, demand the most decisive indig- nation. I call upon the Right-Reverend Bench, those holy ministers of the Gospel, and pious pastors of our Church, — I conjure them to join in the holy work, and to vindicate the religion of their God. I appeal to the wisdom and the law of this Learned Bench to defend and support the justice of their country. I call upon the Bishops to interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn, upon the learned Judges to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save us from this pollution. I call upon the honour of your Lordships to reverence the * Lord Suffolk, one of the Secretaries of State, defending the employ- ment of Indians in the American war, had declared, in the House of Lords, that " it was perfectly justifiable to use all the means that God and Nature put into our hands." HORRORS OS SALVAGE WARFARE. 317 tty : your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and humanity of my country to vindicate the national character. I invoke the genius of the Constitution. Fi ,m the tapestry that adorns these wails, the immor- tal ancestor of this noble Lord frowns with indigna;: : - f his ci : . . In vain he led your vic- t ri us fleets against the boasted Armada of Spain; in vain he defended and established the honour, the lib- erties, the religion, the Protestant religion of his conn- try. against the arbitrary cruelties of Popery and the Inquisition, if these worse than popish and inquisitorial practices are let loose amongst us. to turn forth into our settlements, among our ancient friends and relations, the merciless cannibal, thirsting for the blc d of man. woman, and child. T :■ send forth the infidel savage. — against whom ? Against your Protestant brethren! to lay waste their mtry, : lesolate their dwellings, and extirpate their race and name, with these horrible hell-hounds of savage war! — : U-h >. I say, ~ war! Spain armed herself with blood-honnds to extirpate the wretched natives of America ; and we improve on the inhuman example of even Spanish cruelty : we turn loose these savage hell-hounds against our brethren and country- men in America, of the same language, laws, liber::--, and religion : endeared to us by every tie that should :rify humanity. My Lords, this awful subject, so important to our honour, our Constitution, and our religion, demands the most solemn and effectual inquiry. And I again call upon your Lordships, and the united powers of the ^:..:e. to examine it thoroughly and decisively, and to mp upon it an indelible stigma of the public abhor- 318 CHOICE READINGS. rence. And I again implore those holy prelates of our religion to do away these iniquities from among us. Let them perform a lustration ; let them purify this House and this country from this sin. My Lords, I am old and weak, and at present unable to say more , but my feelings and my indignation were too strong to have said less. I could not have slept this night in my bed, or have reposed my head on my pillow, without giving this vent to my eternal abhorrence of such preposterous and enormous principles. >WXc AERAICTME1TT OP MINISTEKS. Edmund Burke. I confess I feel a degree of disgust, almost leading to despair, at the manner in which we are acting in the great exigencies of oar country. There is now a bill in this House, appointing a rigid inquisition into the minutest detail of our offices at home. The collection of sixteen millions annually, — a collection on which the public greatness, safety, and credit have their reli- ance ; the whole order of criminal jurisprudence, which holds together society itself, — has at no time obliged us to call forth such powers ; no, nor any thing like them. There is not a principle of the law and Constitution of this country that is not subverted to favour the execu- tion of that project. And for what is all this apparatus of bustle and terror? Is it because any thing substantial is expected from it? No. The stir and bustle itself is the end proposed. The eye-servants of a short-sighted master will employ themselves, not on what is most essential to his affairs, but on what is nearest to his ken. Great ARRAIGNMENT OF MINISTERS. 319 difficulties have given a just value to economy ; and our Minister of the day must be an economist, whatever it may cost us. But where is he to exert his talents ? At home, to be sure; for where else can he obtain a profit- able credit for their exertion ? It is nothing to him, whether the object on which he works under our e} 7 e be promising or not. If he does not obtain any public benefit, he may make regulations without end. Those are sure to pay in present expectation, whilst the effect is at a distance, and may be the concern of other times and other men. On these principles he chooses to suppose (for he does not pretend more than to suppose) a naked possibility, that he shall draw some resource out of crumbs droppecl from the trenchers of penury ; that something shall be laid in store from the short allowance of revenue offi- cers, overladen with duty, and famished for want of bread. From the marrowless bones of these skeleton establishments, by the use of every sort of cutting and every sort of fretting tool, he flatters himself that he may chip and rasp an empirical alimentary powder, to diet into some similitude of health and substance the languishing chimeras of fraudulent reformation. Whilst he is thus employed according to his policy and to his taste, he has not leisure to inquire into those abuses in India that are drawing off money by millions from the treasures of this country, and are exhausting the vital juices from members of the State, where the public inanition is far more sorely felt than in the local exchequer of England. Not content with winking at these abuses, whilst he attempts to squeeze the labo- rious, ill-paid drudges of English revenue, he lavishes in one act of corrupt prodigality, upon those who never served the public in any honest occupation at all, an 320 CHOICE READINGS. annual income equal to two-thirds of 'the whole collec- tion of the revenues of this kingdom. Actuated by the same principle of choice, he has now on the anvil another scheme, full of difficulty and des- perate hazard, which totally alters the commercial rela- tion of two kingdoms ; and, what end soever it shall have, may bequeath a legacy of heart-burning and dis- content to one of the countries, perhaps to both, to be perpetuated to the latest posterity. This project is also undertaken on the hope of profit. It is provided that, out of some (I know not what) remains of the Irish hereditary revenue, a fund at some time, and of some sort, should be applied to the protection of the Irish trade. Here we are commanded again to task our faith, and to persuade ourselves that, out of the surplus of defi- ciency, out of the savings of habitual and systematic prodigality, the Minister of wonders will provide sup- port for this nation, sinking under the mountainous load of two hundred and thirty millions of debt. But whilst we look with pain at his desperate and laborious trifling, whilst we are apprehensive that he will break his back in stooping to pick up chaff and straws, he recovers himself at an elastic bound, and, with a broad- cast swing of his arm, he squanders over his Indian field a sum far greater than the clear produce of the whole hereditary revenue of the kingdom of Ireland. Strange as this scheme of conduct in Ministry is, and inconsistent with all just policy, it is still true to itself, and faithful to its own perverted order. Those who are bountiful to crimes will be rigid to merit, and penurious to service. Their penury is even held out as a blind and cover to their prodigality. The economy of injus- tice is, to furnish resources for the fund of corruption. REVOLUTIONARY DESPERADOES. 321 Then they pay off their protection to great crimes and great criminals, by being inexorable to the paltry frail- ties of little men ; and these modern flagellants are sure, with a rigid fidelity, to whip their own enormities on the vicarious back of every small offender. >^c REVOLUTIONARY DESPERADOES. Sir James Mackintosh. The French Revolution began with great and fatal errors. These errors produced atrocious crimes. A mild and feeble monarchy was succeeded by a bloody anarchy, which very shortly gave birth to military des- potism. France, in a few years, described the whole circle of human society. All this was in the order of Nature. When every principle which enables some men to command, and disposes others to obey, was ex- tirpated from the mind by atrocious theories, and still more atrocious examples ; when every old institution was trampled down with contumely, and every new institution was covered in its cradle with blood ; there remained only one principle strong enough to hold society together, — a principle utterly incompatible, in- deed, with liberty, and unfriendly to civilization itself, — a tyrannical and barbarous principle, but, in that miserable condition of human affairs, a refuge from still more intolerable evils ; — I mean the principle of mili- tary power, which gains strength from that confusion and bloodshed in which all other elements of society are dissolved, and which, in these terrible extremities, is the cement that preserves it from total destruction. Under such circumstances, Buonaparte usurped the supreme power in France ; — I say usurped, because an 322 CHOICE READINGS. illegal assumption of power is an usurpation. But usur- pation, in its strongest moral sense, is scarcely applica- ble to a period of lawless and savage anarchy. But, though the government of Buonaparte has silenced the Revolutionary factions, it has not extinguished them. No human power could re-impress upon the minds of men all those sentiments and opinions which the soph- istry and anarchy of fourteen years had obliterated. As for the wretched populace who were made the blind and senseless instrument of so many crimes, — whose frenzy can now be reviewed by a good mind, with scarcely any moral sentiment but that of compas- sion, — that miserable multitude of beings, scarcely hu- man, have already fallen into a brutish forgetfulness of the very atrocities which they themselves perpetrated. They have passed from senseless rage to stupid quiet : their delirium is followed by lethargy. In a word, Gentlemen, the great body of the people of France have been severely trained in those convul- sions and proscriptions which are the school of slavery. They are capable of no mutinous, and even of no bold and manly political sentiments. But it is otherwise with those who have been the actors and leaders in the scene of blood : it is otherwise with the numerous agents of the most indefatigable, searching, multiform, and om- nipresent tyranny that ever existed, which pervaded every class of society, — which had ministers and vic- tims in every village in France. Some of them, indeed, — the basest of the race, — the Sophists, the Rhetors, the Poet-laureates of mur- der, who were cruel only from cowardice and calculat- ing selfishness, are perfectly willing to transfer their venal pens to any government that does not disdain their infamous support. These men, republicans from REVOLUTIONARY DESPERADOES. 323 servility, who published rhetorical panegyrics on mas- sacre, and who reduced plunder to a system of ethics, are as ready to preach slavery as anarchy. But the more daring — I had almost said the more respectable — ruffians cannot so easily bend their heads under the yoke. These fierce spirits leave the luxuries of servitude to the mean and dastardly hypocrites, — to the Belials and Mammons of the infernal faction. They pursue their old end of tyranny under their old pretext of liberty. The recollections of their un- bounded power renders every inferior condition irksome and vapid ; and their former atrocities form, if I may so speak, a sort of moral destiny which irresistibly impels them to the perpetration of new crimes. They have no place left for penitence on Earth : they labour under the most awful proscription of opinion that ever was pronounced against human beings : they have cut down every bridge by which they could retreat into the so- ciety of men. Awakened from their dream of democrac}^, — the noise subsided that deafened their ears to the voice of humanity, — the film fallen from their eyes which hid from them the blackness of their own deeds, — haunted by the memory of their inexpiable guilt, — condemned daily to look on the faces of those whom their hand has made widows and orphans, — they are goaded and scourged by these real furies, and hurried into the tumult of new crimes, to drown the cries of remorse, or, if they be too depraved for remorse, to silence the curses of mankind. Tyrannical power is their only ref- uge from the just vengeance of their fellow-creatures : murder is their only means of usurping power. They have no taste, no occupation, no pursuit, but power and blood. If their hands are tied, they must at least have 324 CHOICE READINGS. the luxury of murderous projects. They have drunk too deeply of human blood ever to relinquish their can- nibal appetite. Such a faction exists in France : it is numerous ; it is powerful; and it has a principle of fidelity stronger than any that ever held together a society. They are banded together by despair of forgiveness, — by the unanimous detestation of mankind. They are now re- strained by a severe and stern government: but they still meditate the renewal of insurrection and massacre ; and they are prepared to renew the worst and most atro- cious of their crimes, — that crime against posterity and against human nature itself, — the crime of degrading and prostituting the sacred name of liberty. I must own that, however paradoxical it may appear, I should almost think, not worse, but more meanly of them, if it were otherwise. I must then think them destitute of that, — I will not call it courage, because that is the name of a virtue, — but of that ferocious energy which alone rescues ruffians from contempt. If they were destitute of that which is the heroism of murderers, they would be the lowest as well as the most abomina- ble of mankind. It is impossible to conceive any thing more despicable than the wretches who, after playing the tyrannicides to women and children, become the supple and fawning slaves of the first government that knows how to wield the scourge with a firm hand. FRAUDULENT PARTY OUTCRIES. Daniel Webster. Mr. President : On the great questions which oc- cupy us, we all look for some decisive movement of FRAUDULENT PARTY OUTCRIES. 325 public opinion. As I wish that movement to be free, intelligent, and unbiased, the true manifestation of the public will, I desire to prepare the country for another appeal, which I perceive is about to be made to popular prejudice, another attempt to obscure all distinct views of the public good, by loud cries against false danger, and by exciting the passions of one class against another. I am not mistaken in the omen ; I see the magazine whence the weapons of this warfare are to be drawn. I already hear the din of the hammering of arms pre- paratory to the combat. They may be such arms, per- haps, as reason and justice and honest patriotism cannot resist. Every effort at resistance, it is possible, may be feeble and powerless; but, for one, I shall make an effort, — an effort to be begun now, and to be carried on and continued, with untiring zeal, till the end of the contest comes. Sir, I see, in those vehicles which carry to the people sentiments from high places, plain declarations that the present controversy is but a strife between one part of the community and another. I hear it boasted as the unfailing security, the solid ground, never to be shaken, on which recent measures rest, that the poor naturally hate the rich. I know that, under the cover of the roofs of the Capitol, within the last twenty-four hours, among men sent here to devise means for the public safety and the public good, it has been vaunted forth, as matter of boast and triumph, that one cause existed powerful enough to support every thing, and to defend every thing ; and that was, the natural hatred of the poor to the rich. Sir, I pronounce the author of such sentiments to be guilty of attempting a detestable fraud on the commu- nity ; a double fraud ; a fraud which is to cheat men out 326 CHOICE READINGS. of their property and out of the earnings of their labour, by first cheating them out of their understandings. "The natural hatred of the poor to the rich!" Sir, it shall not be till the last moment of my existence, — it shall be only when I am drawn to the verge of obli- vion, when I shall cease to have respect or affection for any thing on Earth, — that I will believe the people of the United States capable of being effectually deluded, cajoled, and driven about in Jierds, by such abominable frauds as this. If they shall sink to that point ; if they so far cease to be men, thinking men, intelligent men, as to yield to such pretences and such clamour, — they will be slaves already ; slaves to their own passions, slaves to the fraud and knavery of pretended friends. They will deserve to be blotted out of all the records of freedom ; they ought not to dishonour the cause of self-government, by attempting any longer to exercise it ; they ought to keep their unworthy hands entirely off from the cause of republican liberty, if they are capable of being the victims of artifices so shallow, of tricks so stale, so threadbare, so often practised, so much worn out, on serfs and slaves. " The natural hatred of the poor against the rich ! " " The danger of a moneyed aristocracy ! " "A power as great and dangerous as that resisted by the Revolu- tion ! " "A call to a new Declaration of Independence ! " Sir, I admonish the people against the objects of out- cries like these. I admonish every industrious labourer in the country to be on his guard against such delusion. I tell him the attempt is to play off his passions against his interests, and to prevail on him, in the name of lib- erty, to destroy all the fruits of liberty , in the name of patriotism, to injure and afflict his country : and, in the name of his own independence, to destroy that very INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED SPANIARD. 327 independence, and make him a beggar and a siavo. Has he a dollar ? He is advised to do that which will destroy half its value. Has he hands to labour f Let him rather fold them, and sit still, than be pushed on, by fraud and artifice, to support measures which will render his labour useless and hopeless. D>^C ITOIGXATION OF A HIGH-MIKDED SPAtflAKD. Wordsworth. We can endure that he should waste our lands, Despoil our temples, and by sword and flame Return us to the dust from which we came ; Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands : And we can brook the thought that by his hands Spain may be overpower'd, and he possess, For his delight, a solemn wilderness Where all the brave lie dead. But, when of bands Which he will break for us he dares to speak, Of b.enefits, and of a future day When our enlighten' d minds shall bless his sway ; Then, the strain'd heart of fortitude proves weak ; Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare That he has power to inflict what we lack strength to bear. 328 CHOICE READINGS. VIII. LIVELY, JOYOUS, GAY. L 'ALLEGKO. John Milton. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe ; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty : And, if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free ; To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise. Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine ; L' ALLEGRO. 329 While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before : Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerily rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill ; Sometimes walking not unseen Ify hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great Sun begins his state, Robed in flames and amber light. The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; While the ploughman near at hand Whistles o'er the furrow 'd land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, While the landscape round it measures ; Russet lawns and fallows gray Where the nibbling flocks do stra}' ; Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest • Meadows trim with daisies pied ; Shallow brooks, and rivers wide : Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Sometimes, with secure delight, The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound 330 CHOICE READINGS. To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the checker'd shade ; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday. Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright e3~es Eain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear, In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp and feast and revehy, With masque and antique pageantry ; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. THE DAFFODILS. Wordsworth. I wander' d lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils ; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. YOUNG LOCHINVAK. 331 Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch' cl in never-ending line Along the margin of the bay : Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced ; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company : I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought : For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. YOUM LOOHItfVAR. Sir Walter Scott. O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West ! Through all the wide border his steed was the best ; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none ; He rode all unarm'd and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone; He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, — the gallant came late ; For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 332 CHOICE READINGS. So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall, AmoDg bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all : Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, — For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, — " O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ? " ' ' I long woo'd 3 r our daughter ; — my suit you denied : Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ; And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, — drink one cup of wine. There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kiss'd the goblet ; the knight took it up ; He quaffd off the wine, and he threw down the cup ; She look'd clown to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lip and a tear in her e}'e ; He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar ; — " Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. So stately his form and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bridemaidens whisper'd, " 'twere better, by far, To have match'd our fair cousin with 3'oung Lochinvar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall door, where the charger stood near ; So light to the croup the fair lad}' he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ; — " She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; The3 T 'll have fleet steeds that follow ! " quoth young Lochin- var. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; A MORNING RIDE. 333 There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war ; Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? D^C A MORNDTG EIDE. From " The Wheelman.' Up with the lark in the first flush of morning, Ere the world wakes to its work or its play; Off for a spin to the wide-stretching country, Far from the close, stifling city away. A spring to the saddle, a spurt with the pedal, The roadway is flying from under my wheel : With motions so sprightly, with heart beating lightly, How glorious to master this creature of steel ! Now mounting the hill-slope with slow, steady toiling, Each turn of the wheel brings us nearer the goal ; And so on life's journey 'tis patient endeavour That opens the path to the conquering soul. The summit surmounted, we're now wildly dashing Through woodland and meadow, past farm-house and dell ; Inhaling the breath of the field and the forest, Keeping time as we glide to the tinkling cow-bell. Lo ! at length in the east, 'mid the radiant glory, Great Phoebus Apollo looks forth, bright and fair, 334 CHOICE READINGS. Attended b} r cloudlets all roseate and golden ; O, joy to be out on a morning so rare ! Now slowly ; whoa, Reindeer ! here comes a fair milkmaid : Pure milk through a straw is refreshing, I ween ; And so are the blushes of pure, happy girlhood ; Therefore here's to your health and your sweetness, 1113- queen ! Once more in the saddle, we're bounding on homeward, Our frame all aglow with this excellent sport ; Now coasting, now climbing, then racing and beating Some young rustic jockey in metre so short, That in furious rage he whips and he lashes : But, 'tis useless, you see, my fine fellow, say we, As we dash along onward still faster and faster, Hoping next time that he not so foolish will be. As we mount the last hill, to the smoke-clouded city, Just beginning to boil with its great human tide, It calls us to toil, and to enter the conflict ; So endeth this morning our twenty-mile ride. I'M WITH YOU ONCE AGAIN. G. P. Morris. I'm with you once again, my friends ; No more my footsteps roam ; Where it began my journey ends, Amid the scenes of home. THE LAST LEAF. 335 No other clime has skies so blue, Or streams so broad and clear ; And where are hearts so warm and true As those that meet me here? Since last, with spirits wild and free, I press' d nry native strand, I've wander' d man}* miles at sea, And many miles on land : I've seen fair regions of the Earth With rude commotion torn, Which taught me how to prize the worth Of that where I was born. In other countries, when I heard The language of my own, How fondly each familiar word Awoke an answering tone ! But, when our woodland songs were sung Upon a foreign mart, The vows that falter'd on the tongue With rapture fill'd my heart. My native land, I turn to you With blessing and with prayer, Where man is brave and woman true, And free as mountain air. Long may our flag in triumph wave Against the world combined, And friends a welcome, foes a grave, Within our borders find ! THE LAST LEAP. Oliver Wendell Holmes. I saw him once before, As he pass'd by the door ; And again The pavement-stones resound As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. 336 CHOICE READINGS. They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets So forlorn ; And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone." The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has press'd In their bloom ; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said, — Poor old lady ! she is dead Long ago, — ■ That he had a Boman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff; And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here ; But the old three-corner'd hat And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer! And, if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the Spring, Let them smile as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. SONG OP THE BROOK. Alfred Tennyson. I come from haunts of coot and hern : I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twent}' thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. SONG OF THE BROOK. 337 I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With man}' a curve nry banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a Inst}' trout, And here and there a grayling ; And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silveiy waterbreak Above the golden gravel ; And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers : I slip, I slide, I. gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeams dance Against nry sandy shallows : 338 CHOICE READINGS. I murmur under Moon and stars ' In brambly wildernesses ; I linger by my shingly bars ; I loiter round my cresses ; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river ; For men ma} r come and men may go, But I go on forever. OO^OO A PSALM OF LIFE. H. W. Longfellow. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, ' ' Life is but an empt}^ dream ! " For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real ! life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; " Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjo3'ment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow, Find us further than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating, Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife ! THE BOYS. 339 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, — act in the living Present ! Heart within, and God o'erhead. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time ; Footprints that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate ; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. THE BOYS. O. W. Holmes. Has there any old fellow got mix'd with the boys? If he has, take him out, without making a noise. Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite ! Old Time is a liar ! we're twenty to-night ! We're twenty i We're twenty ! Who says we are more? He's tipsy, — young jackanapes ! — show him the door ! " Gray temples at twenty? " — Yes ! white if we please ; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze ! Was it snowing I spoke of ? Excuse the mistake ! Look close, — you will not see a sign of a flake ! We want some new garlands for those we have shed, And these are white roses in place of the red. 3J0 CHOICE KEADINGS. We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking, in public, as if we were old ; That bo3 7 we call " Doctor," and this we call " Judge " ; It's a neat little fiction, — of course its all fudge. That fellow's the " Speaker," the one on the right ; " Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That's our " Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend," — what's his name? — don't make me laugh. That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the Royal Society thought it was true ! So they chose him right in, — a good joke it was too ! There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, That could harness a team with a logical chain ; When he spoke of our manhood in syllabled fire, We cali'd him " The Justice," but now he's the " Squire." And there's a nice } T oungster of excellent pith ; Fate tried to conceal him b} r naming him Smith ; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — Just read on his medal, " My country," " of thee ! " You hear that boy laughing ? You think he's all fun ; But the angels laugh too at the good he has done ; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all ! Yes, we're boys, — always playing with tongue or with pen ; And I sometimes have ask'd, Shall we ever be men? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling awa}* ? Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray ! The stars of its Winter, the dews of its May ! And, when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of Thy children. The Boys ! EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 341 EXPOSTULATION AND EEPLY. Wordsworth. u Why, William, on that old gray stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away ? Where are your books? that light bequeath' d To Beings else forlorn and blind ! Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind. You look round on }^our Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you ; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you ! " One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, And thus I made reply : " The eye — it cannot choose but see ; We cannot bid the ear be still ; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will. Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress ; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking? 342 CHOICE READINGS. Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I ma}', I sit upon this old gray stone, And dream my time away." THE TABLES TURNED. Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books, Or surely you'll grow double : Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; Why all this toil and trouble? The Sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music ! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark, how blithe the throstle sings ! He, too, is no mean preacher : Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless, — Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. THE PLEASURE-BOAT. 343 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art ; Close up those barren leaves ; Come forth, and bring with }'OU a heart That watches and receives. THE PLEASUKE-BOAT. R. H. Dana. Come, hoist the sail, the fast let go ! They're seated side by side : Wave chases wave in pleasant flow ; The bay is fair and wide. The ripples lightly tap the boat. Loose ! Give her to the wind ! She shoots ahead ; they're all afloat ; The strand is far behind. No danger reach so fair a crew ! Thou goddess of the foam, I'll ever pay thee worship due, If thou wilt bring them home. Fair ladies, fairer than the spray The prow is dashing wide, Soft breezes take you on your way, Soft flow the blessed tide ! O, might I like those breezes be, And touch that arching brow, I'd dwell for ever on the sea Where ye are floating now. 344 CHOICE READINGS. The boat goes tilting on the waves ; The waves go tilting by : There dips the duck, — her back she laves O'erhead the sea-gulls fry. Now, like the gulls that dart for pre}', The little vessel stoops ; Now, rising, shoots along her way, Like them, in easy swoops. The sunlight falling on her sheet, It glitters like the drift, Sparkling, in scorn of Summer's heat, High up some mountain rift. The winds are fresh ; she's driving fast Upon the bending tide ; The crinkling sail and crinkling mast Go with her side by side. Why dies the breeze awa\^ so soon? Why hangs the pennant down ? The sea is glass ; the Sun at noon. — Nay, lady, do not frown ; For, see, the winged fisher's plume Is painted on the sea : Below, a cheek of lovely bloom. Whose eyes look up at thee ? She smiles ; thou needs must smile on her : And, see, beside her face A rich white cloud that doth not stir : What beauty, and what grace ! And pictured beach of yellow sand, And peaked rock, and hill Change the smooth sea to fairy land : How lovely and how still ! THE NEW YEAR. 345 From that far isle the thresher's flail Strikes close upon the ear ; The leaping fish, the swinging sail Of yonder sloop, sound near. The parting Sun sends out a glow Across the placid bay, Touching with glory all the show. — A breeze ! Up helm ! Away ! Careering to the wind, they reach, With laugh and call, the shore. They've left their footprints on the beach, But then I hear no more. THE NEW YEAK. Alfred Tennyson. Ring- out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light ; The year is dying in the night : Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new ; Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; The year is going : let him go ; Ring out the false ; ring in the true. Ring out the grief, that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more ; Ring out the feud of rich and poor ; Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause. And ancient forms of party strife ; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. 346 CHOICE READINGS. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times ; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite ; Ring in the love of truth and right ; Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; Ring out the darkness of the land ; Ring in the Christ that is to be. >>@'^C>c DARIUS GKEEN AND HIS PLYING-MACHINE. J. T. Trowbridge. If ever there lived a Yankee lad, Wise or otherwise, good or bad, Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump With flapping arms from stake or stump, Or, spreading the tail of his coat for a sail, Take a soaring leap from post or rail, And wonder why lie couldn't fly, And flap and flutter and wish and try, — If ever you knew a country dunce Who didn't try that as often as once, All I can say is, that's a sign He never would do for a hero of mine. An aspiring genius was Dary Green : The son of a farmer, — age fourteen ; His bod} 7 was long and lank and lean, — Just right for flying, as will be seen ; He had two eyes as bright as a bean, And a freckled nose that grew between, A little awiy ; for I must mention That he had riveted his attention Upon his wonderful invention, Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, And working his face as he work'd the wings, And with every turn of gimlet or screw Turning and sere wins: his mouth round too, DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE. 365 Till his nose seem'd bent to catch the scent, Around some corner, of new-baked pies, And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes Grew pucker'd into a queer grimace, That made him look very droll in the face, And also very wise. And wise he must have been, to do more Than ever a genius did before, Excepting Daedalus of 3'ore And his son Icarus, who wore Upon their backs those wings of wax He had read of in the old almanacs. Darius was clearly of the opinion, That the air is also man's dominion, And that, with paddle or fin or pinion, We soon or late shall navigate The azure as now we sail the sea. The thing looks simple enough to me ; And, if you doubt it, Hear how Darius reason'd about it : " The birds can fly, an' wiry can't I? Must we give in," says he with a grin, " That the bluebird an' phcebe are smarter' n we be? Jest fold our hands, an' see the swaller An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler? Does the little chatterin', sassy wren, No bigge'rn my thumb, know more than men? Jest show me that ! ur prove 't the bat Hez got more brains than's in my hat, An' I'll back down, an' not till then ! " He argued further : ' ' Nur I can't see What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee, Fur to git a livin' with, more'n to me ; — Ain't my business important' s his'n is? That Icarus made a pretty muss, — Him an' his daddy Daedalus ; 366 CHOICE READINGS. They might 'a' know'd that wings made o' wax Wouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard whacks : I'll make mine o' luther, ur suthin' ur other." And he said to himself, as he tinker'd and plann'd, " But I ain't goin' to show my hand To nummies that never can understand The fust idee that's big an' grand." So he kept his secret from all the rest, Safely button'd within his vest ; And in the loft above the shed Himself he locks, with thimble and thread And wax and hammer and buckles and screws, And all such things as geniuses use ; — Two bats for patterns, curious fellows I A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows ; Some wire, and several old umbrellas ; A carriage-cover, for tail and wings ; A piece of harness ; and straps and strings ; And a big strong box, in which he locks These and a hundred other things. His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurke Around the corner to see him work, Sitting cross-legg'd, like a Turk, Drawing the wax'd-end through with a jerk, And boring the holes with a comical quirk Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. But A^ainly they mounted each other's backs, And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks; With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks He plugg'd the knot-holes and calk'd the cracks ; And a dipper of water, which one would think He had brought up into the loft to drink When he chanced to be dry, Stood always nigh, for Darius was sh T ! And, whenever at work he happen'd to spy DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE. 367 At chink or crevice a blinking e}'e, He let the dipper of water fly : " Take that ! an', ef ever ye git a peep, Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep ! " And he sings as he locks his big strong box : u The weasel's head is small an' trim, An' he is little an' long an' slim, An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb, An', ef you'll be advised by me, Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' him ! " So day after day He stitch'd and tinker'd and hammer'd away, Till at last 'twas done, — The greatest invention under the Sun ! " An' now," says Darius, " hoora}* fur some fun ! " 'Twas the Fourth of July, and the weather was dry, And not a cloud was on all the sky, Save a few light fleeces, which here and there, Half mist, half air, Like foam on the ocean went floating by, — Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. Thought cunning Darius, " Now I shan't go Along 'ith the fellers to see the show : I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough ! An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off, I'll hev full swing fur to try the thing, An' practise a little on the wing." " Ain't goin' to see the celebration?" Says brother Nate. " No ; botheration ! I've got sich a cold — a toothache — I — My gracious ! — feel's though I should fly ! " Said Jotham, " 'Sho ! guess ye better go." But Darius said, " No ! Shouldn't wonder 'f you might see me, though, 368 CHOICE READINGS. 'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head." For all the while to himself he said, — "I tell ye what! I'll fly a few times around the lot, To see how 't seems, then soon's I've got The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not, I'll astonish the nation, an' all creation, By flyin' over the celebration ! Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle ; I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull ; I'll dance on the chimbleys ; I'll stand on the steeple I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people ! I'll light on the libert}'-pole, an' crow ; An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below, 4 What world's this 'ere that I've come near?' Fur I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap fm the Moon ; An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' balloon ! " He crept from his bed ; And, seeing the others were gone, he said, " I'm gittin' over the cold 'n my head." And away he sped, To open the wonderful box in the shed. His brothers had walk'd but a little way, When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, " What is the feller up to, hey? " " Don'o', — the's suthin' ur other to pay, Ur he wouldn't 'a' stay'd to hum to-day." Says Burke, " His toothache's all 'n his eye ! He never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July, Ef he hedn't got some machine to try." Then Sol, the little one, spoke : " By darn Le's hurry back, an' hide 'n the barn, An' pay him fur tellin' us that yarn ! " " Agreed ! " Through the orchard they creep back, DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE. 369 Along by the fences, behind the stack, And one by one, through a hole in the wall, In under the dusty barn the}* crawl, Dress'd in their Sunday garments all ; And a ver}- astonishing sight was that, When each in his cobwebb'd coat and hat Came up through the floor like an ancient rat. And there they hid ; and Reuben slid The fastenings back, and the door undid. " Keep dark ! " said he, " While I squint an' see what the' is to see. As knights of old put on their mail, — From head to foot an iron suit, Iron jacket and iron boot, Iron breeches, and on the head No hat, but an iron pot instead, And under the chin the bail, (I believe they call'd the thing a helm,) — Then sallied forth to overwhelm The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm ; So this modern knight prepared for flight, Put on his wings and strapp'd them tight, — Jointed and jaunty, strong and light, — Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip, — Ten feet they measured from tip to tip ! And a helm had he, but that he wore, Not on his head, like those of yore, But more like the helm of a ship. " Hush ! " Reuben said, " he's up in the shed ! He's open'd the winder, — I see his head ! He stretches it out, an' pokes it about, Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, An' nobody near ; — Guess he don'o' who's hid in here ! He's riggin' a spring-board over ths sill ! 370 CHOICE READINGS. Stop laffin', Solomon ! Burke, keep still ! He's a climbin' out now — Of all the things ! What's he got on? I van, it's wings ! An' that t'other thing? I vum, it's a tail ! An' there he sets like a hawk on a rail ! Steppin' careful, he travels the length Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength., Now lie stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat ; Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that, Fur to see 'f the' \s any one passin' by, But the' 's on'3 7 a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. They turn up at him wonderin' eye, To see — The dragon ! he's goin' to fly ! Awa} T he goes ! Jimminy ! what a jump ! Flop — flop — an' plump to the ground with a thump ! Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin', all'n a lump! " As a demon is hurl'd by an angel's spear, Heels over head, to his proper sphere, — Heels over head, and head over heels, Dizzily down the abyss he wheels, — So fell Darius. Upon his crown, In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down, In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, Broken braces and broken springs, Broken tail and broken wings, • Shooting-stars, and various things, — Barnyard litter of straw and chaff, And much that wasn't so sweet by half. Away w r ith a bellow fled the calf, And what was that ? Did the gosling laugh ? 'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door, And he hears the voice of Jotham crying ; " Say, D'rius ! how do you like flyin'?" Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, Darius just turn'd and look'd that way, As he stanch'd his sorrowful nose with his cuff. how --ruby" played. 371 44 Wal, I like flyin' well enough," He said ; " but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sight O' fun in't when ye come to light." I just have room for the moral here : And this is the moral, — Stick to your sphere ; Or, if you insist, as you have the right, On spreading }our wings for a loftier flight, The moral is, — Take care how you light. HOW "KUBY" PLAYED. Jud Browxix. Well, sir, he had the blamedest, biggest, catty-cornedest pianner you ever laid eyes on ; somethin' like a distracted billiard table on three legs. The lid was hoisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't been, he'd a tore the entire inside clean out, and scattered 'em to the four winds of heaven. Played well ? You bet he did ; but don't interrupt me. When he first sit down, he 'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin', and wisht he hadn't come. He tweedle-leede'd a little on the treble, and twoodle-oodled some on the base, — just foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bein* in his way. And I says to a man settin' next to me, says I, "What sort of fool playin' is that?" And he says, " Heish ! " But presently his hands commenced chasin' one another up and down the keys, like a passel of rats scamperm through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, though, and reminded me of a sugar squirrel turnin the wheel of a candy cage. " Now," I says to my neighbour, " he's showin' off. He thinks he's a-doin' of it, but he ain't got no idee, no plan of nothin'. If he'd play me a tune of some kind or other I'd — " But my neighbor says " Heish ! " very impatient. I was just about to git up and go home, bein' tired of that fool- ishness, when I heard a little bird waking up away off in the woods, and call sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up, and see that Rubin was beginning to take some interest in his business, and I sit down again. It was the peep of day. The light came faint from the east, the breezes blowed gentle and fresh, some more birds waked np in the orchard, then some more in the trees near the house, and 372 CHOICE READINGS. all begun singin' together. People began to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a leetle more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was broad day ; the sun fairly blazed, the birds sung like they'd split their little throats : all the leaves was movin', and flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and happy as a king. Seemed to me like there was a good break- fast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman any- where. It was a line mornin'. And I says to my neighbour, " That's music, that is.' v But he glared at me like he'd like to cut my throat. Presently the wind turned ; it begun to thicken up, and a kind of gray mist came over things ; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain begun to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground ; some flashed up like long pearl ear-rings, and the rest rolled away like round rubies. It was pretty but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver streams, running between golden gravels ; and then the streams joined each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed silent, except that you could kinder see the music, specially when the bushes on the banks moved as the music went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the Sun didn't shine, nor the birds sing ; it was a foggy day, but not cold. The most curious thing was the little white angel-boy, like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music-brook, and led it on and on, away out of the world, where no man ever was, certain. I could see that boy just as plain as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without any sunset, and shone on the graveyards, where some few ghosts lifted their hands and went over the wall ; and between the black, sharp-top trees splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies in the lit-up windows, and men that loved 'em, but could never get a-nigh 'em, who played on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I could have cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don't know who, better than the men with the guitars did. Then the Sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could a got up then and there and preached a better sermon than any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing in the world left to live for, not a blame thing, and yet I didn't want the music to stop one bit. It was how w 'ruby" played. 373 happier to be miserable than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't understand it. I hung my head and pulled out my handkerchief, and bio wed my nose loud to keep me from cryin'. My eyes is weak anyway ; I didn't want anybody to be a-gazin' at me a-snivlin', and it's nobody's business what I do with my nose. It's mine. But some several glared at me mad as blazes. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He ripped out and he rared, he tipped and he tared, he pranced and he charged like the grand entry at a circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt up my head, ready to look any man in the face, and not afraid of nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass band, and a big ball all goin' on at the same time. He lit into them keys like a thousand of brick ; he give em no rest day or night ; he set every livin' joint in me a-goin' ; and, not bein' able to stand it no longer, I jumped spang onto my seat, and jest hollored, " Go it, my Rube ! " Every blamed man, woman, and child in the house riz on me, and shouted, " Put him out ! put him out ! " " Put your great grandmother's grizzly-gray-greenish cat into the middle of next month!" I says. "Tech me if you dare! I paid my money, and you jest come a-nigh me ! " With that some several policemen run up, and I had to simmer down. But I would a fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was bound to hear Ruby out or die. v He had changed his tune again. He hop-light ladies and tip- toed fine from end to end of the key-board. He played soft and low and solemn. I heard the church bells over the hills. The candles of heaven was lit, one by one ; I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to play from the world's end to the world's end, and all the angels went to prayers. * * * * Then the music changed to water, full of feeling that couldn't be thought, and began to drop — drip, drop — drip, drop, clear and sweet, like tears of joy falling into a lake of glory. It was sweeter than that. It was as sweet as a sweet-heart sweetened with white sugar mixt with powdered silver and seed diamonds. It was too sweet. I tell you the audience cheered. Rubin he kinder bowed, like he wanted to say, " Much obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't in- terrup' me." He stopt a moment or two to ketch breath. Then he got mad. He run his fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeve, he 374 CHOICE READINGS. opened his coat tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went for that old pianner. He slapt her face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he scratched her cheeks until she fairly yelled. He knockt her down and he stampt on her shameful. She bellowed like a bull, she bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, and then he wouldn't let her up. He run a quarter stretch down the low grounds of the base, till he got clean in the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, through the hollows and caves of perdition; and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got way out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He far'ard two'd, he crost over first gentleman, he chassade right and left, back to your places, he all-hands'd aroun', ladies to the right, promenade all, in and out, here and there, back and forth, up and down, perpetual motion, double twisted and turned and tacked and tangled into forty-eleven thousand double bow-knots. By jinks ! it was a mixtery. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fecht up his right wing, he fecht up his left wing, he fecht up his center, he fecht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company, by regiments, and by brigades. He opened his cannon, — siege guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve-pounders yonder, — big guns, little guns, middle-sized guns, round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortar, mines and magazines, every liviir battery and bom a-goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rockt, — heavens and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninepences, glory, ten-penny nails, Sampson in a 'simmon tree, Tump, Tompson in a tumbler-cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle — ruddle-uddle-uddle- uddle — raddle-addle-addle-addle — riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle — reedle- eedle-eedle-eedle — p-r-r-r-rlank ! Bang ! ! ! lang ! perlang ! p-r-r-r-r-r ! ! Bang ! ! ! With that bang ! he lifted himself bodily into the a'r and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every single solitary key on the pianner at the same time. The thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi- demi-semi quivers, and I know'd no mo'. OUR GUIDES. 375 When I come to, I were under ground about twenty foot, in a place they call Oyster Bay, treatin' a Yankee that I never laid eyes on before, and never expect to agin. Day was breakin' by the time I got to the St. Nicholas Hotel, and I pledge you my word I did not know my name. The man asked me the number of my room, and I told him, " Hot music on the half-shell for two ! " :>^< OUE GUIDES. Mark Twain. European guides know about enough English to tangle every thing 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 interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long, the}' are employed in showing strange things to foreigners, and listen- ing 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 " show off" 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 any thing, — we never showed any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the pres- ence 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. 376 CHOICE READINGS. 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 an}' 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 impa- tience. 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 impres- sive fumbling of ke}'s 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 finger : "What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting Christopher Colombo !■ — write it himself! " We looked indifferent, — unconcerned. The doctor ex- amined 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 the document down and said, — " Wiry, 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 }T>u can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you OUR GUIDES. 61 t have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out ! — and if }'0u 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 wis us ! I show you beauti- ful, O, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo! — splendid, grand, magnificent ! " He brought us before the beautiful bust, — for it ivas beautiful, — and sprang back and struck an attitude : " Ah, look, genteelmen ! — beautiful, grand, — bust Chris- topher Colombo ! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal ! " 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, O, ze devil ! " "Discover America? No, — that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christopher Colombo, — pleasant name ; — is — is he dead ? " " O corpo di Baccho ! — three hundred year ! " "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 something." " Parents living?" tw 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 378 CHOICE READINGS. combination indeed. Is — is this the first time this gentle- was ever on a bust? " "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. Yes- terday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewild- ered, 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 any thing. 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 ! — 'Gyptian mummy ! " " Yes, yes. Born here?" ' ' No . ' Gypt ian m u mmy . ' ' " Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?" " No ! — not Frenchman, not Roman ! — born in Eg} T pta ! " " Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. For- eign locality, likely. Mummy, — mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed ! Is — ah ! — is he dead ? " " O sacre bleu! been dead three thousan' year ! " The doctor turned on him savagely : " Here, now, what do you mean b} r such conduct as this? Playing us for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn ! Trying to impose your vile secondhand carcasses on us! Thunder and lightning! I've a notion to — to — if mr. pickwick's proposal to mrs. bardell. 