wmmm KHHK ■i i THBIh ■ MM MMHt tiHHRI i n ni iHUHIHIi HnBi mrt m WM iiliiil IHhih ©* * "On the earl's cheek, the flush of rag Pitch and Force, J O'er came the ashen hue of age; Lower. Fierce he broke forth: High. And darest thou then Rising. To beard the lion in his den, Higher, The Douglas in his hall? and And hop'st thou thence unscathed to go? Louder. No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, No ! Very high, Up draw-bridge: gfrooms, what, warder, ho! and Loud. Let the portcullis fall." " The elocutionist," say Murdock and Russell, '* draws his scale from feeling rather than from science or external rule. He cannot, like the musician, confine himself to a perfectly exact measurement of sound." Middle Pitch (conversational) is adapted to narra- tive, oratorical, instructive or descriptive styles of read- ing. Examples: "Patriotism." "Hamlet's Advice to the Players." Read " The Portrait " and study carefully the feelings of a man all alone reflecting " on the dead up stairs," and the pitch of voice will naturally lower, for the mind is governed by proper feeling. In hor- ror, despair, or deep solemnity, the pitch should be very low, and extracts of a supernatural style read in a low monotone or sameness of sound ; as, " I am thy father's spirit." Think well in reading, and intel- 36 TITCH. MODULATION OF VOICE. ligence will suggest that when a selection is gay or buoyant, or earnest and impassioned in character, the pitch should be naturally raised in accordance with the sentiment expressed. Read "Keenan's Charge" and "Phaidrick Crohoore." A low pitch cau be used with great force in anger or hatred. Example: "I hate him, for that he is a Chris- tian." Observe the pitch of voice in feebleness, or the extremes of pain and fear. It is high, but lacks force. Example: "Who says I forgot?" (See closing lines of "Young Greyhead.") Changes of Pitch. Modulation. — " Appropriate va- riety of pitch on the successive words or syllables is one of the most essential parts of good reading." " The voice should flow on through all the changes of pitch (unless there is an abrupt break in the ideas), just as a good road runs on over every varying hills and vales, without once losing its smooth continuity." A sameness of pitch is characteristic of school boy reading, and many old boys who have left school. Pitch should be changed fre- quently, otherwise the voice will lack modulation and become very monotonous. It should be lowered in parenthesis, contrast, or simile. Examples : " One summer afternoon — at that time those steamers sel- dom carried boats — smoke was seen ascending from be- low." Lower the voice one note at the first italicized word, continue to last italicized word, and read " smoke " and " afternoon " on the same key of voice. The object is to bring out the main thought. Examples: "Double- PITCH. MODULATION OF VOICE. 37 dick," said the captain, " do you know where you are go- ing to? " " I did not know, she said in a faint voice, her lips quivering zvith emotion, I did not know, till now, how hard it would be to leave my child." " Hold, as Hivere, the mirror up to nature." "Suit the action to the -word, the word to the action," In the following examples the de- pression of pitch is more marked, and the change par- takes of feeling: "And the star was shining; and it shines upon his graved " She turned her beaming eyes upon him — and it -was night." " Every man, woman and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to its God." Practice the " Pilot," and apply the principles of this lesson and tbe preceding exercises. The " Pilot " embraces many changes of pitch, force and quality. In changing pitch be careful not to make the contrast too marked, or the effect will be destroyed. There are many public speakers who mar the beauty of their delivery by a failure to modulate the voice prop- erly on the final words of a sentence, when a completion of sense is indicated. The voice should drop in pitch one tone at a time on the last three syllables of a sen- tence, complete in sense. If the selection is effusive or gentle in nature, the voice should move smoothly and gradually from one tone to another. Example : " I love it, I love it, and who shall dare To chide me for loving- that old arm chair." In the above example and similar exercises, use the speaking voice in its purity and smoothness, and avoid 38 PITCH. MODULATION OF VOICE. a "sing song" cadence — a fault with many speakers. In strong feeling the decline of pitch, or fall of the voice, on the last three syllables of a sentence is more abrupt — not so gradual in sound as in effusive reading; and in ordinary reading the voice is dropped on each final syllable very slightly. Select "Rosary of my Years" for practice in smooth cadence. Read "Ex- amples for Ireland," and give Meagher's fine rhetorical words strength and spirit, by a well modulated cadence. The appended example from the work of Dr. Rush, will convey an idea of the frequent changes of pitch on unemphatic words and syllables. It is arranged to correspond with the musical notes of the doctor's illus- tration. " No more than two or three consecutive syllables should be given on the same tone. Natural melody demands that this frequent change of pitch on the unemphatic syllables should be only one tone at a time." Greeks most ful "That quarter | the | skil Where trees the [ walls you fi°: join of wild Troy. INFLECTIONS An inflection is a turn of the voice either upward or downward; — a change of pitch on a word or sound. In positive emphatic expression the falling inflection is used. The rising inflection expresses negative, in- complete thought. See appended Rules. The pitch of voice falls quite low on very positive or emphatic words, and for ordinary purposes of speech the downward turn is not so marked. The rising inflec- tion is moderately high in certain emotions, and rises higher when the feeling grows stronger. It may seem a repetition, but it cannot be too strongly emphasized that rules of art in reading or speaking are rules of nature, and the only true way to give words their proper inflec- tions is to fully understand and appreciate their mean- ing. If children were taught to read with thought the little boy would not ignore natural inflections and pauses, and say, " My name is Norval on the Grampian Hills," leaving his auditors to imagine that he had another name on the lowlands. If any difficulty is experienced in thinking, the rules, it is hoped, will help the pupil to think. Inflections of voice indicate 40 INFLECTIONS. character, and the following illustration may be of some interest. In the "dark days" of the war, when Gen. Price threatened a Missouri town, several hundred of its citizens assembled together and discussed measures for protection and defense. The speeches made on that occasion were passive or negative in character, and many present, who did not speak, looked a "rising inflection." But one man finally rose and said, " Gentlemen, there is only one course for brave men to pursue, one conclusion to reach, and that is to fight' ! " The power of that falling inflection cannot be expressed in words. It gave a heart and purpose to the meeting. The follow- ing selected rules can be studied with profit : Rule I. Direct questions usually require the rising inflection and their answers the falling; as, Have you read Dickens' works' ? Yes'. Note 1. Indifferent answers to questions take the rising inflection; as, "What did John say r ?" "Not much'." Note 2. When the first verb is emphasized and an affirmative reply is expected, the question requires the falling inflection; as, Is this true'. Is it right'. Note 3. When a direct question is not understood, and repeated with emphasis, it takes the falling inflec- tion; as, Are you going home'? I said are you going home' ? Rule II. Expressions of strong feeling such as positiveness, determination, authority, anger, exclama- tion, etc., require the falling inflection; as, I defy' the honorable gentleman. I'd rather be a dog\ and bay the moon v than such a Roman. Woe unto you Pharisees' ! INFLECTIONS. 41 Note. — When exclamatory sentences become questions they take the rising inflection; as, What are you say- ing'! Rule III. A series of unemphatic single words, cases of direct address and suspension of the sense, usually require the rising inflection; as, Peter', James' and John', come here. Friends', Romans', Countrymen', lend me your ears. If thine enemy hunger' — Note. — The falling inflection is used in a very re- spectful opening address, or in address on solemn occasions ; as, Mr. President, Ladies and Gentle- men'. Rule IV. The last member of an emphatic commenc- ing series, and the last but one of an emphatic conclud- ing series, usually require the rising inflection, and all others the falling; as, A good disposition', virtuous principles*, a liberal education*, and industrious habits', are passports to honor. These reward a good disposi- tion', virtuous principles', a liberal education', and industrious habits'. Note. — Readers who have a different conception of a selection do not always use the same inflections on a series of words; as, Friends', Romans', Countrymen'. Friends', Romans', Countrymen'. The change from the rising to the falling inflection on the word countrymen, gives the word a power, and is a strong appeal to the feelings of those addressed. The use of the inflections on a series of words is according to the importance of a word; the rising inflection makes it unimportant, and the falling important. Good taste and judgment will suggest the proper inflection. Rule V. Indirect questions take the falling inflec- tion, and their answers the same; as, What did you say' ? Nothing'. 42 INFLECTIONS. Note. — If the question is repeated it takes the rising inflection ; as, What did you say' ? Rule VI. The termination of thought, or comple- tion of sense at the close, or any other part of a sen- tence, requires the falling inflection; but when strong emphasis comes with the falling inflection near the close of a sentence, the rising inflection is generally used; as, Every human being has an idea of duty*; and to un- fold this idea is the end for which life was given him\ What night is this' ? A very pleasing night to hones? men'. Rule VII. When negation is opposed to affirmation the former takes the rising, and the latter the falling inflection; as, I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him'. This rule applies to comparison and contrast; as, Homer was the greater genius', Virgil the better artist'. Rule VIII. Questions, words and clauses, connected by the disjunctive or, usually require the rising inflec- tion before and the falling after it; though when or is used conjunctively it takes the rising inflection after as well as before it; as, Does he deserve praise' or blame' ? Can youth', or health', or pleasure' satisfy the soul' ? Rule IX. The language of concession, entreaty, politeness and tender emotions generally require the rising inflection; as, Your remark is true'; the manners of the country have not all the desirable ease and free- dom'. John', John', do not do so'. Rule X. The rising inflection is used in the express- ion of intense surprise and astonishment; as, Must I budge' ? I an itching palm' ? Seems, madam' ? Nay, it is; I know not seems. The following selection from " Othello " is a good example of the rising inflection. Give particular atten- INFLECTIONS. 48 tion to the negative or seemingly indifferent replies of Iago, and the effect produced on Othello by Iago's Inflections : Iago. My noble lord' — Othello. What dost thou say', Iago'? Iago. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady, know' of your love' ? Othello. He did', from first to last' : why dost thou ask' ? Iago. But for a satisfaction of my thought' : No further harm'. Othello. Why of thy thought', Iago'? Iago. I did not think he had been acquainted' with it. Othello. Oh' yes', and went between us very oft. Iago. Indeed'? Othello. Indeed'! aye, indeed'! Discern'st thou aught in that'? Is he not honest'? Iago. Honest', my lord'? Othello.- Aye honest'. Iago. My lord, for aught I know'. Othello. Whit dost thou think'? Iago. Think', my lord'? Othello. Think, my lord? By heaven, he echoas me, As if there were some monster in his thoughts Too hideous to be shown. The Waves of the Voice.— When sarcasm, irony, jest, ridicule, or double meaning is expressed, the inflections unite on a word or syllable, and this union is called a wave of the voice. When the voice waves, first down- ward, and then upward, it is called a rising wave, and is given to negative ideas; when it waves upward and downward, it is a falling wave, and is used for positive ideas. A study of the following examples, as applied to nature, and a substitution of original examples, will give a better understanding of the expression of irony or double meaning by the natural waves of the voice than an elaborate analysis, which would really confuse more 44 INFLECTIONS. than enlighten. Examples. — Falling wave: Talleyrand being pestered with questions by a squinting man, con- cerning his broken leg, replied, " It is quite crooked, as you 'seeV Hume said he would go twenty miles to hear Whitefield preach, but he would take no pains to hear an 'ordinary' preacher. Examples. — Rising wave : Queen. Hamlet, you have your father much offended. Hamlet. iVladam; y yoti' have my father much offended. Example. — Rising and falling : " If you said 'so', then 'soV " O 'ho* ! did you say 'so' ?" Practice the vowels with the different inflections, first rising then falling, then the rising and falling waves, This exercise will give the voice flexibility. EMPHASIS AND PAUSES, Emphasis means to point out, or bring out strongly, the sense of a word. When a word is emphasized the mind should dwell on the idea the word conveys, and the idea will reproduce itself in the minds of the auditors. When words are used in contrast, or point out a dif- ference, they are emphatic ; as, " I did not say a better soldier, but an elder. 