379 you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out! — or, by George, we'll brain 3-011 ! " We make it exceedingly interesting for this Frenchman. However, he has paid us back, partly, without knowing it. He came, to the hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavoured, as well as he could, to describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he meant. He fin- ished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The observation was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for a guide to sa} T . Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long-suffering subject we have had yet. We shall be sony to part with him. We have enjoyed his society very much. We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are harrassed with doubts. ME. PICKWICK'S PEOPOSAL TO MES. BAEDELL. Charles Dickens. It was evident that something of great importance was in contemplation, but what that something was not even Mrs. Bardell herself had been enabled to discover. " Mrs Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. "Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. " Your little boy is a very long time gone." "Why. it is a good long way to the Borough, sir," remon- strated Mrs. Bardell. " Ah." said Mr. Pickwick, " very true ; so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell re- sumed her dusting. " Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick at the expiration of a few minutes. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again. "Do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two people than to keep one? " 380 CHOICE READINGS. " La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, colouring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger ; " La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question ! " " Well, but do you? " inquired Mr. Pickwick. "That depends," said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table ; ' ' that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick ; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir." "That's very true," said Mr. Pickwick; "but the person I have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities, and has, moreover, a con- siderable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharp- ness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be of material use to me." " La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson ris- ing to her cap-border again. " I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject which interested him ; "I do, indeed ; and, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind." " Dear me, sir ! " exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. "You'll think it not very strange now," said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humoured glance at his compan- ion, " that I never consulted you about this matter, and never mentioned it till I sent your little boy out this morning, — eh?" Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose, — a deliberate plan, too, — sent her little boy to the Borough to get him out of the way ; how thoughtful, — how considerate ! " Well," said Mr. Pickwick, " what do you think?" "O, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, "you're very kind, sir." mr. pickwick's proposal to mrs. bardell. 381 "It'll save you a good deal of trouble, won't it?" said Mr. Pickwick. " 0, I never thought an}* thing of the trouble, sir," re- plied Mrs. Bardell; "and of course, I should take more trouble to please you then than ever ; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness." "Ah, to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick ; " I never thought of that. When I am in town you'll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will." "I'm sure I ought to be a very happy woman," said Mrs. Bardell. " And your little boy — " said Mr. Pickwick. " Bless his heart," interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a mater- nal sob. " He, too, will have a companion," resumed Mr. Pickwick, "a lively one, who'll teach him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever learn in a 3 r ear." And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. " O you dear ! " said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. "O you kind, good, playful clear," said Mrs. Bardell; and without more ado, she rose from her chair and flung her arms around Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs. "Bless my soul!" cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; "Mrs. Bardell, my good woman — dear me, what a situa- tion — pray consider, Mrs. Bardell, don't — if anybody should come — " " O, let them come ! " exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically ; " I'll never leave you, — dear, kind, good soul ; " and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter. "Mercy upon me!" said Mr. Pickwick, struggling vio- lently, " I hear somebocly coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature, don't." But entreat)' and re- monstrance were alike unavailing, for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms, and before he could gain 382 CHOICE READINGS. time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snod- grass. SAM WELLEE'S VALENTINE. Charles Dickens. "I've done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment; " I've been a-writin'." "So I see," replied Mr. Weller. " Not to any young 'ooman, I hope, Sammy." " Why, it's no use a-sayin' it ain't," replied Sam. " It's a valentine." "A what?" exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror- stricken b} r the word. " A walentine," replied Sam. " Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful ac- cents, " I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your father's wicious propensities ; arter all I've said to 3*011 upon this here wery subject ; arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' } T our own mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought was a moral lesson as no man could ever ha' forgotten to his dyin' day ! I didn't think 3'ou'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd ha' done it." These reflections were too much for the good old man ; he raised Sam's tumbler to his lips and drank off the contents. " Wot's the matter now? " said Sam. " Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, "it'll be a wery agonizin' trial to me at m}' time o' life ; but I'm pretty tough, that's vun consolation, as the weiy old turkey re- marked ven the farmer said he vos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market." " Wot'll be a trial?" inquired Sam. " To see you married, Sammy ; to see you a deluded wic- tim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery capital," replied Mr. Weller. " It's a dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy." SAM weller's valentine. 383 "Nonsense," said Sam, "I ain't a-goin' to get married; don't 3*ou fret yourself about that. I know }~ou're a judge o' these things ; order-in your pipe, and I'll read you the letter, — there ! " Sam clipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any cor- rections, and began with a very theatrical air, — "« Lovely — '" " Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. " A double glass o' the inwariable, my dear." "Very well, sir," replied the girl, who with great quick- ness appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared. " They seem to know your ways here," observed Sam. " Yes," replied his father, " I've been here before, in my time. Go on, Samnrv." " ' Lovely creetur',' " repeated Sam. " 'Taint in poetry, is it? " interposed the father. "No, no," replied Sam. " Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. " Poetry's unnat'ral. No man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows. Never you let } T ourself down to talk poetiy, m}' boy. Begin again, Saninry." Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced and read as follows : " ' Lovely creetur' i feel mj^self a damned — ' " " That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth. " No; it ain't damned," observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light, " it's k shamed,' there's a blot there ; l i feel myself ashamed.' " " Wery good," said Mr. Weller. " Go on." " ; Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir — ' I forget wot this 'ere word is," said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember. " Why don't you look at it, then? " inquired Mr. Weller. "So I am a-lookin' at it," replied Sam, " but there's another blot ; here's a ' c,' and a ' i,' and a ' d.' " 384 CHOICE READINGS. " Circumwented, p'rhaps," suggested Mr. Weller. u No, it ain't that," said Sam; " ' circumscribed,' that's it." " That ain't as good a word as circumwented, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, gravely. " Think not? " said Sam. " Nothin' like it," replied his father. " But don't you think it means more? " inquired Sam. " Veil, p'rhaps it's a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller, after a few moments' reflection. " Go on, Sammy." " ' Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a-dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal, and nothin' but it.' " ''That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark. " Yes, I think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly flattered. " Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder Mr. Weller, "is, that there ain't no callin' names in it, — no Wenuses, nor nothing o' that kind ; wot's the good o' callin' a .young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?" " Ah ! what indeed?" replied Sam. " You might just as veil call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's-arms at once, which is wery veil known to be a col- lection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller. " Just as well," replied Sam. " Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller. Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows, his father continuing to smoke with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying : " ' Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.' ' : " So the} 7 are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parentheti- cally. " ' But now,' " continued Sam, " ' now i find what a reg- 'lar soft-headed, ink-red'lous turnip i must ha' been, for there ain't nobody like you, though i like you better than nothin' at all.' I thought it best to make that rayther strong," said Sam, looking up. SAM wellek's valentine. 385 Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. " ' So i take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, — as the gen'lm'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, — to tell you that the first and only time i see you your likeness wos took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colours than ever a likeness was taken by the prof eel macheen, (which p'rhaps you may have heerd on Mary my dear,) altho' it does finish a portrait, and put the frame and glass on complete with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.' " " I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, dubiously. "No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid contesting the point. " ' Except of me Mary my dear as yoi\Y walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary, I will now con- clude.' That's all," said Sam. " That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy? " in- quired Mr. Weller. "Not a bit on it," said Sam; "she'll vish there wos more, and that's the great art o' letter writin'." " Well," said Mr. Weller, " there's somethin' in that ; and I wish } T our mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a-goin' to sign it?" "That's the difficulty," said Sam; "I don't know what to sign it." "Sign it — Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name. "Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with your own name." " Sign it Pickvick, then," said Mr. Weller ; " it's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell." " The wery thing," said Sam. " I could end with a werse ; what do 3'on think?" "I don't like it, Sam." rejoined Mr. Weller. " I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one as 386 CHOICE READINGS. made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery, and he wos only a Cambervell man ; so even that's no rule." But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter, — "Your love-sick Pickwick." PYRAMUS AND THISBE. John G. Saxe. This tragical tale, which, they say, is a true one, Is old ; but the manner is wholly a new one. One Ovid, a writer of some reputation, Has told it before in a tedious narration ; In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fullness, But which nobody reads on account of its dullness. Young Peter Pyramus, — I call him Peter, Not for the sake of the rhyme nor the metre, But merely to make the name completer, — For Peter lived in the olden times, And in one of the worst of pagan climes That flourish now in classical fame, Long before either noble or boor Had such a thing as a Christian name, — Young Peter, then, was a nice young beau As any young lady would wish to know ; In years, I ween, he was rather green, That is to say, he was just eighteen, — A trifle too short, a shaving too lean, But " a nice young man " as ever was seen, And fit to dance with a May-day queen ! Now Peter loved a beautiful girl As ever ensnared the heart of an earl In the magical trap of an auburn curl, — PTRAMUS AXD TEI SB1 5 5 7 A little Miss Thisbe. who lived next door, (They lived, in fact- on the very same floor. With a wall between them and nothing more. — Those doable dwellings were common of voit Ai:'. :ir" '-_--:'- r-: A ::. t:. Ac Az-uls -:;-. In that Terr beautiful, boantifol way. That every young maid and every young blade Are wont to do before they grow staid. And learn to love by the laws of trade. ■ B~: :-::£■:-- :':: Ac A:- 1 izi Ay A lirLr :zi::^:::^ir-: Ac A ■' :'. AA: ;:y. A:: :" z:~- :iri: : ~- ..t Ac At^cs: ::::". — For some good reason, which history cloaks. The match didn't happen to please the old folks S Thisbe's father and Peter's mother Began the young couple to worry and bother. A;::: :: A.. AAr tuz:~ : — . By obstacles such as the timid appal. Contrived to discover a hole in the wall. Which wasn't so thick but removing a brick M; At :i ; -s.^r — A: _'.::::.-: 7: :t; Ai A - ~ 1 Through this little chink the lover could greet her. And secrecy made their courting the a While Peter kiss*d Thisbe. and Thisbe kiss'd Peter. — For kisses, like folks with diminutive souls. Will manage to creep through the smallest of holes ! Twas "-.- As: :if 1 " -- :.::-.- : - l:-~ L:,:: : -_:- A:A a:: :•: -^z :: : ?: : 7:: -1- A: :. w« ? A AA ~~ Ac v^A ~;rA Ac zz: Ob© CHOICE READINGS. Whose hearts, it would seem, were uncommonly bold ones, To run off and get married in spite of the old ones. In the shadows of evening, as still as a mouse The beautiful maiden slipp'd out of the house, The mulberry-tree impatient to find ; While Peter, the vigilant matrons to blind, Stroll'd leisurely out some minutes behind. While waiting alone by the try sting-tree, A terrible lion as e'er you set eye on Came roaring along quite horrid to see, And caused the } T oung maiden in terror to flee ; (A lion's a creature whose regular trade is Blood, — and " and a terrible thing among ladies,") And, losing her veil as she ran from the wood, The monster bedabbled it over with blood. Now Peter, arriving, and seeing the veil All cover'd o'er and reeking with gore, Turn'cl, all of a sudden, exceedingly pale, And sat himself down to weep and to wail ; For, soon as he saw the garment, poor Peter Made up his mind in very short metre That Thisbe was dead, and the lion had eat her ! So breathing a prayer, he determined to share The fate of his darling, " the loved and the lost," And fell on his dagger, and gave up the ghost ! Now Thisbe returning, and viewing her beau Lying dead b}' her veil, (which she happen'd to know,) She guess'd in a moment the cause of his erring ; And, seizing the knife that had taken his life, In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring. r MORAL. Young gentlemen : Pray recollect, if you please, Not to make appointments near mulberry-trees. Should your mistress be missing, it shows a weak head HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET. 389 To be stabbing yourself, till you know she is dead. Young ladies : You shouldn't go strolling about When your anxious mammas don't know you are out ; And remember that accidents often befall From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall ! HOW THE OLD HOESE WOE" THE BET. Oliver Wendell Holmes. 'Twas on the famous trotting-ground, The betting men were gather'd round From far and near ; the " cracks " were there Whose deeds the sporting prints declare : The swift g. m., Old Hiram's nag, The fleet s. h., Don Pfeiffer's brag, With these a third, — and who is he That stands beside his fast b. g. ? Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name So fills the nasal trump of fame. There, too, stood many a noted steed Of Messenger and Morgan breed ; Green horses also, not a few, — Unknown as yet what they could do ; And all the hacks that know so well The scourgings of the Sunday swell. Blue are the skies of opening day ; The bordering turf is green with May ; The sunshine's golden gleam is thrown On sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan ; The horses paw and prance and neigh ; Fillies and colts like kittens play, And dance and toss their rippled manes Shining and soft as silken skeins ; Wagons and gigs are ranged about, And fashion flaunts her ga} T turnout : 390 CHOICE READINGS. Here stands — each youthful Jehu's dream — The jointed tandem, ticklish team ! And there in ampler breadth expand The splendours of the four-in-hand ; On faultless ties and glossy tiles The lovely bonnets beam their smiles ; (The style's the man, so books avow ; The style's the woman anyhow ;) From flounces froth'd with creamy lace Peeps out the pug-dog's smutty face, Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye, Or stares the wiry pet of SlXKc TOM'S LITTLE STAE. Fanny Foster. Sweet Man', pledged to Tom, was fair And graceful, young and slim : Tom loved her truly, and one dare Be sworn that she loved him ; For, twisting bashfully the ring- That seal'd the happy fiat, She coo'd, " When married in the Spring, Dear Tom, let's live so quiet ! Let's have our pleasant little place, Our books, a friend or two ; No noise, no crowd, but just your face For me, and mine for you. Won't that be nice ! " " It is my own Idea," said Tom, " so chary, So deep and true, my love has grown, I -worship you, my Mary." She was a tender, nestling thing, A girl that loved her home, A sort of dove with folded wing, A bird not made to roam, But gentry rest her little claw (The simile to carry) Within a husband's stronger paw, — The very girl to marry. 