1 " When there is a succession of im- portant words or phrases the words gradually increase in force; as, " I was born an American; I live an Ameri- can; I shall die an American." "But here I stand for right — for Roman right." All important words or phrases should be emphasized or brought out. It requires study and judgment to determine the proper emphatic word. Rules are of little avail. Boswell says Dr. Johnson criticised Garrick and Gifford, noted actors of their time, for incorrectly emphasizing certain words. They dis- puted Johnson's assertion, and the great lexicographer, gave them the ninth commandment, "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor," for a test ex- ample. They both tried and failed. Johnson gave the emphasis on not and false witness, and enjoyed his 46 EMPHASIS AXD PAUSES. victory. Legouve, gives the following very original illustration for bringing out the importance of words. " The subject is the " Oak and the Reed." You begin: The Oak— here your voice must be round and full. Your gesture must be noble and somewhat emphatic; you are describing a giant, you know, his head in the clouds, his feet in the regions of eternal death: '' The Oak, one day said to the reed." Remember! Hardly any voice at all in pronouncing the word reed. Let your intonation belittle him, squeeze him, crush him, the wretched vegetable. All this in a masterly way, Avith a low, smothered voice, as if you were looking down on him from a great distance." A clergyman once read the following passage from the Bible with the emphasis thus: "And the old man said unto his sons, saddle me the ass; and they saddled kirn." The effect of the emphasis on the word him can well be imagined. There are public speakers who give their words a sledge hammer blow, and then suddenly decrease in force, causing a very disagreeable shock to the ears. Force should be applied to an important word with a " temperance that will give it smoothness." Emphasis in speech is like coloring in painting. There must be a proper contrast or the effect will be lost. In an effusive reading, the increase and decrease of force on an em- phatic word must be smooth and gradual, that there may be a harmonious blending of vocal coloring. The voice should fall on an emphatic word, (see Inflections) and a EMPHASIS AND PAUSES. 47 slight pause made before it, which will excite expecta- tion, and after, to give the thought time to lodge in the minds of the people. PAUSES. " Every sentence has a double set of punctua- tion marks, one visible, the other invisible; one is the printer's, the other the reader's." In reading or speaking, a pause should be made, on an average, at every fifth or sixth word. Sometimes the sentiment or emotion will call for a prolonged pause at the close, or any part of a sentence. If the pause is emotional or made for effect, it must be given a certain power of expression. Sterne says in the "Critic:" "In suspend- ing his voice, — was the sense suspended? Did no ex- pression of attitude or countenance fill up the chasm ? Was the eye silent?" There is an unexpressed meaning in a pause; a picture is made that appeals to the heart; the people not only hear, — they see. The length of pauses depends upon the character of the reading. If the reading is unemotional they are moderate; if it embraces deep feeling, solemnity or grandeur, they are long, and in strong impassioned emotion, they are varied in length. In the following example observe the general pauses, and the effect of a prolonged pause on the word it. Use the imagination in picturing the "illustrious dead." The cultivation of the imagination is an important requisite in the art of reading. Example: "I would uncover the breathless corpse of Hamilton, - 1 would lift from his gaping wound his EMPHASIS AND PAUSES. bloody mantle -I would hold it up to heaven before them, and I would ask— in the name of God I would ask— whether at the sight of iT-they felt no compunc- tion." In " The Pilot," a pause after the line, " John May- nard stood at the helm," with appropriate expression and appreciation of the heroic character of the man will give great power to the mental picture. Study the effect of the pause, and let the face reflect the thought, at the close of the following lines from "Julius Caesar:" "My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, and I must pause till it come back to me." The student must use discrim- ination in pausing, or the effect will not be good. Kules may aid, but they cannot meet all requirements. The judgment may at times suggest a departure from some particular rule. Be careful not to pause too long. Kules fob Pausing.— Pauses should be made before— " 1. Infinitive phrases; as, He has gone | to convey the tier us. 2 Kelative pronouns; as, He laughs best | who laughs last. 3. Adjectives following their nouns; as, Dim minia- ture of greatness | absolute! 4. An elipsis or omitted word; as, So goes the world: if | wealthy, you may call this | friend, that | brother. 5. Prepositional phrases ; as, Never measure other people's corn | by your own bushel. 6. A word or words of strong emphasis ; as, The Union | must be preserved. EMPHASIS AND PAUSES. 49 Pauses should be made after — 1. Nominative phrases or compound nominatives; as All high poetry | is infinite. Joy and sorrow | move him not. 2. An emphatic word ; as, Strike | till the last armed foe expires. 3. Objective phrase; as, A word once spoken | a coach and six horses cannot bring it back." To prevent the too frequent recurrence of pauses the voice should be held or suspended on certain words without necessarily pausing. This is very important. Example: How shall we rank thee | upon glory's pagfe, Thou mora than soldier, and just less than sage ! All thou hast been{reflects less praise | on thee, Far less | than all thou hast forborne to be. The perpendicular lines represent the actual pauses in the above example, and the parallel the prolongation of sound. Select the " Pride of Battery B " and other readings for practice, and endeavor to apply the rules and prin- ciples of this lesson. RATE, GESTURE, ETC, In elocution the rate of utterance may be rapid, very rapid, slow, very slow and moderate. A rapid rate is used for animated or lively expression ; very rapid for excite- ment or alarm and commotion ; slow for contemplative and pathetic feeling; very slow for deep emotion, such as reverence or adoration, and the moderate rate for ordina- ry narrative or descriptive thought. ' ' The power of move- ment or rate may be observed in the difference between a school-boy gabbling through his task, in haste to get rid of it, and a great tragedian, whose whole soul is rapt in the part of Cato uttering the soliloquy on immortality, or Hamlet musing on the great themes of duty, life and death." There are some speakers who drawl their words, and give sentences that call for animated feeling, a dreary, gloomy expression ; and there are others who have very eloquent thought, but they utter their words so rapidly that many of their best points are lost, for the auditors are not given sufficient time to think with them. We were once approached by a young politician, who said he spoke too rapidly, and wanted to know how RATE, GESTURE, ETC. 51 to correct the habit. " Speak slowly," we answered. " A very simple remedy, thank you." Select " Drunkards not all Brutes," for a drill in mod- erate rate; "You put no flowers on my papa's grave," and " The Portrait," for slow rate, and "Money Musk" for very quick rate. Speak the lines, " I sprang to it, seizing it wildly," etc., in " Asleep at the Switch" very quickly and with great force. " Asleep at the Switch" and i; Phaidrick Crohoore" are good examples of quick and very quick rates of utterance. Selections of a de- votional or reverential character should be read very slowly. A reading may admit of many changes of rate. Select other readings for practice. The Guttural Quality of Voice. — The guttural is a rough, harsh tone, which seems to come from an obstructed throat. It expresses hate, rage, denuncia- tion, etc. This quality should not be used until the voice is on a sure foundation, and then very sparing- ly. It is generally used in personating character. Exam- ples, " 1 hate him for that he is a Christian." (" Merchant of Venice") " Avaunt and quit my sight ! Let the earth hide thee !" PERSONATION— EXPEESSION. In personating character the voice should change in pitch and sometimes in quality. The story of Richard Doubledick affords a good illustration. Doubledick speaks in a lower pitch than Captain Taunton, his voice trembles with feeling and his emotion at times chokes his 52 BATE, GESTUEE, ETC. utterance. A careful study of people and their peculiar- ities of voice and manner, is the only way to succeed in portraying character. It is a sympathy in common with the character, at least for the time being, that hides our own personalities and makes the delineation true to nature. The sentiment of Kichard Doubledick is very hard to analyze. It is a story of the heart that goes to the heart. When Doubledick says " God bless you" and " I will, and ask only for one witness," there is a feel- ing expressed that is beyond analysis. Feeling must be always under command. If a reader loses control over his emotions, instead of exciting tears or alarm, he will only provoke laughter. Prof. Hartley says : "A single tear glistening in the eye, or a natural tremor on one single word is worth a him Ired dry lines of artificial declamation." Bret Harte was once told that a well known public man cried when reading one of his de- lightful stories. "I cried, myself, when I wrote it," replied Bret Harte. It is of such material that artists are made. GESTUEE. Gesture is the physical expression of a thought. Gen- eral directions for grace of action are deemed a sufficient guide for the student of elocution — experience will do the rest. When the thought expressed is tranqui 1 , the action should be smooth, and the hands move in slightly curved lines, but the gesture must not show any evidmce of previous study. The mind should direct the hand and the thought put in the ringer ends. A lady said of a RATE, GESTURE, ETC- . 53 great tragedian : "I did not see his hands and feet." The actor " suited the action to the word, the word to the action." The auditors saw the object pointed ocit and not the hand that pointed out the object. Gesture should be made only when it is really necessary. We were at one time very profuse with gesticulation, but in our travels we left behind, in each town visited, many superfluous motions. Experience taught us that tco much physical action calls attenion from the subject to the speaker. Facial expression should always precede gesture, and when the purpose of the gesture is accom- plished, the hand should fall gracefully to the side. "Next to the voice in effectiveness," says Cicero, "is the countenance, and this is ruled over by the eyes." "When a man is possessed with his subject," saysBroadus, " and thoroughly subordinates all thought of self, his counten- ance will spontaneously assume every appropriate ex- pression." On appearing before an audience, a reader or speaker should not immediately commence his subject, but should let his eyes, for a moment, wander over the auditory and become familiar, as it were, with the people present. The carriage of the body must be easy and self-possessed, indicating confidence, but not egotism. Experience will do more than instruction in this particu- lar. A gr ace of manner and command of person always distinguishes the professional reader from the amateur. Make a slight, easy inclination of the head in bowing, and keep the eyes, with a pleased expression, on the audience. There is a charm in a bow, if made grace- 54 KATE, GESTURE, ETC. fully, that creates a very agreeable impression. Famil- iarity with polite society and refinement of feeling, con- tribute greatly to success in reading or speaking. Good breeding will reflect in manner and speech, and it is very easy to discern the gentleman in the speaker. SELECTIONS, HAMLET'S INSTRUCTION TO THE PLAYEES. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, — trippingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus : but use all gently ; for in the very tor- rent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your pas- sion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. Oh ! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, — to very rags, — to split the ears of the ground- lings ; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb show and noise, I woul^ have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant ; it out-herods Herod. Pray you, avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor ; suit the action to the word, the word to the action ; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature : for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature ; — to show virtue her own feature ; scorn her own image ; and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressura Now, this over- done or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, can not but make the judicious grieve ; the cen- 56 SELECTIONS. sure of which one must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh ! there be players, that I have seen play, — and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. — Shaksfeare. THE PILOT. John Maynard was well known in the lake district as a God-fearing, honest, and intelligent pilot. He was pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. One summer afternoon — at that time those steamers seldom carried boats — smoke was seen ascending from below, and the captain called out : " Simpson, go below and see what the matter is down there." Simpson came up with his face pale as ashes, and said, "Captain, the ship is on fire." Then " fire ! fire ! fire !" on shipboard. All hands were called up. Buckets of water were dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large quan- tities of rosin and tar on board, and it was found useless to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed for- ward and inquired of the pilot : " How far are we from Buffalo ?" " Seven miles." " How long before we can reach there ?" " Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam." " Is there any danger ?" "Danger, here — see the smoke bursting out — go for- ward if you would save your lives." SELECTIONS. 