396 CHOICE READINGS. Their courtship was a summer sea, So smooth, so bright, so calm, Till one day Mary restlessly Endured Tom's circling arm, And look'd as if she thought or planu'd, Her satiu forehead wrinkled, She beat a tattoo on his hand, Her e3~es were strange and twiukled. She never heard Tom's fond remarks, His " sweet} T -tweety dear," Or noticed once the little larks He play'd to make her hear. "What ails," he begg'd, "my petsy pet? What ails my love, I wonder?" " Do not be trifling, Tom. I've met Professor Shakespeare Thunder." " Thunder ! " said Tom ; " and who is he ? " " You goose ! why, don't } 7 ou know? " " I don't." She never frown'd at me, Or call'd me goose. " And though," Thought Tom, kC it may be playfulness, It racks my constitution." " Why, Thunder teaches with success Dramatic elocution." " O ! Ah ! Indeed ! and what is that? My notion is but faint." "It's art," said Mary, brisk and pat. Tom thought that " art" meant paint. " You blundering boy ! why, art is just What makes one stare and wonder. To understand high art } 7 ou must Hear Shakespeare read by Thunder." Tom started at the turn of phrase ; It sounded like a swear. tom's little star. 397 Then Mary said, to his amaze, With nasal groan and glare, ' ' ' To be or-r — not to be ? ' " And fain To act discreet yet gallant, He ask'd, " Dear, have you any — pain ? " " O, no, Tom ; I have talent. Professor Thunder told me so ; He sees it in my eye ; He says my tones and gestures show My destiny is high." Said Tom, for Mary's health afraid, His ignorance revealing, " Is talent, dear, that noise you made?" " Why, no ; that's Hamlet's feeling." " He must have felt most dreadful bad." " The character is mystic," Mary explain'd, " and very sad. And very high artistic. And you are not ; you're commonplace ; These things are far above you." " I'm only," spoke Tom's honest face, " Artist enough — to love you." From that time forth was Mary changed ; Her eyes stretch'd open wide ; Her smooth fair hair in friz arranged, And parted on the side. More and more strange she grew, and quite Incapable of taking The slightest notice how each night She set Tom's poor heart aching. As once he left her at the door, tv A thousand times good-night," Sigh'd Mary, sweet as ne'er before. Poor Tom revived, look'd bright. 398 CHOICE READINGS. " Mary," he said, " you love me so? We have not grown asunder ? " " Do not be silly, Tom ; you know I'm studying with Thunder. That's from the famous Juliet scene. I'll do another bit." Quoth Tom, " I don't know what }~ou mean." ' ' Then listen ; this is it : c Dear love, adieu. Anon, good nurse. Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again.' Now, Tom, say ' blessed, blessed night ! ' " Said Tom, w r ith hesitation, " B-blessed night." " Pshaw ! that's not right ; You've no appreciation." At Tom's next call he heard up-stairs A laugh most loud and coarse ; Then Mary, knocking down the chairs, Came prancing like a horse. " ' Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, Governor, how are ye? I've been down five times, climbing up your stairs in my long clothes.' That's comedy," she said. " You're mad," Said Tom. " ' Mad S ' Ha ! Ophelia ! ' They bore him barefaced on his bier, And on his grave rain'd many a tear,' " She chanted, very wild and sad ; Then whisk' d off on Emilia : " ' You told a lie, an odious, fearful lie ; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.'" She glared and howl'd two murder-scenes, And mouth'd a new French roZe, Where luckily the graceful miens Hid the disgraceful soul. She wept, she danced, she sang, she swore, — I . :: LITTLE STAR. 399 From Shakespeare. — classic swear _ Id. abstracted look she wore. And round the room went tearing. And every word and every panse Made Mary " quote a speech." If Tom was sad, (and he had cause,) She' say, in sobbing screech. • E C hiTbrd, why don't you speak to me?' At flowers foi ssent She leer'd, and sang coquettish • • • TThen daises pied and violets blue.' " Tom blurted. That's not pleasant." But Mary took off- this : •• You have no soul." - " For art. and do not know the bliss 0: ::':>:•:•! iery. Th e sacred fire * they talk about Lights all tli y before me: It's mite my dnty t And all my friends implore me. Three mths :: Thunder I have found A :horough course," she -aid: "HI deai Parnassus with a boon (Tom softly shook his head.) • I annot fail to be the rage I .: rhousand pities,) • And so I'm going on the stage To star in Western cities Ann ; but Mary came To grief within a wee And in a month she came : T m, Quite gentle, sweet, and meek. Tom was rejoiced : his heart was none The hardest or the sterne-: 0. Tom," she sobb'd It look'd like fun, But art is dreadful earner: 400 CHOICE READINGS. Why, art means work, and slave, and bear All sorts of scandal too ; To dread the critics so 3*011 dare Not look a paper through ; O, ' art is long.' and hard." " And you Are short and — soft, my darling." "My money, Tom, is gone, — it Jlew." " That's natural with a starling." 4 ' I love 3 7 ou more than words can say, Dear Tom." He gave a start. " Mary, is that from any play?" " No, Tom ; it's from my heart." He took the tired, sunny head, With all its spent ambitions, So gently to his breast, she said No word but sweet permissions. " Can you forgive me, Tom, for — " " Life," He finish'd out the phrase. " My love, you're pattern'cl for a wife : The crowded public ways Are hard for even the strongest heart ; Yours beats too softly human : However woman choose her art, Yet art must choose its woman." TOO LATE POE THE TKAItf. When they reached the depot, Mr. Mann and his wife gazed in unspeakable disappointment at the receding train, which was just pulling away from the bridge switch at the rate of a mile a minute. Their first impulse was to run after it, but as the train was out of sight and whistling for Sage- town before they could act upon the impulse, they remained in the carriage, and disconsolately turned their horses' heads homeward. TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 401 Mr. Mann broke the silence, very grimly: "It all comes of having to wait for a woman to get ready." " I was ready before you were," replied his wife. " Great Heavens," cried Mr. Mann, with great impatience, nearly jerking the horses' jaws out of place, "just listen to that ! And I sat in the buggy ten minutes yelling at you to come along until the whole neighborhood heard me." w * Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Mann, with the provoking placid- ity which no one can assume but a woman, " and every time I started down stairs you sent me back for something you had forgotten." Mr. Mann groaned. " This is too much to bear," he said, "when everybody knows that if I were going to Europe I would rush into the house, put on a clean shirt, grab up my grip-sack, and fly, while you would want at least six months for preliminary preparations, and then dawdle around the whole day of starting until every train had left town." Well, the upshot of the matter was that the Manns put off their visit to Aurora until the next week, and it was agreed that each one should get himself or herself ready and go down to the train and go. and the one who failed to get ready should be left. The da}" of the match came around in due time. The train was going at 10.30, and Mr. Mann, after attending to his business, went home at 9.45. "Now, then." he shouted, "only three-quarters of an hour's time. Fly around ; a fair field and no favours, you know." And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged into this room, and flew through that one, and dived into one closet after another with inconceivable rapidity, chuckling under his breath all the time to think how cheap Mrs. Mann would feel when he started off alone. He stopped on his way up stairs to pull off his heavy boots to save time. For the same reason he pulled off his coat as he ran through the dining- room, and hung it on a corner of the silver closet. Then he jerked off his vest as he rushed through the hail, and tossed it on the hat-rack hook, and by the time he had reached his 402 CHOICE READINGS. own room he was ready to plunge into his clean clothes. He pulled out a bureau drawer and began to paw at the things like a Scotch terrier after a rat. " Eleanor," he shrieked, " where are 1113' shirts?" " In your bureau drawer," calmly replied Mrs. Mann, who was standing before a glass calmly and deliberately coaxing a refractory crimp into place. "Well, but they ain't!" shouted Mr. Mann, a little an- noyed. "I've emptied every thing out of the drawer, and there isn't a thing in it I ever saw before." Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, held her head on one side, and, after satisfying herself that the crimp would do, replied, " Those things scattered around on the floor are all mine. Probably you haven't been loooking into 3-our own drawer." "I don't see," testily observed Mr. Mann, "why you couldn't have put my things out for me when you had noth- ing else to do all the morning." "Because," said Mrs. Mann, setting herself into an addi- tional article of raiment with awful deliberation, " nobody put mine out for me. A fair field and no favours, my dear." Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like a bull at a red flag. " Foul ! " he shouted in malicious triumph ; " No buttons on the neck ! " "Because," said Mrs. Mann, sweetly, after a deliberate stare at the fidgeting, impatient man, during which she but- toned her dress and put eleven pins where they would do the most good, " because you have got the shirt on wrong side out." When Mr. Mann slid out of the shirt be began to sweat. He dropped the shirt three times before he got it on, and while it was over his head he heard the clock strike ten. When his head came through he saw Mrs. Mann coaxing the ends and bows of her necktie. " Where are my shirt studs?" he cried. Mrs. Mann went out into another room, and presently came back with gloves and hat, and saw Mr. Mann emptying TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 403 all the boxes he could find in and around the bureau. Then she said, " In the shirt you just pulled off." Mrs. Mann put on her gloves while Mr. Mann hunted up and down the room for his cuff-buttons. " Eleanor," he snarled, at last, " I believe }'OU must know where those cuff -buttons are." "I haven't seen them," said the lady, settling her hat; " didn't you lay them down on the window-sill in the sitting- room last night?" Mr. Mann remembered, and he went down-stairs on the run. He stepped on one of his boots, and was immediately landed in the hall at the foot of the stairs with neatness and dis- patch, attended in the transmission with more bumps than he could count with Webb's Adder, and landed with a bang like the Hell-Gate explosion. "Are you nearly read} T , Algernon?" sweetly asked the wife of his bosom, leaning over the banisters. The unhappy man groaned. " Can't you throw me down the other boot?" he asked. Mrs. Mann, pityingly, kicked it down to him. " My valise?" he inquired, as he tugged at the boot. " Up in your dressing-room," she answered. "Packed?" " I do not know ; unless you packed it 3'ourself, probably not," she replied, with her hand on the door-knob ; " I had barely time to pack my own." She was passing out of the gate when the door opened, and he shouted, " Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest? It has all my money in it ! " " You threw it on the hat rack," she called. " Good-bye, dear." Before she got to the corner of the street she was hailed again : " Eleanor ! Eleanor ! Eleanor Mann ! Did you wear off my coat ? " She paused and turned, after signalling the street car to stop, and cried, " You threw it in the silver-closet." 404 CHOICE READINGS. The street car engulfed her graceful form, and she was seen no more. But the neighbours say that they heard Mr. Mann charging up and down the house, rushing out of the front door every now and then, shrieking after the unconscious Mrs. Mann, to know where his hat was, and where she put the valise-key, and if she had his clean socks and under- shirts, and that there wasn't a linen collar in the house. And, when he went away at last, he left the kitchen door, the side door, and the front door, all the down-stairs windows, and the front gate, wide open. The loungers around the depot were somewhat amused, just as the train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, to see a flushed, enterprising man, with his hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned and necktie flying, and his grip-sack flapping open and shut like a demented shutter on a March night, and a door-key in his hand, dash wildly across the platform and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impotent, wrathful mortification at the departing train, and shaking his fist at a pretty woman who was throw- ing kisses at him from the rear platform of the last car. KEPLECTIONS IN THE PILLOEY. Charles Lamb. Scene, — Opposite the Royal Exchange. Time, — Twelve to One, Noon. Ketch, my good fellow, you have a neat hand. Prithee adjust this new collar to my neck gingerly. I am not used to these wooden cravats. There, softly, softly ! That seems the exact point between ornament and strangulation. A thought looser on this side. Now it will do. And have a care, in turning me, that I present my aspect due verti- cally. I now face the orient. In a quarter of an hour I shift southward, — do you mind? — and so on till I face the east again, travelling with the Sun. No half -points, I be- seech you, — N. N. by W., or any such elaborate niceties. REFLECTIONS IN THE PILLORY. 405 The}' become the shipman's card, but not this mystery. Now leave me a little to my own reflections. Bless us, what a company is assembled in honour of me ! How grand I stand here ! I never felt so sensibly before the effect of solitude in a crowd. I muse in solemn silence upon that vast miscellaneous rabble in the pit there. From my private box I contemplate, with mingled pity and won- der, the gaping curiosity of those underlings. There are my Whitechapel supporters. Rosemary Lane has emptied her- self of the very flower of her citizens to grace my show. Duke's Place sits desolate. What is there in my face, that strangers should come so far from the east to gaze upon it? [Here an egg narrowly misses him.'] That offering was well meant, but not so cleanly executed. B3- the tricklings, it should not be either myrrh or frankincense. Spare your presents, m} T friends : I am noways mercenary. I desire no missive tokens of your approbation. I am past those valen- tines. Bestow those coffins of untimely chickens upon mouths that water for them. Comfort 3 T our addle spouses with them at home, and stop the mouths of your brawling brats with such Olla Podridas : they have need of them. \_A brick is let fly.] Disease not, I pray you, nor dismantle your rent and ragged tenements, to furnish me with architec- tural decorations, which I can excuse. This fragment might have stopped a flaw against snow comes. [A coal flies.] Cinders are dear, gentlemen. This nubbling might have helped the pot boil, when your dirty cuttings from the sham- bles at three-ha'pence a pound shall stand at a cold simmer. Now, south about, Ketch. I would enjoy Australian popu- larity. What, nry friends from over the water! Old benchers, — flies of a day — ephemeral Romans, — welcome! Doth the sight of me draw souls from limbo ? Can it dispeople purga- tory ? — Ha ! What am I, or what was my father's House, that I should thus be set up a spectacle to gentlemen and others ? Why are all faces, like Persians at the sunrise, bent singly on 406 CHOICE READINGS. mine alone ? It was wont to be esteemed an ordinary vis- nomy, a quotidian merely. Doubtless these assembled myriads discern some traits of nobleness, gentility, breeding, which hitherto have escaped the common observation, — some intimations, as it were, of wisdom, valour, piet}-, and so forth. My sight dazzles ; and, if I ani not deceived by the too-familiar pressure of this strange neckcloth that en- velops it, my countenance gives out lambent glories. For some painter now to take me in the luckj T point of expres- sion ! — the posture so convenient ! — the head never shift- ing, but standing quiescent in a sort of natural frame. But these artisans require a westerly aspect. Ketch, turn me. Something of St. James's air in these my new friends. How my prospects shift and brighten ! Now, if Sir Thomas Lawrence be anywhere in that group, his fortune is made for ever. I think I see some one taking out of a cra3*on. I will compose my whole nice to a smile, which } T et shall not so predominate but that gravity and gayety shall contend, as it were, — } T ou understand me? I will work up my thoughts to some mild rapture, — a gentle enthusiasm, — which the artist may transfer, in a manner, warm to the canvas. I will inwardly apostrophize my tabernacle. Delectable mansion, hail ! House not made of every wood! Lodging that pays no rent; airy and commodious; which, owing no window tax, art yet all casement, out of which men have such pleasure in peering and overlooking, that they will sometimes stand an hour together to enjoy thy prospects ! Cell, recluse from the vulgar ! Quiet retire- ment from the great Babel, yet affording sufficient glimpses into it ! Pulpit, that instructs without note or sermon-book ; into which the preacher is inducted without tenth or first- fruit ! Throne, unshared and single, that disdainest a Brent- ford competitor ! Honour without corrival ! Or nearest thou, rather, magnificent theatre, in which the spectator comes to see and to be seen ? From thy giddy heights I look down upon the common herd, who stand with eyes up- turned, as if a winged messenger hovered over them : and REFLECTIONS IN THE PILLORY. 407 mouths open as if they expected manna. I feel, I feel, the true Episcopal yearnings. Behold in me, my flock, your true overseer! What though I cannot lay hands, because my own are laid ; 3~et I can mutter benedictions. True otium cum dignitate ! Proud Pisgah eminence ! pinnacle sub- lime ! O Pillory ! 'tis thee I sing ! Thou younger brother to the gallows, without his rough and Esau palms, that with ineffable contempt surveyest beneath thee the grovelling stocks, which claim presumptuously to be of thy great race ! Let that low wood know that thou art far higher born. Let that domicile for groundling rogues and base earth-kissing varlets envy thy preferment, not seldom fated to be the wanton baiting-house, the temporary retreat, of poet and of patriot. Shades of Bastwick and of Piynne hover over thee, — Defoe is there, and more greatly daring Shebbeare, — from their (little more elevated) stations they look down with recognitions. Ketch, turn me. I now veer to the north. Open your widest gates, thou proud Exchange of London, that I may look in as proudly ! Gresham's wonder, hail ! I stand upon a level with all your kings. They and I, from equal heights, with equal super- ciliousness, o'erlook the plodding money-hunting tribe below, who, busied in their sordid speculations, scarce elevate their eyes to notice your ancient, or my recent, grandeur. The second Charles smiles on me from three pedestals ! He closed the Exchequer : I cheated the Excise. Equal our darings, equal be our lot. Are those the quarters? 'tis their fatal chime. That the ever-winged hours would but stand still ! but I must de- scend, — descend from this dream of greatness. Stay, stay a little while, importunate hour-hand ! A moment or two, and I shall walk on foot with the undistinguished many. The clock speaks one. I return to common life. Ketch, let me out. 408 CHOICE HEADINGS. ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Oliver Goldsmith. Good people all of every sort, Give ear unto my song ; And, if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad — When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, ' As man}- dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppj', whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends ; But, when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye ; And, while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. BETSY AND I ARE OUT. 409 But soon a wonder came to light. That showed the rogues they lied ; The man recover' d of the bite, The dog it was that died. BETSY ATO I ARE OUT. Will Carletox. Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout, For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are out, — We who have work'd together so long as man and wife Must pull in single harness the rest of our nat'ral life. ■• What is the matter," says you? I swan ! it's hard to tell! Most of the years behind us we're pass'd by very well : I have no other woman, — she has no other man ; Only we've lived together as long as ever we can. So I have talk'd with Betsy, and Betsy has talk'd with me ; And we've agreed together that we can never agree ; Xot that we've catch'd each other in any terrible crime ; We've been a gatherin' this for years, a little at a time. There was a stock of temper we both had, for a start ; Although we ne'er suspected 'twould take us two apart : I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone, And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own. The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed, Was somethin' concerning Heaven, — a difference in our creed; We arg'ed the thing at breakfast, — we arg'ed the thing at tea, — And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we couldn't agree. And the nest that I remember was when we lost a cow ; She had kick'd the bucket, for certain, — the question was only — How? I held my opinion, and Betsy another had ; And when we were done a-talkin", we both of us was mad. And the next that I remember, it started in a joke; But for full a week it lasted, and neither of us spoke : And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl ; And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any soul. 410 CHOICE READINGS. And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way; Always somethin' to ar'ge, and something sharp to say, — And down on us came the neighbours, a couple o' dozen strong, And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along. And there have been days together — and many a weary week — When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud, to speak ; And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the Summer and Fall, If I can't live kind with a woman, why. then I won't at all. And so I've talk'd with Betsy, and Betsy has talk'd with me ; And we have agreed together that we can never agree ; And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine ; And I'll put it in the agreement and take it to her to sign. Write on the paper, lawyer, — the very first paragraph, — Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half ; For she has help'd to earn it, through many a weary day, And it's nothin' more than justice that Betsy has her pay. Give her the house and homestead ; a man can thrive and roam, But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home. And I have always determined, and never f ail'd to say, That Betsy should never want a home, if I was taken away. There's a little hard money besides, that's drawin' tol'rable pay, A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day, — Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at ; Put in another clause there, and give her all of that. I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin' her so much ; Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such : True and fair I married her, when she was blithe and } r oung, And Betsy was always good to me, exceptin' with her tongue. When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps, For me she mitten'd a lawyer, and several other chaps ; And all of 'em was fluster'd, and fairly taken down, And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town. HOW BETSY AND I MADE UP. 411 Once, when I had a fever, — T won't forget it soon. — I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon, — Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight; She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night. And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean, Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen ; And" I don't complain of Betsy or any of her acts, Exceptin' when we've quarrell'd, and told each other facts. So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I'll go home to-night, And read the agreement to her, and see if it's all right ; And then in the mornin' I'll sell to a tradin' man I know ; And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I'll go. And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn't occur ; That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her, And lay me under the maple we planted years ago, When she and I was happy, before we quarrell'd so. And, when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me ; And, lyin' together in silence, perhaps we'll then agree ; And, if ever we meet in Heaven, I wouldn't think it queer If we loved each other the better because we've quarrell'd here. HOW BETSY AND I MADE UP. Will Carleton. Give me your hand, Mr. Lawyer ; how do you do to-day ? You drew up that agreement, — I s'pose you want your pay : Don't cut down your figures ; make it an X. or a V. ; For that 'ere written agreement was just the makin' of me. Gom' home that evenin', I tell you I was blue, Thinkin' of all my troubles, and what I was goin' to do ; And, if my hosses hadn't been the steadiest team alive, They'd 've tipp'd me over, certain, for I couldn't see where to drive. No, — for I was laborin' under a heavy load; No, — for I was travelin' an entirely different road ; For I was a-tracin' over the path of our lives ag'in, And seein' where we miss'd the way, and where we might have been. 412 CHOICE READINGS. And many a corner we'd turn'd that just to a quarrel led, When I ought to've held my temper, and driven straight ahead ; And the more I thought it over the more these memories came, And the more I struck the opinion that I was the most to blame. And things I had long forgotten kept rishV in my mind, Of little matters betwixt us, where Betsy was good and kind ; And these things they flash 'd all through me, as you know things sometimes will, When a feller's alone in the darkness, and every thing is still. " But," says I, " we're too far along to take another track, And when I put my hand to the plough I do not oft turn back ; And 'taint an uncommon thing now for couples to smash in two," And so I set my teeth together, and vow'd I'd see it through. When I came in sight o' the house 'twas some'at in the night, And just as I turn'd a hill-top I see the kitchen light ; Which often a han'some pictur' to a hungry person makes, But it don't interest a feller much that's goin' to pull up stakes. And when I went in the house the table w 7 as set for me, — As good a supper's I ever saw, or ever want to see ; And I cramnVd the agreement down in my pocket as well as I could, And fell to eatin' my victuals, which somehow didn't taste good. And Betsy she pretended to look about the house, But she watch'd my side coat pocket like a cat would watch a mouse ; And then she went to foolin' a little with her cup, And intently readin' a newspaper, a-holdin' it wrong side up. And when I'd done my supper I draw'd the agreement out, An give it to her without a word, for she know'd what 'tw T as about, And then I humm'd a little tune, but now and then a note Was bu'sted by some animal that hopp'd up in my throat. Then Betsy she got her specks from off the mantle-shelf, And read the article over quite softly to herself; Head it by little and little, for her eyes is gettin' old, And lawyers' writin' ain't no print, especially when it's cold. HOW BETSY AND. I MADE UP. 413 And after she'd read a little she give my arm a touch, And kindly said she was afraid I was 'lowin' her too much ; But when she was through she went for me, her face a-streamin' with tears, And kiss'd me for the first time in over twenty years. I don't know what you'll think, Sir, — I didn't come to inquire, — But I pick'd up that agreement and stuff'd it in the fire ; And I told her we'd bury the hatchet alongside of the cow ; And we struck an agreement never to have another row. And I told her in the future I would'nt speak cross or rash, If half the crockery in the house was broken all to smash ; And she said in regard to Heaven, we'd try and learn its worth By startin' a branch establishment and runnin' it here on Earth. And so we sat a-talkin' three-quarters of the night, And open'd our hearts to each other until they both grew light; And the days when I was winnin' her away from so many men Was nothin' to that evenin' I courted her over again. Next mornin' an ancient virgin took pains to call on us, Her lamp all trimm'd and a-burnin 1 to kindle another fuss; But, when she went to pryin 1 and openin 1 of old sores, My Betsy rose politely, and show'd her out-of-doors. Since then I don't deny but there's been a word or two ; But we've got our eyes wide open, and know just what to do : When one speaks cross the other just meets it with a laugh, And the first one's ready to give up considerable more than half. Maybe you'll think me soft, Sir, a-talkin' in this style, But somehow it does me lots of good to tell it once in a while ; And I do it for a compliment, — 'tis so that you can see That that there written agreement of yours was just the makin' of me. So make out your bill, Mr. Lawyer ; don't stop short of an X. ; Make it more if you want to, for I have got the checks : I'm richer than a National Bank, with all its treasures told, For I've got a wife at home now that's worth her weight in gold. 414 CHOICE READINGS. X. DIALECTIC. COCKNEY. LORD DOTDREARY PROPOSING. F. J. Skill. Any fellah feelth nervouth when he knowth he'th going to make an ath of himthelf . That's vewy twue, — I — I've often thed tho before. But the fact is, evew} T fellah dothn't make an ath of himthelf, at least not quite such an ath as I've done in my time. I — don't mind telling you, but 'pon my word now, — I — I've made an awful ath of mythelf on thome occathions. You don't believe it now, — do you ? I — thought you wouldn't ; but I have now — iveally. Particularly with wegard to women. To tell the twuth, that is my weakneth, — I s'pose I'm what the} T call a ladies' man. The pwetty cweachaws like me, — I know they do, — though they pwetend not to do so. It — it's the way with some fellahs. Let me see, — where was I? O, I rekomember, — or weckolect, — which is it? Never mind ; I was saying that I was a ladies' man. I wanted to tell you of one successful advenchaw I had, — at least, when I say successful, I mean it would have been as far as J was concerned, — but, of course, when two people are engaged, — or wather, when one of 'em wants to be en- gaged, one fellah by himthelf can't engage that he'll engage affections that are otherwise engaged. By the way, what a lot of 'gages that was in one thentence, and yet — it seems quite fruitless. Come, that's pwetty smart, that is — for LORD DUNDREARY PROPOSING. 415 Well, as I was saying, — I mean, as I meant to have said, — when I was stopping down at Wockingham, with the Wid- leys, last Autumn, there was a mons'ous jolly' girl staying there too. I don't mean two girls, you know, — ou\y — only one girl — But stop a minute, — is that right? How could one girl be stopping there tivof What doosid queer expres- sions there are in the English language ! Stopping there too! It's vewy odd. I — I'll swear there was only one girl, — at least, the one that I mean was only one, — if she'd been two, of course, I should have known it, — let me see now, one is singular, and two is plural, — well, you know, she icas a singular girl, — and she — she was one too many for me. Ah, I see now, — that accounts for it, — one two many — of course — I knew there was a two somewhere. She had a vewy queer name, Miss — miss — Missmiss, no not Miss Missmiss — I always miss the wrong — I mean the right name, — Miss Chaffingham, — that's it, — Charlotte' Chaffingham. At the top of the long walk at Wockingham there is a summer-house, — a jolly sort of place, with a lot of ferns and things about, and behind there are a lot of shrubs and bushes and pwickly plants, which give a sort of rural or wurwal — which is it? blest if I know — look to the place, and as it was vewy warm, I thought if I'm ever to make an ath of mythelf by pwoposing to this girl, — I won't do it out in the eye of the Sun, — it's so pwecious hot. So I pwoposed we should walk in and sit down, and so we did, and then I began : 4i Miss Chaffingham, now, don't you think it doosid cool? " " Cool, Lord D., " she said; " why, I thought you were complaining of the heat." " I beg your pardon," I said, '*I — I — can't speak vewy fast," (the fact is, that a beathly wasp was buthhiug about me at the moment,) " and I hadn't quite finished my then- tence. I was going to say, don't you think it doosid cool of Wagsby to go on laughing — at — at a fellah as he does ? " u Well, mv Lord," she said, " I think so too ; and I won- 416 CHOICE READINGS. der yon stand it. You — you have your remedy, 3-011 know." ''What remedy?" I said. "You — you don't mean to sa} T I ought to thvvash him, Miss Charlotte?" Here she — she somehow began to laugh, but in such a peculiar way that I — I couldn't think what she meant. "A vewy good idea," I said. " I've a vewy good mind to twy it. I had on the gloves once with a lay figure in a paint- er's studio, — and gave it an awful licking. It's twue, it — it didn't hit back, you know ; I — I did all — all the hitting then. And pwaps — pwaps Wagsby would hit back. But, if — if he did any thing so ungentlemanlike as that, I could always — alwa}'S — " " Always what, my Lord? " said Lotty, who was going on laughing in a most hysterical manner. "Why, I could always say it was a mithtake, and — and it shouldn't happen again, you know." " Admirable policy, upon my word," she thaid, and began tittering again. But what the dooth amused her so i" never could make out. Just then we heard a sort of rustling in the leaves behind, and I confess I felt wather nervouth. " It's only a bird," Lotty said ; and then we began talking of that little wobbin-wedbreast, and what a wonderful thing Nature is, — and how doosid pwetty it was to see her laws obeyed. And I said, "OMiss Chaffingham ! " I said, "If I was a wobbin — " "Yes, Dundreary," she anthered, — vewy soft and sweet. And I thought to mythelf , — Now's the time to ask her, — now's the time to — I — I was beginning to wuminate again, but she bwought me to my thenses by saying, — " Yes?" inter woggativety. " If I was a wobbin, Lott}-, — and — and you were a wob- bin — "I exclaimed, — with a full voice of emothun. "Well, my Lord?" "Wouldn't it be — jolly to have thpeckled eggs evewy morning for bweakfast?" That wasn't quite what I was going to say ; but just then THE SWELL. 417 there was another rustling behind the summer-house, and in wushed that bwute, Wagsby. ; ' What's the wow, Dundreary?" said he, grinning in a dweadfully idiotic sort of way. v ' Come, old fellah," (I — I hate a man who calls me old fellah, — it's so bcathly famil- iar) . And then he said he had come on purpose to fetch us back, (confound him !) as they had just awanged to start on one of those cold-meat excursions, — no, that's not the word, I know, — but it has something to do with cold meat, — pic — pickles, is it? — no, pickwick? pic — I have it, — the}" wanted us to go picklicking, — I mean picknicking with them. Here w r as a disappointment. Just as I thought to have a nice little flirtathun with Lotty — to be interwupted in this manner ! Was ever any thing so pwovoking ? And all for a picnic, — a thort of early dinner without chairs or tables, and a lot of flies in the muthtard ! I was in such a wage ! Of course I didn't get another chance to say all I wanted. I had lost nrr opportunity, and, I fear, made an ath of my- thelf. THE SWELL. George W. Kyle. I say ! I wonder wiry fellahs ever wide in horse-cars ? I've been twying all day to think why fellahs ever do it, weally ! I know some fellahs that are in business, down town, you know, — C. B. Jones, cotton-dealer; Smith Brothers, woollen goods ; Bwown & Company, stock-bwokers and that sort of thing, you know, — who say they do it every day. If I was to do it every day, my funeral would come off in about a week. Ton my soul, it would. I wode in a horse-car one day. Did it for a lark. Made a bet I would wide in a horse-car, 'pon my soul, I did. So I went out on the pavement before the club-house and called one. I said, ki Horse-car! horse-car!" but not one of 'em stopped, weally ! Then I saw that fellahs wun after them, — played 418 CHOICE READINGS. tag with them, you know, as the dweadful little girls do when school is coming out. And sometimes the} T caught the cars, — ah — and sometimes they did not. So I wun after one, I did weally, and 1 caught it. I was out of breath, 3'ou know, and a fellah on the platform — a conductor fellah — poked me in the back and said, " Come ! move up ! make room for this lady ! " Ah — by Jove he did, you know ! I looked for the lady so, but I could see no lady, and I said so. There was a female person behind me, with large mar- ket basket, cwowded with, ah, — vegetables and such dwead- ful stuff, and another person with a bundle, and another with a baby, you know. The person with the basket prodded me in the back with it, and I said to the conductor fellah, said I, "Where shall I sit down? I — ah — I don't see any seat, you know." " The seats seem to be occupied by per- sons, conductor," said I. " Where shall I sit?" He was wude, very wude, indeed, and he said, "You can sit on 3 T our thumb if you have a mind to." And when I wemonstrated with him upon the impwopwiet}- of telling a gentleman to sit on his thumb, he told me to go to thunder. " Go to thunder ! " he did, indeed. After a while one of the persons got out, and I sat down ; it was vewy disagweeable ! Opposite me, there were several persons belonging to the labowing classes, with what I pwesume to be lime on their boots ; and tin kettles which they carried for some myste- rious purpose in their hands. There was a person with a large basket, and a coloured person. Next to me there sat a fellah that had been eating onions ! 'Twas vewy offensive ! I couldn't stand it ! No fellah could, you know. I had heard that if any one in a car was annoyed by a fellah-pas- senger he _ should weport it to the conductor. So I said, "Conductor ! put this person out of the car! he annoys me vewy much. He has been eating onions." But the con- ductor fellah only laughed. He did, indeed ! And the fel- lah that had been eating onions said, " Hang yer impidence, what do ye mean by that?" " It's extwemely disagweeable, you know, to sit near one who has been eating onions," said THE SWELL. 