57 Passengers and crew — men, women and children — crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire ; clouds of smoke arose. The captain cried out through his trumpet : " John Maynard !" " Aye, aye, sir !" " Are you at the helm?" " Aye, aye, sir !" " How does she head?" " South-east by east, sir." " Head her south-east and run her on shore," said the captain. Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the shore. Again the captain cried out : " John Maynard !" The response came feebly this time, " Aye, aye, sir !" '* Can you hold on five minutes longer, John ?" he said. "By God's help, I will." The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp, one hand disabled, his knee upon the stanchion, and his teeth set, with his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship ; every ma a, woman and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to its God. — John B. Gough. THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK. In the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety- nine, a relative of mine came limping down, on foot, to this town of Chatham. I call it this town, because if anybody present knows to a nicety where Rochester ends and Chatham begins, it is more than I do. He was a poor traveler, with not a farthing in his pocket. He sat by the fire in this very room, and he slept one night in a bed that will be occupied to-night by some one here. 58 SELECTIONS. My relative came down to Chatham to enlist in a caval- ry regiment, if a cavalry regiment would have him ; if not, to take King George's shilling from any corporal or sergeant who would put a bunch of ribbons in his hat. His object was to get shot ; but he thought he might as well ride to death as be at the trouble of walking. My relative's Christian name was Richard, but he was better known as Dick. He dropped his own surname on the road coming down and took up that of Doubledick. He was passed as Richard Doubledick ; age, twenty-two ; height, five foot ten ; native place, Exmouth, which he had nev- er been near in his life. There was no cavalry in Chat- ham when he limped over the bridge here with half a shoe to his dusty foot, so he enlisted into a regiment of the line, and was glad to get drunk and forget all about it. You are to know that this relative of mine had gone wrong, and run wild. His heart was in the right place, but it was sealed up. He had been betrothed to a good and beautiful girl, whom he had loved better than she — or perhaps even he — believed ; but in . an evil hour he had given her cause to say to him solemnly, " Richard, I will never marry any other man, I will live single for your sake, but Mary Marshall's lips" — her name was Mary Marshall — " will never address another word to you on earth. Go, Richard ! Heaven forgive you !" This fin- ished him. This brought him down to Chatham. This made him Private Richard Doubledick, with a determi- nation to be shot. There was not a more dissipated and reckless soldier in Chatham barracks, in the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine than Private Richard Doubledick. He associated with the dregs of every regiment ; he was as seldom sober as he could be, and was constantly under punishment. It became clear to the whole barracks that Private Richard Doubledick would very soon be flogged. Now the captain of Richard SELECTIONS. 59 Doubleclick's company was a young gentleman not above five years his senior, whose eyes had an expression in them which affected Private Eichard Doubledick in a very remarkable way. They were bright, handsome, dark eyes,— what are called laughing eyes generally , and, when serious, rather steady than severe,— but they were the only eyes now left in his narrowed world that Private Eichard Doubledick could not stand. Unabashed by evil report and punishment, defiant of everything else and everybody else, he had but to know that those eyes looked at him for a moment, and he felt ashamed. He could not so much as salute Captain Taunton in the street like any other officer. He was reproached and con- fused, — troubled by the mere possibility of the captain's looking at him. In his worst moments, he would rather turn back, and go any distance out of his way, than en- counter those two handsome, dark, bright eyes. One day when Private Eichard Doubledick came out of the Black hole, where he had been passing the last eight-and-forty hours, and in which retreat he spent a good deal of his time, he was ordered to betake himself to Captain Taun- ton's quarters. In the stale and squalid state of a man 3ust out of the Black hole, he had less fancy than ever for being seen by the Captain ; but he was not so mad yet as to disobey orders, and consequently went up to the terrace over-looking the parade-ground, where the offi- cer's quarters were, twisting and breaking in his hands, as he went along, a bit of the straw that had formed the decorative furniture of the Black hole. "Come in !" cried the Captain, when he knocked with his knuckles at the door. Private Eichard Doubledick pulled off his cap, took a stride forward and felt very conscious that he stood in the light of the dark, bright eyes. There was a -silent pause. Private Eichard Doubledick had put the straw in his mouth, and was 60 SELECTIONS. gradually doubling it up into his windpipe and choking himself. " Doubledick," said the Captain, " do you know where you are going to ?" 4; To the Devil, sir ?" faltered Doubledick. " Yes," returned the Captain. " And very fast." Private Richard Doubledick turned the straw of the Black hole in his mouth, and made a miserable salute of acquiescence. " Doubledick," said the Captain, " since I entered his majesty's service, a boy of seventeen, I have been pained to see many men of promise going that road ; but I have never been so pained to see a man determined to make the shameful journey as I have been, ever since you joined the regiment, to see you." Private Richard Doubledick began to find a film steal- ing over the floor at which he looked ; also to find the legs of the Captain's breakfast table turning crooked, as if he saw them through water. " I am only a common soldier, sir," said he. " It signi- fies very little what such a poor brute comes to." " You are a man," returned the Captain, with grave in- dignation, " of education and superior advantages ; and if you say that, meaning what you say, you have sunk lower than I had believed. How low that must be, I leave you to consider, knowing what I know of your dis- grace, and seeing what I see." ik I hope to get shot soon, sir," said Private Richard Doubledick, " and than the regiment and the world to- gether will be rid of me." The legs of the table were becoming very crooked. Doubledick, looking up to steady his vision, met the eyes that had so strong an influence over him. He put his hand before his own eyes, and the breast of his disgrace- jacket swelled as if it would fly asunder. SELECTIONS. 61 "I would rather," said the young Captain, " see this in you, Doubledick, than I would see five thousand guineas counted out upon this table for a gift to my good mother- Have you a mother ?" ''lam thankful to say she is dead, sir." " If your praises," retarned the Captain, " were sound- ed from mouth to mouth through the whole regiment' through the whole army, through the whole country, you would wish she had lived to say, with pride and joy, ' He is my son !' " " Spare me, sir," said Doubledick. " She would never have heard any good of me. She would never have had any pride and joy in owning herself my mother. Love and compassion she might have had, and would have always had, I know ; but not — Spare me, sir ! I am a broken wretch, quite at your mercy !" And he turned his face to the wall and stretched out his imploring hand. " My friend — " began the Captain. " God bless you, sir !" sobbed Private Richard Double- dick. " You are at the crisis of your fate. Hold your course unchanged a little longer, and you know what must hap- pen. 1 know even better than you can imagine, that, after that has happened, you are lost. No man who could shed those tears could bear those marks." " I fully believe it, sir," in a low, shivering voice, said Private Richard Doubledick. " But a man in any station can do his duty," said the young Captain, ''and, in doing it, can earn his own respect, even if his case should be so very unfortunate and so very rare that he can earn no other man's. A common soldier, poor brute though you called him just now, has this advantage in the stormy times we live in, that he always does his duty before a host of sympathiz- ing witnesses. Do you doubt lhat he may so do it as to 62 SELECTIONS. be extolled through, a whole regiment, through a whole army, through a whole country ? Turn while you may yet retrieve the past, and try." " I will ! I ask for only one witness*, sir," cried Eich- ard, with a bursting heart. ' I understand you. I will be a watchful and faithful one." I have heard from Private Eichard Doubledick's own lips that he dropped down upon his knee, kissed that offi- cer's hand, arose, and went out of the light of the darL> bright eyes, an altered man. In that year, one thousand seven hundred and ninety- nine, the French were in Egypt, in Italy, in Germany* where not ? Napoleon Bonaparte had likewise begun to stir against us in Indie, and most men could read the signs of the great troubles that were coming on. In the very next year, when we formed an alliance with Aus- tria against him, Captain Taunton's regiment was on service in India. And there was not a finer non-commis- sioned officer in it— no, nor in the whole line, than Cor- poral Eichard Doubledick. In eighteen hundred and one, the Indian army were on the coast of Egypt. Next year was the year of the proclamation of the short peace, and they were recalled. It had then become well known to thousands of men, that wherever Captain Taunton, with the dark, bright eyes, led, there, close to him, ever at his side, firm as a rock, true as the sun, and brave as Mars, would be certain to be found, while life beat in their hearts, that famous soldier, Sergeant Eichard Doubledick. Eighteen hundred and five, beside? being the great year of Trafalgar, was a year of hard fighting in India. That year saw such wonders done by a Sergeant-Major, who cut his way single-handed through a solid mass of men, recovered the colors of his regiment, which had been seized from the hand of a roor SELECTIONS, f>3 boy shot through the heart, and rescued his wounded captain, who was down, and in a very jungle of horses' hoofs and sabres, — saw such wonders done, 1 say, by this brave Sergeant-Ma jor, that he was specially made the bearer of the colors he had won ; and Ensign Richard Doubledick had risen from the ranks. Sorely cut up. in every battle, but always reinforced by the bravest of men, — for the fame of following the old colors, shot through and through, which Ensign Richard Double- dick had saved, inspired all breasts, — this regiment fought its way through the Peninsular war, up to the investment of Badajos in eighteen hundred and twelve. Again and again it had been cheered through the British ranks until the tears had sprung into men's eyes at the mere hearing of the mighty British voice so exultant in their valor; and there was not a drummer-boy but knew the legend, that wherever the two friends, Major Taunton, with the dark, bright eyes, and Ensign Richard Double- dick, who was devoted to him, were seen to go, there the boldest spirits in the English army became wild to fol- low. One day, at Badajos, — not in the great storming, but in repelling a hot sally of the besieged upon our men at work in the trenches, who had given way, — the two officers found themselves hurrying forward, face to face, against a party of French infantry, who made a stand. There was an officer at their head, encouraging his men,— a courageous, handsome, gallant officer of five- and-thirty, whom Doubledick saw hurriedly, almost momentarily, but saw well. He particularly noticed this officer waving his sword, and rallying his men with an eager and excited cry, when they fired in obedience to his gesture, and Major Taunton dropped. It was over in ten minutes more, and Doubledick returned to the spot where he had laid the best friend man ever had., on a coat spread upon the wet clay. Major Taunton's uniform 64 SELECTIONS. was opened at the breast, and on his shirt were three little spots of blood. " Dear Doubledick," said he, " I am dying." " For the love of Heaven, no !" exclaimed the other, kneeling down beside him and passing his arm around his neck to raise his head. " Taunton ! My preserver, my guardian angel, my witness ! Dearest, truest, kind- est of human beings ! Taunton ! For God's sake !" The bright, dark eyes — so very, very dark now, in the pale face — smiled upon him ; and the hand he had kissed thirteen years ago laid itself fondly on his breast. " Write to my mother. You will see home again. Tell her how we became friends. It will comfort her, as it comforts me.' 1 He spoke no more, but faintly signed for a moment towards his hair as it fluttered in the wind. The Ensign understood him. He smiled again when he saw that, and, gently turning his face over on the supporting arm as if for rest, died, with his hand upon the breast in which he had revived a soul. No dry eye looked on Ensign Richard Doubledick that melancholy day. He buried his friend on the field, and became a lone, be- reaved man. Beyond his duty he appeared to have but two remaining cares in life, — one, to preserve the little packet of hair he was to give to Taunton's mother ; the other, to encounter that French officer who had rallied the men under whose fire Taunton fell. A new legend now began to circulate among our troops ; and it was that when he and the French officer came face to face once more, there would be weeping in France. SELECTIONS. 65 THE BLACK EEGIMENT. Port Hudson, May 27, 1863. Dark as the clouds of even, Kanked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land ; — So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event Stands the black regiment. Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eye-balls shine ; And the bright bayonet, Bristling, and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come — Told them what work was sent For the black regiment. " Now," the flag-sergeant cried, " Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be free In this land ; or bound Down like the whining hound, — Bound with red stripes of pain In our cold chains again !" Oh ! what a shout there went From the black regiment ! 06 SELECTIONS. " Charge !" Trump and drum awoke \ Onward the bondmen broke : Bayonet and sabre stroke Vainly opposed their rush, Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the gun's mouths they laugh ; Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course ; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel, — All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment. " Freedom !" their battle-cry,— " Freedom ! or leave to die !" Ah ! and they meant the word, Not as with us 'tis heard, Not a mere party shout : They gave their spirits out ; Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood, Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe ; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death. Praying — alas ! in vain ! — That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty ! This was what freedom lent To the black regiment. SELECTIONS. 67 Hundreds on hundreds fell ; But they are resting well ; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. Oh, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true ! Hail them as comrades tried ; Fight with them side by side ; Never in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment. — George H. Boher. THE TELL TALE HEAET. Teue ! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why -will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed— not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily — how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye ! yes, it was this ! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so, by degrees — very gradually — I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever. Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen 68 SELECTIONS. know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight — with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it — oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head. I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly — very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! — would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously — oh, so cautiously— cautiously (for the hinges creaked) — I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights — every night just at midnight--but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquir- ing how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautions in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night, had I felt the extent of my own powers — of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of SELECTIONS. .69 triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed sud- denly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had mv head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out — "Who's there." I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the mean time I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; — just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief — oh, no ! — it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged, with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. 1 knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself — "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney — it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "it is merely a 70 SELECTIONS. cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him, had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel — although he neither saw nor heard — to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time, very patiently, with- out hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little — a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily— until, at length, a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye. It was open — wide, wide open — and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses ? — now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Mean- time the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! — do you mark me well ? I have told you that I am nervous : so I SELECTIONS. 71 am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come ! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. As length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the con- cealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye — not even his— could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out— no stain of any kind — no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all — ha! ha! When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock— still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, — for what had I SELECTIONS. now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused: informa- tion had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled, — for -what had I to fear? I bade the gentle- men welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search — search well. I led them, at length, to hh chamber, I showed them his treasures, secure, undis- turbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: — it continued and became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling : but it continued and gained definitiveness— until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale; — but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do ? It was a low, dull, quick sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath— and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly — more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent SELECTIONS, 73 gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why ■would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the obser- vations of the men — but the noise steadily increased. Oh God ! what could I do ? I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no! They heard! — they suspected! — they knew !— they were making a mockery of my horror ! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony ! Anything was more tolerable than this derision ! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again! hark! louder! louder! louder! louder ! — "Villians!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed. — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!" — E. A, Pot. DBUNKABDS NOT ALL BEUTES. I said when I began, that I was a trophy of this move- ment, and therefore the principal part of my work has been (not ignoring other parts, ) in behalf of those who have suffered as I have suffered. You know there is a great deal said about the reckless victims of this foe being " brutes." No, they are not brutes. I have labored for about eighteen years among them, and I never have found a brute. I have had men swear at me ; I have had a man dance around me as if possessed of a devil, and spit his foam in my face ; but he is not a 74 SELECTIONS. brute. I think it is Charles Dickens who says: "Away up a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door, and on that door is written, " woman.' " And so in the heart of the vile outcast, away up a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door on which is written " man." Here is our business to find that door. It may take time ; but begin and knock. Don't get tired ; but remember God's long suffering for us and keep knocking a long time if need be. Don't get weary if there is no answer ; remember him whose locks were wet with dew. Knock on — just try it — you try it ; and just so sure as you do, just so sure, by and by, will the quivering lip and starting tear tell you have knocked at the heart of a man and not of a brute. It is because these poor wretches are men, and not brutes that we have hopes of them. They said " he is a brute — let him alone." I took him home with me and kept the "brute" fourteen days and nights, through his delirium ; and he nearly frightened Mary out of her wits, once, chasing her about the house with a boot in his hand. But she recovered her wits, and he recovered his. He said to me, "You wouldn't think I had a wife and child ?" " Well, I shouldn't." " I have, and —God bless her little heart — my little Mary is as pretty a little thing as ever stepped," said the " brute." I asked, " where do they live ?" " They live two miles away from here." " When did you see them last ?" "About two years ago." Then he told me his story. I said, "you must go back to your home again." " I mustn't go back — I won't — my wife is better without me than with me ! I will not go back any more ; I have knocked her and kicked her and abused her ; do you suppose I will go back again ?" I went to the house with him ; I knocked at the door and his wife opened it. "Is this Mrs. Eichardson?" "Yes, SELECTIONS. V sir." " Well, that is Mr. Richardson. And Mr. Rich- ardson, that is Mrs. Richardson. Now come into the house." They went in. The wife sat on one side of the room and the " brute" on the other. I waited to see who would speak first ; and it was the woman. But before she spoke she fidgeted a good deal . She pulled her apron till she got hold of the hem, and then she pulled it down again. Then she folded it up closely, and jerked it out through her fingers an inch at a time, and then she spread it all down again ; and then she looked all about the room and said, '' Well, William ?" And the "brute" said, "Well, Mary?" He had a large handker- chief round his neck, and she said, "You had better take the handkerchief off, William ; you'll need it when you go out." He began to fumble about it. The knot was large enough ; he could have untied it if he liked ; but he said, "Will you untie it, Mary?" and she worked away at it ; but her fingers were clumsy, and she couldn't get it off ; their eyes met, and the lovelight was not all quenched ; she opened her arms gently and he fell into them. If you had seen those white arms clasped about his neck, and he sobbing on her breast, and the child looking in wonder first at one and then at the other, you would have said "It is not a brute ; it is a man, with a great, big, warm heart in his breast." — John B. Gough. THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD. I'm thinking that to-night, if not before, There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chew ton roar ? It's brewing up, down westward ; and look there ! One of those sea gulls ! ay, there goes a pair ! And such a sudden thaw ! If rain comes on, 7 b SELECTIONS. As threats, the waters will be out anon. That path by the ford is a nasty bit of way : Best let the young ones bide from school to-day. The children join in this request ; but the mother resolves that they shall set out — the two girls, Lizzie and Jenny, the one five, the other seven. As the dame's will was law, so — One last fond kiss — 11 God bless my little maids," the father said, And cheerily went his way to win their bread. Prepared for their journey they depart, with the moth- er's admonition to the elder — " Now, mind and bring Jenny safe home," the mother said. " Don't stay To pull a bough or berry by the way ; And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast Your little sister's hand till your quite past ; That plank is so crazy and so slippery, If not overflowed, the stepping-stones will be : But you're good children— steady as old folk, I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzie's cloak ( A good gray duffle ) lovingly she tied, And amply little Jenny's lack supplied With her own warmest shawl. " Be sure," said she, " To wrap it round and knot it carefully, ( Like this ) when you come home — just leaving free One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away — Good will to school, and then good right to play." The mother watches them with foreboding, though she knows not why. In a little while the threatened storm sets in. Night comes, and with it comes the father from his daily toil. There's a treasure hidden in his hat — SELECTIONS. 