419 I. "I think you ought to resign, get out, you know." And then, though I'm sure I spoke in the most wespectful manner, he put his fist under my nose and wemarked, "You'll eat that, hang you, in a minute!" he did, indeed. And a fellah opposite said, " Put a head on him, Jim ! " I suppose from his tone that it was some colloquial expwession of the lower orders, referring to a personal attack. It was vewy disagweeable, indeed. I don't see why any fellah ever wides in the horse-cars. But I didn't want a wow, you know. A fellah is apt to get a black eye, and a black eye spoils one's appeawance, don't you think? So I said, " Beg pardon, I'm sure." The fellah said, "O, hang you ! " he did, indeed. He was a vew}' ill-bred person. And all tin* time the car kept stopping, and more persons of the lower orders kept getting on. A vewy dweadful woman with a vewy dweadful baby stood right before me, intercepting nry view of the street ; and the bab} T had an orange in one hand and some candy in the other. And I was wondering why persons of the lower classes were allowed to have such dirty babies, and why Bergh or some one didn't interfere, you know, when, before I knew what she was doing, that dwead- ful woman sat that dweadful baby wight down on my lap ! She did, indeed. And it took hold of my shirt bosom with one of its sticky hands, and took my eye-glass away with the other, and, upon my honour, I'm quite lost without my eye- glass. "You'll have to kape him till I find me money," said the woman. "Weally!" said I, "I'm not a nursery- maid, ma'am." Then the people about me laughed, they did, indeed. I could not endure it. I jumped up and dwopped the baby in the straw. " Stop the car, conductor," said I, " stop the car." What do suppose he said? " Hurry up now, be lively, be lively, don't keep me waiting all day ! " And I was about to wemonstrate with him upon the impwo- pwiety of speaking so to a gentleman, when he pushed me off the car. That was the only time I ever wode in a horse- car. I wonder wiry fellahs ever do wide in horse-cars ? I should think they would pwefer cabs, you know. 420 CHOICE READINGS. FRENCH. THE FRENCHMAN AND THE PLEA-POWDER, A Frenchman once — so runs a certain ditty — Had cross'd the Straits to famous London city, To get a living by the arts of France, And teach his neighbour, rough John Bull, to dance. But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill ; His fortunes sank from low to lower still ; Until, at last, — pathetic to relate, — Poor Monsieur landed at starvation's gate. Standing, one day, beside a cook-shop door, And, gazing in, with aggravation sore, He mused within himself what he should do To fill his empty maw, and pocket too. By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan, And thus to execute it straight began : A piece of common brick he quickly found, And with a harder stone to powder ground, Then wrapp'd the dust in many a dainty piece Of paper, labell'd "■ Poison for de Fleas," And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try, To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy. From street to street he cried, with lusty yell, " Here's grand and sovereign flea poudare to sell ! " And fickle Fortune seem'd to smile at last, For soon a woman hailed him as he pass'd, Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot, And made him five crowns richer on the spot. Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale, Went into business on a larger scale ; And soon, throughout all London, scatter'd he The " only genuine poudare for de flea." Engaged, one morning, in his new vocation Of mingled boasting and dissimulation, Ho thought he heard himself in anger calPd ; A FRENCHMAN ON MACBETH. 421 And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawl'd, — In not a mild or very tender mood. — From the same window where before she stood. " Hey, there," said she, " You Monsher Powder-man ! Escape my clutches now, sir, if you can ; I'll let you dirt}', thieving Frenchmen know That decent people won't be cheated so." Then spoke Monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh, With humble attitude and tearful e3~e ; — "Ah, Madame ! s'il vous plait, attendez vous, — I vill dis leetle ting explain to you : My poudare gran ! magnifique ! why abuse him ? Aha ! I show you Jwiv to use him : First, you must wait until you catch deflea; Den, tickle he on de petite rib, you see ; And, when he laugh, — aha ! he ope his troat ; Den poke de poudare down ! — Begar ! he choke. >>©w ; At Uncle Johnny Booker's ball The darkies hold high can:: F: m all the country-side they throng. With laughter, shouts, and scraps of song, Their whole deportment plainly showing That to *• the frolic"' they are going. 450 CHOICE READINGS. Some take the path with shoes in hand, To traverse muddy bottom-land ; Aristocrats their steeds bestride, — Four on a mule, behold them ride ! And ten great oxen draw apace The wagon from " de oder place," With forty guests, where conversation Betokens glad anticipation. In this our age of printer's ink, 'Tis books that show us how to think, — The rule reversed, and set at nought, That held that books were born of thought We form our minds by pedants' rules ; And all we know, is from the schools ; And when we work, or when we phiy, We do it in an ordered way. Untrammel'd thus, the simple race is, That " works the craps" on cotton-places ! Original in act and thought, Because unlearned and untaught, Observe them at their Christmas party. How unrestrain'd their mirth, how hearty ! How many things they say and do That never would occur to you ! See Brudder Brown — whose saving grace Would sanctifj' a quarter-race — Out on the crowded floor advance, To "be£ a blessin' on dis dance." O Mahsr ! let dis gath'rin' fin' a blessin' in yo' sight ! Don't jedge us hard for what we does, — you knows its Chrismus night ; An' all de balunce ob de yeah, we does as right's we kin : Ef dancin's wrong, O Mahsr ! let de time excuse de sin ! We labours in de vineya'd, workin' hard, an' workin' true ; Now, shorely you won't notus, ef we eats a grape or two, CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS. 451 An' takes a leetle holiday, — a leetle restin'-spell, — Bekase, nex' week, we'll start in fresh, an' labour twicet as well. Remember, Mahsr, — min' dis now, — de sinfulness ob sin Is pendin' 'pon de sperret what we goes an' does it in : An' in a righchis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance an' sing; A-feelin' like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing. It seems to me, — indeed it do, — [ mebbe mout be wrong, — That people raly ought to dance, when Chrismus comes along : Des dance bekase dey's happy, like de birds hops in de trees ; De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de blowin' ob de breeze. We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul's prophet king; We has no harp to soun' de chords, to holp us out to sing ; But cordin' to de gif's we has we does de bes' we knows, An' folks don't 'spise de vi'let-flow'r bekase it ain't de rose. You bless us, please sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to-night ; Kase den we'll need de blessin' more'n ef we's doin' right ; An' let de blessin' stay wid us untell we comes to die, An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky ! Yes, tell dem preshis anjuls we's a gwine to jine 'em soon : Our voices we's a-trainin' for to sing de glory tune ; We's ready when you wants us, an' it ain't no matter when ; O Mahsr ! call yo' chillen soon, an' take 'em home ! Amen. The reverend man is scarcely through, WHien all the noise begins anew, And with such force assaults the ears, That through the din one hardly hears Old Fiddling Josey " sound his A," — Correct the pitch, — begin to play, — Stop, satisfied, — then, with the bow, Rap out the signal dancers know : Git yo'' pardners, fust kwattilion ! Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high ; Tune is, " O, dat water-million ! Gwine to git to home bimc-bye." 452 CHOICE READINGS. S'lute yo' pardners I — scrape perlitely, - Don't be buinpin' gin de res', — Balance all! — now, step out rightly; Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes'. Fo' iva' d foah ! — whoop up, niggers ! Back ag'in I — don't be so slow, — Swing yo' cornahs ! — min' de liggers : When I hollers, den 3-0' go. Ladies change ! — shet up dat talkin' : Do yo' talkin' arter while, — Right an' lef I — ■ don't want no walkin' Make 3^0' steps, an' show 3^0' style ! Hands around! — hoi' up yo' faces, Don't be lookin' at yo' feet ! Swing yo* pardners to yo' p/aces / Dat's de way, — dat's hard to beat. And so the " set" proceeds, its length Determined by the dancers' strength ; And all agreed to yield the palm, For grace and skill, to " Georgy Sam," Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high, " Des watch him ! " is the wondering ciy, — " De nigger mus' be, for a fac', Own cousin to a jumpin'-jack ! " On, on, the restless fiddle sounds, — Still chorus'd 03' the curs and hounds, — Dance after dance succeeding fast, Till " supper" is announced at last. That scene, — but why attempt to show it? The most inventive modern poet, In fine new words whose hope and trust is, Could form no phrase to do it justice ! When supper ends, — that is not soon, — The fiddler strikes the same old tune ; THE FIRST BANJO. 453 The dancers pound the floor again, With all they have of might and main ; The night is spent ; and, as the day Throws up the first faint flash of gray, The guests pursue their homeward way ; And through the field beyond the gin, Just as the stars are going in, See Santa Claus departing, — grieving, — His own dear Land of Cotton leaving. His work is done, — he fain would rest, Where people know and love him best ; He pauses, — listens, — looks about, — - But go he must : his pass is out ; So, coughing down the rising tears, He climbs the fence and disappears. And thus observes a coloured youth, (The common sentiment, in sooth,) u O, what a blessin' 'tw'u'd ha' been, Ef Santy had been born a twin ! We'd hab two Chrismuses a } T eah, Or p'r'aps one brudder'd settle heah ! " THE HEST BANJO. Irwin Russell. Go'way, fiddle ! — folks is tired o' hearin' you a-sqiiawkin' : Keep silence fur yo' betters, — don't yo' heah de banjo talkin'? About de 'possum's tail she's goin to lecter. — ladies, listen! — About de ha'r what isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin'. "Par's gwine to be a oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn, — Fur Noah took de Herald, an* he read de ribber column, — An' so he sot his hands to work a-clarin* timber-patches, An' low'd he's gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah Natchez. 01' Noah kep' a-nailin', an' a-chippin', an' a-sawin' ; An' all de wicked neighbours kep' a-laughin, an' a-pshawin' ; 454 CHOICE READINGS. But Noah didn't min' 'em, — knowin' what wuz gwine to happen : An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-droppin'. Now, Noah had done catch'd a lot ob eb'ry sort o' beas'es, Ob all de shows a-trabbelin, it beat 'em all to pieces ! He had a Morgan colt, an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle, — An' drew 'em board de ark as soon's he heer'd de thunder rattle. Den sech anoder fall ob rain ! — it come so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drownded out, 'cep' Noah an' de critters, An' men he'd hired to work de boat, — an' one to mix de bitters. De ark she kep' a-sailin', an' a-sailin', an' a-sailin' ; De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin', — De sarpints hiss'd, — de painters yell'd. — tell, what wid all de fussin', You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' roun an' cussin'. Now, Ham, de only nigger what was runnin' on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket; >An' so, for to amuse he-se'f, he steam'd some wood an' bent it, An' soon he had a banjo made, — de fust dat wuz invented. He wet de ledder, stretch'd it on ; made bridge, an' screws, an' apron ; An' fitted in a proper neck, — 'twas berry long an' tap'rin' ; He tuk some tin, and twisted him a thimble for to ring it ; An' den de mighty question riz, Plow wuz he gwine to string it? De possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a singin' ; De ha'rs so long, an' thick an' strong, — des fit for banjo-stringiir ; Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces ; An' sorted ob 'em by de size, frum little E's to basses. He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, — 'twuz " Nebber min' de wedder " ; She sonn' like forty-lebben bands a-playing' all togedder ; Some went to pattin* ; some to dancin'; Noah call'd de figgers; An Ham he sot an' knock'd de tune, de happiest ob niggers ! Now, sence dat time, — it's mighty strange, — dere's not de slightes' showin' Ob any ha'r at all upon de possum's tail a-growin' ; An' curis, too, — dat nigger's wa}^s ! his people nebber los' 'em, — For whar you finds de nigger, — dar's de banjo an' de 'possum. uncle dan'l's apparition. 455 UNCLE DAN'L'S APPAKITION. Clemens and Warner. Whatever the lagging, dragging journey from Tennessee to Missouri may hare been to the rest of the emigrants, it was a wonder and delight to the children, a world of enchant- ment ; and they believed it to be peopled with the mysterious dwarfs and giants and goblins that figured in the tales the negro slaves were in the habit of telling them nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen fire. At the end of nearly a week of travel, the party went into camp near a shabby village which was caving, house by house, into the hungry Mississippi. The river astonished the children beyond measure. Its mile-breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight, and the vague riband of trees on the further shore, the verge of a continent which surely none but they had ever seen before. ;i Uncle Dan'l," (coloured,) aged 40; his wife, ' w Aunt Jinny." aged 30 ; ;t Young Miss" Emily Hawkins, '- Young Mars" Washington Hawkins, and "Young Mars" Clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves on a log, after supper, and contemplated the marvellous river and discussed it. The Moon rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud-wreaths : the sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled light ; a deep silence pervaded the air, and was emphasized, at intervals, rather than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the muffled crash of a caving bank in the distance. The little company assembled on the log were all children, (at least in simplicity and broad and comprehensive igno- rance,) and the remarks the}* made about the river were in keeping with their character ; and so awed were they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before them, and by their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits, and that the faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings, that all their talk took to itself a tinge of the supernatural, 45G CHOICE READINGS. and their voices were subdued to a low and reverent tone. Suddenly Uncle Dan'l exclaimed : " Chil'en, dah's sumfin a-comin' !" All crowded close together, and every heart beat faster. Uncle Dan'l pointed down the river with his boiry finger. A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, away toward a wooded cape that jutted into the stream a mile distant. All in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot out from behind the cape, and sent a long, brilliant pathwa}' quivering athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and louder, the glar- ing eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder. A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away into the further darkness. Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river, and attended the monster like a torchlight procession. " What is it? O ! what is it, Uncle Dan'l ? " With deep solemnity the answer came : " It's de Almighty ! Git down on yo' knees ! " It was not necessary to saj- it twice. The}' were all kneel- ing in a moment. And then, while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and stronger, and the threatening glare reached further and wider, the negro's voice lifted up its supplica- tions : " O Lord, we's been mighty wicked, an' we knows dat we 'zerve to go to de bad place, but good Lord, cleah Lord, we ain't ready yit, we ain't ready, — let dese po' chil'en hab one mo' chance, jes' one mo' chance. Take de ole niggah if you's got to hab somebody. Good Lord, good deah Lord, we don't know whah you's a-gwine to, we don't know who you's got yo' eye on. but we knows by de way you's a-comin' , we knows by de way you's a-tiltin' along in yo' charyot o' fiah, dat some po' sinner's a-gwine to ketch it. But, good Lord, dese chil'en don't 'blong heah, dey's f'm Obedstown, whah dey don't know uuffin, an' you knows yo' own sef, dat dey ain't 'sponsible. uncle dan'l' s apparition. 457 An', deah Lord, good Lord, it ain't like yo' mercy, it ain't like yo' pity, it ain't like yo' long-sufferin' lovin' kindness, for to take dis kind o' 'vantage o' sich little chU'en as dese is, when dey's so many grown folks chuck full o' cussedness dat wants roastin' down dah. O Lord, spah de little chil'en, don't tar de little chil'en away f'm cley frens, jes' let 'em off, jes' dis once, and take it out'n de ole niggah. Heah I is, Lord, heah I is ! De ole niggah 's read}*, Lord, de ole — " The flaming; and churning steamer was rio'ht abreast the O o o party, and not twenty steps away. The awful thunder of a mud-valve suddenly burst forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan'l snatched a child under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack at his heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness and shouted, (but rather feebly,) kt Heah I is, Lord, heah I is !" There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise and comfort of the party, it was plain that the august presence had gone by, for its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan'l headed a cautious reconnoissance in the direction of the log. Sure enough " The Lord "was just turning a point a short distance up the river ; and, while they looked, the lights winked out, and the coughing diminished by degrees, and presently ceased altogether. "H'wsh! Well, now dey's some folks says dey ain't no 'ficiencj' in prah. Dis chile would like to know whah we'd a ben now if it warn't fo' dat prah? Dat's it. Dat's it !" " Uncle Dan'l, do you reckon it was the prayer that saved us ? " said Clay. k - Does I reckon? Don't I know it ! \Yhah was yo' eyes? AYarn't de Lord jes' a-comin' chow ! cJioiv ! chow ! an' a-goin' on tumble ; an' do de Lord carry on dat way 'dout dey's snmfin don't suit him? An' warn't he a-lookin' right at dis. gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a-reachin' for 'em? An' d' you spec' he gwine to let 'em off 'dout somebody ast him to do it? No indeedy ! " t; Do you reckon he saw us. Uncle Dan'l?" 458 CHOICE READINGS. " De law sakes, chile, didn't I see him a-lookin' at us?" -' Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'l? " " No sail ! When a man is 'gaged in prah, he ain't 'fraid o' nuffin, — de}* can't nuffin tech him." •' Well, what did you run for? " "Well, I — I — Mars Clay, when a man is under de in- fluence ob cle sperit, he clunno what he's 'bout, — no sah ; dat man dunno what he's 'bout. You mout take an' tali de head ofT'n dat man, an' he wouldn't scasely fine it out. Dah's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah ; dey was burnt considable, — ob course dey was; but dey didn't know nuffin 'bout it, — heal right up agin : if dey'd ben gals dey'd missed dey long haah, maybe, but dey wouldn't felt de bum." -•I don't know but what the} r ivere girls. I think they were." " Now, Mars Clay, you knows better'n dat. Sometimes a body can't tell whedder you's a-sayin' what you means or whedder you's a-sayin' what you dou't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same way." -' But how should / know whether they were boys or girls?" '-Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don't de good book say? 