77 A plaything for his young ones, he has found A dormouse nest ; the living ball coil'd round For its long winter sleep ; all his thought, As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, And graver Lizzie's quieter surprise, When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer, Hard won the frozen captive to their care. No little faces greet him as wont at the threshold ; and to his hurried question — " Are they come X " — t'was " No." To throw his tools down, hastily unhook The old crack'd lantern from its dusty nook, And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word, That almost choked him and was scarcely heard, Was but a moment's act, and he was gone To where a fearful foresight led him on. A neighbor goes with him, and the faithful dog follows the children's tracks. "Hold the light Low down : he's making for the water. Hark ! I know that whine ; the old dog's found them, Mark!' So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone ! And-all his dull, contracted light could show Was the black void, and dark, swollen stream below ; "Yet there's life somewhere — more than Tinker's, whine — That's sure," said Mark. " So, let the lantern shine Down yonder. There's the dog — and hark !" "Odear!" And a low sob come faintly on the ear, Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought 78 SELECTIONS. Into the stream leaped Ambrose, where he caught Fast hold of something, — a dark, huddled heap, — Half in the water where 'twas scarce knee deep For a tall man, and half above it, propped By some old ragged side-piles that had stop't Endways the broken plank when it gave way With the two little ones, that luckless day ! " My babes ! my lambkins !" was the father's cry. One little voice made answer, " Here am I." 'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouched, with face as white, More ghastly, by the flickering lantern light, Than sheeted corpse. The pale, blue lips drawn tight, Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, And eyes on some dark object underneath, Washed by the turbid waters, fix'd like stone — One arm and hand stretched out and rigid grown, Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock. There she lay, drown' d. They lifted her from out her watery bed ; — Its covering gone, the lovely little head Hung like a broken snow-drop, all aside, And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied, Leaving that free, about the child's small form, As was her last injunction — '' fast and warm." Too well obeyed — too fast ! A fatal hold Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold That caught and pinned her to the river's bed ; While, through the wreckless water overhead, Her life breath bubbled up. " She might have lived, Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived The wretched mother's heart when she heard all, " But for my foolishness about that shawl." " Who says I forgot ? Mother ! indeed, indeed I kept fast hold, SELECTIONS. 79 And tied the shawl quit close — she Can't be cold — But she won't move — we slept — I don't know how — But I held on, and I'm so weary now — And its so dark and cold ! Oh dear ! oh dear ! And she won't move — if father were but here !" All night long from side to side she turned, Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, With now and then the murmur, " She won't move.'' And io ! when morning, as in mockery bright Shone on that pillow — passing strange the sight, The young head's raven hair was streaked with white ! Mrs. Southey. BOUND TO HAVE IT. A Philadelphia book agent importuned James Watson, a rich and close New York man, living out at Elizabeth, until he bought a book — the "Early Christian Martyrs." Mr. Watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to get rid of the agent; then taking it under his arm, he started for the train which takes him to his New York office. '"> Mr. Watson hadn't been gone long before Mrs. Watson came home from a neighbqrs. The book agent saw her, and went in and persuaded the wife to buy another copy of the same book. She was ignorant of the fact that her husband had bought the same book in the morning. When Mr. Watson came back from New York at night, Mrs. Watson showed him the book. " I don't want to see it," said Watson, frowning terri- bly. "Why, husband?" asked his wife. SELECTIONS. " Because that rascally book agent sold me the same book this morning. Now we've got two copies of the same book — two copies of the ' Early Christian Martyrs,' and " "But, husband, we can " " No we can't, either," interrupted Mr. Watson. " The man is off on the train before this. Confound it! I could kill the fellow. I " "Why, there he goes to the depot, now," said Mrs. Watson, pointing out of the window at the retreating form of the book agent, who was making for the train. " But it's too late to catch him, and I'm not dressed. I've taken off my boots, and " Just then Mr. Stevens, a neighbor of Mr. Watson, drove by, when Watson pounded on the window-pane, in a frantic manner, almost frightening the horse. "Here, SteveDS," he shouted, "you're hitched up; won't you run your horse down to the train and hold that book agent till I come? Run! Catch 'im now!" "All right," said Mr. Stevens, whipping up his horse and tearing down the road. Mr. Stevens reached the train just as the conductor shouted " all aboard." "Book agent," he yelled, as the book agent stepped on to the train. "Book agent, hold on! Mr. Watson wants to see you." "Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzled book agent. " Oh, I know what he wants; he wants to buy one of my books; but I can't miss the train to sell it to him." "If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it back. How much is it ? " Two dollars for the Early Christian Martyrs," said the book agent, as he reached for the money and passed the book out through the car window. SELECTIONS. 81 Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, in his shirt-sleeves. As he saw the train pull out, he was too full for utterance. " Well, I got it for you," said Stevens, "just got it, and that's all " "Got what?" yelled Watson. " Why, I got the book— 'Early Christian Martyrs' " " By — the — great — guns J " moaned Watson, as he placed his hand to his brow, and swooned right in the middle of the street. REST. My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired— My soul oppressed; And with desire have I long desired Eest — only rest. 'Tis hard to toil, when toil is almost vain, In barren ways; 'Tis hard to sow, and never garner grain In harvest days. The burden of my days is hard to bear, But God knows best; And I have prayed — but vain has been my prayer- For rest — sweet rest. 'Tis hard to plant in spring, and never reap The autumn yield; 'Tis hard to till, and when 'tis tilled to weep O'er fruitless field. And so I cry, a weak and human cry, So heart oppressed; And so I sigh, a weak and human sigh, For rest — rest. S'Z SELECTIONS. My way has wound across the desert years, And cares infest My path; and through the flowing of hot tears I pine for rest. 'Twas always so; when still a child I laid On mother's breast My wearied little head, e'en then I prayed, As now, for rest. And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er, For, down the west, Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore Where I shall rest. Father Ryan. THE BENEDICTION. It was in eighteen hundred — yes — and nine, That we took Saragossa. What a day Of untold horrors ! I was Sergeant then, The city carried, we laid siege to houses, All shut up close, and with a treacherous look Raining down shots upon us from the windows. "'Tis the priest's doing!" was the word passed round; So that although since daybreak under arms — Our eyes with powder smarting, and our mouths Bitter with kissing cartridge ends — piff! paff! Rattled the musketry with ready aim, If shoveled hat and long black cloak were seen Flying in the distance. Up a narrow street My company worked on. I kept an eye On every house-top, right and left, and saw From many a roof flames suddenly burst forth, SELECTIONS. 83 Coloring the sky, as from the chimney tops Among the forges. Low our fellows stooped, Entering the low-pitched dens. When they came out, With bayonets dripping red, their bloody fingers Signed crosses on the wall; for we were bound In such a dangerous defile not to leave Foes lurking in our rear. There was no drum beat, No ordered march. Our officers looked grave; The rank and file uneasy, jogging elbows As do recruits when flinching. All at once, Rounding a corner, we are hailed in French With cries for help. At double-quick we join Our hard-pressed comrades. They were grenadiers, A gallant company, but beaten back Inglorious from the raised and flag-paved square Fronting a convent. Twenty stalwart monks Defend it — black demons with shaved crowns, The cross in white embroider'd on their frocks, Barefoot, their sleeves tucked up, their only weapons Enormous crucifixes, so well brandished, Our men went down before them. By platoons Firing, we swept the place; in fact, we slaughtered This terrible group of heroes, no more soul Being in us than in executioners. The foul deed done — deliberately done — And the thick smoke rolled away, we noted Under the huddled masses of the dead Rivulets of blood run trinkling down the steps; While in the background solemnly the church Loomed up, its doors wide open. We went in. It was a desert. Lighted tapers starred The inner gloom with points of gold. The incense Gave out its perfume. At the upper end, Turning to the altar as though unconcerned 84 SELECTIONS. In the fierce battle that had raged, a priest, White-haired and tall of stature, to a close Was bringing tranquilly the mass. So stamped Upon my memory is that thrilling scene That, as I speak, it comes before me now — The convent built in old time by the Moors ; The huge brown corpses of the monks; the sun Making the red blood on the pavement steam; And there, framed in by the low porch, the priest ; And there the altar brilliant as a shrine; And here ourselves, all halting, hesitating, Almost afraid. I, certes, in those days Was a confirmed blasphemer. r Tis on record That once, by way of sacrilegious joke, A chapel being sacked, I lit my pipe At a wax candle burning on the altar. This time, however, I was awed — so blanched Was that old man ! "Shoot him!" our Captain cried. Not a soul budged. The priest, beyond all doubt, Heard ; but as though he heard not. Turning round, He faced us, with the elevated Host, Having that period of the service reached When on the faithful benediction falls. His lifted arms seemed as the spread of wings; And as he raised the pyx, and in the air With it described the Cross, each man of us Fell back, aware the priest no more was trembling Than if before him the devout were ranged. But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice, The words came to us Vos benedicat Deus Omnipotens! SELECTIONS. 85 The Captain's order Rang out again sharply, " Shoot him down, Or I shall swear! " Then one of us, a dastard, Leveled his gun and fired . Upstanding still, The priest changed color, though with steadfast look Set upwards, and indomitably stern Pater et Filius! Came the words. What frenzy — What maddening thirst for blood, sent from our ranks Another shofc, I know not; but 'twas done. The monk with one hand on the altar's ledge Held himself up ; and strenous to complete His benediction, in the other raised The consecrated host. For the third time Tracing in air the symbol of forgiveness, With eyes closed, and in tones exceeding low, But in the general hush distinctly heard, Et Sanctus Sphitus! He said; and, ending His service, fell down dead. The golden pyx Rolled bounding on the floor. Then, as we stood, Even the old troopers, with our muskets grounded, And choking horror in our hearts, at sight Of such a shameless murder and at sight Of such a martyr, with a chuckling laugh, Amen! Drawled out a drummer boy. Macmillan's Magazine. 8G SELECTIONS. YOU PUT NO FLOWEES ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE. With sable-draped banners, and slow measured tread, The flower-laden ranks pass the gates of the dead ; And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests, Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom on his breast. Ended at last is the labor of love ; Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move — A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, Falls low on f he ear of the battle-scarred chief ; Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child Besought him in accents which grief rendered wild : " Oh ! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave — Why ! why ! did you pass by my dear papa's grave ? I know he was poor, but as kind and as true As ever marched into the battle with you — His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not ! For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. He didn't die lowly — he poured his heart's blood, In rich crimson streams from the top-crowning sod Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight — And died shouting ' Onward ! for God and the right !' O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, But you haven't put one on my papa's grave. If mamma were here — but she lies by his side, Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died." " Battalion I file left ! countermarch !" cried the chief." "This young orphan'd maid hath full cause for her grief." Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate The long line repasses, and many an eye Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. SELECTIONS, bV "This way, it is — here, sir — right under this tree ; They lie close together, with just room for me." «' Halt ! Cover with roses each lowly green mound — A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground.' : " Oh ! thank you, kind sir ! I ne'er can repay The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day ; But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, 'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma, too — I dreamed so last night and I know 'twill come true ; And they will both bless you, I know, when I say How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day — How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed it to rest, And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast; And when the kind angels shall call you to come, We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home, "Where death never comes, his black banners to wave, And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave." C. E. L. Holmes. PATRIOTISM. Bereft of patriotism, the heart of a nation will be cold and cramped and sordid ; the arts will have no enduring impulse, and commerce no invigorating soul ; society will degenerate, and the mean and vicious triumph. Patriot- ism is not a wild and glittering passion, but a glorious reality. The virtue that gave to Paganism its dazzlirg lustre, to Barbarism its redeeming trait, to Christianity its heroic form, is not dead. It still lives to console, to sanctify humanity. It has its altar in every clime — its worship and festivities. On the heathered hills of Scotland the sword of Wal- 88 SELECTIONS. lace is yet a bright tradition. The genius of France, in the brilliant literature of the day, pays its high homage to the piety and heroism of the young Maid of Orleans. In her new Senate-Hall, England bids her sculptor place, among the effigies of her greatest sons, the images of Hampden and of Eussell. In the gay and graceful capi- tal of Belgium, the daring hand of Geefs has reared a monument, full of glorious meaning, to the three hun- dred martyrs of the revolution. By the soft, blue waters of Lake Lucerne stands the chapel of William Tell. On the anniversary of his revolt and victory, across those waters, as they glitter in the July sun, skim the light boats of the allied cantons. From the prows hang the banners of the republic, and, as they near the sacred spot, the daughters of Lucerne chant the hymns of their old poetic land. Then bursts forth the glad Te Deum, and Heaven again hears the voice of that wild chivalry of the mountains which, five centuries since, pierced the white eagle of Vienna, and flung it bleeding on the rocks of Uri. At Innspruck, in the black aisle of the old cathedral, the peasant of the Tyrol kneels before the statue of An- dreas Hofer. In the defiles and valleys of the Tyrol, who forgets the day on which he fell within the walls of Mantua ? It is a festive day all through this quiet, noble land. In that old cathedral his inspiring memory is re- called amid the pageantries of the altar — his image appears in every house — his victories and virtues are proclaimed in the songs of the people — and when the sun goes down, a chain of fires, in the deep red light of which the the eagle spreads his wings and holds his gid- dy revelry, proclaims the glory of the chief, whose blood has made his native land a sainted spot in Europe. Shall not all join in this glorious worship? Shall not all have the faith, the duties, the festivities of patriotism? — T. F. Meagher. SELECTIONS. 89 EXAMPLES FOE IEELAND. Other nations, with abilities far less eminent than those which you possess, having great difficulties to en- counter, have obeyed with heroism the commandment from which you have swerved, maintaining that noble order of existence, through which even the poorest state becomes an instructive chapter in the great history of the world. Shame upon you ! Switzerland — without a colony, without a gun upon the seas, without a helping hand from any court in Europe — has held for centuries her footing on the Alps — spite of the avalanche, has bid her little territory sustain, in peace and plenty, the children to whom she has given birth — has trained those children up in the arts that contribute most to the security, the joy, the dignity of life — has taught them to depend upon themselves, and for their fortune to be thankful to no officious stranger — and, though a blood-red cloud is breaking over one of her brightest lakes, whatever plague it may portend, be assured of this — the cap of foreign despotism will never again gleam in the market-place of Altorff ! Shame upon you ! Norway — with her scanty popula- tion, scarce a million strong — has kept her flag upon the Oattegat — has reared a race of gallant soldiers to guard her frozen soil — year after year has nursed upon that soil a harvest to which the Swede can lay no claim — has saved her ancient laws — and to the spirit of her frank and hardy sons commits the freedom which she rescued from the allied swords, when they hacked her crown at Frederickstadt ! Shame upon you ! Greece — " whom Goth, nor Turk, nor Time hath spared not " — has flung the crescent from the Acropolis — has crowned a King in Athens whom she 90 SELECTIONS. calls her own — has taught you that a nation should never die — that not for an idle pageant has the blood of heroes flowed — that not to vex a school-boy's brain, nor smoulder in a heap of learned dust, has the fire of heav- en issued from the tribune's tongue ! Shame upon you ! Holland — with the ocean as her foe — from the swamp in which you would have sunk your graves, has bid the palace, and the warehouse costlier than the palace, rear their ponderous shapes above the waves that battle at their base — has outstripped the merchant of the Rialto — has threatened England in the Thames — has swept the channel with her broom — and, though for a day she reeled before the bayonets of Du- mouriez, she sprang to her feet again and struck the tri- color from her dykes ! And you — you, who are eight millions strong — you, who boast at every meeting that this island is the finest which the sun looks down upon — you, who have no threatening sea to stem, no avalanche to dread — you, who say that you could shield along your coast a thous- and sail, and be the princes of a mighty commerce — you, who by the magic of an honest hand, beneath each summer sky, might cull a plenteous harvest from your soil, and with your sickle strike away the scythe of death — you. who have no vulgar history to read — you, who can trace, from field to field, the evidences of civilization older than the Conquest — the relics of a religion far more ancient than the Gospel — you, who have thus been blessed, thus been gifted, thus been prompted to what is wise and generous and great — you will make no effort — you will whine, and beg, and skulk, in sores and rags, upon this favored land — you will congregate in drowsy councils, and then, when the very earth is loosening beneath your feet, you will bid a prosperous voyage to your last grain of corn — you will be beggared by the million — you will per- SELECTIONS. 91 ish by the thousand, and the finest island which the sun looks down upon, amid the jeers and hootings of the world, will blacken into a plague-spot, a wilderness, a sepulchre. — T. F. Meagher. MoLAINE'S CHILD. " McLaine ! you've scourged me like a hound ;- You should have struck me to the ground ; You should have played a chieftain's part ; You should have stabbed me to the heart. " You should have crushed me unto death ; — But here I swear with living breath, That for this wrong which you have done, I'll wreak my vengeance on your son, — " On him, and you, and all your race !" He said, and bounding from his place, He seized the child with sudden hold — A smiling infant, three years old — And starting like a hunted stag, He scaled the rock, he clomb the crag, And reached, o'er many a wide abyss, The beetling seaward precipice ; And leaning o'er its topmost ledge, He held the infant o'er the edge : — " In vain the wrath, thy sorrow vain ; No hand shall save it, proud McLaine !" With flashing eye and burning brow, The mother followed, heedless how, O'er crags with mosses overgrown, And stair-like juts of slippery stone. 92 SELECTIONS. But midway up the rugged steep, She found a chasm she could not leap, And kneeling on its brink, she raised Her supplicating hands and gazed. " O, spare my child, my joy, my pride ! O, give me back my child !" she cried : " My child ! my child !" with sobs and tears, She shrieked upon his callous ears. "Come, Evan," said the trembling chief, — His bosom wrung with pride and grief, — " Eestore the boy, give back my son, And I'll forgive the wrong you've done." " I scorn forgiveness, haughty man ! You've injured me before the clan ; And nought but blood shall wipe away The shame I have endured to-day." And as he spoke he raised the child, To dash it 'mid the breakers wild, Bat, at the mother's piercing cry, Drew back a step, and made reply : — " Fair lady, if your lord will strip, And let a clansman wield the whip, Till skin shall flay, and blood shall run, I'll give you back your little son." The lady's cheek grew pale with ire, The chieftain's eyes flashed sudden fire ; He drew a pistol from his breast, Took aim, — then dropped it, sore distressed. " I might have slain my babe instead. Come, Evan, come," the father said, And through his heart a tremor ran ; "We'll fight our quarrel man to man." SELLCTIONS. 93 " Wrong unavenged I've never borne," Said Evan, speaking loud in scorn ; " You've heard my answer, proud McLaine : I will not fight you, — think again." The lady stood in mute despair, With freezing blood and stiffening hair ; She moved no limb, she spoke no word ; — She could but look upon her lord. He saw the quivering of her eye, Pale lips and speechless agony, — And, doing battle with his pride, " Give back the boy, — I yield," he cried. A storm of passions shook his mind — Anger and shame and love combined ; But love prevailed, and bending low, He bared his shoulders to the blow. " I smite you," said the clansman true ; " Forgive me, chief, the deed I do ! For by yon Heaven that hears me speak, My dirk in Evan's heart shall reek !" But Evan's face beamed hate and joy ; Close to his breast he hugged the boy : " Kevenge is just, revenge is sweet, And mine, Lochbuy, shall be complete." Ere hand could stir, with sudden shock, He threw the infant o'er the rock, Then followed, with a desperate leap, Down fifty fathoms to the deep. They found their bodies in the tide ; And never till the day she died Was that sad mother known to smile — The Niobe of Mulla's isle. 94 SELECTIONS. They dragged false Evan from the sea, And hanged him on a gallows tree ; And ravens fattened on his brain, To sate the vengeance of McLaine. Charles Mackay. THE PORTRAIT Midnight past! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers; I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman up stairs. A night of tears! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet. Nobody with me my watch to keep But the friend of my bosom, the man I love r And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above. Nobody else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died. That good young priest is of gentle nerve. And my grief had moved him beyond control, For his lips grew white as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul. I sat by the dreary hearth alone ; I thought of the pleasant days of yore ; I said, " The staff of my life is gone, The woman I loved is no more. SELECTIONS. 95 On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, Which next to her heart she used to wear — Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there. " It is set all around with rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept ; For each ruby there my heart hath bled, For each pearl my eyes hath wept." And I said " The thing is precious to me ; They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay ; It lies on her heart and lost must be If I do not take it away." I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white. The moon shone over her winding sheet ; There stark she lay on her carven bed ; Seven burning tapers about her feet, And seven about her head. As I stretched my hand I held my breath ; I turned as I drew the curtains apart : I dared not look on the face of death: I knew where to find her heart. I thought at first as my touch fell there It had warmed that heart to life, with love ; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move. 'Twas the hand of a man that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead — from the other side, — And at once the sweat broke over my brow, " Who is robbing the corpse ?" I cried. 96 SELECTIONS. Opposite me, by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse and all as white, And neither of us moved. * What do you here my friend ?" The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead. " There is a portrait here/' he began : " There is. It is mine," I said. Said the friend of my bosom, ''Yours no doubt The portrait was, till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know." " This woman, she loved me well," said I. " A month ago" said my friend to me: " And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!" He answered, " Let us see." "Enough? let the dead decide ; And whosesoever the portrait prove, His shall it be when the cause is tried, — Where death is arraigned by love." We found the portrait there in its place, We opened it by the tapers' shine, The gems were all unchanged ; the face Was — neither his nor mine. " One nail drives out another, at last I The face of the portrait there," 1 cried, " Is our friend's the Raphael-faced young priest Who confessed her when she died." The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept, — For each ruby she my heart hath bled, For each pearl my eyes have wept. Owen Meredith. SELECTIONS. 97 THE DEACON'S STOKY. The solmn old bells in the steeple Are ringin '. I guess you know why, No ? Well, then, I'll tell you, though mostly It's whispered about on the sly. Some six weeks ago, a church meetin' Was called — for — nobody knew what; But we went, and the parson was present, And I don't know who or who not. Some twenty odd members, I calc'late, Which mostly was women, of course; Though I don't mean to say ought ag'in 'em; I've seen many gatherin's worse. There, in the front row, sat the deacons, The eldest was old Deacon Pry or — A man countin' fourscore-and-seven, And gin'rally full of his ire. Beside him, his wife, countin' fourscore, A kind-hearted, motherly soul; And next to her young Deacon Hartley, A good Christian man on the whole. Miss Parsons, a spinster of fifty, And long ago laid on the shelf, Had wedged herself next; and beside her, Was Deacon Monroe — that's myself. The meetin' was soon called to order, The parson looked glum as a text; We gazed at each other in silence, And silently wondered " What next ! " Then slowly uprose Deacon Hartley; His voice seemed to tremble with fear As he said : " Boy and man you have known me, My good friends, for nigh forty year. 98 SELECTIONS. " And you scarce may expect a confession Of error from me; but — you know, My dearly loved wife died last Christmas, It's now nearly ten months ago. The winter went by long and lonely, The spring hurried forward a-pace; The farm- work came on, and I needed A woman about the old place. " The children were wilder than rabbits, And still growing worse every day; No help to be found in the village, Although I was willin' to pay. In fact I was nigh 'bout discouraged, For everything looked so forlorn; When good little Patience McAlpine Skipped into our kitchen, one morn. She had only run in of an errand; But she laughed at our miserable plight, And set to work, jist like a woman, A putting the whole place to right. And though her own folks were so busy, And illy her helpin' could spare, She flit in and out like a sparrow, And most every day she was there. " So the Summer went by sort o' cheerful, And one night my baby, my Joe, Seemed feverish and fretful, and woke me By crying at midnight, you know. I was tired with my day's work and sleepy, And couldn't no way keep him still; So, at last I grew angry, and spanked him, And then he screamed out with a will. SELECTIONS. 