'Sides, don't it call 'em de iTe-brew chil'en? If dey was gals wouldn't cley be de she-brew chil'en ? Some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take no notice when de} T do read." "Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that — My! here comes another one up the river ! There can't be two ! " " We gone dis time, — we done gone dis time, sho' ! Dey ain't two, Mars Clay, — dat's de same one. De Lord kin 'pear eberywhah in a second. Goodness, how de fiah an' de smoke do belch up ! Dat mean business, hone}*. He comin' now like he fo'got sumfin. Come 'long, chil'en ; time you's gwine to roos'. Go 'long wid you, — ole Uncle Dan'l gwine out in de woods to rastle in prah, — de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to sabe you agin." He did go to the woods and pray ; but he went so far that he doubted, himself, if the -• Lord" heard him when he went by. CHARLIE MACHREE. 459 SCOTCH. OHAELIE MAOHEEE. William J. Hoppin. Come over, come over the river to me, If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree ! Here's Mary McPherson and Susy O'Linn,** Who say ye're faint-hearted, and dare not plunge in. But the dark rolling river, though deep as the sea, I know cannot scare you, nor keep you from me ; For stout is your back and strong is your arm, And the heart in 3-our bosom is faithful and warm. Come over, come over the river to me, If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree. I see him, I see him : he's plunged in the tide, His strong arms are dashing the big waves aside. O, the dark rolling water shoots swift as the sea, But blithe is the glance of his bonny blue e'e ; His cheeks are like roses, twa buds on a bough : Who says ye're faint-hearted, my brave laddie, now? Ho, ho, foaming river, ye may roar as ye go, But ye canna bear Charlie to the dark loch below ! Come over, come over the river to me. My true-hearted laddie, my Charlie Machree ! He's sinking, he's sinking, — O, what shall I do ! Strike out, Charlie, boldly, ten strokes and ye're thro'. He's sinking, O Heaven ! Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear ; I've a kiss for 3-e, Charlie, as soon as ye're here ! He rises, I see him, — five strokes, Charlie, mair, — He's shaking the wet from his bonny brown hair ; He conquers the current, he gains on the sea, — Ho, where is the swimmer like Charlie Machree ! 4 GO CHOICE READINGS. Come over the river, but once come to me, And I'll love ye forever, dear Charlie Machree. He's sinking, he's gone, — O God, it is I, • It is I, who have kill ' d him, — help, help ! — he must die. Help, help ! — ah, he rises, — strike out and ye're free. Ho, bravely clone, Charlie, once more now, for me ! Now cling to the rock, now give me 3-our hand, — Ye're safe, dearest Charlie, ye're safe on the land ! Come rest on my bosom, if there ye can sleep ; I canna speak to ye ; I only can weep. Ye've cross'd the wild river, ye've risk'd all for me, And I'll part frae ye never, dear Charlie Machree ! CUDDLE DOON. Alexander Anderson. The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' muckle faucht an' din. " O, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues ; Your father's comin' in." They never heed a word I speak : I try to gie a froon ; But a}-e I hap them up, an' cry, " O, bairnies, cuddle doon ! " Wee Jamie wi' the curley heid — He aye sleeps next the wa' — Bangs up an' cries, " I want a piece " — The rascal starts them a'. I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, — They stop a wee the soun', — Then draw the blankets up, and cry, " Noo, weanies, cuddle doon ! " But, ere five minutes gang, wee Rah Cries oot, frae 'neath the claes, JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 461 " Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance ; He's kittlin' wi' his taes." The mischief's in that Tam for tricks : He'd bother half the toon ; But aye I hap them up, and cry, " O, bairnies, cuddle doon ! " At length they hear their father's fit ; An', as he steeks the door, They turn their faces to the wa', While Tam pretends to snore. " Hae a' the weans been gude? " he asks, As he pits aff his shoon. " The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doou." An', just afore we bed oorsels, We look at oor wee lambs : Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tarn's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An', as I straik each croon, I whisper, till my heart fills up, " O, bairnies, cuddle doon ! " The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' mirth that's dear to me ; But soon the big warl's cark an care Will quaten doon their glee : Yet, come what will to ilka ane, May He who sits aboon A}-e whisper, though their pows be bauld, " O bairnies, cuddle doon ! " JOHN ANDEBSON, MY JO, Robert Burns. John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, 462 CHOICE READINGS. Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw : But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go ; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. >^c JEANIE MOKEISON. Wit.liam Motherwell. I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, Through mony a weary way ; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's } r oung day ! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears : They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. JEANIE MORRISON. 463 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part ; Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scnle, Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof , What our wee heads could think. When baith bent down ower ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Tlry lips were on thy lessons, but My lesson was in thee. O, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said, We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays, (The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran off to speel the braes, — The broom}' braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane b\ r ane the thochts rush back O' scule-time, and o' thee. O mornin' life ! mornin' luve ! O lichtsome da\ T s and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang ! O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin', diusome touu. 464 CHOICE READINGS. To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon ? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet : The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we, with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies ; And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled down your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Uns3'llabled, — unsung ! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest throchts As ye hae been to me : O, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine ! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, I've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot : MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL. 4Gi The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young I've never seen your face nor heard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd O' bygane days and me ! SPANISH. MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL. Near the city of Sevilla, Years and years ago, Dwelt a lady in a villa Years and years ago ; And her hair was black as night, And her eyes were starry bright ; Olives on her brow were blooming, Roses red her lips perfuming, And her step was light and airy As the tripping of a fairy : When she spoke, you thought, each minute, 'Twas the trilling of a linnet ; When she sang, you heard a gush Of full-voiced sweetness like a thrush; And she struck from the guitar Ringing music, sweeter far Than the morning breezes make Through the lime trees when they shake, — Than the ocean murmuring o'er 466 CHOICE READINGS. Pebbles on the foamy shore. Orphan'd both of sire and mother, Dwelt she in that lonely villa ; Absent now her guardian brother On a mission from Sevilla. Skills it little now the telling How I woo'd that maiden fair, Track' d her to her lonely dwelling, And obtain'd an entrance there. Ah ! that lady of the villa, — And I loved her so, Near the city of Sevilla, Years and years ago. Ay de mi ! — Like echoes falling Sweet and sad and low, Voices come at night, recalling Years and years ago. 'Twas an autumn eve ; the splendour Of the day was gone, And the twilight, soft and tender, Stole so gently on That the eye could scarce discover How the shadows, spreading over, Like a vale of silver gray, Toned the golden clouds, sun-painted, Till they paled, and paled, and fainted From the face of heaven away : And a dim light, rising slowly, O'er the welkin spread, Till the blue sky, calm and holy, Gleam'd above our head ; And the thin Moon, newly nascent, Shone in glory meek and sweet, As Murillo paints her crescent Underneath Madonna's feet. And we sat outside the villa MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL. 467 Where the waters flow Down to the city of Sevilla, — Years and years ago. Seated half within a bower, Where the languid evening breeze Shook out odours in a shower From oranges and citron-trees, Sang she from a romancero, How a Moorish chieftain bold Fought a Spanish caballero By Sevilla's walls of old ; How they battled for a lad} T , Fairest of the maids of Spain, — How the Christian's lance, so stead}', Pierced the Moslem through the brain. Then she ceased : her black eyes, moving, Flash'd, as ask'd she with a smile, — " Say, are maids as fair and loving, — Men as faithful, in your isle ? " " British maids," I said, " are ever Counted fairest of the fair ; Like the swans on yonder river Moving with a stately air : Woo'd not quickly, won not lightly, But, when won, forever true ; Trial draws the bond more tightly, Time can ne'er the knot undo." " And the men ? " — " Ah ! dearest lady, Are — quien sabe ? who can say ? To make love they're ever ready, Where they can and where they may ; 468 CHOICE READINGS. Fix'd as waves, as breezes steady In a changeful April day. — Oomo brisas como rios, No se sabe, sabe DiosJ" 4 ' Are they faithful ? " — " Ah ! quien sabe f Who can answer that they are ? While we may we should be happy." Then I took up her guitar, And I sang, in sportive strain, This song to an old air of Spain : Quien Sabe. u The breeze of the evening that cools the hot air, That kisses the orange and shakes out thy hair, Is its freshness less welcome, less sweet its perfume, That you know not the region from which it is come ? Whence the wind blows, where the wind goes, Hither and thither and whither — who knows ? Who knows? Hither and thither, ■ — but whither — who knows ? The river forever glides singing along, The rose on the bank bends down to its song ; And the flower, as it listens, unconsciously dips, Till the rising wave glistens and kisses its lips : But why the wave rises and kisses the rose, And why the rose stoops for those kisses — who knows ? Who knows ? And away flows the river, — but whither — who knows ? Let me be the breeze, love, that wanders along, The river that ever rejoices in song ; Be thou to my fancy the orange in bloom, The rose by the river that gives its perfume. Would the fruit be so golden, so fragrant the rose, If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them ? Who knows ? MAGDALENA, OK THE SPANISH DUEL. 469 Who knows? If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them ? Who knows? " As I sang, the lady listen'd, Silent save one gentle sigh : When I ceased, a tear-drop glisten'd On the dark fringe of her eye. Up I sprang. What words were utter'd Bootless now to think or tell, — Tongues speak wild when hearts are flutter'd By the mighty master-spell. " Magdalena, dearest, hear me," Sigh'd I, as I seized her hand ; — " Hola ! Senior," very near me, Cries a voice of stern command. And a stalwart caballero Comes upon me with a stride, On his head a slouch'd sombrero, A toledo by his side. " Will your Worship have the goodness To release that lady's hand ? " — " Senior," I replied, " this rudeness I am not prepared to stand." Then the Spanish caballero Bow'd with haughty courtesy, Solemn as a tragic hero, And announced himself to me : " Senior, I am Don Camillo Guzman Miguel Pedrillo De Xymenes y Ribera Y Santallos y Herrera Y de Rivas y Mendoza Y Quintana y de Rosa Y Zorilla y " — li No more, sir ; 470 CHOICE READINGS. 'Tis as good as twenty score, sir," Said I to him, with a frown : " Mucha bulla para nada, No palabras, draw your 'spada ; If 3'ou're up for a duello You will find I'm just your fellow, — Senior, I am Peter Brown ! " By the river's bank that night, Foot to foot in strife, Fought we in the dubious light A fight of death or life. Don Camillo slash'd my shoulder ; With the pain I grew the bolder, Close and closer still I press'd : Fortune favour'd me at last ; I broke his guard, my weapon pass'd^. Through the caballero's breast : The man of many names went down, Pierced by the sword of Peter Brown ! Kneeling down, I raised his head : The caballero faintly said, " Senior Ingles, fly from Spain With all speed, for you have slain A Spanish noble, Don Camillo Guzman Miguel Pedrillo De Xymenes y Ribera Y Santallos y Herrera Y de Rivas y Mendoza Y Quintana y de Rosa Y Zorilla y " — He swoon'd With the bleeding from his wound. If he be living still, or dead, I never knew, I ne'er shall know. That night from Spain in haste I tied, Years and years ago. THE BELLS. 471 XI. IMITATIVE METRICAL. THE BELLS. Edgar A. Poe. Hear the sledges with the bells, — silver bells ; What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night ! While the stars, that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, — From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding-bells, — golden bells ! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight ! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon ! O, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! how it dwells 472 CHOICE READINGS. On the Future ! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, — To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! Hear the loud alarum bells, — brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright ! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamourous appealing to the mere}* of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavour, Now — now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced Moon. O, the bells, bells, bells ! What a tale their terror tells Of despair ! How they clang, and clash, and roar ! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air ! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging and the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows ; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling and the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, - Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, — * In the clamour and the clangour of the bells ! Hear the tolling of the bells, — iron bells ! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! BUGLE SONG. 473 In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone ! For eveiy sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people, — ah, the people, — The} r that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone ! The}* are neither man nor woman, — They are neither brute nor human, — They are Ghouls : And their king it is who tolls ; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, A paean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells With the psean of the bells ! And he dances and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tolling of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, — To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. BUGLE SONG. Alfred Tennyson. The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story ; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying : Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 474 CHOICE READINGS. O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, further going ; O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replaying : Blow, bugle ; answer echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky. The}' faint on hill or field or river : Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer echoes, answer, dying, d}ing, dying. D^S^OC THE CHAKCOAL MAN. J. T. Trowbridge. Though rudely blows the wintry blast, And sifting snows fall white and fast, Mark Haley drives along the street, Perch'd high upon his wagon seat : His sombre face the storm defies, And thus from morn till eve he cries, — "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'!" THE CHARCOAL MAN. 475 And 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 labours 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 ; And, while his hand, wash'd 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, "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 honour'cl 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'!" 476 CHOICE READINGS. While mocking echo still replies, — "Hark, 0! hark, O!" " Charco' ! " — " Hark, O ! " — Long may the sounds Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds ! CKEEDS OF THE BELLS. George W. Bungay. How sweet the chime of Sabbath bells ! Each one its creed in music tells, In tones that float upon the air, As soft as song, and pure as prayer ; And I will put in simple rhyme The language of the golden chime : My happy heart with rapture swells Eesponsive to the bells — sweet bells. " In deeds of love excel — excel," Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; " This is the Church not built on sands, Emblem of one not built with hands : Its forms and sacred rites revere ; Come worship here — come worship here ; Its rituals and faith excel — excel," Chimed out th' Episcopalian bell. " O, heed the ancient landmarks well," In solemn tones exclaim'd a bell ; " No progress made by mortal man Can change the just, eternal plan : With God there can be nothing new ; Ignore the false, embrace the true While all is well — is well — is well," Peal'd out the good old Dutch Church bell. " O swell, ye purifying waters, swell," In mellow tones rang out a bell ; CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 477 " Though faith alone in Christ can save, Man must be plunged beneath the wave. To show the world unfaltering faith In what the sacred Scripture saith : O swell, ye rising waters, swell." Peal'd out the clear-toned Baptist hell. " Not faith alone, but works as well, Must test the soul," said a soft bell ; " Come here, and cast aside your load, And work your way along the road, With faith in God. and faith in man, And hope in Christ, where hope began : Do well — do well — do well — do well," Peal'd forth the Unitarian bell. ' ; Farewell! farewell! base world, farewell," In gloomy tones exclaim 'd a bell ; " Life is a boon to mortals given, To fit the soul for bliss in Heaven : Do not invoke the avenging rod : Come here, and learn the way to God : Say to the world farewell — farewell ! " Peal'd out the Presbyterian bell. 1 ' In after life there is no Hell ! " In raptures rang a cheerful bell ; " Look up to Heaven this holy day, Where angels wait to lead the way ; There are no fires, no fiends, to blight The future life ; be just, do right : No Hell ! no Hell ! no Hell ! no Hell ! " Rang oat the Universalist bell. " To all the truth we tell — we tell," Shouted in ecstasies a bell ; " Come all ye weary wanderers, see ! Our Lord has made salvation free : 478 CHOICE READINGS. Repent ! believe ! have faith ! and then Be saved, and praise the Lord. Amen. Salvation's free we tell — we tell," Shouted the Methodistic bell. >>®