99 " Just about then I heard a soft rapping, Away at the half -open door; And then little Patience McAlpine Walked shyly across the white floor. Says she: 'I thought Josey was cryin', I guess I'd best take him away. I knew you'd be gittin' up early To go to the marshes for hay, So I stayed here to-night to get breakfast; I guess he'll be quiet with me. Come, Josey, kiss papa, and tell him What a nice little man you will be ! ' She was stooping low over the pillow, And saw the big tears on his cheek; Her face was so close to my whiskers, I darsn't move, scarcely, or speak; Her hands were both holdin' the baby, Her eye by his shoulder was hid; But her mouth was so near and so rosy, I— kissed her. That's just what I did." Then down sat the tremblin' sinner, The sisters, they murmured of " shame," And " she shouldn't oughter a let him, No doubt she was mostly to blame." When straightway uprose Deacon Pryor, "Now bretherin a?id sisters," he said, (We knowed then that suthin' was comin', And all sot as still as the dead), You've heard brother Hartley's confession, And I speak for myself when I say, That if my wife was dead, and my children Were all growin' worse every day; And if my house needed attention, And Patience McAlpine had come 100 SELECTIONS. And tidied the cluttered up kitchen, And made the place seem more like home ; And if I was worn out and sleepy, And my baby wouldn't lie still, But fretted and woke me at midnight, As babies, we know, sometimes will; And if Patience came in to hush him, And 'twas all as our good brother sez — I think, friends — I think I should kiss her, And 'bide by the consequences;" Then down sat the elderly deacon, The younger one lifted his face, And a smile rippled over the meetin' Like light in a shadowy place. Perhaps, then, the matronly sisters Remembered their far-away youth, Or the daughters at home by their firesides Shrined each in her shy, modest truth; For their judgement grew gentle and kindly, And — well — as I started to say, The solemn old bells in the steeple Are ringin' a bridal to-day. IV. S. Emerson. ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH. The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as much as to say : " Come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now depend upon you, Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you are sending them to. SELECTIONS. 101 Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of the father and son, Think of the lover and loved one too, think of them doomed every one To fall ( as it were by your very hand ) into yon fathom- less ditch, Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now lies asleep at the switch." I sprang up amazed — scare knew where I stood, sleep had o'ermastered me so ; I could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep river dashing below, I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the tempest were fanned, But what was that noise in the distance ? That I could not understand. I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some muffled drum, Then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my very ears hum ; What is this light that surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain? What whistle's that, yelling so shri]l ? Ah ! I know now ; it's the train. We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to the place ; So I stood — with this demon before me, its heated breath scorching my face ; Its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like the eyes of some witch, — The train was almost upon me before I remembered the switch. 102 SELECTIONS. X sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast down the track ; The switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed hold- ing it back ; On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like a flash ; I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing after the crash. How long I lay there unconscious 'twas impossible for me to tell ; My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a hell,— For I then heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of husband and wives, And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I must account for their lives ; Mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes glaring madly and wild ; Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like a child ; Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they sped, And lips that could form naught but "Mamma," were calling for one perhaps dead. My mind was made up in a moment, the river should hide me away, When, under the still burning rafters I suddenly noticed there lay A little white hand : she who owned it was doubtless an object of love To one whom her loss would drive frantic, tho' she guarded him now from above ; 1 tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one side : SELECTIONS. 103 How little she thought of her journey*when she left for this dark fatal ride ! I lifted the last log from off her, and while searching for some spark of life, Turned her little face up in the starlight, and recognized — Maggie, my wife ! Lord ! thy scourge is a hard one, at a blow thou hast shattered my pride ; My life will be one endless nightmare, with Maggie away from my side. How often I'd sat down and pictured the scenes in our long, happy life ; How I'd strive through all my life time, to build up a home for my wife ; How people would envy us always in our cozy and neat little nest ; How I should do all of the labor and Maggie should all the day rest ; How one of God's blessings might cheer us, how some day I p'raps should be rich ; — But all of my dreams have been shattered, while I laid there asleep at the switch ! 1 fancied I stood on my trial, the jury and judge I could see ; And every eye in the court room was steadily fixed upon me ; And fingers were pointed in scorn, till I felt my face blushing blood-red, And the next thing I heard were the words, "Hanged by the neck until dead." Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my hand caught tight hold of a dress, And I heard, " What's the matter, dear Jim ? You've had a bad nightmare, I guess !" 104 SELECTIONS. And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a scar from the ditch. I'd been taking a nap in my bed, and had not been " Asleep at the switch." George Hoey. PHAIDRICK CEOHOORE. Oh! Phaidrick Crohoore was the broth of a boy, and he stood six feet eight; And his arm was as round as another man's thigh — 'tis Phaidrick was great : And his hair was as black as the shadows of night, And hung over the scars left by many a fight; And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong and loud, And his eye like the lightnin' from under the cloud. And all the girls liked him, for he could speak civil And sweet when he chose it, — for he was a divil. An' there wasn't a girl, from thirty-five under, Niver a matter how cross, but he could come 'round her, But of all the sweet girls that smiled on him, but one Was the girl of his heart, an' he loved her alone. An' warm as the sun, as the rock firm and sure Was the love of the heart of Phaidrick Crohoore; An' he'd die for one smile from his Kathleen O'Brien, For his love, like his hatred, was strong as a lion. But Michael O'Hanlon loved Kathleen as well As he hated Crohoore, — deep as old ocean's swell! But O'Brien liked Hanlon, for they were the same parties, The O'Briens, O'Hanlons, an' Murphys, an' Carthys — SELECTIONS. 105 An' they all went together an' hated Crohoore, For it's many's the batin' he gave them before: An' O'Hanlon made up to O'Brien, an' says he, " I'll marry your daughter, if you'll give her to me." An' the match was made up, an' Shrovetide came on, The company assimbled, three hundred if one — There was all the O'Hanlons and Murphys and Carthys An' the young boys an' girls av all o' them parties. An' the O'Briens, av coor^e, gathered strong on that day, An' the pipers an' fiddlers were tearin' away; There was roarin', an' jumpin', an' jiggin' an' flingin', An' jokin', an' blessin', an' kissin', an' singin'. An' they all were a-laughin' — why not, to be sure ? How O'Hanlon came inside of Phaidrick Crohoore! An' they all talked and laughed the length of the table, Aitin' an' drinkin' the while they were able; An' with pipin', an' fiddlin' an' roarin' like thunder, Your head you'd think fairly was splittin' asunder. And the priest called out — "Silence, ye blackguards agin!" An' he took up his prayer-book, just goin' to begin. And they all held their tongues from their funnin' and bawlin'; So silent you'd notice the smallest pin f allin' ! And the priest just beginin' to read — when the door Sprung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore. Oh ! Phaidrick Crohoore was the broth of a boy, and he stood six feet eight, An' his arm was as round as another man's thigh— 'tis Phaidrick was great! An' he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye, As a black cloud moves on through the stars of the sky. 106 SELECTIONS. An' none strove to stop him, for Phaidrick was great, Till he stood all alone, just opposite the sate Where O'Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride, Were sittin' so illigant out side by side. An' he gave her one look that her heart almost broke, An' he turned to O'Brien, her father, and spoke; An' his voice, like the thunder, was deep, sthrong an' loud, An' his eyes shown like lightnin' from under the cloud: "I didn't come here like a tame crawlin' mouse, But I stand like a man in my inimy's house; In the field, on the road, Phaidrick never knew fear Of his foemen, an 1 God knows he'll not show it here. " So lave me at aise for three minutes or four To spake to the girl I'll never see more." An' to Kathleen he turned, and his voice changed its tone For he thought of the days when he called her his own. An' his eye blazed like lightnin' from under the cloud On his false-hearted girl, reproachful and proud. An' says he, "Kathleen bawn, is it true what I hear, That you marry of free choice, without threat or fear? "If so, spake the word, and I'll turn and depart, Chated once, and once only, by woman's false heart." Oh ! sorrow and love made the poor girl quite dumb, An' she tried hard to spake, but the words wouldn't come; For the sound of his voice, as he stood there forninther, Wint cold on her heart as the night wind in winther; An' the tears in her blue eyes stood tremblin' to flow, An' pale was her cheek as the moonshine on snow. Then the heart of bould Phaidrick swelled high in its place, For he knew by one look in that beautiful face, That the strangers an' foemen their pledged hands might sever, Her true heart was his, and his only, forever ! SELECTIONS. 107 An' he lifted his voice, like the eagle's hoarse call, An' says Phaidrick, " She's mine still, in spite of ye all!" Then up jumped O'Hanlon, an' a tall boy was he, An' he looked on bonld Phaidrick as fierce as could be ; An' says he, " By the hokey, before ye go out, Bould Phaidrick Crohoore, you must fight for a bout." Then Phaidrick made answer, "I'll do my endeavor;" An' with one blow he stretched oat bould Hanlon forever. In his arms he took Kathleen an' stepped to the door, An' he leaped on his horse, and flung her before; An' they all were so bothered that not a man stirred, Till the gallopin' hoofs on the pavement was heard. Then up they all started, like bees in the swarm, An' they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm, An' they roared, an' they ran, an' they shouted galore; But Kathleen and Phaidrick they never saw more. AUX ITALIENS. At Paris it was, at the opera there ; And she looked like a queen in a book that night. With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; Aud Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, Non ti scordar di me? 108 SELECTIONS. The emperor there in his box of state, Looked grave; as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been. The empress, too, had a tear in her eye: You'd have said that her fancy had gone back ngain, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain. Well, there in our front-row box we sat Together, my bride betrothed and I; My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent, and both were sad;-- Like a queen, she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had; So confident of her charm ! I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was, Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas. I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; I wish him well for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas. Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather; SELECTIONS. '10!) Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); And her warm white neck in its golden chain; And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again; And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; (Oh the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) And the one bird singing alone in his nest; And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing! For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over: And I thought, " Were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her!" And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast. It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled. And I turned and looked: she was sitting there, In a dim box over the stage; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, And that jasmine in her breast! I was here, and she was there; And the glittering horse-shoe curved between : — From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful mien, 110 SELECTIONS. To my early love with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade, (In short, from the future back to the past,) There was but a step to be made. To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage ; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more. My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something that which will never be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now, and she loved me then; And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her .... well, we'll let that pass She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face, for old things are best ; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say: For beauty is easy enough to win ; But one isn't loved every day. And I think in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven. SELECTIONS. Ill But oh the smell of that jasmine flower! And oh that music i and oh the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me J Robert Bidwer Lytton. MONEY MUSK. Ah, the buxom girls that helped the boys — The nobler Helens of humbler Troys — As they stripped, the husks with rustling fold From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold, By the candle-light in pumpkin bowls, And. the gleams that showed fantastic holes In the quaint old lantern's tattoed tin, From the hermit glim set up within ; By the rarer light in girlish eyes As dark as wells or as blue as skies. I hear the laugh when the ear is red, I see the blush with the forfeit paid, The cedar cakes with the ancient twist, The cider cups that the girls have kissed. And I see the fiddler through the dusk As he twangs the ghost of " Money Musk !" The boys and girls in a double row Wait face to face till the magic bow # Shall whip the tune from the violin, And the merry pulse of the feet begin. 112 SELECTIONS. In shirt of check, aDd tallowed hair y The tiddler sits in the bulrush chair Like Moses' basket stranded there On the brink of Father Nile. He feels the fiddle's slender neck, Picks out the notes with thrum and check, And times the tune with nod and beck, And thinks it a weary while. All ready ! Now he gives the call, Cries, " Honor to the ladies!" All The jolly tides of laughter fall And ebb in a happy smile. D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string, tl First con fie join right hands and swing !" As light as any blue-bird's wing " Swing once and a half times round /" Whirls Mary Martin all in blue — Calico gown and stockings new, And tinted eyes that tell you true, Dance all to the dancing sound. She flits about big Moses Brown, Who holds her hands to keep her down And thinks her hair a golden crown And his heart turns over once \ His cheek with Mary's breath is wet, It gives a second somerset ! He means to win the maiden yet, Alas, for the awkward dunce \ "Your stoga boot has crushed my toe!" " I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe !" " You clumsy fellow !" " Pass Below!" And the first pair dance apart. SELECTIONS. 113 Then "Forward Six/" advance, retreat, Like midges gay in sunbeam street 'Tis Money Mnsk by merry feet And the Monkey Musk by heart I " Three quarters round your partner swing!" " Across the set!" The rafters ring, The girls and boys have taken wing And have brought their roses out I 'Tis "Forward six!" with rustic grace, Ah, rarer far than — " Swing to place!" Than golden clouds of old point-lace They bring the dance about. Then clasping hands all — " Right and left /" All swiftly weave the measure deft Across the woof in loving weft And the Money Musk is done ! Oh, dancers of the rustling husk, Good-night, sweethearts, 'tis growing dusk, Good-night for aye to Money Musk, For the heavy march begun ! — Benj. F. Taylor. TOM'S LITTLE STAB. Sweet Mary, 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 sealed the happy fiat, She cooed : " When married in the spring, Dear Tom, lets live so quiet ! 114 SELECTIONS. " Lets 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 gently rest her little claw ( The simile to carry) Within a husband's stronger paw — ■ The very girl to marry. Their courtship was a summer sea, So smooth, so bright, so calm, Till one day Mary restlessly Endured Tom's circling arm, And looked as if she thought or planned, Her satin forehead wrinkled, She beat a tattoo on his hand, Her eyes were strange and twinkled. She never heard Tom's fond remarks, His " sweety-tweety dear," Or noticed once the little larks He played to make her hear. " What ails," he begged, " my petsy pet ? What ails my love, I wonder?" " Do not be trifling, Tom. I've met Professor Shakspeare Thunder." SELECTIONS. 115 " Thunder!" said Tom ; * and who is he?" "You goose! why, don't you know?" " I don't. She never frowned at me, Or called me ' goose.' And though," Thought Tom, -" it may be playfulness, It racks my constitution." " Why, Thunder teaches with success Dramatic elocution." "Oh! 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 you must Hear Shakspeare read by Thunder." Tom started at the turn of phrase ; It sounded like a swear. 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 asked, "Dear, have you any — pain ?" " Oh, 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." 116 SELECTIONS. " He must have felt most dreadful bad." " The character is mystic," Mary explained, "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 stretched 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, "A thousand times goodnight," Sighed Mary, sweet as ne'er before. Poor Tom revived, looked bright. " 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 you mean. " Then listen ; this is it: ' Dear love, adieu. Anon, good nurse. Sweet Moutague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again.' Now, Tom, say ' Blessed, blessed night!' " Said Tom, with hesitation, " B-blessed night." " Pshaw! that's not right; You've no appreciation." SELECTIONS. 117 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!' Ha! Ophelia! ' They bore him barefaced on his bier, And on his grave rained many a tear,' " She chanted, very wild and sad; Then whisked off on Emilia : " ' You told a lie — an odious, fearful lie. Upon my soul, a lie — a wicked lie.' " She glared and howled two murder scenes, And mouthed a new French role, Where luckily the graceful miens Hid the disgraceful soul. She wept, she danced, she sang, she swore — From Shakspeare — classic swearing; A wild, abstracted look she wore, And round the room went tearing. And every word and every pause Made Mary " quote a speech." If Tom was sad ( and he had cause), She'd say, in sobbing screech, " ' Clifford, why don't you speak to me?' " At flowers for a present She leered and sang coquettishly, *' ' When daisies pied and violets blue.' " Tom blurted, u That's not pleasant." 1 1 8 SELECTIONS. But Mary took offense at this. "Yon have no soul," said she, " For art, and do not know the bliss Of notoriety. The ' sacred fire ' they talk about Lights all the way before me ; It's quite my duty to ' come out/ And all my friends implore me- "Three months of Thunder I have found A thorough course," she said ; " I'll clear Parnassus with a bound." ( Tom softly shook his head.) " I cannot fail to be the rage." ( Tom looked a thousand pities.) " And so I'm going on the stage To star in Western cities." And Mary went; but Mary came To grief within a week; And in a month she came to Tom, Quite gentle, sweet, and meek. Tom was rejoiced: his heart was none The hardest or the sternest. "Oh, Tom," she sobbed, "It looked like fun, But art is dreadful earnest. " Why, art means work, and slave, and bear All sorts of scandal, too ; To dread the critics so you dare Not look a paper through ; Oh, ' art is long' and hard." "And you Are short and — soft, my darling." "My money, Tom, is gone — it flew? " That's natural with a starling." SELECTIONS. .1.19 w I loTe you 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. w Can you forgive me Tom, for — " " Life," He finished out the phrase. *' My love, you're patterned for a wife. The crowded publiG ways Are hard for even the strongest heart; Yours beats too softly human. However woman choose her art, Yet art must choose its woman." Fanny Foster, THE ROSARY OF MY YEARS. Some reckon their ages by years, Some measure their life by art — But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, And their life by the moans of their heart. The dials of earth may show The length, not the depth of years, Few or many they come, few or many they go- But our time is best measured by fears. Ah ! not by the silver gray That creeps through the sunny hair, And not by the scenes that we pass on our way- And not by the furrows the finger of care i^O SELECTIONS. On the forehead and face have made — Not so do we count our years; Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade Of our souls — and the fall of our tears. For the young are ofttimes old, Though their brow be bright and fair; While their blood beats warm their heart lies cold— O'er them the spring-time, but winter is there. And the old are ofttimes young When their hair is thin and white, And they sing in age as in j^outh they sung, And they laugh, for their cross was light. But bead by bead I tell The rosary of my years; From a cross to a cross they lead — 'tis well! And they're blessed with a blessing of tears. Better a day of strife Than a century of sleep; Give me instead of a long stream of life, The tempest and tears of the deep. A thousand joys may foam On the billows of all the years; But never the foam briugs the brave bark home : It reaches the haven through tears. Father Ryan, THE LITTLE HATCHET STOBY. Mrs. Caruthers, of Arch street, wishing to do some shopping, left in our experienced charge her little tid todler, of five summers. We wished to interest the SELECTIONS. \21 young prodigy, so we thought we would look him up in the history of his country. ''Now, listen, Clarence" — his name was Clarence Fitzberbert, Marchemont Alencon de Caruthers— " and we will tell you all about George Washington " — " Who's he." "Why, the 'Father of His Country'." "Whose country." " Our country — the confederated union of the Ameri- can republic— -cemented by the life-blood of the heroes of 76." " Well, one day, George's father — " " George who ? " asked Clarence, "George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his father—" "Whose father?" demanded Clarence, with an en- couraging expression of interest. "George Washington's; this great man we are telling you of. One day George Washington's father gave him a little hatchet for a — " "Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child inter- rupted, with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impa- tience, but we didn't. We know how to talk to children. So we went on: " George Washington. His — " " Who gave him the little hatchet ? " "His father. And his father—" "Whose father?" " George Washington's." "Oh!" " Yes, George Washington. And his father told him — ' "Told who?" " Told George." "Oh, yes, George." 122 SELECTIONS. And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We took up the story right where the boy interrupted, for we could see he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said : " And he was told — " ' l George told him ? " queried Clarence. " No, his father told George—" "Oh!" " Yes; told him he must be careful with the hatchet— " Who must be careful ?" "George must." "Oh!" " Yes; must be careful with his hatchet—" " What hatchet ? " " Why, George's." "Oh!" "With the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave it o»t in the grass all night. So George went round cutting everything he could reach with his hatchet. And at last he came to a splendid apple-tree, his father's favorite, and cut it down and—" " Who cut it down ? " " George did." "Oh!" " But his father came home and saw it the first thing and — " " Saw the hatchet ?" " No, saw the apple-tree. And he said, ' Who has cut down my favorite apple-tree ?' " " What apple-tree ? " " George's father's. And everybody said they didn't know anything about it, and—" "Anything about what?" "The apple-tree." "Oh!" SELECTIONS. 123 "And George came up and heard them talking about it — " ■' Heard who talking about it ? " "Heard his father and the men." "What were they talking about?" "About this apple tree." •"What apple-tree?" "The favorite tree that George cut down." "George who?" "George Washington." "Oh!" " So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he — " "What did he cut it down for?" "Just to try his little hatchet." "Whose little hatchet?" " Why, his own, the one his father gave him." "Gave who?" " Why, George Washington." "Oh!" " So George came up and he said, ' Father, I cannot tell a lie, I—'" "Who couldn't tell a lie?" "Why, George Washington. He said, 'Father, I can- not tell a lie. It was—'" "His father couldn't?" " Why, no; George couldn't." "Oh! George? oh, yes!" '"It was I cut down your apple-tree; I did — '" "His father did?" "No, no; it was George said this." '• Said he cut his father? ' "No, no, no; said he cut down his apple-tree." " George's apple tree? " "No, no; his father's." "Oh!" 124 SELECTIONS. "He said—" " His father said ? " " No, no, no ; George said. ' Father, I cannot tell a lie I did it with my little hatchet." And his father said: * Noble boy, I wonld rather lose a thousand trees than have you tell a lie.' " " George did ? " " No, his father said that." " Said he'd rather have a thousand apple-trees ? " . "No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple- trees than — " " Said he'd rather George would? " "No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie." "Oh! George would rather have his father lie?" We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington c